Author Archives: Apenyo

About Apenyo

is a writer and a lover of most kinds of silliness. When she's not stringing words together, she's either reading or dancing. You can find more of her at Now like and share the article because she's also violent.

SIM Card Registration: Let The Excuses Begin

It is the 28th day of February and there are stern faced kanyamas at all the telecoms, holding jambiyas over your number. If you performed the three minute ritual of registration at one point during the 542 days we were given, the angel of disconnection shall Passover you and you shall be safe from the shamefaced writhing and gnashing of teeth that awaits the unregistered.

Passover registration

But wait! There is a rumor making the rounds! The deadline may have been extended to June to accommodate all the mongos who haven’t registered yet. That’s disappointing. The telecoms have been swaggering and threatening, polluting radios with annoying ads and now they have relented?  They must have been panicking yesterday about losing their precious subscribers. Salty sadness must have been oozing out of all their orifices. Who would buy their free talk packages now?

Have you made a call today? What are those robot ladies saying? You know, the ones that hold your ears hostage and swernce about registering before letting your call through. Those chicks. I’m surprised that their tongues haven’t rolled off from being twisted so much. So much kwemola. They make me want to pee on my phone out of spite.

What are they saying today? Are they promising head to everybody that manages to register at the last minute? If they are, refuse. Already you are a bad citizen and a candidate for hell, but accepting sexual favors from robots with awful accents will land you there for sure.

So what are the excuses of the fandangos who’ve refused to register? Here are the ones I have heard:

We want to protect our identity:

You have no identity. For a small bundle of cash like so, even I can access your phone records.  In fact, if I wanted to, I could also access your medical records, NSSF account, bank account, bar tab and a list of all the people you’ve kwensed since high school.  Shut up and register.

We want to see what they will do:

You are fake. Who is this they? I hope you get robbed by your lover. Your unregistered lover. I hope they connive with your unregistered maid and steal everything you have ever bought.

The lines are long:

Why are they long? MM? Why?  Because goons like you took their time. Stand there and sweat for your sins.  Stop whining and register!

We are too lazy:

I can sympathize with these lame cats. I am also lazy sometimes. It is hard having to do your duty as a citizen of your country to fight bullshit like hate messages and child kidnapping (that is heavily supported by phones). I mean, it is OK. You be lazy. But the next time a kid gets stabbed in the forehead, know that it is YOUR fault.



I hate the justs. With their puerile facial expressions. Like sloths sitting in their own shit and smearing it all over their faces. They say JUST and then they snigger. You just, you are the reason the reason sneers exist. Have this one.

We want to have phone sex in peace:

You dumbass. Big brother, whoever that is, can already tap your awkward, breathy, squishy, mostly silent sex conversations. He’s been listening ever since you got that girl’s number off Hi5 and started asking her what she was wearing.

We want to warn girls off our men:

He’s not your anything if he is extending his genitals to somebody else and you cannot even deal with him. Warn and torture him first, and then take your angry face to that girl and show her your fist. If I ever receive an anonymous message nti “leave my man alone”, I shall track him down, whoever he is and ravish him on the streets of Kampala. Show your face, sister. Register.

There is nothing invasive about registering. It is like getting a driving license. Stop being as if early man and do the damn thing already.


Jane Bussman …. Your Ribs… Now FIGHT!!

Jane Bussmann is a journalist and comedian, a funny chick who is performing at Mish Mash tomorrow. She’s going to be telling some dumb stories and some scary stories in such a hilarious way that you’ll be hurting yourself and your descendants if you don’t attend the show. Let your FOMO guide you.

Jane has a highly developed sense of the ridiculous, something you’d oso need if you had to write scripts for South Park. That’s right. And if you’re a fan of Smack the Pony, Jam, The Fast show and Brass Eye, know that she’s to blame for(some of) your cracked ribs.

You know how those people of outside countries fear Africa? How they say things like “deepest darkest Africa” and shudder like Shenzi in Lion King? She somersaulted over that jazz and landed in Uganda, notebook first, to interview John Prendergast, a knicker meltingly hot peacemaker (2008).


No. Steamy things did not happen. They didn’t find love in a hopeless place. Not even happy vibrations. She did however find herself alone in the middle of Gulu, chasing a story that could have easily made her dead. Now you’d think a story like that would be choking on grimness and clichés and such shit, but nada. She finds a way to make it all very funny.

Some of the things she reveals make you wonder what the hell kind of a Ugandan you are for not knowing that such stuff is happening, stuff I’m not telling you about because you have eyes and her book is fantastic. ULK encourages reading.

