28 Shades of Indecisive; #27

I noticed him across the dim lit room. It was that hour when the party gets to a lull and everyone’s settled into their little corners for the long haul. The hour your eye starts roving; scanning each face in the room to try and guess what they are in for. I’d agreed to accompany my friends to this house party as I had no better plans that Saturday night.

He had an acute and intelligent face, only outshone by his megawatt smile; and when I looked up to check him out again, he noticed me. Cue shy smile and look away. What else does one do in these scenarios? Keep staring? Wave? Both would arguably be considered too aggressive.
So I kept to my drink, pretended to listen to the conversation around me, all the time wondering if he would come to me. Surely the shy smile had effectively conveyed the “come hither” morse code.

With a friend in tow, Megawatt eventually sauntered over a few hours later. His name wasn’t as impressive as his smile. So we’ll stick to the name Megawatt. His friend Bob, a burly fellow, was quite talkative, obscene and occasionally; a smug, admiring imbecility breathed from his nose and lips. He was the kind of man who exhausted you just by listening to him as conversation drifted around.

Magawatt worked with a telecom company I can’t be bothered to remember. Must have been one of those start-ups. The girls dropped off one after the other, the last one leaving with Bob and soon it was just Megawatt and I. Knees brushed against each other, little conservative touches here and there, it was really cozy. He was quite interesting and we discovered we had quite a lot in common. The hour grew late and soon we had to leave. I feigned frustration as none of my friends were anywhere to be seen. I’d texted them to leave without me.

He offered me a ride home; I expected nothing less. When we got home, he walked me to the door. We’d exchanged numbers earlier and before he left, he pulled me in for a bear hug; kissing my forehead and unwittingly unleashing a delicious throng of sensations within me. I was sold. I didn’t see him again for a while but we spoke occasionally on phone and chatted incessantly. His job required him to travel quite frequently and between our busy schedules, meeting up was almost impossible. So I was particularly excited when he invited me to his house a few months later. I was curious to see if the throng he’d ignited a while ago still burned.

It was a lovely Saturday afternoon when he picked me up; with beautiful sunny skies, the kind that inspire poetry. He seemed to have filled out more. His tight tshirt strained against his broad chest and chiseled arms; his jeans blue with promise. There was never a lull in the conversation; every gesture and glance seemed to be building up to a certain cresendo.
He lived in a quiet suburb with a neat row of apartment blocks. His apartment was on the second floor; we took the stairs, fingers interlaced.
But nothing could have prepared me for the gory sight that hit me the second I walked through the door.

The migraine-inducing wallpaper defiling his living room had a reddish houndstooth pattern that swirled creepily over the walls and ceiling. It seemed to give the whole room a feeling of impending despair. I swallowed and hoped it wasn’t trying to tell me something; possibly that I’d bitten off a little more than I could chew. I summoned my inner Zen and tried to calm down. He’d set up a little display of liquor and snacks, and we settled in to watch the lineup of movies he’d picked up. I tried not to drink too much, my imagination was in overdrive. It was getting dark midway into the second movie; I’d settled into the nook of his arm, all fear and foreboding long forgotten. Megawatt’s hand snaked up my neck and drew me in for a kiss. His supple lips drew in mine, pulling me astride him. He not only reignited the throngs of sensation, he set me on fire. He lifted me and made way to his bedroom, laying me gently on the bed. As he pulled away to take off his tshirt, I glanced around. Besides the eyesore houndstooth wallpaper that stretched to this room as well, the second thing that caught my eye was the bed. The four wooden posters around it were all embrowned and slightly mossed with age. It looked like it had been handed down to the first born sons of his lineage for generations. I winced when it creaked in protest at our combined weight.

