Yeah, snigger all you like; 20 is the key word here. Who cares if it’s only months?
I must be dreaming. Maybe I should wake up like for real; the Daddy-guy is still here and it’s not the weekend. Something must be wrong.
For shizzle; even today, he’s here! Daddy-guy musta been given the sack or something. Pitty, these grown-ups do not understand intelligent conversation. I could have asked him what is up but I can’t be bothered right now. Well, since he’s here, I guess he can keep himself busy by cleaning up after me. Hey you there, I just pooped in my diaper.
All these people are fawning over me because I said something that they understood. People, I just said “open!” They need professional help. It’s like this every time I say something trivial like that. I look up and they are all staring with these goofy grins and calling for the Cavasier. The other day I was attending cell like the lot of them, right? And someone said, “Praise the Lord,” and I replied, like the good Christian I am, “Amen.” Suddenly the agenda was forgotten and they all went along the lines of, “Oh she’s so lovely.”
We are traveling to some far off place called Mbrambra or something like that. From the intelligence I have gathered so far, this place, Mbram…whatever is so nice, so cool. The Daddy-guy and my Mummy are breaking the bank. I understand we are going by something called ‘the bus.’ This better be good, you bozos.
Oh, and that conundrum at the beginning of the week, (Scout’s honour, I didn’t lift that from The Ebonies), was solved yesterday. The Daddy-guy’s on something called ‘Leave.’ I guess it’s when growed up people can go out and be even sillier. So I am going to keep him enslaved to me. Give me that book. No reading; if you are taking time off work, it’s for me, not for some silly novel. So his kabumbum is mine to bozz around for the time he’s here. No reading of novels. I loved that look of incredulity when I yanked the book out of his hands and snapped it shut.
Oh, my back. Oh my poor little feets. What are you smiling at? Feets? Or that I am sore all over? I shall never agree to go on a bus again. We spent a whole two days on it, no matter what the growed ups say, mbu four hours. But I met the funkiest three dudes at this place, Mbr… and I think that’s worth it. Too bad they are my cousins. And of course, there’s Kaaka, always fussing and calling me strange names.
What’s wrong with being a leftie? What’s wrong with being like the strongest man in the known world as we speak? Huh, huh? Some chick I’ve been trying so hard to leave out of you, diary, who lives with us at home and who the Daddy-guy and his wife insist I call Auntie but who in reality is called Immy or Machu (yeah, I know, har, har, har), has been calling me kamosho. Investigations have revealed that it has something to do with me doing things, like pulling the cables out of the sockets or punching the digits of the Daddy-guy’s phone when I try to be calling my people (I just like it when he realizes I just sent ten empty messages to his boss, har, har, har). Yeah, as I was saying, I do important things using my left hand and left is emosho in some strange tongue. It’s always at the tip of my tongue to remind her that the most feared spinners in the world (Shane Warne et al), are the lefties. Everyone tells you to look out for the leftie.
MBARARA was such a trip. I came down with a fever. I liked playing with the boys and running all over the place but the price was a bad cold. Worse still, we traveled back to Entebbe with me in this condition. Hey look, I am not a travel journo so don’t be asking me to describe the scenery; the hills and valleys and all that crap. Call Timothy Bukumunhe or K.K.
Oh, I missed Sunday School. Now that’s where the fun lives.