She’s going to be being hilarious at Mish Mash on the 20th of this month- that’s tomorrow for y’all who use your calendars as coffee mats- so come and L(your)FAO or LY(skinny) ass off, depending.

Buy a ticket early at the nothing-compared-to-Jane’s-funnies price of 45,000 bob, or 90,000 Ush – Advance VIP Ticket (inc food & drink) or 50,000 Ush – Standard ticket on the night (if there are any left). Prepare yourself for an overload of happiness.


Wine Nine: Pronounced Eric Wainaina. He Was At Jazzville on Friday. This Is A Review

A Chinese lady glanced at my VIP card for 0.001 seconds and then pointed me towards the red carpet. I was tempted to give her a lecture about Uganda. What made her so sure that I hadn’t just scrawled 100,000 shillings onto the ka card using a black marker? Mmh? YEP. That’s how much you had to pay if you wanted to smell Wainaina’s sweat.


A cute chick handed me a glass containing a stick of sugarcane, a leaf, honey and ice cubes.  I wasn’t sure what to do with this ominous concoction until she told me it was alcoholic. I was just about to ask if I could take more than one glass when I remembered the old groupie rule: Don’t drink at shows, for a terribly strong urge to do some really embarrassing shit will come upon you when the main artist (and love of your life) comes on.  

Yea. I just made that up. But it’s sound.


The décor was simple but effective. Lots of thuggable kangas draped over stuff. It gave the place a pretty Lion King feel that made you expect Rafiki to jump out of the stage and crack open a  passion fruit or something.
At dinner time, I noted a sad thing.  Everybody ahead of me in the queue was serving with mob fear. They were being overly decent manya one piece of fish, half a chicken wing, one ka irish, such. I taught them a lesson in the appreciation of good food by filling my plate to such capacity that I needed somebody to bring my fruit salad over to my table.


I thought VIP would suck, because, you know, most people who can afford to throw 100 bob away like  fwaa before payday are old and stuffy and disgustingly rich. Right? Wrong! After a few songs by Wainaina, the place exploded in gyrations. People jumped. They twisted. They rolled. They kicked.  A Senegalese drummer in the audience entertained us with flying dreadlocks, a really flexible back and shaking bums.


The show was so good that for minutes at a time, the air would fill with bras and roses and phone numbers, all being flung at Wainaina (or his really cute drummer).


That last sentence is a lie.


It was interactive with people being invited on stage to dance all that. It was ridiculous. It was fun. It was goofy and I won a Love +Protest CD =D. Wainaina really knows how to make people dig him, kubanga he sang Dunia ina Mambo for me, and that is my absolute favorite song in the history of music. Really I almost died/ cried/ shat myself.  He also sang happy birthday to two girls in the audience and taught us some really weird moves.


After that show, I totally understand how perfectly reasonable women turn into groupies and launch themselves at celebrities.


Maybe we should kill all celebs to preserve the morals of the African girl child.


No. really. I’m serious.


Advanced Guide To Being A Fun Drunk

Oh don’t look at me like that, with those round judgey eyes. You’re a drunk. I’m a drunk. We’re all drunks. My intoxicant of choice is life and occasionally, waragi. Yours may be cartoons and white wine, or porn and zed. That’s your business.

Point is we’re always bombed out of our minds on something, and this drunkenness is what determines things like personality and the number of friends you have and the number of times you score.

While reading this guide is guaranteed to make you more likeable, it is a given that printing it out and presenting it at bars, like, say, Bubbles, will NOT earn you free drinks.

I can confirm that when you take a printout to a bartender and try to convince him that you deserve free stuff on the merit of your big white shit of paper, and not a little beige one (is that the color of 50 bobs? Beige?), he’ll serve you disgust and not alcohol. He’ll look at you like you’re a bunch of dog vaginas stapled together and not a responsible human being that wears cute earrings.

So printing this article and expecting it to attract booze is something you should! Not! Do!


Okay. Okay. Okay.


Learn how to be a fun and loveable drunk, as opposed to a vile and detestable one by internalizing the bullets below:


  • Do not be a rough dubbist: If the desire to grind comes upon you, remember that the activity you are engaging in is not a power contest. It is not a competition. Grinding into your dance-mate’s body like some sort of brake-less vehicle isn’t going to inspire respect or deep desire.


As in rubber dub


  • Don’t proposition people over whatsapp: because that is cheap, disgusting, cheap behavior. Man, you’re not even paying for that message. Ko a text? At least then the person you want to enjoy sexy times with can note your willingness to spend 130 shillings on them. Asking for such things over whatsapp inspires gagging and hatred.


