Category Archives: Monday Massacres

Monday Massacres: MUK Lecturers Breaking Bad

Lecturers at the prestigious Makerere University called off a strike for an increase in their pay…probably because it costs money to send Museveni innumerable messages asking that he increases your pay. Or maybe it was the shock discovery that they’d been sending the messages to the wrong number all this time. Or a revelation that the number was right but the head of state’s inbox was full. Whatever the case was, we at ULK empathize fully. We are after-all  here, in these air-conditioned offices, sipping juice from a glass in one hand while typing, one letter at a time, with the other, because you put in time and made us for applause to die down)

(puts glass of juice down)

Be that as it may,
[John was fidgety and sweaty. He liked ballet. Even pork and Riham biscuits he liked them. He wore leotards. Re-write this using ‘Be that as it may’. Thank you lecturer Matovu, now I see your wisdom]

Be that as it may, we’ve been in the KLA hustle long enough to quickly point out a few things you can do to make some mad moola as the president gets round to responding to your friend requests and subsequently increasing your salaries. Or was it SMSs

1. Brew some drugs

We’ve seen real life stories of teachers (not even lecturers, imagine) in other parts of the world who have gone from rugs, to drugs to riches…and bitches all by using pipettes and bunsen burners for a little more than demonstrating to sleeping students the wonders of Chemistry. Imagine if you made more use for all the filter paper and beakers and made something strong. You could sell the product to parliamentarians since you know, they are already on drugs

Shake the money maker

Shake the money maker

2. Offer rides

Taxis and boda bodas are no longer allowed into campus. A lot of money can be made by using your car to transport horny boys from Livingstone Hall to pretty, hardworking, serious girls reading their books in Mary Stuart Hall. You may need to clean suspect fluids from some parts of the car err so often but that’s collateral.

3. Hard coursework

Give very hard course work and remind students that the only way to pass is if they go and (removed by Ed. In it’s place, this witty, DRAMATIC sentence has been put)

4. Write a book

People love reading books. Look at all the trees that have been cut down to make copies of Fifty shades of grey. Do your own thing. You could go the ‘Sowing the Mustard Seed’  (‘mustard’ could be another name for maryjane. Explains some decisions) and write about your life. Tell us everything. Don’t leave out stuff. How you walked several miles to and from school. How you were eating sausage while others were going to the bush not so far from your hut. Everything.

You speak truth Sleek

You speak truth Sleek. Proceed

5.  Start singing

We’ve been told, only so many times, about how rich ‘Dr.’ Chameleone is. Msschtchew. How can you, the real Doctor, let him enjoy all that  money from fans when you are the one who read all those books? Surely, it cannot be too hard to grow dreadlocks and say ‘valu valu‘. You are the real doctor; we’d come to your shows because of how cleverly you weave Maslow’s heirarchy of needs into your lyrics, because of how you throw chalk into the audience at the height of the show, how you ask questions during the show and ask us, the screaming fans, to raise our hands to answer, because of how you dictate your lyrics for the topless female fans at the front to write down…we’d also be awed by the fact that you wouldn’t use a stage name. You’d stay Dr. Didimus Kainyunju, on and off stage. And in your posters you’d be standing next to a blackboard, with a blackboard ruler in one hand while the other writes some crazy, rock star sheet down

The lyrics from one of your biggest  hits, I am MC

The lyrics from one of your biggest hits, I = MC (I am MC)

Monday Massacres: The Greatest Inventions in Uganda

Over the years, we’ve seen several inventions come out of this dusty pearl; there are several others being worked on by mad scientists all over the country right now. We sent out a team to do hardcore research and here they are:


[ulk-credit]jscreationzs /[/ulk-credit]

[ulk-credit]jscreationzs /[/ulk-credit]

Party Pretty

This mobile app, to be released initially only for Android devices, will have detectors at the entrance of all nightspots that matter. The detectors will scan the faces of all the ladies walking into the nightspots, use a complex beauty algorithms and grades their beauty and booty on a scale of 1 to 10. Guys using the mobile app get to decide which place to hang out at depending on which one has more beauty or more booty. Girls use the same app to decide where to go to find as little competition as possible

