The 2012 Harambe Entrepreneurship Alliance Associates
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Of my Harambe Bretton Woods Symposium Experience
The CEU Weekly for this fortnight carries a story in which I write about my attendance of the Harambe Bretton Woods Symposium experience. Full story here.
The 2012 Harambe Entrepreneurship Alliance Associates
The 2012 Harambe Entrepreneurship Alliance Associates
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Interview with Sigauke on Wealth of Ideas
So, I have been talking to Emmanuel Sigauke, a Zimbabwean writer based in Sacramento, California about my writing, about Ugandan writing, African literature and a range of related topics. From the importance of setting to my writing, to the role of the writer's language of thought, we have literally talked about almost everything there is to talk about. Of course, we also talked a lot about Fables out of Nyanja. Check out the interview here.
Monday, April 9, 2012
The Nervous Conditions of my US trip and Tsitsi Dangarembga’s.
I did not know that my aversion to rules, order and the routine of schedules could extend to my reading habits. So, when I committed to participating in the Africa Reading Challenge (ARC) 2012 and corrupted the rules to suit my circumstances here, I did not know that I would end up disobeying the rules and a schedule I set up for myself. We are now in April, and despite having listed the books I would read before June/July, I still have not read them, but have instead read other books, those I did not list. When I was making the list, I left a gap for a Phase II that would include more books. My original thinking was that the books I would fall in love with, while reading those in the first phase, I would add to the list in Phase II.
But I still have Ngugi wa Thing'o’s Wizard of the Crow, John Ruganda’s The Burdens, Elechi Amadi’s The Great Ponds, Wole Soyinka’s The Lion and the Jewel and J.M. Coetzee’s Disgrace safely displayed on my shelf, unread. I had read a substantial part of Coetzee’s Disgrace but had not finished it when something happened. I do not know whether it is just the aversion to rules and schedules or because I am simply not the type that enjoys challenges. Challenges sound so much like competitions, things we do to prove ourselves; things I think distort the fluidity of life. Challenges take away the beauty of the arbitrariness of whim and impulse. I am a friend of whim. I like the energy of doing things on an impulse. I find impulse an irresistible force and I always obey its decrees, at a great risk to myself most of the times.
So, one day, in the final stages of preparing for a trip to the United States, a trip that was not to be made, but was successfully made because of the overwhelming force of resolve and a penchant for risk and ambition, I entered the library intending to drop off some over-due books. While I did the handing over of the books, some unforeseen influence, like a monsoon wind blew me towards the fiction section. I told myself that I would just peruse a few titles and leave; after all I had to do some work at the Students Union office before lunchtime. A few minutes, my eyes darted off all the Granta issues but failed to go beyond Tsitsi Dangarembga’s Nervous Conditions.
I was apprehensive at the time, it was a day to the flight date and I still had to sort some issues before I could fly to the US, issues that had a direct impact on whether to make the trip or not. The flight fare was paid already, by the university and it was too late to get a refund in case I did not make the trip. There was force from one side pushing me into the risk, but my integrity was on the line, what if, what if --- mine were nervous conditions. That is why I opened the book; the title aptly captured my state.
I have not met very many entrancing first lines as the one Tsitsi Dangarembga begins her first novel with. I instantly decided to borrow the book after reading the first page and left the library. I saw a good story unfolding and could not wait to read it to the end. Meanwhile, my apprehension over the US trip was increasing. I was to go. “To be self-assured, to be diplomatic, to be insistent” Prof. John Shattuck instructed.
Armed with a backpack, a few clothes and Nervous Conditions, I made for the airport. I was late for the airport check-in and so did it online, printed the boarding pass with the help of the university travel agent. I was on time for boarding, and as soon as I was on board, I immersed myself in Nervous Conditions only to be disturbed by the air-hostess serving brunch. I did not realize we had reached Munich where I was to rush for a connecting flight to Boston, because Nyasha’s conversations with Tambu could not let me. To be honest, I soon forgot about Nahmo's death. I can understand Tambu's callousness for not being sorry about it.
