May I have some more?


Now at the dining table, stomach rumbling, she feels the saliva flood from under her tongue as the whetting wafts wiggle around in her nostrils and tickle her stomach further.

The next wave of rumbling is audible. She hesitates to clench her stomach and dampen the sound, but she is now hungry enough to give up all civility.

“Eh, madam! Is that your stomach?” Mother asks.

“I’m so hungry, I could eat a whole zebra!” she belts.

“With or without the stripes?” Mother asks.

They share a laughter that reminds her of the old days when Mother told them folk stories under the blanket of load-shedding. She can almost smell the cologne the grass wore and the insults the crickets chirped out before dawn came and the chickens were back to peck them off, one at a time.


Mother tows a plate overflowing with food but with none falling off the sides. She places it in front of her ‘little girl’. The opposite side of the table tips upward.

“Curry! With chicken! Mummy!”

Mother places a fork beside the plate.

“You still like it, yes? Oba you now only take ships-sheeken?”

“Hahaa. But you never give me ships-sheeken money, mummy..”

“Anti I’m not your father”

They both burst out laughing. “There’s more food, by the way..” Mother says as she returns to the kitchen wiping a tear off her face with her kitenge.

“Okay, mummy”

Her ‘little girl’ looks at the mound of food before her and savours the seconds. The hunger burns deeper now that its fire is yet to be quenched. Every second that goes by that she doesn’t dive into the food head-first is her taunting the hunger that has currently taken her stomach hostage. She considers whipping out her phone for an instagram collage but remembers she left it charging in her room when she came downstairs to eat. She smiles at the plate. The burdened plate shoots back a weary but glad smile.

She lifts her gaze to the tip of the food, where a blob of creamy-golden curry soup is oozing down the clumped vegetable rice, gently pausing in between the grains to seep through before continuing on down to gently glaze the already-glistening chicken drumstick. It pauses at the meat-laden end of the tender chicken piece and collects about itself before gently letting itself glide down the curves of the piece, to the doodo at the foot of the mountain of food.

She closes her eyes and inhales the royal white of the rice, the rich green of the doodo, the shimmering gold of the curry, the thoughtful brown of the chicken, and the broad broth of savoury scents gently nudging her heart to flutter.

She takes the fork from the table mat and takes a gentle stab at the culinary craft. The food responds gently and graciously. She lifts the fork out of the side with a bit of everything – rice, curry, a string of doodo, and a curry-chicken-fillet piece lodged in between the fork’s tines.

She opens up and offloads the entire fork’s contents. She closes her eyes and chews slowly, each meeting of the jaws raising her cheeks until a smile has formed on her face.

She swallows.

Then she speaks.

“Please Mummy, may I have some more?”




Jeremy always hated this time of the day. As soon as he’d stepped out their breezy air-conditioned office lobby whose interior design was, palette for palette and wall for wall, an albeit-smaller replica of their European headquarters, and into the sweltering reality of the country he was living in, he’d in a hair of a second re-imagined his trip home and felt whatever little of his heart was left sink into his still-well-pressed dark-gray chinos. The air was thick with a bland discomfort that he could swear he couldn’t see but could feel embrace him and everyone shuffling about him. It was like a symbiote, leaping from invisible infinity and latching firmly and conclusively onto one’s face before slithering into their nostrils and tunneling its way into their lungs to furnish them with its invisible mass and suffocate them with its overbearing thickness. It always felt like a slow suffocation as he trudged the sidewalk to the unruly heap of taxis stacking voices over hoots over bags and over boots a few meters ahead. The sounds were blended so intricately that what one heard was a single consistent torrent of what could only be described as a song of agony.

As he headed toward the song of agony, he mentally prepared himself for the copious amounts of human and vehicular traffic that came with the time of day. He navigated his mental library to the box folder with files of complaints he had lodged, and skimmed through the cluster of files on public transportation, each flip of paper adding to the festering blob of angst unobtrusively lodged between his right white cotton shirt pocket and his now-moist backside layered with his off-brand vest, white cotton shirt, and laptop bag backside. His demeanor and gait buckled under the weight of his thoughts and morphed to match them since in this country, it was okay to look displeased – frustrated even – but you never ever voiced your displeasure lest you be laughed at, and never spoke about your frustration lest you be scoffed at and labeled naive.

