loving you


Loving you is hard

You demand two
Yet I have none

You require a lifetime
Yet I only have the lunch break

You demand full payment
Yet I struggle with the first installment

You shine a bright light with your presence
Yet I’m comfortable in the ugliness of the darkness

You demand a fully-formed man
Yet I secretly crave my pacifier

You desire wisdom to fill you up
Yet I am often fool to the brim

You demand unwavering commitment
Yet I’m not sure I was born with a spine

You desire a mind as solid as a rock
Yet only my meds keep me from running mud

You demand an image of your Father
Yet I’m fresh out of duplicating paper

Loving you is hard
Because I struggle to accept that
Loving me is worth it

Loving you is hard
Because I struggle to accept that
He is loving me

Thought about these things a while ago when I listened to the track Make me a believer by Andy Mineo.

Bottle v Car Radio


Behold, a new year is upon those of us who follow the Gregorian calendar.

I present to you this image below for it will form the rock on which I will build my church post (wait for it to load if your net is iffy).




I shall now present to you 10 reasons Bottle is better than the Car Radio:

  1. Bottle doesn’t consume battery power. That means if you stop the engine and use Bottle for extended periods of time, it won’t drain your battery. It’s true innovation!
  2. Bottle doesn’t require nice speakers to function well. Bottle, in fact (this might come as a shocker) doesn’t require speakers AT ALL! Talk about TRUE autonomy. I believe the field of Artificial Intelligence has a leaf or two to pick from this.
  3. Bottle doesn’t need buttons to work. This means the barrier-to-entry into its ecosystem is significantly reduced. Even the illiterate can comfortably use Bottle without second-guessing themselves!
  4. Bottle is portable at all times without compromising its performance. Bottle can be removed from where it lays and towed around by the driver of the vehicle without reducing any aspect of its functionality.
  5. Bottle requires no initial setup fees, equipment, or expertise. Nobody needs an expert to install Bottle in their car. Nobody searches around for extra equipment to connect to Bottle whilst in the car. Nobody has ever gotten charged money for Bottle installation.
    Bottle thinks outside the box. Bottle works right out of the box.
  6. Bottle doesn’t pause working temporarily as you start the car. When you crank your engine, does Bottle stop functioning? Nope! You know who does? Car Radio does. Damned attention seeker, that one!
  7. Bottle is easier (and more affordable) to replace if stolen from the car. In the unfortunate event that your car is broken into, you will probably have to use your teeth to raise the windows and you will definitely need hands to act as temporary indicators. You know what car part won’t break the bank when you start replacing them? That’s right! Bottle.
    You also probably didn’t know this but, Car Radio connived with those thieves to get ‘kidnapped’. Car Radio wanted to see if you would burn down the world searching for it, as a sign of your unending love and devotion.
  8. Bottle doesn’t necessitate you to figure out the labels on it before you can use it. Regardless of whether Bottle has Chinese or English written on it, it can still be used even by the most basic of people. Try working with Car Radio without labels and see how accidents happen as you’re busy looking for the Play button.
  9. Bottle can play well with water. In fact, that’s where it seems to shine! Add liquid to Bottle and enjoy! Add liquid to Car Radio? End of relationship.
  10. Bottle’s first letter, B, comes before both Car Radio’s C and R.

One of these days


One of these days

I’ll grab my chewed-on pen and wrinkled paper
And I’ll find a rundown cheapo bistro
I’ll order fries with a wink of pepper
And I’ll jot down my poem’s intro

I’ll proceed to build on its flesh
Each cursive letter, a silent echo
My phone will beep; “it’s Pesh”
She’s on my Facebook wall like a Gecko

But I’ll stay focused on my love
Because you see, I’ll be eyeing this belle
And I’ll keep returning like Noah’s dove
She’ll be the happy ending to my tale

I’ll gaze at that goddess of a waitress again
As she serves another hungry patron
Her effortless smile will blot out all my pain
I’ll have found my bride; Get me a matron!

