What you need to know:
- Frustration: To my utter frustration, they went to a place with three other wazungu belles and two guys who aped the Jamaican lifestyle. One of the women was definitely the wife of the grainy-haired miner-cum-life-eater and there was no sticky wicket around either. All I could get offended with was the stench of weed permeating the air.
First, the cue: I spent the whole of last week asking around for a pass for Nyege Nyege Festival but a pig would have laid an egg before one secured a pass by any other name. Every door I knocked at was tightly shut, like a vault in a cemetery.
But attend Nyege I did, my own way. After Kibalya painted such a vivid picture of steamy raw sex orgy being the staple at Nyege, why would a normal man stay away?
I arrived at the venue with no ticket but in the company of a young man called Kasadha from Nawampanda village in Butagaya Sub-county. This guy simply walked me through thickets and before long I was inside the Nyege venue proper.
Here, I saw a young man and a girl holding hands like they were re-enacting the lives of Prince Harry and Meghan. “Now this is it,” I told myself as I followed them through a maze of people. After snaking around and around, they just got somewhere and sat down in a group. I idled around thinking this was just a prelude to the kind of sex orgy Opendi had witnessed but nothing was happening.
Then I saw two men. A White man with grainy hair like he had worked in dingy mines all his life and now comes to eat life at Nyege Nyege. His companion was a Black guy in tight-fitting denim and what looked like a blouse than a tee.
“Now there, this has to be it,” I whistled to myself as I tracked them down believing they were up for a “sticky wicket.” Now, I cannot start explaining what a sticky wicket is so I will leave that to your imagination.
The grainy-haired miner-cum-life-eater and his tight-fitting-jean companion walked on, the latter shifting between what was obviously WhatsApp chat and voice call from time to time. Then he raised his phone over his head as if to signal to someone that “here I’m, do you see the raised hand holding a phone?”
Soon a girl in a racy-lacy outfit showed up. Smiles, hugs and pecks followed and the grainy-haired miner-cum-life-eater walked away with these two. Again, I followed thinking that perhaps they were destined for what Opendi witnessed and that this time the racy-lacy girl would be enduring both the miner-cum-life-eater and the tight jean guy in what MPs stopped short of calling a three-some.
To my utter frustration, they went to a place with three other wazungu belles and two guys who aped the Jamaican lifestyle. One of the women was definitely the wife of the grainy-haired miner-cum-life-eater and there was no sticky wicket around either. All I could get offended with was the stench of weed permeating the air.
The five or so seconds I spent around these guys was enough to make me dizzy from the weed they puffed. I staggered out from their vicinity and recomposed myself where a plus-size woman was twerking with the gusto of an overworked crankshaft in a 1982 Land Rover Catawiki towing a dead Benz.
Here again, two tooth-pick-sized men with jeans sagging so low their flower-patterned boxer playing the role of the trouser were outdoing themselves in bottles of waragi and weed.
I decided the time wasn’t right. I wished I had Opendi’s or Kibalya’s contacts to find out the right time and spots to get these sex orgy confirmation.
Then I saw some two men walking past. I was very convinced this time that they were the sticky wicket candidates. I was about to follow them when someone grabbed my hand from behind. I turned 360 degrees only to face a very beautiful muzungu lady. She had this very slim cigarette sticking from between her slightly pursed lips.
She said something that I vaguely heard as lighter. I have never smoked and the last time I carried kibiriti on me was… She moved closer and I saw her cleavage and her body smelled like Fax Apple soap. I started to apologise to Kibalya and Opendi as my eyes took in more of the cleavage.
There was a tap on my cheeks. Binder, my last born, jabbed a remote control at me. “Cartoon,” he announced.
The clock read 3pm, and I was not at Itanda but on a couch in Mpumudde. Dreams!
This is a parody column