  • Not in greeting, not in jest, not in argument, or even in agreement should you tap penisia. (Penisia is a delightful plural for penis that Louis C.K came up with. Neat, eh?) That kind of thing never ends well. It either heightens expectation in the owners of these appendages or it causes annoyance, especially if you tap too hard. It never causes indignation though. Hmmm.


  • Be willing to share your intoxicants. Be they cartoons or pirated movies, grass or wine, just share, man. And don’t expect people to share theirs with you. You be the giving hippy, ok? If you’re unwilling to bless the selfish world with your stuff, you’re not drunk enough. Waiter!


You want some?


  • Screw the last bullet. Follow the law of the playground. Only share with people who are willing to share with you.


  • In that awkward moment when you have nobody to speak to, or when you’re too slurry to be awesome, or when your eyes are too embarrassingly crimson for you to look other people in the eye, read damp squid (link). It’s hilarious. Your happiness will rise off you in such fat, frothy, drunken waves that soon, you’ll be standing on a bar stool, reading aloud to an enraptured audience. And then a hot somebody will stumble into the bar, or wherever and your eyes will meet, but you won’t pause your reading. And then some fun, life changing shit will happen.


I think this is the end.


Open letter to the sea

Dear waters (the deep sea in particular), hiya! We have been informed by the fat little ninjas that live in our modems that you have recently struck up some beef with certain important cables that have been living peacefully in the sand of your bottom for a long long time. No, don’t get us wrong, sea. We know that the correct word for your bottom is bed, as in, on the bed of the sea, the scary octopus sleepeth, but using the word bottom makes it sound like you have bums, doesn’t it? And we find bums funny.


Dear Mister Sea

Anyway. We hear you have upset certain cables that are responsible for bringing facebook, gchat, twitter, 9gag and youTube to our computers. This is unfortunate.

You may not be aware of this, but cubicle rats, we people that work in tiny offices in corporate environments NEED these websites to survive. Our souls need the nourishment of this often idiotic information in order to remain sane.

Mr. Deep Sea, we implore you to quit manyangaring and tanga tangaring with the internet cables. Even our relationships depend on these things. Now what if I get back online and find that stupid girl Whoretti posting funny things on my fiancée’s wall? Or what if I find
that Nikki Minaj has just released a new video and I’m not the first person in the world to dislike it on youtube (Stupid Hoe was the last straw for me. Shattered my back PANGalangala. It is finished between me and that woman)?


Leave the internet alone, Mr. Sea, because that’s where we live most
of our lives. OK? OK. Tenchai. Bye

KONA DANCING! For the greater good.


The Pay it Forward Foundation is a CHARITY organization, which means that all its members are nice people who use deodorant, grammar and changwes. They’re trying (have have been since 2009) to make a difference in the lives of children from a certain school in Kamwokya that you’ve never heard about. You want to meet them, not so? Of course so.


This Saturday, the 10th they’re throwing a HUGE Christmas party at Isha’s, a fantastic bar and restaurant just after the football field which is before Kira road police station. Tagaframe. Last left turn before Kira road police station. Don’t worry about my shitty directions; you’ll be able to fEEl the party. You’re Ugandan. You can sniff out a harre in a sandstorm.


Sniff... sniff... THERE!


Why should you come? Because it’s going to be as epic as ULK’s 411 but instead of all the reggae-ton edginess and the drunken pawing, there’s going to be love in the air plus cheap(er) intoxicants and balloons at the bar.


Also, the whole of ULK is going to be in attendance, so all of you poor unfortunate souls who missed Moe’s hugs and Streets’dubs should come and collect. Meanwhile, if you haven’t received a hug from Maureen, you haven’t ever hugged and your life is incomplete because she’s like clouds and duckling feathers and Chanel and lace. Chests have been known to experience permanent expansion after being pressed to hers.


Because we all know that you’re not coming for the children but for an opportunity to maybe catch the eye of one of the PIFFers, here’s a couple of things you should to ensure that the night yields results and ends in happy vibrations.



  •  Do you see those T-shirts? Look again. They’re really cool, aren’t they? Buy one and you’ll all of a sudden be 20 % more attractive. Everybody likes a boy/girl in a cool T-sho.


Everyone liking


  •  When you slap your crisp 20bob note on the bar counter and the guy gives you balance, don’t put it in your pocket. Walk over to the collection box and dump it there. You’re a generous, loving human being who is pretending to be interested in the welfare of Kamwokya’s children in order to catch a hot date. This means surrendering your balance.


  • Is your home a roach haven because of all the stuff you have but don’t use? Old shoes, clothes and books that you used to read before facebook but aren’t interested in anymore? Give them to a child from Kamwokya and save him or her from a life of music videos.


