Just how local is too local?

To decide that certain aspects of another person’s personality makes them less deserving of your affection automatically makes you a vile snob, even when you’re just being an honest observer. Because most people aren’t comfortable with being vile and snobbish, countless euphemisms have been invented for the word local for example: street, native, homegrown. REAL is a firm favorite.

Women are really flexible when it comes to the men that they date/ fall obsessively in lust with. We don’t expect you to have that big a wallet. You can be ugly as sin and we’ll look for that one thing, like, ‘Ooh, he’s got such nice skin between his pimples’. We don’t expect our mates to walk right off fashion TV. There’s however this ONE limit. The local limit.

Localness is an attitude. It’s a disease. It’s a thing that men who don’t like being fancied pretend to be in order to sabotage your feelings for them.

Meet Rodney, the hottest guy you will ever read about. I could write five pages in description of the right side of his face and another 10 inspired by the cleft on his head. He has pretty ears, an upper lip that veers off ugliness by the smallest degree. Basically, this guy has patented hotness.

Rodney was made for the big screen, for paintings. He was born to be the male face of Uganda. If Rodney went for BBA, big brother would reveal himself, fling his arms around his perfectly formed ankles and sob for him not to leave. Rodney is so fine; he makes the word hot feel inadequate.

But he’s also extremely local. Obviously, you only find this out after you’ve pledged allegiance to his face.

So, what horribly local things does he do?

Rod, Uganda’s Adonis, keeps his money in his puffy looking off-grey socks. We’re not talking a tenner, two fifty bobs, no. We’re talking a whole salary. When you catch him stuffing all those notes down his legs, your first instinct is to laugh. And then you feel very sad, because how will you ever convince yourself to like him again? You ask all your trusted male friends, the most liberal ones if, haha, keeping money in socks is normal behavior that every grown man indulges in from time to time. They ask you when you started dating security guards.

When you’ve finally drowned out the protests of your mind, when you’ve said ‘Rodney is the man for me, he’s real, he knows what’s what’, his neighbor catches him greedily eying the thighs of some badly photographed woman in Red Pepper. ‘Catches’ because he’s trying to be clandestine, pretending to facebook with his hand on his mouse and everything and yet his eyes are fixed on the newspaper in his lap. Hello? I’m right behind you, Rod. If filthy fantasies are going to slide slimily against each other in your head, fantasies so filthy that the air around your head starts to smell, let them be about me, please, and not some anonymous pockmarked tabloid thigh.

And just after you’ve declared that boys will be boys and have made yourself protagonist in a story where you’re a tourist in Buganda-land who falls in love with one of the sexy native boys and lives happily ever after, enjoying a love that stretches beyond the limits of language, he starts to kwemolar. You remember that thing that happened to all the girls around you when you turned 14? How the sound tss mysteriously attached itself to all their words? The way they’d weave their necks like cobras as they spoke? That’s the stuff Rodney starts to do.

First, you’re perplexed, mildly disturbed, then it dawns that ooooh. He’s noticed that you like him and this is maybe his way of acknowledging and encouraging your bad intentions. You have to be careful here because the despair you feel at this point might be strong enough to drive you to permanent celibacy and then what will happen to your dream of making babies with him, babies so hot, they’ll be able to change the world with their exquisite looks?

The mbogos. English has really messed us up. We don’t mean to think lowly of guys who can’t speak it but we’re stuck in this…neo-colonialist warp. Uganda doesn’t even have an accepted variety of Pidgin English. This has led to the birth of a thing called the mbogo. A cutter. An mbogo/cutter is a very big, bad, amusing mistake in grammar/ wording. If somebody says ‘seeing at them’ to mean ‘looking at them’ or ‘take a pose’ to mean ‘take a picture’, they are the official king of mbogos.

And then, to crown things, Rodney reveals himself to be an incorrigible flirt.What’s this? Hello, my name is Rodiney, I’m frating with Maliya, Sala, Myuldred, Edisa…you! Bad man! Do you not know how much I’ve sacrificed to like you? My swag is cut to ribbons, you guy. Give a chick a break.

8 thoughts on “Just how local is too local?

    • Hehe. No, this is not T-ROD.
      I picked a name out of the air because I work with the guy. I’d look up in the middle of my writing and be kicked in the face by guilt – poor guy was minding his own local business, unaware of the way I was reporting him and his habits to the world.

      Princess, he just sneezed into his palm. Just now. Kati kati.


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