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.


We’ve failed at humanity.

Occasionally, one stereotype (out of the many) will be true about members of a particular community. This can be put down to factors like tradition and the similarity in value systems that they are brought up in. That said, a stereotype is the haziest and shallowest lens through which to view and relate with
the many new people you meet.

It’s impossible for everybody in a group to fit into a particular behavioral box, because people are constantly learning and growing and watching TV and rubbing off on each other and trolling the internet. This means that the amount of new information that a person consumes everyday is immense, and so is their capacity to change and move on from what undesirable traits they may have picked from the people who brought them up.

So when you judge somebody by the stereotype attached to their tribe, you are wiping off the face of the individual and replacing it with a placard written in indelible ink. You’re saying that every person from the east is a thief and everybody from the west a whore and everybody from the north a paragon of aggression and everybody from the central a two faced sneak. Disgusting. When you brand somebody without the backing of experience/ interaction, they’re going to endeavor to prove you right, if only to annoy you. Give people the chance to prove themselves.

Even more terrible, the most popularized stereotypes are never positive. You won’t hear about honesty, energy, generosity, etc. It’s like people are always looking for a reason to build us-them boundaries and such division is what’s going to stagnate us (even more).

Did you know that, in Uganda, hailing from a particular region of the country is a status symbol?

Two years ago, I was sitting outside my grandmother’s house in Kiswa, watching children play. All of a sudden, one of them began to cry, to the amusement of the others. He was saying, “Naawe ndi Muganda! Naawe! Ndi Muganda! and his friends were laughingly assuring him that his mother was a “muteso” so he didn’t qualify. The things we’ve been taught to value are ridiculous.

Tribalism and colorism are two other cancers that are eating our society up. Just how stupid are we going to look in our descendants’ history books? When my family first moved to Komamboga, our neighbors were openly disdainful of the fact that we were Luo speakers. “Mulugwara” was the term that they threw at us at every opportunity and Chandiru! not because they thought we hailed from Arua but because of because of our dark skin.

Another time I experienced colorism was when I took my phone to a highly recommended repair shop at Mutasa Kafeero. The place didn’t live up to my expectations. Service was bad, attendants were sulky and everybody had shifty eyes. When I asked for a receipt indicating the deposit I’d just paid, everybody became indignant. Finally, one guy was like, “This gu black chick, what does she want? Let her take her blackness away if she doesn’t want us to repair her phone” at which point I grabbed my money out of the moneybox and stalked out.

Clearly, we’ve failed at humanity. We score zero out of infinity. The aliens should do us a favor and wipe us out. On to you, Nibiru.

So, what exactly are interns?


An intern is a person who doesn’t know anything. They don’t know what you’re doing, they don’t know what they’re supposed to do but they want desperately to learn. They are hungry for knowledge and willing to work at acquiring this knowledge, which is why they’re so annoying.


That kind of motivation and bright eyed enthusiasm comes only once. The people the intern is bothering for help and lessons were likely interns a long time ago. They don’t remember why the hell they wanted to join the field and they sincerely hate what they are doing. If they don’t hate their jobs, they simply tolerate them. It is a most annoying thing for somebody to express so much interest in something you can no longer be bothered with, something you only stick to because man, fees have to be paid.

If the intern chances on somebody who enjoys their work, this person is usually too busy working and enjoying to willingly teach.

So often, they just hover with a piece of paper and a pen hoping to catch and jot down THE MAGIC SENTENCE that will make them useful.


Interns can be found everywhere. Banks, telecoms, schools, name it. Look behind you. They don’t usually know how to dress. If they’re working a cool advertising job, they come dressed like a morgue attendant. If they’re working in banks, they come with their chests and thighs hanging out. They’re usually students, so they don’t have money to shop for new clothes and so wear whatever it is their universities tolerate.

You can also find them in the toilet weeping or in the kitchen, finishing all the milk. Sometimes, they are to be found parked at your work station, facebooking the hell out of your computer. I don’t know what it is about office computers that make you feel so proprietary, but it feels like violation when somebody just logs you out and checks their facebook, doesn’t it?


