I pity the fool who’s unaware of his surroundings

My timing is impeccable. When it comes to things that do not matter in the least at any rate. Otherwise my timing stinks. I tend to appear at the most inopportune moments. Like the time in my usual erratic fashion effected an entry into an office like a tornado.

I found the sales manager’s sheepish explanation of removing something from the marketing manager’s eye unconvincing. Unless the marketing manager had swallowed his eye and the sales manager was trying to retrieve it with her arms tied behind her back.

But I digress.

I was not in the least bit surprised when I ended up in another tense situation. I swaggered into the establishment, loudly inquired after the health of my mates Bob and Jane, hailed a waiter and sat down heavily.

Within seconds I realized all was not right.

Bob had a vein, about as thick as a hose pipe pulsing steadily at his right temple. His teeth were gritted so tight and his face was twisted into the grimace of  a man that has had something very large and very jagged introduced into his person.

Jane’s bleached face, a result of months of Fair And Lovely, and possibly a few litres of bleach, was redder than Moody Awori’s shirt.

What, Jane demanded to know, did Bob mean by that?

Bob sought to know if he had stuttered, and then proceeded to reassure her that he meant exactly what he had said, Bob reassured her grimly.

Feeling like a man who has absently wandered onto the middle of  a battle field just as Nelson and Napoleon charged at each other, I stood suddenly and begged to take my leave.

Jane’s fingers dug into my arm like an MP into the CDF fund. Just where, she demanded, did I think I was going?

My excuse was dismissed on several technicalities

• Motorbikes do not generally have doors, questioning the possibility of my forgetting to lock the doors
• I do not own any form of transportation of any kind
• The keys I was holding pointedly to reinforce my subterfuge were clearly branded tri-circle therefore could not possibly be for anything other than a padlock

And so I sat just in time for things to explode. The eloquence of my friends was dazzling. The air turned blue for miles as the rich English language was given a good workout.

Bob’s, Jane suspected, was a gentleman conceived outside the legal and social framework of the institution of marriage. Furthermore, she continued, the identity of Bob’s father was something that only God and a few alley cats could be sure of.

Bob’s rising eyebrows expressed his surprise, informing her she was a fine one to talk, due to her close kinship with characters bearing names like ‘Fido’, ‘Goofy’ and ‘Spot’.

Jane hastened to quote the Good Book, drawing his attention to the section where one was requested to attend to the toothpick in one’s eyes before attacking the forest in another’s. Didn’t Bob, as a matter of principle, attempt to fuse his DNA with any organism that had a pulse?

Bob again expressed shocked amusement at Jane’s myopia. Was she not both famous and infamous for the difficult exercise of scaling the corporate ladder of success while simultaneously remaining on her back?

Stung, Jane cast aspersions about his relationship with his mother, alluding that it was not entirely filial.

Sigmund Freud would have nodded his pleased approval at the exoneration of one of his hypotheses. Bob stumbled backwards, at least as much as someone seated on a bar stool could. Rallying his forces, Bob loudly questioned Jane’s commitment to the heterosexual movement, referring to her by the name of a landmark generally associated with the Netherlands.

Jane naturally objected, voicing that she was of the opinion that he was the type of gentleman with an acute disinclination to work, and culminated her analysis in concluding that he was a creature of the variety that Jesus rode at some point during his ministry.

Bob let out an outraged “Ha!”, and wondered where she had left her hat and her preferred method of transportation,  a broomstick.

Jane’s face twisted into a scowl and she assured Bob that she was a full blooded woman, which is more than he, an alley cat in a pin striped suit, could say.

Bob could not fault her assertion, and agreed heartily. Indeed, he conceded, she was a full blooded female, the blood being of the variety of type ho.

Simultaneously hissing and whispering, Jane wondered why she was actually conversing with him, an individual lacking wit, intelligence or indeed any attribute of human interaction to such an extent that his own right hand regularly turned him down.

Bob retorted that she was hardly in a position to talk, seeing as even her shadow refused to be on the same premises as her.

Things would have deteriorated still further were it not for the tactful appearance of a trio of bouncers who gently but firmly BanKiMooned the warring factions and by force brought about a truce.

