Author Archives: Streetsider

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is doing those things of his again

A TOP FIVE: I Got The Magic Shoes.

it is a truth universally acknowledged that a man who wants to score with chicks must wear a good pair of shoes. She may not be her hair, but you are your shoes.

However, once you get the right pair shoes the panties will be dropping hard and cracking floors everywhere you go. This I have on good authority by the way. Better Half told me that if any guy wants to bang some specific chick, this is what he should do. (not exactly Better Half’s words though, I may have paraphrased)

1- Find some glossy hand-made Italian shoes that cost an arm and a kidney
2- Don’t even bother with clothes (well, maybe tie a ribbon round your dick. A little showmanship never hurt)
3- Show up at said chick’s door like Tantaraaaa!!!
4- Magic will occur

PS: Don’t wear white socks. According to Better Half, white socks are suicide.

That is all it takes. Easy isn’t it? Unfortunately for me I am not the kind of guy who is going to allow this sort of thing to be imposed on me, not in 2013. Deep down inside I know that I deserve to be chowed for who I truuuuuly am.


Guys! guys! you feel me right?

Guys! guys! you feel me right?



Oh Shit, I am all alone ...

I feel sooo  alooone …


Well, either way, here are five footwear for I and I the undiscerning man who wants to keep it real and (somehow) still get the panties to drop.

1- Barefoot.
Crafted by God no less. That dusty stained skin she is looking at is the finest leather by the way. Living leather (pun alert!)to boot. Those cracked soles with ncha-cha galore? Those are customized treads, designed by nature herself. Better Half wants a man who is down to earth does she? I will show her down to earth.

2- Sandles
When Better Half starts sneering ( because she will), I tell her that I forgive her for she knows not what she doing. Jesus was a carpenter who died for her sins. Like sneering.

Yeah, sneering is a sin.

3- Lugabire
It is likely when I show up at her door in lugabire; that she will inquire if I parked my wheelbarrow somewhere safe. Sometimes there is a sense of humor lurking somewhere inside her. It is better therefore, that you do what I do and pre-empt the whole business by showing up with your lugabire AND the wheelbarrow.

There is a time when moccasins were, if not cool, at least coolish. I haven’t seen them around in a while. Since like Red Indian days in fact but the truth still is that those things were damn comfortable. And quiet too. No sound at all. Tip toe up to the window, climb in and before she knows it,
Ta da
The horny ninja strikes again.

On this one you are on your own. But wama I believe in you.

WHERE ARE OUR GOATS!!: A Case Of Legislative Probing And Inquiring


The Parliament’s Public Accounts Committee is gearing up to unleash Satan’s very own Hell upon whoever is responsible for the disappearance of 30,000 thousand goats from The Presidential Goats Project, a poverty alleviation initiative that supplies goats to 100 plus farmers in Sembabule District. Or would, if the goats had had any visible offspring.


Here is our transcript of the proceedings which haven’t happened yet as meticulously imagined by our keyboard reporter.

PAC OFFICIAL 1: Okay let’s get this started, send in the wretch. Let’s roast him.

Secretary sends in a shivering and sweaty clerk or archivist excavated from some unknown basement somewhere at the Ministry of Agriculture.

PAC OFFICIAL 1: Don’t you chaps at the Ministry know that our President’s vision includes the reduction of poverty through the multiplication of goats? Why are you obstructing the big man’s vision, why are you stopping the nation’s goats from enjoying regular sex?

Ministry of Agriculture Official: That is the farthest thing from our minds sir, personally nothing makes me happier than goats fckunig.

PAC OFFICIAL 2: Good, then if that is the case, are you secretly importing goat condoms and sneaking them on the goat penises?

Ministry of Agriculture Official: No.

PAC OFFICIAL 1: Are you fertilizing the grasses of Sembabule with crushed PilPlan Tablets?

Ministry of Agriculture Official: No Sir.

PAC OFFICIAL 2: So why has the Ministry neglected its responsibility? Is there perhaps something you are hiding from us? Maybe goats?