When are they most annoying? When a new intern comes into office and the old one starts to boss the new one around. That’s not fair. You’re both flies. You can’t feel superior to another fly around when you both have so many compound…eyes. This kind of behavior makes you feel sorry for the new intern, which makes you nicer to him or her, which is going against principle! You’re supposed to be rotten at worst; indifferent at best; because that’s how they’ll become ambitious and competitive. And then they’ll escape maggotism and become rich. Like you.


You can become a compound fly by walking into an office, any office, and telling them how cool their establishment is, and how you’re willing to do anything that will help you become a better, more professional fly. If you’re convincing, they’ll hire you and then, welcome to hateville, yo.

I have been an intern before. Twice. I often wonder, now that I have a real job, I wonder how the people I worked with were able to tolerate my earnest, gasping-for-knowledge self. An intern is not a human being and it should not be treated as one. It needs to earn its humanity by gaining experience quickly and making a decent salary.

KCCA, start with the idle men.

April was sexual assault awareness month and many stories were shared across myriad forums. Shirts were made, protests organized and blog posts written (I got to know about it from Chatter).

I read about unrape; a situation where somebody makes you feel vulnerable and used by negatively altering your psyche, perception of self or your ability to make decisions. One example of unrape is when your significant other threatens you with a ticket to celibacy town for suggesting birth control. Another fairly common one is when your supervisor calls your intercom just to breathe heavily into it.

People of all ages and sexes suffer assault but females, unlike males, do not get less vulnerable with the passing of time. From childhood to maidenhood to motherhood to cronehood, the risk of assault that females face remains the same while for guys, their deepening voices, growing muscles and elongating legs form a shield between them and most lechers. Men in our society are also brought up to believe that they have every right to any woman that they see, regardless of whether or not she encourages their attentions.

For objectivity’s sake, I asked 6 men and 6 women about how their average day moving around Kampala goes. All of the men’s responses can be summed up in, “Meh. Nothing special. I do what I’m there for and go home. The jam sucks though”

The women, “It’s really crowded…normalreally, apart from those random men who disturb you.”

There. An 11 year old boy, by virtue of having testicles, is better equipped to navigate this city than I am. As long as I walk around with a male, I pass by taxi stops, boda stages and walk the streets unmolested but the moment he leaves my side, all kinds of lechers spring to life and commence tongue waggling, hissing and pawing. They start to make kissing sounds and act generally vulgar, in a way that they wouldn’t have dared to behave if I had a man/boy by my side.

On the 30TH of March (I remember because that was the day Eric Wainaina was performing at Jazzville), I saw a guard at City Oil-Kamwokya violently shovea woman away from where she was standing. He claimed that she had no right to wait for a taxi there and she protested his methods of communicating this to her. All of a sudden, he lifted his gun, cocked it and threatened to shoot her and anybody else who dared to question his actions. He kept shouting, “I don’t care! I’ll kill you! I’ll fuck you. I don’t care!”

There were two policemen at the roundabout just a few meters away but except for a couple of bored glances from them, the scuffle went interrupted.

The disinterest those police exhibited is not surprising. They’ve already shown that all their priorities lie in grabbing and manhandling everything that we consider private and sacred from our bodies to the lives bubbling in them to our wallets; all this with full support of our policy makers.

Kampala City is teeming with lechers and abusive idlers, something that KCCA need s to fix even more urgently than our pothole riddled roads for the sake of our mental health and the safety of these louts (we women are about to get violent). On to you, Ms. Musisi.

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.

On men and their vibe.

There’s not a man alive who doubts his right to have you. Hear that girl in lace dress and jimmy choos? Your car is fabulous, your entumbwe is shaped like perfect and that means nothing to the unwashed guy who sleeps on that patch of grass next to your office. In his head, he stands as much a chance of making the two-backed beast with you as that lawyer boyfriend of yours. The sooner you accept it and stop getting offended by the propositions of boda guys and askaris who waggle their tongues at you, the easier your life will be.

Stereotypes, sweeping statements and generalizations suck butt, but ah. Do you or do you not want to read an article by Apenyo today? Because this entire topic is built on those three things and it’s all I have in my head as a direct result of having been accosted by a group of rubbish collectors today. When I didn’t respond to their hisses and cat calls, they started throwing rubbish at my feet.

