There’s almost no older art form in the entire history of the ape descended life form than poetry, which is probably why a section of these life forms have tried so hard to kill it. Seeing no chance of success, they’ve decided to coin phrases like ‘poetry is dead!’ , ‘poetry is for square douche bags’ , etcetera and circulate them just for the hell of it, but poetry has gone right on doing its thing.

This, I suspect, annoys the hell out of them who look at it in the same way one would at a relative whose age nobody can remember, who occupies the best seat in the house and loudly voices his opinion on absolutely everything and yet physically, he’s nothing more than a suggestion of a mildewed shadow. Point is, as an art form, poetry not as virile as it once was but it’s far from dead.

Jerry says, ‘Personal reading and writing of poetry is the only way I can keep my temper in check and vent without things getting bloody. It’s not easy being civil in a world that is chock-full of bastards. I run to poetry when things are threatening to overwhelm me.’

Like this one

In Uganda, there are numerous societies, platforms and fraternities dedicated to the spoken word. From the lantern meet of poets which began almost five years ago, to Luminous Sorrels which is debuting in June, Ugandans have started to take this form of self-expression very seriously.

According to Ntaro, getting together with the express intention of celebrating words helps one learn a lot about themselves as a writer, among other things. When asked what drew him to the Lantern Meet of Poets, he says, ‘First off, I love my words. The stories told in the individual poems I got to hear in other people’s work spoke so clearly of what surrounds the youth of Uganda .’

Here are four reasons why you absolutely must join one of them:

SERIOUSLY: There’s only so much bar hopping, club hitting, intoxicant quaffing that one can do in one lifetime. This is one of the only forms of entertainment that doesn’t hold a blade to your vital organs.

BEDDINGFIELD: Is your favorite lyric ‘I bruise easily, so be gentle when you handle me’?  Are you prone to sighing with eyes downcast and feet shuffling, that nobody understands the sensitive side of your soul? Stop being a bane in the existence of the people who know you. Put your drama in verse and attend one of these celebrations of the written and spoken word where you will definitely find at least one person who shares your taste for emo philosophies.

YO!: It’s cool. Poets are no longer square in the way geeks are no longer unsexy. Attend one of these events, if for no other reason than its trending.

 MEET n GREET: Beats every form of networking, mostly because you’re not under any pressure to sell yourself off as the most amazing being on the planet but have gathered to celebrate the beauty of words the appreciation of which doesn’t discriminate between bank balances.

These are some of the more popular Societies/platforms:

Poetry in session which is occurs on the last Tuesday of the month, every month is held at Isha’s art gallery in Kamwokya. The ambience here is extremely cozy and entrance is free.

Bonfire, a story telling platform, is more upbeat, with the presenters regularly working their crowd with ‘mo fire! Bonfire! MO faya!…etc’ a warbling chant that the audience is all too willing to respond to.

Open Mic Kampala, like the rest is a platform for the spoken word but its aims are slightly different. Promoting Slam poetry along with other forms of expression that don’t involve words; like music and dance is one of its biggest objectives. If you’re looking for a bit of variety, this is the one for you.

The Lantern meet is the oldest. It was founded by a group of poetry nerds on campus who wanted to be able to freely critique and discuss poetry. It meets twice a month on Sunday afternoons at national theater. Everybody is encouraged to bring a poem to the meet but there’s no pressure to.

If your feet are still shivering their apprehension at you, start by attending the Grand poetry recital, which will be at National theater on the 10th and 11th of June and watch poetry being performed by people who a few years back would’ve balked, spat and gaped in confusion at the prospect of even READING a poem.



So, Definitons:

A rabadaba is mukyamu. Note that. His mukyamuness mustn’t be messed with else he’ll take the issue up with your intestines by way of a sharp object, which won’t be fair to them, as they’ve hardly done anything all their lives but quiver and palpitate.  He is also a Ugandan local artiste on whom every normal female has passionately lusted after at least once.


This is he.

A rubber ducky is a yellow duck shaped toy made out of vinyl, which has come to be associated with baths. The ducky has no need for legs, apparently. Its makers feel it can go about life content with bobbing amongst soap suds and don’t subscribe to the view that toys come to life in the night. They just don’t see the kind of embarrassment that legless-ness might pose for these creatures.


