Urban Knights
Night falls and the bright lights of the city come on. The city takes on a new kind of life. Zoom in to the various nightspots, crammed with all sorts of nocturnal activities. In the more popular watering holes are a bevy of beauties, some so beautiful that they could make grown men cry. They undulate about, each trying to attract the most attention. The men, single and otherwise, follow them discreetly with their eyes, or so they think until a frown from a partner or a grin from a friend catches them out.
In walks in Tom, Dick and Harry and they immediately become the centre of attention of the bevy of beauties. Tom is a gregarious fellow and immediately sets about spending on his new found date. Dick is a rather stingy sort but for the chance to score big with the ladies will spend vast amounts of cash. Besides, he secretly competed with Tom; he resented the fact that everything seemed to come to Tom far more smoothly than him. Harry was a combination of Tom and Dick but a little more laid back.
One of the beauties demanded for a drink. With an appraising glance Harry wanted to know why. Taken aback she gave some lame response about it being her right as a woman. Harry didn’t even bother to respond to her line of logic and proceeded to order two drinks then made is way to a colleague he knew was willing to buy her own drinks. He wondered who the bigger riffraff was, the one who couldn’t see that he was being taken for a ride, the one who was willingly taken for a ride, or the one doing the riding.
Showing posts with label Food For Thought Series. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Food For Thought Series. Show all posts
Tuesday, 10 April 2007
Wednesday, 14 March 2007
Food For Thought
Crazy Head
He strutted into a bar liked he owned it. It was the sort of joint that was typical of areas of Kampala that never went to sleep, loud, rude and always spoiling for some drama. With a cocky grin he leered at curvaceous young woman who ignored him. He scowled at her, his sense of self offended. Just then, a whole posse of his friends acknowledged him noisily. His face lit up, his ego once again reinstated. The other patrons sighed in distress; it looked like it was going to be another crazy night.
Diggy Man was the local bad boy who prided himself in his lyrical flow and his sense of invincibility. With a cocky swagger, he joined his friends and proceeded to make a nuisance of himself. Although his friends minded a great deal, they let his bad behaviour ride; he was buying the drinks after all.
As the drinks flowed, so did Diggy Man’s bad manners. He abused everyone in sight on his way to the back of the bar for a blow of weed. He bumped into a patron and shouted, “Bamba clat!” The patron scurried away as he did not want to get into a fight with the obviously stoned Diggy Man.
Diggy Man was spoiling for a fight. His friends sensing this coaxed him onto the miniature stage at one end of the bar. The DJ immediately played a favourite track and Diggy Man went into one of the smoothest freestyle flows this side of the hemisphere and the crow was loving it. A few performances later, Diggy Man left the stage basking in the adulation.
Back at his table, the curvaceous lady that had ignored him earlier was now all over him like a bad rash. Her boyfriend wasn’t liking it and got quiet vociferous about it. The boyfriend was advised to let it go but he wasn’t impressed by Diggy Man’s bad boy reputation and proceeded to pummel him. Diggy Man didn’t stand a chance.
Humiliated, he took his frustration home and proceeded to break the windows of the house, much to his mother’s frustration.. His brother got out the house and with a few choice slaps sent him to his room to lick his wounds. Crazy doesn’t always pay.
He strutted into a bar liked he owned it. It was the sort of joint that was typical of areas of Kampala that never went to sleep, loud, rude and always spoiling for some drama. With a cocky grin he leered at curvaceous young woman who ignored him. He scowled at her, his sense of self offended. Just then, a whole posse of his friends acknowledged him noisily. His face lit up, his ego once again reinstated. The other patrons sighed in distress; it looked like it was going to be another crazy night.
Diggy Man was the local bad boy who prided himself in his lyrical flow and his sense of invincibility. With a cocky swagger, he joined his friends and proceeded to make a nuisance of himself. Although his friends minded a great deal, they let his bad behaviour ride; he was buying the drinks after all.
As the drinks flowed, so did Diggy Man’s bad manners. He abused everyone in sight on his way to the back of the bar for a blow of weed. He bumped into a patron and shouted, “Bamba clat!” The patron scurried away as he did not want to get into a fight with the obviously stoned Diggy Man.
