The balancing foot race

Meanwhile this morning on the school run...

So a dodgy premio full of security operatives forces its way in front of me from Kiseka side at Aga Khan, but alas they are held in traffic. The guy they are chasing is also held up in traffic.

So one of them steps out of the car, removes his gun from the hip, adjusts his balancing trousers and runs towards the culprit. He probably got this idea from a movie or series.

He is about to catch up to them despite his balancing trousers falling halfway off his bum and slowing his already unfit arse down. He even takes aim and I brace myself for a gun fight while urging my kids not to miss any of the action.

Suddenly traffic clears up and the culprits zoom off. Even the dodgy premio overtakes the unfit idiot with balancing trousers running near a school with his gun drawn.

Its only when he sees his mates reach the round about at Martin road that he summons a boda using his gun. At this point his unfit arse had only just reached the 2nd gate of Aga Khan.

The movies make it look so easy. They never show Jack Bauer or agent Keane doing boot camp.

Introducing the Wonder Bolt

Last year at the sports day finale Dominique was inconsolable. In all her 5 years in the school, her house had never won. She was sobbing loudly. Fifi’s house had won but rather than celebrating she was reduced to consoling her older sister. No comforting words seemed to be working though – until Fifi had a brilliant idea. She told Dominique that since Imani was joining the school next year, she would be in Dominique’s house and they would win. Dominique was instantly cheered up. Even when I provided the proviso that there was no guarantee that Imani would end up in the same house as Dominique.

You see earlier that term, Imani had joined a sprinting competition between the boys in Dominique’s class. Imani is a full 5 years younger than the said boys, but she outsprinted them with ease. But it was not just getting there first; I noted her technique and commitment. The knees rose high with every stride, the arms swinging through the stride and the focus on her face. I knew then that she was a born sprinter.

As fate would have it, Imani joined and was assigned the same house as Dominique. When sports day came round, Imani’s race was a day earlier. It was a relay and she was running the last leg. By the time of the switch over her team was well ahead, but she took off without the baton. 10 yards in and a teacher reminder her she had to go back. She was now fully 20 yards behind. But then she turned on the turbo and sped past the lead girl with 10 yards to go. It was EPIC!

The next day Dominique was in the tag of war. They came dead last in that event. They came dead last again when the final results were announced. Dominique was inconsolable again, but Fifi was in no mood for niceties this time (probably because her house had not worn either). She made it clear to Dominique that she cannot expect the house to win if she has not won her own event. She assured her that she had let Imani down by coming last. The sobbing stopped and was replaced by introspection.

The more things change, the more they remain the same - Is it 1980 0r 2017?

One day in 1980, my dad did not come home. This was not unusual since as a child of 4 years old, no one told me much. In fact he was gone for over a week and I did not experience any angst (may have had something to do with the fact my mother was away on a pilgrimage to the holy land).
Back in those days we used to stay in Najjanankumbi and we used to buy milk for the baby from Makindye barracks. So about 8 days into my dad's disappearance, on the drive home from school, our driver parked outside the barracks to go get some milk.
As Christopher the driver, crossed the road to enter the barracks, a figure, wearing a bloodied long white coat, came running through the barracks gate. But the fellow did not notice the ditch just outside and he stumbled and fell, allowing the chasing soldiers to catch up to him. As they lifted him back into the barracks with accompanying slaps and kicks, I noticed it was my father. 

Christopher had noticed this too and was now frozen in the middle of the road. Thankfully for him, the soldiers were too busy enjoying the torture of my father that they didn't notice him standing there. Once they took my father back inside, Christopher run back into the car and we drove home without milk for the baby. 

A day later my grandparents showed up and another day later I returned from school to find daddy at home too. I remember my sister and I giggling about the fact his mummy on return from his long trip bathed our daddy. Then there was that long white coat of his that was covered in blood. I remember it remained unwashed for a long time. Plus the scar at the back of his dead that never went away.

According to my uncle, my father's problems started when he stopped off at the same Makindye barracks to buy milk for the baby. Outside the barracks was a bar and he decided to enjoy a few drinks before going in to buy the milk. Soldiers from the barracks across the road patronized that bar as well. At the time, my father used to work for Shell and BP as a sales rep. and he was wearing a long white coat with their logo on it. This was similar to how white-collar workers in the 90s (especially those working for the telcos) went everywhere with their ID badges around their necks. To make matters worse, my father was driving this very sleek convertible Mercedes Benz sports car. 
 