Before my mind could register that, Megawatt moved to turn off the light, throwing the room into semi darkness. Streaks of light from the setting sun played across the ceiling, conjuring up scenes of incredible beauty and despair in my head. I’d never had sex in the dark. I liked to go into such situations fully aware of what stood before me; I was helpless against the thousand unutterable doubts that bore irresistibly over my thoughts.
He peeled off my clothes with utmost care, it was borderline surgical. Everything about his touch seemed choreographed. When I tried to touch him, he’d push my hands away. He kissed, licked, sucked and cajoled every sensation out of my body until I was spent but still he did not get inside me. With an energy borne out of frustration, I reached for his willy.

There it lay between his legs and mine; limp. Flaccid like a fish out of water.
I held on to it, massaged and stroked with tragic futility.

“I think I’m distracted,” he said after a few moments.

I’d never heard that one before. So novel was that excuse, that I couldn’t think of an appropriate response. I got up and gathered my clothes, silently dressing up in the now pitch black room. Covering up his limp biscuit, he followed me saying we should talk about it; but there was nothing I could contribute to such a conversation.

I asked him to take me home. An air of deep and irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all through the journey back home. When I got out of the car, I heard him say, “I’m sorry” with an air of affected civility before he drove off.
He called me a few days later asking if we could start over but I simply couldn’t. I wasn’t looking for a relationship with him so it was not a priority to psych- evaluate what could possibly distract a man who’s having sex with me.

I told him I was starting a job in a different town and I simply didn’t have the time. We haven’t spoken since. I should have listened to that wallpaper; turns out walls speak as well.

Written by Morticia; A pseudonym chosen by a wimpy friend who couldn’t let me post these chronicles under her true identity; for obvious reasons, I guess. Read #28 here


This Woman I Call Landlady; Part II

The sound of the slamming door was the startling revelation of who my actual landlord was; an authoritarian Muslim man with anger management issues, probably a psycho, too. The resonance had also drawn the attention of our immediate neighbors to the unfolding drama, and through my sitting room window; I could see the housemaid to my muzungu neighbor craning her neck from the balcony where she stood with a push broom in hand, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on.

Back in my house, I was passing between the sitting room where I could have a better view of this new resident terrorizing our neighborhood, and the bedroom where I had a better chance eavesdropping on the orders being issued.

“Fukamira, ngambye fukamira.” I could hear him peremptorily ordering her to kneel down, accusing her of spending all the time and money drinking with men.

“You need to go to that woman’s rescue, otherwise we’re going to spend the rest of the evening writing statements for the police investigating a homicide.” Eva warned.

“Oh yeah? You would rather spend the evening writing statements for a double homicide?” To me this was a domestic fight I wasn’t ready to plunge into. On the other side of the wall, I could sense an irate man whose issues ran deeper than the beer he found behind the latrine. By the time a man causes a scene that big with minimal, or no fucks at all given about the increasing number of neighbors being drawn to the brawl, it’s hard to guess where exactly he would draw the line. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was one of his wife’s drinking buddies, or even closer.

By now the time frame in which I was supposed to make the rescue call had passed, and the fact that she kept insisting that the alcohol must be for a neighbor suggested that she was still counting on me, but even if I was to go through with the plan, I didn’t have much information to work with. It would be an idiotic move to make a call asking for misplaced beer when you don’t even know how many bottles they are, let alone which brand. I just wasn’t going to do this.

It wasn’t long before my phone started vibrating from the TV stand where it lay charging, it was my landlady calling. I watched it ring for like forty seconds, wondering how to tell her that I am worried about getting myself tangled in this mess. I took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

“You didn’t tell me what type of beer it was and how many bottles.” I feared that he may have ordered her to put the phone on loudspeaker, but I took my chances anyway. I didn’t want her to think I had snaked, but I wanted her to know why I couldn’t help. To put up a show, I assume, she pretended not to have heard what I’d said and asked all the same;

“Did you send anyone for beer today?” I could hear the echoes of her voice bouncing from the direction of her house, and surprisingly; she sounded calmer than I anticipated. She then continued saying “hello, helloooo, hello? Nze simuwurira.” Then she hang up. I knew she had got my message, and in no time she was at my door.

