Sleek n Wild

Monday Massacres: HeroMan

It’s been a while since we run these massacres. So understandably, prospective sponsors were queasy. They said that they could not trust the brand. What’s there not to trust? WHAT’S THERE NOT TO TRUST EH!!!???? Ok, let’s breathe in, breathe out…think pretty thoughts, pretty thoughts. Presenting the massacres…I have a gut feeling the sponsors will be queuing up next week.

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It is no secret that we live in hard times. Very hard times. Ladies’ bags are getting stolen. Men are sending money to their offshore accounts, money meant for drugs for the sick and needy. Other people are going years without getting any. Hard times, my friend, very hard times. We need a hero. Someone who can lift us out of this…this despicable state of affairs.

Someone who’ll champion the cause of the weak,
speak up for the meek,
and do it every week,
justice he will seek,
no, he’s not a dick,
not even a prick,
he, he is Sleek.
With a kick and a flick,
He’ll pounce on them robbers, the pricks,
Yes, they’ll have sticks,
But Sleek, he’s unique,
Taekwondo and jujitsu make him tick,
We need a hero, we have Sleek.

With an intro like that it’s hard not to trip. But back to our story. Hard times, yes, very hard times. But Sleek has this covered.

CASE ONE:

(kock kock kock kack kock kack)(High heels hitting the tarmac as unidentified SHE walks down a lonely alley in Buziga, having left work late from taking an extra cup of tea to her boss.)

(kock kock kock kack kock kack) (kamppphhh)(She breaks her stride. An unidentified man with bloodshot eyes has  stepped into her path, a few meters away)

HE: Nze tegumanyi luzungu naye ‘Hand over zat handbag and no one gets hurt’. (Translation: translator unavailable right now. Apologies)

SHE: (shrill scream) (breaks into her mother tongue) Ai bambe, kjnivcreuoyuwyedeouweyofcitfouwdyootedouwyywevfdiyvuycwiyfiwrv, where is Sleek when we need him?

(Flash of light, barefoot man grimaces, punches, kicks, more punches, a scream, then calm. Barefoot man is bundled up, struggling to break free.)

Barefoot man: ‘Nze mwana I’ll get you Sleek, if it’s the last thing I do. Naro!‘

(Sleek and the previously so-scared-I’m-going-to-piss-my-pants lady walk off hand-in-hand. To her place of residence. She lives alone. They proceed to have a discussion on possible ways of empowering lady to defend herself in such situations. Then they tell me not to write anything more about them.)

CASE TWO:

Burly HE is seated in his office. Sipping cold coffee. Eating a mandazi. He is waiting for the money. It was supposed to come in the previous day but word has it DONOR had some other stuff to take care of. But today is the day. The money, it is coming.

(Knock knock)

Ah, that must be them. Come in.

Tea girl walks in. ‘You aren’t done with the tea? And you owe me for that mandazi…what’s with your ilk and procrastination?’ (She walks out, semi-slams the door)

(Tension builds…tension builds…more tension)

(Another knock)

Ah, it must be them. The money, it is here.

They walk in, three of them. DONOR, and two goons in shades and body-hugging black suits. And white sneakers. The goons stand on either side of DONOR. He is clad in a red and black t-shirt, brown corduroys and mauve sneakers. He hands over the sack of money and insists on a signature. Burly HE signs. They head for the door. DONOR turns just before the door is shut behind him, “Now make sure all those with Malaria actually get drugs bought with this money.”

Burly HE nods. They leave. Unable to contain his excitement, he starts to stash some of the bills into his socks, shoes, underwear….

(Flash of light, scuffle, kicks, punches, burly HE is now bound, struggling.)

Sleek: Thought you could get away with eating our money eh? Eh? Take him away boys…

Low days

Bomb blasts went off at a very popular hangout last night. It’s one of those things where you get the news and you just don’t want to believe it. I honestly have little faith in our popos but for all that’s at stake, I hope that this time round they surprise us and actually get to the bottom of this.

