Undo

Following one's preference in this world is a quick way to exit from it..."
                                                  -Bartleby the Scrivener

The so called calipso dance has so overtaken conscience, young kids, old men, kindergarten chaps are so into it you could raise the subject be included on the national curriculum. This is written by a chap who scorns dancing it or rather cannot dance it.

OmaGod! Is every dance supposed to turn out calipsoed? Music plays dance strokes start with calipso and end with calipso. It makes for weird thinking-that every musician wants to have a calipso in their videos even when the true look of things cast the dance out of place.

Well, the people are happy about it, as is wont the nature of pop culture, no one can stop it especially when you greatly despise it, it will wane and reappear in another form of annoying stroke of magic, perhaps. It keeps overtaking itself, building on until we don't even remember who exactly can claim to be the re-inventor.

It's disputable. Who among the 21st century Ugandan musicians re-introduced it? This here is a salon argument that would last the whole day. Some say it was Bobi wine's Bada fame; some allege it couldn't have come together but for the efforts of Phina Mugerwa Masanyaraze. No, it Bebe cool. Aaahaa! It's Rebecca Jingo.

This argument is taking us no where. I find it better to settle with the thought that the one who dances it worst must have re-introduced in here. Simple, Ugandans are good at copying and bettering any thing new. Didn't they hijack Lingala?

There is space though for question, now that kids have abandoned the awkward kiddish dances for calipso. What is that new form of calipso they are dancing called? You know, it's not the mechanical calipso, its improvised, rule less and a formidable creative art that involves half strokes, staring lapses, and a break dance in between. I don't really hate calipso I realize.

 For the lack of interest, tomorrow is cancelled...

                                               Ruby-kaizer chiefs 

It may not have blasted Kampala radio waves yet, held in the northern fold thumbing, thrusting off many systems (radios) in many households and night hangout places. But Luo music is hot stuff.

It has created many 'superstars'. Forged a new generation of bling, style, badass, and cool. Even with the intrusion of outside music (music hitting radio waves in Kampala), the creation of a hip-hop, luo-pop, gulu-pop class has taken music to a twist of popdom.

So that when the music starts. Bobi wine stands along with Otim Bosmic, DJ Laguna, Lumix, Twongweno boys, Smokie and as is with these lists you can't finish the names. It's a society on the rise, role-plays, wannabes, fakes and the real stuff all haggling out their tunes of pastiche.

The stars are visible on the streets, they own the streets. They could as well declare be a road of superstars. Bosmic sang that...the world changes, turns, and luck comes around...and everyone has a bite..." It's their turn to bite.

The stars wear some of the fanciest cloths, something you will not find in Gulu's boutiques, white sneaks are fav. Dog tags, baggy jeans, bulky T-shirts to swagger cool with their CDs in hand waving for the 'crowd'. They drive flashy coronas with shiny rims playing loud music elbows thrust out "Kabanlole" style.

Their music takes in a lot, talks loudly of a society suddenly observant of change leaving them for the better. There are the sad ballads, rather painful and burrowing into what is etched on many souls. Themes of 'war is over, no more suffering, peace is here' being overtaken by a free spirit chant about courting the woman of your heart.

 Then there are the obsequious songs, these we keep for the independence cerebrations. Having caught on with the fad in Kila, people just wanna pare (party) with themes of 'lets party the whole night'.  Its much more appealing healing music. In the dance halls, the excitement is eminent. You feel it ebbing into the crowd like a controlled breeze, who can't help singing along.

A projection of a different society now.  Leaving behind all ambivalence, a kind of post poignant abandonment of empty nestings, having tasted a new strange fruit of hope, embraced its taste, aroma and become addicted to the sweetness. The consequence of the radio era has hit hard. It's reminiscent of the radio scene of Kampala 93-95. Everyone suddenly is welcome to the 21st century.

You may want to ask how it all began, but then, its more incomplete to surmise it's a result of a far away ray of that happened to flash a second glance this way. It's unstoppable-where it is, it's headed for unfathomable straightness. No one wants to stop, there are no red lights on this street way, and no one is bothered.

“…you cannot read loss only feel it…”
                                              Memories of a Geisha

Edwin called it dry mud, I didn't see the sense of his summation until we were deep into it. (The following sets of descriptions may be inappropriate but just imagine them applied to a dry place). The road was soggy, silted, patches of it were hard to ride through, and sticky. There had to be two or three revolutions to make a forward thrust. Of course you only felt it if you thought about it.