Arab Money Party

This mobile app complements the Party Pretty app. It too has detectors at all nightspots that matter in the country. It uses complex, rich algorithms to determine how much money each guy entering the place has. Female users can decide where to hang out depending on where the most loaded guys are. It also allows guys to decide where to go and not feel threatened by how much money fellow revelers have



The way this neat gadget works is that you breathe into it and it displays how much public funds you have stolen in the last three months. The idea is to place it at the gate of parliament to replace the useless, electricity-guzzling metal detector.


This machine would spit out proper-fitting suits for our members of parliament


The name of this device will be to throw people off. The small, nifty invention, to be stuck under the tongue, would be used to translate the nonsense said by a member of parliament, real time, into sense with figures and statistics. The gadget would be handed out at the beginning of each Parliamentary session. It would deliver a small, non-fatal, electric shock to a wearer when he exceeds a preset gibberish limit.



[ulk-credit]renjith krishnan /[/ulk-credit]

[ulk-credit]renjith krishnan /[/ulk-credit]

This will be a tablet that will allow anyone who swallows it three times a day, with Safi, to have a good singing voice. It would magically change your singing voice from Nandutu to Alaine in a week…or you get your money back. Those who cannot afford this slightly pricy medication will have to buy the…. (Sweaty drum roll)


To use this amazing device, one sticks it into their ears and anything they listen to will sound like very good music. A Zari jam will be playing and all you’ll hear is Lauryn Hill.

Monday Massacres: State House Blowing Money Fast

You know that a legend never sleeps. He spends his hours awake lurking in the shadows, coming out to help the proverbial old lady across the pot-hole ridden street, to hand the lady fresh from the salon a pink helmet for her boda boda ride home, to give out ear-muffs to innocent taxi commuters being assaulted by Bebe Cool music, to slip adult pampers to people watching news  involving politicians(because you know, they might sheet themselves)….a legend’s work is never done.

One legend did heavy investigative, undercover, secret, hush-hush work to find out what the state house spends dollar-dollar bills on. From the Daily Monitor, below are the amounts of our money spent every day by State House. The Monitor left out the bit about exactly what the money is spent on….this is where the Legend  stepped in. See for yourself.

Showing you the money

[ulk-credit]Stuart Miles /[/ulk-credit]
Showing you the money

6.2 million Shillings ($2,480) daily in special meals and drinks

The super beings in State House have three-course meals. No gasps there.

For starters, they eat money and wash it down with a glass of juice made from the sweat of sirloin bugs from the Amazon.

For the main course, for superhuman strength, see-through-mini-skirts vision, strong teeth and to be able to breathe underwater as they fight for Migingo Island, they eat only fish cross-bred with lion and gorilla sperm. The special special officers have Superman’s sperm for dessert.

15.3 million Shillings ($6,120)  daily on entertainment

They are secretly buying all the mini skirts. By press time, we were unable to establish what their grand plan is.

Some of the money on entertainment goes to Pygmies they fly in every lunch time to do gymnastics.

Because the powers that be “OMG we totally luurrvve Riri” (and also because they are such wankers), they fly in the teenage star every month as part of the entertainment budget. She’s  under instructions to wear military fatigues and to recite the one line she had in Battleship.

Every fortnight, to complement the dancing pygmies, they also hire actual angels to do accapellas.


Hallelujah my fine gotta pay

[ulk-credit]Charisma /[/ulk-credit]
Hallelujah my fine ass…yes Sevo, you gotta pay

26 million Shillings ($10,400) daily on vehicle maintenance

At that amount, they could buy a vehicle a day. We discovered that they are maintaining the Bat Mobile. Batman secretly works with Museveni (gasp!). Take that Kenya! Talks are underway to get Tony Stark in line.

340,000 Shillings daily on newspapers

They read all the newspapers in the nation to ensure that the level of journalism is world-class. They then correct typos, do some editing and send feedback to the newspapers.

