I’m getting real sick and tired of your luganda to be honest

I’m going to do that racist thing where I say, “Hey! I have Baganda friends. We hang out and everything”.

Now that’s done, let’s discuss this excuse taxi touts use to bore people who don’t speak Luganda. With me it usually goes something like this:

Me: Excuse me please, how much is it to-?

Tout (in luganda): Don’t bore me! Speak in Luganda!

Me: Also you don’t bore me. I don’t speak Luganda. Do you want a customer or do you want Luganda?! I can walk off and leave you with the language if you want!

It usually works and the tout and I part friends. Last night though, what happened was bizarre.

I’d taken a taxi and I think the men lied about where they were going. I kept asking (in Luganda by the way) if they were going to drop me at say, King Kong. They kept responding:

“We’re going to Jumanji”

“Yeah, but are you going to pass via King Kong?”

“We’re going to Jumanji”.

I wasn’t taking chances. In English, I asked to leave the taxi.

“If you don’t want to answer my questions, you can stop here”, I said.

The driver screamed: “Speak to us in Luganda”.

Sincerely a pause was in order. I turned in astonishment to gasp at him.

I could swear I’d spent the last ten minutes speaking to them in the language of their preference. It seems the rules state conversations must end that way too!


Munange. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.


A cure for loneliness

If you are of a certain age-that is to say anywhere from your very late twenties to I don’t know yet coz I ain’t there at present-there comes a time when plot is hard to configure. People have gotten married, others are becoming responsible adults and the rest don’t want your idle arse around.

Which is where the kanfundas come in, praise Jesus. Over time, Kafundas have evolved from being places for the poor and unemployed to respectable venues for the elite who are allergic to solitude.

There are two categories of kafunda attenders.

Category 1: The ones who gat a legit kafunda

You’ll see them in bars in Kisementi, Kabalagala, John Babiiha Avenue (no longer Acacia-keep up); and then there are those in Serena and Golf Course but even thinking about touching on those mortals depresses my bank account so I shall stick with the familiar.

Like I said. If you have a kafunda, you also have friends who attend that kafunda. On specific days you know that you can just hop on over, have a seat and even if you’re alone, a pal will join you and in thirty minutes it will be a party.

That’s the legit kafunda.

Category 2: The Kaunda flukers

These are the people who have failed to ingratiate themselves into a particular kafunda. But that should not dissuade you comrade. This is Africa. Kafundas are open to all. Even Bazungu will giddily summon you over to their table if they’ve been in Uganda long enough. So put on your clothes, go to Que Pasa and simply stare. Someone you know will shout, “Yo, warrup? Come join us!”. If nothing of the sort happens, you must walk about, look busy muttering, ‘Excuse me, looking for a friend’ until you spot one. Say hello and that friend will automatically sidle over to make room for you.

It has worked for me on numerous occasions. Tonight is the end of one year and if you don’t want to be alone you don’t have to, friend. Should you belong in Category 2 (bambi), put on your drinking cap and go find that cure for loneliness.


Or you could just stay home and treat yourself

Tell me about the bum

This is a blog that’s supposed to be about humour. However I do not know how to broach this topic without spoiling your expectations and quite frankly, I don’t care.

In 2018, DO NOT go around telling people what you think can be improved with their bodies. I’m talking about your having a non-flattering opinion about someone’s body, walking up to them and telling them so as you advise them how to make it better.

Do you think I don’t know I need a push up bra because the boobie hormones came to a halt when I was eight? Do you assume that I do not bathe every day and therefore evaluate my naked body to see if it is presentable before I put on clothes to cover up what isn’t? You think hipless girls don’t know they’re hipless and fat girls don’t know they’re fat before you drown them in the visible facts? Do ya? Huh? DO YAH?