Do it for the children.

Do it for the potential happy vibrations.

Do it for love.

Naye, don’t come for the PIFF party with only bad intentions. Bring good feeling too. Come radiating joy, kindness and singleness. Come and laugh, make friends and kona dance for the greater good. If you’re lucky, you’ll leave with somebody and put your soul in jeopardy by engaging in squelchy relations without a marriage certificate.


TOP TEN: Miss Kyrte hits back at a dude, and finishes him off with a smiley

Hello angry bastard. I know you hate me right now, but because you loved me before last Friday, which is when you started hating my guts, I know we still have hope. I swear I did not mean to:

1. Bitch-punch you for dubbing my earring off at the ULK party (but it was pretty and from outside countries. Stupid)

2. Vomit in your mouth

3. Get lost that many times. Don’t blame me banaye. I was excited. And soused. Be bighearted and forgiving.

4. I did not mean to kick the cab driver’s head. I swear. I am not a violent chick. I swear.

5. The nsenenes looked pretty to me. They was shimmering and looking all ethereal and delicate, which is why I slipped them into your pocket. I didn’t intend to stink up your house with nsenene corpse smell. The stench is partly your fault by the way. You should do your laundry more often. So don’t think, “Weird chick that hides nsenenes in people’s pant pockets. Think, “Pretty cat-like nymph who likes me enough to slip love offerings into my clothes”

6. Delete all the contacts from your phone. Or send all those threatening messages to your mum. But who calls their mother MarthaSweerieDarlin’ in their phone? And I am not sorry about the snooping!

7. I did not mean to eat your fridge and all its contents, but it serves you right for following Sleek’s advice in the morning. You don’t jog off and leave a hungry girl asleep in your house, unless you hate your pantry and your phone contacts.

8. What happened to my arm? Why do I have so many scratches? Did you…did you SCRATCH me? What kind of…why would you scratch me?!? You’re not allowed to act violently towards drunk and hot girls. Ask Kanye. You’re supposed to be tender, forgiving and amused. I don’t like you for scratching my arm.

9. This is what happened. Your cat has bad manners. It’s not sweet and purr-y. It’s skinny and screechy and for heaven’s sake, the thing had only one eye. Please remember that I love cats, even ugly ones, and I wouldn’t intentionally kick out their (one remaining) eyes. I was startled. My heart nearly stopped. Brightside, that frightful thing won’t be able to see what it looks like ever again. I’m sure it was having trouble walking past reflective surfaces.

10. None of this shit happened. But the boys on this site seem to believe that this is the kind of things that women all over the world do after (and during) parties. Nti we foist ourselves on men who (do us the favor of) sex(ing) us with benevolent looks on their faces and kind, generous feelings in their hearts and then we refuse to leave their houses in the morning and they have to employ tricks to kick us out. Shya. Women don’t do that. We’re awesome. We attend parties, look THEKETHEY, dance like ninjettes and then go back home with our girlfriends and sleep in their beds.



A Word From The ULK Ministry Of Security & Excitement

Kyokka do you know what has happened?! A zit! A plump, half ripe mountain of a felony has set up base on my face. A pimple so huge, it looks like a teabag has attached itself to my cheek.

This simply won’t do.  I cannot accept bumpage! Have you ever seen Alek Wek with grip? Nada. We baldies need to have faces that look like they get marinated in milk on a regular.

All this derma-drama because of EXCITOSSSSSS. I’m looking forward to 411 so much that my body isn’t satisfied with involving feelings. It’s bringing in hormones as well.

You know how Catholic school girls have a rep for partying like drag queens and being very shady indeed when they finally attain ‘freedom’? Hmn. They can’t even begin to touch the enthusiasm of the (usually) curfew-ed tween. If I am braving dogs, gate spikes and banishment to jump for this harre, I’m not going to allow a zit to come between me and drop dead mamanyabocomeandsee hotness.

Breaking News! This just in! Read the next paragraph with enthusiasm!!!!!!!

I have just, now now, established for sure that this harree is going to be legendawesome. How?  I popped the formidable pimple two minutes ago. Before I’d even gotten my fingers into proper pressure applying position, thick things stumbled, oozed, badunkadrooged out. Grrrut. Grrrut. Gruuuuut. And in the yellow mess on my face, I saw a complete and total blast.

Don’t be grossed out. Don’t puke in your mouth. If you already have, swallow it.  I’m putting Colgate herbal on the angry sore. By 411, I will have returned to flyness.

Because we can’t allow your chief of security to look fake. Not even if what.


