Category Archives: Newsworthy

How We Celebrate NRM Day

Wednesday is going to be the new NRM day, and all over the city members and supporters of the National Resistance Movement are going to take the day off from work to celebrate the fundamental change wrought by that honourable body of men and women who liberated Uganda from tyranny 27 years ago. You know those things.

Meanwhile people who could not give less of a damn about fundamental change or its ass will also be taking the day off. But why and what for? What does NRM Day mean to you? We surveyed the city and here are the results. Very scientific. Fear us.

National Roast Meat Day

On this day we mark the liberation of kilos of meat from the lives of cows, and mark the fundamental change in the flesh from gross, raw, bloody and fly-infested, to delicious, juicy, and going down well with beer.

And fly-infested.

We like to imagine that before public holidays butchers all watch Kill Bill Part 1 for inspiration and then they go and start cutting up the cows. Haiyaa!

Then you slaughter cows like this.

Then you slaughter cows like this.




National Rowdy Music Day

Ragga Dancehall artists in Uganda will probably stage shows around this holiday, shows at which the CD tracks they mime to are played at the loudest volume UMEME and EQ speakers can provide. This is so that the fans, already drunk and horny out of their minds, will be blasted with sound so massive that the effect will be medically identical to an unrelenting series of physical micro-punches to the head. By the time they leave the show, or black out (whichever comes first) their brain matter will have been so violently abused that they will actually believe:

  • (For Bebe Fans) That By Far is actually better than Ndiisa Butti.
  • (For Bobi Fans) That Ndiisa Butti is actually better than By Far


Giving us the final rap

Now ‘ear dis!

National Rat Murder Day

This is the day when you create a new generation. They will be born in September/October and then go on UPE, USE and then graduate from the 234 universities in the country and complain nti the then-95-year-old President Museveni is not doing enough to reduce unemployment. They will demonstrate and still not get the point, i.e. that if you want to be employed, send an application to a teargas firm.


Princess Komuntale’s Wedding: Former Stalkers Speak Out

When a hot chick is about to get married, one of the things that happens is that her former stalkers jump out of the bush complaining. They want to know why they dedicated all that time to her and then she ended up marrying some other guy instead. This might be the first time she is even hearing of those stalkers but that’s because stalkers are not sane.
It happens. If it didn’t happen when you got married, that’s because you are not as hot as you think you are.

We somehow got our hands (hacked) on some emails that were recently sent to a soon-to-be-wed Ugandan royal.



Ring ring, aani oono? *

Dear Ruth,


I don’t know if you remember me, but it’s Bosco. We were in Aga Khan together. I was the one who used to sit behind you in all classes. I loved you. That is why I was always sitting behind  you. I was actually supposed to be in P7 but I deliberately flunked so that they would take me back to P6 so that I could be in the same class as you. I loved you that much. I never even copied you, even though I could see all your answers due to having mastered the art of staring at you. Now I hear you are marrying someone else? Can he really love you the way I loved you?


Ow’eewa? Nansana?

Dear Lusi,

It is me Deo from Happy Monkeys Day Care and Nusery in Fort Portal.We used to be together us in Baby Class. That you were a plincense for reyo? Kale me I didn’t know. If I had been when I nyu I would have shared with you my chokret that day when you begged me. Me I never finished school I have mudaala in Kikuubo you can come and I give you discount because of loving you instead of marrying that one.


Hey Ruth,

I don’t know if you remember me, but it’s Ssekamonde Brayan. I also used to sit behind you in class sometimes when you were in Aga Khan. I don’t know if you remember but there were always two boys fighting for the desk behind yours. There was that little punk Bosco and me.
No, we were not in school together. I was actually in Buganda Road but I would come to your school to stalk you.

Then you went to Stato, I tried to follow but they denied me a visa. So I went to Sri Lanka instead. I thought they were near each other. I should have paid attention in Geography instead of just staring at you all the time. While I was stuck here some American boy took you? Do you know how a broken heart feels in Sri Lanka? How could you?


Oyagala ki?


Ay Root, wagwan,

Me Rolan, di taxi driver we me ride ya around town wen ya in school in America. Me always know you speshal. Me kno dis! Dat why me never even charge ya extra money. Excep when ya inna mi cab wid dat bway Chris, den me kno him gwan pay anyway.