When agitated:

A rubber ducky cannot even quack. On the event that this adorable squeaky toy loses its temper, the worst it can do is hurtle towards you as you’re having your bath, brandishing its beak like a lance (with dark hate possibly written all over its face). Note that severe paranoia and/or hallucinogenic drugs are a prerequisite for coming to a realization such as, ‘Eh! My rubber ducky is trying to kill me!’

A rabadaba can go into the offensive and attack the enemy. He can rat-a-tat lugaflow at his opponent and reduce them to dust. He can squeal, ‘bwekili!’ in a falsetto and confuse said opponent long enough to turn tail and bolt in case the fight has started looking bad for him. He can pull a knife and put paid to your dreams of being a midriff model. A rabadaba is more equipped for battle than a rubber ducky.

The rub-a-dub doesn’t have anything to do with the two and people don’t even perform it when they’re in a state of agitation. It’s a dance which involves the repeated rubbing together of body parts belonging to two consenting people and is the national dance of Jamaica, if dancehall videos are anything to go by.It has gained worldwide popularity because the world full of perverts. There are more people rub-a-dubing at any given time than those listening to rabadaba’s music or those playing with rubber duckies, so the dance wins this round.

this is how they rub.


Rabadaba has climbed another rung on the ladder that leads to authentic male musician-hood by getting incarcerated for being too curious about the contents of the other people’s stomachs. Guy should’ve done PCB. People get to cut open frogs in biology class, right?

Rubber duckies have been around for a longer time, but haven’t really achieved anything past being able to bob on soap suds and make baths somewhat more interesting.


Duckies have dead eyes, usually blue in color with mascara-d looking eyelashes. If a cold dread creeps into your heart when you’re staring at this toy, cast it from you and run away. It is a sign that the duck successfully taken the first step in possess your body. So don’t look them in the eye too long.

Rabadaba, according to an extremely unreliable source has a testicular–visual aid in the place of his left eye and this is why he wears goggles all the time. He’s apparently so mukyamu that evolution decided to skip convention entirely and plaster a hairy bullock onto his face.


Ducks are cuter than Rabadaba. For one, they don’t have testicles on their faces.

They can be referred to as duckies but if you call Rabadaba rabbie, you probably won’t see your spleen again.



Writers just love to act put upon. When they’re not wailing about ‘how the burdens of creativity weigh upon them’, they’re moaning about the mindless pop-generation topics that their editors thrust upon them. And let’s not even get started with the ‘I’m-paid-peanuts-and-yet-me-I’m-brilliant rants.

When one’s editor just wakes up one day and says, “Gwe, write about whatever the hell you want this week” is when the crickets crawl, and fast. Your average writer panics, grabs the nearest magazine/newspaper and peruses it with a whipping motion of the hand that you probably thought was only possible in those new (and horrifying) cartoons on cartoonnetwork. This isn’t wise, because you just might end up in a tiny section near the front page called ‘why I’m angry/ why I’m, glad’ and decide to base your article on it. Imagine.

Plan B has poked catty fingers at nearly every part of this newspaper but this one. It is the only one that hasn’t been mercilessly parodied. Why? Your guess is as good as mine. This is one of the easiest parts of any paper to make fun of.

Presenting Plan B’s first and hopefully last ‘why i’m gay/pissed’.

Why i’m delirious with joy:

Holiday: The press is on holiday. Whoop whoop! We’ve decided that the attendance and coverage of functions that we will be beaten at is not worth the trouble. It’s an open secret that our coffers are generally less full that those of our peers. Other people are rich because they’re doing mindless and boring things; but us, we’re paying the price of being passionate and patriotic. And then we go to a function and they beat us? We’re on holiday, baby. If you’ve seen a group of scribes partying, you’re probably chin-deep in envy right now.

 Farai Mwakutuya



Have you people watched news lately? This guy is fit nowadays. With the way he looks, he must have recruited a wizened old guru to sit in a cloud of smoke all day and instruct him in calm tones to stretch those muscles that are responsible for looking hot in front of TV cameras. He is one of the reasons I am glad.

And this is why I’m wrathful:

The Desexifying of Pink. When Nicki Minaj came she had one goal, to make pink cool again. She brought it back so hard, even disagreeable ‘macho men’ were seen trying to slip pink shirts on. And then the maker of tear gas got bored and invented a hot pink equivalent that would cause the same amount of discomfort while being cute at the same time.

 Naked robot: there’s a certain ad on citizen television that features a gyrating robot. It’s swiveling its midriff with so much enthusiasm that it’s…uncomfortable for some. Many. Me. If people are going to give a robot such obviously feminine curves and then make it to gyrate with a tremendous amount of zeal like that, it should be given clothes.