“ah ah ah – ih ah…
ah ka wa – tih nda…
nakaWA – NTINDA…
NAKAWA NAKAWA, – NTINDA…” a reprise from the song of agony softly pierced through his ears and yanked him away from the company of his thoughts and back to the world at hand, with an urgency that was numbing to those who drifted toward political correctness, such as himself. He had, in an instant, been transported from being a human, observing a bee-hive from a safe-enough distance, to being a bee transfixed in the middle of the buzzing drama of the hive, being bumped into, and brushing up with fellow bees as everyone tried to make their way to their hexagonal abodes before sun-down. As he stood there, slowly breathing in the choking wafts of apathy, a scrawny taxi tout yanked at his arm, hoping to interest him in the last available seat in a taxi that was now enthusiastically inching back and forth between two others still stocking up on human beings, trying to make its way out of the packed parking.

“Ntinda, yes?” the tout offered, eyebrows raised and other hand pointing to the open taxi door. A muffled barrage of unpleasantries came from the direction of the taxi driver, who seemed to have managed to face the front of the taxi road-ward and was now eager to leave, but the tout stayed focused on this target he had scoped out.
Jeremy nodded. In a flash, the tout dashed ahead of him, hoisted himself into the now-slowly-gliding vehicle and double-tapped the metallic inner side-paneling that formed the door frame, and the taxi revved to a halt. By now, Jeremy had followed suit and floated toward the taxi, and was at its doorway when the tout swiveled outward from his small foldable seat to make a path for Jeremy to bend and leap into the only free adjoining seat, right next to a thick older lady who seemed to have overflowed into some of the  free seat as well. Once seated, he turned his head to the right, in her direction, and nodded – head motioning downward – at her. She nodded back. He faced forward again.

The sliding taxi door slammed shut as he sat, drastically muffling the song of agony, and the screaming in his mind lowered ever so slightly in pitch. He unconsciously rubbed repeatedly, in a unidirectional manner, above his wrist where the tout had yanked, as if to will blood to return to the previously-clamped area.

“Nakawa, lukumi mu bitaano. Ntinda biri. Lukumi mu bitaano zikoma ku stage ye’Nakawa, small gate ziba biri! {eng: Nakawa is 1500, and Ntinda is 2000.}” the tout broadcast with Jeremy’s ear being the closest to the source of the announcement and thus suffering that unnecessary auditory affliction. His heart doubly-winced, first at the tout’s lack of courtesy, and more importantly, at the absurd fare increase. 2000 shillings to Ntinda? And nobody is complaining? Wabula these taxi guys are bayaaye!

He hadn’t up-to this point realized that, in rushing to sit for the fear of potentially also being yelled at by the driver, he’d not removed his laptop bag from his back and was now planted awkwardly in his seat, his face a few centimeters from the shaky metallic horizontal guard rail that run across the width of the taxi and divided the driver, co-driver, and co-co-driver seats at the front from the rest of the passenger seats at the back. He, with as little motion as possible, both from lack of space and fear of attracting undue attention from other passengers, maneuvered about with his black faux-leather-and-textured-fabric, zipper-laced appendage until it was resting in his lap and his sweat-drenched back firmly planted into the taxi seat. He unzipped a small top-facing compartment and pulled out a small 2-foot braided wire with a plastic bump at its center and an earbud at each end. He closed the compartment, plugged in the earbuds, pressed contemplatively at the buttons on the plastic bump, and closed his eyes as he let go of it, resting both his hands on the upper carry handle of his laptop bag.






He wasn’t sure he was dreaming when he felt a poke at his shoulder, but the repeated words that followed it both woke him up and alerted him to the presence of a now-agitated customer seated to his right.
“Sseebboooo… I’m getting out!” she repeated, slightly louder than the previous time she’d said it. Life slowly rushed back to him. It felt like trying to fold a fist with a hand temporarily paralyzed from having sat or slept on it. As the floodgates of his ears opened, he started to pick up the reprise of the hailing tout, the percussion of activity behind him which felt like people climbing into and out of the taxi, and then the heart-numbing crescendo of yet another set of verses from the song of agony. His neighbor was now already facing him, her full chest nudging the top of his laptop bag away from its previous vertical position, and her knees pushing against his so that they yawed toward the taxi doorway. He raised and turned his head toward her, met with her murky eyes as if to confirm receipt of her requests, and motioned his body to temporarily exit the taxi so she could alight. The old gentleman that had been her neighbor, occupying the window seat, stayed. A young lady leapt into the front row and occupied the seat her senior had previously been in. Jeremy unconsciously leapt in after her, and sat back in ‘his spot’, although it felt a much more spacious now. He pressed once on the buttoned plastic bump, faced over to his right and waved at the young lady, mouthing a mute ‘hello’ and nodding his head downward a bit. Still facing forward, she moved her eyes to meet his, and moved them back to their previous location. He faced forward again and clasped his bag with both hands. Tightly.

