Life…

What is Life?
An hour-glass on the steady run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A dew drop on the fall.

A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought.
A Lover’s troth, a kiss that never lasts.
An eye blink, the last breath.

A bubble on the stream,
Petrichor in the air,
Surreptitious gazes, desire.

The puffing gale of morn,
A cobweb, hiding disappointment’s thorn,
A mother’s breast.
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.

What is Life?

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I will

“I have a headache so I won’t write.” I have thoughts. That yearn to be let out. And they’ll be.
I have a lot that I’m sleeping on. The sleep is sweet. I want more.
I’l write something so nice. It’ll have tongues wagging. When I wake up, I will.
Oh here comes the rain. Soon as it dries up i’ll write. I love the rain. I love the sleep. I live for sleep in the rain.
I’ll wake up. I’ll write. My friend, she wants a Billet-doux written. She longs for it. I’ll write. She’ll smile.
I bought her a flower. It dried up. she smiled. She didn’t sneeze this time. It was dry. She loved it, but she didn’t say.
The chocolate. It didn’t melt. It was melted. Words were written. In it. “Write me something, anything.” What was left. It was smudged. On her favorite seat. My face.
“I can’t say i love you. I can say I love ink, this ink, you and paper.”
I’ll write. Anything. It’ll be short, it’ll be from the heart and it’ll be about us.
When i wake up. I’ll write.


From this dream. When I wake up… to be continued.

Ayyy

Little Pretty Woman
Blessed with a bosom capped with twin peaks
Adorned with dark thick tipped nipples
Lance them by the edges of my mouth
Let it joustle with the thrust of my tongue

Take me deep into it
That little place they call sin
The enclave hushed by desire
Major Arcana cards held aloft
Where you’re High Priestess and I obey

Let me touch your thin veil of awareness
Where touch is forever more
Envelop me with your nether lips
Warm embraces the hedonist never forgets
Engulf me in swatches of sodden covers
Palpitating with a certain accord to the pink

Little curvy woman
Blessed with a derriere so bountiful
Juggled by the sway of your hips
Lay me on your altar of euphoria
Pierce me with the dagger of your eyes
Cleanse me with the taste of your lips

Even as the furnance that is my loins burns
Erecting the tower that is this meat
Babel reaching for the stars inside the slit
Veins filling the shaft with venom
Don’t cool it down for no remonstrance

Despite the flush of my cheeks
Teach me the ways of your castle
That I may lay my life down to defend
Be my Delilah, this strength I give away
This hair, eat away

Daughter of gods
Let me adjusting the bra that contours your bust
Let me take you from behind
Not like the dog I am, but a god
Let me into your infinite wetness
Across the waves of your ocean
Animate my desire in your well of creation

Impale me with your long sharp one
Bruises deep burgundy like fine wine
The colors you place onto my body
Soothen it with your warm wet tongue
And the littl whispers down my ear

Allow me to abseil those twin peaks
So I embrace their dark tipped cupolas
Grinding and winding down like an funambulist
Let me overturn your mound
Tending the sweet spot. Of pleasure
Tendrils convulsing the cradle that is your body
Hold on tight, this is us.No names, just pleasure

Once Upon a Time…

Once upon a time, there was a man; who fell in love with a woman. They got married had children, and lived happily ever after…


As kids, stories were such a five-finger exercise. So smooth, so penny-plain and so subtle. Then growing up happened. Curiosity set in, many a cat died, the cats with in us. Schrodinger’s too.

Adam and Eve eating an apple metamorphosed into something bigger. You start to wonder how thighs come into a story so pristine.

Little wonders about what Jack and Jill where doing up that hill, and how the well could be up, not down the valley.


Stories ceased to make sense, as we drowned in novels, belly-flopped deep into meaningless books, got lost in Mangas. With each text read, a realm of Sunyata. A rabbit hole with a trap for light at the end of the tunnel.

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But still there remained that crave to read. To feed our little minds with something, anything. Twitter and Facebook happened, blogs too. And Snapchat and Instagram were invited to the party. And it was lit. As it was intimated that, as the Social Media platforms are food for the eyes, books and in particular short story books were food for the mind and the soul. So ensnaring…

One thing that’s eerie about stories, and mostly short stories is how quickly they can shape your surroundings, life and emotions.  Maybe you start reading one over your lunch break and, if it’s the right one, before that peanut butter cup you bought for dessert even has a chance to finish its melting shape-shift into some kind of sugary cement, the whole world has been destroyed around you and then rebuilt, and then remodeled into something outlandish, Museveni has retired and Nelson Mandela resurrected. Nothing is quite the same again. Ohhh, until it ebbs away.

