The aftermath

Huh? What was that? You finished with that madness? thanks y'all for voting wisely. This country will forever be greatful for what you have done. You saved us from having to change the official presidential photo on the wall in the office. Now can you please move from my face so i can watch Digi on Channel 5? Please?

Its crunch time, peeps

Tomorrow, if everything goes as we pray it shall, we shall start a whole new chapter in this big book called Ugandan Life. We shall start over, probably with a new president at the helm and with new possibilities.

We have come a long way. From the moment the current regime decided to go against the way things are supposed to be and extended their legitimacy, we have been unsure of anything. No one could get a straight answer when they asked about events that were to occur in the future.

If you have a foreigner for a boss, chances are that business has been slow for the last month because the boss man jumped ship. Many others, even indigenous Ugandans, have jumped on the jet planes and made the airport at Entebbe very busy.

The rest of us have been left to make snide remarks, hoping against hope that no one will see the worry written all over our jokes.

Tomorrow we shall wake up early, those of us who feel the urgency of the situation, and go over to the polling stations. Those who don’t feel that patriotic in the circumstances will probably stay home and watch TV. And then they’ll say silent prayers asking whatever power they’ll have tuned into that those voting will vote wisely.

The phrase “vote wisely” has taken on a sinister shade to it. It always seems to come from the same camp. It reminds one of those posters that were captured at the airport. Like a religious zealot forcing their beliefs down your throat.

If all goes well, we shall go to our desks again on the 24th and blog. We shall have tales to tell, certainly. We shall probably be back to our usual selves, telling witty jokes. We shall all be rearing to go, full of life and thankful that our fears had been unfounded after all.

Otherwise, we shall be hiding under desks and beds, just like we did during the last war. The memories will never fade. Back then, with barely formed brains, we saw the adults shitting their pants and we knew that things were rally bad. We shat our PJs even faster.

Most of the people I know have ignored the warnings on radio that we should all store up stuff; dry food, cereals and water. We have decided to have faith in the goodness of humans. We have decided that this country has seen enough turmoil and that whatever comes out of the elections; all the parties involved know what is most important for this country.

Arthur Koestler’s Rubashov told of the swing of history which will always reach a high point every now and then. Whenever it gets to one extreme, there are many who shall invariably fall off. The screams don’t really help because that it the way the cookie crumbles. And according to Koestler, this is good for humanity because it helps in balancing the masses.

But something tells me the swing has not got to the extreme. We still have some time. However, if we are at that scary time, I believe we have learnt some good lessons. That there will always be people predisposed to cause havoc. That there is always going to be wars and rumors of war.

Because of this knowledge gained in the time we have spent running from one explosion to another, we have learnt to hang on. The swing can go to whatever heights it wants but this people here is going to still be on it when it comes down.

Go and vote wisely.

To Uganda with Love

The president was on LTV taking around Mathew Crouch and his wife, Laurie, showing them the sorrowful survivors of the northern war. For some reason, LTV decided to air this doccie, which was made in December last year, at this time.

Is the programme a hit? Probably. It makes this president come off as a saint, though. He is portrayed as a Moses type come out of the wilderness to save the children of Israel from the big bad Pharaoh. It goes without saying that at this time of transition, not a few observers will see this as a thinly veiled effort to aid the candidacy of Museveni.

There is no way a fence sitting Christian will vote “unwisely” after watching this thingy. It is a real weepy. The Americans doing the narrations are really moved. Its in their voices. They actually seem to be atken in by the whole Kagu-is-a-devout-Christian psycho babble. You cannot remain unmoved, God knows, when you see those mass graves. Jeez! I didn’t even know that those things were still being used. I thought they went out with J. Nagenda’s campaign.

But you have to give it to that camp; they know how to play, clean or dirty. If the competition will be won the dirty way, they have all the fire power in their arsenal. They have J. Nagenda, R. Kabushenga and all the other guys who will not find it beneath themselves to pull another skull campaign. And if they want to play it clean, they have all the saints they can use. Rugunda, Nsibambi and the like. Plus they have R. Kayanja shouting the president’s praises and crying into the camera.

The victim in all the politicking is the church. A great number of people have been told that the church, especially the Pentecostals, are all for one candidate. But this is frustratingly inane. Unfortunately, the truth is still trying to lace its shoes while the lie has made two trips around the world.

