Teeth are fantastic little beings. All they need is a little brushing and flossing and VOILA! You have 32 formidable weapons of attraction in your mouth. They’re relatively predictable in that they don’t (usually) come in all sorts of scary shapes and sizes, at least not in human beings. All their imperfections can be understood and forgiven because everybody has THAT horrible toothache/dentist experience that they’ll never forget.

So far, nobody I’ve asked has admitted to having a tooth fetish. Lies! There’s a fetish for almost everything on the planet, so how can teeth which are even fashion conscious (if you watch FTV, you know that white is all the rage this season) not have any takers? I’m therefore making a case for teeth. Prepare to be convinced.

It’s universally accepted that vanilla is the most superior, most delicious flavor on the planet. When you look at teeth, doesn’t their milky whiteness remind you of this flavor? Teeth are also the only reason that you know how much meat rocks. Without them, how would you mince and munch the dead animals that you love so much?

It’s no wonder then that everybody takes them seriously, sacrificing time and considerable amounts of money to whiten, cap, replace and even stud them regularly. Everybody apart from me, that is.

When he was handing out teeth genes, God must have given me the underdogs of the bunch because with all this obsessive love I have for them, I, alas do not own a very admirable set.

I was a curious and active child who thought biting metal was just the thing to assert herself over her peers. My idea of kwepena? It involved kneecaps. I was also, for an unfortunate space of time, the sort of klutz who walked into a lot of poles. This took a toll on my dental health.

 As a result, teeth are the first thing I notice about a person. To make cataloging easy for me, I put everybody I meet into one of three categories:

 The good: This is where you’ll find the supermodels of teeth. If they’re so perfect that a p.5 kid can find the area and perimeter of every damn tooth in your mouth, this is your hood.

The bad: These ones aren’t horrendous, but are not too pleasant to look at either. It’s the biggest category ranging from OK teeth to the ones that are so sharp and vicious looking that their owners look like they’d like nothing better than to maul you to pieces.

The downright ugly: My favorite. I’m always happy to meet teeth that crisscross, stop short and act very bad mannered indeed. When they’re few, riddled with holes and cracked cement, my teeth empathize and glory in the knowledge that they’re not the worst in the world.

I talked to a couple of people who are as passionate about teeth as I am (this is a lie. They were the only people with any printable thoughts on teeth).

Iwaya says, “One of the first things I notice about a person is how they smile because it says so much how they feel about their teeth and in what shape they are. If I were going to procreate with someone I’d seriously consider their teeth and eye sight”.

But Raymond is less discriminating. He says, “I don’t pay much attention to teeth unless they really stand out, like the ones where the kissing becomes a delicate dance between pleasure and losing a lip”. When I ask him why he kisses people with dangerous teeth, he says, “Experimentation + variety + increasing my sample space” which is the sort of answer you just have to respect.

Meet verystupidlout.

There is a certain type of worm, eh? It’s much bigger than any worm you’ve ever seen, so don’t bother trying to imagine it. You might hurt your brain. It has four limbs and a dirty moustache, usually. It also has terrible B.O.

 Its name is verystupidlout.

We like to love.

Verystupidlout stands in places where it is most likely to come into contact with women, usually of the curvy variety. These women are also more likely than not to be young because everybody knows that older women have no problem with hitting disrespectful fools on the head with handbags. If there is anything this variety of worm fears, its retaliation from a victim.

Anyway, because of her hyper inflation on the curve front, Uganda is chock-full of verystupidlout. Have you ever seen a Ugandan female in a vest and jeans? However  small bodied she is, the girl is going to be rocking some serious curves, even if they’re only on her face.
Even Uganda, the country, on the map, looks like a woman in a gomesi wearing many many bikooyi.

