Category Archives: Memory Lane

Just One Of Those Days | Part 02

It’s not 6 anymore…

You would expect that this sort of thing would faze our hapless hero. It doesn’t. He toys around with the idea of calling in sick and then stops in his tracks. It occurs to him he has used up his “sick quota”. Usually as a result of binge drinking. Never as a result of this. In retrospect, this is not the kind of thing you can expect to happen, so it goes without saying, you never really plan for it.

Cedric hasn’t and he accepts the card fate has dealt him. It’s a stack of cards, but that’s not really important. He dresses up and rues the fact that he is without any credit on his mobile phone. He would like to think that’s the reason he isn’t calling in sick. He picks up a tie that coincidentally spreads out in a user friendly way, and places it delicately over the stain on his shirt. For good measure he empties the can of deodorant spray on himself. It may be an old shirt, one that he wore yesterday, but, if he smells good he can get away with just about anything.

He refuses to accept that life has actually turned on him so he lingers around a little longer, hoping that the people at the power company will accidentally switch the power back on.

They don’t. They are steadfast in his resolve to make life hard for him. He realizes that now so he stumbles out of his house.

For a fleeting moment he expects to find his car rendered immobile, suspended on some building bricks in such a way as if to suggest that we are in fact back in the Stone Age and Fred Flintstone is the lead character in this tale.

He lets out a sigh of relief as he acknowledges that he is being overly paranoid. He jumps into his car and as he revs the engine makes sure that he is in fact tuned to a listener friendly station.

He moves on without incident. Aside, perhaps, from stopping and picking up a pack of strong mints. The attendant behind the counter seems to sympathize with him. He can tell. Its in the look she gives him as she hands him his pack from a distance…it’s a cross between holding her breath in the hope that he will leave or at least stop talking before she passes out and genuine disbelief that anyone can possibly have morning breath that bad.

There’s a terrible traffic jam up ahead, but that doesn’t matter. Cedric has used public transportation before and he knows his way around these things. He knows of routes that even the guy that plans the roads of the city doesn’t know about. He is, without a doubt, in his element…until he gets stopped for driving without using a seat belt.

The traffic officer, for that is the preferred title for these individuals, is clearly pleased with himself. He wears a smile that can only be duplicated on the face of a pubescent horny lad that has lost his virginity to the goody-two-shoes in the class above him. It may also be similar to the one worn by a politician that has survived close scrutiny in a case involving misappropriation of funds.

So with his “I did the headgirl” look, the traffic officer proceeds to strike up some idle chit-chat with Cedric. Cedric is bored, but he is afraid of letting this show on his face lest the rather inarticulate officer catches on and fines him. He endures this for a bit until, probably bored with the one sided conversation that has stretched into 20 something minutes, the officer lets Cedric off with a warning.

As Cedric mutters his thanks (and under his breath his conviction that traffic officers are really chimps still trying to come to terms with the whole concept of evolution) the cop leans over, so close that Cedric can almost feel an eyelash making contact with his skin, he ‘advises’ Cedric to pick up a toothbrush and some toothpaste from the nearest shop.

It’s advice that goes unheeded.

Cedric makes it to the office an hour late. Actually, that’s a lie. He drives through the gate that leads up to the office building an hour late. The look on the gatekeeper’s face is not very reassuring. For all his hard ups and possibly the misery that he has suffered in his life, he seems to be looking at Cedric with pity. If he had the capacity to read thoughts (as his teachers seemingly did) Cedric would know that the gate keeper really does sympathize with him and is now pleased with his own job. He is convinced that if he too was working inside the building he would look haggard and fraught with misery.

Cedric walks into the building and heads towards the stairs…his office is not really on the 12th floor par se…Then he reconsiders. He remembers all the looks that he has been getting and he figures that he should use the elevator, if for nothing else to avoid more glances and possibly avail himself an opportunity to look at himself in the elevator that was installed in it for such situations.

As the door closes, Cedric begins to make a self-assessment and tries to believe the worst is behind him. Fate hears that and laughs a nasty little laugh that only fate can…then puts a call through to its accomplice at the power company.

The line is busy!

The doors open and Cedric steps out.

He walks into the office and makes a dash for his cubicle…

 

Comprehendable? Comprehensible?

 

A MEMORY LANE PIECE. PRESENTED TO YOU BY STREETSIDER…. A RENTED MESS POST FROM HIS ERICNESS. Check here.

Whatever we can’t understand we throw to science. When science fails we turn to religion. That’s where every unexplainable phenomenon is narrowed down to “God’s ways are not ours”. And that’s when you stop asking questions.