To give this a little perspective, I’ll point out that up-til now, Kampala has been one of those places where at 03:00 AM, one can walk from one end of the city to the other. And that we are the kind of people to complain about rising fuel prices, high Pay As You Earn taxes, impossible airtime charges…basically a very high cost of living. But in all this, we’ll still go to that new hangout place and pay UGX 5,000 for a beer. And we fill the place to the point that you literally have to fight your way to the bar to get a drink. And that’s the average hangout.

And then you hear about bomb blasts…

But where are we getting news from? Twitter, Facebook, BBC, CNN, Al Jazeera…where is our local media when we NEED it? Why are they still presenting ‘normal’ stuff in the face of this? Isn’t this a stop-the-press kind of thing, do detailed research, give us names of the affected, talk to their relatives and whatnot…yes, we love the Sean Kingston music(maybe not), but give us relevant stuff at least this one time. Reminds me of how Sanyu FM, in the midst of the Riots in September last year, amidst all the mayhem and us running scared, Sanyu FM, the only station I listen to; they didn’t have zilch on what was going on.

Bloggers, Facebook die-hards, Tweeple, we are the new media. Let’s show ‘the pros’ how it’s done, and maybe, just maybe they’ll start giving us relevant info.

Future speak

When I grow up, I want to do many things. I want to sell crack on a corner, and run from the popos when they come. And I want to say “Bad manners to the popos” as I show them one of my fingers. The middle finger preferably since flashing it has yielded angst and the like in the past. And when they do finally get me, they’ll say “We finally got you Lil’ Sleek.  Your nefarious ways will no longer go unchecked on the corner. You won’t be selling crack ’round here no more. Take him away boys.”

And when I get into jail, I want to beat up the biggest guy in there. Left jab, right upper cut, kick to the groin, and as he doubles over, quick left, a right and finally I finish him off with a round kick. And everyone will respect me. And not look me in the eye. And I’ll have conjugal visits from my friends. Girls. And no one in prison will tell me to “Pick up that bar of soap over there” because they know I’ll whoop them.

And three months later, I’ll break out of prison. I’ll cover the hole I’ve been digging in the wall using a Grace Nakimera poster. And the guards won’t notice it. The hole not the poster. They’ll notice the poster, and get hard-ons.

And when I’m free, I’ll sell more crack on the corner. And release a hit song, “Crack isn’t whack”. I’ll feature Loose legs on that track. Loose legs will be the female sensation then; to give you a lil’ perspective, she’ll be a mix of lady Gaga, Lauryn Hill and Beyonce. And besides doing ‘crack is whack’ with me, Loose legs will fall in love with me…and she’ll write songs about me. She’ll also remix ‘Heaven sent’, and dedicate it to me. And she’ll ask me to father her child and I’ll say, “Loose, I dig you and all that ish, but I ain’t ready for no baby mamas. A brother gotta hustle right now, that’s whatitis”.

Bujagalati times: The massacre that came in late

I’m hungry. I’m very very hungry. Give me anything, onions even, I’ll eat them. Garlic even. Scatch that, no garlic. Been scanning the area for a restaurant…anything, it’s that bad. I’m desperate now…and then I see something. It looks like the kind of place with fairly slow waiters…but fairly slow’ll have to do…for now at least. (grumble grumble)..Stomach’s starting to protest rather loudly…hold on baby, steel yourself for some broth that’ll probably make you even grumpier.

I step in and he runs over like a puppy set loose. Good sign, attentive waiters. ‘Bujagalati rhymes’…I read his name tag. Odd name…or maybe that’s today’s special soup. With a name like that, the soup is probably bad. It probably went bad soon as the chef quit doing his left palm, cleaned himself off and decided to call it that…only chefs who do their left palms can call soup that. And let’s not even get started on those that do their right ones…

‘Is that your name?’ I volunteer.

His eyes roll unsteadily in their sockets as he considers his answer…I could almost picture the whole process; ear gets sound waves, they fight their way through the wax and somehow hit the ear drum. The ear drum barely flinches, taut from years of exposure to hardcore lingala…the kind that pygmies in remote Congo make babies to. The ear drum grudgingly passes the message on, and the responsible jimmies pick it up. They run through walls of goo, to the brain. Panting, they pass on the message. And then the brain says, ‘Pardon?’. Three odd minutes later, Bujagalati responds to brain and says ‘Pardon?’ And I consider repeating the statement but I picture the spent ear drum and let it be. I place my order and he skips off, relieved to be away from a coherent being.