PIC OF THE DAY

While wasting 40 minutes of my life trying to convince Safaricom to take my money so I can settle my bill, I found myself seated next to this chap, who I could have sworn I heard mentioning a weakness for a certain Kenyan Chick. After much manoeuvering I captured him on film

PIC OF THE DAY EXTRA

Step up o ye clothes horses!

AOB

I’ve been using the same template for 2 years. Something’s gotta change!

Koffi Olomide – Si Si Si

2030: M drags self into matatu and collapses in a heap
2031: Matatu fills and sets off
2033: M switches off all vital systems but breathing
2040: M tapped on shoulder by tout
2041: M tapped again on shoulder by tout
2042: M absently hands over 20 shilling coin
2043: The still of the night is shattered

Tout (T): Boss, where’s the rest of the money
M: What rest of the money?
T: Fare is 40 bob
M: (Speechless)
T: 40 bob
M: (Exploding) 40 bob? WTF? Did your mother clothe you in asbestos?
T: (Woodenly) Huh? 40 bob. Fare is 40 bob.

Murmuring from other passengers

M: (Struggling to bend mind around the idea) You’re telling me that the fare has doubled since morning
T: Er… yes.
M: It’s not raining, is it?
T: No
M: And no one has moved constituencies while we were at work
T: No
M: And the road is the same length
T: Yes

Long pause

M: (Revelation) Aaah! I see, I see
T: Yes?
M: I’ll have a coke
T: A coke?
M: Yes. Because for me to pay 40 bob you must be serving drinks.

AOB

Goodbye Puffy

If health Minister Charity Ngilu has her way, smoking in public will be illegal in the next few months, which includes restaurants, clubs, etc. The fines are anything but punitive — if you’re caught smoking in public you’d better be carrying 50,000 bob or some similar figure on you, and be ready to spend 6 months eating Government cuisine and enjoying Government hospitality. If you’re reallyunlucky you’ll get both and dropping soap in the shower will be but one of your many worries.

Spam I Am

Just realized that le blog has crossed the 2,000 mark in term of spam comments that mercifully I’ve never had to delete manually. And this is in just a couple of months!! Thank ye SpamKarma.

GROAN OF THE DAY

Schwarzenegger, Stallone and Van Damme are discussing roles in a radical new movie where they play classical musicians. They are given the opportunity to decide which actor will play which musician

Stallone: I … uh … I’ll be Beethoven
Van Damme: I’ll be Mozart
Schwarzenegger: I’ll be Bach!

QUOTE OF THE DAY

If a fool and his money are soon parted,
Members Of Parliament are considerably in arrears

PIC OF THE DAY

This is a school somewhere in Mombasa …

“Aar! Ye be taking the young un’s to this here school mateys! Aar!”

Eminem – My Dad’s Gone Crazy

The only thing better than travelling is travelling at someone else’s expense, and the only thing better than that is travelling at company expense. Nothing aids the flourish with which you sign bills with the knowledge that someone else will be coughing up the cash. This way you don’t wince when the smug lady behind the counter informs you crisply that you will be paying close to 100 dollars a night for the room alone. Meals to be charged separately.

When it comes to travelling at company expense my mantra is “deny yourself nothing“. When confronted with the challenging choice between a three course and a four course dinner I heartily recommend the four course. If in the middle of the night you feel the urge for fruit salad smothered in ice cream, pick up that phone. Just think of that chef in the kitchen looking mournfully at his uneaten creations. Have you no heart? If when passing a restaurant you feel the urge for a steak be strong and be firm. Walk in and have the steak. After all, a cow gave up it’s life!

The Grand Palm hotel looked promising from the entrance and did not disappoint

Driving In

The Entrance

The lady behind the counter who checked me in looked and sounded like Barry White, right down to the mane of hair. I knew as soon as she opened her mouth that she was not going to be my friend from the establishment. It is always good to have one of these, who can hook you up with extra pillows, extension cables, and most importantly Internet Access, because the Grand Palm charges the equivalent of .25 $ or 20 bob a minute.

I burst out laughing at this news and cemented the fact that we were not going to be even on talking terms.

“Really? Are your keyboards diamond studded? Or does your Internet traffic travel first class by British Airways?”

The Front Office Manager came to my rescue. Mapula was her name, and she was extremely easy on the eye, and her smile that made a chap want to reach for his sunglasses reassured me that I had found my friend from the establishment.

After checking in I set out exploring the hotel. It is a colossal compound, and very easy on the eye.