Telenovellas: I like those programs. I don’t even mind that their maker, after all these years, hasn’t yet realized that other nations which don’t speak Spanish, at all, are some of his most loyal fans and that he continues to hire Spanish speaking casts. What I take issue with is the talking dogs in Marimar. WTF?


There’s a huge amount of awkwardness involved in going up to an unsuspecting girl and asking her if she’s had a girl-crush before. Her immediate reaction will be to cringe, giggle too long to make up for the cringing and then ask in a tiny voice, ‘why?’ It’s impossible not to feel like one is propositioning. This is why facebook seemed like the perfect way to conduct interviews. Unfortunately, none of the girls in my fbfam (uninspired acronym for facebook family) were willing to talk about their crushes until thoroughly reassured that these crushes are not a lascivacious affair.

The process of reassurance required effort, so I persuaded a kind young man named Nyeko Ken to be a girl for fifteen minutes.  We had a few false starts during which he cited his lack of boobs as a serious hindrance to his act but when reminded that he was in fact in possession of wee vestigial ones and self image was hardly a thing to get into at the time, He said, ‘As a girl, I like boys. I think they’re awesome desirable beings and no amount of sweet and nice traits in my girlfriends will ever persuade me to stop paying all my attention to these enthralling creatures.’

A girl crush refers to a strong adoration that a heterosexual woman develops for another on account of her sophistication, charm, wit, amazingly relevant blog, great shoe collection etcetera.  The reasons behind it are as numerous as the crushers and crushees. One thing is clear though. They’re based more on personality than on looks or money.  It’s the female equivalent of the bromance. If you are a boy, you cannot have a girl-crush. What you’re feeling is called infernal lust. It’s called a base craving and probably won’t come to any good, so be far from the poor girl.

Damalie was excited about making a contribution to the article but first, she needed one thing to be clarified. Did the term girl-crush refer to a dainty/little car crash or did it mean a crush on a girl? When things were cleared up, she named Eva Longoria as her girl-love. ‘I dig her too much. Her style, wardrobe, drama, this woman is amazing.’

This is Daphne’s story: I met this beautiful girl who was just so…smart. I think I’d ask her to marry me on the spot if I were a boy. She’s, understanding, non judgmental and we seem to have a lot to talk about. On principle, she never gossips, always thinks before she speaks, has amazing opinions and is just so…sensible. I want to be like her in every way.

If movies, Rihanna and boarding school are anything to go by, females aren’t usually wild about other females. Sure, they can tolerate each other, even form friendships but an odd sort of resentment lingers. Every girl would like to be the only girl in the world. This paragraph is so baseless that we’re going to turn to social scientists for our next hypothesis.

According to them, women have always had such feelings of adoration for each other. They claim that this is a part of women’s nature which has been kept alive by evolution because it makes women bond and co-operate. This was probably essential in the days when there was only one career choice for all the females on earth; the gathering of fruits and nuts. There was obviously a problem of over crowdedness at work that Mother Nature cleverly solved by making all of them fall a little bit in love with each other.

Soho Cafe and grill is a nice coffee shop in Kampala. It is also my friend on facebook. Because it is a shop, its sex was never an issue until our interview which went like this:  Hello Soho. Are you a girl? Because if you are, I’d like to interview you about girl crushes.

To which it answered: ‘I haven’t ever had an ultra sound to check, but in the meantime, could we amuse you with a strawberry crush?’ Which- you have to agree- is a very clever response for a coffee shop.

So how long do they last? Louise says, ‘Not very long. I had one for about fifteen minutes on a gem of a girl I met once. She made me feel comfortable about myself and it was a joy to be around her. She’s not in the country anymore but I still think fondly of her.’

According to Maureen, these crushes are usually indicators of long friendships to come. She says, ‘I’ve never befriended a girl who I haven’t had an enormous crush on first. It’s the attractive aspects of her personality that make you want to draw close to her in the first place, and when that is done, a friendship naturally follows.


Today, we’re interviewing the EXAM. The guy himself. The real one you see in front of you every end of semester/term.

For all intents and purposes of this article, an exam is strictly asexual, because assigning a sex to a being as disagreeable as this one might cause all kinds of resentment to be flung my way and me, I fear.

So Exam, Tell us a bit about yourself.

