News anchor business

I am writing this seated in a bar. Yes a bar. It’s the football world cup. Yeah!! The football World Cup. My but is placed on a blue couch with orange pillows. Am sipping tonic water with ice and lemon. Seated opposite me are lovers. Ok I wouldn’t exactly call them lovers but I think they are. If you were here you wouldn’t deny that. In a green dress with black weaved long hair, she is drinking a Smirnoff. She is facing her man who is in a green t-shirt and blue jeans. He is drinking a cold bell larger. They look cosy and comfy as she keeps touching his chest each time she laughs.

“You are funny,” she says each time she touches his chest.

Away from the two lovers as they have become a total distraction. Am supposed to be watching the football on the TV and so I find myself watching the World Cup again. Then another distraction, a light skinned lady walks in. She looks like she is pregnant. Yes she is. She looks like she is atleast. Goes to the couch sits, plucks a phone out of the bag punches its keypad and then starts talking endlessly. Then she waves at the waiter.

“Windhoek,” she tells the waiter.  Oh how I pity the baby. She is going to speak German when its born. Surprisingly pregnant as she is, she starts flirting with some men around the bar. Its none of my business so I’ve got to watch the football.

A few hours before, I was the news. Yes NTV at 9:00pm. The weekend bulletin that usually has no proper content but I was eager to know what was on the news. On and on I watch. Then at an instant, she keeps skipping and she keeps repeating the same words. A technical glitch? NO!!!! NTV Weekend edition is recorded news. It’s not live. NTV weekend edition is like a movie. If the anchor is not perfect the producer says “Cut.”

“And in entertainment news, Eminem has new album called recovery. On the album he features pink among others. A single from the album “Not afraid” is currently no3 on the billboard top 50. Silk and Wild reports live from…….” Before she can finish the statement the producer interrupts
“Cut cut cut”
“You ok? It’s Sleek and Wild. How many times are we going to repeat this,” producer tells the good looking blond like news anchor.

News anchors even on the best news wires are not always perfect, but when I watch NTV Weekend Edition, NTV eleven there is no glitch. The anchors are perfect. Not cool. This is recorded news. Do not be surprised if you find that even NTV tonight is recorded. I guess they should always place the word recorded in the top left corner.

Someone will argue that they have to offer quality but then how will the news anchor do better if she/he doesn't get criticism from the audience? I don't know. Do you?

Even some of our FM stations have recorded news bulletins. One I worked for, the dude would walk in at 12:30 and go to the recording studio. Records his news piece and then at 1:00pm the news goes on air. We would be having lunch at some joint as he reads the news yet he is seated next to me. It happens on almost all our radio stations. Did you know that Capital FM Uganda also records some radio shows especially during the Weekend?

Some FB comments on the whole recorded news on NTV:

“Ayayayayaya wondering what that looked like. Wat, they wanted to watch the match? lousy..”

“Always suspected that.nt suplised,dnt be shocked one day 2 kol morris on his 4ne &he answers while reading news.”

“Cut the guys some slack! One of their core values is to for once provide quality broadcasts 2 the ugandan audience. Look around at the other local stations live news broadcasts..the erors, hesitations en mis queqes are just overwhelming, Its why they would rather record en give u quality!” 

“OMG.”

“the secret 2 being an African & living with minimal disapointment z 2 lower ur expectations o have non at all...”

Brother Nev.. I bend down on my knees and say a prayer for you to get better. The lord has surely answered my prayers.

“Mornalisa”

 (Mona Lisa (also known as La Gioconda or La Joconde) is a sixteenth-century portrait painted in oil on a poplar panel in Florence, Italy by Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci)

I have always been dazzled by the way some people are able to express their thoughts and ideas in writing. Great writers that I would want to mention but I could not dare do. The different styles and choice of words used that make one want to keep ripping through the pages of the books. I am great admirer of creative writing that is fully thought through. When I look around me as I type this post, I can see a pillow, a bed and my very impressive super sound hoofers. Loud music is glaring all around my room. I’ve shut out the rest of the world.

A slight flash, and there I see Leonardo Da Vinci painting of the Mona Lisa. Well is my painting authentic? Ofcourse not. It’s just one I downloaded off the internet and just printed in colour after I’d read all about it. The real one is at the Louvre museum in Paris. There is something startles me about it though. The painter for me did a great job. Like the creative writer who will keep me glued to his critical and at times very satirical piece then this painting surely did get me thinking.

Am not artist myself, but when I look at the painting, the lady (Mary Magdalene according to the Secrets of the Holy Grail) looks like she is a studio. It’s like a photo studio, one which does so much airbrushing like the ones that all around us these days. Secondly she was posing, with long and curly hair. Thirdly is that her right hand was placed on the left hand. Then there is something about her smile. It’s brief and to the point. Finally is that I wasn’t there when Da Vinci painted it. For him, it was more than just a painting. It has so many hidden features according to various scholars. Did you know that when you look closely, and divide the face into half, one side is male and another is female? Today this is not my interest.

Just like am dazzled by this painting, I have been dazzled by “Mornalisa.”  I know that the last time I saw her, she had long hair, was seated in a chair and in photo studio. That last time was when I saw was when I looked at her picture in my wallet. In the “Mornalisa” picture, she has a gentle smile and her right hand is placed on the left hand. I look at the picture, because I know we can never be together.
Like I do not have the real Mona Lisa painting, I only have a picture of “Mornalisa” because fate has decided all I can keep is the memory of her. She left. Fate took her away.


