Shame on my face.

It’s been two weeks and two days since I last posted anything. The excuse I’ve been clinging to is that my bosses have blocked wordpress, but seriously. There are like 5 modems at my home. I have allowed certain silly happenings (not so silly. Letting go of a living breathing person you still care for is fucking devastating) to paralyze me, to kill my motivation dead.

Um, some special stuff has been (and is) happening, so I’m just going to dump it all below. Yes?

  • I wrote an article about breasts, popular perception and beauty but I haven’t been able to put it up because I’m constantly rearranging my thoughts on boobs, popular perception and beauty. Really I could write a book.  I need this article to be perfect! It will be up by tomorrow, I promise. For now, stare at this glorious pair


  • I made a call for stories about bizarre/funny experiences had while using public transport in Uganda. Many of you responded with such great stories, that I didn’t have to write Stiletto Point Articles for two weeks. Thank you!
  • I entered a writing competition called Writivism a few months ago and the finish line is close. Terribly close. I like to pretend that I’m not at all anxious about the outcome, that whether I among the top 3 or not, it has been a fantastic experience, but I care. I care so much. I hope that when the time comes, you will read my story, fall in love and vote for it. Here is a video of me talking about why I write. Thank you Writivism!
  • I had the best pilawo of my life yesterday. Seriously. It changed my life. There’s nothing better than perfectly spiced meat and rice. Holla at these guys for a plate.
Is there anything better that perfectly spiced meat and rice? NO.

Is there anything better that perfectly spiced meat and rice? NO.

  • My weekend is going to be full of DIY. Today, I am meeting Akiiki and Liz, two lovely ladies from to make accessories and maybe even skirts out of my lovely kitenge material. Check their work out HERE.
  • Tomorrow, I am meeting another pair of ladies who make shoes. Shoes! Shoes! They are going to help me make some pairs, using some more of my lovely kitenge. I have an almost unhealthy adoration for love people who can do great things with their hands. This is probably because mine ate the clumsiest pair ever to exist.
  • I’m going to be better about posting. I promise. In fact, here is a gift for you. A really good story by Doreen Baingana. Banange she snatches a chunk out of life and presents it perfectly preserved.Just…read it.

Too young to marry.

Too young to marry.

Over the ages, “Too young’ has carried many meanings for different civilizations of the world. In the day of Jesus, it was perfectly all right for the holy spirit to go knocking on the womb of a 13 year old Mary but if any of that were to happen now there would be a massive scandal (unless they lived in Spain  in which case everything would be bueno).

Many of our mothers had us while still in the lap of childhood. The only reason I can think of for this is that they were still reeling from a time not far before theirs when people had to become men and women at the first sign of puberty because the life expectancy was short. Life had to be lived in fast forward.

Now however that the average Ugandan has at least 54 years in which to live and priorities have generally shifted from home and hearth to knowledge, careers money and networking, it always comes as a shock to me when facebook notifies me that a person I went to school with has gotten married.
My reaction usually goes from confusion to dread to pity because it seems so terribly rushed.

There are many roads to fulfillment, I know and for some people, marriage is the golden pot but why so early? When we graduate from university, we’re still hungover from years of education. Our true selves have only just emerged (if we’re lucky. self actualization can take a long time). Why would you willingly rush from childhood to an adulthood complete with the prospect of babies? Personally, I intend to enjoy the sweet freedom of fully owning myself before making the decision to start a life with somebody as dewy and sparkly eyed as I am.

The girls and boys stepping straight out of the lecture room onto the aisle have their reasons, I’m sure, but I’m familiar with only two.

One is the desperation to get out of their parents’ homes. People are unwilling to return home every night to the mutual discomfort and eventual resentment that arises when a young adult and an old adult both try to stand their ground.

Also, in what foreign media I’ve read, living with your parents after university is taboo; a sign of laziness on the child’s part and long suffering on the parents’. Things are different in Ugandan culture however. While it’s normal, admirable even for boys to skip the fold at the first sign of a beard, women have it rough. Voice your desire to get your own place and sengas will solemnly inform you that you’ll never get married. You’ll have become ‘spoilt’. In-laws won’t want to associate with a girl that lives out of her father’s home, apparently.

Our society is so hangover on the patriarchal way of doing things that a woman means nothing if she hasn’t found a man to validate her existence. If she’s not living with her father, it has to be with a husband.