I can confidently say that I’m the only thing on the planet that nobody has ever been inclined to befriend or give a nickname to. I know this because I have heard of a stapler named Dave but never of an examination named, well, anything. If I were a character in Grey’s anatomy, I think I’d be called Mcdreary or mcscreamy or even mcphooey.

Give us a bit of background. Tell us about…your mom.

Athena is the greek goddess of wisdom. She is also my mother. Now that Greek deities aren’t so popular, she spends most of her time in Lima trying to convert one 17 year old boy. For now, all she’s successfully done is turn him into a chronic schizophrenic. Between that and trawling dating sites, she has no time for my sorry self.

OK. Tell us something about yourself that isn’t depressing.

I’m a terrific bundle of joy when you get to know me, honest, but nobody ever wants to try. When I come around, people just buy enormous amounts of concentration enhancing drugs to prepare for me and liquor- to celebrate my passing. I’m sad. I don’t even measure my time in days, because the smart guy who created me forgot to make me normal in that regard. Rather, I come upon people in seasons exactly like a plague to ruin their lives.

What’s your favorite pastime?

Do you promise not to scoff?


I like to read the post-its on my bathroom mirror out loud. I am going to make a friend today! Smile like you mean it! People like you more than you know! Be peachy now. Chin up! That sort of thing. I don’t chant or mumble them under my breath that’d be weird. And you’re smirking which is even worse than scoffing.

Maybe if you were a little more cheerful…

I’ve tried to make the guys who print me use happier colors like red or pink but alas, they’re pond scum who have no thoughts for anything other than themselves.

OOkay. You can watch movies, right? According to Douglas Adams, everything can, including a group of aliens on Planet Rupert who use special satellite dishes to tap the earth’s TV rays or something like that. What’s your favorite movie?

Definitely Eat pray love. This movie helps me think up innovative ways that I can make myself seem more interesting to the young and hip beings that all seem to hate me so much. You may think that I sound pathetic but well…I’m only slightly pathetic. Really. I’m rich. Does that help?

A little. How do you spend your free time?

Er…let me see. I hook up with barmy old men and women and let them believe that they are ‘setting me’. Really I do all the work and they take all the credit but hey, story of my life. I also get done. Sat for. Written.

Ok, tell us one thing you’ve done to make yourself seem more agreeable to people.

Have you seen Goodluck! ,  Success! or xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo! At the bottom of your examination paper? I spend inordinate amounts of energy in making them appear. It is I  and not the examiners who put them there. Those people couldn’t care less. If I had my way, I’d always be set in a cutesy comic sans and not that awful Times new roman that awakens dread in your heart and makes your mind go blank. See how delightful I am? LIKE ME!

Any aspirations? dreams?

I dream of meeting a nice asexual being like me and making a love connection because when I get over this confounded loneliness, I’ll be free to venture into things like REVENGE and TAKING OVER THE WORLD! Mua.ah.ah.ah.ah. Yea I’m trying to do the Count’s evil laugh. That one on Sesame Street. Ah.ah.ah. I’ve been practicing Gently Benevolent laugh, but it’s so annoying, i fly into a terrible rage whenever i hear myself doing it.

Any last words for your peoples?



That’s cool-speak for I will get you. Get with the times.


Men have made bold and often misguided forays into fashion, but none as shocking as the one into leggings/pantyhose (mantyhose). A perfidious bald-faced liar is what you’re likely to be called if you tell an average Ugandan man that some of his peers wear leggings. You’ll lose all credibility with him if you don’t quickly provide an internet link to a website with pictorial evidence to back you up.

The man purse or murse isn’t nearly as shocking, but it comes a close second in the list of trends men are following that have made some people marvel at the amount of self confidence/ sheer insanity that they must possess. This purse is not really bad looking and is only good for a couple of sniggers. This is mostly because the only other demographic that carries purses for no apparent reason is 9-13 year old girls; the kind who’re partial to T-shirts that scream ‘Girls rule boys drool’ in diamante.

A man-purse is not a satchel or a little backpack. According to the urban dictionary, it’s an over the shoulder bag worn by men who live in the more urbanized areas. It’s not too popular and the unfortunate holder of the bag will almost certainly be picked on, whispered about or deemed the honorary ‘fag of the day’. It’s far more common in the European nations (especially France) where people aren’t so silly and suspicious of doing things that will make them seem fruity.