Listening to
Hey, soul sister - train

In between the lines/sheets

This post is brought to you in proud association with the Tories and the Lib-dems
Blame it on my background, but I find Comedy from the US of A rather weak. I find it young and it lacks intellectual thought. This obviously is bound to raise some dust, no offence but I just can’t stand 20 minutes of that talk. I can stand Cosby and Jon Stewart but the rest is like listening to Lindsay Lohan try to sing or even Paris Hilton acting.

So, why do I hate this comedy? Because when I listen to whatever they say it never lets one think about the joke. So straight forward and is always aimed at someone. Blame my background but I just cannot stand it. There are these two comedians that I am beginning to hate. One is Brazilian who thinks he knows it all. The biggest joke of his life came last week when he decided to opt to have Lil’wayne perform at a concert instead of T.I.

Then the other one is French. He decided that after a fab year for the Dbanj’ didn’t deserve it and he opted to reward 2Face Idibia(who is he?) as artiste of the year. The same French comedian made it worse when he nominated Legion as the best movie of the year yet no matter how stale I found Iron Man2 to be, it was a better movie.
So, please do not ask me about these two comedians. They are not American surprisingly and that means Brazilian, French, American and Nigerian comedy is not funny. Just like someone pouring Acid/limewater/sticky stuff/cooking oil/crashed water melon/saltwater among others on your pretty face. True it hurts but why did this guy do it. Why did he pour what they called a herbal concoction on her pretty face. There two things involved:
1-    The truth
2-    Deception
Why I believe it’s the truth is that some guy has been charged with murder. So how will they prove that, if they find it was liquid water? I also have a reason why I believe it was deception? Maybe she was trying to steal someone’s man. Was she being genuine about her pain? Well atleast some two singing comedians didn’t think so. On the day the two got into the ring to fight her. They failed to knock her down, not even a single cut on her eye.

Time 23:22pm. I still insist I’d rather watch British Comedy than the American or Latino. Try listening without watching and you will be shocked that if some Latino Comedian starts talking and you will hardly laugh. Try that with British Comedy and giggles will be on the rise despite the language being the biggest barrier. It’s more complicated than you think. I wonder which comedy mode Africa would prefer? American or British? I’d say none. We cannot match any. We are not even close.

Listen or watch our adverts and some are not even worth a mention.

1.    MTN Goal of Goals (very artificial). 90% of people I’ve talked find it pathetic.
2.    All Orange adverts apart from the one where a guy narrates a story of how he met this girl on a bus. Then all the Gyekiri shizzle is not appealing. It’s too stale.
3.    Give me a break UTL, the adverts are nothing close to appealing.
I’ll name the rest another day.Maybe they should pick a stem from Widhoek.

“We are coping western culture and are being influenced by it” – Honestly I think this statement is too ambiguous. If anyone tells you this, look him in the face and say, “You are funny, I love your comedy-like stunts,”
Why this answer? Because they deserve to know how we have failed to copy and paste, so we are not yet influenced. Especially politically, socially and intellectually. We don’t copy, we act terribly instead.

Now I’ll go grab myself a cup of Good African Coffee and leave you to read and think between the lines or rather the sheets.

This final part is for someone. You inspire me. For real.

@ 24

Quickly I scribble down the words, I listen to the speeches. What are they talking about? The economy? Politics? Business? Who cares?  I concentrate. Cannot blink, stare or afford to be absent minded. 30 minutes later the function concludes, I rush with my recorder to ask the main speaker questions. He listens. He responds. I ask. I record. We exchange cards. I leave.

30minutes later am at my desk, am sweating. 300ml bottle of Coke is staring at me. Am watching my keyboard, with my hands in standby mode while spread out on the keyboard. Am thinking of how to start the story. It’s like putting together gigsaw  puzzles of blue lit sky. I type a word and quickly I backspace. I type a sentence and delete it. 30minutes later I finally get my words in order. In another 30mins am all set. Next assignment.




This post is not about my Job. Its about me getting to celebrate my 24th year. Am still a novice.

Untitled

Everyone gets to a time when they want something
To like, appreciate and love
Others wonder whether it will ever be so
Hoping that time will be
And Holding on to hope and the truth
That make life more bearable
So live through it – Your phase
Holding close to what counts most
And looking for what will last
Because like it or not
One day – Your cruise missile will hit
Till then
Enjoy your ride.

Post in response to this

Sleeping less, staying up
Doing the punching game on my notebook
I think, I wait, I dream in denial and happiness
I pray to God
“Oh lord let it be, grant me what I deserve.
God. Lead me to that decision which glorifies your name”
For this prayer is deserved of what I have been through.
I’d like for him to let me release the bird.
Let it fly in the blue lit skies.
For this gloomy face, I begin to hate this part.
That part of me that has fallen for that which God has made.
I am too sleepy. I need to wake up.

Karma is for real..

You can smell the silence as it sails past your door at 2:15am.
“I am scared. Scared of everything,” You whisper to yourself
You wish you could be somewhere watching everything happen.
“What if I hadn’t messed up?” you ask yourself.
Your thoughts fade into the sky up above and your imagination sets you into a state of silence. Even a whisper is too loud.