Strolling about the compound

View from the entrance

The hotel casino, where people lost the shirts off their backs

When it came to meals I was not paying for, I was spoilt for choice. There was a buffet that quite literally had everything you could possibly want and then some. And then there was a restaurant called The Beef Baron. I hesitated and was lost and within no time I was browsing the menu, which informed me I could get “cuts of prime Botswana beef, smothered in our secret sauce for a rich flavour.”

I had found nirvana.

Waiter: (Very friendly) Good evening sir.
M: (Exuding milk of human kindness) And a good evening to you too my good man!

After getting a friend in the establishment, the next order of business is getting a friend in catering to help you get a table at short notice, keep the restaurant open that extra 5 minutes so you can rush from your colossaly boring meetings and steer you on the path to meaty goodness.

This was my friend.

M: Your name sir?

The name he gave me consisted largely of consonants. It was touch and go there as I suspected he was about to dislocate his tongue

M: I think I’ll call you Bob for short.

And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Bob: So, what would you like?
M: A fillet steak.
Bob: What size?
M: Size? What sizes are available?
Bob: 200g, 300g, 400g and 700g

200g and 300g were rejected on the grounds that it had been a long day and I had a healthy appetite. 700g was rejected on the grounds that is is illegal in most countries to commit suicide.

M: 400g
Bob: How would you like it done?

Here you pause thoughtfully. When it comes to cooking steaks there are as many interpretations as there are chefs. It has been my experience to receive a steak that I have been assured is medium rare only for a long mournful “moooooo!” to issue from my plate. At another establishment a pile of ashes was lowered with a flourish to the table and then the proud waiter announced with pride my well done steak was ready. At yet another I could have sworn that my medium rare steak moved. If it was still attached to its tail, it would have flicked it. And still at yet another the line between beef steak and carbon was clearly crossed.

M: Medium rare. And when the chef is about to remove it, tell him to count to ten first.

Five minutes later a cold Cream Soda, followed closely by fresh bread and butter landed on my table and I set to work to prepare my stomach psychologically for the struggle ahead.

In the next table a very familiar drama was unfolding.

When it comes to eating establishment there are generally two types:
a) The person attending to you has a garishly coloured outfit, ridiculous paper hat on their head and are almost always chewing gum. The chair and table are almost always plastic and uncomfortable and the menu as well is plastic. You find your own seats.
b) The person attending to you has a shirt and tie (and trousers of course), no hat and never chewing gum. Chair and table are almost always wooden and comfortable and the menu is leather bound. You are shown to your seats.

The transition from A to B is never seamless, especially when you have no one to show you the ropes. This I say both from observations and painful experience.

The scenario in the next table unfolded rapidly, and twice as fast because it was clear that the two gentlemen were novices. We’ll call them Bill and Phil

Waiter: Your bread sir.
Phil: Bread? What bread?
Bill: (Accusingly) Did you order bread?
Phil: No. There must be a mistake
Waiter: No, this is complimentary
Phil: (Crisply) Ah! In that case bring another, and don’t skimp on the butter!

The bemused waiter departed.

Bill and Phil surveyed the table. Reading from East To West were a chopping board bearing the bread, little ceramic containers with butter and cheese and two white bowls with a clear liquid and slices of lemon and an assortment of knives and forks.

Phil: (Eyeing the bowls with clear liquid) What the heck is this?
Bill: (Sniffing) Dunno. Some sort of soup I guess?
Phil: Yes, but soup of what?
Bill: (Irritably) How the devil should I know? I came in with you remember?

I desperately tried to stop the runaway train and cleared my throat loudly to get their attention. A split second later a pair of twin slurps announced that Bill and Phil were very busily and very industriously drinking the contents of their finger bowls.

Bill: (Wiping mouth with back of hand) Well?
Phil: (Lowering bowl to table) Tasted pretty much like water with lemon in it.
Bill: Botswanan cuisine!

The waiter’s eyebrows rose when he returned with the extra bread to find two empty finger bowls. He opened his mouth to comment but I hurridly caught his eye and shook my head. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

Inside the hotel conference centre

K’Naan – Soobax

Which, as usual, was not bereft of adventure, and my old friends Air Botswana featured prominently in the same. It was not enough for them to keep me away from my luggage for a week, oh no, not them!