Verystupid lout(s) gravitate towards dark and crowded places, for example the taxi park and owino. If you, a curvy girl, foolishly wanders into their domain without a stick, a stern face, a Kalashnikov or a man to accompany you, assault will happen. They will pull at your clothes or tap your bum. They will trail your hip with their dirty hands. Edith says, “Whenever I see them, even across the road, I feel the urge to kick something in the buttocks. Even when they’re not hissing at me, my foot starts to twitch for want of a buttock”.

When the hiss-hiss, kiss-kiss harassment gets too much, when they say things like jangu nkukoleko, my size, American height, bulaka beauty, a perfectly calm and ladylike girl might find herself rolling in the dust with a verystupidlout, with his ear between her teeth and his neck under her knee. And his friends yelling and cheering and getting their taps in.

Some verystupidlouts call their victims mummy.  Mummy? The nerve!  I most definitely did not mother you, verystupidlout! What’s that about anyway? Are they professing mummy issues? Mummy fetishes? What manner of sickness is this?

When we, the young women of Uganda, first tentatively mentioned this assault to our older friends, some of them would say, “Be happy that those men are appreciating you. What if nobody hissed at you? Wouldn’t you feel un-pretty?’ No. The answer is no. I do not need a random man grabbing my dreadlocks or tapping my bottom or trailing his finger along my arm to know that I am beautiful. And the writing of this article has made me even angrier, a thing that never happens. Usually I rant and rant and rant and then return to happiness. Not this time.

I’m with Nagasha Maureen Muhairwe when she says, “I dream of digging my 4 inch heels right into their obscene brains and casting evil, irreversible curses on those organs that fuel their grubby hands.”

There you have it, verystupidlout. There you have it Ugandan seller of 4 inch heels. We’re going shopping.


Feeling Crushi-onate?

When you start crushing on somebody, the first thing you do is stalk their facebook profile; obviously. This is  what may have even caused the crush in the first place. You proceed to like as many of their status updates, notes and links as possible to keep a steady presence in their mind and notifications folder (but not too many because we don’t want them associating your name with spam).

Fuck you for being so gorgeous

When tralalalala, the forces of the universe throw you together, be grateful. Don’t start saying things like, “Nga this person is way more attractive on facebook…”.

The Date:

So according to the people watching, the two of you are getting along like a madhouse on fire. He’s saying things, you’re laughing. You’re saying things; he’s nodding and listening attentively. Whenever your friends, the watchers can manage it, they quickly jam their mouths to your ear and ask, “Anha? How are things going? Progress? Eh?!???!”

This is all very exciting for you because you are hopelessly obsessed with this person. You think he’s the hottest thing since the I.T guy at your former workplace.

But because laavu teli feeya, there will arise many opportunities for you to make an utter fool of yourself. Fear not for Plan B knows a thing or two about cupid, crushes and mortification.  We present:

Idiot’s guide to avoiding mortification at the hands of cupid:

Relax. Please refrain from squealing.

Yes, you’re absolutely chuffed about spending time with him (or her) and can barely contain your joy. You must however, try not to squeal. Even more important is to try not to gurgle. If you haven’t ever gurgle-talked, thank your gods because it is a most humiliating and ugly sounding phenomenon. Your words actually gurgle in your throat before they come out. On account of your excitement.

If he’s being slow, guma.

Try very hard not to try to speed things up by saying any of the following things because they will make you sound like you are interviewing his loins:

  • What is your opinion pertaining to us heading back to yours?
  • What are your thoughts on you and I doing the bumpy-grindy?
  •  Can you feel the lust in the air? These bars are places of iniquity! What do you say we head back to yours?
  • Are you as interested as I am in cutting to the chase or are you enjoying this mating dance too much?

Don’t get too drunk

Because nobody accepts that as an excuse anymore. If in your inebriation you do a fake thing like puke on his shoes or sit on the floor of the bar and refuse to get up until he buys you another drink, pray that you forget it. And if the events of the night hit you in the head like a wet boot the next morning, try not to send him an irrelevant text message (to assess the damage).