What if the sky was blue and it rained. Would the clouds have rebelled?
Would the stars strike because the moon is brighter?
Would butterflies complain that they are smaller than birds?
Would the stream complain that the river is large?
Or would short men ask themselves why basketball players in the NBA are tall?
“I don’t know. I do not know if any of those of are complaints,” You answer yourself.
You convince yourself that you are not complaining about anything.
You wonder what could have done to change the situation.

You try to remember your childhood. How you used to ran around, go for birthday parties, blowing bubbles, playing mum and dad, buying sweets, sharing, shouting at each, playing super Mario, running for the VHS recorder just watch beauty and the beast, Aladin, the princess and the frog and Animal farm, snow white among others.
All these are stuck in your memory.
“Where did things go wrong?” you wonder quietly on bed.
What did you do? What did you say?
You wish you could tell the world that no-one can create a cloud and add it to the skies.
“Am I revealing too much?” yet another question you ask yourself.
When you look at yourself in the mirror you see a reflection of what you did in the past.
The past seems so near like it has come to haunt you.
What do you do? What do you say? Who do you tell?
“No-one,” you answer
You take a minute. You wait, you think.
“Do they really have to know?” You ask yourself again.
But the heart wants you tell them. For deep down you know you can’t afford anything.
You resist any form of conviction and decide to move on.
“I will do this on my own. Besides I did this to myself,” you convince yourself.
And then you wonder whether she is interested in your drama.
Interested in a future where she has to live with you in your condition.
Whatever you are holding on to seems to be slipping away.
Your hands are shaking and before you notice there is shattered glass around you.
With your bare feet, you step on what is left of the glass. Slowly a red pigment gently sails out of the skin.
The guilt inside of you almost leads you to explode. You wonder if you are troubled.
You watch the world evolve around you. All the hope you had begins to diminish. You are tired of appearing to be your best. Pretending everything is ok.
You look like a stranded passenger in the middle of the Sahara, where the roads have been covered by the sand. From east to west, north to south, it is all the same.

Time check 2:30 am
You listen to the silence. All you hear are the mosquitoes craving to get inside the mosquito net.
The dogs bark at anything outside the gate, even a passing car.
You sigh.
You listen to the kind words of those who care. You listen to them in your thoughts. They are that loud.
“Move on. Move one,” are the words from those who are around you.
“To where?” you ask them.
All you do is talk to your own recording. Because everyone around is asleep.
You have become what you wouldn’t have desired to be.
You feel you are disappointed in yourself.
The optimism around you begins to become the feeling like the moon has appeared at midday.
You are on the verge of an anti-climax.
You count the raindrops. Each one that clutters the roof you count.
You are awake. You are thinking. You need a distraction.
Deep down you know things are going to get worse. On the surface optimism is written all over.

3:00 am
You switch on the DVD.

Through the woods he walks

A faint hearted soul searches for its comfort in the woods. Its dark and the sound of the ware wolves eases through his ears as he slowly clutches to his chest. The trees swing at the sound of the wind. The dry leaves fall off the trees at every footstep he makes. The moon has black patch as all seems illusive for his broken soul.

He knows good things are yet to come but there is something he must find. In the woods he must pass to make it. He remembers the Easter conversation with a 70 year old woman that will always stick in his head.
“Son, you look like you are troubled and need help,” The old woman tells him
He looks at the woman and ignores but she insists and repeats the same words three times until he decides to reply.
“Ok, now madam I am really not troubled and do not need any help. Am just in some rare state of mind,” he replies.
The old woman stares at the young guy dressed in black flare trousers and a Calvin Klein T-shirt. She laughs and giggles to herself.
“Son, you need to act fast before it gets late,” She says as she walks away.

All this he thinks as he tries to avoid the sound of the night. The bats traverse the woods and keep watch as the Owls are the source of light. He is avoiding the songs by Nightwish and Muse that seems to keep replaying in his head. He tries to think of some jolly times that always standout for him.

The look on her face brings back his smile. The sound of her voice brings back his confidence to move on. The time spent with her makes him want to keep walking. He chooses to keep the thoughts to himself and slowly scribbles a few notes about her on a leaf. A leaf that he leaves to fly.  Inscribed on the leaf are the words that surround his memory. The words of his future.  A future she is part of. A future that he is scared of because he waits for her to trust him. Something he must earn.

The woods get thick; the thorns skim through his skin leaving trenches. Trenches that lead blood out of the skin. The hyenas keep getting closer as the ware wolves get louder. He wonders why he did not take the bus. The bus would have been quicker. But he remembers the instructions he was given.
“Walk through the woods and inside you will get further instructions.”
Even if he was to take bus, he would be broke. He had worked for a month and he wasn’t paid. He had spent much of his holiday locked in his room trying to think his next step and getting worried about the future.

He tries to remember a few things that make him smile. That Easter weekend where he had to take care of his niece never seems to skip his memory. He looked like a father. He recalls the day in the supermarket while shopping for the niece to get back to school. There he was with the niece and they walked the supermarket buying all she needed. Then he notices people looking at him and talking to each other.
“He is good father. He shops with the daughter,” some say. And then others ask themselves. “Did the wife die? Why does he shop with the daughter?”
He smiles as he listens to all these people. He imagines himself doing the same for his own children in the near future.

The darkness grows thicker. There is no light but all he has to follow are the eyes of the owls in various tries. He is bitter about something. Something he did and always regrets but wishes to move on. He must relive each moment in order to find out the truth and deal with it.