The envy factor in the bar that day was through the roof and so when my father starting bragging about his family, the soldiers had had enough. They drove both him and that Benz into the barracks and began to try to extract a confession from him.

My uncle reports that they spent anxious days looking for connections to get him out of detention. They tried to get help from late Captain Erima (before he - Erima - in turn disappeared, showing up in 1986 with the NRA and then disappeared again never to be seen again!). They finally got assistance from General Tito Okello Lutwa (later President of Uganda), his assistants Basilio Okello (later coup plotter of the uncoordinated troop movements fame), and James Olara-Okello; who personally escorted my uncle and the Benz to Najjanankumbi. They were lucky that my uncle's wife worked at the Military Hospital Mbuya and the three officers were together in Mbuya when they asked for assistance.

I remembered this story when I saw the exposed flesh on the knees of the mayor of Kamwenge. You see, at that time, Museveni was in charge too and he still could not control the errant soldiers who extra-judicially arrested and tortured my father. To write lecturing letters is to bury your head in the sand. I would like to see some heads roll over this torture business.

The saddest thing, though, is that the more things change, the more they remain the same. God help us all.

Then he decided to get married

It was a big day for us. A happy day for us. It was the event that could not be missed. One of those where everybody remembers where he or she was and what they were doing when it happened. For my friends and I it was a bucket list item. Right up with taking our wives to Egypt and travelling together to watch the F1 race in Abu Dhabi.

If you were a CIA agent engaged in regime destabilization in Uganda. You would remember how the first WhatsApp images came through just after you had completed deep infiltration of insurgent camps in the Rwenzururu uprisings despite their massive rear guard action.

If you were running a club in London, you would remember how you posted kinky pictures on the Mboga Chat Forum when your phone indicated the arrival of the first Facebook post with the images from the event.

If you had unsubscribed and moved to Australia you would remember how you loaded up on starters and left no room for the main.

But I was there. I was there when the Best Man helped him carry that massive head of his as they thrust their groins at the father in law while doing the Mboga shuffle. I was there to see the rest of the stock in that home.

Earlier with excitement, I bought my tickets at the Trinity bus garage for the bus to this event. I was excited not only about the event, but about the 4-hour journey I was going to enjoy in the company of Nyarus on Trinity bus. Then I got a call from Mr. Particular asking me to join him as his driver took us to the event. Now not only was I going to tick an item off my bucket list but I would also arrive to do so in such opulence.

The first sign of trouble was for Mr. Particular to arrive, not with a car driver, but with a train driver and his wife. Granted trains are glamorous in a country like ours, but banange, guy avugga train. Anyway, I chose to focus on the event.

40kms into the journey and the car overheated and that meant we could not drive faster than 60kph. God had decided that we would travel to this event at a pace as slow as that at which the main character drives his car. But, in true Mboga fashion, we arrived just in time to join the line for food.

So we had come and we had seen, we had drunk were drunk and we had got the mini champagne bottles. It was time to hit the road back to our mundane non-exciting lives. We decided to take a shortcut despite shrill warnings from our female companion. So the silver shadow got stuck in the mud. It took all of the skills of the train driver to get us out of that one.

The train driver had guzzled some wine at the party and, with the mini victory over the swamp, decided he was now in an F1 race. And faster than you can say ‘Lewis Hamilton’, there was a loud bang in the engine followed by a large mushroom cloud of steam. Stuck in the dark in the middle of nowhere. We had to push the silver shadow up the hill so we could turn it around easily. By the time we were through, none of the people in that car were drunk anymore. Suddenly the battery died too, completing the darkness completely. Most felt it was not safe to sit in the car in the dark on the road lest a speeding truck collected you. Out there in the tall grass the only thing left to do to keep spirits up was exchanging of war stories that could otherwise be described as gossiping. Suddenly, after about 45 minutes of complete darkness, all the lights in the car and the radio came on like a scene from ‘The Haunting’. The spookiness led our female companion to conclude that all sorts of imaginary creatures were crawling up her skirt and the tall grass was not safe anymore. All the men soon joined her in the car as fear gave way to fatigue.

Finally rescued and checked in to the best hotel in Mbarara, we ordered room service and prepared to turn in for the night. With the shower not working in her room, our female companion waited until the food had arrived before she asked to use the dark guy’s shower. Her husband pretended to be waiting in line, but his real intentions were exposed when a condom dropped out of his pocket. For the dark guy to notice this during his meal should be an indication of the quality of food on offer.

Yes, we were there when he finally got the monkey off his back. May the couple have a long and wonderful marriage.