Diggy Man was spoiling for a fight. His friends sensing this coaxed him onto the miniature stage at one end of the bar. The DJ immediately played a favourite track and Diggy Man went into one of the smoothest freestyle flows this side of the hemisphere and the crow was loving it. A few performances later, Diggy Man left the stage basking in the adulation.
Back at his table, the curvaceous lady that had ignored him earlier was now all over him like a bad rash. Her boyfriend wasn’t liking it and got quiet vociferous about it. The boyfriend was advised to let it go but he wasn’t impressed by Diggy Man’s bad boy reputation and proceeded to pummel him. Diggy Man didn’t stand a chance.
Humiliated, he took his frustration home and proceeded to break the windows of the house, much to his mother’s frustration.. His brother got out the house and with a few choice slaps sent him to his room to lick his wounds. Crazy doesn’t always pay.
Sunday, 18 February 2007
Food For Thought
Wannabe
He strutted down the street with an air of invincibility, him against the world. A pretty young girl undulated past him; he winked at her and turned to watch her retreating backside with an admiring chuckle. The word ‘attractive’ would have come to mind had his brain been able to process it, so instead he settled for a much cruder variant. With another chuckle he put his hands in the pockets of an oversized pair of jeans that were hanging precariously on his hips and continued on his way, him against the world.
His parents had named him John but he called himself Jonnie Boy, a name he found absolutely cool. Jonnie Boy walked to his and his friends’ latest hangout. Upon arrival his friends greeted him in the latest slang that only they seem to understand. Slang words were the norm but they couldn’t string together a constructive sentence in any language…well, other than the one they created.
They caused a bit of a ruckus, irritating many shoppers with their loud talk of girls, what they would like to do to and with them, the latest cars, movies, songs…you know how the story goes, loud obnoxious teens that sneer at or even insult anyone who dares attempt to chastise them.
The Posse, as Jonnie Boy and his friends called themselves, moved on to another popular haunt and then another, thus spending their day without a single constructive enterprise, spending relatively large amounts of money that they’d managed to wheedle out of their parents. They lived their lives for the entertainment industry in all its forms. They could name all the famous names and rattle off their statistics but had no clue what a Bunsen burner was.
Reading a sensible book was too much of a strain so they settled for the tabloids. Half the time they were the ones in these tabloids…sex on the beach, at a street bash, in a parking lot…they were like rabbits, sex anywhere, at anytime. And these children are our future?
He strutted down the street with an air of invincibility, him against the world. A pretty young girl undulated past him; he winked at her and turned to watch her retreating backside with an admiring chuckle. The word ‘attractive’ would have come to mind had his brain been able to process it, so instead he settled for a much cruder variant. With another chuckle he put his hands in the pockets of an oversized pair of jeans that were hanging precariously on his hips and continued on his way, him against the world.
His parents had named him John but he called himself Jonnie Boy, a name he found absolutely cool. Jonnie Boy walked to his and his friends’ latest hangout. Upon arrival his friends greeted him in the latest slang that only they seem to understand. Slang words were the norm but they couldn’t string together a constructive sentence in any language…well, other than the one they created.
They caused a bit of a ruckus, irritating many shoppers with their loud talk of girls, what they would like to do to and with them, the latest cars, movies, songs…you know how the story goes, loud obnoxious teens that sneer at or even insult anyone who dares attempt to chastise them.
The Posse, as Jonnie Boy and his friends called themselves, moved on to another popular haunt and then another, thus spending their day without a single constructive enterprise, spending relatively large amounts of money that they’d managed to wheedle out of their parents. They lived their lives for the entertainment industry in all its forms. They could name all the famous names and rattle off their statistics but had no clue what a Bunsen burner was.
Reading a sensible book was too much of a strain so they settled for the tabloids. Half the time they were the ones in these tabloids…sex on the beach, at a street bash, in a parking lot…they were like rabbits, sex anywhere, at anytime. And these children are our future?
