WAR IS PEACE. FREEDOM IS SLAVERY. IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH: Welcome to 1984

So I started re-reading Nineteen Eighty Four last night. I don’t think it will take that many guesses to figure out why.

I was around thirteen the first time I read it. I was into everything science fiction back then. I remember The Matrix had just put a dent in the universe with its techno-punk kung-fu coolness, Star Wars had just returned to the shores of American pop culture with a not so big, over CGI’ed bang (though to a thirteen year old the pod race scene and its corresponding Nintendo 64 video game were pretty cool) and I had just finished all 720 pages of book three of Tad Williams’ virtual reality opus Otherland.

I was a voracious reader back then, still am for the most part and this is mostly in part to my mother who ever I since I was kid made it a point to take me to a local public library once a week and once we moved backed to Uganda regular trips to Aristoc book shop.

It was on such a visit to a library that the kind librarian;  a rotund Caucasian man with feathery hair graying on the sides and half moon glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose who had keenly sniffed out my love for sci-fi held out a blue covered first edition of George Orwell’s masterpiece. As he proffered it he told me it was the very copy he read when he was my age. I took it from him and turned it over in my hands. I opened the back cover and peeked at George Orwell’s black and white jacket picture. I looked up at the librarian.

“What’s it about?” I asked him in typical youngster fashion.

He smiled.  “Well if I told you, you wouldn’t have to read it now, would you?”

He had a point. I flipped it over in my hands once again. It didn’t look very interesting though.

“Are you sure I’ll like it?” I asked him, still a little skeptical.

“You’ll love it.” He assured me. And so I took it.

And he was right. More than right, I read it three times in one week. It changed my life. The world that Orwell so vividly created; one that was permeated by fear, hate and violence shook me so hard, even at that age, that it had me combing the TV programs, magazines and newspapers I came across for any signs of newspeak for weeks. I constantly racked my own cranium for any signs of double thought for months.

I began spontaneously spouting quotes from the book and started pointing out congruencies between the world around me and the world found in the book. I’m pretty sure I had my mother worried there for a little bit. But of course, as the effects of all such thought provoking works of art must, the effects eventually wore off.

I’ve read the book as well as others like it several more times in the intervening years and every time I’ve read it it’s shaken me out of my apathy, even if for just a little bit. I don’t know what I would do if I had to live in a constant state of righteous anger. I honestly don’t know how people who do possibly do it. In any case, I think the current political atmosphere warrants a little righteous anger. But instead of taking to the streets and walking to electoral commission I will do what I do best, tap away at my keyboard. Who knows, I just might have a Nineteen Eighty Four or a Brave New World in me after all.

#UGBlogWeek Day 3: In Honor of Track No. 3 on Forest Hills Drive

I didn’t start having sex until pretty late. While kids were doing bad manners in class rooms during sports time and after evening prep I was buried neck deep in a copy of Lord of the Rings. Or The Godfather. Or Dune. Or The Stand. It wasn’t that I didn’t like girls (I did); it’s just that I liked books more. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy their company though, because I did. I was quite comfortable around them too. It’s just that I never really learned how to successfully cross the border from the federation of friends to the country of heavy petting and beyond. In other words, I friend zoned myself.

It wasn’t until the wasteland that stretched between senior six and my first failed attempt at university that it finally happened. Those were hot days mostly filled with old R-rated movies that I couldn’t watch as a kid at a nearby video library and hanging out with some of the other guys from the neighborhood who would come around. Most of these guys were either university students on holiday or unemployed graduates still living at home hoping that something would turn up soon. I was the youngest amongst this brood of aimless young men by at least a couple of years.

We would talk trash, drink beer and on the weekends sometimes go out. These were the days of Mateo’s, Alzawadi and Steak Out; Sean Kingston, Brick & Lace and Flo Rida.

On one particular Saturday three of us pooled the little money that we had (I won’t name check anyone but I’m pretty sure at least one of you will read this and remember the night I’m talking about) and decided to check out Steak Out. We got there, found it dull and crossed over to Cheese Bar, some new joint next door.

The place was packed the way only a Kampala hang out can be and playing music that was way too loud. Not that it mattered, back then I thought the disregard for personal space, a set of ringing ears and having to shout at the top of your lungs to make simple conversation was a worthy price to pay for fun.

We bought a round drinks and after not too long found a group of girls to dance with us. The idea was to dance with them and then when it was time to leave, to leave without them. Or in case they left first, to let them. And they did leave first. Only thing was, when they did, one of them decided to stay. Yep, the one who was dancing with me. At first this didn’t pose itself as a problem, she lived in nearby in Wandegeya and so when it was time to leave she would just go home and so would we. And so my two friends watched as me and this girl who had gone rogue danced some more, drank some more and made out in some dark corner of the bar. And then, when it was finally time to leave, she left with us.

She didn’t stop in Wandegaya. Instead she boarded a taxi with us to Ntinda.

While one of my friends was saying I should totally go for it, the other was trying to convince me it was not a good idea. I didn’t know this chick. What if she had something? Use your head man; do you think the first time she is doing this? It’s not worth it man. And he was totally right, I knew he was, I told him he was but the devil on my other shoulder just wouldn’t quit. He told me his brother was out of town and he was crashing at his place, I could crash there too. He knew for a fact that his brother had a box of condoms under his bed, so I wouldn’t have to worry about that. He was 100% OK with sleeping on the couch. Come on, the chick had come this far hadn’t she? What was wrong with crossing the finish line with her? In fact, it would be wrong of me not to cross the finish line with her. I found myself nodding along to everything this friend of mine was saying. He made a very convincing argument.