Thursday
Attempt to change departure date. Get run round so much it is simpler to call Nairobi to do it for you.

Friday
Get confirmation that flight is departing at 8:00 Monday morning

Saturday
With past experience of Air Botswana, call their airport office to confirm. Airport office tells you proudly they are not connected to their main office. Call main office. No answer.

Sunday
Call main office again. No answer. No answer at the airport either.

Monday

M: Good morning.
Staff: Good morning.
M: I’m here for the Jo’Burg flight
Staff: (Cupping hand behind ear) Do you hear that plane taking off?
M: Yes?
Staff: (Smiling sweetly) That’s the Jo’Burg flight
M: Krrrkmtz!!

Had I said what I was strongly inclined to say, I would have left little doubt that I would have made an excellent Commissioner for Oaths.

M: Let me get this straight. Your office confirmed to me this flight would leave at eight. I am here a full 80 minutes in advance and you tell me i’ve missed the flight?
Staff: (Smiling sweetly:) Yes
M: Krrrkmtz!!!

I left Botswana a full 12 hours later on a charter flight. Counting the pilot and two stewardesses, we were a grand total of seven. The pilot flew that craft in a manner likely to suggest that he wanted to land before he run out of fuel. Bets where being made as to whether the taxi to the runway took longer than the actual flight. The return trip to Jo’Burg took exactly a third of the time it took the other way.

The next time I will be on an Air Botswana flight it will be in a coffin, because short of Jessica Alba, Kelly Rowland and Ciara asking me sweetly, no other power of earth will induce me to use Air Botswana’s bollocks service again.

In true Kenyan fashion, the Kenya Airways lady handling the transit took her sweet time to show up and finally swaggered in 2 hours later. If only she knew how many times she was being beheaded, drawn, quartered, strangled, shot and set on fire as she made her unhurried way to her station.

And then I land in Kenya at some ungodly hour of the morning and find that the assorted trolls, goblins, oompa loompas and smurfs better known as Members of Parliament continue to prove that no matter how low you set the bar they will manage to slither under it.

Apparently it is the order of the day for nitwits whose only qualification for public office is binocular vision and bipedal movement to stuff their faces on TV with bananas with full sound effects before microphones and TV cameras! But that my friends is a topic that will be dealt with ruthlessly very soon.

PIC OF THE DAY

I wanna dance with somebody,
I wanna fell the heat with somebody,
Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody…

Mt Elgon MP John Serut feels Whitney Houston inspire him, puts his game face on as he and his partner take to the floor

THOUGHT OF THE DAY

Mwai Kibaki is so indecisive he probably came down both sides of his family tree

Phil Collins – Turn Back The Years

"Can I," an optimistic voice in my head wanted to know, “Survive without my case?”

The answer from other quarters was unanimously in the negative.

Hair: I like that! And who is going to take care of me?
Feet: Dude! If you think I am going to accept these socks for a second day you have another thing coming!
Torso: This new vest chafes!
Teeth: Survive without your case? Just who is going to brush us?
Chin: Thank God! Can’t think why you insist on bringing sharp blades near me each morning!

"Try the 3 flight," A bored looking staff member said stifling a yawn.

So I tried the 3 flight And the 6. And the 9.

It was well that the Air Botswana staff members rapidly left their offices because the heights of eloquence I rose to left little doubt that I would make an excellent commissioner of oaths.

As I rode back to the airport it struck me completely that all my worldly possessions were either on me literally (what I was wearing) or in my attaché case.

Not having my luggage certainly showed me that I am a creature of habit. I was down to my boxers and reaching for my luggage before I realized that there was no luggage to reach for, ergo no pajamas.

I had stepped into the bathroom and opened the tap to brush my teeth before realizing that not only did I not have a toothbrush, but even if I had one I had no toothpaste to put on it.

As uncomfortable nights go that of the 22nd of august is going to be hard to top.

Hitting the shower with the puny hotel soap was the work of a few minutes and shortly afterwards I was attired exactly as I was the previous day. It was then that I realized an urgent complication.

I had no comb.

This is no big deal to most people but it is a big deal for me because my hair is extremely long. The last time I cut my hair Moi was still president. The last time I cut my hair I used to say the loyalty pledge on Mondays immediately after singing the National Anthem. The last time I cut my hair the new millennium was yet to dawn.