Nervous Conditions is humorous and beautifully written. It is sensitive enough without obscuring its major concerns. Some paragraphs from the book have stayed with me long after reading it. The narrator's tone is conversational and manages effortlessly to engross the reader into her world. I became ‘female’ the whole time I was reading Nervous Conditions. I even found myself endorsing the advice that one is better off losing their virginity to a tampon, which wouldn't gloat over its achievement, than to a man, who would add one’s hymen to a hoard of others. Who would not hate losing their hymen to men who wear them (hymens) around their waists, like scalps? Tsitsi Dangarembga’s writing is that seductively strong.
I have no regrets that I broke the rules and read a book I had not put on my ARC Phase I list. I have no apologies for following my impulse. Because in the condition I was, I deserved a book like Nervous Conditions to take me away from the discomforting news I received relating to my progress with the Ugandan bar-course while on my US trip. Like Tambu was not sorry for Nhamo’s dying, I had no ‘sorry’ feeling for the bad news. I enjoyed the Harambe Bretton Woods Symposium; I immersed myself fully into Yale, Harvard and Mt. St. Washington Hotel, like Tambu did at the Mission. I was determined to fly high into the clouds of social entrepreneurship, of Cultural Excellence, of Writing Culture into Development, while running determinedly from the pitiful world of boring legal practice and the slave-like brainwashing that our education system and the colonial status-quo does to us.
As the plane touched the Hungarian soil at Budapest Ferehegy Airport, like Tambu I realized that: “Quite unobtrusively and extremely fitfully, something in my mind [was asserting] itself, [questioning] things and [refusing] to be brainwashed, bringing me to this time when I can set down this story.”
But I still have Ngugi wa Thing'o’s Wizard of the Crow, John Ruganda’s The Burdens, Elechi Amadi’s The Great Ponds, Wole Soyinka’s The Lion and the Jewel and J.M. Coetzee’s Disgrace safely displayed on my shelf, unread. I had read a substantial part of Coetzee’s Disgrace but had not finished it when something happened. I do not know whether it is just the aversion to rules and schedules or because I am simply not the type that enjoys challenges. Challenges sound so much like competitions, things we do to prove ourselves; things I think distort the fluidity of life. Challenges take away the beauty of the arbitrariness of whim and impulse. I am a friend of whim. I like the energy of doing things on an impulse. I find impulse an irresistible force and I always obey its decrees, at a great risk to myself most of the times.
So, one day, in the final stages of preparing for a trip to the United States, a trip that was not to be made, but was successfully made because of the overwhelming force of resolve and a penchant for risk and ambition, I entered the library intending to drop off some over-due books. While I did the handing over of the books, some unforeseen influence, like a monsoon wind blew me towards the fiction section. I told myself that I would just peruse a few titles and leave; after all I had to do some work at the Students Union office before lunchtime. A few minutes, my eyes darted off all the Granta issues but failed to go beyond Tsitsi Dangarembga’s Nervous Conditions.
I was apprehensive at the time, it was a day to the flight date and I still had to sort some issues before I could fly to the US, issues that had a direct impact on whether to make the trip or not. The flight fare was paid already, by the university and it was too late to get a refund in case I did not make the trip. There was force from one side pushing me into the risk, but my integrity was on the line, what if, what if --- mine were nervous conditions. That is why I opened the book; the title aptly captured my state.
I was not sorry when my brother died. Nor am I apologizing for my callousness, as you may define it, my lack of feeling. For it is not that at all. I feel many things these days, much more than I was able to feel in the days when I was young and my brother died, and there are reasons for this more than the mere consequence of age. Therefore I shall not apologize but begin by recalling the facts as I remember them that led up to my brother's death, the events that put me in a position to write this account.
I have not met very many entrancing first lines as the one Tsitsi Dangarembga begins her first novel with. I instantly decided to borrow the book after reading the first page and left the library. I saw a good story unfolding and could not wait to read it to the end. Meanwhile, my apprehension over the US trip was increasing. I was to go. “To be self-assured, to be diplomatic, to be insistent” Prof. John Shattuck instructed.