17 years since Siito Paul left

It is 17 years today since the most devastating phone call came announcing your demise. It has been 16 years of no Christmas joy for me. I am glad to say this year tis the season to be jolly. Finally the wonder girls had a chance to decorate a Christmas tree. You would have had fun with the wonder girls. Hounding me the way I hounded you; questioning everything. I still remember the look on your face when I told you to shut up as you spewed nonsense about Brazil as France won the world cup. You should really have stuck to volleyball. 

Watching the wonder girls enjoy reruns of shows with the excitement of a 1st time viewing reminds me of all those times you dramatically responded to a missed chance while watching your own recordings of old world cup matches that you had watched thousands of times. They are proper wonders.

I have thought about you a lot this year. How you refused to migrate to France. How you resisted foreign postings or trips longer than 2 weeks. How you took us out of school as soon as you landed from any trip abroad. How you took us (it turns out you took Sheila and Stella too) to that shack in Mabira to eat kigere. That shack finally closed last year. I draw inspiration everyday from our time together. I still have not slept in a tree like you though, as am still not sure that was a true story.
Rest in peace my babu-ji. Thanks for a wonderful life.
(Before anyone asks; yes, I am the baby in the picture and yes I used to wear dresses).
(Sheila Magero, if you discount the massive forehead, I sort of look like Jade in this picture)

The man from Kigezi and the son of Amos

And it came to pass, in the twenty ninth year of the reign of the son of Amos, sower of the Mustard seed and Sabagabe of Uganda, when the oil from the land of the god-King Kabalega had not yet been removed from the ground; that a man appeared in bright yellow. A yellow that was brighter than the morning sun going forward into the day.

A man from the hills of Kigezi and blessed with great intellect. A man who in the protracted guerilla battles of the triangle bush war spent his time munching on sausages and other delectable food and earned the nickname “kalya sausage”

In the great battles of the Movement he smote the philandering Gilbert; he of Mahogany, stealer of other men’s wives and laughing stoke of all who knew him.

And so it was, in the fullness of time, before Kiggundu had opened the gates to the great election bonanza, this man ventured forth, up onto the mountain of the YouTube. It was there that he did declare that he would challenge the king of kings, sabagabe of Uganda for the right to rule this great nation of coffee and diaspora dollars. But first he would challenge him for the bright yellow kingdom.

The message, as spake, was heard through out the land of green bananas and the entire world. The message was taken by twitting birds and packets on the super highway of electronicus to the rest of the world.

The news came to the son of Amos while he was visiting the land of Zuma, buffoon of the south and curer of HIV by washing privates with water from the fountain of Armitage Shanks. There they feasted with Bashir conqueror of the Dinkas and butcher of Darfur. The son of Amos left the feast like a pickpocket at a wedding. He jumped onto his chariot of the Gulf Stream IV and rode, fast like the wind, back to his kingdom.

And there was much anger and gnashing of teeth in Rwakitura, the land of milk and honey. And the cows in Sembabule were restless and would not eat of the grass nor bring forth milk from their udders.

The son of Amos, tired, after riding his chariot of the Gulf Stream IV all night, appeared as a vision to all his people. He told them that the man from Kigezi was a delinquent and could not be trusted. The king of kings took his people to the highest mountain in the land, on the peak of iPad. There he showed them schools that had been built by Nyamurunga and the vile colonialists. Some had also been built by the conqueror of the British Empire, Dada Idi Amin. Shamelessly he claimed he had built these schools with his own money. Money he had got from selling Milk from his cows in Sembabule and Rwakitura. Money he had got from selling cow hides to the great merchant Hassan B. Appalled by this chicanery, the wizards and sorcerers of the UCC decided they would switch of all analogue magic. So 98% of the nation were suddenly able to wake up from the vision of the son of Amos.

Starting the next day, much carousal prevailed in the land of green bananas for all of 48 hours. Then Hospitals went without medicines or doctors again. The great heroine Kagina continued to sharpen her sword in preparation for the battle at UNRA and Musisi continued to place her great huge buttocks firmly on top of the poor people in Kampala. And everyone went back to work in the over crowded malls and the gardens.

Life went on.

I am on top of the world!!

If you are on top of the world, do you have to come down off the top in order to climb back up again? If you shoot for the stars and hit them, are there no more stars to hit?

Ever since I was little, people have talked about deciding what to do with your life. Back then it was – when I grow up, I want to be this or that. When I actually grew up, I even calculated how much money I needed to be able to “retire”. Then guess what? I actually became what I had always wanted to be and I even saved up enough to be able to decamp from the rat race. This was at age 32.