As he approaches the end of the woods, there is the sound of drums. He looks forward and the brightness seems to appear at every step. He races towards the light and the ground ahead begins to get softer. It gets sandy and there is a soft sound of waves slapping each other. The sky begins to clear and the stars begin to appear. He reaches out his hand to let the gentle breeze to flow through his body. The sudden taste of freedom. He has overcome his fear, the fear of consequences. He now he has to take the next step. A step where consequence is his largest fear.

Somone stole my baby

It a sorrowful month for me, as someone decided to take my baby. The baby was just over 1year old and was increasingly getting closer to my heart. I loved this baby that I would spend considerable time with it. The baby took time to remind me of memories long gone. What always appeased me was its memory. It could remember everyone that comes into its sight.

I had become fond of it and for anyone who would seek to take it away from me, I would refuse. It’s not that am going to wear black for it or spend a week to mourn its death. Life has to go on. But atleast without it, there will a difference in my life. On that fateful day I remember leaving the baby alone, in a rush to go and meet the president as he launched a book on the Ugandan Economy. The rush was to blame because that is the time I last saw it. I should have taken my time, but I got so selfish and forgot my baby.

I remember that day I walked into the room and could not locate you. I searched all around the room and people around me thought I was mad. No-one knew what was wrong. For a week I remained silent thinking the baby had crawled away and would bring itself back. This was a lie I told myself. The future had been compromised. I had lost it all.

A week later, the burning of the Kasubi tombs overshadowed the loss off my baby. My baby was somewhere unknown and I’d have loved it to keep dumbfounded memories for me to keep. But the baby was not close by. I placed an announcement on the notice board asked all the people around me but no-one seemed to know where my baby was. The more people I told, the more they asked about my Baby. They felt sorry but this couldn’t recover my baby.

Good bye Baby Junior a.k.a my camera. I don’t know whether I will ever get to see you again. Atleast you have left me with memories that I will never forget. I have lost all hope and do not think I will ever find a replacement for you soon. For each day that passes, I know life has to go on. The world is not waiting.

That picture is the place where we used to fetch water in my village. That water we would use to bathe and wash our clothes. This is strictly rain water. It’s natural water tank. We would carry yellow 5litre jerry-cans and bend-over on the edges to fetch water. I took this picture last Christmas but this water now stands still, with technology this water has been ignored.

Kasubi tombs... (backstory)

Inside the Kasubi tombs. These some of the irreplaceable valuables in the tomb. This has been the part of the integrity of the Buganda Kingdom for being able to preserve part of their culture. More than 200 years of history went into flames.

Buganda official Medard Ssegona Lubega described the fire as the "second biggest tragedy" in the kingdom's history.
"There are many men of our fallen kings lie in this house, which is now down to ashes," he told the BBC's Network Africa.
"It is something that we have built and kept and maintained for our children and grandchildren and many generations unborn."

Why I hate Number 3

3 are the number of people who are were shot dead at the razed Kasubi Tombs. 

The military opened fire after a crowd of people tried to block president Museveni’s convoy from accessing the cultural site that burnt to ashes.
The army spokesperson Lt. Col. Felix Kulayigye gave this explanation:
“Our soldiers deployed at Kasubi came under a hail of stones thrown by some rascals, They fired in the air in self-defence but, unfortunately, two people were hit and they died while five were injured.”

Gunshots rocked the area around Kasubi with highly charged protesters.Well as its a loss to Buganda Kingdom, it is also a loss to the country. So the whole country should be in mourning. Although not everyone is emotionally attached but I have visited the tombs and has beautiful. The scenery and art of the Baganda in this place was amazing. Its loss to Bugunda and Uganda also. Last night a friend of mine received this text message.

"Our Destiny, Culture and Norms is being destroyed. First its Kabaka, then CBS and now the Kasubi tombs have been burnt down......Gwe nga Omuganda Okozewo ki? Send this 2 others." (The bold means "What have you done as a Muganda")

This text is provoking.
This is because of the theory that the Government is to blame. Well as the inquiries into this fire go on, then it should be noted that people are suspecting its arson. The investigation should be able to find out the exact cause of the fire.

Supporters of Mr Museveni and Buganda's King Ronald Mutebi have been at loggerheads since riots last year.

They fell out after the king - whose role is largely ceremonial - accused the government of blocking him from visiting a part of his kingdom.

At least 20 people died in riots linked with that incident. And angry protesters and royal advisers have said they believe the tomb fire might have been arson.

The place is a designated UNESCO cultural heritage center, It was grass thatched and that meant in case of fire it would be razed to the ground. My wonder is where there is no water Hydrant in that particular area. Atleast this would have reduced the extent of damage.

The government has said it will re-build the tombs. But this may not bring back what was preserved inside the tombs. Life has to go on despite all these.

it is said that out the ashes rises something great! So don't despair that fast!

 Kabaka Mutebi wipes away tears during his visit to the tombs (Newvision)

 Read more on
ugandajournalist.wordpress.com
http://newvision.co.ug
monitor.co.ug


There have 3 tragic incidences this year and that makes me hate number three the more. Buduuda landslides, Two students shot dead at Makerere University and then the Kasubi tombs were razed.