Of course, to get her undivided attention
I’ll employ some golden vybe of old
Although I’m not yet eligible for pension
And my rather large head is not yet bald

I’ll ask to walk her back to her home
I’ll ask to carry her leftover burger
I’ll bask in the visage that precedes her dome
I’ll have masked all my fears with a lager

I’ll suggest some nice spots to chill
I’ll call her up and make her laugh
I’ll propose stuff At which I have much skill
Like gym dates for me to show her I’m buff

I’ll propose on the both of my knees
I’ll have a fancy-ass artsy ring box
It’ll be legit, and not mbu ‘Chinese’
I’ll even pay for her to get dreadlocks

We’ll do kwanjula and eat boiled maize
We’ll get married and take pics in Togo
We’ll buy goats for Junior to graze
And he’ll use those fancy sticks of Pogo


I’ll phase out of my glorious haze
And turn my data off with its toggle
Because one of these wondrous days
I hope to write like Philip Matogo

Oh, Pastor!

I remember that innocent smile as you leaned over
The first time I’d ever entered the youth office
I remember I had more retakes than course-units
“What can I do you for, my daughter?”
I need advice, Pastor. Not your number.

I remember the Whatsapps that one night
I mentioned that I was tired of being lonely
I remember when you said
“I shall lay hands on you, my daughter”
On my head, Pastor. Not my thighs.

I remember one of our favorite ‘meets’
You were panting. I even forgot my pantie
I remember your breath at the back of my neck
“I will always love you, my daughter”
Love me forever, Pastor. Not for the night.

I remember the day we woke up at 3
to pray for the youth conference
I remember you prophesied to me
“You shall bear good fruit, my daughter”
From my heart, Pastor. Not my womb.

I remember fasting for you to leave her
I was carrying the son she’d failed to give you
I remember asking what we would name him
“The Lord will help us choose, my daughter”
Choose an heir, Pastor. Not a wedding ring.

I remember when I called you sobbing
She had threatened to put me six feet under
I remember your calm and soothing voice
“I will protect you, my daughter”
Protect our son, Pastor. Not your reputation.

I remember when he was finally born
You were in the States with your wife
I remember the pain in my mother’s voice
“Never trust any man, my daughter”
Visit your son, Pastor. Not your donors.

I remember the look in the nurse’s eyes
The flask fell as mummy run out wailing
I remember that knot crawling up my throat
“The baby didn’t make it, my daughter”
You’re in the clear, Pastor. No more hassle.

I came to this roof-top’s edge to see the night sky
I heard that if I jump, these bright stars will catch me
I now recall the words that drew me to you
“Reach for the stars, my daughter”
You’ll find my body as lifeless as you left my heart.


Boiled maize

I am one of those people who would gladly spend the million dollars I won on a televised singing competition on boiled maize. Matter of fact; if boiled maize had a concert at Kyadondo, I’d gladly purchase a VIP ticket just to be abreast with her alluring performance as it unfolded. I wouldn’t even blink.
One of my favourite parts is sucking the ‘supu’ (as a friend aptly baptised it) from a succulent cob post-mortem.

This is why purchasing boiled maize is such a bitter-sweet experience for me. Every single time I halt a lady hawking these enchanted missiles packed with oral seduction, it is the emotional equivalent of a seasoned preacher entering a casino with a half-cooked chunk of boneless meat in his grasp – there is a lot at stake!
“Njagala agoonda, nyabo”. Making my fantasy clear is a big deal because, apparently, some people prefer it hard – much like self-deluded teachers setting a final exam.

Then follows the most interesting part – watching her poke at the maize in ‘search’ of the perfect one. I often wonder if her fingers know something mine don’t. They never peel or even partially expose the maize to confirm it is soft or succulent, they always poke it with a thumb that speaks what I shall now baptise maizeese (universal language through which maize communicates).
As she thoughtfully pokes away at the individual ‘contestants’ like a retired morse code expert, my heart always whispers a prayer to the heavens for success. If you have ever texted a lady that you love her, this type of maize selection is the emotional equivalent of awaiting the fair lady’s reply.

Just as your phone lights up signalling you to open and read her response, the maize lady finally selects one winner from the finalists and packages it – in a transparent polythene bag. I think this is the societal equivalent of a sugar-daddy subtly parading his new catch around in an eye-catching, dust-free, UAX-numbered lustmobile.
“Akaveera olina aka bulaaka?”
“Nedda, ssebo.”
“Okay. Neeyanzizza, nyabo.”
I walk off, heart playing the giddy goat and expression locked to poker-face because normal people shouldn’t be as excited as I am about boiled maize.

The experience of unwrapping my spoils is always a dimly-lit one-way street that ends up in one of two shadowy boulevards, with my only other choice in the matter being whether I should pay with my animal-embellished, near-valueless Shilling coins or my inflation-wrecked, wrinkle-riddled bank notes.

