Susanna, Book Exchanges and New-lady-love.

Last evening was spent at Isha's.
The lovely, warm and exotic looking place two streets below my work place. The lady who runs it makes me think of Latin American soap actresses in their flowing dresses and head wraps. She is black, though. And as cool as hell. That doesn't sound quite right.
And her lamps...I want. All of them. I just couldn't figure out how I'd explain the sudden darkness and tusk-shaped bulges in my bag if I'd given in to temptation and packed them.
So I let them be. And kept throwing them come-to-me-looks.
But yes, we went to watch poetry recitals. We, the deep, well-read and gifted of this my town, went down to Isha's so we could bond, throw well-worded insults at the rest of Kampala's not-so-deep population. In true snobbish fashion, I sat there and felt extremely air-ish because I am part of this magnificent few. The few persons who understand and get words as much as I do.
It helped that I was seated smugly between some of the coolest girls I know. And got to know. Mildred, Darlyne and Kampire, I met last night(more on Mildred later).

Mildred and Liz had arranged a book exchange. We are all part of the coolest ever book club/page and due to endless links, posts, quotes from incredible books and lately, joint chagrin at this so-full-of-himself-pompous and widely unread author, we have developed an over the internet and social network bond. After the introductions and gin and coke orders, we got down to business. Recitals. Singing.

APWICDBWPW(H)GT

Jason Ntaro, if I have never said this, allow me to do so today. I absolutely, thoroughly love you. That your poems are spur of the moment mobile text section creations only makes my blood rush faster.
You have a way with words. A way that makes me gape in awe each single time you do a recital. My mind is a poem away from stalking you.
Please allow?

Lyric me away please...?

Susanna. The Lusoga poem( that was written in a complete Kisoga accent). By a man in shades at 9pm. That irked me. Shades in the pm. But then he went on about wiggling bottoms, wasp-sized waist and doing unmentionable deeds to this Susanna epitome of female glory.
And Susanna supposedly responds by knighting him with tiltles such as Kyabazinga and giving him free pass and own tickets to endless acres of land. Pause.
I thought that was only done by the Tooro women?
And he got a thunderous applause. We ululated. With  spur-of-the-moment Kisoga-ish tunes.

Call it the poetry in the air. Call it the gin in my system. Call it what lust. Call it what you will.
But last night, I fell.
I was enamoured. Deeply, giddily and gin-assisted into falling in love. First time love. Hasn't happened to me since Clooney in ER.
Then Mildred happened. It helped that unlike most first dates who are massively loaded with poor jokes, next-to-zilch ability for deep yet witty conversation, Mildred came bearing books. For me. For me?? TWO BOOKS.

Ring My Bell...

Her deep blue dress with the cute red belt and pretty hair band did not slow down my palpitating heart.
Thank you Di Ncy-for starting the book group. How else would I have had a second shot at instant love with this amazing awesomeness of well-read, well-spoken and  book bearing woman?

Hoping the love will be requited.
Will find out at our second date.
Yes. Second date. We have one.
Be still my heart.

This has all the looks of dark and intense...
(In my Oxytocin infused mind)

Dealing. Faith. Breathing.

I have the most murderous thoughts going through my mind.
Gruesome images of body-mutilation and stabbing and choking. Not of myself please. I am way too narcissist to consider putting my pretty self through any physical pain. I want to hurt you. In ways I haven't wanted to hurt anyone since the day they went and cancelled Friends. Okay. It wasn't that bad. Still.
I want to hurt you for hurting me and for being the biggest asshole this side of the planet. I want to hurt you because you re-define callous and reckless. And heartless. Yes. You, the-one-that-I-just-let-go-of are the universal definition of heartless.
And I am the universal definition of proud and strong-headed and mentally-loose-ish. At least by your standards. So, what the hell was a brilliant girl like myself even doing getting close to a...person like yourself?
Brilliant girl is not seeking answers. It is a rhetorical question.

This is meant to really hurt.

Alcohol is my drug. Gin is my bestest friend. Somewhere up there next to God-when I am not venting and telling Him to leave me alone.
And those Black Russians? Man, oh man...Vodka and rum are my comforters. Especially when it seems all my guardian angels are taking a very long and extended break from me. Alcohol helps me deal.
Stella used to. Then she just had to go and die. How so real-life-like. For the one person you allow yourself to be broken with, the one person you can cry with, to die in the year when real life and all its complications start to happen.

I miss you. Always.

There is Celia. But then she works in Nairobi. Convenient right? I should learn to cry over the phone. Except that will be quite frustrating for poor Celia and damaging to my smart phone.
Where on earth is Michael when I need him desperately? What's a woman to do when the very persons who are her warm arms and I-can-be-my-messy-and-currently-weepy-self with people are not within a boda ride's reach?
Said woman turns to alcohol.

My bestest....well. One of...

Dealing is difficult. Dealing is painful. Letting go is exhausting. Moving on sounds so easy when Oprah says it. In real life, moving on first of all requires you get out of bed in the morning. And getting out of bed is the hardest thing to do when you have to move on. There should be a warning manual for the twenties. Life gets foggier, friends get...complex and judgmental, God becomes a disturbingly distant figure and the Bible ceases to make sense.
Snogging people you have no right or business snogging becomes well....very likely.

