Re-blogged:

One of the things that are almost taboo, a source of shame and a fountain of wonder will always be menstrual issues, especially in Africa. Women talk about so many things about their bodies or sexuality; from visiting the bush, to bedroom antics, but somehow no one will comfortably speak boldly about menstruation. Yet it’s […]

via Why Don’t Women Just Want Better Options Of Sanitary Towels — KigeziDiva

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Pricks Dicks Pricks

Just like that.
His words were so smooth they wiped her tears away. Words of promise.
Rivulet after rivulet fingers cleared the waterworks as the words soothed the heart.

They had a promise made, pairs of lips and then away. Both under the influence, it was a night to be confused.
She was the ‘you’ll send me a letter and a rose’. She was the ‘we’ll grey together, we’ll hold hands forever’.
It didn’t hurt in depth of the night, it was the sweetest pain. With numbness it was only but a memory.
It was a night of magic rush, it was a night of torn knickers and soiled sheets.
Like a knife cutting through her soul, she cried for the scattered petals scattered all over the bed.
She cried for what would have been, what is, what are we and what will be. She just cried.

It started with a simple touch, a dance, and then a warm embrace at the stroke of midnight.
He knew what to say, when to smile. He just knew. He was just cute and his chest was the warmest open field.
Every step he made, every breath he took, he was her refuge, and she was as smitten as she was tipsy.
Just another clear, lit night sky and the coldest breeze left yet another couple with pointed nipples and hard-ons.
It was a strange night, cold winds, signs of rain but no dark clouds.

She was the girl in the corner in a crowded bar. He was the boy with the prettiest girl and a standing out leather jacket.
“I want to dance with you, take my hand, and let me get your jacket off.”
“And if you care about me, don’t go for the cigarette break.” “You might get a kiss if you behave, you know”
She’d come with friends, she wasn’t to leave with them. She was having the night of her life. And cock-blocking is a sin.
It’s well written in the old old Testament. In Song of Songs to be precise. And she was enjoying each passing song.

They could have danced forever, but the DJ cut it out. He just did. He said the rat had eaten the wires.
But we all knew it was time to close, we all knew they were avoiding a fine by the City Council.
Just like we all knew it would start raining in the next… It rained.

The ride back home was parked in the lower basement, it’d need a walk down the stairs, a walk tired legs in high heels wouldn’t or rather couldn’t make. She had to be carried, it was romantic, and it was sensual, much as it wasn’t necessary.
It must have been his idea because his finger found their way to the ridges of her butt straight to where the heart of her womanhood was. The cloth that covers the beautiful was the only impediment.
She was enervated buy the sudden touch and threw her legs in the air begging to be put down. She was put down.
She wasn’t happy with his touch, and told him so. She told him how she was from a religious family and was expected to keep some moral standards. In her stupor she told him a lot. She told him how she was keeping herself for the man she’d marry, for that night after the wedding vows.

She told him how she really loved him and wished they could walk down the aisle someday.
She told she wanted to be dropped at her apartment. How her roommate must have been worried all this time.
He listened in silence, probably being a good listener or perhaps counting his losses.
All that was interrupted by the startling realisation that the car keys were nowhere to be seen. They’d been in his jacket. The jacket she’d been custodian of. He was angry, more like disappointed but angry. He’d been guilty seconds before and wasn’t the type to get angry for long.

An Uber had to be called. They were half drenched in rain, half drenched in silence. First to the apartment, then to his home. It was to be.
“Hey, guess what, I’m wet, “slowly leaning on his shoulder. He hastily and subtly angrily shrugging her off replied, “Like we both are.”
“No, I’m wet,” she winked at him and placed her lips on his. Without minding the Uber driver they kissed, lower lip, upper lip tongue and all.
And he couldn’t help it, again his hands were up her skirts and it wasn’t the rain wet, it was the wet wet, the cream wet.
The Uber driver played deaf ear the whole journey and did what he did best. Hit potholes, it was sensual with every hole hit. The journey was as short as short journies come.