Armed with a backpack, a few clothes and Nervous Conditions, I made for the airport. I was late for the airport check-in and so did it online, printed the boarding pass with the help of the university travel agent. I was on time for boarding, and as soon as I was on board, I immersed myself in Nervous Conditions only to be disturbed by the air-hostess serving brunch. I did not realize we had reached Munich where I was to rush for a connecting flight to Boston, because Nyasha’s conversations with Tambu could not let me. To be honest, I soon forgot about Nahmo's death. I can understand Tambu's callousness for not being sorry about it.
Nervous Conditions is humorous and beautifully written. It is sensitive enough without obscuring its major concerns. Some paragraphs from the book have stayed with me long after reading it. The narrator's tone is conversational and manages effortlessly to engross the reader into her world. I became ‘female’ the whole time I was reading Nervous Conditions. I even found myself endorsing the advice that one is better off losing their virginity to a tampon, which wouldn't gloat over its achievement, than to a man, who would add one’s hymen to a hoard of others. Who would not hate losing their hymen to men who wear them (hymens) around their waists, like scalps? Tsitsi Dangarembga’s writing is that seductively strong.
I have no regrets that I broke the rules and read a book I had not put on my ARC Phase I list. I have no apologies for following my impulse. Because in the condition I was, I deserved a book like Nervous Conditions to take me away from the discomforting news I received relating to my progress with the Ugandan bar-course while on my US trip. Like Tambu was not sorry for Nhamo’s dying, I had no ‘sorry’ feeling for the bad news. I enjoyed the Harambe Bretton Woods Symposium; I immersed myself fully into Yale, Harvard and Mt. St. Washington Hotel, like Tambu did at the Mission. I was determined to fly high into the clouds of social entrepreneurship, of Cultural Excellence, of Writing Culture into Development, while running determinedly from the pitiful world of boring legal practice and the slave-like brainwashing that our education system and the colonial status-quo does to us.
As the plane touched the Hungarian soil at Budapest Ferehegy Airport, like Tambu I realized that: “Quite unobtrusively and extremely fitfully, something in my mind [was asserting] itself, [questioning] things and [refusing] to be brainwashed, bringing me to this time when I can set down this story.”
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Saraba 11 and The Goat That Eats Meat
Saraba Magazine, the quarterly online publication by Iroko Publishing, in its 11th issue concentrates on the theme of sex. Let me not pretend to give a summary of the funny, deep and boundary-shifting content of the issue. Find the Publishing Note by the editors (Emmanuel Iduma & Damilola Ajayi) here for a worthy introduction.
I will not hide the fact that I am here to swell about my piece, "The Goat That Eats Meat" that has found its way in this yummy issue. I know it is vain to do this, but hey, when your piece appears alongside those penned by renown writers like Ivor Hartmann, Donald Molosi and others, there are not many options available except blowing one's own trumpet.
Anyway, just go here and download the whole issue of Saraba 11. Remember to smile away as a man struggles with the small size of his penis, but remember to pity him when he starts suffering with a large size of the same gadget in Ivor's Size Matters. I just could not help but share what I see as the highs of the interesting read that Size Matters is.
I highly recommend that you read the whole issue, all pieces are great. You will thank me for the tip. You can also read "The Goat That Eats Meat" on its own here.
I will not hide the fact that I am here to swell about my piece, "The Goat That Eats Meat" that has found its way in this yummy issue. I know it is vain to do this, but hey, when your piece appears alongside those penned by renown writers like Ivor Hartmann, Donald Molosi and others, there are not many options available except blowing one's own trumpet.
Anyway, just go here and download the whole issue of Saraba 11. Remember to smile away as a man struggles with the small size of his penis, but remember to pity him when he starts suffering with a large size of the same gadget in Ivor's Size Matters. I just could not help but share what I see as the highs of the interesting read that Size Matters is.
I highly recommend that you read the whole issue, all pieces are great. You will thank me for the tip. You can also read "The Goat That Eats Meat" on its own here.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Kashokondwa and the Maize cob
Kashokondwa, leave the maize cob
“I will leave when they harvest it.”
They harvest the maize cob.
Kashokondwa, leave the maize cob
“I will leave when they uncover it.”
They uncover the maize cob
Kashokondwa, leave the maize cob
“I will leave when they take the maize cob to the kitchen.”
They take the maize cob to the kitchen.
Kashokondwa, leave the maize cob
“I will leave when they put the maize cob on the fire to roast.”