Draped in the same shawl tied with a knot behind her neck running down to her knees, she was smiling smugly when she leaned against the door, like she was shielding off something. She stretched out two fingers while widely moving her lips to pronounce the words ‘Castle Light’, no sound produced though.

What I didn’t know was that the husband was right behind her, and noticing that something sinister may be taking place right before him, he moved his shirtless, and remarkably hairy, paunch to the front. Like his arms, his blue three-quarter jeans revealed leg muscle contours of a hardworking man, and the chipped toenails peeping through the sandals he dragged on his feet testified to a not-so-cushy past.

“Otumiza ku beer?” He asked like he was interrogating his son.

“Good evening ssebo.” I retorted.

“Nze s’ogera luzungu, naye otumiza ku beer wano?” He seemed geared up for a confrontation, and before I could respond, Agatha limped forward.

“I sent the washing lady for two bottles of Castle Light earlier today, I had no idea there was a rule against drinking alcohol here?” She turned to me with a what-the-fuck shrug.

In our eavesdropping, we’d overheard the man say he saw the washing lady fidgeting to hide the beer. Apparently, she had been delivering my landlady’s contrabands like this for a while and the husband seemed to have had no solid evidence until now. He was sure he had her this time, but we defused his bust, or so we thought.

I don’t know if it was the complications of having this argument in English, or he wasn’t prepared to engage another woman who wasn’t his wife, but the man budged and dragged his feet back to his house, saying nothing more than “mukime beer wamwe” as he turned around. We naively thought he bought our shitload of a skit with all its loopholes; because come on, if you sent someone for beer why would they hide it behind the latrine, we were in a rude awakening.

Less than thirty minutes later, we heard an interrogation taking place behind the house. Through an aptly angled reflection of the kitchen window, we saw the man seated on the veranda and the washing lady leaning against the water tank stand. This was an unexpected twist. Because there was no opportunity to bring the delivery lady up to speed on the new developments. In an attempt to save her boss, she also contrived a story of how this was her husband’s beer that she had decided to keep there as she un-hang the clothes she had washed earlier in the day before heading back to her home. To even make it more convincing, she went ahead to demanded for her beer, saying her husband would kill her if she went home without it.

She played right into his hands.

The problem was, Agatha had already picked the beer; and with the biggest smirk you can imagine, we saw the man leading the washing lady to our house to collect the beer, his wife tailing behind them with a face that lamented; these ones are finished!

Read Part I here

This Woman I Call Landlady; Part I

On a Sunday afternoon; Eva and Agatha and I were in the sitting room watching John Wick (a highly rated movie that I found numbingly pilotless and predictable) when my landlady appeared behind my kitchen window and started gesturing for me to come. It was weird, because this is not how we discuss the water bill when it comes. In spite of her efforts to look calm and collected, the apprehension on her face was more apparent than she imagined. There was no time for pleasantries, she went straight to the point as soon as I reached the window.

“I need your help.” She spoke softly as she glanced over her shoulder in the direction of her home.

As you would expect, I was a little confused, so I just stared at her in bewilderment. Taking a deep sigh, she bit her lower lip and looked down; like she was embarrassed by what she was about to say or she didn’t know where to start from, or both. She looked back up, straight into my eyes and said words in Luganda that directly translate to say;

“They found bottles of beer behind the latrine. I am going to call you in twenty minutes to ask if they’re yours and I need you to admit that they are. You think you can help me do that?”

“Oh, okay!” I shrugged nonchalantly. The only thought on my mind then was my landlady owes me one now, and that may come in handy when I am late on my rent remissions. She took three steps towards her home and then paused to turn around. “Actually, I think you should call me instead and ask if your beer was wrongly delivered to my home.”