Let me tell you a surprise: you who critiques, your body is unacceptable in another country and another culture. I want you, healthy Muhima, to travel to Paris and see what you put us sticks here through. I want you, fine-ass slaying model, to go to a place where you are considered starved and see what anther’s shoes feels like. If you think about that real hard and your outlook doesn’t falter, my hat goes off to you. But now to be serious: to those who face daily lectures and kind offers of suggestions to ‘improve’ their looks, I ask you to practice this art, hard as it may be: don’t let people project their expectations onto you.

Your body is the only home you have. The only damn one, and it should be enjoyed by you, or improved by you or accepted by you. No one else should tell you a THING unless you’re anorexic, but I don’t know if we have that in Uganda yet. Spend your youth enjoying your body before you reach that age where no one cares anymore and leaves you alone because you’re so old it don’t matter no more. Make it not matter no more NOW.

I’m not talking out of my ass here. I have spent years being told to gain weight, to drink milk, and to try to look good so that some man with a big stomach who wants a woman with a big body can call me marriage material. And I have spent those years telling my advice givers; “No. Don’t appreciate your candor, don’t need it. You have my blessing to love your body without giving me self-esteem issues about mine”.

My dear body experts. Don’t let people live like that. Do not criticize a bodily essence even in the name of kindness. Do not be the cause of someone’s low self-esteem, depression, fake hair, and flaw coverings because of your thoughtless projections.

Everyone on this planet only gets one vessel for their soul. Say something nice about it. I may be skinny but if you look hard, there is a bit of a bum thereabout.


Look for the damn bum and tell me I have it!





Get him up close and personal.

I was in an village upcountry alone and on my first day, as I strolled along a long empty stretch of dusty road to look for food to eat, three men on a boda boda begun trailing me, asking me to ‘love them’.

“Leave me alone”.

“No”, said the men generous enough to share one woman between them. “We are going to follow you on this motorcycle”.

“Fine”, I conceded. “Follow away. Good luck enjoying doing nothing”.

And so for a few minutes I walked, they hooted and hollered and soon begun to feel foolish I suppose. They drove past me and disappeared.

Lo and behold, they were the first men I saw when I reached the restaurant. This time they had a restaurant of men to give them more gumption. The catcalls begun in earnest.

“Fuck off”, I told the one who ventured too close to me and I hurried around the back to eat in peace. When I was leaving, the catcalls resumed. It is a wonder to me how as countries tell women to be ‘decent’, they have no concern for the men that shame the nation. As I stood and stared at these fellows outside the restaurant they honestly resembled goats in heat. All I had to do was bend over and out would come their ding dongs.

It was pathetic. One man desperately cried out to me, “But why don’t you want me to love you?”.

“That’s it!”, I snapped. “I want one of you to come out of that restaurant and stand in front of me and talk to me like a human being”.

One man stood up and the others rushed to come out and escort him.

“NO!”, I shouted. “Together you’re a pack of dogs that give each other courage. I want ONE MAN to come out here and the rest of you SIT DOWN!”.

To my amazement, the men all sat. The one left standing swaggered out to meet me. We faced each other.

“Who raised you?”, I asked.

“What do you mean”?

“Who grew you?” I elaborated.

“I don’t understand”, he was in unfamiliar territory and all his fellows were eagerly watching his performance.

“Who gave birth to you?”

“My mother”, he answered.

“And did your parents raise you to loiter around like an animal determined to give and receive AIDS, and to treat women with no respect? To treat yourself with no respect? Don’t you and your friend have any dignity at all?!”

The men shouted suggestions to him and I shouted insults back to the lot of them. The owner of the restaurant came out and seeing what was going on, went batshit. I don’t know what language she spoke but she was clearly not amused with the men abusing not just her customer, but a visitor as well. Her tongue lashed on, my tongue added to hers and the man I was talking to actually run away from me and escaped into the restaurant.

To be honest I did not want to return for dinner. But I steeled myself and went back to the restaurant. It had only one small table and whoever didn’t get one would find a chair and manage without. I sat at the table and one man came over with a plate.

“Excuse me madam”, he said politely. “May I please have your permission to share this table with you?”

I was impressed. It was his table not mine but my demand for self-respect had pulled off amazing results in the space of an afternoon.

