Danes, Dreads Dryers, Et Cetera.

Mood: Bored
[Toot!] Index: 7.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course


If you weren't at the Bloggers' Happy Hour, a curse on you.
[asdsa;sons35fllsdflQ!! An0823#sdasdatyu0a56^%ak!!] That's a Nigerian voodoo chant I learnt in some Nigerian movie. I just threw right 'pon ya head. If you weren't at the BHH. Kubanga how could you miss, nga even Baz, perennial, serial dodger, was there?

We had a blast. Of course, it could have been better for me. There were cameras to make sure I had a constant thread of piss running down my leg. I'm not camera-shy. That's for people who piss once, then get brave. Not people like me, who piss constantly, then black out if it takes longer than thirty minutes.
I've already been reported as present by Jackfruity, in that post about my argument of indifference (and even distant support) for the shooting of 33 people in that American college. And there's Pastor Martin Ssempa in the comments, for those of you who are interested.
By the way, I am so [toot!]in' pissed about the article (among others) that Cheri blogged about, that called that shooting the worst gun massacre in American history. Oh, Jah. Let's all rise and thank the Native Americans for that dramatic mass suicide that erased them.
God bless America^*.

By de way, I was at CB's radio show, last Tuesday. I had a blast trying not to melt in the studio. And it was such fun, because CB has a very easy-going way with stuff, so I only pissed one small, yellow litre of urine. Nothing more. He is relaxing, so to speak. He even blogged about it.
Mbu my hair is a bit like Wole Soyinka's. Hahahahaha. You know you're in trouble when that is, in fact, a compliment. Anyway, CB has quite a show, guys. I mean, how many of you can boast that? And it is about something that we are all passionate about, so we all would like to have a show about writing. CB got there before us. A salute.
And he played SAGE's music, which has some interestingly novel beat philosophy, very different from the crap Chameleone will feed you on. Although it was a bit heavy on the clichéd topics you find in just about every Christian rap song from hereabouts, down to the phrases. But, in the total, it is a refreshing burst of fresh, fresh air. Grab one. It's better than a Chameleone CD, in any case.

Also, I have spent long, starting with the Tuesday omen, with the Danes. I may even have gotten white - can't know, I don't own a mirror. I mean, they invaded our offices on Friday. With cameras. Lots of piss flowed, you know. Lots. Bright yellow stuff. Yellow enough to make Museveni throw a thumb up.

On changes and hair ... [brace thineselves ...]
Cheri and Baz, you can't call me Huey no more. I and I got me a set of dreadlocks!
I am a dreadhead. C'est officiel, j'ai trouvé des dreads dans mes cheveaux!
I had to do some sinfully capitalist stuff to get them. I paid 40,000/= at a high-end salon, Sparkles Salon at Garden City, and I even sat down under a bloody dryer! I cried. Why do chics torment themselves? Some little kid even said `Mummy, why is that big man crying? [Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle.]' [Run off, stooped wee over-grown zygote!] And I was worried some comrade may walk by and see me and go tell the revolution mbu not only did I desert, I also became a transvestite.
Anyway, the ordeal is heavy. Can't recount. The pain is too raw, too real in memory. I just ... [sob, sob, sob].
I'm sorry. Lemme compose myself first. Sniff, sniff.
Ah. Okay. I have 20cm of dread. I have been growing it for a year. Still greasy and waxy and all. Will take time to set and lock. On my way from GC, some guy (stranger) handed me a blunt of ganja, on seeing my dreads. Wow. I turned it down, but that's better than being a member of some self-righteous club of selfish [toot!]ers. Being a dreadhead, I mean. Nice welcome, no?
The heat of the dryer! How do women sit in there and even manage to read? The memory ... [sob, sob, sob]

^* If that's your kind of thing, you can see how the remaining Native Americans felt about the such statements.

Fire-Fighter, President, Guerilla, Poor Ol' Guy, Et Cetera

Mood: Awe-struck
[Toot!] Index: 0.0001
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course


So I sat there, in my seat next to the driver, squirming as the poor guy tried to raise his voice over those of the hecklers. A crowd of hecklers versus one man. Thank God he had a microphone, plus a good number of supporters in the crowds.

