peeking in, melanie, not much else

Recheal and Eddie have been married for a while now. Recheal and Eddie are my housemates. Heck, who am i kidding! they took me in when no one wanted me. so anyway, they tend to get to a lot of no good. they have loud conversations on sarturday morning, when all i really want to do is sleep in. I can not tell them to shut up for fear that they will send me packing so when i wake up, i smile sweetly at them when all i really want to do is kick them. Sometime friday evening, a conversation took place.Recheal is bitching about something Eddie did not do for her. Eddie tries to explain shit bla bla bla(this part of the conversation holds no interest for me), so anyway, then Recheal says,

"but eddie you like screwing me..."

me, having very nasty mental images of my sister bent over...

For a while now, i had decided to cut that poor, poor blonde some slack and tried to pretend she was not on that morning show that i like to listen to. But there is only so much ignoring one can do. seems like this woman goes dumber by the months. Anyway, today i am listening in and they are doing a press review; some news item about how uganda's inflation had gone up by 12%. at which point she screams out,

"Yay! the economy is growing, the economy is growing..."

so, you know, i think to myself, surely even Melanie's not this retarded and shit so i let it go. But she wouldn't. Meanwhile. Fatboy her co-presenter starts to make sense of the whole inflation thing, but Melanie, not getting it, just continues to say,

"now, the ordinary man may be asking 'how does this(inflation) help me, but i can assure you it is very important..."
Really melanie. Even i survived a re-take in economics by one mark, but surely?

incase anyone was wondering, i have been away tryna heal my broken heart...or legs...

the date...

...well, i had gone all out on this one. I knew he was a tall bloke so i had pulled a pair of heels out the back of my closet. or out of a box somewhere. So anyway, feeling tall, stomach safely tucked in, all dolled up, I waked over towards where he was seated. I must have not seen the waiter standing in the way, becuase the next thing i know,i had knocked the tray out of his hand and I was falling, falling, falling...

The next time I looked up, my date was gone...

La la la la la la la

It had all been leading to this. The sms’, the chats, the constant flirting. A date. See, ……. and I had only met once before and exchanged numbers. I wonder why, because we had not seemed to hit it off that one time. We had sat across from each other but had barely exchanged a word, each of us preferring to talk to the people we were more familiar with. But today, it was going to be just him and me.

I was nervous. What if I did not like him? What if he did not like me? What if we only got along perfectly on phone. On the computer. In our heads. I arrived at the venue a lil late. I saw him first. Seated alone, seemingly engrossed with his phone. I stood still, wondering. Wondering what I would say to him. Wondering whether I should start with a joke, whether to shake his hand or whether to reach for the hug, whether he would think that was presumptuous of me. I wondered what he was thinking about. I wondered what I was doing there.

I sucked in my stomach, and walked over towards him…


Social responsibility is when the conductor saves a seat for any woman with a baby during those peak hours when you cant seem to get a seat on any taxi, because you wont do anything as undignified as pushing and shoving to get a seat on the taxi.

Lack of social responsibility
is when you have finally managed to get a taxi, say by doing anything undignified like mentioned above and someone is playing his polyphonic Luganda ring tones in succession at the back of the taxi. Far enough for you to be able to snatch his phone and throw it out the window.

How you see a guy you know approaching you from across the street, picking his nose and then he crosses over to where you are and stretches out his hand to greet you. Oh how I long to spit in his mouth.

Amazing how everytime usher opens his mouth I go week at the knees. Or is it when he opens his shirt? Can’t quite tell anymore.

You know how they say accidents just happen? Fuck no they don’t. People let them. Someone leaves a knife carelessly hanging by the sink, it slices your hand, you slap the living daylights out of them. Yea, and then you can tell them your hand accidentally slipped. Oops.

Don’t you just hate how empty ambulances (I know becoz I always peep inside) squeal for you to get out of the way in rush hour? Throw in the police cars as well. Oh and ministers’ cars as well. Damn them all.

