Monday, August 30, 2010

That Evening Sun (Faulkner)

Sometimes you can see the sun god in the evening sun!

Thursday, August 26, 2010

And No One Knows Where The Night is Flowing...

I will not give him a chance to be alone with me. Because I know him. I know what will happen if I'm alone with him I let him talk. I will change my mind. I will think and remember back to how much I know I owe him. How much coming into my life changed it so radically.
I was almost without hope when I met him. I was on the verge of giving up the last dream I had been holding onto. After I had given up all the others. He was special, after all the crap I had gone through. You have no idea what it is like to meet someone who keeps their word after you have started to exist in a mind frame and world that accepts people do not keep their word. When a partner tells you, from this 300,000 shillings you have lent me, I will make sure we get 1,000,000 shillings and 500,000 of it will be yours-because you are the main and only investor! Two weeks later, get that call, when you are supposed to be going to meet the landlord, get a call that Saturday morning-and he’s laughing, crying, ululating down the phone line because the deal has come through, you have been paid, and you have 1,000,000 shillings to spare-‘Come my friend, and get your money.’
Meeting someone like that who, when everyone is telling you, yes, that boss of yours is a piece of shit, but you need the job, hang in there. He says, you can do better than that. You are the talent, talent will never be unemployed. Leave and you will find something new. Look, I will help you. But man, leave, or you will lose more than the two months he has not paid you not. Someone like him who did not see hurdles in the way but a new path you are forced to take that in hindsight might actually be the road you should have been on.
I needed him. I needed him when I was lost. He was my guide, my prophet, the one eyed stranger leading me when I was blind. No one knows like he knows, how much I relied on him—teaching me that when you knew how, you could get in touch with anyone, get anything you wanted, if you knew who to ask. That money was important, yes, but it was attitude that counted more. You had to look money before you had money, one of his lessons. I learned, when I had no other teacher, from him.
I also learned, when to go on, from him. I was just doing this. Going on from him. Like, before, so many had gone on, from me. I was only doing that.
He could not see that we could not go on the way he wanted us to run this business. We could not go on creating and leaving for others to perfect and mass market our products. We needed to slow down, concentrate on a few and mass market for ourselves. But he did not see it this way. Yet when we had built quite a self sustaining capital base, then we could go back to the innovating, to the trying out our wild, kafunda ideas again. Why could he not see that?
The lawyers saw it at once, and they have no proper understanding of our business. They can see that you need to have money to be able to effectively protect yourself. It is not cruelty to strike before you are struck. I just wish he could see this, but there isn’t the time, and I can’t try to explain it all again.
I have not betrayed him. I have not betrayed the Friday 3am clowning in the office because we were too tired to work anymore but it was too late to go back home-so we would eat the rolexes we had bought, sleep in the lounge chairs, wash and work Saturday morning till midday. No, I have not betrayed that. The compensation is going to make him catch his breath, I insisted it be good.
I will not be the defeated Binaisa ghost stumbling through the ruins of my life...
And no one knows where the night is going ...

Those who dance, begin to dance
Those who weep begin
Those who earnestly are lost
Are lost and lost again

And no one knows where the night is going ...

One by the guests arrive
The guests are coming through
The broken-hearted many
The open-hearted few

And no one knows where the night is going ...
The Guests by Leonard Cohen

At Some Point...

I could not believe it myself!

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Last One for 2Day-I Swear! You gonna pay me my money?!

If I Could Craft my Own Search Engine...

A vicious rumour (false, I hope!), gossip fodder so salacious, has been making the rounds so insistently that even the BBC had to broadcast something about it. Mbu Google might start charging some sort of subscription to access some of its services, especially its very popular search engine facilities. 
Will I miss the Google search engine, in case it becomes a pay for service on the net? Truth be told, not really.  A few years ago, yeah, when the Yahoo! Search facility was still so crappy. But almost all search engine facilities on the net are up to the same standard, I think I would just probably adjust to a new one and leave Google behind.
Now if the Google search engine was more customizable to my particular needs, that would be entirely different. Like what I want in blogs, when I’m searching for new blogs to read. As you might have noticed, over the last two years, Ugandan bloggers have become scarcer to find. Yeah, there are hundreds of Ugandan registered blogs but of those hundreds, probably not more than 50 update more than five times in a month. so a blog fans like I has got to search for new blogs to read away from Uganda!
If I could tweak and customize my search engine more, this is what I would tell it I look for in blogs I’m going to read more than once, blogs whose links I’m going to put up in my links.

a.       I like bloggers who treat their blogs as more than just blogs, each post (however brief, however off the fly) as not just a rant, a vent-but another page in the book of their life, their development, their beliefs, their world. It need not be world changing, but I need to believe it is true, to them.

b.       I like blog pictures, blog art work, yeah; you could call me a collector.  Photos of home parties to travel photographs of amusing sign posters, to this crazy town scene you just happened to stumble upon when you were just down town, or even a photo of your blogging room, I love them all! I hunger for them. I don’t know why, but often I find them ‘realer’ than the studio portraits and ‘professional’ photographs. Increasingly, as my net speed allows it, I’m beginning to get into home videos, clips into lives, that sort of thing. There is one on YouTube about cat betrayed by his girlfriend, hilarious! It says it all, what I look for in these videos.

