A splash and a dash


I am a busy man. A very busy man. I don’t have time for malarkey, codswallop, or any of the many varieties of nonsense others in the media are constantly getting up to. I am a busy man. Silina budde bwakuwankawanka, to put it succinctly. I should translate that Luganda phrase for the benefits of readers in Burundi, but there might be kids reading and wankawanka sounds like it could turn out to mean something filthy.

A few minutes ago I was struck by thirst. I decided to slake that shit with a Splash. (Buy Uganda, Buy Quality). So I leapt up off my desk (I am very agile for my age) and sprinted out of the office (my age is 44, thank you for asking). Up the staircase I ran, down the corridors I flew, through the alleyway I rocketed, past Vision Voice Radio and out of the door I torpedoed, headed with conviction and single-mindedness of a guided missile to the container that sits hideously outside our beautiful new office building. There are no canteen facilities in our office building because it is beautiful. Too beautiful for our administration to permit any chance of rats and roaches.

NOt her

I got to the container, handed the rude woman there a five k note, and said, “Give me Splash, you balding witch!” With her, I have learnt to practice pre-emptive rudeness. She gave me my change and I jetted back to my desk at similar speed and following a trajectory similar to the one exhaustively described already. Only when I got back to my desk I could not find the Splash anywhere. I thought to myself, “Mr Bazanye, you have finally lost it.”
The Splash, not my mind. This mind is so big it cannot be misplaced. I could honestly not remember.
I was about to get all my colleagues to stand up and empty their pockets. There was going to be some fracas in this office, I swear, until sanity (other peoples’ sanity) prevailed and someone suggested I go back to the rude woman. I had to eventually walk back, at more sober and sedate pace this time, to the container to get the Splash I had bought and left lying on the counter. The rude woman snorted at me as she handed it over.

If there is a point to this whole story, I hope you find it soon.

By Ernest Bazanye <<The writer “shovels coal for Satan”, sometimes,
he also writes funny stuff and likes Guinness >>


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