I’m puzzled by how so many men believe that the best way to communicate their appreciation to women is hisses and tongue clicks. Do women morph into domestic pets in the eyes of lustful men?

A man’s likelihood to hit on you is determined by his profession. A court clerk is much less likely to waggle his eyebrows at you than, say, a doctor who will be all over you like a bad rash, if you don’t already have one.

Here’s a list of random professions and my analysis of how they relate to women.

Men in advertising: They’re the ones you’ll find in iguana on Thursday, dubbing be-weaved girls with the passion of senior three boys. When they’re not breaking their dance partners, they’re sweet, willing to walk to the bar and elbow people to get you a Smirnoff. They won’t hit on you just like that. They’ll co-gyrate with you peacefully and wait for you to express interest.

Salesmen: These ones are trying to make a living almost every time you see them, so they’re not going to compromise their commission by acting inappropriate. They’ll politely bore you with their lies like “Angelina Jolie wears these vests. It is scientifically proven that they’ll make your lips bigger” and “this frying pan is self cleaning. The moment you transfer your egg to the plate, it will absorb the oil and all odor”.

Bartenders have the best success rate as far as hooking girls that they wouldn’t usually approach. Why? Because humans are wired to be grateful anybody who serves them liquor. When you hit your third drink, they’ll start a conversation or offer you a promo T-shirt, or a free glass of something and then the vibing will begin.

Bank tellers: These ones think that when they handle our money, they handle our hearts as well. There’s one on campus who would write his number on your withdrawal slip and push it back at you through the ka hole in the glass.

Doctors: Maybe it’s the patient-doctor, helpless-savior dynamic that makes them so bold about making advances, but ai. As if you, full of malaria, are in any sort of mood for such.


On self racism and fantastic comedians.

Recently, I was invited to the office of a company that required my writing skills. Over the phone, the manager sounded amiable and the work he wanted me to do, while boring, wasn’t difficult.  More accurately, this job was a piece of sponge cake and I had no reason to feel intimidated.

But when I walked into his office and noted he was Indian, my heart jumped into my mouth. This was annoying because my mouth only has space for teeth and not an entire heart. My flare of nervousness didn’t blow the job, but it left me puzzled.

5 weeks ago, an article titled Intellectual African scum went viral. Its gist was that we educated Africans are useless drunkards who spend all day chasing tail while people suffer in the villages and the west continues to leech our resources.  It inspired a series of reactions in me; from a mournful acceptance of my uselessness, to quiet indignation to, finally, a raging disgust at the writer’s condescending and un-researched sentiments. I’m still sad about the way so many people unthinkingly accepted the article’s lashing and even became abusive towards those who so much as questioned it crowing, “The white guy (article’s persona) is telling the truth! Don’t try to convince us otherwise!”

That madness is what birthed the term self-racism.

Complex: My generation was weaned on Cerelac and television, so it’s possible that a TV stereotype has been carried on to real life where they assume white= glamorous bringer of wisdom and light and black = porter/gangster/helpless/needy.

This may be the reason why so many Ugandans are openly deferential towards white people. Sure, we all react differently towards newness, but for the love of Nakibuule! It’s possible to celebrate differences without worshipping them.

Conditioning: Last week, I had to sternly stop my 7 year old sister from singing a slave song to soothe Daniella, our resident baby and overlord.  Making hoeing motions, she sang: slave slaveslave, in America! Working day, day and night, planting sugar, sugar and tea, when I goooo to America!

When I asked where she’d learnt it, she said, “Yiii they taught us that song P.1!” I was horrified. An inferiority complex is drummed into us from when we’re P.1 babies. Note that this song isn’t taught to children within the context of say, a history class.

Courtship standards: The average middle class Ugandan man wants a girl with an education, a ‘reasonable’ accent that he can show off to his friends and some financial prospects. Most foreigners will take one look at a girl, be charmed by her dark skin and call her exotic because of her mbogo filled English. By the time African boys stop judging prospective mates using standards gleaned from M-NET, they might find all the girls’ hearts boarding planes.

If you’re one of those who read Stiletto Point in the Discovery Magazine and then come here to like or comment or whatever, you ROCK. Also, you’ll notice that a rant on Mish Mash and it’s rude management has been omitted. This is not because I am all of a sudden OK with the way they treated Lindsey, a colleague of mine. It’s because Jane Bussmann is in town and she’s, for some reason decided to hold her show there. At Mish Mash.