There’s, however, one thing that surpasses scientific complexity and the divine touch of religion. This…thing has unfathomable origin and its composite intricacy builds a compound web that several ancestors of Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein and Barack Obama have failed to untangle. So the Inter-universe Academy of Science and the Pope met and decided to enlist my help.

Ladies and Gentlemen it’s an honour to have you here as I dissect this…thing with the most convoluted surgical precision.

Rap Intros
Anatha joint from yo boy (yeah)/ladies (yo)/ma niggaz (yeah niggaz)/We the best shawty/remix/remix/reeemixxx/Told u we ain’t going nowhere haters/Players in the house/turn it up dawg/It’s time to heat it up (yeah)/Number one in the gaaaame/ah ah ah yeah NY City/Get yo shine on homie/Ya’ll busted niggaz/Turn up the mike Sky Storch/Perfect joint up in here/VIP mathafuckaz/yeeeaaah yeeeaaah yeeeeaaaah/uh ha/Get yo ass up if u feel me…this goes on for a whole minute and a half before the three minute song actually starts. Then all he tells you is how much money and women he’s got before abusing you.

The City Posters
Land for sell/We deal in…funs and radio players…/Gain weight simultaneously/Simparks available/We plan events and bake cakes for weddings, parties…funerals…/Die in style…with the best coffins/MTN airtime for all networks available here/Find piece in Jesus. Call…

That FM Morning Show Presenter
Verbatim: “Good morning my listeners, everyone, hello Kampala. How wars your weekeeend? Yes Weekend. Mine was the beeeest (laughs). I hard fuuun (gets hysterical!) at every joint people y’all. Fun fun fuuun. So how was your weekend boys? Call me and tell me man. Well if you’re asking I had fun. All the fun in the world. Woooo. Every club ina di city centre of Kampala was fun. There was fun eeeeeverywhere. Am going for a short break but when I return back we shall talk about fuuuurrrn…” By the way did this guy tell you he had fun? He didn’t?

Love Stoned
-“Baby I want to marry you in the end. Me and this guy are just having fun”
-“Let’s wait for the right time” (She’s 35 and he’s 38)
-“Kale me it doesn’t matter even if you’re poor…(minutes later)…”Sweetheart could we please go for the PAM awards with my friends? We can all use a cab”
-“I love you hon.” “Thanks too dear.”
-“…you are too small and can’t even grow bigger…” Part of a reason for the breakup.

Bureaucratic Uganda
General Manager: “You have to see the accountant first”

Accountant: “No no no. You have to get the Director’s signature before coming here.”

Director: “Have you seen the accountant?” “Yes Sir.” “Well let him sign then you can come back.”

Accountant: “I told you to see the Director. Let me see…Okay, I see the problem. Go to the General Manager for a chit and another form.”

Director: “No, you don’t need the forms anymore. The format changed. You can go to the accountant.”

Accountant: (Out for lunch)

I’m still trying to find solutions before I present my final analysis. It deeply hurts my pride to have to ask you guys but…please help.

Just One Of Those Days | Part 01

It starts at 6:30am…

It’s not usually the time he gets up, but the things that happened during the course of the night have greatly impacted his sleeping habits. The most prominent event during the course of his slumber was the unannounced visit of the mosquito brigade. No, not brigade. More like a choir. Brigades seem to have some sort of purpose. And yet, for as long as he can remember, choirs have seldom done anything useful…well save for worshiping God. That fact alone sees him disqualify the word choir in reference to his nocturnal visitors. They seemed to have a sense of purpose last night. Granted, even in nights past they seemingly know what they want and go out and get it, but usually there’s some sort of agreement. No activity until he is deep in slumber. No documents were signed, but they seemed to have reached a compromise. Either that or the mosquitoes had since enrolled in some school that imparted the elusive skill that is Tact.

Moqui

Nigger what?

He stumbles out of bed. He would have loved to lie in bed longer, but the presenter on radio seems to have got a new lease on life and is going into overdrive. It doesn’t help that he has clearly refused to give the English language a chance. At the very least he should have the decency to pronounce the artistes’ names properly. That’s clearly not his style. He’d much rather prattle on about his recent trip to the United States of “A”…there’s a brief pause as though there’s the desire to have the listener fall out of his seat, attributing the eventual brain tumor to the suspense that was created. The presenter goes on, asks people to call in so he can gloat some more. It’s starting to seem like this guy is actually convinced that the whole world does in fact revolve around him.