It must be exciting to find a person that makes you feel wanted, alive, complete but rushing to seal the deal might mean disaster for the both of you. Maybe he still has a roving eye to outgrow, or perhaps she’d like to accumulate more graduation caps.

The last reason I can identify is pressure from relatives and the mentality they have that if a girl is unmarried by 25, she deserves to be treated like milk that hit it’s sell-by date yesterday.

If you know something I don’t please enlighten me in the comment section.

Then he died. A play (mbu).

Taxis are great for ideas. There’s something about humanity crushing in on you from all sides that makes your brain bubble over with them. Most of the stuff you read on this blog has been conceived in a matatu or on a boda, including the “Play” below.

Then he died.

Scene one (and only)

The room is small, dark and empty save for a plastic chair and a fraying settee. On the chair is a person of ambiguous gender wearing a doctor’s coat with the words Dr. Kyrte scrawled on its collar. A few meters across from him/her is a man trying to occupy as little space on the settee as possible. His name is Bo.

Dr. Kyrte:  Speak.

Bo: I can’t understand why he did it…I mean, I could have forgiven loud sniffing, taking up more leg space than he was entitled to…even aimless conversation, I would have tolerated. But dying! What I could have done to make him so angry that he decided to die on me?

Dr. Kyrte: Start from the beginning, Bo. As you never fail to remind me, you’re paying for this time.

Bo: That’s right, Doctor Kyrt. I am.

Dr. Kyrte: Kyrt-E. So what died and where?

Bo: Two days ago, I woke up at what must have been 7am although it could have been 9 or 10.

Dr. Kyrte: Right.

Bo: I had a cup of porridge, burnt, because my maid is a hater. I don’t understand why he couldn’t have done the social equivalent of burning porridge! Clearly, he found the experience of sitting next to me very unpleasant. (blows nose loudly)

Dr. Kyrte: Did any dying occur before you left home?

Bo: No.

Dr. Kyrte: As I never fail to remind you Bo, the only minutes I am willing to spend in your company are the ones you pay for.

Bo: You’re so unkind. I walked up to the taxi stage, arrived winded, waved a taxi down, sat on the chair next to the driver and greeted him. When he didn’t respond, I got out, waited for somebody else to occupy the seat next to him and sat on the big chair near the door.

Dr. Kyrte: Go on. Starts to shoot saliva through the gaps between his/her teeth

Bo: The taxi began to move. Could you …not do that? The guy who’d occupied the seat next the driver…he died.

Dr. Kyrte: Died?

Bo: Yes.

Dr. Kyrte: How?

Bo: He just groaned a bit and died. His corpse then slid onto my lap.

Dr. Kyrte: How didthat make you feel?

Bo: Hateful but triumphant. He must have been spiteful because I’d made him sit on the small chair.

Dr. Kyrte: What happened after that?

Bo: Nothing. I didn’t want to alarm the driver with news that a man had just died in his taxi. That could have led to an accident.

Dr. Kyrte: Good thinking.

Bo: I waited until we reached my stop and then announced loudly that a man had died. The taxi must have been full of blind idiots because they all exclaimed mbu “where?!”.

Dr. Kyrte: Seems like a valid question to me.

Bo: Which is why I’m getting a real shrink the moment I can afford it. At this point, I was tired and late for work so I pushed the guy off my lap, jumped out of the taxi and bolted.

Dr. Kyrte: Had you paid your fare?

Bo: No. Oh. That’s probably why they chased me. And lynched me.

Dr. Kyrte: Yea. Probably.

Bo: Yea.

Dr. Kyrte: Yea.

Bo: OK bye.

Dr. Kyrte: Till next time.

I’ll toast to me.

I’m passionate, no, manic, about my birthday. With the way I carry on sometimes, you’d think that the month of August was chosen specially for me to be born in and everybody else in the history of ever had to be squeezed into the other months.

My celebrations usually begin on the 1st of August. I wear something bright and lovely, phone all the people that I can easily manipulate (because of how much they love me) and then go shopping or eating or dancing or all the above. This goes on until around the 15th of the month when a strange calm envelopes me, but only until the clock strikes midnight on the 19th – then I erupt in a series of whoops, giggles, large grins and dance routines.

By the morning of my birthday, I have ascended into a mental state that only allows my words to leave my mouth in short! Squeally! bursts! I walk almost everywhere on this day to avoid imploding and treat myself to the most expensive self-gift of the year. Whichever lucky (or unlucky) establishment I choose patronize has to bear my incessant chattering, bouncing, clapping and vicious bargaining because it is my birthday after all. They should be generous.