Ministry of Agriculture Official:I don’t know sir.

PAC OFFICIAL 3: (removing his spectacles with a heavy sigh) : at this juncture, I propose we initiate Legislative Protocol #42 For The Punishment of Wayward Government Officials.

Gentlemen, I say it’s time to probe this fool.

The motion is unanimously carried. The sacrificial lamb from the Ministry is taken to the probe room.


The less that is said of what happens there the better.

The less that is said of what happens there the better.

PAC OFFICIAL 1: Send in the next witness

Secretary ushers in matronly looking goat. The goat jumps straight into the proceedings, doesn’t even wait to be sworn in.

GOAT: (very abrupt) Trucks. Took Billy and Ssedume and the others.

PAC OFFICIAL 2: Madam, we just want you to know that that we are on your side, relax, we aren’t going to eat you. Can you tell us where all the young goats have been going?

GOAT: (brusquely) Eaten. As if funds.

PAC OFFCIAL 3: How exactly?

GOAT: Kachumbari. Salt. Also Avocado.

PAC OFFCIAL 1: Could you please be a bit more elaborate, do you want to tell us how this came to be? At this moment the internet is frothing with goat jokes and tweets and what have you, the people of Uganda are with you.

GOAT: Grievous bodily harm. (a fat tear slides down her face) Swaibu said a prayer.

PAC Official 1: are you comprehending any of this? (to PAC Official 3 who shakes his head.)



The Day After Valentine’s

Today is the day of love.

And this is your invigilator. No cheating!!!

This is your invigilator. No cheating!!!


According to a conversation I was having with someone or other last night, love is a very personal thing, and what constitutes true love is very different since everyone has their own perspective. This difference in perspective is nowhere shown more intensely than on Valentine’s Day. Some will congregate somewhere to hate on it, some will go out looking for it; some couldn’t be bothered, some wear red and black and look ridiculous, some stroke furry animals…


Now far be it from me to disrespect the great institution of Valentine’s Day. It is after all an international holiday, probably bigger than the day the Jews killed Christ. Valentine’s is great, but there are some things about the day after Valentines that you can’t beat. The day after Valentine’s has all the fun without the nerves. And if you have played your cards right, it is the day you finally get to have that cosy sssssnuggly under-the-bedcovers fart contest with the person of your dreams.




I know you haven’t received my messages on Facebook (that ka Zuckerberg and his nnuggu) where I described my plans for our Valentine in all their alarming detail, so at least let me sing for you some Valentine dedz in anticipation for next year.

(Sings his wretched deds); And I… I… will orwezzz ruvvv youuuuu

By the way in the world of love, this is a levy revelant ablum. I am here in UG but don’t I have taste? Kale, till next year, call me maybe? Eh eh? Alright.




That didn’t go too badly, did it?

Now back to the day after Valentines.


Another one of the merits of the day after Valentine’s is the fact that you probably aren’t going to spend anything, though you might…. might … have to cover a certain someone’s fare back home but that will be in the early hours of the day before the sun is up even.

Something you can put behind you quickly.

You get to pass around the newspaper fashion pages and snigger at all the weirdly dressed couples, you get to maybe slit your wrists or hang yourself in case you show up somewhere in there … lots of fun stuff for the whole family basically.

You also get to think about all the loves of your life from as far back as antiquity, you get to think of all the good times you had, you get to look at your current life and wonder where it all went wrong. You get to remember (after the hangover has cleared) that last night you watched Bridget Jones Diary twice – for God knows what reason then went to Centenary Park and chatted up a dubious looking catastrophe with wrinkles in her mascara. (the one who just got onto a boda a few hours ago)

You get to have one hell of a WTF moment….

The day after Valentine’s is great man. It’s just freaking awesome. Trust me I Know.

Enjoy your Friday tomorrow.



Top Ten: What I Hope To See At The Zone 7 Back2School Parrey!!

For several years now, the zone 7 back to school party has been a staple of my calendar.