I spent most of Saturday afternoon in one taxi or the other. And you know what happens on Saturday afternoons. Everyone runs to a kimeeza to voice his/her angered opinion. Those who can't pull that off will run over to the next radio and get caught in the ecstasy of hearing some angered opinion. One of the most-popular of these weekend rant zones is CBS' Mambo Baado.
And you would think that if there is a platform that gets colonised by people who proclaim their desire to have you exiled, you would avoid it. Not some guy. Museveni, as in.

He was trying to quell heat over Mabira and the like. And he chose to go where the fire was. To a kimeeza. I could have cried. But I realised that nobody, of all those against his plot, had heard his side of the story. I wonder how we can call it democracy when only one side gets heard. And we yap about freedom of speech/expression, yet it is severely lacking among us. I mean, do we practice what we preach? Did we give the guy a fair hearing, before we condemned him? Guilty or not, he deserves that, at least. Let's not be possessed by the demon we are exorcising.

So, the guerilla was on the front-line, microphone in sweaty hands (I imagine). And the heckles were coming in clearly enough for me to be squirming in my seat with every `Agende! Twakoowa!'.
The poor guy tried to raise his voice over those of the hecklers. A crowd of hecklers versus one man. Thank God he had a microphone, plus a good number of supporters in the crowds.

(See my comment here.)

Screenshot of My Desktop

Mood: Empty soul
[Toot!] Index: 7.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course


This will be slightly geeky. Not a lot, just a bit, in the middle. And never again. Ever. I just want to show you some picture. Click for bigger image.
First, Lady has summarised the story I linked to in my last post. Her summary is as a comment there, and it is a very lucid one. 18 points and a complaint. Read that, at least.

Also, here is a screenshot of my desktop. Notice the transparent terminal windows, as though I am typing on air. That is a desktop environment commonly-used on Linux. It is called XFCE.
My background is a mural of You-Know-Who, which I modified in the GIMP to make it easier on the eyes. Shot taken in Brazil, I think. Got off the net.
My taskbar is up there. At the bottom, a quick panel, with the clock. There are four terminal sessions open: one is a text-only web-browser, surfing this blog (upper right). The other has GHC running interactive (lower right). They are all transparent. The one in the middle is me editing some text. (In Vim! Now you know my side!) The bottom-left one is an IRC session on #haskell. Many PDFs to read, there. I'm lazy!
That's how bland my days are. I need to get a life! At least I have a desktop I am proud to show off. I had the picture of some cute chic there, before, but I changed PCs, and it went with the old one. :´o(



Also, I saw a drunken, staggering lady, today in the morning. People, my heart cried. I had never seen anything as desperately desperate. It will take me a long time to forget it. Two days before, I had seen one who was dirty and all, from a fall in the mud, no shoes, dirty hair, and it seemed she was just recovering from a black-out, but I wasn't as shocked as I was, today.
I don't know if I am a sub-conscious misogynist, but I think it is more-excusable for guys. We love kicks. Even dangerous kicks like those. But a lady ... there are so many dangers lurking out there for a chic who has affected decision-making or, Jah forbid, who has lost consciousness! Them boda-boda guys politicians won't wrap you up delicately like the rest of us would. They are horrid, indescribable perverts!

Rantdom Thurogitts 1.8

Mood: Morphing, starving, wishing yesterday could happen again
Frig Index: 0.00000001
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course

Things to write 'bout.

Okay. 'Tis official. The next BHH is upon us. 26th of April, 2006 2007. Jeeve it up for that boy. He's such a talented artist.
And our Jackfruity is back from out the undead. Yay!

While at it, I might as well tell you one of my Top Three lists. My favourite locksmen?

1. Dedan Kimathi.
   Know what? If you ever lead so much as a shouting match against the Brit empire and all them other downpressors, you are hot. Cool. Maybe not good, but surely cool.
   
   
2. 
   Bob Marley.
   Whenever there is anything to say about Bob, it is better said in his own words. But whenever there is anything to say about the world, it is best said in Bob's own words.
   ``But someone will 'ave to pay for the innocent blood that they shed everyday. O, children mark my word. It's what the Bible say (sic).'' — Bob Marley (We and Dem)
   


3. 
   I and I.
   Yep. Gon' spin a dreadlock. But it seems everyone is tired of hearing me promise, by now. Thing is, I should be out getting it spun, right now, but I am here before my PC. These things happen. I'll just stop promising, and then, someday ...
   