For the rest of my stay in that village, the men would greet me, “Hello Commando!”


I approve

Vaginas vs. Gear shifts

Due to the pressures and psychological inconveniences that Kampala holds, sometimes it is imperative to get the hell out. I betook my weary spirit to Ntoroko district in Western Uganda. The gwa is far. You pass Fort Portal, take the escarpment leading to Bundibugyo, branch off at Karugutu and drive for two more hours with the reward of viewing the Semliki wildlife on the way-kobe, warthogs and earth’s other lovely creatures.


Something about nature does good to one’s soul, innit?

For one week I avoided the internet, work and most importantly-people. Alas, the time came for me to leave and that is when I learned that when it comes to public transport, Ugandans need to start slapping themselves into development instead of waiting for the president to promise it (over and over and over again).

I learned the earliest taxi would leave at 5.00 am sharp and made the appointment. 5.00 am found me sitting outside my cottage with my luggage admiring the blanket of the sky. After 20 minutes, hypothermia was imminent so I went back to bed. The driver called to say he was late because the taxi was not yet full.

When the taxi eventually came, really, I doubted his sanity. It was packed. I was unhappily squeezed into the last front seat (that ugly one where the conductor sits) and we set off. After a few more minutes we stopped again.

“We just have to add some more passengers”, explained conductor.

“Where?”, I asked curiously. “You’ve got five people seating in each row and me squashed here like a cabbage. Where do you intend to put these people?”

There were four men we had to find space for. After a long and public discussion by all of us about how they would fit (I kept shouting ‘Wait for another taxi!’), one man seated next to me said, “I know what to do! Let the girl sit on my lap and we can squeeze six people in a row instead of five”.

Come the fuck again? I looked around the taxi to identify the ‘girl’ who was going to sit on the man’s lap. Everyone else looked at me encouragingly.

Kiss my arse.

“No”, I said.

The passengers begged and wheedled and I didn’t even try to be polite.

“I’m not sitting on anyone’s lap! I’ve been waiting since 5.00 am for this shit? NO!”.

“Fine”, said conductor. “You get out and we’ll see where to put you later”.

I offered to sit on the roof of the taxi because at least I’d be alone. You can see how my standards were falling quite rapidly.

In the end, I was put in the front seat with the driver and two other passengers. I was made to place my legs on either side of the gear shift and off we went. I gave up on the sanctity of my body as every time the driver changed gears, my thigh or vagina was lightly caressed. I tried everything. Sitting straighter, leaning to the left and daydreaming. Still my private parts were having a hard time of it.

When we reached Karugutu, which branches off to Fort Portal, flesh and blood could bear it no longer. I clambered out of that taxi to the insults of the passengers.

“You think you’re too good to travel normally. You think you’re a muzungu! Yada yada yada”.

I took a boda the rest of the long way to Fort Portal which would have been pleasant if it were sunny. The rift valley is a gorgeous sight but it was early morning, it was freezing and I didn’t give a fuck about the hills being alive with the sound of music.



Sincerely, don’t these ones just want to die?

In all my years of watching horror movies, I never understood why the old white men who ‘discovered’ Africa etc. were natural explorers. Traversing seas and forests they know nothing about and-unsurprisingly-getting killed by the natives of the land who didn’t wanna know their shit.

Eventually someone missing the good old days came up with an idea to remind the world about their roots through horror movies. These horror movies most often feature white people and it better stay that way. My ancestors don’t want us getting ideas.

There are the ones who take a road trip to a place none of them have ever been to 

These are usually college students who buy a map, play pinky-pinky-ponky, pick a spot and drive off into a deserted environment of all things for no justifiable reason.


Wrong turn, bitches

The ones who ignore the person who thinks something is off 

There is always a sensible fellow who wants to go back post haste. This fellow usually has three or four stupid friends who tell him to not be such a sissy. Instead of sensible fellow walking back (I don’t care if it’s 1000 miles), he stays with the stupid friends so they can die in solidarity.