Dear God.
At what point did life take such a ferociously dramatic turn? How did the aches, pains, sores, wounds pile up without me realising it?Why the hell does my spell check thingie insist on me spelling realise with a z? I am a product of British, NOT American colonialism.
Bloody Americans.
I am a victim-self-made victim of stoicism, facade(ing), first-bornism( that one's on the parents) and the psycho illness a friend described as the God-complex. Saving everyone and pushing me aside until I wake up and realise I have created my own hell.
Shadows don't make for nice company. Aching hearts don't make for easy breathing. Especially if one is an asthmatic. Stoic natures don't make for easy crying. And this does not make for easy dealing.
Because crying doesn't leave bright and sunny spaces in one's heart. It squeezes out a good deal of the pain.
But it leaves despair. Dark, empty and bottomless despair. I am not one for crying. But I think its about time.

Time I took the mask off, rolled aside the thick rock across my heart and cried.
Real, deep, gut-wrenching and heartbreaking sobs. The sort that would send my demons packing. Because my demons are of that nature. The lets-pretend-and-play-fine. They hate emotion.
I think its time. That.I.Cried.
I do not need company please.
Stella's ghost and gin bottle are quite enough.

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."-Hebrews 11:10.

 And in that one verse, the good-intention(ed) apostle Paul went and made faith the most forsaken, challenged and ignored substance of life.
Because faith is the very basis of all things-faith in a better day, true love, totally accepting friendships...faith for the dark in all its forms to finally go away.
How does one expect mortal and fallible beings such as the 6 billion mass of pain-ridden, wound-carrying and fearful human species to have faith enough to last one through the tragedies that most of us call our lives?
In a world of cause-less wars, starving children whose only crime is being born of parents who have failed to master the concept of co-existence, in a country where class-differences are slowly building up enough reason for war, how do you speak to us of faith?
Faith in what? or whom?
A deity that walked away from this place centuries ago? Governments that plunder, loot and then stand by their patriotic albeit hypocritical and clearly-wrong decisions?
Excuse me please.
We might be made in God's image but surely there is a reason God took His own away from this just after 30 years. He should have stayed. Keep encouraging the rest of us mere mortals along.
But what sort of loving parent leaves their beloved son in this forsaken place?
So pardon my cheek God, but when do you plan on coming back for the rest of us? We also are your children.
Right?

Say Paul, ya think you could write letters to this day's peeps?

There is alot to be said for life's happy moments. But in summary; they do not last. Love dies. Or fades away. Or burns you.
Friends leave, friends move, friends die.
I will miss you Yasmin. Come back soon. Please. Please. You're one of my rocks.
Dreams die or take the life out of you as you fight for them.
Men can be real scum-of-the-earth-characters. Not all of them. On this, I will always insist.
Happiness is fleeting. Joy is something we all write about. Way less than all of us actually believe it.
The truth is, it is as elusive as happiness. Pain and hurt are lacking in the etiquette department. They do not call before they show up.
So we smile. We laugh. We kiss and make merry when we can. We grab at our dreams the first chance we get. Because deep down we are painfully aware of this-that this minute's happiness most likely doesn't have any intentions of making it to the next minute.

So this girl turns to alcohol. And mentally challenges the now sainted-and-heaven-residing Paul.
And reaches for her inhaler.
No one said this was going to be easy.

Drunk, achy and...waging war. Mbu.

Dear His Excellency, Please Chase Away Silver City

First of all, they are outside countries’ people. And you said something akin to outside countries’ people and things being responsible for the increased disappearance of money from our wallets. That is reason one. They are foreign. You need to motivate us to follow your example in using only locally made things. Like the soon-

to-be-defunct-Ugandan-made-sugar. Tikwe?

Uganda-where other things are responsible for our dire economy.

When they had just opened shop in Uganda, which was around 2007, all was well. Like how in 1990, the country had better roads than it does now. The food was excellent. The waitresses and waiters were masters at treating the customers like royalty. Things were going bulungi. We loved them because they made us feel like we were experiencing a bit of movie-sm in our dusty city. Men unlucky enough to be running after a campus girl at the time must have cursed the place. You asked the girl where she would like to have dinner, convinced she was still excited about Nandos’ free pizza Tuesday. She said Silver City. You panicked. But then, you asked. The sharp ones carried chips and liver to her room. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

The car is HOT. The man is NOT.

Silver City however started to kumanyiira us. Because we are hospitable people. Because we have maalo for new joints and restaurants and will frequent them just to walk away when another joint opened its doors. Ask Cheese bar. But we were nice to Silver City. We kept going back because this time, we were ready to commit. It helped that they had the juiciest pork ribs this side of the Sahara. And we really haven’t tasted the ones on the other side of the Sahara. But wah…they did not treasure us. Us, the girls who had to put up with I know-I’m-boring-but-I-have-a-car-and-money-men just so we could escape another night of Wandegeya food. And the poor men who spent money and fuel (in those days, it was cheap) to dine a ka girl who just side-hugged you and skipped off to her room. Kampala girls. Msssccchhheeewww.

But the excellent food made up for the lack of common interest dates. Then they decided that because they have been here for one term, they could become so Ug and start being bulala. At least they should follow your example, Mr. President, and last three terms before going haywire. How do you serve a chicken breast between a stale Hotloaf bun and majestically term that a chicken burger? In these hard times where people give up lunch so they have taxi fare home, how do you charge UGX20,000 for a meal that consists of 12 fries(yes, I counted) and said horrible burger? What sort of idiot clears your plate away; intact with most of 

the meal and then asks if you enjoyed your meal?

My meal looked NOTHING like this.

The Silver City sort of idiot. Three times of bad service and horrible food isn't a bad day. It’s a pattern. They go back; we use the space to grow sugar.

Spur Ranches-The Uganda Version? SUCKS.