With so many people hooked on the World Cup, then all our social media junkies pissed off by Museveni’s gossip tax, and my very self distracted like an idiot by the racket-wielding gladiators clashing on the grass patches at Wimbledon, I have an excellent excuse to be soft-soft.
So, President Museveni’s vampires are fairly safe, and my old friends, God’s charlatans, are even safer from the mischief my pen sometimes confuses with affection.
The President can think about his cows, especially since his two-legged citizens are steadily becoming imbongable. And the pastors can rap to chase people’s demons and rap again to summon the Holy Spirit.
If these were normal times, I could have written about this little warrior called Betty Nambooze.
Physically, Ms Nambooze has nothing for the battlefield. She has metal things in her back. One solid delivery from kick-boxer Moses Golola would promptly dispatch her to a very small plot in the family graveyard.
However, there is something she does. I cannot put a finger on how exactly she does it, but she does it. Every time the NRM regime deploys its brawn and engages the frail Mukono Municipality MP in a confrontation, you despise the regime some more.
Again, in normal times, I could have written the sixth or seventh article on these four-wheeled iron frogs that Makerere University engineering lecturers and students were constructing as ‘prototypes’ for electric cars and buses that would soon be running off Ugandan production lines; the most hyped contraption being the Kiira-EV. The wondrous ingenuity, the great industrial times and job opportunities to come!
As a dedicated basher of the Kiira-EV production-line fantasy, looking at the President of the republic, his famous vision intact, and his 80-strong Cabinet and 100-plus fat presidential advisors in place, not to mention the Uganda Investment Authority experts, I always wondered how all these people permitted a bunch of undernourished university chaps to trap them in an April Fools’ Day joke that lasted so many years instead of the standard 12 hours. They now have an exhibition of rogue ‘prototypes’ that testify less to technical excellence than stand as icons of an African government’s ignorance.
How I rejoiced when I read in the June 30 Saturday Monitor that some of the billions pumped into the project had been diverted or stolen!
The story of 100 acres of Jinja public land donated to the project could be even more interesting some time down the road.
Yes, let academics also plunder something from where other vampires drink.
But I am getting carried away. I pledged my charity of heart. And having mentioned Wimbledon, why not tap into the inspiration of Boris Becker?
Once upon a time a phenomenal tennis player, the German star is now broke. His millions have evaporated. Joining the tribe of church mice?
No. Herr Becker (or his handlers) invented this cute idea of becoming a Central African Republic envoy in Luxembourg. Not Germany.
His race notwithstanding, Herr Becker is now in effect qualified to be an African.
Just think; millions of Africans in desperate straits are dying to go and do menial work in Europe, and a desperate German star is wriggling for an African diplomatic vent through which he can be redeemed.
Why don’t we strike a deal? We agree to send all desperate jobless Africans to work in Europe, and all bankrupt Europeans become honorary Africans to serve Africa as leaders and diplomats.
Rendered criminally unattractive by her current leaders, the swap could kick-start Africa’s transformation.