This happens whether you like it or not. The best short stories haunt you for days and weeks. They take you to a dimension you can feel but can neither live in nor touch. Great stories exercise this violent beauty on you in a variety of ways: some by making an absurd world familiar (or vice versa), some with a slow burn, some with a voice that colonizes your thoughts. Some do it quietly, almost without you even noticing, and some do it with high wire acts of imagination or intellect that make you into a breathless witness.

The trick, then, is finding the right story, one that is capable of such a thing. This is no easy task. Tastes differ, of course, and it can be confusing to spot the small boat of a great story on the wide sea of fiction. What any reader can offer you in terms of guidance is actually the same thing that any good writer can offer you with the story itself: a way of saying, This is what moved me and made me feel strange and alive in some way; here, why don’t you give it a try?


I could say it’s the same with Music. Find a song, and it takes your soul through every valley with all sorts of shadows, of course you fear nothing then for the beat is your comfort.


 

[#UGBlogWeek Day 2]: Life is the biggest School.

Imagine if you’d never enrolled into School? Where would you be now? What would you be?
Do you ever look back, and deliberate; hear you think, ‘School made me no better!
No better than you come. Than you are.

Yes, they woke us up at 5am in the morning to prepare for School, yes we peed in our pants and on the beds at Siesta time. We were young.
Alright, homework exhausted us so much. Only the dog would be happy with our homework. For reasons it never told me.
I know we saw neither sunrise, for it’d find us at school; nor sunset, for we’d be fast asleep after a smacking from the Mum or the maid to sleep after school.
I know we never ate breakfast properly for we had to rush to beat traffic jam. I know we never beat the traffic jam either way even. It wasn’t fair.

But I also know School helped us learn quickly, grasp every life hack, make friends, enhance our vocabulary. It helped us learn how to relate, socialise and most importantly how to play.
Up and down, on the See-Saw we played, round and round the Hoopla kissed our hips, we swung back and forth on that swing like Tarzan.
And then the bouncing castles, Lego, ballet and mostly the Tyre. Many a boy enjoyed that Moto GP like one-wheeler with sticks as handles and cow dung as grease, as fuel, as oil. You wouldn’t want to hit a pothole lest you swallow shit.

Imagine you hadn’t gone to School, not like home tutored but never stepped into school, never to be taught a thing. Who would you be? What would you be? I can’t imagine that.

I know School came with Kiboko (canes) as we grew up, with teachers drowning their sorrows on our sorry buttocks. It wasn’t fair, we didn’t deserve that smacking. Did we? I mean they could have talked to us nicely and we’d have hid their call.
That’s the biggest lie we told ourselves and continue to. Spare the rod and spoil the child.
And you know some of us came in all types, Naughty, Mild Naughty, Super Naughty and Possessed Naughty.
For us the latter, they had to exorcise those demons at whatever cost. They occasionally told me not to take it personal, they were not giving me a beating at that; but the devil inside.
And school had the most complicated, rather dedicated human beings; for that, spanking little children.

Amid the canes, the numerous books to read, the growing up, sibling fights and the hate towards the opposite sex.
School wasn’t bad. It was fun, well except when made to sit between two girls as a boy or the other way round; it was fun regardless.
We are a product of nature and nurture and the years before the moment we join Secondary School, determine the School you go to.
Generalisations are never wrong, people with the same traits tend to cocoon together. See even birds of the same feather flock together.

Now kids with the same number of canes consumed in elementary school, find themselves in the same school. You passed or you didn’t. You were caned or you weren’t. There is always a correlation there somewhere. So be happy you were caned straight into Gayaza, Ntare, Smack and all the traditional schools and that childhood friend found herself caressed into Hillside, Taibah, the Kitendes and International Schools out there. Traditional schools always enrolled those with the most cane medals. Again, generalizations.

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School becomes an open book. The book becomes life. And you start learning. And learn you do.
Life begins taking shape and your body too, the school fuses its values, culture into you. And you fuse the rest into you. Curiosity, adventure fueled by a transforming body and developing emotions lead you to a path. Hormones open up multiple paths.
You write your first love letter, you get your first kiss perhaps. Numerous heartbreaks and multiple hard-ons.
You begin making discoveries, you’re like the Pilgrim Fathers at this point. Your dick can spit, your clit can swell, and you get your first goose bumps, the goose bumps that come with hardened nipples and strange sensations, you’ve growing.