At this moment I got curious, I wanted to ask for details but she seemed to be in a hurry and she hastily got back to her house before I could ask; “who is they?” What I didn’t know at the time is that this was going to be a major breakthrough in demystifying this woman I called landlady.

If you know anything about me, then you should know that minding my own business is not my strongest virtue. From the time I met her 11 months ago, I have always been trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together but nothing seemed to make any sense. I got this lady’s number in January 2014 from Bin Laden—a popular house broker in Kulambiro, who had just given me a tour in and around the house.

We spoke on phone to finalize on the rent before we agreed that I make the deposit the following day.  So the following morning, I called to ask where I would meet her so we would exchange cash for a receipt (as opposed to mobile money like she had initially requested) and she suggested Shell Nakulabye.

I gave her a call as soon as I reached Shell Nakulabye, then I saw a fair skinned young lady of western descent walk towards me from across the street.  On the other side of the road, she looked like she was in her mid twenties, but as she drew closer; I started to notice she may actually be older than she appears a few meters away but it was not until I met her two teenage kids the following day that I concluded she must be somewhere in her mid-to-late thirties, if not early forties. For a woman her age though, it’s hard to overstate her beauty.

Her breath suggested she was coming from a bar, and the way she kept switching back to Luganda after fighting to stitch together a few English words into a sentence, it was evident she wasn’t very comfortable with the language I was insisting on using. In my defense though, she had struck me as one of those girls who don’t speak vernacular. We sat in her car that was parked at the fuel station and money changed hands. She told me she didn’t have the receipt book with her but she would give me my receipt the following day. However, considering the circumstances under which we met, I thought it prudent to scribble down a small acknowledgement of receipt for her to sign. She studied the content of the paper like it was inscribed in hieroglyphics before she asked me where exactly she was supposed to sign; or in this case, write her name in my grandmother’s handwriting. And no, it wasn’t the alcohol, like I would find out later. This further affirmed my suspicion that she was of a modest literacy level.

For a long time, Eva and I debated about the true owner of the house. It was nothing sexist, but even though the Yaka meters are registered in her names, a lot of things didn’t make sense. This woman had two kids, but I never saw a man set foot in that house. She would leave home around midday and come back past midnight, sometimes drunk and staggering. In her drunken sprees, it wasn’t uncommon to overhear her quarreling with the children, hurling Luganda expletives at them that start with the letter “K.” What kind of mother throws the “k” word at their own child? I would wonder.

It was pretty clear this woman did not have a job to go to, or she had an established business somewhere that didn’t require her daily supervision.I knew so because I was also unemployed at the time, and seeing her around and her seeming not leaving for work wasn’t a comfortable feeling. However, besides inflating the water bill, I never had any serious issues with her, and she always spoke nicely to her tenants, sometime even hosting my neighbor’s toddler at her home whole day.

But what’s this woman’s story, how did/ does she make the money? I kept asking myself. Is she a widow, divorcee, a rich man’s side-dish? Perhaps she spent a few years in bulaya, busting her ass for money that she invested well when she returned.

“Or she is madam!” Eva quipped.


“Yes, like a female pimp. Have you noticed how many women keep entering that house when the children are at school? You be there.”

It was funny, but I didn’t subscribe to that theory. She may dress, make up and have a sleeping pattern you would expect of a madam, but that’s an over stretch, I thought. On many occasions, I wrote about her in my Sunday Monitor column and facebook status updates, but as long as it was in English, I never had to worry about receiving an eviction notice. But the events of these Sunday afternoon were about to bring about a huge limp in solving this intricate puzzle.

I went back to my action packed movie and started counting down the twenty minutes. But less than ten minutes later, we heard a huge bang from the landlady’s.

“Wallahi billahi tallahi they’re taking me to Luzira today for murder. Whose beer is that?” Swore a deep male voice in Luganda, following the slamming sound of a wooden door.

Holly shit! What the fuck am I getting myself into? My mind froze.