709.5 million Shillings  ($283,800) daily on classified items

They have a small nuclear plant that uses Uranium reserves made out of the poop of state house staff; you can’t work in the state house, be paid all that money, eat that three-course meal and poop poop. You must sheet Uranium. Or diamonds.

They have a research institute that makes pigs fly.

They contact ET on a regular for him to come over and touch them…ehhm, because his touch heals. Or they like being touched.

Monday Massacres: Drop The Flag

There’s this restaurant in Kampala where you walk in and take a seat. You then do that eye movement used universally to catch a waitress’s attention. She scoots over. You make another eye movement that says “Hi, how are you (insert name read from her slightly-tilted name tag)?” She throws you a smile. You catch it, still with your eyes. She says something but by this time the hunger you walked in with is screaming for more attention than The Red Pepper. You do that innocent wink that says you’d like to look at the menu, all according to the International Restaurant Gesture Book.


[ulk-credit]Carlos Porto /[/ulk-credit]Food!!!

Nothing unusual so far so before you close the page to go read soccer scores, here’s the juicy bit; in this restaurant, each table has a flag. You are served till you drop that flag. The temptation to name the restaurant is very big…suffice it to say their menu isn’t exactly one for vegetarians.

So if you keep the flag on your table flying even after rounds and rounds of food, we investigated what will transpire.

First off, a small team of men in expensive shades and black suits come and menacingly whisper a few things they’ll do to you if you don’t drop the flag. You gasp. They take seats. Their leader removes his shades and stares you straight in the eyeball. You are unfazed. You swallow another morsel of beef while holding eye contact. Beads of sweat form on your now oily forehead.

Your phone rings. Your funky ringtone startles you. One of the pieces of crocodile meat you are holding falls to the table and hits the flag on your table. You act fast and stop it just before it topples. You answer the phone. It’s Gorretti, the girl you’ve received several resounding NOs from. She’s crying. She says if you don’t drop the flag, bad men holding her hostage will mess up her nail varnish. You try to explain. A hoarse voice comes on to the phone saying you have five seconds. You swallow a piece of camel meat as you think it over. A shrill scream forces you to twitch

Gorreti in happier times

[ulk-credit]Tom Clare /[/ulk-credit]
Gorreti in happier times

Out of nowhere, a helicopter is hovering above the restaurant with a reporter rapping your every move as a camera beams your picture on the news with running commentary about your life story and what has led to this moment. By now you are swimming in your own sweat. A lot of the salt in the meat is from your sweat. You still don’t drop the flag.

A negotiator is brought in to speak to you. Find out your demands. Even then, you refuse to budge, only responding to his questions between mouthfuls.

Seeing their restaurant on the brink of being eaten out of business, they do the last thing any entity in this situation would do; give you hippo meat. They reel it in on a crane. And hand you a saw, a hoe and a power drill to dig in.

Your hand moves towards the flag…flag slowly makes its way to the ground, your life flashes before your eyes…but then…

Monday Massacres: How to kick a lion in the balls and stay around to see what happens

A long, long time ago, in ancient Andunga kingdom somewhere in Uganda (which at that time was merely a big expanse full of lions, hares, he-goats and natives with primitive energy), there lived a man. Onoonoi, for that was this man’s name, was known by all neighboring clusters of people for having won The Andunga Games time and time again. But Mister Sleek, what are these strange games that sound like the Hunger Games you speak of? Patience grasshopper. Patience.

The Andunga Games began over 3,700 years ago in Andunga, in the North Eastern part of that big expanse of land with lions, hares, he-goats and natives with primitive energy. The Games were staged every four years on a raised patch of land that had few lions, hares and he-goats. Here, the natives put their not-too-modern energy to use by competing like crazy in various games. People from all over the world came to watch and take part. Participation was only for strong, brave men who had been trained since they stopped suckling.