One more chance

The stars brightly beacon over the red lit sky
Over the trees the moon forms
Sending a ray of gray and orange
The round shaped orange moon appears
Its hope for a new night
The scent of the evening breeze sets the night in motion
Watching from a crowded sidewalk, he stares at the skyline
He is walking as people are all around him seem so far
He is focused on the red lit sky
Thinking of his conquest
He talks to the moon

His prowess is enchanted
But all he thinks about is his conquest
A conquest that remains his mystery
A shooting star appears
He makes a wish
A wish known to himself
He then smiles
Girl next to him smiles back
But she is mistaken, for his charm is not meant for her

It would not be her smile for he is thinking another
Another that he had seen a few months ago
One who has lit his smile and brightened his life
She has become the light that beacons in the skyline
She has created a lacework of orange
She has sent butterflies that always tingle in his stomach
She has become part of his thoughts
The part of his thoughts that makes him smile
Her pure innocence startles him
She remains the beacon of hope
That has become part of his life

As he walks towards the road he is still glaring at the skyline
It’s a night of restlessness
A night that everyone ceases
A night where darkness is day
A night where darkness rules
A night that he crosses the road
And there is loud screech
A screech of the light blue range rover
That sends him back to the roadside 

The man in the range rover lowers his window 
And points the middle finger to the young man
The one who had handed
Himself to the Range Rover
His fate purely unknown, but he survives this one
He recovers from his thoughts and his heartbeat can
Be measured by his inability to believe he has survived
But then he remembers
The wish
The wish he made when the shooting star appeared
“I would like to get the opportunity to tell her how much I like her”
He still had the opportunity.

What will the gun do?

President Museveni laying a wreath on the bodies of children killed by the huge landslide in Bududa district on Monday. (Picture From NewVision)


So, what is the gun for? landslides and mudslides cannot be shot at. I wonder what the gun signifies.

The letter to my newly found

Intrigued by the desires of my heart, happiness seems to have made the return journey. It had taken a vacation. It has become obvious that she is newly found but I will do my best to keep her away from sleek. So I have decided to write her this letter.

Dearest Beloved

This is the first letter I am jotting writing since we met in November last year. It was memorable and I remember us seated in the lounge waiting for our function to begin. The wait was worthwhile as we interacted and I enjoyed our chit-chat. I was impressed by the insight and sudden conversation you had triggered. I remember the chat about journalism in Uganda, and then when I told you I had some work to finish and you asked if you could type the  work for me. It was beginning to become enjoyable until the people at the function came back from their lunch break.
I remember our second meet at yet another one of those functions and this time we spent some good time together and still we discussed so much on the professional side. I deeply enjoyed the company and your calmness took me into extreme attention. Then I started listening to a knock in the heart. I began to have what most people call feelings. You could have noticed because I remember one day you asked me.

“Why are you looking at me like that? And my reply was just a simple smile. You smiled back and shrugged it off.

The close relationship we are leading ourselves into has been characterised by texts, phone calls and e-mails. The complements, sharing and care we have been offering each other have made me question our friendship. I have been trying to know about you and so far so good. You have cared but I haven’t shown immediate interest instead I keep acting the gentleman.

I wouldn’t tell you am a slow guy but am taking my time. The scarf you offered me in the cold rugged and rainy Friday was special. I remember refusing it yet I was freezing, you insisted and I took it. Then I forgot to return it. It has been a companion because each time I want to bring it to your workplace I think about asking you out to lunch on a date. My scared soul lets me down on this road. 

Am taking my time but am told you won’t wait. I’ve been told to atleast show signals of interest so you don’t think am just a gentleman. This I want to do by asking you out on a date. I do not know if I can tell you now but am finding it hard to find the guts.  I don’t know if you like me but so that you know, I like you but it won’t be soon that you will find out about this.

For now I’ll live with it and please remember you are now my newly found love.
 
Please do not read this letter.

Always Loving
 
Me


----------------------------------------------------

Playlist

Good life - One republic.

Reading

the camel club - David Baldacci

Mushy, Mellow and Subtle (part two)

I made the choice to let the bird fly. I let it out of the cage so it could find its way. Did the bird actually want to leave? Well that I did not know. The answer is somewhere embedded in the birds’ thoughts. Sometime last week I was telling you a story of my secondary school sweetheart. One of the few girls that have managed to breach the firewall that is embedded somewhere close to my heart.  So, our days had become something everyone wished for. I mean whoever looked at us always wanted to be like us. It wasn’t that simple. Every evening at 6pm I had to switch on CNN or BBC for the students so they could get updates on the Iraq war and the media jargon that existed that time.

This time was rightfully utilised. I used to stand at the back of the hall and at 6:30pm she would appear. And then we would talk “pakalast.” Honestly I can’t exactly remember what we used to talk about. But we spent quite some time together. This was the only time she would probably get to see me as I was always caught up in some off-the-school duties.  Her innocence always kept a faithful drive. Our love life was characterised by daily chits and endless smiles that we offered to the world. We were the perfect match.

I truly treasured the moments and loved every bit I spent with her. However there is something about me that did feel like she was being cheated of true love.  Not that I didn’t love her but I felt I had cheated her of what she deserved. I was one of those guys who had some very stunning addictions apart from the Tiger Woods addiction. I was brought up like an English kid and very protected. I knew how to cover my tracks and was rarely caught in the wrong places. Innocence was just a facial expression. She didn’t deserve this for each time, each second and each microcosm I felt she was being cheated of the right guy.