After quickly googling it, Raymond says, “I think I just might do a man purse. It looks cool and seems like a handy way to carry around things like pot and associated equipment but leggings?! Not even when I’m dead.”

Jerolyn’s problem with this purse is it implies that the man wearing it is the type to wake up in the morning, drawl ‘good morning beautiful’ at his reflection , have a bubble bath and then spend an inordinate amount of time trying on clothes. She says, “It just seems like a whole lot of effort is being made and that’s just weird.”

Jackie, like Raymond has to google man-purse first. She says the closest she’s seen to a guy holding one is when Brian, a classmate of hers moves around clutching his pencil case. “It’s like he’s saying ‘I take my pens and pencils more seriously than you do, you careless female’”.

Can a woman-in good conscience-let her boyfriend wear a pair of leggings? Rose is a firm believer in ‘size’ and says that if he can wear leggings with no real embarrassment, she doesn’t want to be dating him in the first place. She’s got no problem with guys holding purses because, “girls are always making their boyfriends hold their bags for them. It’s nothing new.”

Some people like Sam Otea think there is a ploy to feminize the human species. He says, ‘There are mantyhoses? Wow. I’m not against chicks, but I’ve had my share of limp-wristed males without having a Victor’s secret for all men. As for those murses, they’re unnecessary accessories that will make men even more bird-like than before because now when a boda guy snatches your murse, like he does a lady’s, you’ll be tempted to scream, “My purse! My purse!” which is not a very masculine thing to say, let alone scream, whether you like pansy-hoses as King Julian would put it- or not’.

Is this the skinny-jeans-on-men controversy all over again? Won’t men’s leggings will explode in the world’s face (wardrobe) the moment Kanye or Lil weezy or whoever is popular at the time frames his nuts in a pair of spandex tights in a spanking new video?

Adonyo says, ‘No! I don’t copy weird celebs but yes, I own a purse. My girlfriend chose it for me and I just love it! It’s a real simple one, plain with flowery detail at the back. As for leggings on men, I’m too principled for such. I don’t even like them on girls, ok; maybe I can stand them at parties, but not as a dress code!’

Kabanda would use a man-purse if it looked like a small laptop bag but leggings are a strong no go area for him. ‘You say they’re comfortable and will make my ankles look sexier? What about all the poor leg hairs that will get caught in that stocking material?!  Then there’s the issue of breathing space. Certain appendages of men fluctuate in size during the course of the day and I’m not interested in being neutered by fashion.”

If the ladies’ opinions are anything to go by, men who’re comfortable with purses and leggings are weird because they’re breaching some sort of diva line. If even harsh public opinion can’t stop them donning leggings and clutching cute purses, a time is surely coming when girls will be fighting for mirror space with their boyfriends, and even worse, for their attention.


Hello, I’m Louis, a VET who specializes in the sniping off of tiny cojones. Nobody in these parts seems to mind their female animals frenziedly reproducing because I never get customers banging on my door to have their cat, for example, sprayed. But woe-betide the animal if it’s male. Because of all the business I get, I can’t ever close shop. In a show of solidarity with the creatures that I de-male for a living, I’ve rigged a wire to deliver small electrical shocks to my scrotal area every time a customer steps through the door. This is how a day in my life goes:

7.00am: I’m asleep in the back of my establishment with my family. My family of six daughters and one wife who when in motion might easily be mistaken for four Sumo wrestlers struggling violently for one bowl of rice.

9.00am: At this time, I’m usually on my fourth pair of nuts. Some of my rivals have called me lazy for specializing in castration. Bollocks. Let it never be said that I lack enthusiasm for my job. There isn’t a harder working soldier in the cause of snatching the manliness (?) from between the legs of tiny unsuspecting animals. Others have called me perverted, have said that I get kicks from handling those tiny but perfectly formed, musky, lightly haired nuts.This is also a lie.

10.00am: Every hour, I pick a different tool, to keep things interesting. The one of the hour is the Burdizzo.

This tool employs a large clamp to break the blood vessels leading into the animal’s testicles. Once the blood supply is lost, necrosis occurs, and they shrink, soften, and eventually deteriorate completely. I like the word Burdizzo. It sounds like something that could fit nicely in a dancehall song.

10.30am: Because I’m an artist at heart, I take these thirty minutes to sketch a bit. I’m mostly inspired by the things I see around me everyday, so it’s perfectly understandable that framed illustrations of the nether bits of various male animals is what an observer will find blutacked to the walls of my office; along with a picture of Aldous Huxely with this written at the bottom: “No man ever dared to manifest his boredom so insolently as does a Siamese tomcat when he yawns in the face of his amorously importunate wife.” Where importunate=persistent. Hehehe. This one gets me through many dark moments. It’s sketchin’ time!