Ya never wonder why every time ya need a cab it always di same cab dat show up? It because me fallo you aroun! Me love ya, Root. Me wan marry ya. Me always worry dat mi cyant marry callege girl wen me an immigran’ taxi driver but now me kno ya a princess me kno money nat a problem. Forget dat Chris bway. Me love you firs.



Hi Ruth,

It’s Aziz from Lybia. You remember me of course from the time you lived here. I hear you are getting married to some guy. Really? Some American just shows up with his pretty white teeth and you swoon? What about me? What about all I did for you? I bought you flowers, you chick! Do you know how hard it is to find flowers when you live in the desert?


Nakukuba? Okakasa?


*Editor’s note. Captions translated from Rutooro by Sizzaman. He was supposed to translate to English, but he is still looking for someoen who knows enough English.


A young man attempts to revive a mythical beast; his career

The News In Grief_Sisqo

The following post is as fresh as the subject’s career. Proceed with caution

A young man attempts to revive a mythical beast; his career

A young man visits a third world country hoping to unleash a dragon. He fails. There’s no punchline, understandably, because, well, that wasn’t a joke. I’m not in the habit of, upon coming across one lying dead on the ground, flogging horses, but I was a tad curious. Was the show really as bad as people were making it to be? I set out to find the truth and as this interview will reveal, sometimes, there really are two sides to a story.

{This interview was conducted with a White Reveler; WR, because of how supportive they tend to be}

ULK:     I know you’ve got to go back to carrying your burdens, so I’l just get right into it. Was the show bad?

WR:     Not at all. Unlike other shows, I found that I was rooted to the spot. I was on my legs the whole time. It was not a bad show, though some may say it was.

ULK:     There are reports that if someone wanted to move about, they could with relative ease…

WR:     How is that a bad thing? Ugandans are juts haters. Actually, I think the organisers have to be given credit for how they placed us during this show. At no point did I think, shit, we are squeezed. It was roomy.

ULK:     Can you tell us a thing or two about Sisqo’s grand entrance?

WR:     Actually, yours is an interesting choice of words. I was there with my friends and suddenly this grey haired guy, sort of like a ‘negative’ of Eminem leaps on to the stage. I remember my first thought was, “Who let jaja out of his cage?”

ULK:     You keep your grandfather in a cage?

WR:     It’s an expression. You know how it is, you grow old, you can no longer be supported by your legs, people put you away….

ULK:    Please go on.

WR:     So anyway, this guy starts jumping up and down and that’s when we knew, “this is it”. I would say he brought us to our feet, but like I said before, we were already on them.

ULK:     But technically, if he already found you on your feet, he didn’t really do any work, did he?

WR:     It’s easy to think that, but let’s focus on the positive points. For instance, how interactive the show was.

ULK:     Interactive?

WR:     Why yes, when he sung the thong song, I kid you not, it felt like there was a thong right in front of me. I could practically feel it…

ULK:     What of Unleash The Dragon?

WR:     Well, you don’t see a thong in front of you and not instinctively think, I’ve got to get it and Unleash the Dragon…

ULK:     Were the ladies impressed? We often hear tale of artistes who come and perform and chicks just lose it. Was it any different, given how the age has caught up and possibly overtaken Sisqo?

WR:     Well, let’s just say that by the end of the show, many people in attendance were, how do I put this delicately, er…wet.

ULK:     Was it the rain?

WR:     ….yes, that would be the joke I was going for. Seriously though, my mates and I all had a good time. I have the photos to prove it. Here, share these with your readers…

Our interviewee unloads


reveller’s on their feet, having fun


A would-be reveller looks on, green with envy


Revellers; the morning after

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.


SMOKED: AN episode in Kamwokya

A joint was smoked this morning.

In the joint’s defense, it didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

The joint (referred to as ziggy by those who got a chance to know him personally) was rolled by a raggedy young rasta by the name of Jay Jaw MC Esquire, an aspiring Roko Artis with Kamwokya Pot Holes, a not so new  record label out of (you guessed it) Kamwokya.

After being admired for his symmetry and neat, streamlined form by all the rastas present, ziggy was quickly smoked before the mad props and general ululation could cause him to start over feeling himself.

“It’s not the joints that feel sweetest that necessarily smoke the sweetest. Vanity will always be a sin. Jah Rastafari! “One dreadlocked sage of indeterminate sex was heard saying.