They place the maize cob on the fire to roast.
Kashokondwa, leave the maize cob
“I will leave when the cob starts roasting.”
Kashokondwa, Kashokondwa,
Leave the maize cob
Kashokondwa does not reply
The maize cob starts roasting
Kashokondwa attempts to crawl off
The tongues of the fire catch Kashokondwa
And Kashokondwa burns to death.
*Kashokondwa is derived from eshokondwa, a caterpillar
Roasting maize on a charcoal stove
“I will leave when they harvest it.”
They harvest the maize cob.
Kashokondwa, leave the maize cob
“I will leave when they uncover it.”
They uncover the maize cob
Kashokondwa, leave the maize cob
“I will leave when they take the maize cob to the kitchen.”
They take the maize cob to the kitchen.
Kashokondwa, leave the maize cob
“I will leave when they put the maize cob on the fire to roast.”
They place the maize cob on the fire to roast.
Kashokondwa, leave the maize cob
“I will leave when the cob starts roasting.”
Kashokondwa, Kashokondwa,
Leave the maize cob
Kashokondwa does not reply
The maize cob starts roasting
Kashokondwa attempts to crawl off
The tongues of the fire catch Kashokondwa
And Kashokondwa burns to death.
*Kashokondwa is derived from eshokondwa, a caterpillar
Roasting maize on a charcoal stove
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Fables Out Of Nyanja Out!
The release of a book is not something that happens out of the blue, without the writer knowing. Much as it is the publisher who determines many of the details of the release of the book, the writer most of the time knows when the book will be released. The process of writing and being published, the process of conception and giving birth to a book under normal circumstances should prepare the writer for that moment when their book is released.
That is what I thought before 1st, March 2012. Fables Out Of Nyanja was released this week and I am a bit embarrassed that I, of all people can’t find the words to describe the feeling of having the book out, available for those who want, to have a read. I can however tell those who want a read where they can find the book. Amazon and other online bookstores, while they have not yet updated their listings, have the book.
In the meantime, you can have some love from Kushinda, the book’s publishers who are selling it on their online Book store. They are in fact offering you free postage on buying the book through their online book store. Just click here and you will be sorted.
That is what I thought before 1st, March 2012. Fables Out Of Nyanja was released this week and I am a bit embarrassed that I, of all people can’t find the words to describe the feeling of having the book out, available for those who want, to have a read. I can however tell those who want a read where they can find the book. Amazon and other online bookstores, while they have not yet updated their listings, have the book.
In the meantime, you can have some love from Kushinda, the book’s publishers who are selling it on their online Book store. They are in fact offering you free postage on buying the book through their online book store. Just click here and you will be sorted.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Being Father Theresa
It is the most promising part of my personal life. The girl I have been watching since High School days will be joining university. There is something that time spent without seeing each other does to old attractions. To be honest, I have no time to ask about what has since happened in the time we have not seen each other. My mind is on the future. Is she joining Makerere? She has to. I mean, why would she not join Makerere? I am here, and hey, we have a bright future together.
I will not wait. I know how everyone nowadays is saying that Business courses are the way to go and many have eaten this bait and gone to MUBS. She is good, definitely, she can handle any course even a Business one, but No, she will come to main campus. I go and pick the application forms for her. I silently pray that she seeks my advice as she fills them, so I can see to it that it is to Makerere that she will come. I see a brilliant journalist in her.
On my metallic bed in Nkrumah Hall she sits, we are filling the forms together; you would think it is me who is applying. I insist that she puts Journalism and Communication, Day, Evening and if there was Weekend, I would insist on it too. I make sure that there is no MUBS on this form. I assure her that those things of Business courses selling more than other courses are total lies. I tell her of people I know who are unemployed after doing Business courses. I remind her of her ability to join the journalism field immediately after graduating. You see, she started reading news at the school assembly when she was in Form Two. She even wrote for the School Mirror. I have no doubt that she is cut out for the media.
So, after filling the forms, she leaves them with me. There will be another long queue to hand them in. But thoughts of how life will be when she finally joins campus do not give me an option; I will bear the long queue. Forms handed in, we wait.