I can only speak for myself of course and the voices in my head. The distinguished ladies and gentlemen at the back of my cranium have agreed that the on Friday, Back to School shall be attended without fear or favor.

Keep an eye out for the dude dressed as a dude dressed as a pipette from the Chem. Lab.

Glorious visions of sweaty rub-a-dubs with the cross eyed school nurse (Ha Ha! finally she allowed my advances!!) are already making me drool, so before I lose it completely, let me first present the top ten things that I am looking forward to seeing at the 2013 Zone 7 Back to school Parrey.

Presented in no particular order and with no regard whatsoever to common-sense … and eh… man… just read.

1. A thief. We need to catch a thief. And beat him so badly he will go and tell other thieves that certain working class twenty-somethings still haven’t lost their touch.

2. Food-fight. At some point during the mbocha and lining up and generally around that time we need lights to go out and for the backup generator to black out for a few minutes. Mayhem will reign as it always does and when the power comes back on, a lot of people will have released their stress and maybe (if Jesus loves us) a couple of girls wearing nothing but maize porridge, will be making out next to the bushes.

3. A brightly painted lawn gnome packed to the eyeballs with Ecstasy and somewhere during the course of the party, a baseball bat.


Naawe, I am shy!

Naawe, I am shy!


4. Kiboks, hot ones. Someone should cane the Senior Teacher. And make him pick rubbish even. If there is no Senior Teacher first order of business should be to choose one.

5. An exam, at least a test or quiz, on the St Lawrence Seaway. Not even simanyi Saskatchewan simanyi Prairies what… Just the Seaway. Anyone who gets above twenty percent gets free hardcorn.

6. The Saida Kaloli remix… Has… to Be Played… At least… Twice.

7. A kakarabanda complete with bones and high heeled shoes (meanwhile what was up with that) in a drug induced stupor, partying like its 2013. Then leaving with the Mama of the YCS fellowship for destinations and tongues unknown.

8. A stall run by the Association of Disgruntled High School Photographers. Auctioning to the highest bidder, all the sosh/prom snaps you refused to buy because you were too cheap (and un-photogenic). I f I am not mistaken, there is a killing to be made here. Literally.

9. Jabba. A lot of Jabba.

10. Mandatory morning prep and muchaka muchaka for those who are still around at five am, especially if they look clueless and overweight.


UG@50; A page from the book of 2062

It is the year 2062, my name is UGcitizen 4599. And this is my story.

I am a character in a graphic novel, living in the dark sprawling metropolis called Kampala, capital city and crime centre of the Central and East African Republic. I wear a huge hoodie that (hopefully) makes me look like a giant cobra when seen from the right angel at the right distance in the factory smog after a power-cut. Apart from the hoodie I have lots of tattoos and know Muay Thai.

And I talk to the rain.

Life in Kampala in 2062 is hard. Harder than Mogadishu in the 00s. Times in the Uganda Province have always been hard, but not as hard as they have been since the ill fated morning of October 9th 2012, when the Great Mama Finna’s curse on the NRM government came to pass and the whole country suffered a power and media blackout. In 50 years, Uganda has not known flat irons, chargers, Playstations, smartphones, Facebook, Twitter and worst of has had no
Standing at the site of the former City Square, I look up at the towering statue that Mama Fina forced thousands of Ugandans to build with their bare hands as penance for daring to look at her naked pictures in a local tabloid.

Standing under the massive thighs and breasts looking up at her grim and foreboding face while the lightning flashes and the angry hail rips and slashes, I find myself feeling vague stirrings of lust.

I refuse to be ashamed.

Striding through the pages of this graphic novel into the Kololo-Nakasero Slum District, I see two small cold eyed children holding old fashioned sawed off shotguns and wearing the insignia of her Imperial Blackness, the ruling Matriarch of Kampala, Shanita Namuyimba.

Closely after the country was plunged into darkness in 2012, Shanita broke out of Luzira Maximum Prison and together with the most dangerous inmates she could gather, started a new government under an Anti-Coherency, Pro-Ratchedness philosophy of governance called Badiocracy.

