Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there…

One of the banes of my existence is human beings (Ugandans only now that I think of it) jumping a queue-usually in front of me. The responses vary when I tap their shoulder and ask them what the f*&k they’re doing.

“Do you have to be so rude?” 

“Okay, fine. I don’t want to fight”. Deep sneer in my direction as they retreat.

My favorite one though is, “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there”. 

Come again, person possibly in need of corrective glasses? You didn’t see me there? I know I’m short but nuh-uh. You scanned the line, looked for what looked like the most delicate flower least likely to raise a fuss and planted yourself in front of it.

Last night I was in a supermarket and had lined up behind a man. I had only one carton of milk I was buying. A tall, big and I must admit, scary looking woman walked towrds us and stood in front of the man I was standing behind. Her trolley looked like a Christmas store. If she’d had just a lollipop I might have led it slide. But this was disrespect that the gods themselves demanded I address.

I leaned over the man whose order was being scanned and spoke directly to her face.

“Excuse me. You were not here when I arrived”.

She gave me a disdainful stare. I decided to expound.

“If you were not here when I arrived then that means that you should be lining up behind me”.

“I didn’t even see you there!” She snapped.

Sister, them’s fighting words.

“Yes you did, otherwise you would not have lined up IN FRONT of the current customer. You did see me and you were hoping I would not tell you to stand behind me. Which I might have done but you have 100 items including the boat God used to stop the flood and all I have is a milk carton so WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

She was startled out of her deception.

“Whatever”, she said. “I don’t want to fight over petty things”.

“Good”, I smiled at her sweetly. “Because I don’t want to fight with a shameless liar”.

The cashier looked delighted at this excitement added to her day, and smiled at me as she ignored the woman’s heap of items and processed my milk carton. Glancing sideways at the woman, she said to me loudly, “Have a great day!”

“Why thank you”, I beamed. “You have a great day too!”

The woman tried to maintain a face of composure but her fury was radiating off her in waves as I left her with an orderly queue forming up behind her.


If you’re going to use the ‘I didn’t see you’ line, make sure that person isn’t dressed like a peacock first




This is why I sometimes write stupid shit

I woke up around 4.00 am this morning with a sense of foreboding. It was back. That voice in my head, that pit in my stomach, the devil on left shoulder telling me they weren’t going anywhere unless I wrote a blog post.

“All right”, I groaned in resignation. “What do you want me to write coz I like, have nothing better to do than follow the orders of imaginary monsters?”

“That’s the spirit, child! You need to write about why you write stupid shit”.

I could understand my demons. A lady I admire once posted on Twitter that whenever she looks back at her past writings, she cringes in shame. It was a hallelujah moment for me, to know that I am not alone.

But I do not delete those posts (okay, some of them). But for the most part, I know that someone somewhere is benefiting from my oversharing, my bashing, my self-righteousness and all the dumb crap that I sometimes put out there.

Know how I know?  Thank you, I’m glad you asked. I appreciate the honesty of individuals on the Internet. People who write constantly about depression may never be understood by the healthy individual but some of us do who want to take like, a two week hibernation in a morgue before returning to this abyss called life. I appreciate all the unusual, over the top, ‘was that really necessary to write?’ posts because they are oh-so-honest. Especially the ones on Twitter by a growing number of women who embroil us with their sexual exploits. Those of us with cobwebs for vaginas really appreciate you.

One day, all ye too will look back and go, “Gaaaah! Did I really put all of that out there?”

Fear not. I believe you may suffer from the same illness I do. Or maybe you have a different one, I don’t know. But for me, an idea enters my head from outer space and if I don’t let it out I will go insane. I will regret every word I’m typing but it’s the only way to let it go.


So that’s why I sometimes write stupid shit. 


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: https://wazaonline.com/en

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.

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….

john travlolta.jpg

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.

liam neeson.jpg

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

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.

black woman.jpg



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.


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!”.



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!


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