At the time, I told people that I had achieved self-actualization. Their reaction was to treat me with superciliousness. Reminded how no one knew who I was etc. There was much celebration when a few years later I said that I now had a new goal in life. A friend of mine told me that if I had really self-actualized previously then I would not have a new goal. But I disagreed and Maslow and his hierarchy of needs suffered defenestration.

Why do I have to do just one thing with my life? Why does doing all sorts of different things get looked at as searching for the one thing? Why does it have to be ONE thing?

I have always been able to identify patterns easily. I found that to quickly get a woman to bed, you had to make sure all her other needs or desires were satisfied. But this is not about her needs for all time. It is about her needs at that time. That means that what satisfied today may not satisfy tomorrow. For those still obdurate apropos Maslow’s pyramid, think of it as having to get to the top of the pyramid every time. So today she has no money problems, she is not hungry and is in a good mood. In that case all you have to do is make her feel respected. But tomorrow she suddenly has money problems that may impact her mood, but her boss was nice to her and so she feels really respected. So then you have to satisfy a different need.

Over 10 years ago, I found true happiness being able to come home everyday to this particular woman. Once my class and, later, my shift ended, I felt the excitement fill my heart at the prospect of seeing her face and hearing her voice. So every evening as I closed the back gate and she looked down at me from the bedroom window, I hit a star. Then I married her and we had a child, hitting several stars. This was now a new level of happiness.

In the meanwhile I was being paid well to be a programmer. I had wanted to be a programmer for a long time. I had even threatened to kill myself if my sisters did not let me use my inheritance to pay for my software engineering education. I remember how happy I felt when I paid the tuition. I had no money to my name immediately after that point but I was walking around like I was the richest man in the world. The happiness I felt when I finally found a job at McDonald’s was on another level. Then I came back to Uganda and my code was impacting real lives. The sense of fulfillment that brought was immense.

There is a long line of teachers in my family. My paternal grandparents and my parents were teachers. It is my destiny and desire to work in academia. While I was still being fulfilled as a programmer I got several opportunities to teach. When my name first appeared on a research paper, I cried. I cried because the joy overflowed. Then I was at Oxford University coaching doctoral students of Biomedical Engineering… If only my parents were alive to see that. My daddy used to brag in the bar about the secondary school I was in, am sure he would have taken out a TV advertisement about my stint in Oxford. Just that thought brings tears to my eyes. How many times can a person be on top of the world?

I have been truly blessed in my life. I had a box of cigars from Cuba that I used to turn to every time I was feeling on top of the world. That box had 10 cigars and eventually run out about 3 years ago. But the happiness is still coming.

It is my contention that in my life, I will continue to find happiness in many different ways. That is why shooting for the stars appeals more than Maslow’s pyramid. The universe is never ending. When you hit the stars, there are still more stars to hit in a galaxy far, far away.

So what is my purpose in life? What I can say is, its not just ONE thing. It has been many things. And I know many more are yet to come. Join me and lets count our blessings. Let us stop and smell the coffee. We have many lives to lead.

Am I a racist?

Right now I am in Istanbul Turkey on a consulting gig. I travelled here with a few of my Indian brothers and we are staying in a pretty posh neighborhood in Bostanci. So yesterday after working all morning and some of the afternoon, my Indian brothers and I decided to go out for lunch nearby. We did a search on Google and we decided on a Mexican restaurant called Ranchero. So we layer up and walk over. As soon as we stepped inside a waiter came rushing over to us shaking his head vigorously and showing us back to the door. The only English word he said was closed. But that cannot be true because even as we were being ejected other people were coming in and not all the tables were full either; and none of them was marked as reserved.

So I made 2 conclusions. One is that the waiter racially profiled us and determined that we would be ordering vegetarian options and those were not available. Or 2 that he just did not like the look of us. In both cases there is a tinge of racism.

What scares me is that I was not in the least bit offended. I was more irritated that we had to go back out into the cold and find another restaurant and thus lose time that we could have spent working. There is something definitely wrong with me because this is not the 1st time I have reacted like this to racism. I was on a bus in London when an old drunk man started making some racists remarks in my direction. I only realised I should be offended when the nice old lady seated next to me complained on my behalf. Then the driver threw the geezer off the bus. I remember being irritated by the fact that the bus driver stopped for a long time to throw the guy off and I would probably miss my train.