For those of you who haven’t read her book Worst Date Ever (or How It Took a Comedy Writer to Expose Africa’s Secret War), find it. Find it now because she’s fucking hilarious. She’s going to be being awesome at Mish Mash on the 20th of April.

See? See? Even her pictures ooze funny-ness.

You people, come and we go. Buy a ticket early- 35,000 and come enjoy an evening in the company of this awesome comedy writer (South Park, Brass Eye, Smack the Pony)

On obsessions *(not the dead band)

Obsession. Definition: The unhealthy immersion of one’s mind, soul and (where applicable) body into something or somebody. Or even somewhere. It is possible for a creature to be madly obsessed with a patch of grass outside their house, but this creature is more likely to be a ruminant, than, you know, a person.

Was it Louis de Benieres who said a man is only as good as his last obsession? I have several, which hopefully means that I’ve got a vast personality and not something that can be diagnosed.

People/ things I’m crazy for:

Enygma: This perpetually masked MC who sounds like a serial killer that’s a male stripper on the side has got me good. He says ayayaya, I swoon. He talks about ten reasons to date MCees, I buy yet another shirt with his name on it. If you haven’t, for minutes, stared at his mouth through his balaclava and tried to place it/ attach it to one of the Ugandan males you have met, you can’t possibly be as obsessed as I am.

Matooke: My mother is a matooke fiend. She’s the only other person I know who can comfortably eat pressed matooke and fried matooke together as a meal. Boiled, pressed, stewed, flash fried; it is my favorite ever. I haven’t gone a week in my life without stuffing my face with this exciting nyamsockable, so it qualifies as an obsession.

Damp Squid: There’s a blog on the interwebs called Damp Squid and it is the world’s true source of happiness. It is where all smiley faces are manufactured, where laughter is tested for authenticity. Dampsquid is fabulously funny and everybody deserves to visit it. Feel free to read all the posts twice (thrice, four times. Who’s counting?).

Kimbra: There’s a space in every girl’s life for Kate Nash and Lily Allen type music; cute, feely, sweet and slightly bleedy. I thought I’d stuffed that space to capacity until I met Kimbra. Her music is fabulous, her videos are adorable and she grooves like drunken cat. I’m in love.

Mac lipstick: Finding a brand of lipstick that works for you is the hardest thing. You’ll suffer rashes, cracks, actual rips, lip pimples, itchiness, etc. So when you chance upon a wonderful tube that produces sweet smelling, nicely colored grease with which you can accentuate your fabulous lips, bright red joy fills your heart and makes you do weird things like buying a whole box of the stuff.

Ecclesiastes: With the possible exception of Revelations, this is the only book in the Bible that was written with the attention span of the average youth in mind. Content- spot on. Delivery- fantastic. Length- short.  It tackles angst, despair and dispenses advice in an open, honest way. King Solomon is basically saying, “Cut the bullshit. Life is hard and pointless, but you need to enjoy it, especially when you’re young. Take care and spare a thought for God.” I don’t read it as often as I used to, but this list wouldn’t be complete without it.

And just so that I can stop judging myself, I’m going to mention my library. Those are my obsessions. Tell me about yours in the comment section.

A pox on all DVOYS

I like to play with words. Smash them into each other. Subtract certain letters to create interesting sounds. Language is far too rich and life far too short for me to restrict my rich imagination to the couple of million words that England has deposited in my country. Take as my gift to you; Voncersation which defines a conversation between lovers in which one is punched in the voicebox as they tell the other that they’d like to sleep with other people.

One relevant to today’s story is dvoy (dee-vhoy), a combination of diva and boy to describe a male who through every failing in his personality is a very annoying, poncey and pissy human being. Dvoys sometimes shed their drama and grow into men, but this doesn’t happen often. Most times, these narcissistic zeros go about their lives spreading irritation and confusion among girls (mainly).Their very existences depend on whether or not they’re successful in luring unsuspecting people into their worlds which are teeming with existential crises.

Overwhelmingly irritating things that dvoys do.