Soon they were at her plush apartment. She kissed him goodnight, they moved out, him opening the cab door and all the other endangered chivalric antics. He now had a smile on his face and evidence all over his fingers and palms.
She moved out but her knees couldn’t hold. So they paid the driver for waiting charges would be exorbitant.
Up they moved, up the terrace to her door. She fumbled for her keys, finally finding them in the deepest chambers of her bag. All this time she was sat on the veranda by the living room window pouring out all the contents of her bag, as he watched. Men don’t touch into ladies’ bags, it was written.

The door was open just in time to realise the roommate wasn’t around. Who jumped at who, it’s hard to tell. Her last memory was opening the room, which subsequently closed her mind.
Skirts tossed via the door mat, jackets under the bed. Bras half removed. Shoes on top of the bed and torn panties.
It was a night of pushes and screams, drips and creams. It was a night of dancing to perfect tunes. A night of shared heartbeats and wolf teeth bites.
It was the night. But they had a promise made, and now had a promise broken. The writing written on the wall in hand of the devil.

[#UGBlogWeek Day 1]: It all starts in Kindergarten…

The theme for these 7 days of blogging as a Ugandan Community, is/will be ‘Schools made us no better‘. We shall embark on this journey of What did we Learn? What did we enjoy? Sit tight, belt up and buy a helmet too.


Three years, pronounced as phi-ri, si-ri or phu-ree depending on where you were born, how you were raised or if your maid could construct an English sentence.

Three years, that’s exactly one year after you’ve left that succulent breast. When you’ve stopped wetting your pants, have started seeing the potty as that for babies.

Probably your Parents have birthed one more youngling and you love it, it’s so young and cute, so adorable. Or you don’t you pinch it.

 

Three years is when you start waking up at 5:30am, eyes closed. Shower, eyes closed. Feed, eyes closed. Dressed, eyes closed and tossed into the back of the car. Guess what, still eyes closed.

You wake up at the gate of your School Office as Pa or Ma continues to Work Office or back to Home Office.

Three years is when you start waking up at 6:00am, eyes closed. You bathe cold water, eyes wide open. Or sometimes when Ma remembered to keep hot water in the flask, that’s if you have; a bit warm water is what you bathe, eyes closed.

Soon your eyes are very much wide open, you have to sit and feed as your Ma prepares your siblings too.

Also the noise your siblings are making, can’t spare you.

You begin the walk to school, hands help by your big sister; adoringly running behind her to keep up with the pace, or occasionally carried like the baby you are.

Ma sees you off till you close that dangerous Death Valley, those dark bushes. Sweater or no sweater, whatever. The good parents can’t afford, but love you.

And your day, your life as a School Children starts. Welcome to School Jail.

 

For me it was around 22 years ago, in a nursery school called Kindergarten. It had a name but I forgot its name. I’ll check my report cards. And I still have all my report cards, with me in a folder at my place in the bedroom.

I don’t remember much but I know I had shoes, and a new red sweater and a kabooni, a small container. I can’t tell whether my siblings had what I had though. But from stories, I’ve grown up to hear, they walked on foot sometimes. Not because they didn’t possess shoes, but because Sunday Best, also because most of the other kids didn’t own a pair.

We weren’t the Cool Kids, but we had caring parents.

 

I was young, adorable, naughty, sweet and playful. None has changed really, apart from age perhaps.

I had a friend called Marvin, he was my good good friend, but sometimes he didn’t share his bicycle. But his Mum loved me and that was good enough to make us friends, brothers at that.

Marvin, the Marvin Rukanga was in Middle Class as he was slightly older and bigger than me. I was in Baby Class. At break time, I always went to check on him. And they say i was bright, so the middle class teacher who loved me like, well like love love love was like I could study with Middle kids, and I did.

 

One morning as I was migrating from Baby to Middle Class, a girl; whose name or form i can’t remember stopped me, blocked my path and later the door to class. See she was big, bigger than all the girls her age.

I might forget her name, but I will never forget her bloody nose. Little me punched big girl in the face and big girl saw stars and a little red. She nose-bled. She cried, I thought rather had a feeling that big girls didn’t cry unless their hearts were breaking. And her heart hadn’t been punched, just her nose; I even doubt she had a heart.

 

The whole school, Baby Middle Top was paralyzed, news reached the staffroom; since it was break-time and all staff was having tea with Hotloaf buns as we ate whatever we had packed in our little containers.