You begin metamorphosing and your school is the hammer that shapes your sword.
Depending on what school, you become something, head of this club; president of the other. Interact Club, Rotaract Club, Scouts and Guides and all.
You become something, some pick and choose who to be, what to identify as at this stage. You feel like the Alchemist, you get your nature mix with your nurture shake hard and find out the PH value.
You start liking girls, much as you are a girl too. And more girls in your school love girls too. Your school gets an Identity, as the Girl on Girl School.
Your school isn’t making you any better, and you aren’t making your school any better. Or any worse at that. You are just a product of circumstances.

You are who you are, more like who you want to be and what you have become. But it’s who you are, who you’ve discovered yourself to be. And your school has aided you in a way or the other. The exposure you’ve got isn’t the same as that others have got.
The first principles of Adult life are instilled and cemented in High School, College. You put meaning to who you are. You start learning what you are.
Are you a boy smooth with girls? A girl who loves the company of boys? Are you a loner? Introvert, extrovert? This, that?

Vacation comes in time to deny you some things and to increase your thirst for the very things and more.
Vacation balances the Demand and Supply curve. Vacation points you to one place, adulthood.

University. Nothing much goes on here in terms of learning, it’s the dormant stage in terms of Life as the biggest school that’s ever been.
You’re either too broke to chase what you want, or too busy to chase what you want.
You might party here, have fun there, and get born gain, but little changes about you. You learn nothing. It’s the John Snow stage of life.
You are already in the baby stages of Adulthood and Adults never learn. They live more and learn less.
School is as good as done soon as you graduate. On that day you look back cry for some as you give that speech, cut cake and possibly say; School made me no better, and this, my first degree is the end of School.

Life starts after you wear that gown. Work, Bills, Expectations, Aging and Deaths. Life.

UgBloc

Fonts and Lanes.

I was absent minded, and I believe I heard her ask;
“Are we on the same page?”
I must have replied “Yes we are,” much as I couldn’t remember muttering it out.
Here I was lost in thought again;

On the same page! Really? Yes, but only in a different font.
Perhaps the same typeface, but stull different fonts.

I’m a Times New Roman, you might be a Times Old Roman.
By your skirts, I can see you and Ma have a lot in common.

They say I’m italicised, and I know you’re not.
I don’t know what they mean but I sure know you’re not what they mean.

In fact I’m ultra-light and you’re extra bold.
See, I’m compressed, condensed and you’re wide, extended.
I’m more like a caption to your poster.

I’m Grotesque, you are not.
You’re Antiqua, I’m not.
I’m who you aren’t. Never will be.

I’m sans-serif, you are all things serif.
I always hated strokes anyway. Elongated and clumsy they are.

I’m underlined, you’re striked-through.
Yes there’s a thin line between us, but it’s more through you and under me.

I’m a super-script, you’re an under-script.
See we aren’t even on the same line.

I’m more like a Webding and you, a Goudy Stout.
We might be on the same page but we aren’t the same.


Do you know your fonts? Neither do I.
Do you know your lane? Neither do I.
We all live on the same page, or do we?

Dumbballs.

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Has a man approached you, opened his mouth and you’re like WTF? Well it can’t get any more dramatic than;

I recognise you.
Do you pray from Watoto North West?
Have you been to Cafe Javas Kampala Boulevhahad?
Did you audition for Big Brother Africa?
Could it be have been the last Blankets and Wine?
Did you intern with the Parliament?

I have seen you somewhere.
It can’t be Legends, is it?
Do you pray from All Saints on Sundays?
Are you the NTV lady?
The Ascot races, weren’t you in the adjacent tent?
I knew it, the MTN Marathon it is.

I recognise you.
I sat behind you in this High School class.
We are in the same Whatsapp group.
I play ball with your brothers.
We were on the same plane to Qatar.
The WestCoast Gym, I work out from there too.

I’ve met you somewhere.
Oh yes, it’s Iguana.
Is it you I met via Ekisaakate in Bristol?
Wow, I was at your christening, you’ve grown!
Monot Bar, must have been there.

I think I know you.
I don’t know from where.
I just have that feeling.
Nice to bump into you again.
I’m Amanya. You?