The door shutting and the tout sitting happened almost simultaneously, him bumping into Jeremy’s left side. Jeremy did not react since he was still recovering from his failed attempt at courtesy.

“Small gate, bitaano. Ntinda lukumi. Bitaano bikoma ku small gate, Spear ziba lukumi! {eng: Small gate is 500, and Ntinda is 1000.}” the tout broadcast again, primarily into Jeremy’s ear, and secondarily to the rest of the passengers. Thankfully, this time, Jeremy’s earbuds blocked out most of the barrage, only letting in the communique. He pressed again at the plastic bump and resumed clasping his bag in both hands. He squinted his eyes and slightly craned his neck forward, as if to focus on some distant object in the darkness of night that had enveloped the town by this time.






As their taxi burst from a dark stretch and turned the corner toward the Ntinda town center which also doubled as the final taxi stage on this journey, harsh lights, pale figures, and blurry silhouettes formed the activity that awaited them. Now at the stage, the driver decelerated as he turned to his left-hand side and brought the vehicle to an abrupt jerk that killed both motion and engine sound, within millimeters of the bumper of another taxi. The signature sliding door slid open one last time in its dull monotone that transposed into a clicky thud as it snapped into place and created way for passengers to alight. The tout stood some four feet away from the doorway and received fare from alighting passengers that made no eye contact. Jeremy swiveled outward about his seat, and with the laptop bag in one hand, leapt out of the taxi and stood right in front of the tout.

“Ezizo, boss? {eng: Your money, boss.}” the tout stated, looking beyond Jeremy.

Jeremy pulled out with his free hand, a 1000 shilling note from his side pocket and handed it to the tout.

“Kubulako lukumi, boss. Nabagambye nkumi biri. {eng: Add another 1000, boss. I said 2000}” the tout stated, as he stretched his hand out to receive two 500-shilling coins from the young lady that had emerged from behind Jeremy.

“No! You said Ntinda is 1000 shillings!” Jeremy replied.

“No No No No No! Ntinda is 2000 boss. Sasula ssente.” the tout retorted, shaking his head rapidly. He seemed to be looking beyond Jeremy again. The old gentleman came from behind Jeremy and stood beside him, also facing the tout, with a 2000-shilling note in his open palm. The tout received the fare from him as Jeremy responded, one hand on the old man’s shoulder.

“Wama, Sir, didn’t he say it was 1000 to Ntinda?” Jeremy asked, moving his hand from the old man’s shoulder to 5-finger-point at the tout.

“He did.” the old man replied, as he turned to walk away.

“Kati yye Mzee ng’asasudde enkumi biri? Mwembi temwajilinyidde wamu? {eng: If that’s the case, why has Mzee paid the entire 2000? Didn’t you both board at the same stage?}” the tout retorted, eyes narrower and voice louder. One of the front doors on the taxi slammed shut behind Jeremy.

“Eh, if he has money to waste, that’s his choice. You said Ntinda is 1000. I’ve paid you. What do you want?” Jeremy also responded in a louder voice.

“Bano ba corporate bayaaye! Nze baantama!” the driver bellowed from behind them as he approached, his thick shadow preceding him and engulfing both Jeremy and the tout in artificial shade. Now besides both Jeremy and the tout, he turned to Jeremy and, in his best American accent declared, “Iffu you boarding befor’ Nakawa stage, ezo biri – Ntinda is 2000 sh’rings. Bw’oba walinye – iffu you boarding in Nakawa stage – Ntinda is one thousa–.”

“–Anha! You see? Even the driver has said Ntinda is 1000. Now, what?” Jeremy said as he hoisted his laptop bag back onto his back.



This is a conversation between two youth workers at one of the lesser-known Church-leaders gatherings around town at their boss, the Reverend’s, request. They’re seated at the back where nobody can hear them debate under their breaths. Their conversation eventually escalates, so they decide to continue it on one of their phones lest they disrupt the proceedings.


X: …but can you be Anglican and still be born again? Is being born again denominational? Are we confusing Pentecostalism as being born again?

Y: Interesting. First explain Pentecostalism for me.

X: Pentecostalism or Classical Pentecostalism is a renewal movement within Protestant Christianity that places special emphasis on a direct personal experience of God through baptism with the Holy Spirit.

Y: I get it now.
I don’t think it is denominational. However, because people have cultures that they’ve come from (which are religiously influenced/biased), navigating the way Jesus enters their lifestyle is tricky. The thing to pursue, i think, is to emphasize letting Christian teaching influence (and result in) Christian practice regardless of where they’re from.