One wishes, though, that the campaigns and the post election period will not bring chaos. Humans have the power to cause peace and calm if they want to. They also have the ability to cause mayhem. If they want to.

To die for the country

Three bodies lie on the ground, broken and lifeless.
Three Ugandans are never going to sing their party slogans again.
They are now the winds that dry our clothes. The stuff of historical stories.

These three braves did not know that the buck was stopping at them today. They probably left home with things to do still. Unfinished cups of tea, uncompleted laundry, half done essays; their lives…

These three stiffs we shall never really know. They could actually have names. And families. And plans for the future. Not necessarily a future without a certain bald headed person lording it over them but a future anyway. Heck, they did not really care who came on to rule the country. They’d still live the same dreary lives no matter what the political talking heads said on their campaign trail.

And the country collectively shook their heads and went, “tut, tut. This is a sad case. How could this have happened?” then they went back to their fisticuffs, forgetting the three stiffs on the ground.

Three bodies lie on the ground, broken and lifeless.
Why did they die? Why do we never move from one station to the next without having to double over and start back at one?

While I was away…

Been taking time off and just reading other people’s blogs. And I can tell you, it’s been a riveting experience. Lots of stuff I didn’t know. It’s amazing what people can reveal when they start writing down their thoughts. Greatest thing is many of our blogs are anonymous and that’s the way to go.

And it’s been a period of drama on the political scene. The other night I was watching the news and there was Winnie, breathing fire and giving Kagu an ultimatum; if he does not retract whatever stuff he’s been saying about a one Warren B, she will let loose her cannons. She wants to tell us all the dirt she has on the prez!

I say go ahead, Winnie. Everyone loves a lovers’ quarrel. When they start fighting, they forget that some things are best left in the confines of the bedroom. So what can she tell us? She was saying something about revealing the number of children the big man has, the number of times he’s been unfaithful to his family and all that.

We as the onlookers can afford to watch with rapt attention. After all, whatever info will be spilt is about other people. Of course it would be cool if Kagu also lost it and told us the stuff he has on Winnie. Then we would have a real classic on our hands. It’s getting really boring on the drama stages of the country and on our TV screens. We could do with a little genuine drama.

And I also discovered that the greatest movie critic we have in Ug is called Mataachi. The way he breaks down a flick and takes you into the mechanics of the making, one would think that he was there when the concept was being dreamt up. He is a true asset and he knows it. Does that make him sprout wings? No, he’s too old for that. (Not as old as some other person whose age The Red Pepper seems to be obsessed with, though).

These days I could just stay home and chill the whole day. I discovered the magic of Brittanica. This time, it is not just about flipping through the pages of one book I find at a friend’s home, no. I got the frigging 2005 Delux on my PC and nothing can tear me away from it when I sit down. I hear there is software being sold out in the markets of Bangladesh (or even India) for the equivalent of Ug. Sh.3000.

And something else about Bangladesh (and India or whatever Asian country you want to go to); those stories you have heard about the life in those countries are oh, so true. They are so poor and this is compounded by the great population. They have no way out of it because they are still increasing in number.

A rickshaw driver will take you from Bweyogerere to Spear House for the equivalent of Ug.Sh 600. And that’s when he has succeeded in cheating you because every foreigner is perceived to be rich with lots of cash on them. The real price would therefore be equal to Ug. Sh. 300! But at least you can pick up lots of valuable stuff in their open markets.

It’s good to be back.

The Death of Ricky

From the very first time he came home, we knew that he would never amount to anything. He could be a darling, make us laugh and when one wanted to take a stroll, they’d always feel like taking him along. But that was as far as it went. In the end, his survival depended on much more than just good looks.

He was a handsome mutt, really. His fur was the whitest white you ever saw on a dog and he seemed to have more games up his dog sleeve than your average dog. He found two other dogs but he took charge of the compound, like he had been there for years. Yet, Ricky was a puppy. He was two years younger than Bright, the long, black one or Rabbi, the proud, fat, hairy one.

Ricky was full of life. So much so, that my aunt had him grounded to his dog house because she feared that he would bite some one some day and we did not want a legal battle with the villagers. Because he was a feisty one, that Ricky. He would bark and growl and show his teeth at whatever shadow passed. Half the time, we did not know whether he was just happy to see humans or he was just being a savage beast.