Andunga Games

Onoonoi, for the last three games, had emerged Omusobokoto; which was the title for the guy who won the Games. People didn’t like him because he laughed at all the competitors who lost to him. He’d write entire songs taunting them, mentioning their name, which Uoka tree they lived in and what fufu they had for supper the previous evening. This meant that he re-mixed the song often to keep it accurate

It came to pass that Oukalanyai, a battle-hardened young man with a twitchy left hand, decided to take on Onoonoi in the Games. Onoonoi had dissed the young man’s great grandfather, Acelaumuu, for too long.  The stage was set for an Al-Pacino-Robert De Niro face-off. As a responsible writer, I’ll give you time to go off and change those pants you’ve just peed.

Pee your pants

So the Games kicked off with village belle, Tery-ansi, batting her eyelids at every competitor. The lions, pre-starved for a week prior to the games, were let loose. The competitors ran for their lives and for glory, diving over booby traps made of real boobs, outsmarting hares in games of ancient Chess, head-butting enraged he-goats, all the while running faster than the lions, heading for the podimpo, the raised ground that the starved carnivores couldn’t reach.

Oukalanyai and Onoonoi made it to podimpo. To choose the winner, the two had to face off in a game only very smart people played. It required brains, stare-downs, mind-reading, the ability to see through paper,  the bravery to kick a lion in the balls and stay around to see what happens…and buxom lady lucquesia, pimped and known as lady luck these days.

Lady lucquesia

Lady lucquesia

Oukalanyai, three days later, emerged winner of the Matatu game-for that was the game they were playing- having outsmarted Onoonoi by keeping his pick two and unleashing it on the unsuspecting defending champion.

Many years later, the game has been put into small computers called phones by the great, great, great grandchildren of these people. If you are smart, can stare down, can mind-read, have the ability to see through paper, can kick a lion in the balls and stay around to see what happens, or if you are just cool, get the game here:

Monday Massacres: The One About A Rat

From the time Dad and Mum prayed fervently to have me until a stork dropped me in Mum’s lap, I knew I was destined for the big life. My eekie weekie noises betrayed the greatness that awaited me. My fellow rodents scurried around, content to nibble food here, scare a few humans there, watch Spanish soaps from atop rickety cupboards, munch generous holes into stinky socks and neatly pressed-‘Sunday best’ clothes alike; you know, the erratic life. The good life. But I wanted more. There had to be more pleasure than that attained by lying on your good side while rubbing your hairy, bulging belly full of what was once a pretty yellow dress with all these floral things that humans seem to like.

There simply had to be more. Granted, we’d crack up and high-five like crazy whenever one of us would return with a story of a human they’d scared. Owing to his muscular frame, Brutus always had the most hilarious stories. For some reason humans always compared him to a cat. It is partly because of this clout that he became Da bRat. We all bowed down in his presence. He had an aura about him. And he was always eating on something. This, in my opinion, is why he always had these all these excited hood rats schmoozing about. Brutus Da bRat.


Straight from the underground

I was no Brutus but I had to leave a mark. I had to join the mouse greats. Mickey Mouse. Jerry. Town Mouse. Country Mouse. Those were cool. But I wanted even more than that. Three blind mice. They had a freaking song done about them. That’s what I wanted. I had to be that rat with a song about him. I just didn’t know how I’d go about it. See I lived in the house of a…how do I put this lightly…a struggling musician. I think that’s what humans call people who can’t carry a tune but get paid at concerts to say ‘nalumansi’. Yes, I’ve been to concerts. I’m a town mouse after all.

I’d lived with this…err…musician all my life so naturally I knew their schedule like the tip of my tail. They go to sleep. Brutus comes out with his gang. They eat. They leave. I come out. I eat till I can’t twitch my whiskers. I half roll half shuffle back to my digs. Wait till next day. This is how life had always been…I knew their times. Their schedules. Everything. Until this one day I got out a little too early… And she saw me. Then my private life ended…I became a star

Monday Massacres: Django Unchained A review

So there’s this movie called Jungle Unchained that’s all the rage. All your cool friends have watched it and they are continuously dropping all these references that have them high-fiving while you peck away at your plate, trying to hide the shame of being the black duck that hasn’t watched a movie EddieSoft was hooking people up with over a month ago. Kinda like all those years ago when those same cool friends were continuously saying TIA since they’d watched that movie which made men cry when Leonardo DiCaprio died. It was such a sad movie

Rather than give you directions to the place where EddieSoft barters your Shs. 1,500 for a fairly decent copy of Jungle (Majestic Plaza, room 45B, Level 3, in the corner, next to the brown lady everyone calls Nalongo Blawuni), I’ll tell you what the movie is about.