If he ever asks about any of the horrifying events of the night past, tell him that you can’t, for the life of you, remember anything. Not even draping him like a wet curtain. Keep a straight face, because some truths will not only fail to set you free, they will condemn you to a life of embarrassment and mortification.

I’m sorry. NOT.

I use the word sorry too much. It doesn’t matter whether or not the situation I’m expressing sympathy about has anything to do with me. If it seems bad or painful, I’ll rush forward like a fat mother chicken and cluck my ‘I’m sorrys’ at you. In fact, the only times I’m reluctant to use the S word is when I’ve actually done things worth apologizing about. (This has only just occurred to me. Thank you, column for shining that light into the dank, drippy cave that is my personality. Try not to do it again.)


Many times, sympathy can be really irritating, for example when you bang your toe against a chair. As you hop around clutching your foot, howling with annoyance and despair (despair because your new pedicure has been ruined by the impact), the last thing you want to hear from the people around you is ‘sorry. I’m sorry. We’re sorry.’

Sympathy only makes a throbbing toe hurt more. I always feel like going up to those kindly, healthy-toed people and yelling: Is your sorry going to pay for another pedicure? Is it going to cure my blood clot? Is it going to catch and thrash that fat cat that made me stumble and hit my toe?!? Of course not!

Another no go area for sorry is wasted effort, as in the case of defective zippers. An entire day can be planned around a particular pair of jeans, you know? The way they gather at your ankles might make you walk differently. The way they hug your curves might make you sway a little bit more. When the treacherous zipper of the chosen jeans refuses to close and after 30 minutes of fiddling with it, you twist it off with a rough jerk of the wrist, you feel like sobbing. Like kicking a wall. Like biting a sweater. What you’re definitely not interested in receiving is a side-hug from a sympathetic sibling. You might end up biting them.

For chronic-over-apologisers, the word sorry doesn’t only apply to the stuff going on around them. Sometimes they find themselves saying/being sorry about the most natural things. Take Peter, a guest lecturer. During one of his 3 hour afternoon lectures, he let a few farts slip. These farts weren’t overly loud or smelly, so his reaction was completely exaggerated. He was not embarrassed, no. He was sorry; something that he made abundantly clear with the 1000 apologies he made before bolting out of the lecture room. He was so sorry that he failed to come back to teach for a week. I found that ridiculous.

Here are three other things that you shouldn’t ever feel sorry about. If the rest of the rest of the world is making you feel awkward or apologetic for falling in any of the categories below, let me know. Like Foreskin-man (have you met him? Google!) I have your back.

The stutter:  Do your eyes glaze over with impatience when you’re talking to a stutterer? Do you snort or sigh or imitate or laugh at them? You’re a really fake person if you do. You shouldn’t even be reading this amazing magazine with those mean eyes of yours. Read only Kingo! Stutterers can’t help the way they speak and your behaviour isn’t making things easier for them.

Taste in clothes: If your neighbor loves white shoes, if my blouse puts you in mind of a snake fighting with a scarf or if your friend’s taste in ugly boots offends you, go buy yourself a bear of black shoes, plain t-shirts, sandals and a good dose of mind-your-own-wardrobe.

Bibliophilism: Hands up if you sleep with a book next to your head every night. Are all your books dog-eared and wrinkly because of all the positions you read them in? Can you can read as you walk or on bodas? Hey there, amazing person. I too do these things. We should hook up. This is what Jennifer Weiner has to say on the matter, “Never stop looking at the world, and never stop reading to find out what sense other people have made of it. If people give you a hard time and tell you to get your nose out of a book, tell them you’re working. Tell them its research. Tell them to pipe down and leave you alone”.

As published in S.V’s Discovery Magazine on 11-09-11.


So it’s official :). I’ve  made column in Discovery-Sunday Vision Magazine! I am so very chuffed, mostly because that’s what I started out wishing, hoping, yearning for.