His incarceration started one day when he gave chase to some little kid who was taunting him. It was a Sunday and everyone was home. It was supposed to be a peaceful day and I guess our collective guard was down. The dogs were chilling in the tree shade, basking in the glory of God on a lazy Sunday.

Not for Ricky, it was not a lazy day. He wanted to play and he was a dog possessed. He must have tried to get his two friends interested but they snarled at him whenever he jumped around them.

Then the kid came along. Personally, I believe Ricky was just being friendly. It could have been her swaying yellow dress that swung hither and thither as she skipped gaily along. It could also have been the racket she made. I guess we were never meant to know. For in a second, Ricky was up on his feet, chasing the tot. He was maddened by the rising crescendo of the noise around him, I guess and suddenly it was not a game anymore.

Anyway, by the time the first human adult got to the scene, Little Girl was down and Big Dog was over her growling. It was not as bad as it looked but the damage was already done. Retribution was to come swiftly for the big white dog. Neighbours with long concealed vendettas got their chance to voice them at that moment. There were queries about rabies and generally, Sunday was so gone.

Two years down the road, Ricky had become a jailbird. Well, maybe, a jail dog. He lost the light in his eyes and whenever we brought him out to give him his daily meal, he slouched over like he’d lost the faith he’d had. I guess Ricky was not dreaming anymore. He would go over to the dish and first sniff the food then take a few lazy steps around his house then go back inside. Sometimes, he actually refused to eat. He was so broken, he didn’t even bark anymore.
Then he developed a strange illness. No one knew what it was. No one really wanted to be bothered because we all had gotten busy in the past two years. No one had time for a boring dog. Someday, when there was time, we would maybe, take him to the vet. But not today, big dog.

Unbeknownst to us, Ricky was dying. We could have seen it, if we really cared. His dog house was smack in the middle of the back yard. As one passed on their way to the latrine, they could have seen the pain in those huge eyes, silently pleading, asking what was happening to him.

One evening, he just didn’t come out to eat. The jail dog did not want to smell the fresh air of freedom. We thought it was a dog idiosyncrasy, maybe and that he would straighten out. But he did not. He just stared at us as we tried to revive his interest in the food. And the breathing. He was breathing like a beached whale! Something was happening to the most handsome dog in the world.

This morning, Ricky did not wake up. He did not turn his head when I called him. He will never turn his head again. Ricky is dead. He died without enjoying his short dog life. He died because he tried to be a different dog. He pushed the limits and terrified the humans who were supposed to understand him. We did not.

He lies in an unmarked grave. It is not really a grave, actually. I just bundled him into a kutiya and looked for the farthest dumping hole I could find, where the stench would not come wafting back to us. Right now, we are having our supper and one of the topics under discussion is where to get a good dog. What a loving family we are!

Uganda Decides

After 20 years in power, does it make sense for a grown man to promise things like electricity, schools and hospitals? These are things that should have been done in the course of that time. By now, the promises should have changed to something better, like, “If you vote for me, I will make Uganda overtake Malaysia economically..” or, “I shall start another wine factory in Masaka (assuming that there would be at least one already, given the matooke in this part of the country).”

But do we get to be so lucky? No! Instead, we have a president who has refused to see that his dreams have failed to materialise. He is fighting the tide and that can’t be good for the country.

Instead of all the good things we could be getting out of our country, we have to always be on tension. The big guy stubbornly refuses to shift his frame and so there will be those who want to make him see sense. Eventually, it’s the whole African cycle again. Some people want Warren B and his junta to come in, for the sake of change, if not for anything else. Some others who are more concerned with sleeping (“kasita twebaka ku tulo”) are scared shitless and they wont hear of change.

Well, while we let some strong willed politicians control everything; the resources are concentrated in the hands of a few people. Even people who could have helped bring the blessings home are frustrated.

Instead of supporting a brother with an idea to refine coffee and sell it to the world at great prices, government is selling corporations at $1 and diverting the Nile so there is work done but more problems with load shedding.

Sad thing is that these few millionaires with country’s balls in their hands don’t seem to have a clue about what to do with their vast resources. They’ve not read about Bill Gates, I presume.

Seventh Heaven

Chilling at home has its benefits sometimes. The rat race makes us drones that have no recollection whatsoever of what it means to live expansively. Like watching TV and just being silly without worrying about the future, you know.