The Toto BlackGuards see me and see nothing but a face in the crowd, a nobody. They do not know that beneath this hoodie is one of the faces they have been ordered to hunt down.

In February 2013, a secret meeting was held in a barber’s kiosk on a small muddy path in the area that was then called Kamwokya (you may now know it as Area K23). It was a meeting between the two powers that really ruled the City in those days.

The first was the Ghetto President; His Excellency Bobi Wine, the Troubadour of the People.

The Second was the Executive Director of Kampala; Her Ladyship Jeniffer Musisi, the Ruthless Agent of Progress.

Together they buried their differences and forged a coalition against the spreading evil of Badism. Together they formed…


It is 2062, 100 years after Independence and this Graphic Novel might even have a happy ending.

Only 2112 will tell.



Tales Of The Fund | Part One

This exciting, exhilarating, action-packed league of tales is brought to you by…



We, the editorial chaps of ULK, do certify that to the best of our knowledge… you know what? Just be prepared for anything. Grab the popcorn.


Once upon a time not so long ago, like during Obote 2, a young maiden by the name of Jane was walking. This maiden was pure and perfect of heart, but with the best legs in the seven hills of Kampala; in fact her legs almost made it as a footnote in the P.3 Physics syllabus of that year.

As she walked along, she saw two hibiscus flowers on a bush. One was pretty and unassuming and as if bending down in a sideways manner. It was the kind of flower you automatically knew they would use to brew a nice detoxifying tea. The second was brash and ill-manneredly colored; surrounded with a mass of rambunctious bees.

The young lady stopped herself in mid stride and studied the flowers. In her mind, they made a beautiful picture, contrasting as they did two extremes. She thought to herself;

“Kale it would be like so cool if I had baby twins who were like that. One calm, sweet and serious… the other wild and crazy… hmm.”


At that point a chill came over her and caused goose bumps all over her arms. Scientists have since established that it was the winds of fate telling her that she had no idea what she was getting herself into.

Within a few weeks our heroine discovered she was pregnant with twins.

From birth, Simon and Kato were different, Kato was the more laid back guy; he was even born with swagg. Simon was a hotheaded guy with too much ruckus on his mind and nothing to do with it.

In nursery while Simon stole his friends’ gnuts and put Omo in their juice bottles; Kato was busy being cool. In Lower Primary while Simon refused to play sports with shorts and insisted on tug-of-warring in his birthday suit, Kato was mastering being cool. In P.5, while Simon was busy arguing with the teacher over the correct spelling of the word “SPELLING”, Kato was too cool to be bothered about being cool.

This is how they went on, and the first eighth or so of our movie is filled with a series of clips showing their first 18 years of life starring a series of bu-young chaps who look like what the main actor would look like if he was that age.

This state of affairs subsisted until their 18th birthday when their charming existence was thrown into disarray by the passing of their mother; Jane.

At the funeral they were approached by a mothball-looking lawyer who broke to them some startling news; they had inherited 60 squeaky clean million shillings.

“But how could that be?” asked Simon who, as ever, was more eager than he needed to be and thus couldn’t allow the punch line to unravel naturally.

Which is where you come in. Guess where the mysterious money came from and win 10 easy thousand shillings worth of airtime NOW NOW NOW!


To win:

  • Take as many guesses as you want, before 4pm today.
  • Write your answer in the comments section below and remember, no copying! We have big eyes. Besigye follows us on Twitter.
  • Everyone with the right answer wins free airtime at 4pm.

 *** *** ***  *** *** ***  *** *** ***



Unfortunately, no one got the answer right.

The first clue is in the very first line. Jane exists in the days of Obote 2 and NSSF wasn’t founded until 1986. So the money didn’t come from NSSF. It’s like saying that the Bad Black baby is white.

The second (and most obvious) clue is right there in your face. You just can’t see it. The money came from Jane, the mother. Sometimes the most obvious things are not so obvious. Straka may actually not be fat. Maybe you just have a big TV. Or big eyes.

