Three Years.

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Three years. I’d be joining Nursery school would have joined Nursery School today. I can almost hear myself sing all the nursery rhymes. I can almost feel myself sharing all my fancy day 1 food. Have been a giver since day 1, literally.


Approximately three years ago I moved on from Blogger to the fancier sister WordPress. And like they say, “the rest has been quite a story.”

I’ve made buddies, lost some *those that feel like you almost wrote about them, almost kissed and told, yet it was just imagination triggered by a moment some time back.

I’ve written nice pieces and better pieces, I’ve procrastinated once too much, I’ve been hit by the block. I’ve got past the 300 Follower Mark. I take pleasure in knowing that I can share with a number that big. And humbled for most read, and some reply, comment.

I pray and hope, even promise to write more. To be bolder, to swim beyond the reef and to write more. I promise to try to be Me.

 

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

Bambi Nyanzi

Stella Nyanzi is still held. Much as i don’t condone her utterances, i abhor her incarceration.
She has rights, and her rights should be respected.
In a country like Uganda where everything has been gazetted for a select few, rights should be all that we have left but, do we?


Well, what to do!

Plug in ear phones and… Renegades ~ X Ambassadors


Run away-ay with me
Lost souls in revelry
Running wild and running free
Two of us, you and me
All it takes to make one last stand.

And I say
Hey, hey hey hey
See us living like we’re renegades

Long live the pioneers
Rebels and mutineers
Go forth and have no fear
Come close and lend an ear
#FreeNyanzi #FreeUsAll

All hail the underdogs
All hail the peasants
All hail the outlaws
The proletariat and the ‘less than thats’.

It’s our time to make a move
It’s our time to make amends
It’s our time to break the rules
Let’s begin…

And I say
Hey, hey hey hey
To hell with living like we’re renegades.


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More like a Comeback Post

It’s been a month 12 days since pen last kissed paper, since I wrote a meaningful post. See writing is like sex, when it’s good both the smasher and the smashee feel it. Both the writer and the reader will feel it, deep inside. Like the clay outside on a rainy day, the petrichor maybe the same but the taste, the feel on the tongue is quite antithetic.

See you’ll write, taste it and it tastes unearthly and you spit; drop the pen and go dance your frustrations away, or you save. And there you have yet another draft that will most probably never see light. Soon as mood changes, the draft all of a sudden looks like stale yogurt. You wonder, “What was I thinking? Damn.”

Forty three days. Sounds like a good number to call any lull a Writers Block. Forty three days. Only that I was writing but not publishing. Call that a Publishers Block. It’s not easy, it doesn’t feel good. It might leave you sad or to some people depressed. Well that’s hyperbolising  but it leaves you wondering Can I Really Write?

To the Sixty Nine bloggers who followed me in those Forty Three days, I don’t know how to thank you. Oh wait, I know how to. I’ll write some more and write sweet. To you the Two Hundred and Thirty Seven who viewed my musings, may you live to see whatever you’ve always wished to see. Even if it’s Bathsheba taking a bath. To the One Hundred One that actually visited this blog, may you be visited by your wishes riding on fancy horses. Thank you so much.

You know Ugandan bloggers haven’t been writing because the mood has been low ever since the rigged elections. You might not see it, but such affect the mood of the country. If you’re Ugandan, you very well know of the increased accidents, the increased suicide attempts, Supermarkets closing, Businessmen needing bail outs, and Writers not writing. It’s simple sociology. I believe Zimbabweans  can relate, that’s if they haven’t assimilated to the circumstances. Well Zambians can relate atleast, ever since they were Lungufied. And Malawians who were Mutharikafied before them.

Times haven’t been good. But to tell you one thing, the sun still rises, even with the pain.
The sun still rises, even through the rain. That’s the way it is.

ai.

I told her, put your number in my berry.
I put some liquor in your belly.

She said, the belly yes, but your berry no.
She said, see me, see me not,I’m someone’s belle.

I told her, you with the pretty nose and cute smile
I I ayaaai ai. Can I have the number to your celly?

She said, you’re crazy, sweet but direct and so silly
She said, trust me i like you but it’s a different story

I told her, well he isn’t here be real.
I told her, I kiss good and tell rarely.

She said, you’re killing me with your words
She said, but he will kill me with his sword

I smiled and showed her the car packed outside
I told her, we can go to my apartment not a soul will know

She said, she could put a number in my berry
She said, just not her number.

I told her, my apartment didn’t have walls
I told her, even if they did, my walls had no ears

She said ,she’d been there, seen that
She said, she’d seen the writing on many a wall

I told her, no number in my berry, no bitter in your belly
I told her, I like you but I am no fala

She said well It is what it is
And I have my man out the door. Don’t be a bully.

Dropped Pen.

One second
Remind me
Your voice
Sing to me
Every Breath
Catch it
Every song
Bottle it
Sleep now
Slow whispers
You Know
Strangers
Ear Worms
Play me
Act silly
Like Whatever
Look here
Night Flame
Fire Rain
Last Train
Play Cool
Play us
Good Karma
Feed away
Ying Yang
Crash Strong


Read Slow help me find meaning. Help me find the elusive passion.

[#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

[#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

The Handwriting Tag.

Joseyphina, the Joseyphina tagged me to participate in writing using a pen. That’s not an easy task these days as we’ve become CEOs and only use pen for approval signatures. *Wishful thinking.


Well, the rules are simple. You write the following instructions on a piece of paper, take a picture of it and post.

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And the instructions:

– Write your name.
– Write your blog’s url.
– Write: The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
– What are you writing pen.
– Draw your favorite emoticon.
– Write a silly message.
– Write who you want to tag.


Let’s do this and write ball and stick all over again. Also tag as many bloggers as you can.

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