Wait. That’s a lie.

I started out wanting my articles to appear on the same page as Ernest Bazanye’s. It happened. I write Plan B with him and a couple of other people. And then WHAM. column. YAY.

Thanks to my column anxiety, I chose a safe subject for my first piece.

P.s I don’t like that caricature.


Heschuse me, I’m preddier.




There are few things that are truly addictive, that can wrap you up in such a blanket of obsession that the thought of going without them makes you just want to, well, die. Note that I said things. I don’t think people can be addictive.

I can only vouch for four things: raw mangoes, clay, good manicures and piercings.

Most people, when they venture into the world of body piercing go for their fat, cushy, inviting, virgin ear lobes. The lobes seem to yell ‘puncture me! Shoot me with a piercing gun’ and these first pins always make people look so sweet and angelic and ka pretty that even their mothers approve.

Beware of the second piercing though for many times, it comes with a mania, a disease. A sneaky little demon. All of a sudden, you find that whenever you pass by any half decent saloon, your ears start to twitch and itch in their desire to be pierced. Whenever you have an idle moment, your hands fly to your ears to feel for space. You’re completely consumed.

Now as a child, I had ears. Enormous ears. Ears so large that they sat on either side of my face like fans, no, jug handles. They looked like miniature elephants and would sway dangerously every time that I moved. Looking at old photos, I’m surprised I was able to move at all.

When, with the passing of time, my hormones started yelling ‘SELF EXPRESSION!!’ lightly at first, and then so gutturally that I’d have probably chopped my arms right off just to be, you know, different. Anyway, my ears, being such a big part of my life were the obvious canvass for this expression. I quickly stabbed 15 holes into them.

Though there was something badass about having 8 new piercings on my face at the same time (it said great things about my threshold for pain) there was definitely nothing awesome about the sickly sweet smell of healing ear meat that constantly hung around my face. I just couldn’t be bothered with disinfecting them!

You’ve seen mad people get pissed off about being stared at, haven’t you? That’s sort of how my friends and I were. There we were, three young girls roaming the streets with a whooping 32 facial piercings among-st us and we’d get offended when people would stop and gawk. Seriously?!

I know now that if you walk around looking like a travelling circus, people are going to stop and stare, just in case you pull oranges out of your ears and start to juggle (which is why I’ve invested in a gorgeous clown suit).

As a direct result of having an impressively butchered ear you encounter many many many kinds of idiots:

The Ooos and Ahhs: to these ones, the holes in your ear/face/ assorted body parts are the only interesting thing about you. It doesn’t occur to them that you’re maybe interested in discussing anything other than piercings. With everybody’s attention being exclusively directed  to your ears, you start to feel, um, jealous of them.

The ones with a ridiculous notion that your piercings are an opening act to such craziness that they must hang around you to document it. If you dare to disappoint them by being regular old you, they’re going to invent  stories, my friend, so that within one day, you’ll have raped all the people at one house party, pissed in the punch bowl at another and dropped out of school. Never mind your 5pm curfew.

The copy cats: The pain, irritation and iffy smells that come with piercings all combine to make you feel almost maternal towards them. Your best friend becomes a stupid heifer when she decides to get the same piercing as you. An already annoying acquaintance becomes dead to you when she informs you that your ears are where she does her piercing scouting. Idiot. Don’t you have a mirror?

I finally got so tired of resenting my ears and their admirers that I decided to stop wearing jewellery for a while. My relatives rejoiced thunderously. My ears were grateful for the holiday from metal.

But when my birthday rolled by last month, I felt the ol’ demon stirring. After months of peace, my urge for a new piercing was overwhelming! If I’d ignored it, my birthday would have been ruined; so I went and got the snake bite that I’d been dreaming of for years. It hurts like death and makes me feel like a loser for giving in to the demon, but it looks absolutely gorgeous, so there. No regrets :).