I was flipping through the channels and came across Seventh Heaven. Yeah, remember that weepy from way back? Okay, back then, it was a weepy for some people. I didn’t know why I liked it so much but I think it must have had something to do with Jessica Biel.

Of course when you see her in Blade: Trinity, she is a lot hotter than she was in the sit com. Heck, that show must have been done in the early nineties or so. But the make up directors then knew how to make a female look fly, I say.

And of course the corny story lines designed to reduce a grown man to sentimental reflection, it was all there. But I must say it was good to see it once again. I must enjoy it while it lasts coz, knowing Top TV, it will not be on forever. They’ll pull it as soon as the English gets too complicated for whoever is at the controls.

Please, bring back The Obsessions

It is said that when you start looking down on the music of the current generation and calling it names, then you have really grown. In our case, if you have thrown out the radio station of your youth because “they only play rap,” then maybe you should buy loads of hair dye and just be ready. Because very soon, you are going to be needing to darken your hair. Listening to Banji in the company of all those old young-wannabes is not really going to redeem you.

Our entertainment scene is very volatile, it seems. Contrary to what all these reformists want you to believe, our stars are really permitted five minutes in the spotlight, excepting those who don’t know how to play by the rule book. Of course there are those that will drop one scorcher after another for years and all we have to do is just let them be. Because they are just too hot to handle. They might even be as hot as Bebe Cool but that is another matter unrelated to this.

Because there are very many artistes making it big in a very short time, someone might say that we don’t need permanent heroes. We don’t need idols because we can always latch onto new ones anytime. But the person who says that probably did not see or hear The Obsessions.

I know it is a lifetime ago…but those dudes and chicks rocked. Who can forget their dances; those moves that every new dance group in town wanted to ape? Who can forget the chiseled bodies of the guys when they got on stage and flashed those thousand watt smiles and made even the masters of the game (S Club 7) pale in comparison?

The Obsessions were known for their pretty girls. It is said that to get into the group, you had to be as fly as Halle. Just that. Not that it is a mean feat. The dance choreographer would handle the rest i.e. teach you how to wiggle and make the guys in the audience drool.

After some time, the group upped its ante when they started acting and singing. They brought a whole new meaning to Ugandan music videos. They had the whole of Kampala nodding their heads like this…and hunting for their jajja’s afro wig. Everything they touched was instantly en vogue. They even managed to convince Kampala that dressing up like Elvis was cool. So we had the strange disease that’s eating the Americans attacking Ugandans too.

It was good while it lasted. But admitting that it ended means we have lived in the golden era and we are on the slow wane. Accepting the demise of The Obsessions means we have had our fun and that it is time for us to move over and let the fans of the newer generation of stars take center stage.

The Obsessions must never be thrown on the heap of history. They represent the young and vibrant us. Can you imagine telling your kids about this magnificent dancing group that could sing and act and getting a blank stare? That is exactly what your parents get when they tell you about Franco or Lord Kitchener or some guy called Harry Belafonte. You stare at them and they are miffed that you can’t appreciate real talent.

That is what we shall be feeling if we let The Obsessions slide into oblivion. They might not have a lot of stuff to offer us right now, seeing as all the cool guys have left to form their own spawns of the group and they have abdicated their role as the singers to the girls, whose role was originally to look pretty and dance. But the important thing is to leave them where they are sure to be seen. Letting them go means letting ourselves go.

Museveni, Yoweri Kaguta

born 1944, Mbarara district, Uganda


Politician who became president of Uganda in 1986.

Museveni was born to cattle farmers and attended missionary schools. While studying political science and economics at the University of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania (B.A., 1970), he became chairman of a leftist student group allied with African liberation movements. When Idi Amin came to power in Uganda in 1971, Museveni returned to Tanzania in exile. There he founded the Front for National Salvation, which helped overthrow Amin in 1979. Museveni held posts in transitional governments and in 1980 ran for president of Uganda. When the elections, widely believed to have been rigged, were won by Milton Obote, Museveni formed the National Resistance Movement. The resistance eventually prevailed, and on January 26, 1986, Museveni declared himself president of Uganda. He was elected to the post on May 9, 1996, and his backers won control of the National Assembly in legislative elections held the following month.

As president, Museveni helped revitalize the country, providing political stability, a growing economy, and an improved infrastructure. He instituted a number of capitalist reforms, and, though he rejected multiparty democracy, arguing that it would degenerate into tribal politics in a poor African country, Museveni supported a free press. He also implemented measures to combat AIDS. Uganda, in fact, is one of the few African countries to have had success battling the illness.

