The place is Uganda. Run-down. Beat-up. A shadow of its former glory, and we use the word ‘glory’ very loosely here. People drag their feet around, all life left their eyes a long time ago. And hope, that went too. That all went when the Take-over happened.
See, it was an ordinary day when the Take-over took place. The birds were chirping, the taxi conductor was being a gonad, the boda boda man was riding like he was getting blown (or hoping to get blown, same difference) and the government man was still stashing wads of money under his chair when no one was looking. The rest of us were going to work, getting laid, drinking pubs dry, going to church, glorifying Golola, you know, normal everyday things. Then it happened. Right there, in the middle of the day. Golola was resting, after a long day at the Mac factory, taking bites out of all those PCs. Really hard work. And being someone whose neck veins flexed even during normal conversation, Moses felt spent every so often. The rest of us were at our desks at work, staring at the receptionist, changing our status updates to ‘Totally charged for JC’, or standing around the water dispenser, taking our 12th cup of water. First the sky went dark, and we all left our desks because generally, we use any excuse to leave our desks. And then we saw it. Big, orb-like object slowly descending. Many thought it was an eclipse gone wrong. But some of us knew right away; they were here, the aliens had finally made it to the pearl.
They stepped out in a rather random fashion. First, one of them set foot on the tarmac (for they’d landed their ship right in the middle of Kampala road). The others looked on with what seemed like anxiety on their blue faces. He tottered dangerously, as though trying to find balance. Then finally he stabilized. And he stood to his full 3-foot height. The rest hi-fived each other. Safe-ground for take-over. They made a mad-rush for the door. And those were the last minutes of freedom Uganda knew. The aliens moved with speed, leaving blue in their wake. They took over everything. And run-down everything, making us slaves. Every nook, every cranny, every watering hole, one would find their 3-blue eyes staring back at them. They whipped us into submission, forcing us to watch hours upon hours of re-runs of Straka’s shows. On any given day, they’d wake everyone up and herd us into different stadiums, football pitches, open spaces and there, using UV-2-TV conversion, they’d show us, on 50x50m screens, Straka baby’s shows. Every single day. They’d only pause to hand-out frozen ugali and jsnjenlnclej sauce. Jsnjenlnclej sauce is a delicacy in alien land. And the more we ate it, the bluer we turned.
One day, BK said ‘I am fed up of this ****. I will not take it any longer’. So he went into hiding. While in hiding, he took time off to watch some movies. First, the rated ones, then later Rambo’s stuff. From these he drew inspiration. The Rambo ones, not the rated ones. Out came his turn-table. “I am going to free this country or die trying.” So he set out to get to a place he could broadcast his stuff from. On his way he run into a number of aliens. Kick. Shove. Slap. Round kick. And he was back on the road. Finally he found a perfect place to put his turntable. And he put it. And he started to play. And the aliens in all parts of the country were wowed by what they heard.
(Heavy music playing, heavy mixing, more heavy music, more mixing, cough, music)
They came dancing. All the aliens. They couldn’t help themselves. First old school. More dancing. Then some hip-hop. More dancing. Then some lingala (aliens love lingala, this writer still doesn’t know why), more dancing. Finally, riddims. Hard, heavy, with Mavado pon dem riddims. The grogginess from the hours spent watching movies was getting to BK but he had to keep playing. Had to keep playing. The aliens were getting worked into a frenzy. Had to keep playing. Just when BK was about to pass out from exhaustion, this writer handed him a bottle of water. So he mixed with one hand, as he drunk the water. Mix. Drink. Mix. Drink. This writer also handed him Safi but he turned that down. He occasionally burst into strings of incoherent stuff. All we could make out was “…die marfu****, Die aliens, dieeee!!!” And the music, he kept on playing it. And then just like that, the aliens danced themselves lame. One by one, they lost control of their motor actions. They melted into a blue gooey pulp. All of them. And out of nowhere, a crowd gathered and carried BK shoulder high. For 1km. Then 2km. Then 3km. Then they got tired (for BK obese). And an opportunistic politician seized the moment to give a speech. “(speech bollocks…speech bollocks)…and from this day, you will be called DJ BK”…WILD CHEERS, screams, sweating, wild hooting, boda boda guys doing that things they do when celebrating.
So to this day, that ordinary man, BK, saved us from aliens. Word has it that the blue gooey pulp that the aliens turned into was later used by a businessman to make hair oil for women. More word has it, that BJ BK, ahem, DJ BK still occasionally lapses back into his rated-R watching days. But he’s still got our back. That’s why he walks around with a turn-table.