When our taxi reached the end of the line we got out and stood at Ntinda trading center. My friend against the whole idea was going towards Kiwatule while other friend was heading towards Minister’s Village.

One guess which direction I went.

#UGBlogWeek Day 2: The Presidents Nightmares Are Made Of

I went to sleep at a quarter to twelve and woke up almost four hours later, screaming. My heart was ricocheting around my rib cage and my throat felt like someone tried to drown me in a pool full of sand. I was slick with sweat and my wife was up and peering down at me, asking me what was wrong. Was I OK? She seemed like she wanted to touch me but didn’t know if that was a good idea. “You were screaming and fighting in your sleep.” She told me. “Was it a bad dream?” I nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?” I didn’t but I didn’t tell her that. Instead I gently pushed her aside and sat up. “I need some water.” I stood up, teetered a bit and stretched my arm out, planting my palm flat against the wall to steady myself. After a moment I found my equilibrium, found my slippers and shuffled out of the room.

Three cold glasses of water and I still wanted more. I had to stave myself though, I was no longer drinking because I was thirsty or even hot but because I was trying to wash away the details of my dream, with little success. And so I opened up my lap top and began to type:

He was lying on a steel autopsy table a few yards in front of me. From what I could see he was naked except for a white sheet that covered him from ankle to sternum.  He wasn’t moving, he wasn’t even breathing but my hand still instinctively moved to the holster on my right hip. I didn’t draw but knowing my weapon was there was still reassuring.

I slowly closed the distance between me and the table. It was him alright; I would recognize that face anywhere; Yoweri Kaguta Museveni, the President of Uganda. For someone who had been in power for close to sixty years he looked awfully young. His skin was not only unlined but had a synthetic, rubbery look to it. Taking a deep breath I took a finger and ventured a stab at a cheek. It felt like skin but there was something off about it. I leaned in, examined the face that I knew couldn’t possibly be real. I poked at his nose and when there was no reaction I pulled at it- still nothing. And then, on a hunch I’ll never be able to explain, I grabbed his left ear and tugged at it like I was turning a page. At first there was a little resistance but then suddenly his ear came off, the rest of his face along with it.

It took a moment to process but I was staring down at a skull of gleaming metal, a ghoulish grin of human teeth aimed up at the ceiling. Another moment and I remembered that I was holding this things face by its ear and letting out a small scream I chucked it clear across the room. I turned so I could put some ground between myself and whatever this thing was when a cold hand grabbed me by the wrist and pulled. Turning back I reached for my holster and drew my weapon. I---

“Hey, what are you doing?” I looked up from the screen of my lap top; my wife was standing in the doorway in one of my boxers and a vest. She looked concerned. “Nothing.” I told her. “Then come to bed.” I didn’t move. “Now.” Without thinking about it a second more I closed the lap top and went to bed.

DAY 1: Trying and Mostly Failing to Beat my Brain into Submission

NB: This is a work of fiction. I think. What does that mean? Huh?

Valentine’s Day is for cows. I’ve always thought that and I still do. One might think that since I’m married now that would change but I just pulled out one of my wife’s earphones and asked her if she’s sure she doesn’t want to do anything and she looked at me and was like, “If you wanted a woman who cared about that kind of shit you should have married someone else.” Needless to say, I married the right woman.

She’s listening to Majid Jordan right now. I got their album a couple of days ago and she’s been going crazy over them; humming a melody here, singing a loose couplet there. She even took to her Time Line to knock out a couple of 140’s- hashtagKingCity, hashtagTorontoSwag. I can’t even front though, it’s a good album. The 90’s R&B lushness of “Love Is Always There” is what I’ve got on repeat; she’s more into the Weeknd-esque falsetto and deep house synths of “King City”. We both love the heavy 808’s and bounce of “Warm” though.

So I’ve been thinking about it and maybe I should do something special anyway, you know? Join the herd. Even if just this once. But If I’m going to do that then I need to snap on a pair of horns and get a MOOOOOOOOVE on. She deserves it, right? It would earn me some husband points at the very least.

I scratch at my beard. Why I have a beard in this heat is beyond me. It’s just easier not to shave I guess. I’ve been growing my hobo-hiding-in-a-hovel-beard. I haven’t shaved since the wedding and I’m totally OK with that. I’ve barely left the house since then either. Writing for a living makes that pretty easy. I take a walk in the evenings sometimes but that’s not very often. I saw something the other day that made me laugh, “Beards are the new six-pack.” I really hope that’s true because I really need to go to the gym.

Believe it or not but there was a time when people would ask me whether I played rugby. That was a long time ago though. Another time, another me. I don’t really play a sport, unless FIFA on PS3 counts. But then I don’t really play video games anymore either. I really liked fighting games when I did though (“FINISH HIM!!!!”), stealth games like Metal Gear Solid too sometimes but the mayhem and carnage of Grand Theft Auto was my absolute favorite. Screw the missions. What’s the ALL WEAPONS cheat so I can get that kitana, lop people’s heads off and steal all of their money?

Wait a sec, I’m supposed to be writing about Love and Elections aren’t I? I’ve tried, I really have but my brain, it’s messing with me. It’s just decided to pull down its pants and take a hot, smelly deuce right here on my keyboard. How about I try again tomorrow? Deal?

And oh, Happy Valentine’s Day. Cows.