I decided to call it off not because I had lost interest but because I needed to rediscover myself. The real I needed to be unearthed and I felt she had to go. I wanted the best for her that of which I couldn’t offer at that time. Rehab wasn’t the easiest of choices but what could I do. It was my only choice. She needed not to know. So I let the bird out of the cage, and she flew away. I let her move on and each time I heard she had met someone I never felt like interfering, I stayed away and let her be.

When all was over with my rehabilitation, I thought the bird would come flying back. But all I received was the hatred she had for me. In my mind, I blamed myself for letting her go, but the other part of me cherishes this decision. She is happy now and I have let it go. She always tells me that its now my turn to be happy.  I only get angry when she tells me that I rejected her, stopped communicating and did not like her. Sometimes I feel like telling her the truth of why I broke it off but somebody stops me. This is the one I have recently met.

Listening to
If my heart was a house - Owl city

Mushy, mellow and subtle (Part one)

Every morning I struggle to peal the blanket off my skin. My head spins and goes through the days schedule.
Its going to be a long and demanding day. One wakes up to the news that Mr Behakanira of J&M hotel had been murdered (oh sorry thats my theory). I notice that one Thaksin Shinawatra was here in Uganda unveiling a lottery company he owns. I remember the Ugandan Insmniac making a prior post on Shinawatra being interested in Ugandan Oil. Well he actually is here to take some pocket change from Ugandans. lets go gamble and enjoy the fruits that were shipped in from Thailand. In his interview with The Times he said that he had 10 goldmines in Uganda and offcourse revealed the fact that he some lottery licences. Some people in Thailand call him a fugitive and others love him. I remember watching those protests by his sympathisers on the streets of Thailand and they hostage the airport. He knows how to do trial and error.

This explains part my post. I was just giving my post a background. Not many years away from this 15th day of Feb, I remember the only Valentines day I got to celebrate. We were young. Very young with so much "love."

14/02/2003
Some of may have been lavishing somewhere I was not. Well I was in the over-hyped days of my life. The days when being in S.4, I was a prized possession. Highly demanded and treasured by many self loathing females because of my gothic calmness. It was at this time that I met Marionah(not real name but the accroynm that combined both our names). Marionah is the only person in my life I have never written about. She is the one girl in my life I found with less error and her honesty and innocense I bestowed. Her dark skin, self giving smile reflected her intense generosity. We had met on the girl and scout camp but I shrugged it off as my love was not for finding the perfect girl but to stay away from them.

Then one night................ <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< I had been planning for this, there she was always smiling and all these boys in her class trying to win her heart. At 10pm its the end of prep and the boys are all camping around girls looking for goodnight messages, hugs and kisses. I watched her and then made my move. My very insightful and enchanting tricks. I had written her a chit. I was good at that and I trusted my power when I put pen to paper. She was quiet the next day. Then I went to stage two. I was a prefect and that meant I had to supervise lower classes. She was in S.3 and I was in S.4. I utilised optimumly. I Invited her outside her class and we engaged in a conversation. It all worked out. And a few days later we celebrated Valentines and that would be the last one.

14/02/04,05,06,07,08,09,10
All these were ordinary. We broke up rather amazingly. I dont know how but we just ended our relationship due to distance and she was seeing another guy. I was also looking out for this chic from Gayaza. But I remember her last words to me,
"If we break up I dont know whether I'll meet someone more than you and love them the way I did"
So a few years down memory lane, we hardly talk. I havent seen her in over 7years. And what can I say, she moved on. And so did I.

The fact that she said those words doesn't mean she didnt move on. She needed to be happy and in the Long Run I wouldnt have made her happy. She had moved on. Found a new place and new love. I too had moved and not looked back as I took all the blame for ending the relationship. Just like our friend Thaksin Shinawatra who has found Uganda a new haven, she has found her new haven somewhere else.
Her honesty however cannot be compared to that of Thaksin. So I would tell the guy that she is the best for him but then for Thaksin, I would say Watchout Uganda.

................................................................
Playlist
Valentines Day - Linkin Park
Try sleeping with a broken heart - Alicia Keys
Bleedin' America - Jimmy Eat the World
Forgive Me - Group one crew

R.Kelly lights up Kampala - (What the Editor deleted)

It all begins with the 3months of intensive publicity by Zain. The media frenzy was about the RnB sensation coming to Uganda for a “concert.” The hype was huge that the expectations were not to be under looked. On the night of his arrival we waited for close to 30minutes for the guy to get out the VIP lounge. The security was high that it looked one of those scenes from “24.”

“Concert” day
At 6:00pm I started lurking around the Lugogo cricket oval. The place was jam packed and at all the gates, people were cramped up waiting to get in. The lines for the 30k tickets were pathetic. At the gate some people paid 1k to the guards for them to avoid the queue. On the gate just above Oasis scuffles broke out as there was only one entry point. Pushing and shoving was all that was noticeable. Hell broke lose as policemen unleashed dogs onto the people for them to get into a queue. This was the first sign that Silk Events was headed for the worst. Gun shots at the entry above Oasis restaurant could be heard and the police wrestled with revelers. The gate was then taken down by R.Kelly fans.

At close to 8pm the queues were even lager and the road around Shoprite was people packed. There were no barriers that could make people line, it all looked hasty. Meanwhile inside the local artistes were busy performing (not alongside R.Kelly). At the 250k gate things were pretty calm. So I took my shot and walked to the gate. The Silk Events people said the media could not get to the platinum area. On my press tag were numbers that the organisers wanted us to call in-case we need anything. I dialled each number and no-one picked up.