Hey baibe: They incessantly, without any style whatsoever, proposition girls on whatsaap. Yea yea. I know. This is the era of the social network, people are getting laid more than ever on merit of cleverly worded messages and wordplay is the new foreplay; mbu, but that doesn’t make it acceptable, especially if the receiver of these messages is more irritated than stimulated.

Fits: In an admirable show of unpredictability, they throw fits at moments when you could’ve sworn by your grandmother that everything was hunky dory. They’ll blame the people around them (in self-righteous falsettos) for the missing of a call, for the weather, for the crying of a random baby in a taxi. For anything really. As long as they’re whining and making everybody uncomfortable, they’re happy.

ngwaa this ngwaa that, ugh

I’m hot: They constantly remind you, in ways both subtle and unsubtle that their eyes are wandering and though you’re enjoying their attentions for the moment, they can switch to some other girl, exactly as if you’re a TV channel. Their tastes in music haven’t evolved beyond that wiggle wiggle song. They know how much you want them, yo, and won’t ever stop talking about it.

I’m special: These soiled pampers believe they are very different and very extraordinary and very unique and very everything. The word very features a lot in their vocabulary. They expect you to be grateful for their attentions, so the moment you let lose an opinion or disagree with one of their dumb ideas, they lose their minds. Their tantrums are powerful enough to frighten little animals into comas.

One of the most annoying phrases they use a lot is, “I know how wild and crazy you are for me”. Barf. This is so annoying that you may find yourself making money from the whole ugly business by writing about it.

By virtue of free will, everybody can behave in whichever way they want to, but please, dvoys, cease and desist from exploding your bad personality all over this girl’s space.


Don’t be a crazy stalker bastard.

We all like to be recognized. No one wants to just slide out of the minds of the people they have interacted with. We have all these people on TV and youTube and over the radio instructing us to make some sort of  impact on the world so it’s understandable why a certain kind of person with certain personality problems might feel very strongly about not being recognized.

What is unacceptable is the level of aggression with which they react when you fail to remember who they are.

This kind of person will approach you on the street or sit next to you in a taxi and greet you with a lot of enthusiasm. “Hello! How are you? I’m me and I demand that you recognize me right this instant!”

Really be gone.

You are confused. Who is this stranger and on what grounds are they invading your space? Because you’re having a good day, you stop what you are doing and smilingly attend to them. “I’m sorry; I don’t remember…what’s your name?”

They are outraged. Their eyes begin to insult you. Their lips moisten with saliva. They look you up and down and up again. “What is my name? How can you ask such a stupid thing? I’m me. Not only did I, on one occasion, pass you by in the corridors of Nana Hostel three years ago, I also knocked on your door a couple of times! We were friends! You think you’re too good for me now? Huh?!”

You realize that this person might not have all their crayons in the same box and if they are in the same box, they’re definitely not facing the same way. Every instinct tells you to ignore them and resume minding your own business, but no. You’re supposed to be learning tolerance from the weekly yoga class you attend and so with straight face and calm voice, you say, “I really don’t remember who you are. It will be easier for me if you tell what your name is. Otherwise, please stop shouting at me.”

From the way they lean into your space and stand on the tips of their toes and thrust their chest into the air, you know that things are going to get worse. “No wonder! You fake chick! I knew! You’re proud. Why are you refusing to remember me? We used to spend a lot of time in your room together! Anyway, no wonder…”

Angry now, you say, “No wonder what? I’d really like to hear what you were going to say. Your opinion matters very much because you are a little fellow and according to the internet, little people sometimes suffer from inferiority complexes. So please tell me all these things that confirm the way I’m behaving towards you right now. Tell me why it’s no wonder that I’m exhibiting this terrible behavior.”

They’re intimidated now, probably because they realize that this conversation might not end well for them. They motion for you to lower your voice. “Shhhh. Banaye. Anyway I just wanted to say hi because we used to be very close. Bye.”

You’ve been very reasonable. You haven’t disgraced yourself or your upbringing in any way; but by God you want to aim a flying kick at this idiot’s flat face. You want to demand an apology! How dare they bring ugliness into your day? But you take a deep breath and summon the inner peace that you pay for every Tuesday at the Acacia Yoga center and eventually return to happiness.