X: Exactly, we are still getting it twisted.

Y: I agree. We’ve turned (or assumed) a relationship with Christ (being born again) into yet another religion (Pentecostalism).

X: What does RELATIONSHIP with Jesus mean? How many times have you seen it in the Bible as an indication of having faith in Christ?

Y: “Relationship with Christ” is what we’ve called becoming a follower of Christ. Come to think of it, i don’t know where it is mentioned in the Bible. I’ve never seen it.

X: There in lies another problem. Following Christ is a whole other ball game from this ‘relationship’ jazz. The analogy used was/is Marriage, a lifetime commitment. First look at what we’ve turned marriages into, then look at the relationships we have. Then apply that use of the word to the current spiritual use of the word.

Y: Self-serving. Temporary. Departure at will. Selfish. Myopic. This is so true! Comparing and contrasting the two, it’s no wonder we are struggling. Maybe the analogy for our generation should’ve been “job/ work” but even those ones, we quit as soon as we’re tired, whether or not we have rent for that month.

X: “Relationship” with Christ is “God/The Spirit told me”. The Word tells us what it means but nah, it’s too hard. So we’ve replaced it with what we feel. Do people know what committing one’s life to Christ really means?

Y: Servitude. Slaves. Paul even uses that word. Many times. A commitment that is not hinged (solely) on sentiment. I agree that the relationship is exactly what it is. But because God is not here to physically say “that guy is not mine. he just says he is”, anyone can and has taken any and all carnal experiences and labelled them “my relationship with Christ” .

X: Is it evident in our?

Y: Is what evident?

X: The sentimentalism.

Y: Hah. Yes.

X: We’ve also been sentimental, so how do we help? Minus Bible Study and our own reformation, is there anything else we can do?

Y: (Side note: We make money so we can show the unbelievers that our God can give money since that’s their standard of “good”)
So, that sentimentalism, it is the bane of our generation. We really have to live unlike what we’ve been told/taught. I think the Bible is the only way there.


Unbeknownst to them, someone at the front on the microphone utters a distinct “Amen” and they return their attention to the proceedings as the audience responds likewise. It’s lunch time. They get up and shuffle to the line in contemplative silence. Or hunger. It’s hard to tell with these things.

Tabitha & Timothy


Tabitha (Facebook post)

Happy Birthday, Timothy!

May you have silky skies and classy clouds.

May you never forget to smile that smile you smile. Oh, that smile.

May your life be painless,

your heart break less,

your wallet shrink less,

and your horizon endless.

I love you to Mars and back!

Happy Birthday, my Timothy!


Arnold (inner monologue)

Oh, wow! I didn’t know today was Timothy’s birthday. That’s nice… Bambi Tabitha is so expressive in her love for Timo. How long have they been together, now? 6 months? Or 5? Doesn’t matter. Hahahaa! Mbu “Wallet shrink less…” I should take a screenshot this post and disturb him in his inbox!


Bruce (inner monologue)

Oh, wow! This is really beautiful! Bambi Tabitha is so expressive in her love for me… This is so exciting! Who knew? A lowly me? With a beauty like her? “I love you to Mars and back!” I love you, too, Tabitha! I should take a screenshot of this post and put it on my Whatsapp status… Oh, how she loves me!


Charlie (inner monologue)

Oh, wow! I didn’t know today was Timothy’s birthday. That’s… interesting. So now, Tabitha is over the moon in her love for Timo? Huh. How long have they been together, now? 4 months? Or 3? Mbu “Wallet shrink less…” She’s only with him for the money, of course. I should take a screenshot this post and keep it for when she breaks up with him. I know she will… It’s just a matter of time.



There once was a man
Pathfinder, he was called
Like him, there was none
Dating back to days of old

He wandered the village
Trudged each day with all his might
Witnessed the plunder and pillage
That took many like him overnight

But he walked on and on
Frame bold as the noonday sun
Feet intimate with stone and bone
Mind sharp as the hammer of the gun

This kind of resilience was praised
Only when if it did pay off
It was rare like the dead being raised
Or the president being laid off

And so Pathfinder, he did attract
More for his heart than for his purse
Flocks of ladies sought his contact
This was his blessing and his curse

Because in due time, our dear buddy
Smitten by one of the village belles
Awoke with his judgement rather muddy
After he’d dreamt of wedding bells

Pathfinder asked the dame to tag along
For a great expedition indeed lay ahead
He was glad she didn’t think too long
Her “yes” had him blushing pink and red

