The quest for sausages

None of the names in this story are real.

Marion, a very old friend of mine, visited me and we made ourselves tea and fried eggs. When we were done, we still craved more food and we craved sausages in particular. But we did not want to make them. We were already seated comfortably and our eyes scanned the house to find an unwitting individual to somehow fry us sausages.

The maid appeared as she hustled and bustled about her duties and Marion pounced.

“Hello, Jane!”, she greeted her enthusiastically. “How are you?”

“I’m very fine, thank you”, she replied as she picked the item she needed from a counter.

“We would like sausages please”, said Marion politely. I waited with bated breath and a salivating mouth as I prepared my stomach for the sausages.

“But the sausages are in the fridge”, Jane replied.

My stomach settled and the saliva went back. I knew it wasn’t gonna happen. Marion held on to a last vestige of hope.

“The fridge, yes. We were hoping you would fry us sausages”.

Jane did not understand our slowness.

“But the sausages are in the fridge. The oil and gas and saucepans are in the kitchen”. And Jane was gone.

Marion and I stared at each other in defeat. Suddenly my cousin appeared.

My turn.

“Hi Mark! How are you doing?”

“I’m very fine, sister! How are you?”

I ignored his greeting and got to the point of my cunningly connived plan.

“Would you like some sausages Mark?”.

“What kind of sausages are they?”, Mark asked.

Damn, crap and lemony snicket. I forgot he’d converted to Islam.

“Erm, I don’t know”.

Marion didn’t have time for my dithering.

“Mark, we’re looking for someone to make us sausages”.

“And you want me to make you sausages?”, he asked.

“Yes!”, we both replied enthusiastically.

He gave us the same quizzical look Jane had given us, laughed and walked away.

Ah, fuck it.

Ssssh! I’m going to share a family secret.

As a child, Christmas was a magical, magical, just the most fantabulous time.

I believed in Santa because like all parents, they had the lie-to-child-make-their-life-fun gene. Christmas eve, I could hardly wait to go to sleep because in the morning.

Oh, in the morning.

There they were. The Christmas presents, colorful and wrapped around the tree with our names on them. When I learned Santa was not real, thankfully I had a strong constitution and it did not traumatize me so much.

By the way, I apologize for sounding dreadfully bourgeoisie up in here.

As we grew, we developed a new family, less lie-induced family tradition. I’m going to share a family secret.

Just because it’s Christmas…

We now buy gifts for each member of the family and place them under the tree surreptitiously the night before. How members of a family are able to dodge each other in the placement of these presents is a matter for the gods to understand.

So anyway, each person has to pick boxes with their names and guess who gave it to them. Isn’t that neat?

Beware of people who make you apologize for the bad things they do.

I should know. I used to be one of those people, so you can’t kid a kidder. I know the signs.

A good friend of mine told me that every feeling, emotion and impulse I have is obviously shared by others (I’m unique but so is everybody else by that reasoning). Therefore I share this in the hopes that someone who has enabled disrespectful friends in their lives can enter the new year freed from the kavuyo.

Growing up, it was in my nature to be a doormat. A relative once told me: “Lindsey, someone can wipe their mud on your back and you’ll ask them if they need to wipe some more!”.

An illustration, reader, of what a doormat, in my case, signified:

“You’re angry with me. What did I do? Please, please, don’t ignore me and be passive aggressive. I confess I take full responsibility for whatever it is. You don’t even have to tell me. I forgive you and will allow you to pull childish stunts forever and ever amen”.

“I lent you 2 million shillings, may I have it back? Yes, I realize you helped me out with airtime every now and then. How selfish of me to not think of your sacrifices. Yes, you’re right, I should shut up because you don’t have the money and I’d better appreciate that if I want to be your friend!”

“You did something that upset me and I reacted badly. I’m so sorry you’re angry with me for reacting to something you did. I understand you don’t need to respect me enough to apologize. Please disregard what you did for my ‘sensitive’ reaction, and you have my permission to shit on my feelings forever and ever amen”.

“You talked about me behind my back, told someone sensitive information to hurt me. But of course, I can’t sue you for defamation since you claim you’re free to speak if it’s truth. You have also insulted me on numerous occasions, but please, let me be the one once again, to apologize for putting you in the position to do so. I accept that I am unworthy of any apology from you forever and ever , amen”.


