I’ve been staying in Bugolobi since Tuesday last week. There are a couple of internet cafes and all, but for some reason I feel disinclined to the whole idea of paying for my internet. This is quite strange given that back-back then when the internet had been introduced to Ugandans through little rooms with computers and devices labeled air-conditioner, I believe these were called cafes, I’d give an arm and a leg to get online.
I suppose it’s a good thing I hadn’t discovered blogging by then.
Then again, maybe I had and I just didn’t know it. All things web were generalized in that vast expanse of the information super highway.
In retrospect, I think my affair with free internet may have started then. You see, we happened to have friends working at the cafes at the time.
During this time it was fashionable to work in one. You’d find cool happening chics behind the workstation handing over your slip with code with their fingers so dainty, so… I-don’t-know-what. It was cool. Its not that companies hadn’t already taken to employing young girls and dressing them up in skimpy skirts hoping to entice customers into buying phones and airtime. Lord knows, they’d done that and milked it for its worth…heck, they still do.
Something about these cyber-chics put them on a pedestal… For some I suppose it was the mentality that anyone using a computer was uber-cool. The whole idea of geek-dom hadn’t crossed our minds by then. Those were great times for Nerds, eh Dante?
So anyway, they would let me surf for free from time to time and thus I suppose nurtured my aversion to forking over money to surf. My affinity for other freebies cannot be explained with such ease.
I figured I’d wait until the internet was stable in my office before I could get back into chatting and blogging and all, but with the way things are going, I’d sooner see Joseph Kony launch a web-log in collaboration with the 27th Comrade calling it “The Hair Up There” before the channels of cyber communication were clog-free.
The thing about having all this time on my hands is that its given me enough time to think. To reflect if you will. It particularly helps that the screen that drew me to the house sitting gig has mood swings and will not just allow itself to be turned on at the click of the button. You’ve got to work it! The standard approach to such things is to hurl obscenities at the inanimate object that’s causing you grief and then, whilst hoping that you’ve driven the point home, attempt to switch it on. This 42″ contraption however, expects you to do more. After following the procedure described above, the screen will stare at you blankly as if to say, “is that all you’ve got?” and then seemingly hiss, “Bitch!” .
The owner of this screen informs me that when that happens, it is in Protect Mode. It does that when it was not turned off the right way. The remedy to this is to just let it be for a while and then when it feels like it, it will “sort itself out”. This screen has the personality of a twelve year old! I can picture it going like, ” ith like I thaid to bath on hith blog, tho what! Thith ith why I’m hot, thianara!” *poof!*
I had a talk with my immediate boss about religion or not, given that the basis of this chat was the fact that God doesn’t exist. The God-team was represented by me. He said everything that happens does so for a reason. Then we moved into a discussion on causality (Cause and Effect) that had me think of the Matrix. What scared me about the discussion is the fact that on many levels it made a lot of sense.
It answered a few questions and I realized with shock that its actually easier to deal with so many issues, World Peace and Tattoos inclusive, if you go ahead and live your life with nothing to believe in except perhaps that you alone are in charge of your destiny.
For a brief fleeting moment (for that is the true nature of fleeting moments…) I considered the possibility that I didn’t really know where my life was heading. Sure I want to be successful and do a kick ass job doing whatever it is I will be doing, but there in lies the crux of the matter. I don’t know what IT is yet. I’ve made my peace with the fact that I am not going to write a Best Selling Novel that’s going to change lives or be turned into a motion picture that will go on to win the cast or some relevant person an Oscar. At best I will contribute to the effort by way of
“kwe-tying my self on” a collabo with Queen Mubisi on the George-Sophia chronicles, but as an individual entitynuh, not really. Maybe it’s just for now. Time is a funny thing, so who knows, I may find a muse and then we’ll see. For the here and now though, I’m leaving that to Iwaya, Baz, and Inktus. If for some reason you lot don’t write at least a book each I will probably turn into some deranged serial killer going around putting an end to the lives of those that failed to deliver on what promise they had… hang on, that was way too dark.