So the movie it is called Jungle Unchained. As the name suggests, it is set in this dense African Jungle because outside countries there are no jungles. Actually I lie. There are jungles but they have no animals. They have hippies.

Hippie Woot woot

Taken in a dense jungle in outside countries

Spoiler Alert: I’m going to tell you the whole movie. Even the soundtracks. If you haven’t watched it, stop here and holla at Eddie.

So in the movie, the entire story explores the life of this, we presume, African tribe, in a jungle that has mad love for chains. They are all nude and speaking gibberish but wearing heavy chains. Kinda like Apocalypto meets a hip hop video. Mssctthhewww! Such a simple plot! Hand me back my disposable cup that I’ve used all week, Useless writer! I’m going back to standing by the water dispenser and striking the pose that Oprah said will get me a raise. Scchtupid!

That’s what I thought too. But with my landlord camping at my door, waiting for me to return from Arua, I had no choice but to plug earphones into Tortoise, my beloved PC, and watch the damn movie.

It starts off with a heavy beat-boxing routine done by someone with a voice that sounds so much like Ssebaana, that dude who was once our mayor. Then it gets real crae…and I mean reeaalll crae because just th

[removed by ED]

nd then they kiss, shag and die. Not really in that order.

What my friends said about the movie before I watched it:

  1. That they say the word ‘nigger’ over 100 times. I heard the word Naija said a crazy amount of times. How do people hear that as Nigger? Schmucks.
  2. That there is this odd line: “I’m curious why you are so curious”(WTF?) . I heard ‘wetin mekin yoo curioso’

Odd thing is they had what seemed like Naijorion occents throughout the movie. But then again, it is crazy popular so FOMO made me put my ears through it. That and the landlord camped at my door.

Monday Massacres: Polo Marathon


There was a Polo tournament in Jinja over the weekend.

Polo 2012

On a ticket to tourney:

Polo is a fast-paced contact sport where injuries to players and spectators may be possible…(“all organizers accept”)….no liability for any damage, injury, theft or death howsoever caused. You attend at your own risk and expense.


Armed with this knowledge, I headed to the venue in a helmet and wearing a slightly bulging white ball-guard. Needless to say all the ladies ignored my endless winks and come-hither motions.

The tourney had 4 teams; Airtel, Sheraton, Midcom and Citi bank.

The game grows on you; more so after you get over the initial discomfort of a ball-guard. Citi bank emerged winners

Strangely, the players didn’t scream like prepubescent girlies and fall on top of each other after scoring each goal; either because rich people don’t do that kind of thing or due to the fact that boys and girls played together.

For centuries, golf players have had us hoodwinked. We’ve been led to believe that when someone has “arrived”, he/she plays golf. Bollocks. The figures are finally in; when one “arrives”, he/she plays Polo.

Polo 2012

Polo 2012

Each polo player uses at least 3 horses during a game. To take care of one horse you need a goose that constantly shits golden eggs and never gets constipated. Laxatives oyee


For those still arriving at the finish line right now, the rest of us are at work…you aren’t the first.

For those walking like they have an anvil between their legs, next time stretch after running. Marathon round-up:

Odd Attire

Jeans. Tight jeans. Tight clothes everyone behind you can see through. Pink and lime green shirts. Bata shoes. Wool sweaters

Playlist no-nos

Man down

Walking away

Walk it-Missy Elliot

Playlist yes

Running-2pac and biggie

Run this town

Unsexy and i know it

Vitamini – Lillian

Odd sights

Chinese guy walking. Panting. WTH man? You are a shame to your race


MTN Marathon 2012

Johnny soon after crossing the 2012 finish line. He set-off in the  2011 edition

The KB

Are we almost there?

