Two things I wanna do today; one, sit back and do nothing. That’s something right? You see, I outdid myself over breakfast. Someone should have warned me. Too much honeyed bread is deadly, it fills you up like MTN juzzaz your bundle. In the end, too much honey on too much bread (too much bread = eight slices) adds to your misery like a dude who kicks police car hit-and-run survivors.
Secondly, I’ll just rant this confused Thursday away. The goddamn weather pries about undecided. “Should I shine, should I not?” it pokes the day, “Or should I serve a balanced diet; bland episodes of sunshine and a finale of Noah’s-got-an-ark downpour.”
My crush knows not whether to dance with me on the mattress or give her ex a ninth, second chance. Why not whine and cry and curse the hours away; I house a troubled mind today.
Pardon me, I needed that.
Too much misery I swear. We are a lousy, miserable lot, with too much hope and so little faith. Even trees pride themselves much better. You hurt a tree, it cries, bleeds (whatever sap is to them) but it heals. And moves on. Trees hold no grudges. It’s because they can never act on the grudge. So a tree chooses love, for hate is too great a burden to bear.
I’m asking no one to be a tree here. I’m reminding everyone, “We are not trees.” Tree don’t fight back. Trees forgive and forget. We are not trees. But unlike trees, we celebrate and honor mediocrity. Trees don’t do that. Their roots roots fuck through the earth straight to the water spot. (There is something trees can teach us).
Now back to my point, which is, don’t be a freaking tree. Our ancestors have had a field day this week. The Bachwezi are laughing their heads off wondering how we lost the plot. We been duped. We’ve fallen for bourgeoisie goat schemes, ludicrous awards and gibberish passed off as music; Pomini Pomini. I wish all artists were Abaasa or Naava Grey’s schoolmates. Those two studied music, the real music. Stop listening to tree music.
Any way, here is my plan. We’ve said all there is to say. We’ve talked the talk and talked the walk. Better we walk the walk now. If you fellow Ugandan, in the humble words of Anthony Hamilton, are ‘sick and tired of being sick and tired’, you’ll heed my words of wisdom ditch the tree act.
Police will give us kifaalu, Kayihura will spray us with cesspool gas, and Sevo will unashamedly accept awards for fighting cancer. brother, relent not. Defy the thieves, protest injustice. If you run over, die. If you survive, protest again. But let the crooks off the hook. And next time you riot, spare popi the stones. Try rotten eggs for a change, I’d love to see how popi reacts to that.
That’s my two cents on #HowMuhangaGoat10Bn. Now where’s my drink? I need rum, this Thursday’s feeling like a delayed Friday.