11.00am: A more lovely pair of plums, you will not find drawn anywhere on the planet. Ooh! It’s that shock again. Right. Back to work for me.

11.20am: So, what’s *snip this again? You’d like me to tell you about a day in *chop snip. Yowwwwlll. Drops knife. Gasp! Er..this isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. As things are, I’ve made this poor puppy more of a eunuch than is morally acceptable. No creature should ever have to pee out of a straw. I’m not a multi tasking sort of man. You made me do this horrible thing. You.

12.00pm: Lunch. You don’t mess with a surgeon’s lunch hour. I usually have boiled eggs with irish potatoes in their jackets and, well, anything round really. I try to be as dedicated to my job as humanly possible.

 1.00pm: Because I’m constantly working, things get awfully monotonous and I need some conversation to keep me going, you know. Keep the senses sharp. The duty of entertaining me rotates among my daughters. Today, Laura is telling me about some fellow named Boloki Samuel who stood for some post or other in Makerere a few months ago. His motto was ‘Man of no bollocks.’ No lies. He had posters and everything. Now that’s a man I’d like to have a long chat with.

 2.00pm: I listen to Dorcas- another one of my girls- read. Villa Incognito by Tom Robbins is one of my favorite books, because its main character is a beaver like creature called a Tanuki, with enormous nads. At one point in the book, Tanuki uses his balls to parachute down to earth. At another, he uses them as a raft to get to Beijing. I’m absolutely fascinated by this creature.

 3.00pm: I drink. There’s no way to euphemize this. I don’t think I’d be able to stand my job if I didn’t have a good amount of liquor sloshing around my body. You can’t begin to imagine the number of nuggets that I clip off every single day of every single week of every darn year.

5.00pm: Exhausted, I lie down for a bit and have my wife massage my hands between the folds of fat on her neck. This is more soothing than it sounds. I then let my mind wander and dream that I’m a super hero who stands outside vetinary practices always on the ready to dispense left hooks and ngolos to people who come looking like they might want to neuter their animals.


Human beings just love to categorize things; to shove both animate and inanimate objects into little color coded folders. This general OCD extends to just about everything with the probable exception of cutlery. The French for example address everything as either male or female. This is a system that was invented in order trip up English spies who had a habit of sneaking into France, learning the language and then stealing recipes to French delicacies like snail bolognaise and frog chops. This is a lie.

David Sedaris, a massively talented writer says, “I find it ridiculous to assign a gender to an inanimate objectincapable of disrobing and making an occasional fool of itself.’ I agree, mostly when the ‘object’ is something on TV.

He also says, “What’s the trick to remembering that a sandwich is masculine? What qualities does it share with anyone in possession of a penis? I’ll tell myself that a sandwich is masculine because if left alone for a week or two, it will eventually grow a beard.” Brilliant, isn’t he?

Last week, a bombastic fuss was made over two young people getting married, a thing that countless other people do every single day on all the habitable spaces on planets Earth and Rupert. Certain people frowned mightily upon those men who curled up on comfy sofas with warm beverages and tissues to watch Kate and William getting hitched.

Mutabingwa defended his watching it by saying, ‘I think the royal wedding was more than a fairytale for the girls to melt about. It also had big political implications and for me, it was like the inauguration.’ He was however adamant that he wouldn’t be caught dead watching reruns.

Some men didn’t bother with hiding or even justifying their obsession with this wedding. After watching it, Tomath was so impressed with her looks that he made Mrs. England his profile picture. Fair enough. She’s hot. He proceeded to gush about the couple and their nuptial proceedings on facebook and he bombarded his friends’ newsfeeds with updates, all about this wedding.  This is probably why some of them declared him ‘in touch’ with his testosterone, bent, etcetera.  When asked how he felt about this, he said, ‘It’s fun!!! I’m OK!’ and then he started to ramble: ‘my conscience is clear. One thing you should know about me is that I have weird humor, I’m mildly intuitive and spontaneous’ at which point I ended the interview.

This brings us to a crucial question. Are there certain programs on television marked in a sober blue for the consumption of men and a frothy pink just for the ladies? Is there a line that can only be crossed with considerable damage to one’s reputation and credibility as a member of a certain sex?