Tuesday, 13 February 2007
Food For Thought
The Local Pop Star
With a cocky swagger he strode onto the stage and shook his shoulder length dreadlocks at the multitude of demented fans. His self-satisfied grin increased the noise decibels, much to his satisfaction. Slowly, he lifted the microphone to his lips and shouted, "Gyemuli?" The screamed response, "Yee!" broadened the grin on his face to a point an observer would be afraid that his face would be split into two. He turned to the DJ and asked for track five on the CD he had given him to play. As the music pumped out of the powerful speakers with ear-splitting intensity, he broke out into a lyrical flow that was reminiscent of the Jamaican patois...well not quite, but he liked to believe it was the real McCoy.
The mass of bodies began to sway to the rhythm of the beat and wave their hands in the air as heads nodded in appreciation. This act invigorated the performer to new heights, his antics got daring as he jumped on speakers and waved his hands like a demented marionette, next throwing himself into the audience and almost having his clothes ripped off his body by a multitude of hands. He was saved by four kanyamas (bodyguards), much to his relief, but his adrenaline kept pumping through his veins like an illegal substance, sending him on a high. His performance climaxed to a dynamic crescendo that had his audience screaming for more. With a series of pelvic thrusts and uncoordinated gyrations, he brought his act to an end.
His name was Rasta Beenie Banton (or some such name), thee leading local pop star...or at least he liked to think that he was. His life was one performance after another, one party or another, one sexual encounter after another, one fight after another...you know the story. Oh, and in between he remembered to eat and sleep occasionally. Plagiarism was not unheard of when it came to him and a few others in his line of work. Wannabes worshiped him and tried to join his camp of performers; they also imitated his penchant for gaudy designer wear and elaborate jewellery in a poor attempt at looking like a 'gangsta'.
Rasta Beenie Banton also had an ego the size of Lake Victoria. When contracted to perform at a given function, he would swear to the high heavens that he would be there on time. but would appear hours later only to perform half the agreed number of songs (mostly in medley form) and wonder why he was being sued.
The man was incapable of keeping time or a commitment unless it suited him. He wasn't always like this...small time fame went to his head!
With a cocky swagger he strode onto the stage and shook his shoulder length dreadlocks at the multitude of demented fans. His self-satisfied grin increased the noise decibels, much to his satisfaction. Slowly, he lifted the microphone to his lips and shouted, "Gyemuli?" The screamed response, "Yee!" broadened the grin on his face to a point an observer would be afraid that his face would be split into two. He turned to the DJ and asked for track five on the CD he had given him to play. As the music pumped out of the powerful speakers with ear-splitting intensity, he broke out into a lyrical flow that was reminiscent of the Jamaican patois...well not quite, but he liked to believe it was the real McCoy.
The mass of bodies began to sway to the rhythm of the beat and wave their hands in the air as heads nodded in appreciation. This act invigorated the performer to new heights, his antics got daring as he jumped on speakers and waved his hands like a demented marionette, next throwing himself into the audience and almost having his clothes ripped off his body by a multitude of hands. He was saved by four kanyamas (bodyguards), much to his relief, but his adrenaline kept pumping through his veins like an illegal substance, sending him on a high. His performance climaxed to a dynamic crescendo that had his audience screaming for more. With a series of pelvic thrusts and uncoordinated gyrations, he brought his act to an end.
His name was Rasta Beenie Banton (or some such name), thee leading local pop star...or at least he liked to think that he was. His life was one performance after another, one party or another, one sexual encounter after another, one fight after another...you know the story. Oh, and in between he remembered to eat and sleep occasionally. Plagiarism was not unheard of when it came to him and a few others in his line of work. Wannabes worshiped him and tried to join his camp of performers; they also imitated his penchant for gaudy designer wear and elaborate jewellery in a poor attempt at looking like a 'gangsta'.
Rasta Beenie Banton also had an ego the size of Lake Victoria. When contracted to perform at a given function, he would swear to the high heavens that he would be there on time. but would appear hours later only to perform half the agreed number of songs (mostly in medley form) and wonder why he was being sued.
The man was incapable of keeping time or a commitment unless it suited him. He wasn't always like this...small time fame went to his head!
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