But this year, I finally had enough. One woman in particular pulled an old signature move I used to tolerate from her: ‘I’ll shit on you and remember to take responsibility for making me shit on you”.

My brain finally restored itself to factory settings and I am able to see gaslighting and disrespect for what it is. Especially after I noticed that when I begun to stand up for myself and noticed my ‘friends’ did not appreciate this new person who will no longer take responsibility for their bad behavior, they begun the name calling and the “You now have kajanja” comments.

Everyone deserves love and mutually respectful relationships, and if you’re reading this and identify with what I’m writing (I’m sorry you’re also pathetic) let next year be the year you take responsibility for how you make people feel, but don’t allow yourself to give undue respect to those who won’t do the same for you.

Too much love may kill you

The best day of my life this year was the day Mufasa came into my life. He was sent by the universe, the very universe, to just break my heart to pieces. But without pain, there is no pleasure and he filled my days with enough joy to make up for the pain.

I’d gone to the back of the shared apartment complex I lived in to take my dry clothes off the wash line when I saw him. He was chained around a tree, lying prone on the grass. He did not acknowledge me. His face rested forlornly between his paws, his eyes devoid of any life, staring blankly ahead.

I walked toward him and sat by his side. He did not register my presence.

This was a dog who had given up on humans utterly.

Humans make the common mistake of thinking heart breaks are reserved for losing someone. How wrong we are. Our hearts break when we meet people too. My heart broke for Mufasa and that heartbreak pulled me towards him. 

I stroked his head, his back, his tail, his snout for more than half an hour without him registering me at all. Finally, he wagged his tail faintly. It was enough. I returned to my house.

He was a street dog who the apartment askari wanted to train as a guard dog, which for Mufasa, is as natural to him as breathing on one condition: he has to love you body, heart and soul. This I learned the hard way, and I betrayed him for it, may the Universe forgive me.

I listened all day as the askari beat Mufasa up, his screams echoing through the complex. The man and I already had a hostile history so life was as it should be when I finally waked down to where Mufasa was cowering, trapped against a corner of a wall, with the askari raising a short thick wooden stick to raise more blows on him.

I stood between him, Mufasa and his stupid bullying stick.

“Don’t touch my dog again,”, I told him.

“Eh?, he said, confused.

“I said, don’t touch my fucking dog again”.

He pointed the stick at me. “I’m going to beat you”, he said.

“Ha!”, I laughed. “Then at least you’ll beat someone who can fight back. Now walk away from us”.

He walked.

I dragged Mufasa out of the complex. I opened the gate and locked him out. I did not know that sometimes his brain forgot to function and that day it went away again. Why didn’t he choose to run and be free again?

I had barely settled on my sofa minutes later when I heard screaming. Mufasa’s screaming. Rushing downstairs, I was met with a sight that made me laugh. The askari was trying to beat Mufasa and get him out of the compound, and Mufasa was dodging him with the agility of a leopard.

He was looking for me.

Again, I locked him out of the gate, where neighborhood children (and the askari) started to do what Ugandans do best. Make a dog’s life miserable for fun. They threw stones at him, they surrounded him in packs pocking and beating him but he would not leave. He would run away from them and come back. He sat outside that gate and nothing would make him leave his position.

I always tell people that when they go to a shelter to adopt an animal, they should not choose the animal. They should let the animal choose them. You will know when it happens. Your heart will break in a pleasant way that will pull you toward your doggie mate.

Mufasa had chosen me. He was waiting patiently for me to choose him too.

Instead, I called the Uganda Society For The Protection and Care of Animals (USPCA) to rescue him, which they did. I was then ordered by my landlady to vacate the premises, which I was happy to do so seeing as Mr.Askari and I were one day going to kill each other or die trying.

I adopted Mufasa to punish him for getting me evicted. I called him Mufasa because even though he had some local in him, the exotic seemed to Boerbel. He was a formidable looking animal and I named him as was befitting a King above dogs. He looked scary as hell, but was really a sweet giant bear.