An Assembly was called, the whole school assembled right there and little me and the crying girl in front, she was sobbing like she’d lost her purse with her Campus tuition and salon money in it.

I almost felt pity for her, almost walked to her to rub the little tears from her eyes, only that I had earlier gifted my ka small handkerchief to another girl who’d puked all her break.

 

A small argument broke out, my Baby Class teacher, the Middle Class teacher were on the Opposers side, the Headmistress on the proposers side.

Motion: Amanya beat this Girl.

My teachers thought I was Angel reincarnated, my Headmistress thought I was Dracula Reloaded.

And I had no Amicus Curiae, so Ma’am Headmistress with her closing statement, “If he didn’t beat her, who did, did the nose punch itself, or did we admit ghosts?”

 

The Sentence wasn’t passed, but the verdict was clear. And I felt the sentence drip down my pants, warm at first and very cold later. It was full of shame too, and a beating heart. Madam Headmistress had given me the slap of my life, and everyone was laughing at me like the sucker I was. I could swear that Ma’am Headmistress had overnight turned Slapmistress.

 

The guilt, the shame, the pity and the wetness, the betray and the lost trust. And that wet patch.

That was my higlight of my Nursery School Experience. And since then, I’ve never laid a finger, rather a hand on a girl. The finger I’ve laid ofcourse, but that’s a story for another time.

That’s how I became a Women’s Rights Activist bordering on Feminist.


School made me no better in becoming better, but I sure made School better for my friends.

UgBloc

Loose Talk.

What pulse drives you? Is it ambition, is it fear? Is it desire? What is it? Is it love?
Something has to be fuelling your fire, or else your flame will burn out.
And please don’t tell me your life runs on solar. Just don’t.

For you I know, clearly know; it is love, I can see it on your lips, I can see it in your eyes.
That glow on your skin tells one thing, you are neck deep in that shit that is love.
It must stink, doesn’t it? Oh, you can’t smell that, can you? Love numbs all senses remember.

I’ve been stalking you for eons now, and guess what;
You’re weird, he’s weird too.
You’re an idiot, he is too.
Okay, you’re real and so is he.
Don’t get me wrong. You two are special.

They say, to be in love is to be anchored in the safest anchorage and I can see you’ve really landed bulungi.
I can see the intensity of your feelings, your emotion of being, that passion, that self-surrender. They’ll Mollis you!
The love you’ve got isn’t Romeo and Juliet, isn’t Abelard and Heloise either; it certainly isn’t the imagination of countless poets, it’s Kampala love, it’s real love. Street Love.

Tell me you don’t keep his undershirts on.
I hear you sleep in his large T-shirts.
I’ve seen you kiss on the sidewalks from work.
You kiss more than you hug. To think you used to fist bump.
He now smells like your favourite perfume and you, his.

Late night calls. Frequent calls. A distended call log.
Imagine one chat, his chat is always above the ever vibrant Whatsapp group chats.
One word sentences for others, paragraphs and essays for that one chat.

I can smell love even in the filthiest of sewers.
And what you guys have is love love, it’s affection love, might even be sex love.

They say, only sex love can create the homogeneity, equality and reciprocity between two persons and drown egoism.
I can see the way you relate.
You girl, you must have seen each other already, unravelled things hitherto hidden in laces and all.
You must have eaten each other already, yes.

Remember the bruises, the other time, now I know they were bite marks.
What! So who is Dracula now?
Or have you been in a WWE fight ish with him, 12 rounds; no knockout.
I know, if there’s a drop of love in sex, 12 rounds isn’t a hard ask.
You know with love sex, it is said over and over again; means insatiable participation in the existence of the loved.
12 not out? Wow. You guys are great. Deserve a medal

By the way, Love is blind for those in the realm of love.
Had you noticed that you two were holding hands for more than 10 minutes instead of downing your beers?
Aha. Anyway, I’m happy for you. Nice hair by the way, where did you do it from? I want.

A girl talking to a girl, about a boy who is in love with a girl.

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Gregor Cresnor

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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Why? Like all the time!

“But why is it that you men all you want is only sex, like all the time?”