On the good days, I succeed! It’s a pristine cob of maize; supu wetting my excited fingers as they fish out the remaining buviiri after removing its sheath. The grains are neatly lined up like askaris at a morning parade; ready to serve. On these days, I purposefully take it slow; hair after hair until all that is left is the beautiful nakedness of the meal to devour. It is, perhaps, metaphorically similar to that honeymoon night when the newly-weds decide to consummate. The first bite is angelic, and yet every bite after that is tastier than the last. The end of the grain-chewing ushers in a secret new round of festivities. After gently swallowing what was left of these celestial cysts from the colossal cob, I pout my lips, heave my clueless lungs, and muster the initial vacuum necessary to suck the oddly-sensational supu from my now-bare, supu-laden, super-size maize cob. I ‘sip’, ‘sip’, and ‘sip’ some more, taking pauses in between to praise the Lord for his creation, look around for judgemental eyes, and gather more suction energy. It is messy, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. As the supu slowly reduces in amount, I slowly start to return to earth, and with one final decisive sip, I surrender the cob to a nearby bin and switch my mind to locating a water source for washing hands or a fabric (preferably not mine) that I can wipe them off of.

On the bad days, it’s a fail-train and I’m in the Captain’s seat. The maize sheath goes off with ease, only to reveal a sad state of affairs, much like Uganda’s politics.
• Sometimes, it’s a battered bunch of pulseless pellets. The grain is shrivelled up, and has a top-side depression like a lady’s dorsal view. This is maize that should have been eaten by WWII veterans, but they’d died at war, so it just struggled through the centuries – doing odd-jobs for tonto money – till a random Ugandan purchased it one day.
• Some other times, I unwrap the gift only to find a primary school class at break-time. The grains are out of line like that pretentious narcissistic old lady trying to skip the bank queue. Some of them are so buff and squeezed together, I’m tempted to look around the cob for the gym they were hitting.
• On other occasions of misfortune I have had the sad chance of encountering, the maize is pristine – at first. It is so good-looking in fact, that I think to myself “Eh! What if someone had gotten to you before me?” and true to my thoughts, it is not long before what looked like dark smudges now take form and start to crawl around. It turns out the maggots got here first, but since I see no planted flags of possession, it’s usually a simple case of remove them and pretend they were never there to begin with.

I’ll end this with two maize puns since I want to fry it covered.
You’re a-maize-ing!

t(Ruth) be told

t(Ruth) be told
it was a cold night
and the thighs
they were warm
and inv(eye)ting

t(Ruth) be told
it was a cold night
and the blouse
it hid mountains
with pointed peaks

t(Ruth) be told
it was a cold night
the lock was turned
the clothes fell fast
like August rains

t(Ruth) be told
it was a warm night
when the heart raced
blood torrented south
and a flag was raised

t(Ruth) be told
it was a warm night
legs were intertwined
the fruits of that vine
they quenched our thirst

t(Ruth) be told
it was a warm night
when the fingers clawed
and the sheets ruffled
and the walls grinned

t(Ruth) be told
it was a hot night
let’s play safe, she said
I’d checked for rubber
I’d only found gum

t(Ruth) be told
it was a hot night
5 months. 29 days.
since my last test
HIV takes its time

t(Ruth) be told
it was a hot night
my excited farmer
sowed all my child seed
in my neighbour’s garden

t(Ruth) be told
it is a cold morning
I’m straightening my robe
dusting my bible
preparing today’s sermon

…and praying the son shines
Happy (Son)day.

t(Ruth) be told

Abakiga b’erigyenda

Abakiga b’erigyenda,
Aba aba??
Toraa babaase!

Abakiga b’erigyenda?
Abari kuza na n’omu gym
bakakyendeeza amabondo?

Abakiga b’erigyenda?
Abari kusiba amashokye
bakakunda n’ebitokye?

Abakiga b’erigyenda?
Ab’eine amasimu g’amaani
ebihimba babigura omu can?

Abakiga b’erigyenda,
Aba aba??
Toraa babaase!

Abakiga b’erigyenda?
Abareerebera aha za flat screen
bakeefuuhirira na za Softsheen?

Abakiga b’erigyenda?
Abaranyampagura omu taxi
okwegyezamu deo nsya ya Axe?

Abakiga b’erigyenda?
Abararya twa chips tw’omutwaaro
bakabura ez’okuheereza mukyaaro

Abakiga b’erigyenda?
Aba aba??
Nyowe ndakugambira, mwa
Toraa babaase!