(Kimathi image sourced from http://www.troopsoutmovement.com/oliversarmychap6.htm—please read, or at least just skim through.)

Plus, I have found that my favourite (actually, formerly-favourite) word, frig, has some meanings that may not sit well with some people I use it around. So, I am dropping it. I used it for the sheer force of the suddenness it carried while leaping out from between my lips, spittle and froth following. But, now, it is persona-non-grata motto-non-grata. Don't mind the words here. Just suggest some equally-powerful-sounding words, please. I need one, you know. But we had fun, me and [toot!], while it lasted.

Also, while I talk of words ... CB, yesterday, noted that one thing that set Ugandan bloggers apart from the rest was the culture that had formed from their being tight-knit. Like new words that keep getting kicked up. `Blogren' is official! Well, almost. Check Google. As in, it's clearly our invention.

And ... Thank you, Baz, for being such a pal. You know how to keep promises. The revolution could do with more of you.

The Danes rock. Hard. Was at their crib, yesterday. They rock [toot!] hard. (Hey, what just happened to my word? Oh, [toot!] it. Whatever.)
I was saying, they rock. And for the snacks, drinks, et al, tiak. (Is that the spelling?)

In closing ... (Hang on; it's almost over! If you shake, it will only take longer!)
Is Robert Mugabe bad? In a word, no. The Brits have managed, through sustained propaganda, to convince us that we have a gorgon on our hands. Well, he is not good, in case I was putting your heart in harm's way. But that he is presiding over Zimbabwe's economic situation doesn't make him bad. The Great Depression was very similar to today's Zimbabwe. Yet nobody labeled the American president of the time (Roose-something) a bad guy. I wonder if anyone can stand up and honestly say George Bush is a better man than Robert Mugabe. Yet how many times has Bush been called everything Mugabe has been called? So, okay, Mugabe is only slightly better than Bush. How bad Mugabe is depends on you, because I leave the placement of Bush to you. Bush, by the way, is the guy of Iraq and Hurricane Katrina. And a million other deaths in Africa every [toot!]in' day.

Lastly, ... hehehe. :oD You thought the ordeal was going on, eh? Okay, lemme let you fly along, pretty little dove. (Shouting to the bird in the distance, through the barred window ...) `And don't get caught in the rain!' (With a longing Morgan-Freeman smile on his face, wrinkles running out of the corners of his eyes, spreading viciously into his face and as far down as the legs held down by shackles for the thirty-second year in a row, guiding the tears as they go.) `And tell the Free People to come and fight for our freedom!'

Ah, the beauty of pure randomness!

Frig Us All for the Riots

Mood: Angry at the god of rainfall and the god of sex, and Thor, the Danish (Nordic) god of war (?)
Frig Index: 10
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course

There are riots in Kampala. Over Mabira forest, and the planned give-away of part of it. Some guys want to mint money off an irreplacable phenomenon (commonly-called `Mabira Forest'), and others want it preserved. The guy supposed to buy part of that forest is a Ugandan for generations, but he is of Indian origin. So, South Asians have been the victims of you-wanna-disposess-us noise. And I have heard that two have been killed in the scuffles in the city. I hope that isn't true. Because, if it is, it shows the one thing I hate about democracy. (Hey, the Danes can find something to write about!)

Thing is, if you think Museveni is a sucker, would you do a better job? Do his critics understand that being a couch-proffesional, directing the country a foot away from your copy of the morning paper, and being a president are two different occupations? So, these buggers in the city, whose other battle cry is `Fuck Museveni!' are showing us how Aminist an asshole can get. At least Museveni isn't an Aminist asshole. So, the next time they say `Fuck Museveni', I'll cry. It is the worst thing when fools like those are allowed to talk at all, especially when saying Museveni has got this-and-that wrong.
The problem is not that they are being violent - I know the heat of the moment. People started out saying they are going to sit down in the forest and demonstrate peacefully. But adrenaline is contagious. It takes one idiota with more testosterone than logic (big balls, small brain), and the sane guy next to him starts barking, drooling, wagging, growing hair in weird places, and then the testosterone-logic balance is upset, much like a climate with too little trees and too many Americans, and then the guy next to our formerly-sane friend starts barking.
The problem is that those who had the power to put sanity in the debate have shut their beaks all along. You and I included.