Kingbonny said, ‘Women who watch masculine movies tend to identify more with males and men who watch b***h movies are gay’. He tried to go back on this when I told him I intended to quote him, but alas, I’d already put it in.

According to Oweka, most people opt for the best programs on TV at the time. He says, ‘Most of the time I’ll watch something on discovery channel instead of Kendra or that stupid thing on NTV with the talking dogs. As a guy, I think that programs with too much emotion are pathetic’.

Let’s bring things home and try to categorize the Hostel. A lot of people have, with a creepy amount of enthusiasm, professed a love for this program. It’s about the lives and monkeyshines of a group of students (although we never see them actually doing the sorts of things that students do, like GO to school) who live in, you guessed it, a hostel. It’s like big brother without the kindergarten colors and kiwi accents. Should a man be lynched when he asks to cut a date short because, ‘Banaye mamabear, it’s the hostel. I simply can’t miss it’, or should his companion say, ‘No problem, papabear. Your place or mine?’

Machete and The Expendables are two movies that probably used more fake blood than all the vampire movies thrown together, and then some. Barbara says, ’The girls I was watching Machete with all fell in love wit Danny Trejo and damn near swooned every time he pulled his machete out.’ This can only mean one thing, that as long as the main character in a movie appears to have cojones made of rock, cool scars and the sort of charisma that makes bad guys, however good looking, look bland in comparison, the lades are sold. Right?

So the stuff that you can roar at and get a heart condition from watching are manly and the things you need a blumfy, box of tissues and a teddy to watch are girlie. So complicated. Why don’t people just read books?

How To Detooth A working Woman

This is how

There’s nothing quite like using somebody else’s money. Any indignation and/ or discomfort that you’re feeling as a direct result of this assertion, you can put (here). We’ll get back to it. For now, pretend to agree that peeling crisp greens, reds, browns and blues out of another person’s wallet with the express intention of splurging on yourself is fun. It’s a dirty rush, but a thrill is a thrill.

People of the female persuasion have comfortably enjoyed this buzz for the longest time. It’s easy for them. All they have to do is dab a bit of perfume behind their ears, bat their eyelashes, and giggle like mad at whatever their male counterpart is saying and voila! It’s raining money. Now I’m not saying that every woman in the world devotes all her free time to devising new ways of appropriating people’s hard earned cash and turning it into shoes. Many a woman will peel her facial skin off before allowing a man to buy her even a stick of PK.

Anyway, while the world was busy thinking up names to throw at women like ‘gold digger’ and ‘detoother’, men sneakily squeezed themselves onto this very bench. That’s right. Male detoothers have arrived. They’re in the hood.

The age of free lunches on account of a pretty face has come to an end. Men have started to demand tangible appreciation and think nothing of pushing fat restaurant bills to their lady friends, without even offering to foot half the bill. Things have gotten so bad that reports of women yelling, ‘SHYA!’ and storming out of restaurants are no longer funny or surprising.

Out of 15 interviewees, only three people admitted to ever having actively detoothed a woman and one of them was female. Odd, isn’t it? Perhaps as I interviewed them, these men suddenly discovered egos and were loath to admit to leeching money off hapless women.  Terry, an incorrigible idiot said, ‘The one person or woman I wanted to detooth was you but it turned out you didn’t have any money, so I changed career path.’

Qn: Have you actively de-toothed a woman before? Have you schemed and rubbed palms andmuahahad in the general direction of a woman and her wallet?

OJ said, ‘Seriously. I am sad I look like that sort of guy. Try asking guys whether they get things from women instead. You will be surprised at the subtle tricks involved.’ Pretty noncommittal answer considering the one that came next.

I posed the question to Bahana and she said, ‘LOL no. Funny I was just talking about it with some guys yesterday. OJ was talking about his friends who used to go looking for sugar mamas in Bweyos. Maybe ask him.’

This confirms Douglas Adams’ theory that humans instinctively withhold information from people with clipboards (and idiots conducting facebook interviews).

According to Slickback Onyait, a sprung woman and her money are soon parted. When a woman is totally charmed by man, she’ll think nothing of spending copious amounts of money on him.

Being a super maestro in the bedroom is a lucrative plus. In his words, ‘Do her right. Women love attention…especially if the guy is a looker and she’s got esteem issues. From here, it’s a smooth ride to the bank.’