So you think you don’t need to save with NSSF? Think again. Big benefits await you. Tune in next week for BOOK TWO. This time we raise the stakes & the value of the prize.


The Ffene Series Part III: Cross-Species Heartbreak, Johanssens and being on-TV

There are many times when the only thing standing between you and peace of mind is this blank computer screen; wide as the Red Sea and unbargainable-with as an angry toddler.

... and that is IT!!

All attempts to cajole or bribe the computer screen will come to nothing. The computer screen is blank, which is the problem, kind of like that day in P.3 when you came back from school knowing you did something messed up the previous night and expecting a righteous whopping only to be met by your mother with smiles at the doorway.

I am going to need a go between, some-one to carry my small letters at break time with my love offering of three pancakes folded in a greasy scrap of newspaper, I am going to need a huge boost of ffene magic.

ULK: Hullo Mrs. Mrs Kifenensi, you see the dilemma here? The experts call it writers block.

Mrs Kifenensi: I know writers block, he must be Samalie’s brother.

ULK: Who is Samalie?

Mrs Kifenensi: Some ka (*expletive*) who stole my horny toy-boy’s heart (and his groin along with it).

ULK: Oh you mean your bizarre cross generational cross species whatsoever from the ULK party last year?

Mrs Kifenensi: Ya! So trust me, I feel your pain, I know everything about losing mojo.

ULK: Don’t worry, you will be fine. Get well soon and drink lots of fluids. So before you tell us what you have been up to, why not introduce yourself to the new readers. I am sure you have noticed our stats have increased since the last time we talked.

Mrs Kifenensi: My name is Mrs. Immaculate Kifenensi; president of the Ffene National Entity. (FFNE) and part time life coach and self help consultant. Some people say I am a bit fleshy but I think fleshy is sexy especially if you are a fruit. My hobbies include long walks by the beach, the color yellow, and ripening on the weekend. You can contact me on ….

ULK: Whoa!! Ease up there… If you want to advertise yourself, feel free, ULK recently developed an ad engine for the site, (coming soon) In the meantime this is not a lonely hearts column. And what happened to your husband doesn’t he read ULK?

Mrs Kifenensi: He used to, until he ended up in some-one’s salad, the damn fool.

ULK: Very sad, so by means of changing the topic, (as we Ugandans do) how is work and what’s new?

Mrs Kifenensi: This and that. Mainly it’s the this, but occasionally one has to indulge in the that. You know whah me say?

ULK: Not really.

Mrs Kifenensi: Be in the class boss, you are being left behind.

ULK: How was Avengers? Did it live up to the hype?

Mrs Kifenensi: Eh! (Breaks out into the first smile of the day) that movie was awesome. That Scarlett girl really has a big Johanssen. Is that what they call camera tricks?

There is something Scarlett about this Johanssen #Cameratricks

ULK: What did you think of the recent debacle when a state minister walked out of a TV interview?

Mrs Kifenensi: You know I think it reflects the current state of negative thinking in this country which we must struggle against by embracing the philosophy of Ffene. How do you let questions from a mere journalist transform you into a ka-bitch like that? If as you claim, you have no clue about what is happening, don’t be daunted; stand by your ignorance. Posterity will vindicate you.

ULK: You mentioned the philosophy of Ffene, care to share a bit more on that?

Mrs Kifenensi: It is the philosophy of natural color, vitamins and Bon Jovi type lyrics, basically being positive in a nut-case.

ULK: I think you mean nutshell.

Mrs Kifenensi: Believe me, after this Samalie episode, it’s going to be about being positive in a nut-case for a few months.

ULK: You will be fine, any last words?

Mrs Kifenensi: Stay positive, stay focused, Beera Mu Class, Kampala si Bizimbe and there is no Church in the Wild (alright alright …. No church in the wild… yeaaah). How is the bluudclat writer’s block by the way?

I think it’s gone now.  Show the fans some love will you?