Then an orgy of violence. Let's point some fingers, shall we? It's therapeutic:

1. Fuck the Monitor, for telling people a lie. Mabira is not going to be given away. But that's what everyone believes. Brainwashed muhfuckers. Only a relatively-small part of the edges is going to be reclaimed. If you ever go there, you will see why it should be given away. It hasn't seen a tree in decades. It is useless, right now. Not a forest.


2. Fuck the New Vision, for not counter-acting the Monitor's deliberate headline-noise. You muhfuckers, the New Vision people, are supposed to be a government propaganda tool! What the fuck do you think is your job? To take the opposition's side all the time, because you are scared of being called Museveni's lap-dogs by Joshua and Jackfruity? Do you think the government - any government - can achieve anything without the necessary propaganda? Don't be silly. It's not democracy when only one side is allowed to talk, you fools! (Baz is exempted, by the way.)


3. Fuck the Mehta family. If your family is one of the wealthiest in the whole friggin' world, why the frig can't you spare the land that made you and your fathers wealthy? Go buy out the friggin' Latinos! You can, after all! It's not the forest I'm talking about - I mean the pain of such noise. I hate naive protests, and you can stop it! Okay, you want the plantations nearer to your factories, right? Build a factory in Cuba.


4. Fuck the Opposition. Find a reason. If I start, I won't stop. A word of advice: never vote for those Pharisees. They think they are good and clever, but that's because they don't know what it means to be a president of more than just a congregation of vengeful politicians.


5. Fuck the Americans. We are going to put our environment on the pyre so we can develop, and then you Americans will cheat us, capitalist bastards, and we will stay poor, without even a sane environment. Was I going to close without hitting the Americans? :oD


6. Fuck the guys out in the riots. Plus those who actually meant it to be a peaceful sit-down protest. Fuck you for being naive muhfuckers. Them roads you drive on were once forestland, idiots! Things change, man! The world has to change. Forests must give way for urbanisation. You are attacking the leaves, instead of the roots. Go ahead and protest. But know that, be it today or tomorrow, a city has to sit on the Hills of the Impala. Oh, frig. That has already happened. Kampala has already replaced the royal hunting grounds of the 1800s! See? Just pray that we are smart about it. It is like puberty, this development: scary, hairy, worrying, fast-yet-gradual, and without the erotic dreams everyone promised you'd have.


7. Fuck Museveni. Yeah. Poor bugger's mind can't be read. Nobody seems to trust him. His own guys want him replaced. He feels he can still go on, despite. Typical Type A personality, like me. We can't know if he honestly wants the best for us (whether or not he is doing it right, I leave that to you) or he wants the best for himself. Sevo and I need to have a chat. Poor, poor bugger.


8. Fuck my beloved blogren, I and I included. Joshi, get me them Uzi-guns. We need to nukes some muhfuckers. And then we'll shoot ourselves next, because we should have figured out our own (more-logical) stand before today, so that we aren't counted with the idiots out there. Now we are part of them. Frig this. Frig us all.

Next BHH...

I'm @ Mateos, with the Danes, and the crew. Watch this space. The date
for the next Hour is comin' up.

Holy Loving Mary of the Most-Blessed Slums

Mood: Sleepless-yet-sleepy, homeless, hungry, angry.
Frig Index: 5
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course

I am stuck, at the moment. It is nearky 0100h. Tuesday, already. But I am at work, because I ain't got no place to go. Not as yet, anyway. I am not going to my shack today, for a number of reasons. And I have under 5,000/= on me, so no hosted sheltering. And, besides, everyone has closed up, already. Maybe I'll stick here.

Mary (just call her that) is a chic who lives in the same hell-hole as I do, these days. I keep a safe distance from Those People, because I am generally not a social animal. I am fiercely solitary. Anyway, so how the frig did I end up seated there, in the dust, with her, talking about what her husband would do if he found us? In the dust, outside the house, not in bed. Clear your mind—the Day of the Lord is near.

For some parents, when a daughter elopes, it is shameful. For her parents, it was worse than death. Rich muhfuckers from Entebbe, living where the nice winds blow, where the kittens feed on choice pieces. I mean, these buggers have every friggin' thing they want. They even have a farm house. Plus an army of helpers to keep the fruits dripping and cows watered. And the swimming pool fresh and sparkling.
Then their so-so-so-so-very-pretty daughter elopes. Why would she leave? Dunno, either. And why with the cow guy?