Some men seemed honestly baffled by the idea. Mugisha said, ‘I’ve never really thought of de-toothing as an option available to me. Sure I have got presents from women, some quite expensive, but I never actively solicited for them even though some I knew were meant to lead to a relationship.’

If Mugisha is to be believed,certain women try to lure men into relationships by waving money bundles in their faces. These ones should shut up and desist from crying foul when the man they’ve been spending enormous amounts of money on gets accustomed to sponging off them.

Czar Wedi is confident that the only way to get a woman to part with her money is by being incredibly bold. He says to look her in the eye and inform her that she’s footing the bill. If she refuses, he recommends kicking her in the ear and yelling, ‘ROADHOUSE!’ heh. What he really did say was, “I’m not afraid to make her spoil me lol. Why not? It’s is a rare thing.”

Bree admits that she’s been de-toothed more times than she can count. She says, “Guys are tricky, you never see it coming. Sometimes he pretends to be borrowing money, saying he doesn’t want to go to the bank. He never pays back! Bringing the debt up will send him into such a dark sulk that you just have to let him get away with nabbing your money.’

When asked if she’d every fallen prey to a male wallet-leech, Auntagonize said she’d get back to me with an answer. She didn’t. This means that either the question one of you sent to her baffled/riled/amused her so much that she forgot to, or that she felt no inclination to talk about how some guy thoroughly demoneyed her. We’ll never know.


Ideas, brilliantly articulated arguments and discussion of things other than sex, drugs and Rock n’ Roll by people who at their age should be thoroughly engrossed in nothing but (or so some people would argue), is what ideologue is about. Last Saturday night, this group met at workers house and a journalist, a most vigilant creature, a hawkeyed reporter of honor and refinement was sent forth to cover this event. I am not this reporter.

This is what went down:

The event got off to a late start, which was great for the hot dog stand because if there’s anything people can stand even less than late beginnings, it’s awkwardly having nothing to do as they wait. Shivering Idealogians nibbled at (but mostly clutched) their hotdogs and made halting conversation with the strangers around them.

Presentation I was by Lambert, a DJ-economist, who began by attributing his presence and general success in life to a fanatically lactating cow (dubbed Bessie).With the help of Sizzaman’s Ring Ring, he gave tips on how to rock, make lots of cash and generally be awesome, but I missed much of that because I was too busy contemplating the size of Bessie’s udders. To be responsible for Lambert’s success in life, that cow would’ve had to lactate a LOT.

Then came Douglas, a serial commenter who tried to convince us that Lambert’s use of ring ring was such a genius and singular innovation that it’d send Mark Zuckerberg back to the boardroom, if he ever heard about it.

Presenter II was Dr. Lillian who took on the task of enlightening us about environment and its effect on human behavior but mostly succeeded in defining, very thoroughly, what Environment meant to her. I quote, “When you’re doing, you’re walking, Then you pause, which is a state of being, you with me?” Her slide show contained a plate on which ENOUGH OF THAT! REALLY. ENOUGH! Was written, but she paid it no mind. She left us with a reading list, which made everybody like her a little.

Piankhi Ife- Presenter III was all about feeeeling. In honey-caramel tones, she urged us to feel ourselves. To breathe, place our hands over our heaving bosoms and feel (in retrospect, it’s rather clear why a lot of the guys kept their eyes open). With the help of a guitarist who except for the piercings on his face bore a striking resemblance to Rondo, she sang about recycling polythene and love.

When asked what her topic was, Kampire cocked her head, narrowed her eyes and rasped, ‘Some bullshit’. Her presentation was about how great it would be if people used their imagination a bit more and didn’t let their dreams just shrivel and die with their initiation into adulthood. It was just as badass as the rasping. She blew people away, made them laugh, and woke up even the most chronically bored; really everybody pitied the next presenter.

Then the architecture nerds took over. Isaac talked about socially conscious design, Josephine read a heartbreaking piece about an old building that had been savagely torn down  then she anthropomorphized the building and had it say nice stuff about memories and left us with this: ‘What is it about an old wall that beckons us to listen?’ Seriously. What?

A raffle draw was held where despite all of my cheating efforts, I didn’t win. Bernard and Vivian took home vouchers for free meals and everybody hated them for it, with a possible exception of Guy Mambo who asked Viv on the blown up Idealogue facebook page if she could take him along.

Last words were dispensed and the Emcee who’d spent the night mispronouncing every single name that was unfortunate enough to blunder into her eye line finally caught a break.