Being a man is treading the path to dumbville. Approaching a girl or starting up a conversation is your ticket.
Sometimes you need a pick up line, not a stanza, just a line. Sometimes you need God’s grace.
Some people are always genuine. Other people are sometimes genuine, other times not.
It’s dumb whichever way you look at it. Only that passion numbs dumb.

Well. Fare thee well, Well.

I’ve been quiet all this time. But not anymore. Infact, I’m done.
Silence is never empty, it’s full of answers.
Just like I’m always full, full of life.

Your ancestors have been to me, I’ve fed them, I’ve quenched their thirst, I’ve filled their pots.
I’ve been a confidant to their secrets.
A testimony to their beingness.
I haven’t expected a modicum of discernment from them. Not for a moment.
I haven’t asked for anything from them.
I haven’t complained, not for a single time.

Your Children have played around me.
Every morning from bed. As they wash out shnooters from their eyes.
Every evening after school. I love it when they discuss their homework as they graze goats. Reminds me of when I was young.
One or two has pulled out his elongation  and peed on me while his friends aren’t looking. I’ve felt offended.

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I’ve tamed my anger and haven’t  swallowed, eaten one up.
Lord knows I’ve tried. And it’s been.
Their balls have hit me in the face.
It’s hurt but I always dust my face and return their balls.
Their goats have drank from me, with their unblushed teeth and nose dripping of mucus. Their cows too. It’s too much.

I’ve seen many a woman’s creation. But I haven’t told a soul. Those that don’t cover their slit, I’ve gazed. And they and I share a resemblance until they cut those bushes. I like looking but I’ve overgrown that.
I only listen and can’t look beyond my lips, and if I did, it’d be the blue sky of day and the stars at night over and over again.
The bushes around have told me alot.
They say they have seen men unbuckle their belts, lower their trousers and shamelessly leave a heap of nasty things.
They’ve seen women’s navels as soap and water caress their body. And sponge scrub their frame.
They’ve held their clothes as they purify.
They’ve heard Ssengas spit chants and pull flesh.
They’ve seen alot, and they’ve intimated to me. I know. Everything. And say nothing.

I won’t say I’ve seen your neighbor get naked and do bad business with your daughter on the grass that covers my belly.
I won’t say I’ve been soaked by the blood and more that spilled on that grass.
I won’t tell you how she cried, laughed and cursed all in unison. I won’t.
I won’t tell you nothing, it’s our secret; the vultures, the sky and I.
Even God doesn’t know. He must have been reading a book, he didn’t look, he didn’t see. I didn’t tell.

Vultures have circled above me. I’ve only been left with empty dreams of flying, soaring high in the skies.
If I could fly, I’d never have to feel the excruciating pain in my eyes.
These birds throw their flying toilets straight in my eyes and there isn’t a single thing I can do. I can’t even visit an optician. It hurts.

It hurts I don’t sleep. I can’t sleep.
I’d love to. Like you do, but can’t. Mosquitoes buzz in my ear all night. Crickets compete for my audience and owls for my attention.
I’m always awake, counting stars, listening to the frogs snore.

I’m tired. Let me return to middle earth to my father’s father’s dwelling. Deep down.
I’ve been here a thousand years, I’ve seen alot. I’ve heard alot. I’m tired.
I’ve said too much today, I’m tired.
Hope all will be well when I’m gone.
I’m tired. Let me dry up as the good old well I’ve been.

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#UGBlogWeek: Day IV. Freedom of Expression and Go!

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Let me just type away my opinion and go.

Social Media has overtaken the Bar in connecting people of different backgrounds. Not even the Church comes close.
With the bar, #JamrockThursdays:
You’ll make genuine connections, have the best of conversations and for those that do Quiz Nights; learn a thing or two. You’ll get to realise that you really don’t know much and have a lot to learn.
You’ll leave as learned as you’re tipsy. The bar is the perfect connections pot. 🍺🍺🍺
But not all of us frequent the bars in search for the bitter, happiness and one more stranger turned acquitance. 
Comes in Social Media.

I’ll only cover Twitter, Swarm[Foursquare] and Snapchat. The apps or forums I mostly use; apart from this app, WordPress.

Freedom of Expression and Social Media:
We are all given 140 characters, we are free to use them whichever way we want. Shakespeare didn’t invent the alphabet but rearranged the letters he had, to make the wonderful pieces he wrote.
We are to be Shakespeares in our own right or so we are made to believe the moment we get a text field.