In short, my hair looks vaguely wild at best but after a long shower there is little doubt that it has not been combed. In fact it looks exactly like the hair of someone who has recently been in contact with a live wire.

This will not do for someone who should be at the Ministry of Communication, Science and Technology within the half hour.

King Arthur’s knights did not look for the Holy Grail with half the effort I looked for a comb. I looked high and I looked low. The hotel shop stocks statues, hand bags, soap, bath salts, monopoly and scrabble boards, key rings, gold and diamond jewelry, mats and carpets – in short everything but a comb. The man behind the counter looked perturbed at my request.

The supermarket outside the hotel read from the same script. I could get anything including farming implements but no comb. After twenty minutes search decisions had to be made – attend the meeting and look like a victim of a lightning strike or miss the meeting.

I attended the meeting.

En route to the meeting I stopped by 4 assorted shops and supermarkets. The closest I came was one where the combs were no longer in stock.

“Then how the bugger,” I asked the man behind the counter “Do the people of Botswana comb their hair if they can’t get combs?”

People who want to know what audacity is will want to take notes from me. I swaggered into the Ministry building with the air of a man who is convinced that everything is right with the world and every hair was in place.

If you think nothing can be further than the North Pole from the South Pole you have not compared the Botswana Government and the Kenya Government. If both were horses in a derby then Kenya would be so far behind it would come third in the next race.

But that is for another day. Back to the issue at hand.

The thoughts in the minds of the staff I met could only be one of the following

-    This must be some new fangled hairdo.
-    This man must be out of his doggone mind
-    It is just me or has this dude NOT combed his hair?

I prefer to think they thought the first. :)

If Air Botswana were the only carrier offering flights to heaven I must confess I would have to think about booking a seat. “Check the next flight” seems to be a phrase they use very often, and at the end of the second day I was still luggage less. However I had secured some essential commodities to take me into Wednesday.

AOB

I won’t name names but people who prefer inertia of rest, like Miss K, can now email me direcly.

AO AOB

When you read stuff like this isn’t it in order to conclude that the media can be a tad racist?

Winans Phase II – Every Day Away

• Having natural gas powered trams to ferry passengers to the terminal is not good for passengers’ health. They will develop flabby underarms, pot bellies and varicose veins
• Refusing to announce departures and arrivals is not good for passengers either. They have to keep reading from dozens of impossibly large screens, which is bad for their necks and eyes.
• Having large plasma screen TVs in the departure lounge again makes vegetables out of travelers. They should be indulging in quality time with their loved ones.

Once at the terminal, you are greeted by a cheerful gentleman behind the Air Botswana desk who issues you with your boarding pass. You then proceed to explore the airport and almost immediately find a colossal eatery. In the list of Things To Do In The Lifetime Of M I can cross out drink fresh strawberry juice. A sandwich made with impossibly fresh bread, with bacon that belonged to a pig that was quite possibly half an hour previously happily eating his swill.

At the boarding gate my old friend who issued the boarding pass greeted me with a cheerful grin. He had exchanged his suit coat for a sleeveless luminous green jacket. He opened the gate and ushered us to the shuttle to take us to the plane.

The first impression once gets of this particular craft is remarkably like that one gets at the concours d’elegance. This is chiefly because the craft possessed two large propellers and had only one entrance. I waited all of one minute for Orville and his brother Wilbur to appear at the top of the stairs, goggles over their eyes and leather caps on their head, waving us aboard.

Climbing up the stairs and hitting my forehead hard on the doorframe was but a couple of seconds’ work. As airlines go Air Botswana is a cheerful little airline with cheerful little planes. You either have a window seat or an aisle seat. I would not recommend a window seat just where the propellers are. When that sucker starts spinning you get every impression that should it lose its moorings it will slice you like .. er .. something that has been sliced.

At the front of the plane (there is only one class btw) is the door that opens into the cockpit and you can see the pilot. To my surprise it was not our old friend from Jo’burg.

The stewardesses sit at the very front, and their seats face backwards This allows them to sit, and cross their impossibly long legs. Air Botswana stewardesses do not wear stockings. A quick straw poll I conducted concluded that an in flight movie come a distant second. The flight becomes immediately more interesting when one winks at you and you return the favour.

Sir Seretse Khama airport falls in line with Air Botswana in being a cheerful little airport. You are cleared within minutes and proceed to wait for your baggage.