Time ticks.

5 minutes…he has finally reached the head waiter and passed on my order.

10 minutes…he has mentally undressed female customer 4 times. You can tell how many times by following his gaze and observing the excited quivering of his palm.

12 minutes…Buja,BJ if you may, has managed to spill soup on 3 customers, 2 females 1 male.

13 minutes…’Hey, I’m starving here. Where’s my order?’ He picks himself up, drags himself over to the counter, fumbles with something there, turns round and walks over. He then hands me glass of hard liquor. I can almost see the passed-out guy who last used this glass. He won’t be awake for the next three days or so. But seriously, dude, who ordered for hard liquor?

Girlinator

Schwarzenegger was a choir boy. He was the strongest voice in the choir. And he was a great great soloist. You don’t know who a soloist is? It’s that person who says “Me me me me me(frantic waving of arms)” when choir-master asks “Who wants to sing this part here alone?”. So yeah, Schwarz was a soloist.

Scwarzz  was especially looked to for vocal redemption when it came to songs like ‘silent night’, ‘killing me softly’ and the like. Don’t be fooled people, Schwarzz also sang some non-ballad music. He had a small part in rapper Slit Throat’s hit song, ‘jjjjj‘. Great song, Heavy chorus. “Come on,jjjj, Come on jjjj. All dem who*es come on jjj.’ Due to his Australian descent, Schwarzz was called upon to sing the ‘jjj’ part. Needless to say he rocked it.

On stage, when girls would be screaming, “Oh Schwarzz we love you. Please do *** to us, and also do **** to us” Schwarzz would look down mid-song, think about it and just before leaving stage, he’d turn to the girls and say “I‘ll be back“. Schwarzz the proverbial girlinator.

Unfortunately, Schwarzz didn’t take any photos back then. None. But one of his girly fans did. Stare. Zoom in if possible.

Special delivery

Fang Shui woke with a bang. Dang, that hurt! Time-check…oh shit, he’d been asleep for a whole 6 minutes. Not good, not good at all. “Have to deliver package…have to deliver package”…heart racing. He reached out for her….gone! Stupid whore, she left with the best 5 seconds of his life…But no time for whiny tears, have to deliver package…have to deliver package. He felt around for the package…feeling, feeeling, feeling…nothing…he started to feel himself then he thought better of it…get package! Ah, there it is…he picked it up and made a crazy dash for the door, the rickety I’ll-hit-your-tall-ass door. The musky early morning air slapped him a welcome. A mouthful will do just fine, thank you…now to dash…craaap! Local priest, Chang Pot Poi, on his way to mount Pimpei, had bumped into him and he’d somehow managed to spill three drops of white, gooey pooey on Fang Lui’s angry-brown shirt…craaap! Now for the face-off…no priest spills gooey pooey on Fang Lui’s angry-brown shirt and gets away with it.

“No battle cries pastor, I’m going to whoop your lofty (ahem) without making a sound…apart from this just-concluded statement that is.” Fang Lui

“I pray for your soul young ‘un…coz the whooping I deliver was last seen when the Vikings raided Nigeria…” Greying priest

(Pause as leaves flutter to the ground)

(Priest squints eyes, everything fades into the background,save for a lone picture of his lord and savior)

(Fang Lui widens eyes, taking in every detail, even the mole on Priest’s left cheek)

Fang is the first to move, ever so fast…

(now writing in slow-motion mode to get all details of Fang’s attack)

left jab, right legheadedforTheHead then QuickLeftLegHeadedForTheGroin…

Priest dodges the jab, uses his hand to fend off the kickToTheHead but he’s not fast enough to guard against KickInTheGroin…ka! It hits home…Fang waits for a reaction….none. Ah shit, he remembers that the Priest, for lack of use for them, has no balls…evolution. Darwin.

Too late, Priest has already smiled at Fang’s feeble attempt..nobody’s home sucker!

