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.



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.


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.



I say it’s a bit narrow for a Trish to call all Men, trash. I’m like, don’t you see it! It’s all clear. In the medieval times, from the Anglo-Frisian dialects came the word ‘trash’ as a past tense of trish. I won’t say what ‘trish’ meant then, for you can guess; as I can, that you know what I mean already, just kidding.

But I’m kidding less about all Men being trash, all men are. It’s so true. It’s written in the sky, on the land; and in the sea, it’s everywhere, you just have to look closely to see the inscribing.
Some have it all written all over them like Mayan tattoos, others; like that mark on Cain’s forehead and others have it latent. You need to put them in a dark room, do the Infra Red; extra X-ray on them, and bang, “Oh my God there it is, the mark.” The Trash Mark. The ‘I thought you were different’ mark. The mark that conquered all.The one mark to rule them all.

See, like an item on a conveyor belt in a big mechanized factory, you get stamped with that mark soon as you pass via the conveyor belt. Dang, there it is. It’s not the birth mark. It’s that little worm attached to a little sack between those two little thighs.
From the day you pass through those big pretty thighs to when you enter some other big pretty thighs, your destiny is well written, it’s clear. You’re trash. Don’t even argue about it. No one is assuming anything Caitlyn, no one.

It’s not something you ask for. It’s something you are born with. It’s not something you can avoid be. It is something you’ll be as long as anyone says you are. After all Trish thinks so. You’re trash. What?

So, don’t let it get to you, it’s who you are. Just be the best You, you can be.
Be the best trash you can be. Be that good that you’ll enter the mall and everyone turns their heads and is like “Oh, there goes. That big ol’ Trash.”

Don’t play girls’ hearts, I’ll buy you beer or balloons play with those.
Because still, whether you play or don’t play, or play it safe, somehow you’ll yo-yo. You’ll hurt someone, justifiably or not. Intentionally or not. Or they’ll hurt just because you play it uncomfortably nice.

It’s like being in a chemistry laboratory, titrating chemicals and all. Any drop has an effect, it’ll make it an acid or a base. You don’t stop the drop just because you’re uncertain of what’s to come, do you? And still you won’t know what’ll come. If it’s an acid, you’re trash. If it’s a base, still you are trash. That won’t save you. Blue pill or red pill, you’re trash.

But still, don’t be an ass. that will make you dirty trash. And you needn’t be. That’s stinky trash. Not Cool. Don’t be that one who lies, who fights, who beats. That’s pathetic. Lucifer hates competition. Be a nice, awesome, stupendous piece of trash.

Much as they say Good Trash finish last. Just be the trash that finishes first. Finish first just don’t finish quick. For you know, it’s never about you, it’s about they that safely dispose of you. They own you and you gots to be in check. They say, any trash is as good as the disposer.Be that good.

Cling on to that, accept that sometimes you do stuff that makes you trash. Well sometimes you hide it and other times no one sees it. But you know it. So own it.

But it’s the way of the world. It’s what you do that makes you some typa trash. For Women are trash too. That’s it. That’s life.


 “Please don’t judge me for selling my body at 5000 UGX.” #SexWorkerDiaries

I think I’ve become too emotional. But when haven’t I been. Stories of Poverty, Suffering break my heart and my tear ducts as well.
One thing that I always think about as I pass by the ladies of the night on my late nights from work, all comfortable in the Company Cab is; no job as hard as Sex Trade. May it be legalised someday. You can’t say you care for the woman if you can’t protect her.

Pru's Notebook

Out of curiosity, last Saturday, I called a friend, a community mobliser, who had worked  in Bwaise Kimombasa for years rehabilitating sex workers, connecting them health care services and education programmes for their children. He had shared their stories with me but I wanted to hear and see for myself. I wanted treat my curiosity, I wanted to know what would force anyone to go into this “World Oldest Profession”. With an open notebook, a curious mind and loads of questions I was in Kimombasa in Bwaise.

Sheila was the first person we met. This is the story of Sheila a 29-year-old sex worker.

“My father worked at the ministry of internal affairs. Our home was at Old Kampala Block 20A5BS New park. My mum was a business woman that would go to Dubai for months to do business. I don’t know what business she was doing. While she was away…

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Take me Home


The Kampala skyline comes along, time and again.
Your picture that I hold, that keeps you around.
It’s been two days, it’s been too long.

I’m finally out of my room, where we know.
I’ve made one step out the door, the other a missed step.
I want to go back in, but i wan’t to move on.

The food is tasty, and I see the waitress.
I never saw her before, I only saw you.
This place is the same without you, but I’m not.

Without you isn’t a place I thought I’d go.
Withought you isn’t a thought, I’d harbour.

The sounds around me resonate you.
The whispers and the giggles too.
I hear you in the steps of those climbing up.
In the taps and slides on the gym floor.
I feel you in the music that is playing.

It’s a raft I want to escape from.
But where do I fall, the tide is strong.
I feel you all around, circling in my thoughts.
I close my eyes, I want to escape.

I see our footprints in the sand, i see the shore.
I feel hairs raise down my back, and I want more.
But do you have more, something left to give.