Half an hour later it hits you with startling suddenness that Air Botswana seem to have lost your luggage and all your worldly possessions are either in your attaché case or you are standing inside them.

AOB

If you received some email from SMS.AC about me treat it with the contempt it deserves for it was an error. Moral: If you’re the type to click next next next be wary of what you might be commiting yourself to!>

AO AOB

Maroon 5 – She Will Be Loved

I’m off out of the country again. This time I’m not stepping across the border, but will be crossing several borders. Unlike some people who we will not name (like Chris Murungaru), the Government where I’m going does not object to my “conduct, character and associations” and will let me in.

I’ve spent the entire week applying for a passport (hence the silence). To pry a passport out of the cheap, unwilling fingers of the Kenyan government requires 30 working days if you are lucky. Seeing as I had just under a week, molehills and mountains had to be moved, oceans parted and multitudes had to be fed with five loaves and two fish, a tale for another day. Fascinating fact: Even if you’re dying the best they can do is one week!

Suffice it to say if I see an indefatigable car labelled KACA indefatigably pulling up at the office gates I will surreptitiously effect a silent, ninja-like exit from my office window and lower myself to the ground with my shoelaces because they undoubtedly would be anxious to have a word with me over the events of the week.

In my back pocket is a shiny new passport I secured in exactly 22 hours and 34 minutes. The yellow fever vaccine has left me feeling like I have ran two marathons back to back. I ache in places I didn’t know I had.

Anyway, I will be in Gaborone, Botswana for a couple of weeks. If I can convince my camera to work I’ll see what I can do when I intentionally get lost in the streets of Gaborone. After life in Kenya’s system ya majambazi I dare say I can survive. As for blogging I can’t promise anything so try not to get them voodoo effigies of me and drive pins into them!

Flexx – Nyundo

Finally, M has returned to Nairobi.

I must confess that when I actually set foot on these hallowed soils for a second there I thought I had boarded the wrong transport and was alighting at the North Pole. After the sunny warmth of Kampala I discovered that it was possible for your goosebumps to get their own goosebumps.

The transition of having my laundry, sheets and other odds and ends done by Shirley to rolling up my own sleeves to do them myself takes some getting used to. Living off your boss’s pocket does little to encourage restraint OR initiative :)

A month out of the scene is lots of time for things to have changed. Off the top of my head

• Metro Shuttle is definitely history
• KCB have completed painting one side of their HQ
• Yaya Center have completed renovating their entrance and have done such a good job it was 5 minutes before I found the dang door
• There are about 1 million City Hoppas on the road
• Bank balance. I have not spent any of my last salary ;)

Some things, inevitably, do not change. Politicians for instance are nothing remotely like fine wine and do not grow finer with age. They are in fact a lot more like dingy brews that fester and rot with age. They are that much more asinine and halfwitted than they were when I left them.

I have some 450 office emails awaiting me, including pressing and urgent correspondence from the widows of

• Sani Abacha
• Daniel Moi (Despite the fact that she’s passed away. Afterlife?)
• Joseph Estrada
• Frederick Chiluba
• Jerry Rawlings
• Jacob Zuma
• Mobuto Seseseko

These good ladies are in desperate need of my help in accessing certain monies that their husbands spirited away and have reached out to me for some help, offering me a handsome cut of the same. I am flattered and humbled.

Spent the weekend at the theatre cashing in movie offers. (For something my memory is almost elephantine). I’m watching movies everyone and their uncle has already watched, but its all good. Granted I’m watching these movies so late they are practically in the same age group as TCM Movies but hey — in Kampala there are tons of other things to do than go for a movie! So I watched the 3 of them in a concentrated burst.

Fantastic 4
I’m still making up my mind whether I liked it or no. But I liked the exchanges between The Thing and the Human Torch. I especially liked this:

It can only boost revenue by orders of magnitude.

Mr And Mrs Smith

The final shoot-out was impossibly fake but I liked it. Again the exchanges between the two carried the movie. And it is clear why Jennifer Anniston think they do a lot more than pat each other down.

Batman Begins
Being a die-hard fan of the genre, I ate it up like MPs eat up free samosas. Tres cool! And I have GOTS to get me one of these:

GROAN OF THE DAY
Q: How does green grass greet brown grass?
A: Hey!

AOB
All those people who owe me lunch/ice cream/money etc be on notice!