With the 140, you write whatever comes to mind, whatever you feel like sharing; rants, observations, opinions, quotes, lyrics🎶, name it.
Be whatever you want to be; Influencer, BOT, troll, sex guru, motivational speaker or even Pablo.

See the thing is you’re free to write anything, you’re free to express yourself. You’ve got that ultimate Freedom of Expression with your precious 140.

And you type away. Say things you believe in, chat with people you want to, drop into people’s mentions, hit their DMs and wherever that leads.

That’s where human behavior comes in. The interactions made aren’t in a Vacuum, they involve other people; followers and followers of followers. Strangers and friends. Many people. Billions of people.

You’ll say things, and you’re totally free to say anything considering it’s with in the acceptable limits. *Leave Jews out of this. And don’t exploit minors.
Sad we never read the EULAs and the Terms and Conditions of any app/platform.

Then one day you say something you believe in, anything and you’re castigated by other people that don’t think or believe the same. Funny enough, they expect you to believe and accept what they say on the other hand.

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You’re homophobic and you’re branded an animal for that. But you strongly believe homosexuality is wrong. You were raised to believe so, your mum is a Catholic Nun, so…
They are homosexual and they believe it’s right. Love knows no barriers and everyone chooses to identify as whoever they want! 
And they want you to accept their beliefs, ditch yours and take up their beliefs. And you can’t say what you believe, only what they believe. Freedoms impinging on other Freedoms.

You’re a feminist and believe anyone who points out issues contrary to what you believe, is better off in hell and not in your mentions. If you think women should kneel, you’re less of a woman, self-defeating and saying things to please men. Much as you believe in equality, you’re the enemy, and deserve no seat at the table of womyn. “And don’t say another word, because you lack, intellectually.” You’re muted.

You believe your Soccer Team has the best manager, the best stadium, the best players and the best loos and whoever thinks otherwise should trip and fall out of your mentions. Or kindly see themselves out.

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You embark on the furnace journey to modor, you light a fire in your kiln and dish out blocks, you block this one and block the other. You unfollow and mute. But while doing this you don’t ever realize that another person could be doing exactly the same to you and others. And if each one blocked one. There would be no Social Media, that’d be more of Anti-Social Media.

You think that no one should have a right to be a fashionista, if they don’t have a DSLR Camera and a YouTube Channel. That their opinion and fashion sense is lacking if their Instagram has compact camera and android phone pics.

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You don’t realise that whatever story you choose to share on your snapchat, you’re free. Those cinema stories, the laptop series you’re watching, the sermons, voice notes and the stale jokes.
That whichever filter you choose. You have that freedom to express yourself, embrace it. And no one should set the standards and expect you to tag along.

That there’s Freedom of Expression and 7 billion people can’t have the same values, same views and the same lifestyle? You don’t get that.

Well, be yourself, share what you feel and mind no one. I know we all live for attention and those notifications we crave. It’s normal, it’s human. Share your posts and go.
Embrace the little freedom of expression you have.

Don’t self-censure, the government hates competition.

Love: From the Phone Side of Life.

Let me tell you a story.
About a phone and a phone.
A brick phone and another brick phone.

Once upon a time, there was a phone, Thusi, big; blue all over, in color and grey on the sides, on the face.

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He fell in love, real love, stupid love with a girl who was new on the scene, Nandi.
Nandi was pretty, light skinned, curvy with a ginormous behind but surprisingly light, with a waist of a wasp.

It was love at first kiss, it was one cold Saturday morning and the skies were threatening to let loose, it was all dark skies and angry winds up in Kololo. Days when the Kampala weather is bipolar, off medication and throwing tantrums. Thusi was in Kololo for the first time, he’d come to fix something small, he needed to swallow a pill, a pill that made him an extrovert, connect with others, make him have the confidence to talk to others. He was here for his service fee.

In came a lady, full of fancy color and a cool jacket. It was the jacket; he looked at the jacket and felt the bite of the coldness hit hard. But as she came closer, he looked at the boobs, typical of men, and at the pretty face down to the high heels and knew it was it. She was the one. She placed herself closer to desk 15, in the extreme corner via the VIP Only section.

He stared, and stared some more, she looked and caught him staring. It was a blank stare, probably that stare that leaves you picturing someone in the wedding gown and with the gown off later after the wedding night in a split second.
He was caught, staring, and staring is supposed to be rude, but she smiled, he melted, with a cold shiver down his spine. The coldness disappeared and he began perspiring on his brain. He couldn’t say a word, or swallow nothing, for two seconds he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know what to do, but he smiled like a puppy, and collapsed, he powered off and couldn’t restart.