This one time just out of campus, this guy calls me and tells me there is an opening, and can I get my papers in order and be at his boss’s office in 30 minutes? My home is like 2 hours from town but I made it there in say 45 minutes. I get to his boss’s office, talk to the guy and 5 minutes into the interview, I realize I am waaaay smarter than him. I politely ask to be excused and go back home to watch intelligent television. True story.

Toilet seat up, toilet seat down…why do people even ask that? If it is down, raise it. And if it is up, just drop it. Afterall the guy that raised it also went through a lot of trouble getting it up there.

A seasoned lifestyle writer for one of the dailies writes a story about the importance and bliss of getting a manicure. Than she ends her article thus; “after the experience, I walked out of the salon with well manicured nails.” Shocking!

Finally realizing that putting “cleaning out my closet” on auto repeat and listening in the whole day is a wee bit weird.

That it is physically impossible to make my bed everyday.

They say you can only move as fast as who is in front of you. Heck no. You shove them out of the way and jog if you so desire. Or crawl.


I would make a better president than Museveni.” I cannot tell you how many times I heard that growing up. But what I can tell you, is how happy it made me feel everytime I heard it. Any man who claimed he could be better than the ruler of this land, was to me a great man. His name was Bymark. Bymark was my dad.

Sometimes I catch my mother looking at me (I have come to understand that it is coz I remind her of dad), sometimes longingly, sometimes with anger. I guess from all those times he hurt her. From all the times he was never there. For all those times he was with other women. And sometimes in her distracted trance she will say to me “go away Bymark.” My mum is not senile. I just look like my dad. In some angles (whatever that means). And sometimes my mum says it is the way I talk. “In the same proud way that Bymark used to talk” she describes it.

But this is not about my mother. It is about my father. It is that I will never talk to him again. Have him hold my hand crossing the road even if I was a big girl and it embarrassed me terribly. He will never say to me “antipop, come here. We need to talk,” in a tone that only suggested I was in big trouble. He will never creep up on me (I let him believe it was always a surprise) and tickle me. He will never play any fools day pranks on me. And my other siblings. I tend to get carried away. To think that him and I are the only people that existed, in the whole world. Our world. Really I have siblings. I just love to hog him. Fuck it, I love him.

1st April 1995, my dad woke my sister and I at 5:30am and told us that he had asked his workmate to bring us milk as he had forgotten to buy it the day before, so to go wait for him outside the gate. Well, I had just wet my bed (shocking!) and I was glad to get out of there, but my sister was not too happy. Anyway, armed with jackets and blankets, we camped outside the gate and waited. 7:30am or there abouts, a pissed off Susan (my sis, RIP) tells me to go tell dad we were tired of waiting and could we come back to bed? So I go, knock at his door, relay the message and to my surprise he bursts out laughing and then said he could not believe we had been out there the whole time. He asks Susan and I to go pick the calendar and read out loud what it said on the date. Susan failed to get the joke and did not talk to my dad for like a week. I thought his punch line was just too damn good. I still laugh about it every time.

Anyway, this was about honoring my father. Who raised me as a single dad (well, he had a string of girlfriends.) Talked to me about periods (sic), about boys (threatened really) taught me to do crossword puzzles, cheated every time we played monopoly, and found it funny that I could not pronounce the word ‘ratio’ [rah-tea-oh]. That dad, who I miss. Who I never got to tell about my first period, about discovering boys and the losers they turned out to be, who never saw me graduate, who cant see me now. Well, I know it is a long shot but if u somehow negotiated your way into heaven dad, I trust u had a happy father’s day. Because I was thinking of you.

What have I become?

Yesterday I witnessed an accident. It was fatal. That was not the shocker. Infact there was nothing shocking about it all until much later as I lay in my bed pondering the day’s events. I remembered what the cup (giant size) of coffee I’d had that morning had tasted like. How I’d almost gotten up from my desk to add a little bit more sugar, but how I’d gotten lazy and decided to have it bitter. How I’d gotten to the end and realized I had forgotten to stir the coffee and the sugar had settled at the bottom of the cup.

I thought how happy I had been when my friend had walked in the office, and how in just a few moments we had gone from being friends for ever to having one of those thoughtless fights that only people who cared about each other had. How I had snatched the movies that she had just taken out of my bag back to spite her. And even then, I thought about how it was not all my fault.