The ones who wander off to explore 

This usually happens in a forest. Someone wants to explore on their own. Thankfully they get what they deserve.

The ones who say ‘Let’s split up’ 

Are you mad? What’s wrong with you? What would possess you to think of that? Why would you want to-I can’t even.

The ones who decide to fight back against the evil 

I love these ones. If it’s a demonic business, they call a priest, they put crosses on the wall because pain and torture appeals to them. If it’s a guy with a chainsaw, instead of just leaving him in peace by driving to San Francisco they devise traps and means to kill him so that he doesn’t hurt anyone else. Is that chain murderer your responsibility? Haha.

The ones who know it’s unsafe but showers with a shower curtain 

Mwe. Alfred Hitchcock warned you about that shit back in 1960. I mean, a place has already given you a bad vibe. Everyone who’s ever watched horror movies knows you never ever shower with a shower curtain. In fact you don’t even bathe. If you must, go outside in the grass with a basin so that you can see who’s coming at you with the knife.


No. Let them shower and die by curtain.

And lastly- there are the fools who investigates creepy eerie voices 

Someone hears weird voices and sounds and has the temerity to call out, “Who’s there?”. What the fuck do you mean who’s there? If you didn’t come with them, get the hell out!

The lettuce leaves on that plate

I don’t like it when people visit my country for a few months, days, weeks or minutes only for them to return to their homelands and wax rhetorical about the cultures and people when they haven’t fully integrated. When they don’t yet ’know us like that’.

Which is why I want to first throw this disclaimer out there: this story is by no means a reflection of the country that is Turkey and its people. I know easy going friendly Turkish people. Two to be precise.

But my first time through the Turkish airport, I think I arrived a few minutes after an evil villain had doused the place with a hormone labelled ‘Non-Turks fuck off’.

I was with a few Ugandans and upon entry two uniformed Turkish ladies receiving us as we arrived at the airport were asking to see our boarding passes from the flight we had disembarked from. One of my colleagues thought he was still in Uganda where jokes are a thing.

“But we’ve just got off the plane. Haha. Why ask for our boarding passes? How did we come to stand in front of you if we are doing so illegally? Hehe, hihi”.

The women didn’t smile. They glared actually. Our collective chuckles were silenced and as they waved us through one of the madams said, “Fucking asshole” loud enough to be heard.


The airport looked a grand place for this tiny African. Sleek and alive, bustling with people and activity. I like to enjoy my maalo time alone so I decided to separate from my colleagues for the next few hours. I wanted a pharmacy and sought out several help desks. At the first one I stood in front of one lady and grinned brightly.


“Hello! Where can I find a pharmacy?” 

She looked at me coldly and flicked her eyes to her colleague in the store next to her. My smile faltered but I kept it plastered on as I went to the next lady. She stared at me and then looked down at something she was working on. I stood for about half a minute before she looked up at me with impatience and spoke tartly.

“What do you want”. Full stop.

Kyo #2

Several help desks later the individual I wanted to buy medicine from over an intercom was also so terse that I decided my body could heal itself of its ailments.

I was hungry though. Delighted at the prospect of sampling the local fare I approached one restaurant. The food was arranged behind a glass screen and I stood for some time trying to figure out what everything was. I kept trying to get the attention of the cashier/owner but I swear it was as if I were invisible. People came and somehow with zero effort were able to purchase something as I hovered and in between them raising my hand and calling out, “Sir? Hello, Sir?”

When there was no one I stood still and looked at him curiously as he counted his money, put tea to boil etc. He looked at me eventually.

“What?”, he asked.

“What’s this?”, I pointed at a sandwich that looked interesting. He told me. I didn’t want it so I asked about another item. What I wanted him to do was spend a couple of minutes telling me what everything was but I could see it wasn’t going to fly. I didn’t want the second item either so I asked him about another plate.

“Order something or go”, he said.


“Tea and those lettuce leaves on that plate”.


I’ll experiment at my leisure elsewhere!