The shirt was removed and the battery too, but he couldn’t start. Nandi knelt down and CPR was applied, she put her full lips on his and her soft hands on his chest and gave that kiss, the kiss of life as he pressed the chest, nothing. Once, twice, thrice, nothing. A small crowd had gathered and some ladies behind had started crying, it was drab. Nandi didn’t give up, one more time, and another and another and Thusi was up, alive, breathing fit as a fiddle but confused.  Everyone got relieved, someone had called 999 but 999 in this part of the world only came as an agent of the morgue, nothing more.

Relief in the air, Thusi thanked Nandi endlessly and asked if they could go to the near restaurant for some juice. She allowed, maybe because of pity for the big guy or because they had a lot in common. It was the juice and numbers exchanged and arrangements for more visits. It was love at first kiss. The kiss of life.

It was a kiss on the aisle, vows exchanged and a future together painted.
It became a perfect couple, they were both big and could keep supplies for weeks if not months depending on usage. •Nandi and Thusi were charge once and use forever. Battery never ran out.
•They were easy maintenance, they didn’t need fancy things like MBs. Things that cost a fortune and brought neither satisfaction nor happiness.
•They never over stared, over looked at everything that didn’t concern them, in fact they were see no evil, have no camera.
•They kept secrets, and had morals, didn’t keep immoral memories on them, let alone leak them. Nudes wasn’t something known to them
•Thusi and Nandi didn’t have lugambo, loose talk, they would never take a screenshot of your conversation, never.
•And they satisfied themselves in everything, see they both had big pins and the sex was intense and real.
•They were strong and wouldn’t cry over silly things, a fall was nothing, they didn’t want to know whether it rained or not, they’d move out and work.
•Most importantly they lived for long; they celebrated birthdays, ate cake, drank wine, blew candles and themselves and got tired.

Then they had kids, first the kids were skinny and with every kid they had, the size decreased. In stature, awesomeness and genitalia, everything.  Small pins happened.

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•The kids became fancier with a love for color and fancy head gears, they would slide here, flip there. They were the cool kids.
•They started developing environment capturing tendencies and would take and keep few memories, they got cameras.
•They also started talking too much, for long times and in faster tones, doctors called it an evolutionary trait called mp3.
•The cool kids started hanging out with other cool kids and other cool kids and had a secret way of doing it without leaving evidence, the parents wouldn’t know. So the parents couldn’t cast their nets to catch the misbehaving kids. The kids nicknamed it the Internet. As cool kids grew up, the parents started having more kids.

More kids, came in extra sizes. Thusi and Nandi couldn’t understand, their new kids were born big and would soon become obese with each kid.

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•They became giants with big tummies and an insatiable appetite, they had to feed them MB formula in bundles and special packs. And they would want more and more, they called it updates, an the budget went up as a result.
•The big kids became better at everything their cool kids could do, they could do quite many tasks at the same time without even pausing one. They were perfect multi-taskers.
•The big kids were like big shiny silos, they could store the earth and the moon and all the stars. They had this trick they had, they kept most things on square sacks. And they came up with slang for them too. Data for the things kept and memory cards for the sacks, clever bastards.
•These new kids were super bright though and could compute impossible calculations, and solve many challenges, some could even develop their own body parts.
•See the big kids had many ways to connect, they’d chill at places like Wifi and Bluetooth and share everything. They shared everything apart from the lessons about humanity and morality.
•They became pimps and connected beings to imaginary wives and helped spread the left hand syndrome, many nasty things were made and they had no shame in leaking and sharing with everything, just to make trends. Nudes, tapes, conversations, everything.
• The big kids had bad manners, they’d find a stranger drowning in quicksand and take a memory to share with their friends for currency called likes and retweets, instead of saving a life first.
•They lived for notifications, they craved notifications, and they set standards for likes, sold their souls for retweets and lived a lie. Their life was an aggregate of many confusing but captivating words, they called it a blog.

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No one understood the new big kids, not even their bigger kids, the tablets. But certainly everyone loved and lived for the big kids, for they were useful, handy. Sadly the big kids one sunday lost their parents Thusi and Nandi, they died together in their care home, and left quite the legacy.

That marks the end of my story.