Some time back, I took you on a guided secret tour of State House after breaking in.
Today, I give you a guided tour of the mafia-training camp of Uganda’s leading opposition group, FDC. No, I didn’t break in this time.
Last night we were granted the privilege of visiting former FDC leader Kizza Besigye’s ninja training camp. I was picked from ULK headquarters in a ninja van and blindfolded all the way to the secret location.
On arrival, my blindfold was removed and standing before me was a security guard who was assigned to give me a tour of the camp. Somewhere to my left was a door marked “THE ROOM ON YOUR LEFT FOR SPYING ON GOVERNMENT ACTIVITIES”.
Inside was a large 40-inch LCD TV screening that part of the NRM retreat where Museveni and several other MPs were roasting meat. The opposition MPs in the room were watching the TV while feasting on chicken pizzas and laughing, “Hahahah, the fools! They can’t roast pizza like us.”
We walked ahead and found the legendary mother of the walk-to-work protests, Miss Ingrid Turinawe standing on red-hot nails while hitting a boxing bag with her tongue. It was clear that she was a master in the art.
“That is Master Ingrid,” intimated the guard. “We are not allowed to talk to her. We just look at her and she reads our minds.”
Amazed, I cleared my throat to get Master Ingrid’s attention, squinted to give her a concentrated gaze and, without hesitation, she answered my question. “No, I grew up here with my brother Ninja Michael Dudikoff but got some of my training from the Yakuza in Japan.“
Immediately, I realised Master Ingrid was not just any ordinary opposition. “No, call me Mafia Ingrid, not Master Ingrid,” she corrected my realisation. “I graduated. Now if you’ll please excuse me, I have to continue.”
We moved on and I was surprised to find Kizza Besigye seated peacefully on a chair made out of razor blades. He was staring out into the horizon like he was meditating. He turned his head to look at me as if to ask, “You have a new government policy for me to oppose?”
“I greet you in the name of the mafia, master,” I started. “But I don’t understand. I thought you were in prison!”
“No my son. That’s a illusion mastered from years of absorbing the transparent force of life.”
“You mean breathing?” I asked.
“No, you idiot! That’s an art called the monkey shadow snake ice cream monster illusion. It takes years. Breathing? Negro please!” He scoffed. “Now go and tell the people of Bethlehem…”
“Sir, we’re in Uganda and no longer doing that Christmas story,” the guard corrected before turning to me. “Sorry. Please don’t mention this in your story. It’s food poisoning.”
“Whatever!” Master Besigye shouted back. “Go and tell the people that I’m still alive and am coming to walk.”