Like most people, I thought it was such a dark rumour, when I heard it for the first time. ``Y'all ain't numfin' but player-haters.'' Then I didn't see her for like half a year. And nobody spoke of her. Her parents acted normal. That's always a sign that things aren't normal.
Anyway, it soon came down to the basic facts. She ran away with the cow guy, leaving her S5-level education behind. I thought novels stay on the page! Slowly, we forgot about her.

Last week, I am fidgetting with my door. Some chic shuffles out of a near-by shack, to throw water out, the way only slum chics can. (Why do the slums have so much garbage and stuff to throw out? Where do they come from?)
I had heard some soothingly-beautiful music sometime that had actually woken me up. I though God was trying to talk to me (`Speak, Lord, your servant listens'). Then, after ten minutes on my knees, I noticed God would prefer a better stereo to play Tuku music. And I slept again. It had been Mary, but I couldn't have known. Now, here we were, looking at each other. I broke a smile for her, and she cut off a piece of hers for me, as well.

Her side of the story:

I had like everything I wanted, but nearly none of what I needed. Sure, a swimming pool is good. And I miss being able to know that there is food for me, no matter what. In the three years I have been away from home, I have tasted the extremes of this side. I ... you're writing? To do what? You became a newsman? Blog? What's a blog? [This coming from a chic who abandoned 24/7 internet for a shirtless manual-labourer?—ED] No, don't write. What is there to ... no, you write, I won't tell you. [I turned to the phone recorder, here. Not everything was recorded, since it would end at intervals of five minutes, and then it would be some time before I started recording again.—ED]

Yeah! He was scared! Kale he still thinks my Dad could have him jailed or like ... [chuckle]. I was eighteen when I left, so it is okay.

No, I actally got him into it. I hated it when he pretended I didn't exist. So, whenever we went to that other house, I'd get him. As in, to get him! To like ... tell him to go and clean the pool and then I go to the pool and we talk. Yeah, I got him, not the other way 'round.

Eh? No, I just ... liked him. He worked hard, he was quiet. I wanted to take care of him. The way he seemed to have many problems, and how he took care of the cows, he spoke low and slow, and the way everyone treated him badly ... I wanted to keep him.

[So you know how it started. We skip many juicy bits, because I lack space. Now, some neat excerpts.—ED]

The first time? That Easter at the ranch. In the boys' quarters. It wasn't real. He was very scared, so I did most of it. [Chuckle.] But that was the beginning. I was also scared.

No, he doesn't. Yeah, yeah, when they think you under-estimate them, they can be violent to like ... put you in your place. But I know his place and mine. If I can be so in love with a guy, it doesn't matter who he is. He is my Man. The love is the proof. [Nice line, no?—ED]

Hmm ... jobs are hard. Maybe a secretary or a primary teacher ... that stuff, you know. Plus, I wasn't dense. [Chuckle.] I can go back and get my papers. But the money is the prob. The only prob.

No, he can't cheat on me. No, he can't. He can't. Yeah, but he can't even if he drinks a lake of beer. He can't ... he is not every man. He can't cheat on me. [So, she actually believes her guy can't cheat on her. O, ye, of great faith!—ED]

Yeah. Oliver Mtukudzi is good. Yeah, great. Yeah! It was me! You like it? Neria? [Chuckle.] No, I am not like Neria. Me, I made a choice. Nobody deserves to live without love. And when I see that look on his face, when he is back, and I know that he loves me, that he is glad to see me, it is worth it. This is just a price I paid for my expensive life. The love I give and take is that expensive. I am spoilt kid! [Chuckle.]

If he found us? No. No, he knows I can't cheat. And he may even remember you. He once worked at the other house, so he may remember you.

Rantdom Thurogitts 1.7

Mood: Lovin' life, Thinking with half a leg.
Frig Index: 4.9
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course

First off, someone mention BHH 4.0! I am getting uncomfortable! Jackfruity? I swear, I am in the dark. And very, very worried.