(Priest moves into super uber faster fast mode)

(Writing in slow motion mode to keep up)

(Whirlwind of activity, not possible to keep up, writer only sees Fang on ground, Priest walking away)…

(Sometime later)

Fang comes to….ah shit, deliver package…deliver package…

Monday Massacres: Nelly Dilemma

This beauriful stuff is brought to you by the Hip-hop community:

All the popping, and locking and thingsYouShouldntTryAtHome and thingsYouShouldTryInTheBedroom, we bring you all that. Even hard lyrics. Even soft ones(Will Smith rap). Even scary ones(Rick Ross showing face). We bring you all that. Now we bring you some prose. Just because we can. Peace. Out. Peace. In.

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Why do people let Nelly anywhere near a recording studio? Where’s the logic in that? I mean, it’s bad enough that they let him even sniff the air outside the studio…but then as if that’s not scary enough, they watch him stop sniffing the air, sniff himself for about ten minutes, hold his gonads and then walk towards the studio door…any alarms going off? Red-alert yet? No? Nothing. And then the guard at the studio door hits pause on an Eminem track he’s listening to on his I-pad, looks up, sees Nelly limping towards the door, a ‘fake voice approaching’ look written all-over his face…Nelly even brushes last night’s dinner off the front of his t-shirt, just in case it’s obscuring the case-sensitive words ‘FAKE FAKE guy’ emblazoned on his chest…guard squints and reads the message, takes it in, stands up to stop the fake guy from soiling the studio’s path any further…and just when he reaches for his hand grenade, he sees P-Dildo trying to sneak into through the back door disguised as a woman…poor guard is distracted. What the hell? He moves  laser fast and grabs Dildo by the kahunas and throws him out…(P Dildo goes on to sing a song using some improvised stuff and somehow some loonies worldwide get down to it…but that’s a story you’d undress in protest at hearing..so i’ll write it strictly for one person’s eyes…one gal. At a time. You can borrow it when i’m done. The story. Yes, yes, the story, not the girl.) Yes, P Dildo drops remix after remix, and just to make sure we don’t get it twisted, he always  announces ‘This is the remix’. Why thank you Diddy, ahem, we didn’t know that…

So guard distracted, Nelly gets past the door and into the recording studio…a sudden dark descends over Eastern Uganda, but no one worldwide makes the connection…Nelly-in-recording-studio=darkness-in-Eastern-Uganda. That goon’s making locals suffer…he looks around, pockets the face towels he finds lying on the floor, probably discarded by real musicians, like Lauryn Hill, after a long, intensive, draining songing session…Yes, songing…the word singing has been defiled by people like Nelly so real songers now have to use their own word…some examples maybe? Songer: India Arie. Singer: P Dandy. Songer: A Keys. Singer: T-Pain. Songer: Common. Singer: Chamellionare. Songer: Floetry. Singer: Sean Kingston.

So Nelly, pulling his cap low to hide his face, proceeds to the now-abandoned microphone…producer sees weak chap go to mic, but assumes that it’s a song about charity so he let’s it pass. He reaches for his water and takes several sips to steady his heart when the guy starts to sing. Shrill. Uncordinated. Shallow lyrics. Wannabe. FAKE. Producer goes for potty break. Producer’s dumb assistant enters, gets CD and sends to radio station with instructions, ‘Play this. It’s by homeless klut, play once only’. And they play once only…and fellow kluts worldwide love the ’song’ and request for more…and ageing producer has no choice but to invite Nelly to sing. You brought this on us, you Nelly lover you…go to sleep knowing that.

Bend it

PPPS: PIFF rocked. That party, so nice. Thanks you cool PIFF guys. And 27th, thanks for that tip. It worked. 27th is a bad boy(cue some music)

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I hate our ads. Apart from those written by Streets and Erique. I hate our ads. They are that fly buzzing above your head as you take a dump. They are that conductor who tells you that he has no change. They are that douchebag tea-lady who spills tea on you on Monday morning. I hate our ads. But I’m too nice to complain without bringing to fruition better thangs. Sleek ads galore…

Cooking oil ad:

(cccsssshhhhhhh-cooking sound)…(ka ka ko ka-someone walking into kitchen)

Someone: mmmapph,yam yum,..I like that smell. Its smells so nice. So so nice. Jimmy, what are you using to cook your food?