They Don’t Take Coins Anymore

Sunday afternoon, at Jinja Road traffic lights; a young girl, seemingly in her late teenage years, approached me with a basket of bananas on her head.

“Bogoya, bogoya, please support me and buy my bogoya.” She pleaded.

First off, I didn’t feel like eating bananas, but even if I was to consider buying for later consumption, I wouldn’t buy her’s because they looked scorched and weary.

“Sorry but I am allergic to bananas.” I attempted to tell her off politely.

“Okay even if you’re not going to buy please support my education.” She started. She then went on to rap a story of how she is an orphan trying to raise school fees. She even went as far as telling me the school she goes to (which I don’t remember) where she pays 160,000. “Please support my education, please, please.” She was quick in her explanations, seemingly conscious to the fact that the moment those lights lit green, I would be no prisoner of hers no more.

I am no stranger to this generation of beggars. They like to hang around supermarkets entrances and fuel stations. Normally, they are kids who disguise as maize, avocado or other foodstuffs vendors. They ambush you with a pitiful face and plead for you to relieve them of their almost always worst of quality foodstuffs. What makes me truly seethe though is how their unsuccessful pleas are always followed with monetary demands.

“Kale ngulilayo sapatu.” One of them asked me once to buy him footwear, flaunting his bare foot. This is exactly what I have a problem with, if you’re begging then let me decide how much to give you, don’t attempt to cunningly set for me an amount like the other category of beggars who pretend to be stranded in town and ask for 1,000sh to transport them to Kyambogo, or wherever they claim to be going.

The moment this school girl started asking me for school fees is the instant I should have slid up the window and looked in the opposite direction. But for her persuasive efforts, I looked for some loose money and chanced upon a five hundred shilling coin. I didn’t have change, but I doubt I would have given her more than 1000 anyway.

I picked the coin and handed it to the girl. But to my surprise, the girl stared back at me in shock. Not the OMG-thank-you kind, but the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me kind of shock. I could swear that little bitch even rolled her eyes before she walked away without saying a word . Leaving my hand stretched out of the window with my 500sh coin.

Someone help me rationalise this; I know 500sh is little money that can’t even buy a bottle of water. But when did beggars get so much discretion? What if I was to support her by buying one finger of bogoya in the first place, how much was she planning to sell it to me?

28 Shades of Indecisive; #28

Damon drove an old vintage Mercedes. It’s imperative that I put this here first so you know that I peg a man’s car to his personality. Yes. Am shallow like that. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way; you know how they say the shoes you wear make a first impression about you? It’s presumptuous. Absolute hogwash. Because what if am having an off day from work, was home chilling in my sandals then got an urgent call to drop off a document at a fancy office then I run into you? What if my shoes are too high and so I slip on my sandals just to dash across the street to make copies? What if my shoe snapped and I had to leave it at the cobbler’s and hobble around in the worn ones he loaned me? What if I just have really bad taste in shoes? The variables are numerous. Pegging shoes to one’s personality is just like pegging one’s car to their personality. It’s baseless. But we do it. So I prefer cars because so far, I’ve not been wrong.

Anyway Damon’s was a vintage Mercedes Benz. Those ones with archaic plates like UBC 411. The first night he picked me up, it chortled and wheezed the entire ride to our destination and promptly died on arrival. Damon called his mechanic to resuscitate it while we walked in for dinner. He liked to talk with his mouth full. I had to constantly keep leaning back to dodge the hailstorm raining from his mouth whenever he spoke. But I was polite.