c.       Unique perspective. No ‘fronting,’ trying to sound like a cross between Chris Rock and a Crackers comedian. Just you. Be you a melancholic, a sanguine philosopher, obsessed with the colour of beach stones, only able to blog about your complicated love life, or a conspiracy nut believer that everything wrong in Uganda somehow has its source in Museveni. As long as I sense your perspective is yours, I’m usually hooked. I don’t mind what side you take, just be interesting.

d.       Authentic Uganda. Now that’s what I’m searching for, ever looking for. I don’t know what exactly it means, but I know it is there. I know it is there when I’m in a taxi and one person begins to moan about the potholes and the taxi becomes a swaying hymn of opinions about potholes. I know it is there when a forest is about to be sold off, and suddenly viral, Kampalans who you never thought you would see in a street protest are suddenly on the street, so pissed, so angry, not even live bullets will so quickly cause them to take cover. I know this Uganda is there. The Parliamentarians won’t talk about what makes us Ugandan, it certainly is not taught in school, but Ugandans in the street talk about it all the time. I don’t expect to find it in the heavily self censoring and staid newspapers, but I have a hope somewhere floating on the net, a few people are putting out the authentic Uganda. I keep coming back for that.

Nina Simone - Ain't Got No...I've Got Life

Temple Grandin - HBO Original Film starring Claire Danes

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Saturday, August 14, 2010


You were my first grown up lover. Heck, sometimes it feels like you were my only grown up lover. Is this why some things about you return to me, again and again? With such stunning clarity, with startling vividness, that I catch my breath, holding it as long as I can, because I know this refreshed memory will with my exhaling breath be gone again. The sad lingering to remain. Have me for days unable to leave my music room; because that is the only place I preserved you. Allowed any trace of you to remain. In the music we used to listen to together.
When you used to be so amused by my maniac desire to label everything. Even music. Determine this music was for us, for our moods, for the time we managed to have together. Looking back, which was surprisingly a lot of time, for me. I never seemed, before you, after you, to quite have enough time for anyone else. Though I can’t exactly say what keeps me so preoccupied, other than this Sisyphus rolling of sentences. But with you, I took out whole afternoons, then evenings, and began to discover the meaning of weekends. Cherishing them like a poet who works in a bank cherishes his Sundays.
Our love story is the story I will never be able to properly tell because it is the most painful of all. The most personal. The only one that has mattered to me, I have thought about, dreamed in my sleep, and seen in things others saw nothing in. I have tried everything to get you out of me.
I have tried to drink you out of me. Blinding hangovers from nights of taking the bitterest of stuff I could find, stuff that left particles heavy as sand and dust on my tongue, and I had no idea who the distiller was.
Am I glad you are so far from me right now? Yes! I yank it out of me. Yes, I’m glad you are not so near because I know if you were nearby I would not have even the weeks in between of mind peace I can get. When I have tried very hard not to let myself think of you, of us, and how I have no one to blame.
I should like to be the injured party. I should like to play the victim. I should like to have a reason to drink myself to a stupor till the day I die. I would like to have you to blame. I would like to say you ruined me. I would like to say you spoiled love for me. I would like to put it all on you. Make it simple. Have the beginning we never quite had, I was not aware of. The middle I knew and you told me often could not last. The end that came in agonising bits. But it is not like that at all. It is all messed up like the messes I used to hear adult life is made up of.
Some of the end seemed like a beginning. As we made impossible promises, meaning them in the whispered lip to lip confessions. The middle was like it was already over sometimes, you on the phone explaining to him why you would be late but you were coming home and you could have more time together with him because this conference was finally done with. The beginning was like mere courtesy, what could come of chatting over a meal in a restaurant we did not frequent so much and were unlikely to come back to, we were just being polite.
I have been afraid of that since you. Mere public politeness. How could I have known a hullo, because I was struck by the unusual smoothness of your baby fat face, could lead to this? How could I have known the good girl in you everyone worshipped liked smoking secretly this thing I shared with no one, had never, since my truant secondary school years? That our addictions would be more binds? That I could begin to think, Oh God was I mad?, this is it? Is this what they mean when those silly reach-me-down romantics insist there is a one? All adult wisdom may insist you can be happy with anyone but there is a one? The tragedy of it all is you know when sometimes you have lost them? Like the second cup of crappy coffee has you spitting in the sink, trying to recreate the calculations of the first you made?
Footloose wanderer, you wanted permanence for the first time. You told me some things I still think about now. With a wry smile. A tear at the corner of my eye that will never fall. Because I don’t cry for anyone, not even myself. ‘I worry when you are out. When you are not with me. That has never happened to me. I have never asked a guy where he is.’
This is how I deal with it. This is how I get through day by day. This is how I bear with it all. I tell myself it was all a physical thing. Nothing more. We were animals with each other. That’s all it was. You let me do to you things I will never do with anyone. Let me see and touch, like no decent woman would/should, and there was no shame. You got me to relinquish control, surrender, swearing worse than Men At Work labourers, vulgarities I did not know I knew. You can’t have a lifetime on the physical. You’ve got to be able to intellectually chat, come from backgrounds that somehow match, one of you has got to lead and the other follow. You cannot live like horny teenagers forever. The teenage age passes, responsibilities come. I put it that way. I deal with it like that.
Then why do you still plague me??? Like a man with a conscience and his first murder committed for the greater good? Why are you still in my side view mirror? I have gone miles and miles, I have more to go. I will go them. Be gone, ghost! You’re the past! You’re in the past. I wish you would go. Please go. There is supposed to be a point of no return. Everyone says so.