Once smoking commenced the effects were immediate. Eye witnesses reported that one rasta was so charged his dreads stood up straight, like iron filings in a science experiment.

Happiness is killing me!!!!

As soon the effects set in; Rastas began laughing and philosophizing in every direction. Everyone was talking at once. You could think you were in Parliament, albeit one with a slightly higher collective IQ.

Nonetheless, the general Kamwokya community was not amused. Onlookers were affronted and irritated by what was termed as “a bunch of ragamuffins laughing sillyly and carrying on”.

A fat loser by the name of Winston who pretends to be a broker said it best.

“This is simply not excusable! We are Ugandans! Everywhere you look, we are being robbed, load- shedded, pot holed, tear gassed, grasshoppered, striked… For crying out loud! Can’t we show some respect for our national vocation and just be miserable? Look at these lumpens! Blariful!”

A lumpen of the blariful variety

That was when Urban Legend was contacted. Because also us we are lumpens who have no respect and regularly precipitate silly laughing and carrying on.


As soon as we arrived on the scene, we immediately started hunting down any brothers, sisters, nephews or nieces of the recently cremated ziggy. Sleek even bought sun goggles (that is what he called them) so he could try out those moves of Horatio Caine on CSI Miami.

... and you thought being sleek was easy

Unfortunately we were not able to locate any relatives of the recently departed ziggy (RIP). Sleek found the burnt matchstick they used and so got to try out his moves after all. The rest of us unfortunately, were not that lucky. So we just took our sober selves back to the office and passed the time saying funny but unkind things about racist people on Facebook.


DUMPED: A Tale of Heartbreak and Rejection

A dustbin was emptied in Kampala today.

Needless to say this greatly hurt the dustbin’s feelings.

“To think that I have nursed and cherished that motley collection of biscuit wrappers and crumpled paper for this long to be abandoned like that? Not cool. Not cool at all, in fact I am yet to come to terms with it.” The visibly distressed dustbin confided to our reporter this morning.

Consultations with other inmates at the office revealed that the dustbin suffers deeply every time the rubbish is thrown out. Our reporter found them huddled in the tea room gossiping,

“I don’t know why she can’t seem to understand that that is the way of the world. You aren’t supposed to get attached to rubbish. Rubbish always leaves you,” vehemently argued Regina, the Office Fattie who also part times as a low self esteem reservoir for the entire street.

“That refuse collection device is an intuitively compulsive nurturer,” Interjected a loud mouthed bore by the name of Reginald.

“The quandary of aforesaid conundrum is that such stereotypes want to be needed. But the nature of rubbish is that it is not needed. Ergo that ipso fact cannot co-currently need per se. it is estopped. You get my drift?

Blank stares. Reginald ploughed on.

That said I am convinced that to subsidize her emotional facilities our dear dustbin can only attain altruistic balance in a semblance of a profession that suits her. Nursing maybe? At any ratethat is my position and come what may I am determined to stick to It.” concluded Reginald who to this day still nurtures an ambition of being an intellectual and charismatic orator.

“Ah! She is like that!” declared Rita, the office coquette. (You’d be hard pressed to find anybody or anything that Regina hates with more intensity. Which is understandable; while Rita is pretty and flirty with a thin waist and perky boobs, Regina is a waddling cave woman with thighs like rolls of carpet.)

“The dustbin is like that,” continued Rita, batting her eye-lashes so fast it was a wonder they didn’t just fly off her face. “For me I think she likes being miserable. Anyway some of us girls are like that.”

At this point Rita excused herself to visit the washroom. Her eyes had begun smoking from all the eye-batting friction and she needed to apply more break-fluid. Our reporter decided to visit the management to see what they had to say about the dustbins state of heart.

“Why are you interested in the dustbin anyway? She will get over it. It’s kind of her job. Wait and see.” said the General Manager, and indeed by the time we went to press, the dustbin was lovingly cradling some mangada peels in its bosom.

The coffee that could have saved the world…

A Mug of coffee was drunk this morning; somewhere in one of the coffee shops of this fine city.

