Sleek and Wild

Bujagalati times: The massacre that came in late

// June 8th, 2010 // 2 Comments » // Beef: Digging in...

I’m hungry. I’m very very hungry. Give me anything, onions even, I’ll eat them. Garlic even. Scatch that, no garlic. Been scanning the area for a restaurant…anything, it’s that bad. I’m desperate now…and then I see something. It looks like the kind of place with fairly slow waiters…but fairly slow’ll have to do…for now at least. (grumble grumble)..Stomach’s starting to protest rather loudly…hold on baby, steel yourself for some broth that’ll probably make you even grumpier.

I step in and he runs over like a puppy set loose. Good sign, attentive waiters. ‘Bujagalati rhymes’…I read his name tag. Odd name…or maybe that’s today’s special soup. With a name like that, the soup is probably bad. It probably went bad soon as the chef quit doing his left palm, cleaned himself off and decided to call it that…only chefs who do their left palms can call soup that. And let’s not even get started on those that do their right ones…

‘Is that your name?’ I volunteer.

His eyes roll unsteadily in their sockets as he considers his answer…I could almost picture the whole process; ear gets sound waves, they fight their way through the wax and somehow hit the ear drum. The ear drum barely flinches, taut from years of exposure to hardcore lingala…the kind that pygmies in remote Congo make babies to. The ear drum grudgingly passes the message on, and the responsible jimmies pick it up. They run through walls of goo, to the brain. Panting, they pass on the message. And then the brain says, ‘Pardon?’. Three odd minutes later, Bujagalati responds to brain and says ‘Pardon?’ And I consider repeating the statement but I picture the spent ear drum and let it be. I place my order and he skips off, relieved to be away from a coherent being.

Time ticks.

5 minutes…he has finally reached the head waiter and passed on my order.

10 minutes…he has mentally undressed female customer 4 times. You can tell how many times by following his gaze and observing the excited quivering of his palm.

12 minutes…Buja,BJ if you may, has managed to spill soup on 3 customers, 2 females 1 male.

13 minutes…’Hey, I’m starving here. Where’s my order?’ He picks himself up, drags himself over to the counter, fumbles with something there, turns round and walks over. He then hands me glass of hard liquor. I can almost see the passed-out guy who last used this glass. He won’t be awake for the next three days or so. But seriously, dude, who ordered for hard liquor?

Bazzed

// December 4th, 2009 // 16 Comments » // Beef: Digging in...

There I was chilling. We ought to start more posts like that. The imagery depends on who is writing the statement…some illustration if I may.

Carsozy: There I was chilling…

In blog-reader’s mind: Carsozy seated in a dingy, make-shift bar that will collapse if anyone coughs too loud…Carsozy sucking from a straw, out of a malwa pot, making merry, cracking jokes with all the other malwa-takers…occasionally turning down advances from Salai, the malwa-serving lady…

(PS: Malwa, for you upscale people who don’t know Carsozy, malwa is local brew made out of…ahh, who cares. It is local brew, period.)

Erique: There I was chilling…

IBRM: Erique, playing video games in which with every win, a certain damsel is relieved of an article of clothing…

Lulu: There I was chilling…

IBRM: Lulu, watching movies with a strange setting and poor acting with the volume turned down low lest aroused neighbors knock at the door and ask to borrow the movie immediately…

Streetsider: There I was chilling…

IBRM: Narcotics, legal and illegal…but mostly illegal…but what does the law know about nirvana?

Sleek: There I was chilling…

IBRM: Sleek, at the beach, surrounded by a bevy of reporters asking for freebies…him fending them off, insisting that his gold chain isn’t for sale, fighting off the rowdy reporter who keeps reaching for his drink.

So, there I was chilling, skiing through blogville, looking at what the wild, wicked and the tame, timid were up to. I was wandering past granpa’s place, the Godfather, when I saw some scribbling that seemed like my name up there, on his wall. I leaned in and was shocked, the Godfather had writ about me. So I leaned even closer to read what he had to say. The tirade of accusations jumped off the wall and grabbed me. This guy, he has strong words.

So, Baz, earnestly accused me of impersonating him. Me? Me? Looking at the mountain of accusations being thrown my way, let me say this to the crowd baying for my blood.  ”Calm down. Calm down. Hear me out. I did not impersonate Baz”. Ok, I did. Once. Just for just. Not many times. I am not skilled at these impersonating things. Erique is. He has been impersonating class and sophistication all this time. And hi-fiving with Streetsider. And hiding the trio’s make-up so that they can get acne and go into hiding.