Do (pant) you (pant pant) know where (pant pant pant) the toilets are?

To win

Think Kenyan thoughts…like “Sasa if I drink this Chang’aa, nita win kweli?” .

Plot after

Look for a joint that has whole cow. Whole pig. Replenish your body

The crowd

Raymond Kukundakwe. He was hard to miss seeing as he was wearing pink.

Doreen Namanya. She was at the finish line sticking out a leg to trip anyone struggling to stay on their feet.

Amos Kiyingi. He zoomed past this writer. He refused to share the package he got from Armstrong.

A lot-of-other-people-in-yellow



Monday Massacres: Learner’s Guide To Committing Suicide

News making rounds is that a MUK student committed suicide yesterday when he jumped down from Mary Stuart Hall. Nti mbu that it was cos of love.

Which brings to light one of the biggest problems faced in Uganda. People just don’t know how to determine the right time to die and form of death to take. What if you die and fall in love with a ghost and it also breaks up with you? Do you commit more suicide?

So to avoid such sad incidents in future, we’ve compiled a learner’s guide to committing suicide. It includes the top six current causes of suicide and how to end your life the correct way.


  • Following major fraud in the Office of the Prime Minister, Permanent Secretary Bigirimana has refused to leave office.

Depression level:

10% (I don’t know what he did exactly but he needs to go.)

Suicide rating:

Jump 2 floors.


  • President Museveni has bought two new Benzes that cost Shs6bn.

Depression level:

76% (I swear walk to work for life!)

Suicide rating:

Jump 8 floors.


  • 1,200 Kyambogo degrees could be cancelled over rot.

Depression level:

0.8% (Who needs a degree?)

Suicide rating:

Jump half a floor.


  • The weekend is too far.

Depression level:

5% (Now what am I supposed to do between now and then?)

Suicide rating:

Jump up and down.


  • They’ve refused to promote me to the next class.

Depression level:

4% (They think I’m too stupid to notice or?)

Suicide rating:

Jump the class.


  • The love of my life is cheating on me.

Depression level:

8% (Let me die and see if they will cheat on me again.)

Suicide rating:

Don’t jump. Let me first get my camera. Okay, now jump.


Monday Massacres: Lessons we learn from movies with kicks

Sometimes you, as a proficient fighter, find yourself surrounded by a big number of people all baying for your blood. They all attack. And being the proficient fighter you are, you manage to hand out kicks, flicks, slaps and spittle to each of them in varying measures. Now, while you are kicking ass, we the not-too-proficient fighters, we who feel we are bad-ass because we jeered at a conductor once and we also stole guavas from our neighbour’s tree when we were younger, we see you beating people up and we learn a few things about our problems in life.

Kicking ass

Take that problems!

  1. No matter how many they are, they attack one at a time

    You will always have enough time to kick one goon in the groin before the next screaming lunatic has a chance to attack you. Same thing for problems

  2. They are always Chinese

    This isn’t true. Problems aren’t always Chinese. The coffee you take while trying to sift through them, that you usually take from a cup from China

  3. They scream as they approach

    Either to warn you, or to re-assure themselves that they are actually attacking you, these fighters always scream while approaching. Problems also usually drop tell-tale signs before  showing up with a baby at your doorstep. Squeaky engine parts. All pointing to a faulty car. He picks his nose. A warning he’ll be a wife-beater. You invite her for dinner for two and she comes with 2 buddies, one a guy. She’ll do juju on you. He sings along to Bieber. You know he’ll scream like a girl and jump into your arms when a roach scuttles across the living room. Tell-tale signs

    Battle cry

    I go kill you now now

  4. They have squinted eyes
  5. They are always puzzled when you kick their ass

    They wonder WTF? How did he manage to kick allofus? How? Same thing; the problems wonder how you manage to kick them to the curb

  6. They are weak

    Stand your ground. You’ll beat them all up