Don’t Break Your Boss’ Jaw, Fart On It


Blow fish have poisonous testicles. Tee hee! Has this been hanging around the world, being known to everybody but me? I am so amused. BLOW fish. Testicles. POISONOUS testicles. Can somebody say Ungrateful!?


I’m proud to say that I stumbled upon this information between 9am and 5pm. On a very busy work day.


Because my boss’ only claim to coolness is that he reads ULK, I might get fired for this post. But you know, anything fir the peoples.


Presenting: Things you should consider before kicking your obnoxious stroke irritating stoke mubofu dala dala boss in the panty:


Boss panty.


  •  Every time you take a dump on company time, you are being paid to shit. So don’t forgive them. Bog.


  •  Every time you take a cup of coffee, you’re feeding your caffeine addiction on company resources. You are making the company pay for your rush. They are financing your habit. Reflect on this and feel like a rebellious, manipulative teenager. Smirk.


  •  When you’re too broke to afford lunch because the peanuts you earn are too damn few to last the month, go and make thick syrupy sugar-water for lunch. Make sure it’s yellow with those black black things that well made sugar-water always has. Try not to hear the sounds your boss is making as he munches his chicken. If things get too hard, go and spit in the flask of water in the boardroom. Ooze your bile into his coffee water. This helps.


Peanuts. Har.

  • Sigh. By virtue of your boss owning a piece of paper whose small print gives him/her full ownership of your soul, he’s kind of allowed to call your intercom and bark extremely STUPID things like, “Get off fb and browse the highly irrelevant websites that I’ve spammed your inbox with! You need to LEARN THE BASICS. Excuse me? Learn the whatwho? The wherewhich? The basics? Nigga, I need to learn the basics about as much as you need my sharp fingernails in your baby maker.


  • Bosses are people too. With mood swings and bad days. And they pay you money to take their theatrics. So don’t foam at the mouth when he or she says something incredibly sexist. Make those promises that were popular in primary school. Say, “When I grow up and become the boss of this stupid (wo)man’s child, I will make that kid suffer! Msw *sob.”


  • This one is low and must not be done unless your boss is a maggot of the first order.  Like a…a power ranger maggot. Lean how to foul the air from his direction. Yes. Via him. Learn how to channel farts. You can suppress the smell of a fart until it travels a considerable distance from you. Did you know? Now you know. When he opens the wide, dank crevasse that is his mouth to foul the air with something recycled and irrelevant that will extend the meeting, make him shut it up with your gas. You have the power in your trunk. ‘member dat.

Unleash the power within

Consider the above before boxing your boss in the spine, OK?


P.S: Are you going for Tenza’s show? She speaks cute. She makes banana rhyme with Benieres. If we’re nice to her, she might come for our poarty. And teach us syam ryal Jamaican dances because we’ve jam to believe that daggering is their national dance. Shya.



(Editor’s note. Mz K submitted this article saying, “Pepper with hilarious images”. Then she went away. Therefore images may not be related to the story. It’s her fault for just bursting.)



I used to complain mob, eh? Of, “These fake newspaper editors! They are Fools. Always asking people to write irrelevant things about relationships. Always asking us to tie our precious names to articles like “If he twists his bum away when he farts, he loves you” and “Are long nails good or bad for relationships?”

But now that there’s nobody telling me what to write about, there’s nothing else, absolutely nothing that I feel like writing about but relationships.

Well not relationships.


The source of the Hotsteps chick's accent

Not even Crushes.



If you insist.

A certain cool loser has wangled themselves into my head. They’re like avjar, but without the class. No decency at all! So this is (an extremely) OPEN letter to them.



You stupid virus. You nasty, black hearted creature of beauty.

You’re such a loser. Don’t you have better things to do than lie all day on the couch of my mind’s living room, eating popcorn off the floor and pissing on the cushions?

Stupid for being so gorgeous.

Stupid. Bladefahkini!

Sean Kinston!

I really really hate your beautiful, perfectly formed, deep, healthy, clever guts.

You know? I think this is what Neyo and Rihanna in their lousy way were trying to sing. That song of I hate that I love you was supposed to be titled ‘I Hate Your Freaking Gorgeous Guts and Your Stupid Good Heart and Your Pretty Face’.

back to pictures not being related to article


I truly, from the bottom of my heart, hope that as you’re getting into the elevator, you’ll slide and fall and break your face. Then you’ll stop looking so good. Then I’ll get some work done.



I hope that when you enter the elevator(broken face and all), its floor will fall open and then all your workmates will laugh at you and call you fat.

Go away. Get thee hence. I don’t want to like you.

Miz kyrte feels better already.

No. Not really.


Stupid! Bladefahkini!! Etc.