Monday, August 09, 2010

Ugandan Plays On BBC

Because I know there are some really interested in this sort of thing...

Remember Uganda sweeping the BBC African play-writing competition 2010?  All the more prestigious because it in it's 50th year? We finally get to hear the plays. I got the timetables just for you!

Thursday 5th August: Week 1 - Will Smith Look- Alike, By Deborah Asiimwe (Uganda)

Thursday 12th August: Week 2 - The Coffin Factory, by Julia Childs (UK)

Thursday 19th August: Week 3 - Kitu Kidogo, by Antwine Bashir Kenneth (Uganda)

Thursday 26th August: Week 4 - The Cow Needs A Wife, by Angella Emurwon|(Uganda)

Thursday 2nd September: Week 5 - Mandida's Shoes, by Mike Mware (Zimbabwe)

Thursday 9th September: Week 6 - At Her Majesty's Pleasure (An extended version of our regular weekend network offer - resident president )

K'naan in Uganda!

For a moment, I thought I had run into K'naan (2010 World Cup Waving Flag song guy) at a local night club, when I bumped into this guy! I mean, can you see the resemblance or is it just me?

He calls himself Tutuman, Firebase Crew. 

Monday, August 02, 2010

Call Me Sometime, I Would Like It

I reach for the notebook you wrote your name in, your email address...quench this love hunger!

When I met you at a film premiere, I knew at once this was no ordinary meeting. This was no usual introduction. Though the sky above us did not streak with lightening, the ground below us did not rumble with dark underworld forces heralding a change. But UMEME did notice and plunge us into a temporary darkness before the generator came sulkily into sputtering service. As I held your tiny, somewhat rough palm into mine, could tell, beyond the twinkling nose ring on your pert nose, this hand hold-shake would not be enough.

The guy who introduced us, a Mr. with opinions on everything usually actually worth paying attention most of the time, who has known you a long time, did not see it. But he must have sensed it. Because you started to tell us of opportunities and chances, openings you never talked about with him, at your place of work, for someone like me, that took him by surprise. Though he was equally interested, it said something that sharing a kavera of popcorns with him; you started shifting foot by foot closer to me. I know now you knew it before me that this was casual meeting before we would walk into the embracing darkness of that somewhat shabby musty hall to watch the Yogera premiere.

I’m sitting here wondering, hours later, what has come over me. Why can I not stop thinking you? This is dangerous. This is not good. I’m supposed to be done with this phase of my life. I’m not supposed to be still shaken to my core by a meeting with someone I had never heard of before, unusually for me, your email is now seared in my memory. I dare not look at your number because I know I will start those after midnight calls I have not made for years and years now. How is it that you stir me so deeply? You, whose existence, a day before I was so blissfully unaware of?

I know with absolute, frightening certainty my next moves towards including you in my life will upend all my world completely. Everything that was until this day, evening, I met you, was heading towards its predetermined course will be wrecked, thrown off course. Nothing will be the same or ever like it was before. That guy who introduced us, talked about this (but before you came, and was not talking about you), knows about altered destinies. When he was talking about how those humiliating ‘nude’ photos in a Red Pepper style tabloid, or splashed on a blog, Facebook, detour your life—and as it changes, the ‘victim’ locked down in this comedown, will always see how their life could have been so different, had those photos not come out, changed everything.

You did not say anything particularly clever, or witty-so is this lust? Here I’m scribbling away like an adolescent again. Notice that? This is the only way I can bring myself to deal with what is happening. Reduce it all to some unimportant passing fancy because I know, what other way is there? Confession? I damn near came close, and what was so jarring, you would not have been surprised. Is that why you hang back, waited until almost everyone had gone in the hall, were alone so we could talk? Really talk.

Now this is funny. You were standing on that stage, the stage Abbey Mukiibi and Patricko Mujuuka use every week for their Akandolindoli Tuesday Comedy Nights and you were waiting. You did not seem surprised at all, when I came to you in the semi darkness. I kept thinking, this is a joke, this is a joke, where’s the punch line? When you breathed my name, I have not had a thrill like that in a long time. It says something that I had my camera on me, took 200 photos on this evening, and not one of you. I will be seeing you again.