My 22 has been a year of writing, massive personal growth, love and baldness. I include baldness because it is not going to feature in my next year. My period of open mourning for my mother ends in September which means I can allow myself to grow, style and be vain about hair once again. I hadn’t planned to do this, had in fact decided to go bald for as long as it took me to stop feeling crippled by Ma’s death, but that is not going to happen. I may as well let my kaweke out of its box.

The opportunities I’ve been blessed with this year have been immense and I finally got to contribute to African Woman Magazine- something that had been on my to-do list from the time I first read it. My relationship with them didn’t end so well however as they went under, taking my stories and remuneration with them. I have long stopped fantasizing about throwing shit-bombs at the editor (and owner) but the sadness of achieving, then un-achieving my dream has stayed with me.

I have been disabused of my silly belief that I am a commitment phobe. This is as a direct result of my meeting somebody that I am compatible with, that I will spend at least 10 years trying to avenge on the event that he is murdered. I have often been described as difficult to love (remember kids, if it’s said often enough, it’s a compliment), and so finding eki laavu laavu was not one of my goals when I was crossing the age bridge last year.  It’s a very pleasant addition to my list of achievements. Life without love sucks.

I have read a lot about women and women issues and women’s writing and advice which has turned me into a feminist (of the sheepish variety). I’m not yet super confident about expressing my opinions because I’m afraid that I will believe something completely different the next minute. I also still suffer from ‘don’t-be-threatened-by-me syndrome’ which involves me downplaying my achievements and/ or being overly self-deprecating, but according to the internet and my older friends, that’s just one other thing to triumph over in your twenties.

Excitoss is kilinji me!

Happy Birthday, me.

Bad day, huh?

One of my favorite songs used to be Bad Day by…my God. I don’t remember. I can’t remember half of the artists that I swore I would die loving only a few months ago. It seems that when they slip out of my playlist, they fade from mind.

I can never properly classify a day as bad because of how changeable my emotions are. One minute I’m bubbling over with the joy of living, breathing, blinking!And the next, sticky annoyance is oozing out of my pores. To prevent myself turning into an intolerable grouch,I break my days down into 30 minute moments.

When I get shortchanged by a conductor or left behind by the pioneer bus or hissed at by a street idler, that’s a bad moment. If two or more motorists try to run me over in a given moment, it’s an unlucky one. If four irritating songs from my playlist show up in my ears, in a row, that’s a fake moment, because come on, out of all the hundreds…

This system has rules.

You are not allowed to carry unpleasant feelings from one moment to another but you can feel as nice about a happy occurrence for as long as you wish. You’re not ever allowed to swallow your feelings. Want to tear your leggings and fling them at a dumb workmate? Go ahead! Feel like jeering long and loud and then bursting into bitter tears? Do it.  Similarly, if the urge to scream I LOVE YOU WORLD, I LOVE YOU comes upon you, express it. Put it on a social network for those unlucky people whose eardrums aren’t going to be blessed with your good feelings. Pat a conductor on the back. Smile at your boda man and tip him if he’s been particularly ninjarific in getting you to work three seconds before the morning status meeting.

There are, however ,certain occurrences that can’t be fitted into a 30 minute box. Tragedy for example. I remember wanting to punch the face of some person who, when I complained of depression after my mom’s passing, told me I had only a year to be openly sad about it, after which my friends wouldn’t be so tolerant of my gloom. What? Shya! You’re allowed to mourn as dramatically as you want for as long as you feel is necessary.

We’ve already established that the system allows for joyful feelings to be spread over as long a time as you want. Absurd happenings too can be spread out for puzzled reflection and quiet chuckling.

I was once walking (skipping) down Kampala road after bagging a fairly large writing deal. I was swollen with the promise of money. Dollars and shillings dressed in raffia skirts had started to do the Macarena inside my head when some woman stepped in front of me and said, “You look funny!” and then just stood there waiting for my reaction. Because of the high I was on, I smiled and glided away. She must have been confused by this reaction because as I was entering the computer shop that was my destination, I looked back to find her still staring after me.

What turns a day bad for you? Burned ground nuts at the cafeteria? Unproductivity? And how do you turn things around?

This week, I’m reading Cutting For Stone by Abraham Verghese.  One of the best lines in it is ‘Make something beautiful of your life’.

Do make something fantastic of your life this week.

Fatness happens. Get over it.