So after I impersonated, Baz tried to impersonate me. He wrote a comment pretending to be me. But his poor grammar gave him away, and the world started to ask questions…wagwan with the Godfather? If while impersonating Sleek, Baz has poor grammar yet he uses bombastic words at his own blog, who writes for him? Is there a ploy that has us duped? Is there a Nabweteme doing all his typing? Is the Godfather a sham? We need answers…we, the inhabitants of blogville, we wanna know wagwan…

Monday Massacres: Music Massacres

// October 5th, 2009 // 8 Comments » // Beef: Digging in...

This beef-ridden stuff is brought to you by butcher Nas, a.k.a beefmaster.

I, Nas, I support beef. Jay-Z and I, we have never made out. Never. We diss each other till the fat lady sings. Or his hot lady for that matter. I was born and raised in niggerdom and there, we diss. We ride(sic) and get blown.(even more sic). Check out what ma nigga gotta say. Pice.

##############################

With all the pretenders around, it is next to impossible to stick in this here rap game. Yes, even when you have a janitor turned MC throwing jabs at your rap style. A guy from the street spit some stuff about me here. Trying to diss me. Over-reaching his limit. Stretching his imagination. Hurting all his brain cells. Interrupting the steamy make-out session his brain cells were involved in.

Hold up, lemme put this brew down….there.

Yes, hurting his brain cells by stepping up to the Numero Uno. I had since taken time off from rap-beating him, coz this has been a one-way ass-whooping for a while. I felt that if I kept up, my actions would have far-reaching effects on his mental state. Weak as his orgy-loving brain cells are right now, more rap-beating woulda turned them into whores, selling themselves to anything on fours. The guy from the street somehow always gathered his tattered shit up after a whopping and threw some more weak crap my way. Chiquitta, pass me that hood, I feel like giving this crowd some action…

Chiquitta: But Papi, we hadn’t gotten round to round six yet…

Hard-core nigger rapper with street cred worth two movies: No worries, this rap beating’ll only be a minute…

Chiquitta: Papi, me twin Niquitta say she want to come to you too…

Aforementioned nigger: Did she make an appointment? She’ll have to book you know…let me hit the stage first.

(bright lights..blazed crowd, high on illegal leaves and legal fermented fruits…bigass stage, speakers high up to heaven)

(Fixticks, world-renown DJ in the mix…drops heavy dance hall beat, works the crowd, sets them up for an assault of awesomeness)

Creepy streetguy,

Why do bees sting people even when they know they are gonna die,

Your 15 seconds of fame are here,

MTV doing a show on dim-wits, they should be there,

15 seconds, 14 seconds,

Longer than you last and you can’t do seconds,

Puberty hit you hard, poor goner,

It left you with a permanent boner,

I know I know I should have more empathy,

For you for you some sympathy,

Life as you, really stressing,

Ima send you your anti-depressants,

Don’t take them all in one go,

They’ll only make bald you even balder for sho,

When you wake up in that pool of used rubbers,

No one was in that room, just you, that porn and your blubber,

When your brain cells are done making-out maybe you’ll come to my show,

No, I’m not talking fast, you just listen slow…

Gag on this

// June 25th, 2009 // 14 Comments » // Beef: Digging in...

My afternoon reverie was interrupted by hot hot vixen with a foreign accent. No, Erique, yours isn’t a foreign accent. I’m not saying it’s a local accent, I am just saying it isn’t foreign.

HOT HOT VIXEN: Papi Sleek, have you been to sidestreeter?

EVEN HOTTER SLEEK: You mean Streetsider? No, I usually prefer to read stuff that won’t kill my brain cells. Why?

HOT HOT VIXEN: I was there. Papi, he be feasing on you.

EVEN HOTTER SLEEK: You mean he is dissing me. No problem, I’ll deal with him…now come here…

(And I proceed to give her lessons…in English. She’s a retired mode from Puerto Rica, trying to make a living doing OMO commercials.)

Later that day, on stage in front of a mammoth crowd, having finished performing ‘I love you Grandma’, I decide to throw some freestyle for the Streetsider. Btw, weaksider took a stab at me here. Click it.