Someone probably is at City Square or Clock Tower and for days keeps changing the fingers of the clock. Or the moon and its sister the sun are cheating us. There is no other explanation for the way months summarize themselves into weeks, weeks into days, days into hours, hours into minutes and minutes into seconds. There may be thousands that grace the university admission list, but my eyes do not go beyond her.
25. U2062/525 Kebirungi Jackline F
Bachelor of Journalism and Communication is the course – Day programme.
Déjà vu is not enough to explain this. Triumph. Back in my Nkrumah Hall room, I kick the air until I realize that is not enough celebration. The kafunda sees me. Three bottles of Nile, without a straw of course. As I sleep tonight, the line between fantasizing and dreaming gets more blurred. When I wake up to pour water in the lavatory, I do it with so much haste so I can start the fantasy/dream from where it has reached.
She is living in Mary Stuart Hall, I persevere the insults of the Lumumba boys as we pass by, holding hands. I manage to convince them not to subject her to the ‘aka-hug’ custom and we pass. Some chips and chicken at Club 5 and we wash everything down with a Nile for me, an Alvaro for her. All this ends in bed. That is the point where real dreaming happens. The point where evidence that dreaming is happening manifests. The next morning, the dreamer can’t deny, the milky stuff is undeniable evidence.
***
Kodi Kodi.
I wrap a towel around the waist, glance at the clock. It is 10 am. The kapos inside the stomach give me a loud good morning shout-out. I half-open the door and stay half-way behind it. I am thinking it is a neighbor looking for toothpaste or something. I hear some giggles, some deep voice.
“Should we come in?”
Shit. It is her. The voice! More Shit and this time, Real Shit – who the hell is he?
“Let me wear something,’ I say and drag the trouser from under the bed and insert my legs in it, throwing away the towel. The Man Utd Tee-shirt on.
“Welcome’ I say and hide my pretentious smile.
“It is fine’ – it is him who responds.
She looks around, shows him the chair, like she owns the room. Not that I am complaining, it is a good sign, she, taking responsibility, already making my room, our room. I start telling myself that he is her brother or something, although I do not see any resemblance. I mean, he is too dark you may think he uses some charcoal powder as his Vaseline, yet she is so light-skinned one needs no source of light with her in the room. The two can’t be offspring of the same parents. Maybe the father got one of them in an away game. I do not want to imagine any other connection. They must be relatives. Nothing else is allowed.
After some awkward meeting of his and her eyes, she says; ‘Bob, Meet Ken, my boyfriend.” That is to me. I am Bob, although at this moment I want to be Ken and him to be Bob. This time the lips refuse to part for me to pretend to be smiling. Some force from somewhere I do not know takes charge of me and with a toothbrush and paste; I walk out of my own room. It can as well be theirs. I hope they read the signal and do the needful. They do not have to compound the damage.
Time has refused to fly. The morning has stopped the day from getting on. It is a loss. Face it like a man and move on. I do not have enough advice for myself. Besides, they could have met before I knew her. And why blame her; she does not know what I was up to. I am just a good friend. A helpful, selfless person. A Father Theresa. I help without expecting any reward. Maybe I expect my reward to be in heaven. Benefit of doubt granted. I move on, or so I think.
***
Nyangyi is in her Third Year of university. She must be looking forward to settling, having a family and all that. What else do girls who are in their final year at university think about? Okay, Feminism came and the career woman thing is now in vogue. So, maybe she wants a job and all that. Maybe she even wants to have a child and be a single mother.
Whatever her plans are, I fit in any of them. I do not mind being the father to her child if she wants to be a single mother. I mean, who would not want her brains for his child? And seeing as I am already working, this may be the right time for all that turns boys into men to happen to me. There is an opening in the company for an intern and Nyangyi fits the bill. I have seen other people here doing it, fixing in their friends and yes, the manager fixed his lover here and later she became his wife, why should I be left behind? A call here, a date there, a chat in the office, some emails written and memos passed around and Nyangyi is an intern.
My boss thinks she is the deal. He does not keep it secret, he even hints on another intra-company marriage happening soon. And he says this in public, in company meetings; almost everywhere he sees me and her together. To be honest, the sex is great, it feels marital already. It is so different from the friends-with-benefits thing. Her sighs are motherly even. Sometimes I even picture our child’s bed as we sing our bodily praises of the ingenuity of the creator.
