What I do is, I write. I write for my beer money, for my shoes and books. For something to do. For the lack of enthusiasm that I feel for almost everything else with the possible exception of…er…(i’ll fill this in when the possible exceptions occur to me)

I write to justify my existence in the multiverse.

Also because any way of making a living that doesn’t involve cavorting with words doesn’t seem worth the trouble.

The above statements have nothing to do with my decision to post as many of my articles as I can find that have been published in Plan B- a humor spread in The Sunday Vision’s largely straight faced, even propagandist itinerary.

I’m trying to follow in the large footsteps of Angela Kintu one of the Ugandan writers that I have a most enormous brain-crush on.

Also, because the idea that all the effort that goes into writing up my babies ceases to matter the moment they get published doesn’t sit well with me. Nah-uh.

So, blog trawler, internet wanderer keep your treacherous index finger away from your mouse and try to enjoy yourself.

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