(DJ scratching…groovy African beat)

Streetsider the doctor was so shocked,

when you first dropped,

He slapped your face, not your butt,

You are really outta your depth,

Life acting telenovella’s wasn’t paying enough,

So you took to chilling with your right hand and ‘being happy’,

Did you pee in your trousers again?,

Don’t come out without your diapers man,

It’s like you are 11 month’s pregnant, your stuff’s past due,

Crazy thing is you don’t have a clue,

We ain’t laughing witchu, we laughing at you,

antidisestablishmentarianism, Floccinaucinihilipilification, a map of Bundibudgyo and three onions tattooed on it?

Well if that’s what gets ‘it’ up then by all means,

Hang onto your wig buddy,

They may come back in fashion,

We gave you the whispers,

And your mind drew blanks,

So you worked yourself into a ‘right-hand frenzy’,

Word has it Nakku writes the posts,

And she was tired of the streets so she quit,

She said that when you applied for the ugly contest they told you ‘NO Professionals’.

Getting served

// June 3rd, 2009 // 20 Comments » // Beef: Digging in...

The gauntlet was dropped and I had to pick it up. Sleek is above this stuff, or so he keeps telling himself; I, Wild, had to come in and do the thing. Streetsider issued a challenge (read started something he can’t win) when he started this rap battle. He picked up the mic, got onto stage and in front of a whole two-strong audience, he let it rip. Yes, he passed air. (euuugh!). Then he started rhyming about me. His sleek-hating message somehow got to me. Oh, his message is here. I never pass off a challenge; save for that one time a heavily biceped HER asked if we could arm wrestle. I hit my ‘confuse them’ button and did just that till they were laughing so hard that I slipped away unnoticed. There’s no telling what havoc that HER was capable of doing to my arm. Now streetsider, eat this:

(raggaeton, kadongokamu mix in the background)

(I throw my hood back, step onto stage, wink at the screaming gals at the front; wink at ALL of them, a wink per gal. This takes a while. I sip from that glass of water they leave for us on stage…I get the mic)

(raggaeton, kadongokamu mix now throbbing in sync with my heartbeat)

Streetsider, the scrawny,

Slurred speech, once brainy,

Now the definition of intellectual constipation,

Man, you are still out on probation,

Don’t leave rehab yet, you need it,

And when will you stop bed-wetting,

Skip the grillz, skip the two-kg chains, skip the accent man,

Skip the weed, and the pink shoes dude,

You started this and went into hiding,

I’ll lure you out with a banana and give you a hiding,

Stop stutt-tutta-tutta-tuttering,

Quit blabbering,

Me rhyming to lingala?,

Heck, you are lingala,

You’ve been making ‘em beats since you could sit,

Showing ‘em kids in kindergarten how to do the kwasa kwasa,

And groping the teacher when you was two,

With hormones raging that early, what else could you do,

If we gave you enough time you’d still not get any game

Nakku changed her number six times and got a disguise

(Streetsider’s voice…kyokka Nakku, do you have a mirror in your pocket? Because I can see myself in your pants)

Enraged cow injures farmer with axe

// June 1st, 2009 // 15 Comments » // Beef: Digging in...

I have seen wars people…(taps lightly on his cigar, inhales the gross smoke deeply..)..I have seen wars…(coughs from the smoke, tosses the cigar)…I know that dude-who-should-be-shot-on-sight in the North has been terrorizing this country for way too long…I know Israel and Palestine have some stuff that’s too intarekcho for me to dig into…I know that the shortest war on record took place in 1896 when Zanzibar surrendered to Britain after 38 minutes. I googled the longest war: it was the so-called 100-years war between Britain and France. It actually lasted 116 years, ending in 1453…(Blogger audience, awestruck: People actually have time to know this stuff…amazing. )

I have even been in wars…(rolls up sleeves to show off scars accumulated in the skirmishes)…there’s this one scar I won’t show you though, the kids may see it. There’s this particular war that has me biting my nails and waiting for the next development. This is a feeling I haven’t had since I was in primary 3 and the teacher was rattling off questions about different multiplications and randomly pointing out the next victim to fail and get punished…9×2 and then they point at you and you suddenly remember that your young bladder can’t really hold piss that long…and you also remember that crush Beverly, with those nice nice dimples and nice shoes (that scored points then, I’m told it still does…Streetsider, drop the slippers look). Crush Beverly, she is looking at you…she, like the rest of the class, prolly doesn’t know the answer but she’ll snigger when you fail and get down for some…no, not that some…its Primary 3, honestly! In our days some was unheard of till university.

