Witchcraft is a two way street

“She bewitched me with her looks” – He says.

“She put something in your food”- His mama says.

“I saw her going to a shrine” – Says the personal investigator mama hired.

This is more or less the talk that occurs when a man is marrying a woman and his loved ones either don’t approve or are threatened by her impending inclusion into the family.

Have you ever wondered why a man is seldom, if ever, accused of similar underhanded tactics by his woman and her kin? Men can’t be witches. Or can they?

It is my pleasure to inform you of the greatest artillery of witchcraft a man can have in his arsenal. This artillery is-wait for it….

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The weapon of dance

A woman will forget how many men she’s slept with (you little slut, you) but she will always remember the men whose hips didn’t lie.

If you date a man with money chances are the money makes it easy to date him. If you date a handsome man, his face does perk things up a bit. If you date a guy with important friends and connections, ditto.

But Lord have mercy if you find a man who knows how a dance floor is meant to operate. You will be swept off your feet and you will have trouble remembering the laws of nature.

I attended a conference one evening and was mingling after it was over. I found myself speaking to a Dutch gentleman about nothing in particular. Then one of these waltz pieces song came on over the speakers and I mentioned how I could never dance to ‘this Muzungu music’.

Taking me by surprise, he placed my hand on his shoulder, took my hand in his and swept me onto the dance floor, expertly weaving me in and out of tables. I will always remember that dance because now I know that with the right man, I know how to waltz.

Another time I was at the national theatre attending one of their open salsa dances. I can’t dance salsa for shit and said so loudly. Without listen to my entreaties, this grey haired elderly man launched me onto the floor a-let me fan myself first-made me do things with my legs and feet and waist I did not think were capable.

I think I know how his wife fell in love with him.

I was not romantically attracted to these men, and others who have taken me out of my comfort zone in a similar manner. I’m hinting that as a man it may help if, in addition to your charming personalities and ‘making it rain’, you may use the language of music and dance to woo your intended.

Music speaks to the soul for a reason. That’s your witchcraft. Use it.

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Remember Son, all rock stars get girlfriends. Even the really ugly ones.

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Please sleep, Splackavellie

You know that scene in the movies when a couple is in bed in a cheap hotel and they can hear another couple loudly having sex through the wall and they giggle and you who is watching the movie you also giggle because oh, it’s so funny?

It’s really not.

I had been traveling a couple of days through Tanzania and on one of my bust stops, I had a four hour layover. I was exhausted and got a cab to a cheap hotel to sleep for a couple of hours.

I collapsed on the bed with exactly two hours of sleep scheduled, closed my eyes and had begun to drift away when it started. The sounds coming through the wall were as clear as if they were at the head of my bedside.

Squeak squeak squeak! That was a bed, I guessed.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” “Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh!” Those were its occupants, I suspected.

I pulled the pillow over my head but could not drown out the sounds of the couple screwing next door.

Thud thud thud! The bed was now slamming against the wall.

I gave up after ten minutes and, lying on my back, crossed my hands over my chest and adopted the facial expression of a long suffering saint as I waited for my neighbours to finish having sex so I could go to sleep. It took a few more minutes before I could hear the promise of an end.

“Whoo! Whoo! Hah! Hah! Gggaaaaaaaaah!” That was the man. It sounded like he was climaxing.

“Haaaaaaaaaaa…” This one came from the woman and it came out low and soft and drawn out. She had also come it seems. I nodded my head, satisfied. I curled up and drifted off. Ten minutes later my eyes snapped open. Katonda wange. Had they just taken a cigarette break?

Because they were at it again!

Sorrow coursed through my veins. I had hours of travel ahead of me and these-these-these sex fiends!-were ruining my nap.

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Get the fuck out of my toilet

I was in a foreign country (which I don’t feel like mentioning because it’s not important and I don’t even know why I started by saying that I was in a foreign country but anyway, let’s carry on).

I say, I was in a section of this foreign country (I really must stop saying that) where Karaoke is a thing, so some new friends I had made took me to a karaoke bar. I must confess, it was indeed de ‘ting. People sang and rapped so well there was no need for a DJ for some time and we all were ‘getting’ jiggy with it’ when I felt the need to go pee.

There was a girl standing in the hallway of the bathrooms and I could see that the only two stalls were empty. My plan was to pass her and enter the toilet on the left. Her plan, when I passed her, was to grab me by the waist, push me up against the wall and feel me up. People, she groped my boobies.

“Eeeek! Wooooaaah!”, I swatted at her hands as I tried to shrink away but she was still leaning in too close to be normal. “What the hell?!”

“You’re so pretty, baby”, she slurred. Although I have never experienced getting in a fight with a drunk chick in a toilet, I know that a fight in a toilet with any person has me squarely in the losing position. Small size and all that. I prepared to keep this civil.

“Okay”, I said. “But I’m here to use the toilet. Let me pass”.

“When were you born?”, she demanded.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just tell me when you were born”, she purred.

“No!”

I pushed past her and entered the toilet and was turning to close the toilet door when she stepped into the doorway and blocked it. I don’t know why of all the people ‘getting jiggy with it’, no one felt the need to come pee and help me out of this predicament.

“When were you born?”, she was yelling. Was this kyana insane? I gave her as politely hostile a stare as I could muster and said nothing.

“If you won’t tell me when you were born, I”ll tell you when I was born. I was born in 1985”.

Jeez Louise. I was being molested by a baby? A tad offended, I was still glad at a chance to end her search for a soul mate. If I was not too old, I would hopefully be too poor. No car, etcetera.

“I was born in 1984”.

“No”, she said, angry. She suddenly was very angry. “Stop lying to me!”

“Listen, Kid, I don’t owe you shit. If I tell you an age, that’s the one you take!”

“But-“ she protested. “But you don’t look like you were born in 1984. You look like such a pretty baby”.

I had had quite enough. I pulled myself up to my full 4 feet 8 inches, adopted the tone of a stern teacher and said haughtily.

“Young woman. Get the fuck out of my toilet!”.

 

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This takes ‘turf war’ to a whole new level

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!

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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.

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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.

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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!”

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I approve