YOLO! It’s 2013!

She kept on screaming. Screaming and shouting. Her life was miserable she retorted. She needed better. I just looked on, wondering as to why she kept on screaming at me for things I had no hand in.

Let us cut the long story short. We are young, and there’s old people. Doesn’t mean they are always right. They’ve just lived longer. Maybe they have more experience, and maybe we young people also have different experiences. We live in a world of information where all you need to know is just at the tip. . .you know what I mean.

I’ve grown up from a not so rich family and a not so poor family but well, we survived and seem to have been stuck in the middle class craze. The kind that have cars but the fuel light is always showing empty. That kind of middle class. My parents are so comfortable they don’t even want to but an inch but well that doesn’t mean I should get comfortable. I should strive for better. I have the blue collar or is it white collar education or is it both? Oh well, I have the education.

I’ve been to boarding school and I dare say, best experience of my life, however miserable and sad that time was. I took away a lot from back in the days. So, YOLO, it’s 2013. . .

Like every middle class family in Africa, you always have that very poor side of the family that’s locked up in some weird battles back in the village or so they make it seem. Every time my broke aunt calls home, she’s complaining about how some child stole food from the garden. How she saw the child given that the garden is in a state of shambles, I don’t know but she did. Black magic maybe?

Anyway, the middle class is forced to support the poor lower class, and this is where my parents just go HAM! Alas, they still care for the lower class but with heavy hearts and anger and sometimes doing it frustratingly. Since I am in this comfortable middle class home driving around the comfortable middle class car on empty, I never feel the sting, but I do feel the plight.

And my question is this. . .why have we failed to move from the middle class? And why has the lower class continuously sought for dependency pills?

Well, my answer is YOLO! It’s 2013!

To write or not to write.. . .

You registered on WordPress.com 5 years ago!

Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging!

WOOT WOOT

Just got this message from wordpress and I can’t help but smile. *Removes acceptance speech.*

So, as you see, the title says it all. Ok, not all. Its fancy and a replica of the famous adage ‘To be or not to be’, and in this case this post as intended, is about writing or not writing.

I’ve always been a big fan of literature however poor I was at it. I passed with a Credit 4 in my O level. Well, I was tired of talking about themes in Weep Not Child and the fat and juicy frog in Nolonger at Ease. But I appreciated the authors. People who took time to write, and write and write some more. I mean, 100 pages of just an idea must be a lot given that most of us can barely make a 5 paged office report, cover page included.

We write. . .send texts, update our statuses, tweet, send emails and yet, writing continues to be as obscure as it is to many. For those who’ve grown up in typical African/Ugandan boarding school environments know the pain of filling counter book after counter book of notes in over 16 subjects under the pretext of learning or being taught. And this you do for over 10 years of you life, and somehow, you still can’t write. Shame on you.

Writing is awesome, or maybe the person who got me interested in writing sold me awesome dreams. He said, he was a priest, that every time you wrote something down, you put down a memory never to be forgotten. A moment in time. Basically you captured time in that one moment with what you’ve written. But this again, had to be properly done. He insisted that we came up with journals, journals I still hold. I look back at my high school days and wonder in amazement at how incredulous and silly I was, but again, how would I have known if I hadn’t written.

All am saying is, to write or not too, is just some fancy title I cooked up. Coincidently it happens to fall on the day I celebrate 5 years of  blogging. *Runs to check stats*

9697 hits/views.

255 comments. *Spam excluded*

181 posts. Now, 182 posts.

34 followers. *Me excluded*

Keep writing.

This month

Quote: Love one another as you love yourself, masturbaters included.

Music: Pompi.

Movie: Rise of the Guardians. *Didn’t apply to Africa  I thought.*

Book: Struggling to start the 4th installation of Eragon.

Have a lovely evening. It’s all about love, spreading it, sharing it, and making it.

Valentines Day. . .Are roses really red?

You see what I just did there with the fancy title. . .

Should I be excited because this is probably the first Valentines I am going to celebrate when I am fully conscious of the activities I am partaking. I know, as old as you think I am, I should be an expert at this stuff, but NO, I had to drink my way through the past Valentines mostly because I was celebrating my Singles Awareness Day.

So, what’s the plan…

Well, I am dating that’s for one. . .

SO, what should I do?

Are roses really it?

Well, here’s my take on Valentines. . .

Just go celebrate the damn thing. Don’t go on about what you are going to do. Just make your partner, loved one happy and feel special, that is eventually what counts.

*Drops mic*

Incepted. . .

There’s ordinary dreams, then there’s I-am-still-awake-but-this-is-a-dream kinda dreaming.

I had one this morning.

Given that my room is situated in the darkest corner of the house with no security lights whatsoever, I tend to leave my light on sometimes and hope and pray someone will come switch it off for me while I am asleep.

But this is not the reason I blog with such haste this morning. . .

“Mwami, eh, mwami, eh, emeese. . .mwami mwami, emeese. . .”

(The above statement is a coinage and euphemism to having sex or just plain beating a rat.)

Now, now, don’t get me wrong, I HATE this song, and honestly, I have subconsciously listened to it. I’ve even listened to it by people just virtually talking about it. That’s how bad it is, then again, that’s the only line that comes to mind if I was asked about this song.

So I slept quite late this night or morning because I wanted to watch the epic finale to the Superbowl or rather the SuperBrowl as most are calling it. And at some point when the 9ers were losing, I headed to bed. (Still don’t want to know what the score is.) I did my usual routine, lights on, get into bed, sleep. . .but for some unknown reason, I couldn’t get my mind to settle. It kept on wandering, from women, to pending work, to proposed work, to my hate of women now, yes, Valentines for me has just become a singles awareness day for me, but my mind kept on wandering. . .up to around 6 in the morning when the lights finally came off. . .

That’s when the song started playing in my dreams. It all started with me being in a dingy bar that was happening, everything was alright. I was enjoying my time and I wanted to call up a few friends and let them know what was going down. So, yes, I made that call in my dream. . .but in my dream, making that call virtually put me in a spot where I was standing in front of my friends and telling them to get a boda boda (Indian 3 seater bike that can carry a family of 7) and head out.

We then headed out.

While heading out, I just couldn’t seem to retrace my steps to that one place in my dreams. I was lost in my dreams, with a bunch of friends who I’d promised that they were going to have fun. So the GTA (Grand Theft Auto) mode kicked in and next thing I know, I’ve hijacked a boda boda. But this hijacking a boda boda was brought on by my earlier conscious decision to learn how to ride a boda boda, and what not such a better place than to do it in my dreams. So, I hop on and viola, I am in BWEYOGERERE.

*Please buckle down, I am trying to explain to you the severity of my dreams.*

Bweyogerere is a place where I have a few tenants, nagging ones, which sees me going to that place almost every week, to solve, collect or pass on retribution, so why the HELL, was I going to dance to emeese in this place. Meanwhile, all along, Emeese is the soundtrack (OST —> Original Soundtrack) to my dream. I seemed to be desperate at this point because I started asking for directions.

And that’s when the boda boda man, whose bike I’d stolen decided to take me to his brothel. And guess what, the brothel was full of rats, literally not figuratively. All I kept on seeing was rats. . .then the kick happened.

Good morning.

My advice to you this week, watch what crosses your mind. . .