My waistline is creeping away from me, it’s true. Partly, it’s because I can now afford lunch and I’ve outgrown the idiocy that inspires anorexia. I no longer have to walk from Akamwesi to Dfcu to Lecture room what to room 3 in God knows where.

Rogue kilograms have arranged themselves around my curves, to the (overly dramatic) dismay of family and friends. The only person who seems to approve of this larger me is a perpetually drunk dude at my stage, who calls out “size yange!” every time I wobble past. Wait. Saying wobble is poking fun at myself. I don’t wobble. My walk is musical.

When I was in senior four, I had a teacher called Mrs. Lubega who in the middle of an English lesson informed us that we would all get fat, so fat that we wouldn’t be able to recognize ourselves. As one, we cried, ‘Blasphemy! 16 year old bodies are forever! We won’t let ourselves go! Etc’

A couple of years later, nearly everybody who was in that class has gone up to three dress sizes up. Their cheeks are rounder, their entumbwes jiggle when they walk and they look nice but mostly feel bad about their new selves.

It wouldn’t take too much effort for us to maintain some approximation of our campus bodies really. There’s all the walking that we could do from taxi stages, up the stairs to office and down the stairs to the canteen, if we could be bothered. Instead, we send the office messengers for our breakfast rolexes, hop on boda bodas for any distance that involves more than 5 footsteps and avoid all forms of exercise, probably because the permanent scars that the compulsory chamuchaka in high school left on our psyches. As for gyms, few are willing to part with their exorbitant fees.

The way adulthood is structured isn’t doing us any favors either. The world offers three socially acceptable options. A 9-5 job, an entrepreneurial endeavor or marriage.

According to aunts and other advice givers, a business won’t survive if you’re not committed and involved. Basically, do it yourself or suffer big losses. So if you run, say, a clothes shop in equatorial mall, you’re going to expand from all the inactivity and boredom induced eating that keeping shop comes with.

If you work a 9-5, you have only one hour to yourself during the course of the day which you almost invariably spend stuffing your face with soda and pilau. The only way to get exercise in is to break into spontaneous stretching in your cubicle or in the office kitchen, but it won’t be long before the MD tells you to stop behaving like a lunatic on his premises.

For the ones who have dived straight into housewifery, the fat gathers even faster unless they have a home gym (in which case they have abs that can crack eggs).  If it’s not because of the gallons of porridge you’re swallowing to manufacture breast milk for your new baby, it’s because you lie about all day pointing the maid in the direction of the housework.

It’s sad and irritating how much pressure we’re put under to remain looking like our half starved university selves. Nobody owes anybody an explanation for their new hips or their rounder bottoms. Don’t make us waste our most beautiful years on weight-paranoia.

Until death (or disinterest) do you part.

When I was growing up (that I am now grown is a source of constant amazement), there was a man, a friend of my father’s who didn’t talk down to me in that condescending, over-bright way that most adults speak to children. I don’t know why ‘grown-upness’ was so important to me then, but every time we spoke, I’d leave thinking, happily,“he talks as if I’m a big person!” which teaches me to not treat children like idiots because one day I might feature in their columns, for whatever that is worth.  I also want to be called cool in other people’s articles.

This man’s son got married last Saturday and even though I am acquainted with both bride and groom through work and such, it was the performance that he and my dad were making at the reception that cinched my attendance. You must be aware of the pressure that an ‘artist’ parent can put on his brood when the time comes for him to show his skills off.

The wedding was pretty and the food was good, but that’s not usually enough to make me enjoy myself at a wedding.

Because I dislike weddings.

Very much

They’re so full of speeches and tears and taffeta. Whenever you stand, your high heels maliciously dig their straps into your skin (which, now that I think of it must be a sign that I need new ‘dressy’ shoes) so most of your time is spent dreading the moment when you’ll no longer be able to ignore your body’s cries for independence from the punch that you’ve so liberally poured into it.

There’s so much pressure to be happy, to exude good will and if you look miserable for any reason, the watchers of the video will label you the jealous ex. I know this because at some point, nothing amused me more than identifying bitter looking guests in videos of weddings and kwanjulas.

But this one, from the band to the cake, the bride’s dress to the dancing bridesmaids, filled me with a kind of terrible impatience for my own that I last experienced when I was 5 years old.

This, this is the dress I’m going to wear. Roger, start saving.