SCORCHING: A Hot Chick Disorganises An Office

A certain lady walked into an office this morning. She was fly as tsetse, dope as coke and hot as TV chicken with swagg.

Needless to say, the overall effect was cataclysmic.

See this office had been contriving somehow to get by without interruption. Every day the mindless lifeless inmates of this air conditioned, whitewashed decor-of-an-aspirin-tablet prison put life on hold in the morning and picked up where they had left off in the evening. The space in the middle was spent with well fattened thoughts designed to support the illusion that their careers somehow defined them, listening to audio self help books, and reinforcing the relationship between their gums and their boss’s ass whenever the opportunity presented itself.

It’s called being a team player bitch!

But when the aforementioned chick (let us call her Gloria. It is the kind of name that makes you picture angels wafting down on golden clouds while a choir of nuns sings on the OST)

When Gloria walked in, the office came to a standstill. Our sources tell us that Freddie, the cleaning guy was so struck by her perfect face and exquisite body, that he developed an accent. Freddie doesn’t even know English.

“Chill Freddie gwe! (This is Gerry, our source) the whole office was paralyzed man. Guys were running around high fiving for no reason, pretending to print stuff that didn’t want to be printed … it was worse than high school. “

However, after her departure, the euphoria quickly wore off and a palpable sense of despair and doom settled over the office as people were forced to re-think their lives and priorities. Our source reported that the MD spent three hours staring at the picture of his wife and kids that sat on his desk, overwhelmed with unnamable regrets. The smart young executive sat at his desk, stunned and in utter confusion, wondering what on earth he was doing wasting his life chasing this corporate dream. The savedee chick at reception resolved to read even more psalms, a valiant endeavor to come to terms with the realization that goodness didn’t necessarily make her attractive; while the office fattie stayed in the bathroom and severely contemplated gnawing at her wrists till she bled to death.

The original purpose for Gloria’s coming to the office was never determined.

A Boda-Boda rider got slapped this morning

Jehoshaphat (not real name), a boda boda rider got bitch slapped today.

It was not a pretty sight.

I did not see it, because I came a little later, but a fellow boda boda rider, one Matovu (not real name) was on the scene and saw the whole thing. By the time I left he was still retelling the incident with great relish to the unsuspecting passer-bys…
Basser pies…
Passers by… yeah I think that is it.

At any rate, this is how Matovu told it.

“Man, the lady was just there walking quiet, quiet, QUIET!! Then Jeho came skidding, skidding, SKIDDING!! I realized, AH! This is an accident!! Then bah!!! Kumanyoko! (maybe that is not entirely how he told it. but I am big headed so there is a lot of space for things to go wrong between the moment I hear something and the point at which my brain interprets it)

It appears that Jehoshaphat the boda boda rider, being a reckless so and so, took a corner at an absurd speed. A conspiracy between the slick road, a pothole, his untreaded tires and randomness resulted in Jehoshaphat losing control, falling with his bike and sliding with it for several metres, eventually slamming into a certain lady, quiet of demeanor but violent of slap.

Many came to help but stopped to laugh as the quiet lady uncorked her arm and slapped several assortments of sense into Jehoshaphat face. From the way Matovu told it, Jehoshaphat twin brother who does kyeyo in Malaysia felt those slaps. And he is even in a different time zone.

The slap is a well known tool in every women’s arsenal. It rubs shoulders with the guilt trip, the silent treatment (aka the inverse queef), no sex, and other bewildering but strangely powerful weapons. However while the majority are used against individuals against whom the female in question may have an actual relationship, the slap does not really discriminate. Women will slap anything.

bam bam bam bam

Standing by the roadside watching Johesophat nurse his red- hot face, I had to wonder, where exactly do the ladies learn these things? I mean, as kids you would have the occasional older boy showing you how to throw a punch or how to tackle someone. Even to this day there are numerous places men go to learn how to do combat. (The army, dojos, youtube etc) but women never have formal training and yet…

Is it instinct? Maybe it’s instinct.

