I like the title. Really, it has nothing to do with the post that follows. I come up with lines that won't let me alone like that all the time. This is why I carry around with me notebooks all over the place (btw...Timothy Bukumunhe's latest ettiquette article about the obsession with his fountain pen connects oh so well!)
Today is a sort of crossroads. For the first time in many months, I'm in office on a Saturday evening. Not since I left my other job and hightailed to Juba, Sudan have I been in any office on a Saturday
evening. In a nostalgic kind of drinking bitter rum way, I think I have missed this, a little.
I remember the days after such an evening, dialing up the people I used to go bingeing with all night, suddenly impatient to flee the office on light feet, to wait for the taxi alone because Saturday evenings in Kampala before 9pm have about them an understated jollity. Like everyone knows a party is about to begin but no one wants to give away how eager they are for the party. I remember the tingling anticipation of who we might run into in our escapades, who I might meet and if I was in the mood decide I was not going to let her out of my sight for the rest of evening and sometimes the weekend. I remember already knowing how the Sunday mid morning would find me, stretched out in bed-sometimes in my bed, sometimes not in my house, sometimes not even in someone's home but actually still in some club—trying to talk myself into the mood that after I had gotten something down in my stomach, after I had washed up, rinsed my mouth, this time I would see myself in church in the evening and get on my knees and I would reconnect with whatever little glimmers of religion were left in me, knowing even as I tried to gingerly lift myself up, and not provoke a hammering hangover in my head, that walking to whatever church—there would be a video library, there would be a phone-call, there would always be something else so interesting that hurrying feet would lead me to it and Sunday would be over before I knew it and Monday was here and the work week and I was going to do it all over again.
Just a little bit of that has been coming back. But that is not the only strangeness about this Saturday evening. Another bizarreness has crept up on me. This week has been full of them-events so tremblingly traumatic that I cannot help but wonder when I will ever internalize the implications of all of them, how far-reaching some of them are going to be in my life. I have begun another chapter, in a way, you could say….
The unbelievable is about to happen. I'm stepping out to attend the overpriced, over advertised, supposedly glitzy social event of the year, the 2008 Pearl of Africa Music Awards. After five years of turning down invitations, conspiring to be ill with an alibi on the weekends they fall, protesting I'm too broke to afford the drinks at the bar I suppose they set up, justifiably claiming not to have any clothes that would not shame whatever sorry corporation had me on their roster at the time; this year I ran out of excuses. I got caught. I have to go. I wonder what I'm going to make of it all!
PS: I have received a lot of complaints mbu my blogger blocks guys who do not have google accounts and what not from commenting. I have removed that impediment, oh reader! Anything to keep you happy. :-)
Spammers keep away!