After that night, I did not see him again for a while but we kept in touch. One night he called to tell me about this party we had to go to. I figured it was better plot compared to channel surfing. He was at my door 15 minutes later and we wheezed away to the party in his Vinty. Maybe it was the beer goggles, but that night he was absolutely perfect. Very funny, got all my puns and didn’t even eat! He draped his arm over my shoulders and I didn’t object when it settled lower around my waist. He felt nice and smelt even nicer so I kept inching closer to nestle my face on his Oh! so broad chest. As the night progressed, inhibitions dropped and I was soon reeling him in for a kiss. Bad. He kissed like a rottweiler. It’s beside the point that a rottweiler will slobber all over your face indiscriminately and Damon only slobbered all over my lower face; he got me wet. And not the nice kind. Almost sobered me up, the amount of spit I must have imbibed. That should have been the first indicator but I was pleased just not to have any food on my face. I avoided hugging anyone else at the party in case they smelt spit all over my face. His arm was relegated from my waist to holding my hand. There would be no more slob..er.. kissing, but the alcohol had made me as horny as a Shaw’s Jird, so I didn’t object when he took me back to his place.

Very. Bad. Idea.

Reaching his apartment, clothes dropped faster than I can remember before I flopped on his couch. Spreading my legs, he went down on me and my eyes slid shut in anticipation. His inner rottweiler must have kicked in again because the next thing I felt before pushing him off, was teeth, teeth and more teeth. It was like the man had 80 teeth. Horrible would be a mild description. Later in my life, this would be the moment that made me picky about the guys I let blow me.

But like Joan of Arc, I marched on. After all I’d endured, the least he could do was get me off. He wheezed, chortled through it and promptly collapsed exactly 6 thrusts later. No mechanic could resuscitate this one. I stole out of there the minute his breathing got even. As I walked past Vinty, I committed that darn car to memory. Whenever I see a vintage Mercedes benz these days, my vagina cringes on reflex.

Written by Morticia; A pseudonym chosen by a wimpy friend who couldn’t let me post these chronicles under her true identity; for obvious reasons I guess.

I am taking this beef to my grave…

10846336_10152564222112496_4780261664382416393_nI came across this photo and it was a poignant reminder of my most dreadful childhood memories. Beyond the man in the photo, I saw my P.5 mathematics teacher who I’ll call Opit in this piece, a dark lanky grump who epitomized my early definition of terror and a perpetual guest star in my nightmares. I was 9, in arguably the best primary school at the time. Not only in the village, but the entire Ntenjeru County, and it happened to be right opposite our home. Established in 1958 as a single sex school, it later changed to become a mixed school in the 80s but the nuns who headed it selfishly deiced that the school name would stay as Kayunga Girls Primary School; a decision that was clearly inconsiderate to all the boys who would forever be condemned to have a  P.L.E certificate stained with a girl’s school name on it (Like my eldest brother).

Sorry, I digress.

I wasn’t a stupid child, but math and I didn’t really gel the time, and I want to blame it on the teacher. Master Opit was an abysmal teacher and, apparently, a terrible husband who wasn’t taking good care of his family business. We may have been young, but half the school had heard the rumor of when the S.S.T teacher—who also doubled as the music teacher—was allegedly caught doing “totito” with Opit’s wife in the music room. Thinking of it now, this may have been the source, or a big contributing factor to this man’s bitterness, this man hated the pupils so much you would think he didn’t have children of his own.

Math was always the worst done subject in class, and Master Opit was determined to teach it the only way he knew how; ‘from the bottom up’ and no one was safe, not even the best performing pupil if they didn’t score 100%.The general rule was; everyone would receive a number of strokes inversely proportionate to their percentage score. This meant if you were so unfortunate as to score 83% in his exam, you would receive 17 lashings of his cane. On other hand, those of us who scored 17% pleaded with our parents to change schools, but to no avail.

Going one number at a time, Master Opit tortured us systematically. It didn’t matter if we revised the paper over a week’s period or more, but for every number he finished, he called those who failed it to the front of the class for their spanking in all positions imaginable. Lying down, hands against the wall, feet raised against the wall, or touching your toes. When that got boring for him, he would ask us to stand on our tables, then he would move around the classroom canning our calves, or simply ask us to stretch out your hands and he went for the palms.