Many times I read the stories of alleged racism and I wonder what the fuss is about. I wonder why Luis Suarez was banned, I wonder why Yaya Toure called in the police. I can understand why my friend Henry Lukenge called in the police. This behavior made him miss his bus and that is just not right.

So what is wrong with me? And what impact will my attitude have on me and others? Does it mean I am racist too? I do know that I am prejudiced and I do perpetuate most stereotypes. But I also know that I posses empathy. As such, I always try to put myself in the other person's shoes.

That guy at Ranchero may be knew that he basically has racist regular clients, who may make our experience in his restaurant uncomfortable. So I should understand that calling the police on the guy will probably mean him losing his job and yet he threw us out for our own good. I actually have a racist friend (lol - that just sounds like "... some of my best friends are racists ...") that I always try not to subject to the company of white people as it would be unpleasant for all of us.

That chap on the bus was struggling to find work and had become an alcoholic and may be his job had been taken by a black educated man like me. Its probably easier to tell him to shape up, but as a humanist, I think its not right for me to be upset with him. I should instead feel sorry for him, rather than add to his problems by getting him thrown off the bus or calling the police. And lets us not forget the risk of missing my train.

But still, I wonder if there is something wrong with me...

Who is in charge of your destiny

So recently I read this article and I was totally appalled. For those of you who do not want to read it, I will summarize it for you. The author is basically complaining that he is not revered, and has thus not prospered, despite being above 65% of people in his skills, knowledge and integrity. He attributes this to the fact that with the majority of people being mediocre (in a place he calls the safe middle – 40% to 60%), they prefer to expend their energy on ridiculing him and trying to pull him down to their level so as to feel good about themselves. He was prompted to cry out when @cobbo3, a person he thinks is enlightened and sophisticated, made some comments that seemed to suggest he agreed with the status the world accorded @TimKalyegira. The thing that really got me was when he claims he has been denied so many opportunities that others less talented or less educated or less innovative than him are getting.

I am a big fan of football and many times people have used the expression the table does not lie. This is in reference to the league table and the fact that every team deserves to be where they are in the table at that time. So that guy @TimKalyegira is suffering because he chose a certain path. Other people chose a different path and it worked out for them. He cannot seriously expect the rest of the world to lift a finger to make things work out for him just because they recognize his excellence. We are all trying to get ahead, so it is only logical that some of our actions in trying to get ahead end up pulling others down.

Think about a mid-table team. No real prospects of continental football and no danger of being relegated. According to @TimKalyegira, when that team plays a team fighting for the title, they should simply lay down and loose the game. If that team, because of a natural desire not to loose, actually goes ahead and wins that game or even just gets a draw (night mares of @CPFC vs @LFC in 2013/2014 season), then @TimKalyegira sees that as the mediocre hating on the exceptional.

I consider it the height of arrogance when people insinuate that the world owes them something. I think @TimKalyegira is being self-centered when he asserts that the world should accord him a status higher than where he finds himself. Rather than wait for the world to accord him status, I think @TimKalyegira should take inspiration from other exceptional people, like Steve Jobs and Albert Einstein, and actually take action that will force the world to accord him his desired status. Nearer to home, @KagutaMuseveni went to the bush to ensure he was where he felt he deserved to be (all that other stuff about doing it for the good of Ugandans is hogwash in my view).

We are all selfish beings. We all expend a lot of energy to get to selfish ends. The sooner we realize that our neighbor is just trying to make it better for himself, rather than worse for us, the sooner we shall adjust our strategies to create win-win situations that will make other people our engines, helping us to get to where we want to be; rather than our anchors, slowing us down.

Which is your favorite child?

So I have 3 kids. I have been worried about the middle child feeling neglected and somehow being permanently affected by that. I am also a middle child of 3. I was not affected by middle child syndrome because I am an only boy. But my kids are all girls, so no chance of gender favoritism to help me out.

To guide me I mostly have my experience watching my parents raising us. I remember growing up; I felt that my sister’s got more attention than I did. My dad seemed so in awe of my elder sister and then of course he dotted on the baby. I just kept getting told how a boy or a man was supposed to behave. My mum on the other hand was neutral. If you messed up you got the treatment. It did not matter if you were the middle child or the baby. She was somehow also able to give everyone equal special treatment.

Then I watched the Carmicheal and Shane video. It was a very thought affirming video for me. As an allegory on life, it is brilliant. But I find that it is relevant for my dilemma too. The solution for me is to choose the middle child.

