Last weekend Uganda, the pearl of Africa, in a spectacle of pomp and razzle dazzle, heralded into history a glorious new beauty queen, Miss Uganda.
Yay. Whoo. Amazing. Wow. Exclamation mark.
I don’t even remember her name. I’ve been told five times already but my synapses just refuse to hold on to it. She’s so completely irrelevant to every single thing that makes sense in this world that I just cannot muster the neural energy to remember what she’s called.
I’ve just been informed that she is a Muganda named Sylvia. Some Baganda who try to have that name end up being called Sleeve Yeah. This might help me remember it.
Nope. Hasn’t worked. I’ve forgotten already.
That’s the problem with Miss Uganda: It’s the absolute lack of a point. The thorough uselessness. It is a complete and utter oblivion into which to throw your freshly-earned, freshly pressed and neatly-folded banknotes as if you have a grudge against money.
You paid to watch people NOT sing, NOT dance, NOT even put on anything any one ever called entertainment; you paid to see them just wear clothes and walk. Ask a teacher from any primary school in Africa where they have daily assembly if that’s worth 70k.
For 70k the least they could have done is throw a raffle so the winning ticket gets the contestants to do his laundry for a month.
Now, it’s bad enough that we raise this stink on the night of the crowning itself, but what stings really deep is the fact that they expect us to continue paying attention to this woman even after the show. We are supposed to regard her as a celebrity, to note her movements, follow her actions, take her words and behavior into consideration during our general appreciation of society.
Dammit, I can’t even remember her name.
Couldn’t she at least have been the first black Miss Uganda or something?
Now, this is nothing personal. Gundi, I have no beef with you. You are useless, yes, but I’m not judging you over that. You worked hard for your prizes. It isn’t easy to smear Vaseline on your teeth and hold a shiny smile for two hours straight non-stop even though there is no happiness at all around you, just a bunch of evil, backstabbing, envious heifers and shoes that seem to want you dead. If I had to go through that for a free car, I would give it my best shot and if I won, I would drive that car with a feeling of satisfaction and joy. I respect your hustle. Congratulations, Nankani.
But really, so what? You exist. So?
I would only wish Miss Uganda would meet us half way by doing or being something at the very least remotely interesting.
Many people have spoken about this before and suggested the typical things. If you are going to be a celebrity, you should try to be entertaining. They say go to Swangz Ave and record something. Put Weaso and Radio on. It will hit.
Or get a TV show. Be like the fifth chick on Sweet Talk. You won’t have to do much, just agree with everything Crystal says then some of the massive love people have for Crystal will come to you. I am no erudite TV critic, but I think that show could use a spineless, sniveling, yes-person to just lap around cooing meaninglessly agreeing with everything everyone says. That niche hasn’t been filled yet.
Or be a politician with no defined portfolio. Like Ken Lukyamuzi between the time they kicked him out of parliament and the time he went back. He spent four years as a respected public figure (What? Some people respected him) who stood for something and was routinely seen at the forefront (Stop arguing) of the fight for the common man’s rights. Most people forgot that he was actually, essentially unemployed.
But the one I would really get behind is this: Get superpowers. If Miss Uganda was a superhero like say, Captain America or Mr Fantastic and she fought crime, that would be so cool. I would even pay taxes and NSSF. I would ask if jobs include insurance coverage before I accept them: “Am I covered by Miss Uganda?”
I suggest flight, laser beams that shoot from the hands, heat vision, and super strength.