The empty mug in was adamant in his claims that the coffee that he had lately hosted was special in some cosmic way and that the drinking of aforesaid coffee was of paramount importance to mankind. To quote, he said mankind was doomed. me. I am the mug, my name is Jeremy

“You don’t understand!” Jeremy said sobbing, “that 0.23 liters of hot water, sugar and dried crushed coffee seeds; that 2.3 liters was special!!!!i could tell from the way it bubbled and kicked within me. (Maybe the coffee had made him pregnant?)

Either way attempts to console him were futile.

“I tried to tell the madam who was drinking from me to take a moment and think about what she was doing,” he continued; “but alas, she couldn’t understand me. It seems she doesn’t speak Mug.”

Nota Bene: We have UPE to blame for that. If it wasn’t for UPE all of us would be chatting away in the ancient language of Mug. Can you believe? We fucking know what Nota Bene is but we cannot trade pleasantries with our crockery. It’s enough to make you weep.

Moving on…
A psychiatrist was procured to evaluate this Mug’s mental stability. The authorities seemed rather disturbed (as they should) that an ordinary mug should mourn so deeply the death of a coffee that wasn’t a relative, close family friend or at least a friend with benefits.

A psychiatrist was procured and left in the room alone with Monsieur le Mug. Everything was hunky dory; psychiatrist was sitting in a straight backed chair holding a clip board and the Mug lying on a leather couch thinking about his childhood at the speed of fifty dollars an hour. It was postcard perfect if you ask me. Which you haven’t but that doesn’t matter because I have already told you. Mua Ha ha!!

That was totally uncalled for and very journalistically unprofessional of me. I need to be punished.

oooh ooh .... yeah!!!


When the authorities came back twenty minutes later they found the psychiatrist on the couch and the Mug seated in the chair holding the clipboard and muttering threats.

I tell you that coffee was of cosmic importance but you don’t listen!! Psychoanalyze me again and I will put you in a cup and drink you! Bitxch!

The authorities (the very same) were finally prevailed upon to investigate his assertions as to the coffee’s Messiah like properties. The madam who had originally purchased the coffee was located and put to task to reproduce the coffee she had drunk as it might be some epic shizz.

Unfortunately we will never ever TRULY understand what that cup of coffee could have done for mankind. coz its gone. Within it might have been a message from the aliens, a cure for cancer or some other equally epicness. but we will never know…
And that is the end of my story.

(c) My Nursery Class Story Telling. circa 1980... Do not copy without permission of the author

The Drinking of a Beer

A beer was drunk in Mukono this morning.
The beer was itself confused to be drunk. Kumanya it was for reeyo reeyo confused, its first question when the barman picked it from the freezer was, “Warup? Is this guy drank” the irony of the statement being of course, that it was in its beingness itself an alcoholic beverage (the tendency of which is to get people drank) and that it was about to be, you guessed it… drunk.
Following that highly dubious paragraph, in which Past Participle, Past Perfect and Past Simple tense forms of the verb “drink” have rubbed some very uncomfortable shoulders together, we now proceed with the rest of the story.
The drinking was in itself unremarkable, the barman picked it up, (eye-witnesses are still hotly contesting whether it was a Nile Special or a Red Top) and the patron of the bar, a UCU student commonly referred to as OO, swallowed it in one neat gulp.  Yes, one gulp.

Mrs Rhoda Buntuntu, a cigarette and sweet seller who happens to work near the bar was available for comment.
“Eh, I have never seen a beer swallowed like that, quickly quickly, moreever live! LIVE!  no glass, no straw, no condom, no  nothing!

That though, was still not all that remarkable,. This is UCU we are talking about. What was remarkable was the timing. It is highly irregular, even in UCU, to drink ice- cold beer at 9 in the am and more so in weather such as this. If you want know what I mean when I refer to the weather, I am talking about the fact that it is so cold right now that every girl I meet who is wearing a T-shirt looks like she has thorns for nipples.


Don’t scratch me!!

Consultations with his close friends reveal that OO was depressed. Reason being, his girl had just chucked him. So he took it out on the beer.
By press time we were yet to establish the reason for the chucking, but gossip seems to suggest that it had something to do with a carrot and (or) a TLC cassette tape.

To be honest even me I just felt like my gasts had been flabbered and my boozles had been bammed when I heard that, but what to do.

The entire ULK staff wishes to offer condolences to the family of the late beer. We also wish OO’s heart a speedy recovery.

And with that dear reader, I wish you Good Luck and Good Night.
End of broadcast.

This is the caption