There was the possibility of stalling or even falling over, it certainly would be a soft fall, with a soil cushion spread wide out. It wasn’t a comfortable thought either so you were lucky not to harbour it. The motorbike struggled through the heaps of congealed soil…continually the thought of falling off the bike crept. I suggested I get off the bike so Edwin pushes it alone through but he insisted he could manage to go through…so I sat hapless as he wiggled the bike about the “dry muddy patch”. 

At the shops along the road, drunkards cheered us on, wavering high in their disability, they beheld us playing in the road, one even broke a piece of stick to come discipline us for being childish…I thought well…here we are…watching the roadside refusing to pass by the motorbike…its is like thinking of …the missing links in…a sequence of unexpected…interrupted…good music. 

We decide to stop when we reach a clearing. There is a hot wind swirling inside our shirts, I privately keep thinking it should bring relief, but it just perpetrates a hot feeling. We stop and sit under a tree shade. I lie on my back and I am overcome with the greatest of temptations-sleep.

I rise to a sitting position knowing this is the best way to avoid sleep now. Edwin too looks drowsy. Our water has run out. We have a ten-minute ride to town left but we can’t help sitting here quite. It feels happy here. The football fields of Gulu High School are litt ered in activity, kids in different groups playing football.

A chap comes by, “God help you,” he says. 
“God help you too,” we retort and continue looking and doing nothing.
“God help you,” he repeats. 
We stare at him wondering what he is up to, we reply thinking perhaps that he didn’t hear our reply the first time.
“God help you,” he says giving us a stiff smile. We look left, then right, then at him and he is still smiling. Saliva slides from the corner of his mouth and hangs in a long tail that is kept flowing by the open mouth.
“What do you want,” I demand.
“God help you,” his eyes are excited. He pulls out a sachet of alcohol (Empire), which he sips from and passes towards Edwin. He refuses but the chap places it in his hand. Edwin looks nervously around and thrusts the sachet into my hand. I hand the sachet back to the guy.

 He is still smiling. I whisper to Edwin that this man is not smiling and that he is paining. I give him 500 shilling to buy another sachet. He looks at me with an alternation of squint and big eyedness, and then pockets the money. After standing silent for a while. He thinks he finally recognizes me from somewhere. He pulls out 500 shilling and says he is going to buy me a whole sachet to drink alone

 “God help you,” he keeps repeating and the production of hanging saliva is increasing. The kids seated nearby are laughing. They call out to him by the name “God help you”
And tell him that he is very drunk. He tells them he is going Sacred Heart church for confession and that he is the new choirmaster.

"It was like a big fat nightmare on the plate"

                                              -My big fat obnoxious Fiancé

Acholi Bur, 11:30:  We are very hungry. We all woke very early and skipped breakfast. We have basically finished with the days’ work. The bus from Kampala will be arriving soon and we hope to catch it to Kitgum town. We can’t wait any longer so we enter a restaurant. The menu is rather enterprising for a Kampala stomach,

Viz: -

-       Anyeeri (Edible rat)
-       Malakwang (bitter vegetables)
-       Otigo (okra)
-       Lacede (okra mixed with tiny fish popularly called mukene)
-       Roast meat in simsim paste
-       And accompanying food included; Millet bread, Cassava, Potatoes. 

In excitement we all order Anyeri at 3000 a plate with all accompanying foods. We didn’t have to wait long. My plate came with a rat head staring at me, its front teeth fanged out, facing the lump of millet bread, part of its chest hidden under the potatoes.  High paste soup gleams in rich grey waves that lap at the inside edges of the plate.

My heart missed a beat, I swallowed a lump of saliva so loud everyone looked at me and wondered what kind of appetite I had. Shock, awe, trepidation and panic. The other plates arrive without heads, laugher! Nothing funny here. There was something ghastly about that plate head when it came. The blacked out ghoulish eyes, the tiny burnt ear orifices, the five thin white incisor teeth, and the sneaky rat head trying to burrow into the millet bread. No way!

 I offer to exchange plates but no one wants a rat head staring at them eat the rest of the rat. I ask the woman why she has given me the rat head; ‘you are the group leader and the group leader eats the head.’ She answers simply, “you are visitors and the special dish for visitors is anyeeri.”

What? Laugher! I tell her to bring me another plate without the head. All talk of the ‘head’ is luck is bull. There was no way I was going to eat a rat head. If I can’t eat a fish eat how can I eat a rat head.

So, when you finish washing your hands, how do you dry them. Do you flip them till they dry or clean them on your trousers?