I feel like you’re long gone.
And I feel like something’s wrong.
I feel like you’re all alone.
Like I wasn’t there all along.

I know you feel like I won’t long.
You think I feel something inside so strong
Well, I feel like I’m at peace alone
Till I’m alone

So, take me back
Take me in your arms, back to home
Back to you, back to us, where we know.



Perks of the Inconsiderate Friend Zone 

I wanna see you and not feel shy. For I bared it all, right there before your eyes.

You saw my naked soul and couldn’t cover it, not even with your woolen shawl.  That one you loathe so much.

To the end of the world I went, just to put a smile on your face and that feel that is satisfaction; to my heart.

I almost walked through the shadows of the valley of death for you. And still I didn’t know you. You didn’t let me.

I never held your hand, not once, never was embraced but for that one side hug. One that faded before it was received.

I wanna take it all in with seemliness. For it seems it’s the better way away. A better way out, if at all I was in.

I’m so tired of trying, all with plain clarity right spread before me. That I chose not to see, not to feel.

I’m done with bending low just to get to know your lows and not even your laughs or your loins.

The heart is what I sought, but seems it’s that, that you can’t share. To like what isn’t to be liked is a waste.

To settle for less, to settle for the physical is the last kicks. Nevertheless it’s what it is when the ebbs set in.

Remember when I wanted to take you somewhere but you didn’t know where. 

Remember when I brought you Daffodils from the pretty steam, but you only knew Roses and wasn’t fazed.

Those nights you said you wanted us to share but your phone was in a coma or on a field trip was it.

I hide from you now. I realised that you were just a sapless flower wrapped in canonical standards 

 But for the whirlpool that is a crush. I should have figured that out eons ago.

I saw you be bullied at this Blankets and Wines and I wanted to fight. But my feels have been broken way too many times.

I knew I’d lose. Not to them. But to myself because of the promise made, to forget you. 

I couldn’t stomach seeing you sad, about to cry. But your stomach never felt the same for my pockets those days. 

Not even for my feels. Heaven knows I cared. Or perhaps heaven forgot, but I tried.

*Imagination | The Friend Zone 


Your mess is yours as it is mine.

Might you overdose again. It’s alright I’ll clean up. 

Give me your other key. I’ll drive you home and beyond.

Cry when think of the memories lost. My shoulder is yours as much as it’s mine.

You can tell me it’s your last time. I’ll surely do believe.

Talk to me, don’t bottle it up. Let me know your deepest pain.

Your deepest pain, your worst regret. It’s all fine it’s safe all with me.

Even when you walk through the rain. This my Jacket is yours as I dry your hair.

When you shiver again, I’ll be your wrap.

Hold on dear little one. Your mess is yours as it is mine.

Saw you again at the Shopping Mall. You looked as bubbly as you alway do.

Yellow sundress and a cute smile, natural hair and the lazy freckle.

Checking in and checking out, I lost you on the turnstile.

Call me when the Sun is down. You’re the reason I’m out of this bed. 

The reason I’m hanging out. This mess is yours. Your mess is mine.

Puked on a guy once again. Hope he likes the new shirt, we’ve bought for him. 

Like the last one liked my shirt I had to give. 

Let me cover your cocktail before we leave, as you wash your mouth of tartness.

You’re holding my hand again. Leaning on my shoulder. I’ve got you. I’ve got this.

Your panties have to slide down before you pee. Hold on as I unbutton your ripped jeans.

Your mess is yours much as it’s mine. 

Remembering what we used to be. You were mine and I was yours. 

Think of Love don’t think of pain. For there’s a reason I’m hanging on.

You once were the reason I once felt so alive. Should I give up, I’ll have lost half of what remains of what I lost. 

You talked in your sleep last night. Said you were sorry. For the times and for the mess. Yey I don’t mind, I just care. 

Well you’re  still who you’ve always been to me. Intertwined as we might sound. Your destiny is mine too. 


Get lost in me.Breathe me in.

Let’s lose time. Let’s lose it all.

Let’s get to that place.

The place where we are. 

Let’s tell each other secrets.

Let’s forget what we told.

Let’s drown our fears in each other.

Look through me. See nothing.

See it all. Know it all. Know nothing.

Let’s find comfort. Shelter us.

Let’s lose ourselves. Close us in. 

Open up your eyes. Say something.

Wonder if you believe. If it’s real.

Let’s wonder,let’s wander within us.

You and I. 

AfroBloggers #FeatureThursdays – El Amanya

I think I’ve made it.


Ugandan Blogger Amanya adamantly proclaims that his secret for blog success is writing about the one thing that everybody relates to … love! He regards himself as an endlessly flowing natural who has a unique way of writing. He shares his blogging journey and the discipline that has helped him become a better writer even though he is self taught

What’s the best thing a blogger can give to his readers?


Writing just like any other art form should be presented with utmost attention to detail. From the graphics, to the content; the punctuation, to the flow.


You have no right to go AWOL on your readers! As any dedicated reader will tell you, it’s disheartening when a blogger just disappears. Consistency keeps a reader hooked and connected to the blogger.


The Comments section should be the gist for all blog engagement. A blogger should engage the…

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