Jimmy(briefly stops cooking): Imelda, I’m using xxx beer. It’s all the flavor you need.

Bank ad:

Dear listener, come and we keep your money. You come. Please you come. While you while your days away, worried about your networth, we’ll take your money, use it, get rich and give you a tiny portion of what we make. We’ll go out of our way to put hot tellers at our counters to please your eyes. And your hands…NAT!! No touching, at all…world bank policy, though its not effected in the white house(whispers) come to think of it, that place needs a no smoking ban too..

Ante-natal ad:

Are u pregnant? You are? Are you sure? Does your man know about it? Speak louder…does he? Then how do you plan to raise the byaby? Do you know Chaka Demus? Do you like his music? Do you think your baby’ll like his music? Not sure? Let’s find out…(dundu, duuundudu, dundu, duuuundududu-Chaka Demus beat playing in the background)…Did u feel any movements in your general belly area? Or slightly lower?(cough) or slightly higher?(clears throat)…or you felt nothing? Nothing? Come for ante-natal checkup. This announcement is brought to you by Bono. And our government. In a collabo. One time.

Food ad:

You want rolex? (Queue picture of thin man, hand-on-cheek…)You sure you want rolex? Why do you want it? Is there a shortage of chips/beef in your area? Or do the chip seller’s slimy hands put you off? (PS: It can’t be ‘chips seller’s slimy hands’, too many s’s. We are lisp-sensitive here).

How badly do you want our rolex? Our yummy rolex…non-crunchy, sumptuous, full-of-good-things, mouth-drenching rolex…come get it. (Queue picture of formerly thin man now fat, scratching belly and walking with pomp with a bevy of giggling young ladies following him)…

Clarification: A rolex here refers to that mixture where they get a chapati and a fried egg and put them in a tight bundle together. And its sold to us to eat. We do not refer to that watch made by those Jamaicans. Don’t sue us.

Nifty grifty

A brother turned the bigass 24 on Monday. So, presenting various ways of celebrating. Oh hold that thought…I have on occasion been to BHH’s that rocked, but the one last Thursday was l.e.g.e.n.d.a.r.y. Would typed that again for that feel good effect that writers get from repetition, examples are in order…

Stephen King “He thrust his knife deeper…and she groaned her last. Yes, he really did thrust it deeper.”

Solomon King (No relation,as it turns out…but he’s aight) “He thrast his mouse dipper(sic). He did it. He thrast it dip.”

Jackie Collins “He thrust his knife deeper, and she groaned her lust. He looked like he’d thrust again, and he did.”

John Grisham “He tthrust his hand deeper into the pile of cases. Very deep. Very very deep.”

M7 (yes, our El-presidente is a big writer), “He thrust his democratic gun deeper. And the people groaned in unison. And he thought long about the next thrust.”

Anyway, BHH was mint chocolate with a cherry in the middle. Normzo seriously, not that kinda cherrie. Speaking of, hi Cherry. So at BHH, we talked a bit about changing the world (through, for starters, a party next Saturday…get full details here. Go get them. Stop reading this…go now. Ok, I’ll text you the rest of this entry. Hehe, this entry. Baz gets it). Oso thanks to Spartakuss, we talked about some gross stuff…2 girls and (shudder). Anyway, it was nice. You missed. And if you happen to come from those places where my saying ‘Feel a mango’ doesn’t have an effect, please email me and we’ll dig into your dialect and find an appropriate phrase.

Onto the ways of celebrating…What am gonna do? What am gonna do?

1. Send Lauryn Hill mail. I’ve successfully kept my crush outta the media partly due to the fact that when media people throng me with questions…(clammer clammer, sticking microphones mostly near my face) “Sleek, what’s your real height?”, “Is all that food yours?”, “Is it true that you were awesome even as a baby?” I’ve always given them a good chorus answer (serious face...). “No comment..” so yes, Tanya, I mean Lauryn and I have survived like that.
2. Tanya Stephens and I are going to have a cup of coffee. With her there’s no affair, imaginary or not. It’s full-fledged marriage without the ring, but with the good tings. True story. I know you are reading this Tanya…xxx.