I then walked down to the 125k gate. It was crowded. The line was equally disorganized and people were haggling to get in. I could see dogs being used to settle people down. At the gate itself people were being allowed in yet they were not in the line.
The concert area was looking rather organised. In the 125k area people were enjoying the drinks and watching the curtain raisers. I needed an angle for good pictures so I moved next to the stage, and then this guy from Silk Events says we are not allowed to take pics. He faces the wrath of other photojournalists who hurl him with unending words. In the end we are chased from the said restricted area.

At 10pm, it was like Vietnamese soldiers attacking the Americans. The people in the 125k area reached for the barriers and instead of sitting they were standing and it all looked like the 30k area. I stuck in the middle of some ladies and hustled to get good shots. All this i’d blame on the ignorance of the guys at Silk Events.
Then we waited for R.Kelly to perform. For close to 30minutes they were still organising for R.Kelly to perform. Impatience grew among some people and other started yelling “time, time, time.” Some started singing the Buganda Anthem. It all came to a halt when the guy finally came on stage. From where I was I could still see people entering. And then in a flash, “Flashing lights – By kanye west” started playing and there he was. R.Kelly started his “concert.” There was screaming, alot of it. There was this lady behind me and she kept saying she couldn’t see anything. I gave way and let her stand in front of me.

I wish and I believe I can fly moved the crowds as they sang along. Than an hour later, the guy said it was over. He said he didn’t want to finish but had to. Leaving some complaining that he hadn’t performed the songs like Gotham city, trapped in the closet, if I could turn back the hands of time, Am your angel and you saved me. As fans had started to get a feel of the music he was gone and left people asking whether the show was over.  “A rip off,” some one said.

Most of the people around me couldn’t believe. Personally I began to question why a “concert” would last just an hour. The people at Zain had told journalists that the guy would perform from 9pm – 12am. This was my problem. Then the Fireworks!!! No-where. The sound system was good but for only one hour and its called a “concert?” I’d gladly disagree.

As I walked around trying to get peoples comments, I meet these two ladies.
“Has R.Kelly finished? Is he coming back,” they ask

“Yes, he only performed for one hour,” I replied

“What, these chaps take us for granted, After my 120k and we get this,” they said.

R.kelly was here from Thursday night. On Friday he skipped a Charity event and then on Saturday they cancelled an event where he would hand over the Range Rover sport to its winner. For three days he is in the country and yet he performs for just an hour?
Silk Events should have done better especially if the disorganisations are visible. The word “concert” was misused. For Zain bringing R.Kelly was great but they should have gotten more for Ugandans.

R.Kelly in town

After disorganizing traffic along enttebbe road in the R.Kelly branded bus,
We finally made it to the Airport at around 10pm. Just in time as the plane was just landing.
We waited at the VIP lounge at the airport (ofcourse we were standing outside).

The security was intimidating as the guys from Pinnacle security dressed rather in very unfitting suits.
The suits were too long for them. At around 10:45, two light skinned come out of the VIP lounge and then squeeze ourselves to get the perfect shop. My paparazzi tricks had to come into play. Random shots and flashes Started glaring. And there he was in black shades, clogged in an army green jacket, with a scarf around his neck and blue jeans he appeared from the lounge. He waved to the cameras.
Then he came close and said.
"am happy to be here" X3

There was alot of screaming and one lady had him sign an autograph. The he shook the hand of another lady
who just couldn't stop screaming.
He entered the Range Rover and in a convoy he left for The Serena.

Concert is tonight. No Video camera's allowed.

From my sister to you

It’s been long

Long since I have a broad smile

The broad smile who have denied me

Denied to me by my misjudegment

Misjudgement that love had presented

Presented in the form of you


Your scented clothes,

The tender kiss you left on my cheek

The cheek I would often present apart from that night.

The night when our lips touched

Touched and shared something passionate


Passionate that it ended suddenly

Suddenly because I wasn’t ready to fight

The fight you almost dragged me into

Into the night you went

Went to desire another person

The person you gladly shared what we had.


We had built all this around us with so much perseverance

Perseverance we had forever promised

The promise at the alter

The alter on which we became one

One that would be separated by death

Death that I do not wish

My wish is for us to have been happy for long

For long now I have to stand by your side

By your side not because am happy

The happiness is long gone but the love still exists


Its existence doesn’t mean it will be same as it was

It was and now it will be different.

Only if I can forgive you

Forgive you for what you done

Remember am your wife and she isn’t.

After the endurance of love, it is now the endurance of being a wife


Poem generated at 00:23 Thursday for my sister whose marriage has taken a twist.




Listening to:


Yo’ Guardian Angel – The red Jumpsuit Apparatus.

Should I go - Brandy

Flying so low - Chris Brown

Self searching Indictment

This silence bestowed in this room is one that I can least savour. The eagle eyed vampire that I helplessly leave to drench my heart cannot seem to get seem to get satisfied. Like the enchanted room filled with the grey smell of innocent skulls, I wait. In the corner is I can see myself. Being crushed and pounded. I want to fight back. I am held back by something, something unseen and slithering.

I cannot cry out. No-one will hear me. All I know is that I can get through this. As the bats hover around and scavengers wait to pounce, I defect to the unseen. A world of glistening colours, creative art and hope, a world I can only see. It takes me back to the time of my youth, the times I dreamt of being one who can change peoples’ lives.