I fast-forwarded to the end of the day when I had met this guy and we had laughed and joked and teased and got happy. I remembered walking out of his office with him to take a stroll along Kampala road towards the park, still teasing, laughing and having a grand old time. I remembered when we saw it. A man lying in the street, motionless, blood oozing from his head, his walking stick, that he had all his life laboriously used to get from one place to another a few meters away, out of his reach even if he could stretch his arms and grab it. He looked dead. The car that had hit him, not in sight.

I remember feeling no emotion. Not anger, not pity, not compassion, empathy, fear, or even happiness. There was nothing in my heart. I remember people gathering around, trying not to miss out on the scandal. Some even prodding and tossing him sideways to see whether he was still breathing. He was, but barely and in a few minutes, it would not be for long. None of them doing much else to help him. Me, rushing the few meters left to join these people, all the while still teasing, joking and smiling about life. A life that this man no longer had. A crowd had gathered, I could no longer get a clear view.

I reach under the pillow and retrieve a handkerchief to blow my nose, now coming back to and realizing that my nose has been running unchecked from the cold that has plagued me for days now. I wipe the snot in a trance and my mind wanders back to the day’s events.

I remember inching closer, trying to make my way through the crowd, reaching for my phone- no, not to call the police, or for an ambulance or ask for any kind of help. I am reaching for my phone and trying to get a strategic place where I could get a clear picture. All the while this guy and I joking about whether my phone had good enough zoom for me to take the picture from wherever I was standing. I remember being frustrated that motorists had ignored the incidence and kept going by and yet I wanted to take a picture. I remember putting my phone back in the pocked and walking away unfazed, just disappointed that I had not gotten the story. Especially the picture to tell it all. So I walked on, him, and me still joking, teasing and laughing. We went to the post office, laughed at a funny postcard, took pictures of it before mailing it and walked on still laughing, our jokes endless.

I remember bidding him farewell, getting in a taxi, getting home, and eventually to where I was then. Warm in the comfort of my bed, a dead man already forgotten. But not for long. Somehow he had come to bed with me. Forcing me to think about him. To think about why I had not felt anything for him. Why I had stood there and not tried to help. Forcing me to examine who I had become, why I had become this way. A cold, heartless, cynical bitch.

I threw back the covers and reached for the mirror that sat on my dresser. I stared long and hard and did not like what was looking back at me. Blank emotionless eyes looked back, mouth set in a stubborn resolve as if to say, “don’t you dare judge me.” I quickly drew the mirror back. I could not take the disgrace of looking at myself anymore. That is when I knelt down and prayed. For someone, anyone that was listening to make me better. I did not want to be that person anymore. I was tired of this whole tough girl act I’d been putting up. Then the tears began to fall. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like a person. It felt good.

loser's got no love for me

Okay so questions have been thrown at me, like how come i end up with the losers? If i have become such an expert, why dont i spot them a mile away? Am i a loser magnet? And this once even a bold statement "antipop, you probably are the loser." So i went back home, pondered this allegation and this is what i came up with. I am not a loser. And in the wise words of Forest Gump, that is all i will say about that.

But what i wanted to talk about is this loser that has no love for me. I mean if a gal cant get any loving from a loser, what has she got left? So anyway, this here loser, i have some fondness for, as i had said way back(something to do with cheap pizza). We have never technically broken up with loserboy and y'all know how that can be. You get to hook up every so often, flirt mercilessly, basically break the rules of dating. Every one of them. I have not gotten to do these things because he went away, but we do get to chat every so often on messenger(bless you yahoo)

So we chat about nonsence, then marriage, then girls with long legs, where upon i make up stories about boys with abs and tight butts, and then we come back to us, and then marriage. Only because we both know i would never be caught dead walking down the isle towards him and he would never be caught alive waiting down the isle. For me.

Anyway, recently in one of those chatting sessions,i taunt him about US, at which point he takes the opportunity to begin flirting. A few blissful moments of sweet nothings later, i drop this question;

Me: Do you love me?
Loserboy: I love that song

milk? gas? or dangerous fresian petrol?