Nyangyi is so good at what she does she has been admitted to do her Master’s degree overseas. This is the point to say the point. I know you, the reader agrees. After her six months of internship, she was recruited in the company and it is now a year of hard work and very intense knowing each other between me and her. Can there be a more opportune moment for the point? The Western Free markets imperialism has even made things easy. Diamond rings are available in our Kampala shops. The ring is ready. The lake-side is the most appropriate place for this. I will just tell her it is my way of saying Good-Bye as she prepares to travel. I know she still has four months to travel, but hey, we have to start factoring in the marriage shizo as she leaves.
Maybe she can even transfer her property into my house, instead of paying rent for a period when she will not be staying in her apartment. After all, when she comes back, it will be directly into marriage with me.
I am not a dramatic person. Those things of kneeling down to copy what we watch in the movies are not my type of things. I just look at her eyes directly, with a gaze that I am sure says all the unsaid and the ring in its shiny pink box acquires some stubbornness and refuses to get out properly.
“Bob!!!!!” She shouts as if she has seen a snake. Is this her idea of excitement? Or is she genuinely frightened?
“What?”
“You are kiddinn me, right?” Why does she think I am joking?
“Sit down”, I say to stop her from leaving me here alone.
“There is nothing to talk about Bob”
“What do you mean?”
“I am going to study in the States so I can physically live with my fiancée”
This remains the most depressing part of my personal life.
I will not wait. I know how everyone nowadays is saying that Business courses are the way to go and many have eaten this bait and gone to MUBS. She is good, definitely, she can handle any course even a Business one, but No, she will come to main campus. I go and pick the application forms for her. I silently pray that she seeks my advice as she fills them, so I can see to it that it is to Makerere that she will come. I see a brilliant journalist in her.
On my metallic bed in Nkrumah Hall she sits, we are filling the forms together; you would think it is me who is applying. I insist that she puts Journalism and Communication, Day, Evening and if there was Weekend, I would insist on it too. I make sure that there is no MUBS on this form. I assure her that those things of Business courses selling more than other courses are total lies. I tell her of people I know who are unemployed after doing Business courses. I remind her of her ability to join the journalism field immediately after graduating. You see, she started reading news at the school assembly when she was in Form Two. She even wrote for the School Mirror. I have no doubt that she is cut out for the media.
So, after filling the forms, she leaves them with me. There will be another long queue to hand them in. But thoughts of how life will be when she finally joins campus do not give me an option; I will bear the long queue. Forms handed in, we wait.
Someone probably is at City Square or Clock Tower and for days keeps changing the fingers of the clock. Or the moon and its sister the sun are cheating us. There is no other explanation for the way months summarize themselves into weeks, weeks into days, days into hours, hours into minutes and minutes into seconds. There may be thousands that grace the university admission list, but my eyes do not go beyond her.
25. U2062/525 Kebirungi Jackline F
Bachelor of Journalism and Communication is the course – Day programme.
Déjà vu is not enough to explain this. Triumph. Back in my Nkrumah Hall room, I kick the air until I realize that is not enough celebration. The kafunda sees me. Three bottles of Nile, without a straw of course. As I sleep tonight, the line between fantasizing and dreaming gets more blurred. When I wake up to pour water in the lavatory, I do it with so much haste so I can start the fantasy/dream from where it has reached.
She is living in Mary Stuart Hall, I persevere the insults of the Lumumba boys as we pass by, holding hands. I manage to convince them not to subject her to the ‘aka-hug’ custom and we pass. Some chips and chicken at Club 5 and we wash everything down with a Nile for me, an Alvaro for her. All this ends in bed. That is the point where real dreaming happens. The point where evidence that dreaming is happening manifests. The next morning, the dreamer can’t deny, the milky stuff is undeniable evidence.
***
Kodi Kodi.
I wrap a towel around the waist, glance at the clock. It is 10 am. The kapos inside the stomach give me a loud good morning shout-out. I half-open the door and stay half-way behind it. I am thinking it is a neighbor looking for toothpaste or something. I hear some giggles, some deep voice.