From the video the advice is to try and figure out which of the kids is more likely to make it and back that one. But I believe all my kids will make it. However the middle child is likely to fall through the cracks if I do not make a conscious effort to help her succeed.

So when I get into the house, I walk to the middle child and sit with her. When I get into their room to read a bedtime story I sit on her bed and read it from there. If I have a profile picture that is not the 3 of them, it will be just her.

But before you shoot me for favoritism, let me explain. Think about this as affirmative action rather than favoritism. Its like giving the plant in the shade extra fertilizer. It’s like putting an extra line in your advertisement saying, “Female candidates are encouraged to apply”. My middle child is getting preferential treatment because she has a natural disadvantage from being born in the middle.

I am not an idiot.

Beer ni bora!!

It is a warm Friday night. It was very hot during the day and I am grateful for the well-chilled Nile Gold provided by the dreadlocked waiter at Old Timers' bar. It is actually difficult to take the bottle off my lips as the beer tastes sooo gooood. 3 bottles later in walk these 3 skinny ladies in matching green outfits. One of them has a behind that cannot be real for sure. It has only been 3 bottles of Nile Gold so I cannot be seeing things yet.

Probably because I am staring so hard at her, she approaches just as I open a fresh Nile Gold. 

The conversation:

She says: Hi

He says: Well hello!

She says: My name is Heve and I wanted to talk to you about Heineken

He says: Very good Heve please go ahead

She says: Heineken is a very tasty international beer that will apply to your sense of style If you drink it you will feel international and tonight we have it at the promotional price of only 6k.

He says: (while looking around for hidden cameras because this is obviously a prank) but Heve, please explain to me why I would leave my perfectly chilled Malt sold at 4k and buy your pale lager at 6k?

She says: (obviously stunned by my technical approach, resorts to smiling and brushing the add-on to my leg and in so doing confirming to me that it is an add-on) Heineken is international and once you take it, you will realize that Nile Gold is so local

(so much for my vaunted sense of style then)

He says: I am sorry Heve, but I only drink Malts and your add-on bum is crooked. Are you lame? May be you should get rid of your international bum and foreign name and try a local home grown variety. I personally find them a lot more attractive.

She says: (Walks quickly to the bathroom to adjust add-on)

He says: Beer ni bora.

These Heineken people should really give these ladies better ammunition.  Who cares about feeling international when drinking beer? Certainly not the patrons of Old Timers' bar. Who is going to abandon the beer he loves and pay and extra 2k for a beer whose morning after he is not sure about? And skimpily clad ladies with artificial appendages will not make me give up my trusted malt for Heineken.

The Gods of Football

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So she asked a set of very weird questions at the end of the world cup 2014 final. “Why has Messi got a trophy when he his team has just lost?” “Why is Messi not happy when he has just got a trophy?” “I thought Messi was the best player in the world, how come he did not win the game?”

Now where to begin my darling…

Human beings have a strong desire to deify. A Ugandan woman who did not think she was horny, but who gets an orgasm from a man suddenly starts to worship that man. A football loving man who experiences pleasure as an Argentine man glides past his fellow professionals and scores a spectacular goal, will instantly label the Argentine a footballing god.

Please allow me to explain the god credentials of these footballers.

Consider Neymar, the star of the Brazilian side. The entire country’s hopes rested on his shoulders. One more straw would literally be the only extra weight needed to break this camel’s back. So imagine instead what effect a 75kg Columbian would have. The fact that Neymar only broke one bone in his back is evidence enough that he is a god. But since you want more evidence, please look at how they collapsed once he was out. Before they met Germany in the semi-final Neymar dazzled most teams and got rough treatment in return. Because they so worshiped him, his teammates responded by employing some rough tactics of their own on the opposition. That is what we call inspiration.

Now there is this chap nicknamed El Pistolero. True he has quite a reputation as a gunslinger, but he rose to almighty status once the British media decided to make an enemy of him. As happens, the universe decided that Uruguay would play England in the group stages of the world cup. Then Suarez got injured and from that point on the British media went to great lengths to portray him as a paraplegic who would be lucky to ever walk again. The entire British nation, including their silly football team believed the lie. I call them silly because some of them are friends and teammates of Suarez at Liverpool and should really have known better. So the match itself was like that movie The Usual Suspects. Jagielka, Stevie G and Hart were very generous as usual. And the genius mastermind was the ‘crippled’ Suarez. The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was deceive the world that he did not exist. Only in this case the devil was the British press and they were left screaming … Keyser Söze!!! And they were not the only ones. Italy also soon discovered that in Suarez, Uruguay had a player ready to fight TOOTH and nail.

