Brainless banter

Don Imus  was caught at it again. Or rather, he said this time it is not what we think it is. Dude’s gotta realise that he’s been caught doing all the things a duck does a wee bit too much; quack, walk, smell…

 

So maybe it is a problem with words. Proverbs 18:21 says some strong things about the tongue. There is destructive power. If you don’t watch what you say, chances are that you are going to get burned.

 

But I have a feeling morning radio is the same the world over. Here, we had Alex say the most brainless things for ages and we loved him until he became a has-been and was relegated to the afternoon. And we all know what it means when Capital throws you to the afternoon when you’ve been the star. But Alex is not on morning radio and so is not the subject here.

 

We’ve got Abbey, Kato and the rest on CBS’ Kalisoliso, one of the most widely listened to shows in Central Uganda doing their thing. We have PK Bbosa and Ddembe Zaina over at Kaboozi ku Bbiri (Radio station in the middle of Kampala). We have all those others that you get a chance to learn about if you do the morning commute in a taxi.

 

We have Fatboy and that chick I have failed to like at Sanyu on the biggest show of them all. You only have to take your pick.

 

These shows are not about ‘important,’ politically correct subjects. In fact, the more brainless a presenter is, the bigger the chances that they’ll be approached by headhunters from that new station that’s starting and that’s rumoured to have a goldmine on its premises.

 

The result is often embarrassing. These poor souls know why they’ve been hired and they know they can’t afford to slacken in their funny routine. Because the penalty could be anything. So they pull out all the stops; they pull out used and re-used jokes, bad jokes, off-colour jokes, brainless jokes and even threaten to beat the laughter out of.

 

When you start joking about Dr Kiggundu’s funeral, you are really out there in the wild. Alone like Crusoe.

 

But then again, you can’t expect that morning deejays will bombard you with heavy material on currency trading and how you can make money out of it without being involved in the rat race.

 

It’s so hard out there being a clown.

 

 

Delirium

I choose fiction.

 

Not because I’ve been forced to vote or anything as dramatic as that. Being alive in the world as we know it does that to you. To me.

 

It is reality and all that so we cannot really escape, unless we are high on some grass. But if there were a way out of it…heck, that there should be a way out!

 

Reality means joining the rat race every morning and doing what proles do; be insignificant in the world and look on as politicians take you for granted. You are told to be greatful because at ‘at least,’ you can sleep, so shut the eff up and be an idiot. Twenty years down the road, you are told that you are wallwing in poverty because you sleep too much. Now is there justice anywhere in this galaxy?

 

It means always being unsure. Unsure of what’s going to give you gas at lunch, seeing as a new cook delivers your food every day or just how you’ll get home in the evening. The fares climb from A to B to whatever before you can open your mouth and say “bloodsuckers!”

 

Being alive in Uganda means putting your life in the hands of some loon every morning because you can’t keep on driving to town, what with the crazy petrol prices! Its wiser to leave your wheels at home and chapa muguu. The fools drive like they are the devil’s first son and if you ever say anything about the speed; he kicks you out of the kamunye or tells you to buy your own.

 

Reality is all red. It is red blood drying on the hot tarmac, congealing with the yellowish brains of some unlucky old man who was hit by a Humvee driven by a teen who’d stolen it from his mom’s garage.

 

That’s why I choose this reality branded fake by the world. The poor souls do not understand the workings of the matrix.

 

This world can be manipulated and show me a person that hates to manipulate their condition. This here, this fiction is certain victory in whatever conflict. Blushing belles to kiss, dangerous dragons to slay and PVC tights to don; that is the life.

 

Fiction empowers you. You alone have access to the strings and all the puppets march to your tune. This is nirvana.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The grass is not greener over there

My faith in the media has been shaken. Profoundly. I know that sounds really pretentious since everyone’s mama told them never to believe the hype. I mean, newspapers are all in some evil overlord’s pocket and they preach what takes his fancy at any given time.

Some Ugandan journalists are known for, among many other things, reporting on the inspirational story happening in Rwanda. The fact that they have cultivated the image as independent minded journos makes many believe whatever they say.

These stories about Rwanda and how they are far ahead of us in as far as infrastructure development and cleanliness are legendary.

But over the weekend, I was given another side to this whole thing; a guy who’s working there on contract blew it all when he told me what I think I heard, I did not hear. Sorry, Willard.

I know in Uganda, with all the fat cats fighting over the carcass of this here state, if it came out in the news that the Lake Mburo game park was on sale, no one would be surprised. Everyone knows that fighting the robbers is fruitless. You can’t fight a guy who says he’s called Robin Hood.

But, according to said contractor, Rwanda, which has 3 parks has sold off one and is about to sell another. While I was wondering if that is so bad, I was also told that that old story about “Rwanda has banned all buvera,” and “There is no corruption there because those caught with their hands in the jar get jailed,” are just stories.

That is what one sees in urban Kigali; clean streets and beautiful flowers lining the roads. The story just below the skin is worlds different. The shops do their business with good old kavera.

What I got from it all was that there is no hope for me after all. I was entertaining dreams of one day upping and leaving for Rwanda where everything is clean and proper.

There is light at the end of the tunnel. Corruption is the same everywhere. People are starving in Uganda just as they are starving in the rural areas of Rwanda.

Just leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

Lull before the storm

 

I am not ashamed to ride on the back of some guy far, far away, who does not even know me. Point is he’s snuck in a punch and drawn blood.

 

One for the little guy, yippee!