“Should we come in?”
Shit. It is her. The voice! More Shit and this time, Real Shit – who the hell is he?
“Let me wear something,’ I say and drag the trouser from under the bed and insert my legs in it, throwing away the towel. The Man Utd Tee-shirt on.
“Welcome’ I say and hide my pretentious smile.
“It is fine’ – it is him who responds.
She looks around, shows him the chair, like she owns the room. Not that I am complaining, it is a good sign, she, taking responsibility, already making my room, our room. I start telling myself that he is her brother or something, although I do not see any resemblance. I mean, he is too dark you may think he uses some charcoal powder as his Vaseline, yet she is so light-skinned one needs no source of light with her in the room. The two can’t be offspring of the same parents. Maybe the father got one of them in an away game. I do not want to imagine any other connection. They must be relatives. Nothing else is allowed.
After some awkward meeting of his and her eyes, she says; ‘Bob, Meet Ken, my boyfriend.” That is to me. I am Bob, although at this moment I want to be Ken and him to be Bob. This time the lips refuse to part for me to pretend to be smiling. Some force from somewhere I do not know takes charge of me and with a toothbrush and paste; I walk out of my own room. It can as well be theirs. I hope they read the signal and do the needful. They do not have to compound the damage.
Time has refused to fly. The morning has stopped the day from getting on. It is a loss. Face it like a man and move on. I do not have enough advice for myself. Besides, they could have met before I knew her. And why blame her; she does not know what I was up to. I am just a good friend. A helpful, selfless person. A Father Theresa. I help without expecting any reward. Maybe I expect my reward to be in heaven. Benefit of doubt granted. I move on, or so I think.
***
Nyangyi is in her Third Year of university. She must be looking forward to settling, having a family and all that. What else do girls who are in their final year at university think about? Okay, Feminism came and the career woman thing is now in vogue. So, maybe she wants a job and all that. Maybe she even wants to have a child and be a single mother.
Whatever her plans are, I fit in any of them. I do not mind being the father to her child if she wants to be a single mother. I mean, who would not want her brains for his child? And seeing as I am already working, this may be the right time for all that turns boys into men to happen to me. There is an opening in the company for an intern and Nyangyi fits the bill. I have seen other people here doing it, fixing in their friends and yes, the manager fixed his lover here and later she became his wife, why should I be left behind? A call here, a date there, a chat in the office, some emails written and memos passed around and Nyangyi is an intern.
My boss thinks she is the deal. He does not keep it secret, he even hints on another intra-company marriage happening soon. And he says this in public, in company meetings; almost everywhere he sees me and her together. To be honest, the sex is great, it feels marital already. It is so different from the friends-with-benefits thing. Her sighs are motherly even. Sometimes I even picture our child’s bed as we sing our bodily praises of the ingenuity of the creator.
Nyangyi is so good at what she does she has been admitted to do her Master’s degree overseas. This is the point to say the point. I know you, the reader agrees. After her six months of internship, she was recruited in the company and it is now a year of hard work and very intense knowing each other between me and her. Can there be a more opportune moment for the point? The Western Free markets imperialism has even made things easy. Diamond rings are available in our Kampala shops. The ring is ready. The lake-side is the most appropriate place for this. I will just tell her it is my way of saying Good-Bye as she prepares to travel. I know she still has four months to travel, but hey, we have to start factoring in the marriage shizo as she leaves.
Maybe she can even transfer her property into my house, instead of paying rent for a period when she will not be staying in her apartment. After all, when she comes back, it will be directly into marriage with me.
I am not a dramatic person. Those things of kneeling down to copy what we watch in the movies are not my type of things. I just look at her eyes directly, with a gaze that I am sure says all the unsaid and the ring in its shiny pink box acquires some stubbornness and refuses to get out properly.
“Bob!!!!!” She shouts as if she has seen a snake. Is this her idea of excitement? Or is she genuinely frightened?
“What?”
“You are kiddinn me, right?” Why does she think I am joking?
“Sit down”, I say to stop her from leaving me here alone.
“There is nothing to talk about Bob”
“What do you mean?”
“I am going to study in the States so I can physically live with my fiancée”
This remains the most depressing part of my personal life.
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