So, back to this war…the scene was perfect; as with all proper wars, there has to be a bush. No, I mean the vegetation. I won’t be making any stale cracks about presidents, so Bush, I know you’ve read this far; breath easy. I’ll drop in one about your Dad though; trust me, you’ll laugh. And why haven’t you replied my Facebook friend request? No, I’m not Farooq…anyway, this isn’t the forum for this.

Back to that war; there’s a bush and there are two combatants. This war is above petty things like who has bigger things, who owns what, who is cooler, who has better dreadlocks, who had better supper, who has more game…you know, the stuff almost all wars are made of. I’ll be the first to say that that last thing isn’t petty; who has more game is really a non-petty issue. At the helm of this country, the current guy and the burly one who chased people out, who has more game? I know, it has bugged you too. The burly one had swagger, the current one has…you know, things. Anyway, I’ll hold that poll another day.

Back to the combatants; There were always these smoldering undertones between them-you know, they gave each other that look.

Round One: HERPOP accuses HISRIQUE of having an affair with an ‘internet babe’. She says “… has been cavorting with a hot internet chic only identified as D…” She goes on to urge us to keep our eyes open for more juicy revelations. The schadenfreude in us won’t allow us to sympathize with him…we are excited. We want more. We’ve heard the stories about him; about how he once slapped a pig and it died, about how he once went for Mr. Kampala but pulled out after making it to the top three, about how he has no neck, about how he spends full weekends watching Bruce Lee movies (to learn a few moves…). Yes, we’ve heard about him. We also know that he has, on occasion, shown considerable skill in ‘blowing’ an opponent. Take that statement in any way you like.

Round two: HISRIQUE strikes back. He spews out years of pent-up frustrations/anger/not-getting-enough/why-were-you-at-the-neighbors-for-too-long/…the works. He says HERPOP planned and executed round one from a loo. He gives us all the imagery…and leaves some to the imagination. He, however, doesn’t go all the way; like a boxer using only one hand. We wonder why…

Round three: HERPOP publishes photos showing HISRIQUE excited in all these different positions, doing different things with different people at different angles…you get the drift..(wink wink). Going by the photos published, one immediately smells the ‘woman scorned’ perfume. The photos also show the internet babe. She has one of those toothless smiles…

Round four: I scramble for a front seat, hitting the Emry’s tooth out…sorry dude, get a fake. We all watch anxiously. The excitement is palpable. The hi-fives are too many. The popcorn is being passed around. Daredevil, why are you wearing shades in here? Anyway, we wait for the round to begin. The combatants are supposed to start their thing at 2. Its 2:15. Then its 3. Now its 4. We decide to watch ‘Last American hero’ as we wait. The long-awaited fighters waltz on at 6. Just when the movie star has killed half the village. Damn! We turn our eyes, bloodshot from all the shots we’ve been taking and the weed Streetsider’s been handing out, to the fighters.

HISRIQUE: (commenting at HERPOP’s)Aaaaaaaawwwwwwwww!!!!Come here you! Okay, enough already.

HERPOP: (referring to HISRIQUE in her post ) and good ol HISRIQUE looking every bit the mean person he truly is. Nuh, on the real tho, that angelic smile he wears makes you almost want to be friends with him.

Unknown vigilante from Uganda joins the war.

UGGAL: hmmmmm….whats this i am hearing…. HISRIQUE …………………!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! have you dumped me…and i am finding out about it on blogger …or are you add someone else on me….me i am not taking this three people in the relationship actually not three four…You, blog,the supposed new babe…and myself…i want out…unless……………..!!!

HISRIQUE: (noticing things getting outta hand, attempting to reign things in) Yay! That’s 4. UG, you’re still my only.

And the war rages on. If you ask me (I know none of you has asked me…but just work with me here)…where was I? Yes, if you ask me, I think the combatants aren’t fighting. I think they is some kind of incest/blogcest (a word coined by HISRIQUE, prolly after analyzing his situation) going on here. But that’s just me. By the way, I also noticed that the title and the post weren’t related. Internet bandwidth issues.