Conventional weddings are out of fashion. Nobody wants to do the dance in the way that their parents did it. An obsession with special, with different, with quirky has gripped the world. We’ll soon be seeing couples crawling up the aisle to the beat of some hard rock song by Ramstein.

Fortunately, the quirks at this one were the kind that you tweet about. For example, after being declared man and wife, the couple neither made their relatives squirm with an M-net kiss nor did they embarrass their friends with an awkward hug. They high-fived.

The reception venue was close to the church, so that business of putting the success of your festivities at the mercy of traffic jam was avoided.

As the groom made his speech, he advertised his company, which must have earned him points with his employer. When the bride’s turn came, she bawled. No, she didn’t say, “I’m bawled over”, she sobbed all through and it’s hopefully a sign of much co-operation to come that the groom kept chipping in with “commercial breaks” to distract us. It was all very cute.

One lesson I learnt is that if you’re going to be irreverent, you’d better have enough glamour to justify it.

A happy life to you, Annet and David. May your supply of laughter and good vibrations never dry up.

On stilettos, fishing gear and everything in-between.

Stereotypes are irritating and have the power to turn this lady into a raging mess. One that most girls have been fed years before they’re even ready to date is ‘All men are cheating dogs’. This, apart from being a huge source of frustration and resentment for all men who are not, in fact cheaters, is kind of silly. Why dogs? Dogs are really loyal. All men are cheating cats would be worlds more accurate.

I’m sick of hearing things like: all women go crazy for chocolate/ a Ugandan chick won’t date you unless your wallet is larger than her behind/ women will date the first person who shows them attention, e.t.c not because I can prove them wrong but because it’s terrible to judge all women by some narrow standard you got from dating all of three. Femininity cannot be narrowed down to diamonds or shoes or wallets or the color pink.

When people approach me and say “That Stiletto Point column of yours? I know what it’s about. All you write about is fashion, shoes, manya dresses. You’re a chick. That’s all y’all think about”, I get very irritated and not just because what they’re really saying is that they don’t read Stiletto point at all.

Today’s story was supposed to be about the time I nearly drowned in the kiddie pool of a certain swimming establishment in Bugoloobi but because I’ve already spent 200 words on ranting, we’re going to explore uber masculine stuff, to, you know, balance things a bit. That drowning story might have gotten me sued anyway.

Fist fights: I’ve gotten into exactly four of these and I was defending one of my girlfriends, every single time. I can’t stand bad manners. If my friend is uninterested in speaking to you and you hover behind her, tap her body and then laugh with your crew when she jumps in alarm, I don’t care how high my heels are. Your nose is going to be meeting my fist the minute I take my earrings off.

Spandex: This, according to every superhero movie I’ve watched, is the manliest material on earth.  Super, Spider, Aqua and Baconman all dig it because of all the publicity it gives their muscles.  I’ve been trying to encourage the male people in my life to incorporate this material into their wardrobes (with rotten results). I’m however optimistic about its future in men’s fashion.

Fishing: The Old Man and The Sea by Hemmingway is a classic. A classic because after reading it, people feel like they’ve learnt stuff about life, the universe and everything. I’m enjoying it at the slow rate of a page a day, not because I’m failing to, you know, get the point. There’s just too much talk about fishing and gear and fathoms and harpoons. Yea, sure, it’s a book about a fisherman, going out to sea, to fish, but…

Feet: Male ones in particular. 99% of the guys I’ve met have terrible looking toes and crusty nails. What’s with that?

The world should be kinder to us groupies

On the whole of the big fat internet, there’s no positive definition of the word groupie. The world has no kind words for us. On Urban dictionary, we’re are defined as individuals involved in obsessive adoration of entertainers such as musicians, actors, athletes, and even political figures. Behaviors are juvenile and influenced by crush-like emotions or lustful sentiments, and often infringe the rights of the figure experiencing the attentions of a frenzied fanatic.

First of all, I am offended that the above definition makes no mention of writers. Authors. Because when a person puts pen to paper or fingers to keyboard or minty fresh breath to recorder and creates a story, they earn the right to be exalted and abused and licked by adoring fans. (When I stop faffing around and start writing hopefully fantastic, once-upon-a-time type stories, I want random, crazy-eyed people to try and throw their arms around me.)

This year has been a great one for groupies in Uganda. February gave us Nneka, a soulful, verse spitting Thumbelina from Nigeria. Her music is fantastic. If her lyrics aren’t pummeling your conscience, her voice is making you feel all these (slightly) inappropriate things. That show left people looking like they’d just been let in on something delightful.