Mashifta – Pesa Pombe Siasa Na Wanawake

Been shockingly busy — my sojourn at Uganda is coming to an unwelcome end, so any silences are entirely inadvertent. However it has not stopped me from having interesting experiences.

The other day I was at the hotel restaurant making short work of a fish that not half an hour ago had been merrily swimming in Lake Victoria. That I was concentrating all my faculties on this noble effort was apparent. Rolled up sleeves, discarded fork and knife and wide berth given to me by other guests. I don’t see why I should have to wrestle with a fork and knife to eat a fish. It ranks in the same category as eating soup with chopsticks and eating chocolate with a straw.

Anyway, halfway into the fish I hear this:

It was touch and go there between bursting into laughter and swallowing first before prudence prevailed. This is because this concern was not coming from my dear mother, who still doesn’t think I eat well. Nor was it coming from an applicant for the post of Mrs M. It was in fact from Shirley, the hotel housekeeper.

It was then that any doubts that I had about being at the hotel for too long were laid to rest. I quickly run through a check list

• I’m on first name terms with the housekeeper and some of her staff
• I have actually had a meal with some of the hotel staff
• They prepare my breakfast in the ridiculously quirky way I like it (fried eggs with no yolk, ensemble of fruit, etc)
• I no longer bother to leave the room when it is being cleaned
• I’m on first name terms with the alternate barmen, Alex and Patrick, firm allies in the war on thirst

In fact on that room cleaning note I remember the last hotel I was in had a particularly fierce looking housekeeper, and I happened to meet her at the door as I rushed out. She took one look at the room and actually wiggled her nose, leaving me in little doubt what she thought of its state. Those matronly eyes and that forbidding look forced me to subsequently clean the room before she came by later to do it!

Anyway, Shirley, the current housekeeper is a whole different kettle of fish. For starters, unlike her predecessors, she is taller than she is broad. She is also not 7 feet tall, and is closer to 5’7. Nor does she grind her teeth as she talks. Her arms are not thicker than most people’s waists. In fact, the truth be told, Shirley is what the discerning types would say is worth looking at a second time. And a third.

Another long staying guest at the hotel is a gent from Mauritius. He is shorter than he’d like to be, and his habitual expression is a look of puzzlement. Another is en extremely well constructed Ugandan engineer. This good lady prefers V cut tops with a good deal of V.

Shirley tells me the three of us are referred to as the African Union, the AU.

About two weeks back there was a knock on the door at about 7 in the evening. Shirley has the type of smile that makes you not actually start listening to what she is saying until about 5 seconds later. She had mislaid a room key and would she mind if I looked around?

Not at all, I told her.

She came in, looked, found nothing and departed. However as I let her out my Mauritian friend was just leaving his room.

I have it from reliable sources that the gears in his head were heard clearly across the corridor as they spun wildly and he drew a single conclusion — Shirley was smoothing a lot more than my sheets and interpreting personal attention and hospitality a bit too liberally.

I can now sympathize still more with people who find themselves saying this sentence

EMBARRASSMENT 101

It’s pretty hard to top Ms K or Superflyshi, but reading those reminded me of an incident where if there was an option to disappear off the face of the earth I’d have taken it with energy.

Some time ago I was attending a conference, and a shuttle bus was kindly availed to transport us to the conference centre. So I enter the coach and make my way to the back of the almost filled bus. Sit down at the seat precisely in the middle. A second later a daughter of her father, remarkably easy on the eye also made an entry. Years of discipline and the unwritten male code dictate that you are allowed 3 seconds to look before you cross the border into staring. Anything after 6 seconds is ogling. So I didn’t ogle and I didn’t stare and after 3 seconds lowered my eyes to my newspaper. She continued to make her way to the seat directly in front of me to my right (I was in the exact middle of the back bench)

Now a habit of mine is crossing my legs when reading. And as fate would have it, with me unwisely looking down at the paper, I subconsciously swung my right leg over my left and in the process smartly kicked her in the bottom as she was lowering herself into the seat.

I looked up sharply, two and two were added and turned out to be four. She looked back unsure of what to think and I looked forward unsure of what to think.

