Wednesday, March 23, 2016

The Return of Bad Black - Season II

There is just something about Bad Black. Two weeks ago, she shimmied out of Luzira Prison, devoid of any inkling that she had spent the last two years in incarceration, but had merely been on a night out on the town and was sauntering home.


Except, Bad Black didn’t go home. After a long Luzira stint, the norm, is to head straight home to a sumptuous meal that mother made, a long soak in the bath and to delve into crisp bedsheets for a good and proper sleep with Luther Vandross or Diana Ross soothing away in the background.

Instead, Black hit Silk Liquid - an establishment in Village Mall, Bugolobi, that launched while she was away to hold a press conference (below). She knew exactly where it was because whilst in the prison bus to and from Luzira to court, it would often get snarled up in the traffic jam outside the mall. In that jam, rather than feel sorry for herself, she tilted her head, peered through the iron bars lashed across the windows, to get a look at her ‘on being released’ stomping ground.


She wore a green dress and 'Goliath' heels with not a trace of yellow – why would she have worn yellow seeing it’s all she wore for two years? And if she was surprised by the media circus surrounding her release, she didn’t show it, because she expected it. She is Bad Black after all.

Bad Black to the Ugandan scraping a living on the poverty line, is a goddess. Somebody to be revered, to be talked about and tagged a ‘Robin Hood’ of sorts who stole from the rich though she didn’t give to the poor but kept it all for her and her lover man. That didn’t bother them. What did, is that her incarceration is just proof that the justice system does not work. There is one law for Government Official who gets away with GAVI funds and another, for Bad Black who represents the downtrodden.

While she may have reinvented herself with a new ‘mustard look’ that suggests some form of bleaching, it’s not the end of her. Her release is merely: Return of Bad Black – Season II.

We all accept that she’s not the brightest woman there is in Uganda – academically at least, but she is a hustler and a good hustler or rather hussy, who managed to hustle $3m from her English lover.

Hussies like Bad Black, don’t just go to Luzira without a Plan B or Plan C and two years in Luzira is but a small price to pay for a $3m pay cheque – is it not?

In Return of Bad Black – Season II, I expect her to sit back and watch which of her ‘friends’ slithers out of the gutters claiming to have been there for her through thick and thin. Like the scene out of the movie, The Godfather II where, Michael Corleone makes ‘peace and embraces the heads of the five families’, Black too, will embrace her friends with her left arm, while holding acid and a meat cleaver in her right.

It’s time for not only for payback, but to clean shop and to punish those who were disloyal or spoke to the media or took advantage of her time in incarceration.


New allegiances will be formed. Former sworn enemies like Judith Heard (above) and Zari (below) will be brought into the ‘fold’. She will also encase herself in a ring of Bad Black Bad-etts – die hard girls of her ilk from her hussy Rock Bar days and who will do just about anything to make sure that the title to Bad Back - Season III does not read: The Return to Luzira



Pictures: New Vision, Daily Monitor and Bukedde

The BMW, Overheating and Sudocream

When it comes to rides, Angela Merkel will tell us how Germany is top of the world with its Mercedes Benz’s, Audi’s and BMW’s. But, as if...

I was off to Gulu at a time when I owned a 318i series BMW which, had never left Kampala or even been to Wandegeya or Ntinda for pork but, between office in Industrial Area and home in Munyonyo.


It had recently been serviced, but as a precaution, at a Bwaise service station, I did a pit stop to err on the side of caution.

The 318i, in the drive to Bombo, had enough revs and horsepower under its hood to literally snap the string on the G-string of any woman who was wearing one, and who was standing at the roadside as I drove past. It was that fast.

But past Bombo, German reliability came into question with the temperature needle (far right in picture below) nowhere to be seen. Looking again, it had shot up alarmingly past the red box that indicates overheating.


Cooling down a 318i radiator is not as simple as it is on a Toyota. The radiator needs to be bled of all air pockets otherwise, it simply heats up again.

The process took two hours. Am back on the road, but half-an-hour later there is more overheating. More bleeding is done, but this time, I swung Kanzu Old Man 5k for the family jerry can to carry reserve water with me. Of course, there is no need to guess what happened 45 minutes later – is there?


318i eventually limped me into Gulu and to a function that was at a close which left enough time to show face, have a Coke, find Mechanic and return to Kampala.

Gulu Mechanic unconvincingly assured me he had 318i experience and he swung me a hefty bill for the unconvincing work he had done, and gave the usual unconvincing mechanic assurances of how I need not worry.

I took him at his word but an hour into the journey and WTF – overheating! Not once, not twice, not three times, but five times.

In a fit of frus, at 11:00pm, I abandoned the car by a roadside homestead and waited for public transport. No matter how many cars I tried to flag down, they all whizzed past with its occupants on the same thought – oyo mubbi (he’s a thief).

Transportation did arrive - an overloaded charcoal laden Fuso truck whose driver swings me two options. Up on the back with the charcoal and Turnboy, he won’t charge, but in the cabin, its 20k. We negotiate down to 15k only to find I don’t have a real seat, but a ‘seat’ on the gear box.


Anybody who has been in the cabin of a Fuso will tell you how hot it gets. They will also tell you that the gear box is hotter than a sigiri boilingkigere and if you sat on it, it will burn.

Truth be told, it didn’t burn me. It roasted my butt good and proper. There was a searing heat in between my butt cheeks almost like I was being probed with a hot cattle rod. Worse, Driver and his two companions in the cabin were on a high from chewing khaat, smoking ganja and swigging an alcoholic beverage that smelt and tasted like kerosene from a five liter jerry can. By the time they dropped me off in Wandegeya well past 2:00am, I too was high as a kite.

For the next three days, I rubbed Sudocrem on my butt and walked with clenched butt cheeks and a feeling of still having a searing hot cattle rod up inside me.

318i was sold shortly afterwards.