During the weeks of tribulation, half the class had visible blisters on their legs and palms, but the school administration didn’t care anymore than my own mother who took me and my brother to Master Opit’s wife–who happened to be the science teacher–for coaching. My butt hurt so much I occasionally had to balance on my hipbones interchangeably like a kid planning to stealthily loosen his sphincter muscles for relief in class.

In my third term, before my mother finally decided to transfer us to an even worse boarding school, I remember kneeling before the statue of the Virgin Mary, like my mother taught me how to, and making a simple and yet earnest prayer; “Hail Mary Mother of God, please double my math marks in these coming Mukono District Examination Board Exams and save me from getting a 9.” The Virgin never disappointed, I scored 80s and 90s in all the other subjects, and a whopping 30% in mathematics, that pass 8 was all I needed.

Even as I grew older, I made a promise to myself that I would never forgive Opit for traumatizing my childhood. To this day, I occasionally meet him whenever I go back to the village, he hasn’t aged a bit, and still looks as mean as he did 17 years ago. On my university graduation, I specifically asked my mother not to invite him for my party. I am not sure he noticed, or even cared, but whenever he rides his motorcycle past home and I catch him glancing in my direction, I return a stern look that snarls, “I remember what you did to me *ucker, and I am taking this beef to my grave.”

The Gang Of Petty Thieves In My neighbourhood

For the past 10 months I’ve lived here, Kulambiro has generally been a safe neighborhood, save for one problem; this gang of village bandits who can’t be touched by the law. Led by a black eerie female member we’ve come to call Cyclops because of her not-so-attractive left eye; they prowl house to house rummaging through dumpsters for food, leaving behind a wreckage in their wake.

It doesn’t help much that the rear side of the house block is not very spacious, so the farthest you can place your rubbish is on the veranda right behind the backdoor to your house, tied up in those big black polybags. But should you have anything fishy or meaty in there, then Cyclopes and her criminal gang will rip that shit up and expose your diet to the whole neighborhood, along with whatever you may have tried to conceal in there. A while ago, a visitor to a neighbor (it could only have been a visitor) was so naive as to wrap her used sanitary pads along with the rubbish, oblivious to Cyclopes’ taste for blood.

Perhaps more annoying than Cyclopes is her boyfriend, Scrawny; the professional burglar who has a preference for self served food. Forget your kitchen window open and you’ll be sure to catch Scrawny limping out with milky whiskers and a few broken glasses on the kitchen floor.

Last Sunday, Cyclopes redefined “kamanyiro”. While cleaning up, the neighbor on the right stumbled upon Cyclopes breastfeeding her litter under her fridge. The mother having fled through the window, my neighbor wrapped up Cyclopes’ younglings and dragged them out of the house, soliciting for ideas from us, the other two neighbors, on how to deal with the predicament.

The consensus was that they can’t be left to live, not in our neighborhood at least. And going by the looks of their mother, you can’t even think of fobbing them off on your worst enemy for adoption. They had to die, the disagreement was on the how.

My neighbor on the left suggested that they be thrown in the pit latrine, but these bastards are known to have more than 8 lives, the thought of losing sleep for a week because these little bastards decided to lose a life a day didn’t sit well with me so I suggested a quicker death.

“You could wrap them in a kaveera and throw it in the middle of the road on your way to work.” I suggested. “Anyone driving by can squish them and that will give them a quick and painless death. Better yet, their blood would be on the driver, not you; so win-win.” I paused with a bingo smug on my face. But in that moment, everyone’s faced dropped and they looked at me like I was a Mukiga from Rukungiri.

Realizing my suggestion was met with more abhorrence than enthusiasm, I decided to excuse myself and let the neighborhood intervention proceed without my input. I later learnt that the kittens were dumped in a neighboring bush. If they survive the cold, they will grow up to join the infamous gang that won’t let us aerate our homes.