It’s two months now; that introspective question has persistently lingered in my mind, like a brain eating amoeba that won’t go away till it eats me up or until its intimation is revealed.

See there’s this friend whom I met back in the Campus days. Well it isn’t long a time ago *back in 2013* How did we meet? It was an Iphone charger,  more like a cable, it was a tap on the arm and a subsequent cute smile.

I was in the Hostel study one Thursday evening deeply lost in *it had to be Programming methodology* with these big, very big headphones on. That day my brain was unusually semi-permeable and all points were slowly trickling through. You know how that last minute hustle would allow in every point read, relevant or not. It must have been a Meiko song because in a moment I had teleported  to some fancy library; the like we watch in College movies , Harvard or not, I wouldn’t remember. Anyway I was deeply engrossed in that rare moment, what happened next almost gave me quite a fright.

I felt a tender touch on my left arm; on turning I was met with a smile and a gaze straight in my eyes, that smile which leaves you dumbstruck, gasping for breath and almost choking on air. I was so lost looking at the red veins in her left eye; veins that her thick, dark dreads tried but couldn’t hide, veins that delineated her probable deeds the night before, that I almost missed the chit she had slid towards my laptop keyboard.

We became friends then on, oh the times we had. From the Colbie Caillat songs, the board games, drink ups, to the darts we played in her room. She finished her three years and left, I stayed and completed my four. We would chat though, more than chat we would converse on Whatsapp off course and call sometimes. Oh we would debate, argue, sulk, flirt, sext and all those titbits that young people do.

“Hey E, I’m flying in this October.” One evening, a Telegram message fell in.

“Oh really, what are you bringing for me?”

“Guess what, just wait I’ll be there soon. I’ll do bad things to You.” in her sexiest voice over voice notes.

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Ohhh the things we do for love, or to get some.

October came, I waited. We waited. It’s quite funny that the chats on phone will have you falsely believing that people are very close to you. But truth be told, before you take the initiative to look out for an acquaintance to either visit or dine, then you realise how near yet so far we are from our loved ones.

The demands of both our jobs always kept us apart, I/She would be in town when she/I was’t. And when we both were, silly excuses would keep us a mile a part.

Middle of the night; one cold Saturday, it had to be cold. It’s always cold at night anyway, mostly when you are alone in bed on weekends where everyone is out getting lucky or getting high.  A phone notification drops in , “Hey Hun, I’m at a drink up in Bukoto. Please come pick me, I’m quite intoxicated can’t drive.”

One, night bodas are obscenely expensive. Two, it’s easier landing on a unicorn than getting one at that time at the place I reside. I remained in my briefs and vest, put on a jacket and moccasins and run like 100 metres to the northern bypass. I got a boda; I looked crazier than Denzel in my briefs, hoped on it like a ninja, the boda guy smelt like a Russian ash tray but I was in Bukoto in like five minutes.

Getting a high girl from a party is one tricky thing. Standing next to her hand in hand as she pecks this one, hugs the other, get pulled by this inebriated guy whose expectations of ‘something more’ perhaps earlier in the night haven’t been realized, is another. Sooner we were in the parking lot, looking for that white Subaru Forrester with cute rims and unique vinyls.

We didn’t even meet any Traffic guys on our way home. Subaru cars are quite fast, seats are very comfortable, add that to the impending sleep and the vodka, ‘punch’ cocktail taken, she only woke up when the engine died out at my place. I opened the car door for her just as she was throwing up a cocktail of her own, lunch earlier eaten and whatever she had downed via the party.

It’s always nice thoughtful to keep a spare tooth brush and a spare dry towel. *Boys learn this, if you’re single, better you always stock Latex, Pads, Painkillers and stuff of the kind* It always comes in handy, and anyway it’s just so convenient for your visitors and for you.

For the next 30 minutes, my friend was in the bathroom cleaning up, giggling here and there and calling me to the bathroom door just to ask me the same thing in incessant loops “Nshuti, mwana I missed you. How have you been? Haven’t I inconvenienced you?” On repeat.

She finished with the bathroom, came out and we hugged, so tight like for two minutes and confessed our longing for each other and well headed to bed. “But why is it that you men all you want is only sex, like all the time?” 

What happened next is what’s been eating me up for two months now….