When we were growing up as kids, no one liked to play in goal when we played football. So usually the fattest least mobile kid ended up there. This was fine for normal play, but as soon as a penalty was awarded suddenly everyone on the team that conceded it would scream “CHANGE KEEPER!” So I was not surprised when just before the end of extra time in the match between Holland and Costa Rica the coach Luis Van Gaal replaced his keeper. What was surprising was that for doing something that kids everywhere in Uganda do, he was declared a god by pundits the world over. Forget that he failed to win the game in regular time but spare a thought for the poor Costa Ricans for whom the antics of the dutch keeper Tim were a Krul end to their world cup.

Talking about Dutch penalties, there was that one at the end of the game against Mexico. Jose Mourinho declared him the god of the dive, but Arjen Robben is a joy to watch when running with the ball at his feet. In the final minute of added on time, Robben raced into the box slaloming defenders like a downhill ski champ. He was having so much fun that he almost failed to notice the byline fast approaching. Noticing it in the nick of time, he stopped and attempted to ski uphill. Waiting for him was Mexican captain Rafael Marqueze who stuck out his big toe in an attempt to nick the ball. The next thing the world knew, Robben had collapsed in a heap and Huntelar buried the penalty that sunk Mexico. The inquest into that Dutch penalty will continue for a long time but here is what I have discovered so far. Robben takes a step to steady himself after the alleged contact but then he gets shot by the 2nd shooter on the grassy knoll; flying into the air like a redbull sky diver. That stuff gives you wings.

Back to the questions asked earlier. Unlike all the gods I have talked about above, Messi is like a proper big God (ignore his midget frame). The whole world believed he would stand up against the efficient German machine and lead his country to the Promised Land. So he was given the golden ball in recognition of his majesty. He was not happy because as a big God, it was annoying to be done by Super Mario, whose only claim to fame was as a video game character on old Nintendo machines.

But Messi should be consoled that even the one true God makes mistakes sometimes and messes things up. I am sure there will be a rainbow in Argentina for the whole week.

When I looked over I noticed She had dozed on during my monologue.

Lately I am having trouble sleeping

This week I have had trouble sleeping despite feeling extra tired every night. Regularly at 7pm having dinner, watching TV and the head starts to feel heavy. I can barely keep my eyes open and yet when I get into bed I am tossing and turning. I am struggling with the constant compromise between thinking and breathing.

It started on Sunday after Liverpool beat Manchester City in the most dramatic of fashion.

You see on Saturday as I walked through Rosebank Mall I was accosted by a white man. Yes, a white man run towards a black man in a crowded mall shouting “JUSTICE”, at the top of his voice. The problem you see is that I was wearing my Liverpool replica shirt and he happens to be a Hillsborough survivor. This week marks 25 years since 96 people went off to watch a football match and never came back.

But he did not let on right away that he was a survivor as he put his hand around my shoulder and started to lecture me about the history of the club that is Liverpool Football Club. He informed me of how when the club was just formed 13 of their players were called up to fight the Boer war for the British. How they chose to play a game against Leicester City before departing and they ended up missing the ship to South Africa. How they then had to take a ferry cross the Mersey to catch the ship. They sailed to South Africa and had to walk inland for days to catch up with the Boers. Arriving in a place called Spioenkop tired and hungry and were promptly ordered to take a nearby hill. They all died on that hill. Their cremated remains and the blood soaked sand from that hill were used to build the famous Spion Kop at Anfield.

Meanwhile a small crowd, attracted by the initial fracas, had gathered around us. Someone in the crowd started tugging at my new Samsung Galaxy Grand Quattro (my precious old one had been snatched from my hands on the streets of Kampala). I held firm, but I later learned he wanted to record the scene for me.I need to start being more trusting perhaps. But imagine this black man in South Africa surrounded by all these white people gawking.

As I watched Liverpool crumble in the early part of the second half of the game at Sunday lunchtime, I could not help but wonder if the players were feeling the effects of not having eaten lunch. I then remembered those poor sods that died, tired and hungry on that hill in Spioenkop. I found myself singing that famous song about dreams being tossed and blown in the wind and how we strangely were not walking alone; as I too was hungry (unable to eat before the game due to some very playful butterflies in my belly). Then Vincent Kompany sliced his clearance and Philippe Coutinho swung his right leg at the ball.

So yes, I am having trouble sleeping.