As I left to go to work and do my bit to build the nation in general, Jehoshaphat was still nursing a red hot face and picking up his motorbike and and pieces of his dignity. I am pretty sure by the time today ends he will have new treads on those tires.

The lady was nowhere to be seen.


IT WAS ALL A DREAM: A Lesson for the Holiday.

Come dear reader of this website, let me tell you a wondrous tale such as your ears have never heard and your ocular orbiting seeing mechanisms (or eyes if you prefer to be vulgar) have not beheld. Gaze wide as I regale you with this anecdote, be slackened of jaw and droollius of lip, for even I can scarce explain this great and wondrous vision.

Last night, an angel came to me in a dream. There I was and suddenly this angel descended in a flurry of feathers and singed Zed sachets.

Not this kind of angel unfortunately

“Greetings!” said the angel.

“Ah Ah! Happiness is killing me, “I shouted. Who are you?”

“My! What red eyes you have!” said the angel in some shock.

“All the better to see you with. What are you doing in my room if you aren’t going to clean it?”

“I am taking you somewhere.” The angel said angelically. “Watch carefully for you must tell this story to the world.”

Then the Spirit of the Lord did take me by the paw and didst lead me and show me great visions and wonders. Perhaps you would like to know of these great things? A’right then, here we go.
First the angel took me to a strip club.

Just kidding, don’t flay me.

First he took me to a courtyard. It was an ordinary courtyard, though there was an excess of white chaps wearing knee length dresses, which I found kind of peculiar but to each their own. In the centre of the courtyard was some guy in a loin cloth and sandals being given kiboks. Meanwhile I have never seen kiboks like that. It is possible that they wore out an entire bamboo forest on home boy’s back.

Kwata gwe, Kwata!

As I was starting off to find a popcorn stand or a rolex. I beheld the angel crying. He told me, that the gentleman on the receiving end of the biggest whooping I had seen in my whole life was one Jesus Christ.

“I know Jesus Christ” I said with a nod, “we are friends on Facebook. “

He then told me great stories of this guy’s powers. How he had turned water into wine, raised the dead etc.

Jesus in happier days

“Eh!” I said in amyazement, “as if Fringe!”

“Fringe is chickenfeed.” The angel said with some pride. “Come let us go.”

Then the angel took me to a hilltop. On the way there I asked the angel, what had Jesus done to deserve a beating like that?

“He was a good man,” the angel told me. “Not just good but perfect,” a perfect man who was destined to rule the world and the heavens and was not afraid to say it. Evil and cowardly men couldn’t stand it so they accused him falsely and had him beaten.

“Haters gon’ hate.” I replied sagely, it all made sense now.

On the hilltop I beheld Jesus being roughly nailed to two planks of wood. I wasn’t going to stand for that shit.

“This is an outrage!!” I shouted like anybody gave a damn. “This violates this man’s fundamental human right to not be nailed fwaaa anyhow. Where is the dignity! Where is the…”

“No one can hear you” the angel whispered. “Jesus is going to die and there is nothing you can do.”

“I don’t believe you!” I argued, adamant.

“Maybe I am not saying it convincingly.” He replied and fetched this dude.




When it was said like that I had to believe it. The news got me so messed up, so depressed, angry and confused. I imagined what the world could have been if they had left Jesus alone to rule the world in justice and peace. I wanted to die.

But then the angel told me an unbelievable truth. Jesus was going to resurrect on the third day. (8th April to be exact) and would ascend to heaven where he would sit until the end of the world, when he would come and take his place as the ruler of heaven and earth.

The angel also told me that if I behaved myself, didn’t steal, cheat, break the law, kill, embezzle public funds etc. I would be amongst the good guys at the end and go to heaven too.

“Always remember,” the angel told me before he departed, “that good always wins and evil never triumphs, even if it might seem that way. Righteous people might face humiliation, ridicule, mistreatment and even go down to the depths of hell, but sooner or later, they will rise up in glory.”

And I believed him.

Have a Happy Easter and a preposterous New Year!!!