Now, I am going to be bringing you the ... [drumroll, gwe Baz!] ... the Communist Review!
Well, I am glad you asked. `The only silly question is the one you don't ask.'<sup>*</sup>
It is this review, of just about anything, where I judge things by how well they stick to Communist values (as I hold them). A luxurious spa would score near-zero, while a homeless shelter would get `Highly, Highly Recommended'. It seems like upside-down of what you may want. But not always. For example, a woman who works the plough and has the physique of a fugitive would score high. What, you don't want to be mauled to death? I mean in sex. Of course not. She'd score negatives. Communist or not, we prefer a neat, blinking, powdered, well-packaged Inky-Cheri-Carlo-Dee amalgam. An alloy of obscene beauty, to put it mildly.

Also, now my boss will certainly hate me. I have spent a pretty unproductive day, and I wind up on his bandwidth, typing truths that are better left unsaid.

Is it true mbu there is a plan to start honking for some time after 5:30pm, everyday, as a (rather loud) reminder to the government that we don't want the forests touched? Museveni is such an unfortunate bugger. We are raised being taught how the environment is more important than old men, and then we grow up and buy cars. And use them on him. Hohohoho.

Then, earlier, I made some fiery comments about how Africa is portrayed in the West (and, as a result, in Africa). I said it was innacurate, because Africa is made of more than the stereotypical unfortunate sufferers and assholic politicians. My Mama is part of Africa. And she rocks! But Africa sucks 100%, on CNN.
Baz issued a rebuttal, a work of genius, right from the title. His point is that affluent Africa is so minute. In Physics that percentage is usually labelled `negligible'. So, we should pay attention to the big, big sore.
But he is wrong. We are the Invisible Children. Nobody knows we exist. I smelt light anger in the comments, mbu how can I be giving a frig about being visible, when the exposure, negative or not, could help things. Well, it doesn't help. It kills the Africans' psyche, and assures them, by the simple process of argumentum ad nauseum, that they are inferior semi-beasts. Never under-estimate the power of argumentum ad nauseum—we used it to create near-deistic personality cults around shivering alcoholics, in the Glory Days of the Beautiful Ideology, and to enlist un-questioning obedience and sub-servience to the powers we elected to be obeyed and worshipped. That's dangerous, especially when applied to/against a whole continent/race! It also brain-washes the West into thinking we are all assholes. We aren't all, mainly because the UG bloggers are in Africa, and so is my Mum.
Seeing the alpha-males and flawless goddesses that grace affluent Africa as the true picture of what Africa is, and the runny-nosed majority as the divergent dissidents<sup>**</sup> is step one to healing the wound. It's like when Comrade Deng Xiaoping said, in broke, starving China: `to get rich is honourable.' This requires a book, and I hate long posts. Just know that when your body is festering, look at (and show) the hair—it doesn't fall sick.
Sorry for such rants, by the way. I am so out of character, no? Do you still love me, blogren? Shite, you never loved me!

Joshua asked me, earlier, why I, along with other UG bloggers, seemed essentially oblivious of what had been that week's `biggest story' - the siege of the High Court, the one that sparked off worrying boycotts and strikes by the legal community.
I answered for myself. Lemme flesh out my point.
You see, Uganda is not one of them countries where bloggers are dissidents, telling the World what's happening behind the stone curtain. This is Uganda, where naïve idiots routinely take the President hostage in a letter to the editor, where I can say `Fuck Sevo!' and get wild cheers, where Besigye has to drum it into us that we are living in a repressive dictatorship (Amin needed no such help), and the papers are un-censored propaganda tools of the opposition. If any blogger knows anything, it is from the papers. And the papers are online, full content. So, our role is not to sneak government papers out. I see us as annals of Uganda's pop culture, since the history of the African youth who isn't wielding a gun has been completely neglected, yet it is the future of Africa! We are not going to have Mobutu again! Since about 10 years old, I have not been led by any leader (even the class monitor) who wasn't voted. The many times I ran into school law, I had the code read to me. The next generation of Uganda (and Africa, I want to assume) has grown up with more democracy and rule of law than clothes and deo. I won't let me be the tenth person to note that something bad happened in Kampala. I want to be the first to note that something good was born a generation ago.

To those of you who read to the orgasmic end of this post: a kiss and a hug. Long live the annal of normal Africa, long live the annal of future Africa, long live the I-hate-stereotypes African blogger, long live the Revolution, short live this friggin' headache.
Get well soon, Cheri. Please. Or my head will hurt incesstantly

* The maxim is stupid, but hey!
** Hehehe. Ah, the Communist fervour! :oD