In his foreign policy, Museveni often generated controversy by supporting rebels in other African countries. He backed Laurent Kabila, who deposed Mobutu Sese Seko in neighbouring Zaire in 1997, the Tutsi exiles who were fighting against the government of Rwanda, and a group, headed by one of his former schoolmates, battling the Islamic fundamentalist rulers of The Sudan. Museveni justified his support of rebels by stating that his goal was to achieve regional integration in both politics and economics and that the downfall of corrupt regimes was necessary to bring about such a union.

Lonely Hearts

He realised with a start that he was out of time. He threw the Stephen King tome he was reading on the sofa as he raced to the bathroom. He was through with his shower in five. It was already 8 pm and he had only a few minutes to get to Sabrina’s for his date. The voice on the phone had sounded mysterious and he did not want to miss her, if only to see the person who spoke with such intensity, whose voice raised his neck hairs, albeit on phone.

Dashing through the gate, he noticed that there was something odd about Matayo, the gateman. He didn’t have the time to stay and find out what it was because of the time but it kept on pushing against his brain. This feeling was to remain with him for a long time during the evening but was later to be over ridden by other emotions.

The taxi man drove like he was possessed. There were no passengers in the bus-like matatu but it didn’t matter. Even the conductor didn’t bother to hang-ten, asking if potentials wanted to ride with us. That was strange but Mpaata had seen stranger things in this town. That these usually rowdy guys who were ever delaying things wanted to help him beat his appointment time was okay with him.

Getting out of the vehicle at the KPC stage, he almost stepped on a black cat. It snarled its black cat snarl and beat it. But as he crossed over to the other side, he almost stepped on another black cat! Mpaata shook his head to clear it of any cobwebs that might be up in there. This happened only in The Matrix, not here in dusty old Ug. He laughed at himself. Why couldn’t two black cats be in the same vicinity at the same time?

“You want to sell your soul? That’s okay, that fine with me,” a voice said, overly close. Mpaata turned to see who it was but for a moment was puzzled because he could see no one. Then the voice came again, sounding even more eerie, “And as you walk through the valley of death, don’t be thinking it’s for anyone else that the bells are tolling, bozo, its your ass that’s going down.”

It was a beggar, sitting on the curb. Mpaata was puzzled, probably more because of the intensity of the words, than the fact that as far as he could recall, there were no beggars outside Sabrina’s Pub. And was the old guy talking to him?

He dropped a coin in the outstretched hand and the beggar’s head turned unseeingly toward him. His evidently blind eyes smiled at him and his joy was conveyed through a toothless grin. Then he spoke, but this time the voice and strength of speech were different; “makama akuwe omukisa,” he mumbled. And that made Mpaata pose. Who had spoken earlier, then?

He was jolted into a run when he remembered that he had to meet this mysterious woman at the club. He entered the dark place and from the top of the flight of stairs, could see that the place was almost full. On stage, K’Angie Mtume was belting out some soulful jazzy tune tempering the thirst of a hundred patrons, who were swallowing Clubs like it was the newest stunt in town.

She had said she would be sitting at the last table on the left facing the stage. That would be her in a red coat, then, Mpaata told himself. He moved over and put on his best strangers-meeting-for-the-first-time smile.

“Hi. Dolly?”
“Yes. You must be Mpaata,” she replied giving him her hand. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he was smirking; who in this day and age started out a friendship like this? Maybe this is how blind dates worked. After all, he was doing this for the first time. He had responded to a lonely hearts ad in the paper and to his surprise, he had gotten in touch with this person.

She had described herself as happy go lucky and in search of a guy who had no inhibitions. She was in the country for a short time and she just wanted to have a good time. Now, before him sat a beautiful woman who looked odd.

It did not come to him immediately but as he sat and started to chat her up, he started to notice more and more that this was indeed a strange woman. First of all, when he’d come up to the table, her hands had been inside her coat, which was woolen. When she gave him her hand, it was as cold as ice. Now he looked at the table top and noticed that she was taking tea or coffee or something hot. Why were her fingers freezing. Unconsciously, he rubbed his hand on his pants leg. It felt clammy.

The light on the overhead screen shifted and fell on her face, giving him a better view of what she looked like and he started. This black girl was either wearing the weirdest contacts ever or she had no pupils. Her eyes were a sick grey colour and they had no emotion…or life.