He grabbed his load, smiled at blue skies
And they were off to the great adventure
Their bellies danced from the butterflies
To him without wisdom, do not add venture

For in due time, our traveling couple
Stood still where the road had forked
The paths to take were now a couple
And after a silence, his belle, she talked

“Pathfinder, my love, which do we take?
You told me one leads us to the lake…”
For the trekking had left her with an ache
She longed to rest at the sunny beach deck

Pathfinder stood motionless and mute
As his lady gently requested for attention
His now-confused mind tried to compute
But it brought about nothing but tension

“Pathfinder, you man, which do we take?
You told me one leads us to the lake..?”
By now, she’d had it up-to her neck
And calmness, she could no-longer fake

“I do not know what path to follow
I do not know what road to take
Inside, I am empty and hollow
I think this was all a mistake…

Oh, village belle,

…Return at once to your father
And forget me like a bad dream
For I was never the Pathfinder
I, too, am searching for Him”

stifled swirls


No good can come from

an immature brute taming a cyclone.


He eventually grumbles when

he expertly domesticates the deafening damsel


Only having wooed her

by strangling her into a whisper

splinters and logs


My pastor is the best
My pastor is the best
My pastor, quite frankly
is better than the rest

His mic is at his chest
Gosh, he has the biggest pects!
Preaching healing laced with jest,
He reads the scripture with nice spects


My president is the best
My president is the best
My president, quite frankly
is better than the rest

His hat on his head mind
A wiser grandpa, none can find
His heart is on his sleeve
He even lets his captives live


My opinion is modest
My opinion is modest
My opinion, quite frankly
is modesty at its best

I’m impartial when I judge
On my beliefs, I’d never budge
I’d never steal, come rain or sun
Maybe to feed my wife and son

Ravines and Redemption


The falls, they are many
The falls, they are great
The falls, they hurt
The falls, they break

The wounds, they are heavy
The scrapes, oh they ache
The fractures, the fractures
They bind us to our beds

The hearts, they are broken
The pieces, they are stomped
The hopes, they are sprinkled
Upon the fieriest of coals

We have mourned the journey
We have cursed the ravine
But what shall heal you, honey?
Kisses or Medicine?

Injustice: Gods Among Us (Year 1)


A seed must die for the plant to grow.

Times come when difficult decisions must be made. Injustice shows that these times are usually triggered by small but significant changes in the characters.

After Superman kills his pregnant fiancé, Lois, under the influence of the Joker’s concoction of Scarecrow’s hallucinating gas and stolen Kryptonite, the man of Steel becomes a thundering bowl of clouded judgement, vengeance, and sentiment-driven reaction (which later gets a support system to form it into a twisted form of pro-action).

The seeds are two. The first is the one of unforgiveness – planted when Superman declines every opportunity to “step back” and grieve. The second is myopic decision-making that is rooted in narcissistic altruism(more on this later) but manifests itself as a mockery of the very values it espouses.


Conflict of worldviews

The rift between the two (growing) teams in Injustice stems from a conflict between the two ‘main’ characters of Year 1; Superman and Batman. The issue of contention is the handling of evil and its doers.

Superman (now) believes that the flame of evil must be snuffed out once and for all before it becomes a roaring blaze. He will, for a brief moment, bask in the wafts of a flickering candle flame before plunging it into the dark and frigid depths of the waters.

Batman believes in managing the flame – not blowing it out completely. He contends that no candle has the right to snuff out another – regardless of the danger the misguided or ill-willed candle might be putting the entire house in.


Selfishness and Self-serving altruism

The bulk of human decisions are taken purely because we believe they are the most correct. These decisions are founded on narcissistic altruism at best and selfishness at worst. They inevitably serve the majority at best and only the decision-maker at worst but one thing is clear – the decision-maker will always benefit, whether it be in drops or in torrents.


Leadership and Serving Team

There are at least two leadership styles that manifest in the events that unfold, particularly after the rift causes people to team up based on their inclinations and/or allegiances.

On the one hand, Superman is the benevolent dictator – transparent, listening, and firm on his choices once he eventually gets around to making them.

On the other hand, Batman is the sociopathic commander – secretive, calculating, and moves with a combination of speed and accuracy.


Collateral damage

Both team leaders are not swayed by collateral damage. The assumption is “This is war, and if you’re not prepared to give your life, go back home and tend to your soon-to-be-dead family.” Superman takes fellow heroes’ lives ‘for the greater good’ and Batman sticks to playing chess while his antagonists prance about with the reckless abandon of checkers. The stakes are high and the losses are real – sometimes even heartbreaking.