It’s also evident that the entity around whom this tale revolves has not yet been given a name. Names are not important. So we are led to believe from the whole sticks and stones may break my bones banter that we spew whenever or wherever we feel cornered by a 13 year old foaming at the mouth with filth and profanity picked up from stand up comedy.
Nonetheless, we christen this hapless individual, we call him Cedric. It’s a fictitious name, randomly given so that I need not explain myself to the other obvious choices.

Cedric makes his way to the bathroom.

It’s the sort of thing he would do. He has to get ready for work. In his state of transition between sleep and whatever state we are in when we are not sleeping, Cedric makes his first significant contact on this Thursday morning. He collides with the shelf. Suddenly the idea to have the shelf carved out of the heaviest wood money could buy is flung out of the window. The cusses he unleashes do not quite make it to the window.
In fact, they do not even make it past his mouth. It’s simply too much work.

He limps to the bathroom, passing a stack of clothes he is certain he’d left behind for the house help to wash. The reality that he has no clothes to wear begins to sink in. he climbs into the shower where his hand is greeted by emptiness where it ordinarily has its rendezvous with the bathing soap.

Cedric is the poster child for Calm. He will not let this faze him. He reaches for the washing soap and holds his breath hoping this will actually prevent the strong cheap smell from registering.
Denial does its work and he is also convinced that the cheap scent is not stuck to his skin as he steps out of the shower. Fate considers making him slide on the bathroom floor and dishing out a compound fracture…then it hesitates, there’s more in store for Cedric.

As if to send the point home, Cedric’s hand “bounces” yet again. There seems to be no tube of toothpaste. Well, it’s not really a case of “there seems to be”, it’s pretty obvious that there’s none.
Cedric, practical guy that he suddenly is, figures that he can remedy this by chewing some really strong menthol laced gum.

He also figures that he can wear yesterday’s clothes and get away with it. It’s called “rebounding”. So he reckons he will rebound. For it to actually have a term must mean its an okay idea, one he is so pleased with; he convinces himself he can also hide the stain on his shirt by elegantly drooping his tie over it.

Suddenly, the obnoxious presenter has gone very quiet. Cedric hopes its one of those “suspense-inducing” moments. Or, at the very best, that the presenter has suffered a stroke that has left him without a voice. This sort of wishful thinking can only go on for so long. The truth makes its first appearance in this story as it suddenly dawns on Cedric that the power company has done him in…

facebook-social-networking

Memory Lane | Face(book) the Music

Facebook, for those of you that have wandered into this century with no form of preparation whatsoever, is a social networking website. Did you pick up on the word social? Good. By its very nature, this means you interact with loads of people. from all walks of life…lawyers, teachers, refined anatomical sales associates and doctors… especially doctors.

...someone beat us to the "bark" application

I’m in the unenviable position of being friends with some of the doctors I have interacted with. Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s pretty neat to have doctors that you can actually call your friends. The problem is, you don’t have the benefit of telling those harmless lies anymore. You know the ones, “I have this friend… who got this er, boil in the middle of his er…body”

At this point, a visit to the doctor’s will probably go something like this;

-Hi doctor, I’m not feeling well…

– I can imagine, that was some crazy party you went to, eh?

-I don’t think I follow… I was home over the weekend…

-Nuh, man… don’t you remember, you were at this crib with the pool… with Shantey and that other girl… Your boy was trying to lick face..

-Oh, that… I had forgotten about that one…

– You forget way too soon, you only uploaded the pictures last night…

-What the…

-Don’t worry, doctor patient confidentiality… so anything you tell me is strictly between us… like say if you gave me Shantey’s number… I would be very professional about it… you know, you could suggest that she becomes my friend…

- Well, I don’t know her that well…

-Come on guy, you have 69 friends in common… but enough of that, what’s the problem?

- Well, I feel a little under the weather…

-Like your head’s got a truck trying to come out of it?

-Yes…

– And like everything you eat won’t get along with your insides and wants to leave? Using whatever exit is available?

-Yes doctor, how did you know…

– It’s your current status message

-Oh

-Don’t worry about it, I reckon it’s a hangover… Ernest was right. Do you think he would let me friend him?

-What?

-You’re probably right, why don’t you like his status message and suggest that I like it too…

- Dude, that’s weird…

– No, weird is setting up a facebook page for antipop and then setting up multiple email accounts so you can comment..

- did you do that?

-_ Of course not… do you think I should…

- dude, focus… I’m sick.

-No, you are hangover. Just go home and rest some more. Now then…do you think it would be weird if I poked Racheal K on Facebook… you know, before we meet for real?