In March, Eric Wainaina sneaked into the country and into Bugoloobi where he chamcated the full house at Jazzville with his quirky dancing and groovy music. That man sure knows how to make an audience love him. He choreographed a few dances, told stories, made girls squeal and even sang Dunia ina Mambo for some sweaty, overly excited girl who said she’d die if he didn’t. I was that girl.

Last weekend, Jane Bussmann was in town. If you don’t know who this woman is, take a moment to feel some deep deep shame. She’s a journalist, a comedian and the author of Worst Date Ever (Or How It Took a Comedy Writer to reveal Africa’s secret war), a funny and informative book. This book is informative both as an introduction to the issues in northern Uganda- especially for non-Ugandans, and as a how to guide for people who have to interview boring celebs for a living.

Bussmann, an irreverent, Caucasian comedian was able to write funnily about this sensitive and grim subject, without being offensive. This was and is the root of my groupiesm. She held a show at Mish Mash on the 20th, a show at which she was honest, charming and all those other things that I had better be like when I grow up.

In the spirit of growing up to be honest, I should mention that this article is being written on Friday Morning. I have no idea whether or not she’s going to be fabulous at the show but if my chat with her at XFM’s office is anything to go by, that show is not only going to rock; it’s going to boulder.

It’s a wonderful thing when you meet somebody whose work you admire, especially when your passion lies in the field in which they’ve excelled, so the world shouldn’t judge us harshly when we squeal and fling our bras and ask for autographs on our foreheads. Also, celebrities should quit covering their heads and dashing to their cars like we’re dangerous because it’s we groupies that swell their twitter and facebook numbers and that makes them feel important.

Boda men have the best stories

 I’ve had many experiences with boda boda men, the good far surpassing the bad in number. There’s the psychopath who tries to impress himself by flying over humps and the one who seems almost embarrassed to take money. There’s the big, dark one whom I used to be afraid of, who’s now my favorite because his fee is a constant 1500 from the stage to my house.

and den dis and den dat

 And then there’s Davis of Ntinda. I met Davis at 10pm just as I was about to board a Kyanja taxi. In the usual boda man fashion, he rode menacingly in my direction, swerved away at the last minute and then patted the seat behind him. “Silinji bitaano ku kisaasi” he said.

 Now if you live in Kyanja, you know that entering one of those taxis after 9 means sitting for at least an hour until it fills. I whipped out my negotiation skills and we agreed he’d drop me off near my home.

 When we started moving, he turned and said, “You mean you’re not a Muganda?”

Oh boy. I was not in the mood for this kind of talk. I knew what was coming, but because it was late and he didn’t seem threatening, I didn’t make him stop.

“No.” I said

 “Mbadde manyi when I saw you that you were a Muganda kubanga you are very beautiful.

The rolling of my eyes was audible.

“What are you? A mucholi?”

“Yes. I’m an Acholi.”

After a short pause, he said, “Sorry”.

Sorry? Did this man just sympathize with my not being a Muganda? Just as I was about to cuff the back of his head, he continued. “You know, Acholis are very tough. Me I fear those people.”

“You do? Well, I’m an Acholi from Kitgum. Kitgum Matidi. So ride faster.”

 And then he launched into one of the funniest stories I’ve ever heard. It wasn’t so much the content as the delivery that had me falling off the boda with mirth. Davis is a very funny man. He said,

“One time, I was driving to Dubai, you know, the Sudanese-Ugandan border. And when I reached Gulu, it was very late. 3 am in the night. I went to a restaurant and asked a woman for food. Haa. You Acholis you’re very tough.

When I asked what food she had, she said fish. But when she was serving, I saw also beans. When I asked her why she hadn’t told me about the beans, she shouted: YOU ASKED FISH. I BROUGHT FISH! The woman even wanted to fight me!”

 Here the motorcycle wobbled a bit, so I told him to either ride well or shut up. He continued

 “I just ate, but I was annoyed. How can a woman want to fight with you? I decided to go to a bar. When I reached there, I saw four women dancing very much. I didn’t know if they were drunkards or what. After some time, they came near me so also me I danced ka little little. When things became hot, I decided to go away. Naye when I reached the car, they all ran out and started abusing me. Awuruwuruwuru! Then they entered my car by force. Hmm. People of that place are tough.”

By this time, I was in stitches and we were at my stop. I paid him, asked his name and said goodbye. Boda men have the best stories.