We moved into another shared complex, and became inseparable. Mufasa would not leave my side. However much space he had to run in the public lot, he preferred to remain at the very most, three feet away from me. I became used to him leaning against me as I worked on my laptop. He always leaned against me when I was working.

Then I begun to notice some disturbing traits. He hated children. He lunged at them. He was a lot of muscle and controlling him was difficult. He knew to obey me because I’d trained him thoroughly but like I said, sometimes his brain went to Keynjojo.

One day during a walk, he blocked a child’s path and was barking at him furiously. I resolved the situation but was deeply shaken. I’d been distracting him with treats during walks when kids passed by but his hatred of them would not diminish.

Another day, I was in the house when Mufasa woke from what seemed like a dead sleep with a rough bark, a rush out of the door and my worst nightmare-the screams of children who’d entered the compound.

Soon, the steps to my house became his job to control. A milkman who used to deliver milk in peace was being refused to advance the steps with warning barks.

And then I begun to fear for myself when he one day breezed into my bedroom, which he knows is equivalent to suicide. He left the room only when he decided he’d made his point about territory being his now.

I’m not going to have territorial battles with 4 year olds whose histories I don’t know, thank you very much.

The beginning of the end was when I went to the bathroom at 1:00 am and came out to find him standing at the end of the living room. He was usually snoring, whether I was awake or not. But today he stood, very still, and stared at me. He just stared at me.

I locked myself in the bedroom, certain I was a goner. The next day I called a vet who advised that he be put down for my and other’s safety, with his unknown history and sudden aggressive and unpredictable behavior.

I called another vet to put him down. He examined Mufasa, seemed to pay close attention to how he and I related, and closed his bag up. He started laughing.

“I’m not putting this dog down. He is a happy, well trained animal. He has become over protective with you, so this is the worse place for him. If he thinks his job is to protect you from people, every tenant is a potential enemy”.

And suddenly I understood. When he entered my bedroom, he wanted to be close to me as he was when I worked in the living room. When he stared at me that time I went to the bathroom, he was begging me:

”What’s wrong? Why are you withdrawing from me and starting to keep me locked in the house? What do I need to do to get you back?”

Mufasa is now in enclosed compound he can protect in peace and I made sure to place him in a place with no children.

It’s been real, King.

Dear men on Tinder. This is why women swipe you left.

I love this new world we live in. People can go online and not be shy about looking for a hook up, a blow job, or someone to look after their 27 children.

But some of you men take this amazing opportunity that your grandparents would have killed for and make a horses’s arse out of it by shooting yourself in the foot.

You don’t even use a clever gun. You up and type “Not looking for gold diggers”. “If you’re a gold digger, swipe left”. “I’m not an ATM”.

Listen, you traumatised men. I feel you, I really do. But if you think there is a long list of things women aren’t hoping to avoid with you blokes, your egos rival that of Thanos.

For example, do you see us going, “I’m not looking for ugly men”.

Wait. Some of you who don’t want gold diggers are also ugly. Lure the women in with the money they think you have and then win them over with your charming personality. It’s a trick that’s stood the test of time. Use it.

I promise you that any woman worth her salt swipes you left as soon as you let her know you’re a judgemental, possibly narcissistic and a poor man to boot.

Do what women do. Meet the girl, regret it and keep the assembly line rolling. Keep your dislikes out of the picture. It only makes us judge you.

I read, therefore I know.

How to be a good victim of sexual abuse

By Lindsey Kukunda. Originally published in WazaOnline:

Have you experienced sexual harassment? From someone you know or a stranger? At least twice a week, you say? Well, have I got some great news for you. 

It’s your fault.

That’s right. I said it.

It took three kind policemen to show me that life would be a jolly good affair if women would only go about behaving themselves.

Three men had sexually harassed me on the street one day, and I (oh bad mannered me!) delivered an ‘F’ bomb in their direction. Understandably upset, they ganged up on me for my temerity to not see that they were deserving of immediate sexual capitulation.

Because, you know, I knew them so well.

In what I now see was a moment of madness meriting admittance to a mental institution, I trotted to a police post a few meters away, and reported the matter. Blithely unaware of my part in the whole affair, I awaited a swift deliverance of justice.

Fortunately for me, the policemen turned out to be good Christians. Spare the rod, spoil the child, etc.