3. And most importantly, I’m going to get into a fight. Nothing serious. I swear. See for yourself.

Monday Massacres: Down and Darry

These massacres today are brought to you entirely by my brain. No sponsor. Let’s just say things have been very involving lately. All prospective sponsors this time round wanted me to do thangs for them. But I turned them down. I think next time I’ll give in.  Good reading..lovely week.

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Weenies!

Yes sir!

Today, you learn to play the men’s game!

Yes sir!

Many of you have been doing ballet, wearing pink, reading mills and boon and watching movies with Lindsay Lohan in them…

(Blank stares)

Today, today you get liberated. Today I break your chains…the chains that have you bound, holding you back from crossing that thick line to manhood. Today, you learn to play rugby.

(Wild cheers…)

Today, I pass on knowledge I have gathered from painful years of experience. Aching muscles, broken limbs, twisted jaws, insomnia, delusion, twisted vision, misplaced teeth…that’s the life all my opponents have gotten used to. Weenies, the game has been a breeze for me…

(Excited murmurs at hearing about my brilliance)

Now, the first thing you’ll ever need to learn on pitch…learn how to pass the ball. When you see grit teeth, a heated animal charging at you like you said something unflattering about his mother…yes, Pass The Ball (PTB). Preferably to someone bigger than you…and cheer as he rams into the animal. Do not cheer if he gets a concussion. Say the appropriate ‘Hey Fatso, I am going to tear you apart!’ to the animal responsible for the concussion. And no, it’s not your fault that your team mate got hit real bad, he coulda passed the ball too you know. Why was he feeling a superman eh? Running into animals like that…and for the rest of the game, avoid making eye contact with the animal. He may send book you a bed and a feeding tube in the hospital.

Never pause in a game; you’ll only draw attention to yourself and the ball would be passed to you…not nice. Stay in motion, keep shouting, preferably some incoherent stuff…

Always look out for the smallest/slowest/weakest guy on pitch. These are always there, unless you are playing against the Springboks. If you do not know who the Springboks are, please forget all the other beautiful knowledge I have passed on, stand up and leave this place. Make sure the door does not hit you on your way out. Actually, I hope it does…(A number of weenies shuffle out)

Yes, on identifying the weakest link in the other team, get the ball, charge at him with the vengeance of three rabid dogs (yes, three…any more would be too many) and make sure you knock him down, hard. When done, dust yourself off and do rule one, Pass The Ball.

Now, some wise words on how to tackle. As evil as the word sounds, tackling is an art form in the league of wine-tasting. It requires skill, great timing, huge arms, lotsa brawn, and a gallant cry that is let out when the tackle is done…I do not have any of these things, save for a magnificent gallant cry. So, how do I do it? Weenies, listen coz I’ll only say this great stuff once…

(weenies lean in to listen)

Now your brawny buddy will teach you how to look out for that split-second when your opponent’s legs are next to each other, and dive for them right then so as to take the goon down. Me, your brainy buddy, I’ll tell you this: wait till your opponent has JUST passed you, and then dive. Do a magnificent dive, and mid-air, spin, slow-down, turn a bit, do those slow-motion things that camera tricks do, and then let out your gallant cry just before you hit the ground. When you finally stand up, stamp the ground in anger and let everyone know how that guy survived.

Weenies, that concludes your Rugby 101 short course. There’s an appendix here about what to do when you are almost making a try, but I doubt you guys will need that. I see your blank looks…well, technically, a try is to rugby what a goal is to football. Though in rugby, when a try is scored, there’s no unruly jumping, throwing shirts in the air, grown men hugging and smiling effusively like toddlers in a candy store…no, here we just shake hands as team-mates and say ‘Nice try’, the irony of the statement notwithstanding.   In the very strange event that you make a try, stay calm, say thanks to your team-mates and if there’s a camera crew around, make it a point to dedicate the try to someone. ‘I dedicate this try to all my O.G’s who knew me when I was broke. Much love. Beer on me, this Saturday, Nalongo has a drink-up.’