I saw myself in someone over the weekend, and I don’t mean that in a perverse way. Yes, that’s how I be, it’s the way I’m are, but this time round I am not being lewd. So anyway, this chic is causing this dude untold grief by sending all these texts and stuff and bordering on being in Long Term Denial and I’m about to like throw stones, boulders and all, when suddenly it hits me, “Learn from the mistakes of others, you can’t be expected to make all of them by yourself.” Call it an epiphany.
Am I the only one feeling “Hey there Delilah” by Plain White T’s?
I was doing some shopping for the house and it pissed me off no end to see just how much I was trying to save. Has it really come to this? I am down to buying no name brands!! I don’t want to sound all materialistic like some
blogger people, but cummon! Its okay when it comes to stuff like toilet paper I suppose, but toothpaste, cereal and shavers should carry a certain panache. Atti I’m buying Clean-Dent! What? Chewy-Corn- Crisp! Who? Ex-Follicle! Why?!! Come to think of it, even the toilet paper has taken to being a bit dodgy. Its got a certain stretchy-quality to it. I’m sure the jingle for it goes like, Use Elasti-Roll; Now That’s a Stretch!
I also came to the realization that you can tell a woman is successful not by the car she drives, but the way she carries herself in a supermarket and the phone she holds when you are asking for her number… or uses to beat you up.
My mum sent me a text to see how I was doing, asked me how the going was and hoped I was enjoying every bit of it…that brings to mind…
I had a drink up at this place in Bugolobi that started off with a simple 3 prong course of action.
- Buy Booze
- Get Wasted
- Find Your Happy!
But the problem is, you can’t really rely on people to carry their own drinks so, that kinda throws a spanner in the works. And from time to time some have the audacity to bring stuff like 3rd Round Spirit: Dare You To Last! Or some such brew.
It didn’t help that the way I pitched the thing was, “bring the drinks, I’ll bring the venue…”
What can I say; the presence of a 42′ screen makes you say some dumb stuff.
The other factor that was messing things up was the fact that I was broke.
My peeps however came through with one litre of Smirnoff…not the small cute bottles you take home to meet your parents, but rather the juggernaut that comes with tales of grandeur summarized in the proclamation; 40%!
Speaking of which there was some Amsterdam beer made in Dubai or some place that shares a similar writing style. This on its own should have been an indication of what we were getting into. I mean, everyone knows that there’s no booze in Dubai…right?
It would have helped if we’d looked at the side of the can where it declared that it had 0.0% alcohol. In case you are wondering, it tastes like Marabou Stork’s Sweat! (don’t ask!)
There were also eight cans of Heineken to get us by and a pack of playing cards.
Before you knew it, the number of people had grown, but the quantity of alcohol was at its stagnant best.
Nonetheless, it all came together, but the silly screen was going through its silly mood swings, so that didn’t help plenty. Which exsplains why I didn’t get back to you.
During the course of this thing someone, no doubt inspired by the alcohol in his system, suggested we change venues. It was muffled but I’m sure there was talk of picking up chics at some point. The words Cross Generation may have also featured somewhere in that mix.
We went clubbing and went back home for more drinks and played cards. I think we may have pioneered a card game called Put Your Cards On Top Of Mine, the gist of it is to simply well, put your cards one on top of the other until all of them go away.
The game has no clear winner. Its not quite like “SHOTS” a game that was invented then and there and basically involves laying the cards out face down and then having whoever picks the highest card take a “shot” of alcohol.
The flaws with this game are not very few, for one thing I suspect people begin to lose intentionally when they claim in their “Big Voices” that 3 represents 300 … The other problem is, after a while the loser tends to be the same guy over and over.
During the course of these events it was decided that it was too late to go back home or hostel or whatever so we had to play host to about 6 or so “campusers”.
Sadly they were not the kind with weight issues. They were comfortable with their bodies and as such wiped out the fridge and select parts of the kitchen.
It doesn’t help that none of them had me thuithidal, thuithidal!
…and that was just Friday!
Yes, I know this thing is long, but you read Matanda’s stuff, right?