They told me that if I had only not abused the men, I would have had “a case”. I had “aggravated the situation” by “taking the law into my hands”. There was no way they could help me because I was a bad girl. Hit the road, they sneered.

Well, how nice to come face to face with such frank honesty! A fresh view on crime!

I have taken the liberty of compiling a step by step guide on how women (you hot sexy things) can endure sexual harassment while being good girls.


Hush now! Don’t say a word to your tormentors. When you go to a police station and report the matter and the police ask with keen eyes: “And you, what did you do after he touched you?” – you can hold your head up high and say “Nothing. I came straight here”. They can nod in satisfaction as you have given them sufficient justification to want to help you. Who’s a good girl? You are!


You know, some of you women are fornicators who flirt in public and have more than two lovers a year. If everyone in your neighborhood knows you for the slag that you are, and a man (quite rightly too) judges you as deserving of a buttock groping, I beg you to save us and not disturb the police. They only help married women and virgins.


If you don’t dress like a virgin, please be sure you have invited whatever sexual reactions you elicit. I’ve seen women with exposed cleavages, lord a’mercy. If you’re not a lady, don’t expect to be treated like one.


I have an acquaintance who went to a police station at two in the morning, make-up heavy and dress all a’glitter, as she reported a case of sexual assault.

“But now you”, they told her. “Out at this time, all alone. What do you expect?”



I know a girl who reacted to an attempted robbery by beating the thief in question. Quick as lightning, a police truck arrived and she was hurled into it, and on her way to the police station before shecould say boo hoo. The thief was not disturbed by the police or eyewitnesses.

Now if she had simply cried and screamed for help, instead of taking the law into her hands with her shameless display of self-defense, she’d never have been arrested. 


Nowadays African women like to embrace ‘western’ culture. Co-habiting and what not. Acting like it’s proper. Please. If you’re not married to a man, you have no reason whatsoever to enter a police station and complain about him sexually abusing you.

I mean, hello? You have feet. Walk away. Your sexual partner must be accompanied with a ring before your complaint becomes legit.


I once performed a dance of avoidance with a cheating, married Neanderthal who, in a last ditch effort to punish me for rejecting his sexual advances, said “Why are you pretending to be decent when you’re a smoker?”

Decency mademoiselles. Decency is the thing.

Does anyone know why supermarkets and their friends need to hold our laptops for us?

So there’s this thing where an office or hotel or whatever tells you a retarded rule and if you object to it you’re told ‘you can go if you don’t want’.

For the sake of my future blood pressure I go along with most of these policies until last week when I guess my inner warrior was dying from lack of warriorship.

I was in an ‘important’ ‘upscale’ supermarket chain when a security guard approached me and told me I wasn’t allowed to enter with my two bags. I had to leave one at that counter. You know the counter where they have this disclaimer that if you leave your valuables there, they are not responsible if they are stolen or damaged?

That counter.

So I told the guard, “I have a laptop in this bag on my back and my handbag on my shoulder. You want me to leave one of them at your counter?”

“No, you can keep your bag”, he kindly obliged. “But you must leave your laptop at the counter”.

So I asked the guard, “Would you tell me to leave my mobile phone at the counter?”


“Well, my laptop is as important as my mobile phone. It’s staying on my back. You are free to screen my handbag on the way out if you think I’ve stolen anything but none of my electrical equipment is going to your counter with 10,000 disclaimers”.

“Madam, it is the policy”, he sneered. “If you refuse, you will have to leave the supermarket and find somewhere that’s your level”.

Oh Negro, you didn’t.

“I’m not going anywhere”, I smiled sweetly at him. “I’m going to shop and you are going to look for the manager and tell him or her to drag me out of here by force because I’ve refused to leave my laptop with you. Peace!”

And so I shopped in peace. But man, oh man, I need me an explanation from someone who understands this rule. Why are customers told to leave valuable items in places with disclaimers against theft and damage?

Part of the reason I have serious issues with this policy is that I once forgot an item at those counters and remembered days later. When I returned it was no longer there because disclaimer. Go figure.


These ones get to inspect the items they force you to leave there. And that, children, is what we refer to as an oxymoron.