My time in South Africa is coming to an end. Could it be am suffering because I now associate this place with inspirational good memories? I don’t want to say that am falling in love. I hate the weather that causes temperatures to drop below 10 degrees Celsius in the mornings and evenings. I hate that my wife and my kids, the wonder girls, are not here with me. 

But I love my work mates. I love how a bunch of us goes out to the Great Dane or Kitcheners to drink most days. I love how they never let me win any arguments. I love how they are always asking the question why. I love how cosmopolitan and multicultural the office is. I love that South African women are prudish in public but every bit as Zuma described when he discovered that hot showers could prevent HIV infection. But I wont say am falling in love with Jozy.

I think I am going to need therapy when I return to Kampala.

When Coutinho swung his leg on Sunday and scored, I jumped out of the sofa with a star jump. My legs hit the coffee table so hard that I have been unable to wear shoes since.  As such I was unable to control my landing and ended up slamming my back into the arm of the sofa. As such it hurts when I take a deep breath, laugh or move my back in anyway. Obviously sleeping is uncomfortable…

Hang on...

I am having trouble sleeping…

Latin Banned!... Rainy season finally here.

Nomvula and I were discussing those 2 newspaper headlines in the title of this blog that are doing the rounds this week. One is on the front page and the other is on the inside pages. Yes I know our country is a poor agricultural country, but please note that those peasants excited about the rainy season do not buy newspapers.

So she asked me; what do you think of this new law that criminalises the speaking of Latin? I told her that I know the old law that made the speaking of foreign languages illegal was already dodgy but this new law was even worse. There are provisions in it that criminalise the promotion of Latin as a language. At one stage it even obliged people to report known Latin speakers or spend 7 years in jail. Thankfully this provision was removed before the president signed the bill into law.

Meanwhile the conduct of the president on this matter has also been suspect. Acting like Pontius Pilate, he declared that he thought this law to be wrong, but was forced into it by the will of the people. To further illustrate his point he spoke, tongue in cheek, about the practice of using the mouth to speak English. “Given all these pleasurable and rich local languages, why should anyone engage in oral English?” So she asked me, “but how do you know that he was speaking tongue in cheek?” And I reminded her that it was her friend the minister that had told us how she regularly used her mouth to speak to the president in English and he seemed to enjoy it very much. Tsk tsk, throttle throttle.

While this whole idea of denying someone their fundamental human rights is at the heart of this fight; some of the Latin speakers have behaved very badly. Many have resorted to calling us locals ignorant because we are not out on the streets fighting this. But the truth is, many of my fellow country men are more bothered about where their next meal is coming from. This government has taken advantage of this apathy and enacted some very regressive laws that severely curtail the rights of citizens as enshrined n the constitution that this same government promulgated. In a way I am not surprised at the foreign Latin speakers. They have no clue of how Latin speakers have survived in this country. It is my contention that most Latin speakers are known within their communities and many of them are well liked. But as is the culture in Uganda, public displays of Language are considered taboo. Many of my Latin speaking friends have not expressed any fear due to the new law and the rest of us now instead are going out of our way to control the facts around these friends of ours. Make no mistake, just because they exist and may be well liked, they are still generally looked at as different. Also, make no mistake that there are several Latin speakers that would like to be able to declare their language preference publicly and at the very least not be sent to jail for it. Many of these people would like society to accept that they like to speak different language.

This particular bill has been largely promoted by local Christian Evangelicals with huge financial support from that country called Sole Super Power. Jesus Christ was a man of peace. He hang out with those that were rejected by society. So I find it ridiculous that the proponents of this law claim to be doing it in his name. I feel for Jesus because he was used to justify slavery, then apartheid and now this. There is one pastor who has been going around showing movies in foreign languages; particularly Latin. He has also described, in graphic detail, how people engage in all types of discourse in Latin. He is actually the local expert on "Fisting". I am sure both these acts violate the new anti-foreign language law. It is interesting to note that some penalties in the anti-foreign  language law are harsher than those in the ant-Latin speaking law.

So what to do about these new laws?

Rather than have their president lecture our president on how to run his country, Sole Super Power should just ensure that the Christian Evangelicals are unable to fund the defense of this law. They could even consider tagging that funding as terrorist funding. This would shut the tap and ensure that our front pages concentrate on activities that feeds our people.

There will, of course, be a the challenge to the law in the constitutional court. But even while that is going on, the Latin speakers could set up a fund to pay the legal fees of anyone charged under this law. They of course have to be careful not to defend those who speak to minors using the Latin language. With the law being so weak and expected to be even harder to effect; am sure every lawyer this fund pays will win every case.