Cheesy, corny, tacky, phony, tasteless

This whole tagging thing was kinda cute when it started (wonder when that was). And funny even, but it has soooo gotten out of hand. It has become and sounds so much like spam mail or sms, the way they tell you to tag 8 other people or is it 567? It kinda takes me back to my bulk folder in my yahoomail, of someone trying to sell me viagra, telling me big is better, or when she saw ‘it’ she wept, or this rather disgusting one, ‘it’ was soooo big, ‘it’ tore her mouth.

It started out as six things that people did not know about you. Then four things about four different topics, then it was four things about carte blanche topics, now, it is eight things about Lord knows how many other things. Please people, blogger is this cool place I come to escape, but I think certain bloggers are inventing ways of annoying me and robbing me of this serenity and even sanity I find here. Do not spoil it for me. Yes. I am QOFE. Queen Of Fucking Everything.

loser crybaby II

... the calls, the un announced visits, sometimes even to my bathroom, were very honesly begining to worry me. scare me even

But that was nothing compared to the day i pressed the hello button to sobbing and wailing at the other end of the line. So i do my part and try to calm loser down and get to the bottom of what he is going on about.

Turns out, i had not picked his calls for two days now. Infact, even when he had hidden caller I.D, i had somehow suspected that he was the one calling and had refused to pick. Fine, i have been known to have bionic powers sometimes(like that one time my tummy hurt sooo bad and i predicted that my period was coming. And sure enough, 3 hours later, there it was) but even i could not have guessed who was on the other end of the line if caller I.D read "no number."

So i let him rumble on and on about how bad and mean i was, all the while hopping that he would shut up and just let me be. it is bad enough having a stalker, but a crying stalker just down right freaks your freak. By now crybaby has stopped wailing lng enough to tell me that he is sick, and he will only get better if i go over and see him. I hear i am what the doctor prescribed. This was sounding all cheesy and tacky and quite frankly, nauseating. So i fake poor network, hung up and continue with my afternoon nap.

About an hour later, there is a loud pounding at the gate that announces an uninvited visitor gutsy enough to interrupt my siesta. I tell the house help to tell whoever it was that i was sleeping not to disturb me, at which point he returns to tell me that the guest had said he was sure i wanted to see him. This visit ended with me denying duncan a glass of water, shooing him out the gate and telling him to please call the next time he was coming to visit.

I have not had that many regrets in life, mainly because my life has been one big regret, i have not stopped to think, but i tell you i was regretting why i had invited pretty boy into my life. He was sucking the life out me this one was.

Dont you just hate when people refuse to take offense? You would think that pretty boy would be insulted at the way i had treated him, but the calls did not stop coming, he did not stop dropping the 'L' word(no phoebe, not lesbian)and never gave up waiting for me at the stage at the end of the day. And i did not have the heart to tell him to stop, i guess because i was not ready for another round of tears.

But they did come. Without any spurring. When one day, he dropped me at the gate, and before i slapped the door shut in his face, told me he loved me and got no response from me.

"why dont you love me antipop? why do i always tell you i love you and you do not tell me you love me back? why are you taking me for granted? why do you hurt me so? you are bad antipop. you are bad. you will never find a man who will love you as much as i can..." and he burst out crying. and i shut the door and walked very very fast to the house.

First of all, i did not ask him to love me. And there was no rule in any book that said i had to love him back. none that said i could not take him for granted. i mean, he was easy bait. And about hurting him, that was stretching it alittle. Because i had not really tried. He was damn right i did not want a man who would love me the way he did. I had had it.

That night, i composed a nice message, told him he was a nice guy and all, would find a beautiful girl that loved him the way he deserved, threw in the bit that he was a little too childish for me and wished him well.

Then he wrote back;

"what? who do you think you are? how dare you dump me you as***le? you have not heard the last of me. i will get back. infact, the next time i see you walking around, i will knock you down..." Phfffffftt. I am supposed to be spooked by a little boy who cries over girls? I was not.

That was over 2 months ago. He beeps me everyday. And i am happy to report that there has been no hit and run incident in my neighbourhood.
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