As the flashes of flawless blue light kept gleaming, snapshots of my past were visible. Each time I made promises that I will use the perfect gift that has been offered to me to make a difference. My youth had made a few find a dumbfounding admirations from those that were around me. Growing up, that seemed like it was going to continue. I realise how I’ve been perched into being the perfect disappointment to my own self.

Partly becoming unappreciative of what I do and another taking all the credit. My own self listens to both. It is hard to distinguish between which one is wrong or right. I cannot quite understand where am headed. The marriage of convenience I seem to enjoy is paying off, but still it does feel like what I desire. I have made a difference in one Kids’ life that came to visit me this week. But this is not enough. I feel there is more I can do, more than my desire to promote the demands of the corporate world with the lavish breakfasts, lunch, cocktails and the ever available drinks. This looks to be the “Ugandan Dream,” What more could I desire? I spend sleepless nights on my “Baby Junior” punching the perfect story for publication, but still I feel there is something missing.

It is like I am being denied by my own self. Am helplessly waiting, waiting for the scavengers to have me finished. Just like Africa is watching on the sidelines, helplessly it cannot help Haiti, a nation where tragedy is more common than lunch. Africa watches on, helplessly it has its own unending questions.

I recover from that bliss moment. The vampire is still drenching my heart. I am at this vantage point. I close my eyes and cry out.

“Get me out of here”

The man riding on a Dark Horse appears and the vampire flees. He opens the huge metallic gates of my Cell. I cannot see his face, but he looks ready to have me ready for the perfect human flesh meal. He takes me to the outskirts of the unknown, peels off his face.....ohhh rather his mask. I see his face. I remember his face.

“Do not betray us. You need to make a difference. You have one life. We were sent to help you. Next time you will not have this chance. Go now. You only have one life,” the young boy who was always proud of me says.

He rides away and leaves in the middle of glowing flowers. I look up; the sun is directly over head and very bright. I close my eyes. Then I struggle to open them bit after a few blips I can see.

This is how my heart conflicts with my body.

Inglorious News

He is watching an episode from the CBS series NCIS. Its dark, the sound of hooting vehicles is accompanied by the smashing of brakes from the same cars. He can’t hear these sounds. He is concentrating on the Series. Laughing at Agent Donoso eating agent McGee’s apple and then agent Ziva trying to speak the English language. In one of the episodes as they are at a crime scene, Agent McGee see’s something. He is startled. And then Ziva asks.
“Have you seen a goat McGee”
“Actually its ghost not goat,” McGee says “Do you know a De Ja Vu Ziva?” He adds
“No! What is a Déjà Vu?” Ziva asks

Well this guy watching NCIS just keeps on laughing. The skull loving, gothic and forensic scientist Abby and the Gut driven Mark Harmon aka Agent Gibbs also contribute to the humour. Not forgetting Dr Mallard, he always has a story.
This post is not about NCIS. Why would I review an episode? So as this guy is watching. An interruption. The phone. A message. Its from her. The girl he thought would be. The girl who was yet to make up her mind.

“I’ve something to tell you. It’s not that important but when you find time please let me know.” (The text message).

He loses concentration, fails to focus on NCIS. He thinks, reflects.

“What could this be about?” He asks himself.
He imagines it could be about her telling him that she was now free and was willing to listen to him again. He anticipates. He feels like sending a message.
“What if she doesn’t reply?”  As he dials her number.

He waits. Not nervously but very anxiously. She picks up. Her voice, as husky as it has always been. She sounds very happy to hear his voice. They talk. 15minutes. All they talk about is how the new year is going so far. Then he sets an appointment. Or it should be more like a date. In his mind. He imagines seeing her again. Her smile, perfume (not colgne to be specific) and the intriguing eyes those that hardly give answers.
But then she changes her mind.

“Let me text you and tell you what it is,” she says
“Why can’t we just meet and you tell me?” He asks
“I’ve changed my mind, I’d rather text you,” she insists
They then exchange pleasantries and say goodnight to each other. He waits for the text. He tries to watch more of NCIS. But all he can see is her face.

(((((((Fire flies- owl city)))))))))) (message  tone)

“Am introducing my BF at the end of this month. He is meeting my parents. I just thought you should know.” (The message).
Shocked. He reads the message again and again. Like a tongue stuck on frozen ice, he looks at the message endlessly. He thinks it is prank. Then thinks it is real.
“WTF, why did she tell me this?” as he talks to himself while pacing around the room.
Then he types message. And sends.
“I am happy for you. Atleast you have made up your mind. Have a great night.”

He shoves it off. He recalls the great days. He wonders why she had to tell him.

“I’d rather stick to NCIS. Atleast is gives me a smile. The year should start on the bright side. You won’t bring me down lady,” He says to himself as he turns on the DVD player.

Reading:
“The day of the Jackal – Frederick Forsyth”

twenty 10

It is the Morning Sunrise
He is walking to the hilltop
The scenery is an offering
To those who love nature
He looks around.
He then takes a closer look.

They are like droplets of water,

It is seen on the grass, the flower petals and rooftops.
It can only be seen once in the day.
It gives the grass a spectacular look.

It is a new year. There will not be another 2010.

Utilize it just like the dew does every morning.

 "There is a drop of greatness in every Man"