Mpaata was not listening to what she was saying. His brain had started working but it was not finding whatever it was searching for. This was not going according to plan. And he was sure it had nothing to do with the Guinness he’d been taking. What was this? She was pulling something from her bag now, showing him something.

For some reason, Mpaata could not hear what she was saying. Yet all this time, she was talking. At this point, she seemed to be speaking with some amount of urgency. She gestured for him to look inside the bag and he did.

Inside the bag, there was what appeared to be movements. It was too dark for him to see what was inside clearly at first. Gradually, though, he started to make out the figures. Inside the bag, in a clear bottle, there were two men!

The first thing that popped up in his head was a line from that annoying song by Harriet Kusasira. These things actually happened? The men appeared to be shouting but Mpaata could hear nothing. They wore green uniform-like clothes that reminded him, in that moment, of the schizophrenics in Butabika. They were earnestly pleading and nothing could compare to the looks of terror on their faces.

Then their faces became clearer. Mpaata realized that he actually knew these unfortunates. Neighbours. They were brothers and he recalled that he had not seen them for sometime. They lived in the apartment next to his. He had noticed their absence because there was no more music blasting from their place. Everyone around knew them for their inconsiderate loud music from early in the morning.

There had been rumours that these two were drug dealers and that they were the go-to guys if someone wanted to hit the high time. Their specialty was designer drugs and they were doing well. They did not seem to have regular jobs so the legend seemed to fit.

Right now, their money did not seem to be helping them because they were trapped in a bottle in crazy green uniforms. And what was Mpaata doing here? He asked himself? That is when the music from the stage returned. He came back to life then. Dolly was staring at him with those unseeing eyes, yet he knew they saw more than he cared for.

He stumbled backward and hit the blue, plastic chair. The bottle of Fruity that he had started sipping on flew to the hard concrete floor. He looked around in a daze and he was baffled. No one seemed to be taking note of the commotion. K’Angie was taking a bow and receiving whistles and calls for encore.

And the woman was now smiling. Her teeth were green. Somehow, the smile did not come off right and now he realised why she looked odd. She had no eyebrows. He had somehow managed to respond to the lonely hearts ad from hell.

But she kept her seat. She was too confident. He moved backward till he was at the top of the steps, until he could not see her anymore. Then he turned and fled outside.

The guy at the entrance to Sabrina’s did not stop him as sped outside. He never stops anyone going out. But in that split second, with his mind in turmoil, he noticed that this same guy was the guy at the gate at his home. Now he knew what had struck him as odd about the askari. This guy had the face of Dolly. He had a beard and he had a cap on but this did not hide the deathly face. Nothing would make him forget that face.

Many days later, after he had gotten the opinions of three different head doctors that there was nothing wrong with his head, he was flipping through the papers again and saw an obituary. Now Mpaata was not in the habit of skipping everything in the paper and jumping to the obituaries. It was something that just happed. He saw the picture. A regular size snap and a few regular words sent in by a family that was fast forgetting what it felt like to know the person in question: In Loving Memory; Dolly Nabatanzi, Born January 2 1912, Died July 4, 1980. Dearly missed by sons, daughters, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

And this was the year 2006!

Desperately seeking a seat

The guy who wants somewhere to sit must be going through hell. I imagine every evening when he goes back home, he scrubs his tongue thoroughly with the strongest detergent he can find. I mean, after all that lying…Saddam’s spin doctor has a worthy competitor when it comes to this our Ugandan spin doctor.

Every week, he must go out there and sit in front of journalists who are already hungry to make a name and lie through his teeth. That cannot be a good job.

Why does this General talk about political stuff and nothing happens to him yet that other officer spoke out on political matters and he got a hot slap? “Ah, but you must see that the two situations are very different,” he says. And he can’t hide the sweat sliding down his neck.

But then, maybe it’s just the weather. Maybe, lying is why he got the job in the first place. Some people need more than just laying on of hands. They need seven baptisms before the dirt can get off, you know.

After all, when this same dude told the world that Kagu was devastated when that Colonel from down in the Sudan died in that freak accident, he still managed to come back and conduct business as usual, even when the Prez said he did not know what his minister was talking about. Same goes for the TV tax. Well, maybe his other brief is to be the whipping boy. Carry the entire president’s blame.