I like to think that I generally land on my feet in terms of crises but at that time the part of the brain dedicated to that job was on a go slow to protest overwork. So I find myself wondering whether to be:

1. Mortified
2. Embarrassed
3. Jocular
4. Suicidal
5. Horrified
6. Amused
7. Any combination thereof

She in turn had a totally blank look on her face. Matters were not helped by the fact that the entire thing has been witnessed by people who were having no problems in deciding how to react.

On that day I believe I performed enough to register that trademark Profuse Apology™. Anyone willing to describe their apologies as profuse must see me first.

It was only a half hour ride but it was certainly the longest I have ever taken.

New Kids On The Blog

Am falling a tad behind but here we go!

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• Letter from Lidia
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• MILONARE
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AOB

Never have I ever been so ashamed to be a Kenyan. 90 people are massacred as MPs are stuffing their greedy bellies with chicken and samosas in coast as they completely change the constitution draft to suit themselves. The President could not even be bothered to go and console the families of the victims. And now we are being tear gassed for expressing our views?

And as for this guy James Muiruri who thinks MPs (including his MP parent) are the salt of the earth, my friend I will not change a single word of what I wrote about Kenyan MPs. Despite clever shadow boxing around the issue he completely failed to exonerate Kenyan MPs from the morass they have placed themselves. There is nothing abstract or vague about what I said.

As a matter of fact, expect another one real soon.

Between powdered water, a chocolate teapot and a Kenyan MP the latter is head and shoulders above the rest.

Sting – Roxanne

#1 – Strange World This!

I’d never have thought it possible but my Anatomy Of A Kenyan MP touched a raw nerve with someone! I kid you not! He defends them, and he says “criticisms levelled against most Kenyan MPs fly across the face of sheer logic and common sense.” Of course the first line of his defence, “I happen to be a son of a sitting Member of Parliament” knocks much of the wind out of his sails …

I’m dying to see how many Kenyans agree with him. Please, let me know.

#2 – More On Uganda

Food
The more of this repast that I consume the more convinced I am that I get a raw deal back in Kenya. For example the streets are festooned with gentlemen and ladies operating enormous charcoal grills that are busy roasting assorted foods, chiefly chicken and skewers of assorted meats. The streets smell delicious, enough to derail a son of the soil and future captain of industry into saying things like
M: Er, Hamis
Hamis: Yes sir?
M: Is that chicken those fellows are roasting?
Hamis: Yes sir.
M: (Thoughtfully) Chicken, you say?
Hamis: Yes sir. It is a delicacy.
M: I’m hungry. (Encouragingly) Are you hungry Hamis? You are? Excellent. Then I suggest we have a short stop here. The car is tired. Besides, we won’t be missed for 15 minutes

Names
When it comes to naming their towns, sons and daughters, Ugandans are at the top of the game. Multiple syllables and repetition are the name of the game. Thus we have sections of town called Bugolobi and Kitintale. We also have sons and daughters of Uganda called Sserwadda, Ssentongo and Tumukunde. This is a change for a chap like myself used to Kamaus, Otienos and Mwendes. Pronounciation is not as simple as you’d think, as I discovered quickly

“Ah, Mr Sentongo. Pleased to meet you.” I say, rising and offering my hand.
“Ssentongo,” says the gentleman with a smile, his sensitive ear effortlessly detecting my omission. “Pleased to meet you sir.”

It’s a matter of good manners to get these names right, especially when writing them down. Misspelling Ssali and Ssimwogerere is ssomething that you sshould sstrive to avvoid. Plain good manners.

Mosquitoes
Unlike their counterparts across the border, Ugandan mosquitoes are the very picture of drive and industry. They punch in at six thirty in the evening and spend half an hour of chatting with the lads over the previous night’s day’s adventures. At seven sharp they set to work. It is irrelevant whether you are in a noisy public place like a restaurant — they are not shy about their work and will commence operations with gusto, biting for all they are worth. Waving your hands does not distract them. In fact they will welcome the draught that will cool them from their industry.
Sleeping without a mosquito net crosses the border between bravado and foolishness. The mosquitoes will pick your locks, jimmy the windows and get into your room and will have their way with you, and you will invariably spend the next couple of days acquainting with yourself with the ceramic of your loo as you suffer the throes of chronic malaria.

Shoutouts
“Hi, this is Bob from Kampala. I want to send a shoutout to my father, and I want you to play for me a song as a special dedication to him – Sexual Healing”

Boy George – Karma Chameleon