They called me a cow.

I was weaving through Kamwokya’s mid-morning traffic today, trying to get from one side of the road to the other before the cars started moving in a never ending stream when a boda guy almost knocked me down. Instead of going on his way, grateful that he hadn’t had an accident, he turned his head and yelled, “You stupid woman! Crossing the road as if you are a cow!” and other things that I didn’t hear.

I was angry and embarrassed and I mumbled an expletive at his back, frustrated that he’d go about his life not knowing what I’d thought about him in that moment.

This experience reminded me of a link that I found on Ukamaka Olisakwe’s wall about three people’s experiences in Nigerian traffic. It’s really cool. Read that post here.

I’d really love to do a Ugandan version.

If you’re interested in helping me turn this into a reality, please leave a comment or send this writer chick a message with the most dramatic/ dumbfounding/crazy/annoying/funny experience you’ve while using public transport in Uganda.

If they are many, I’ll turn everything into a Stiletto point. How do you see?

Also, mwanablaadi, all of the fun is over at Apenyo’s place. Go and follow her also.


Peace yo.



What’s been happening.

Oh it’s been a while, a whilllee since I felt like updating tipsyalcophobic. For one, I don’t remember who that chick is. I don’t even like the attitude with which she started writing in 2008, and feel bigger, better, more mature.

Shit. That’s totally something she’d write.

Anyway, as this is the place for highlights on my personal life (fuck, check THIS out), these are the things that have happened:

I have found a boy, a fantastically funny and brilliant boy who looks like a smurf. Seriously.


He can drum and he can write, which is all I need really. If I were to get dumped on an island and then asked by those bastards what one thing I wanted delivered to ease my misery a bit, I’d ask them to deliver Balamaga (+ pen and drum). We’d fight like drunken cocks and properly populate the island in about, what, 4 years?

Daniella is OLD. Old enough to be trying her fat legs out. Curiosity is killing her knees. I swear no dudu can crawl as fast as this chick. I’m grateful and amazed. If there’s a God, he’s doing his job. I know mum’s proud.

Just clap for her

My Job is OK. Remember when I was crying about getting into  a 9-5er again? As a result of being fired for calling my boss a cunt? Well this new one is fabulous and allows me time to really concentrate on Stiletto Point and my other writing.

I also got over my INTENSE fear of writing short stories and put down a couple. Ernest, who is going to be the biggest publisher in Uganda, just watch him, began a website, a digest where he publishes some very fine writing from Uganda. My story is HERE .

Kampire and I started a dream blog where we write short stories inspired by our mostly terrifying, occasionally funny dreams. Clicketty.

Save for the general wahala that comes with being alive and my occasional fights with nugu (seriously, wth is with these feelings just attacking me from nowhere? As if involuntary jealousy) over embarrassingly banal and irrelevant things, I’m in a very good place.

On a sad note, my little sister and brother have been shipped off to boarding school, poor darlings. I’ve stopped being bitter about it. No one ever died from battling challenges. Like homesickness.

Brightside, I get Gabby to write me a story every couple of weeks.  Here’s one she wrote before she left. This girl is going to have like 10 awards by the time she’s 10.

OK. Back to doing whatever it was I was doing before the tipsyitch came upon me.

Wet Xs, long Os.

Apenyo.wordpress is jealous of your stats, Tipsyalcophobic.

Hello Tipsy, Apenyo here. I know that she created you first and the two of you have some kind of history, but my gosh, I’M the one that keeps her in beer and shoes and red mouth grease.



I’m jealous that you, quite effortlessly, rake up all these views, impressive stats that I have to gather painstakingly, one by one from facebook and twitter and wharrever.

It isn’t fair.

So I’m going to do a bit of advertising here, that you won’t mind, obviously, as we are the same person. Right?

Hey there, my peoples. Hang out on where I write mostly funny, sometimes reflective, very occasionally wise pieces for a couple of publications.

I graduated

I got naked

I survived death by stupidity

I survived stretchmarks

And then exposed my legs

I have to get back to googling *How to manipulate consumers and take over their wallets through writing for advertising, so later, my lovelies.



OOOOOOMMMMGGGGG. Would you just LOOK at these? 

come to me

I love shoes. Love. Shoes. When I grow up and start making amounts of money huge enough to choke on, I shall catapult myself into a Mary Antoinettesque nirvana. Shoooeeeessss. Shoes just rock so much, don’t they?


What doesn’t rock is having nightmares featuring demons. Very chatty ones. As a result of reading THE SCREWTAPE LETTERS .

It gets worse if the demons are somehow, blurrily, in the way of dreams; saying stuff about your mother. How dare they? One of them even came ‘looking’ like her. My ma. How dare you, demon? You bastard.
I was not amused (to say the least) when I woke up at 3.47am.

I also officially admit that I hate sleeping alone. Never again shall I complain about Gabby crawling into my bed at night. I need her sharp little body that feels like a bag of elbows and knees next to mine. I don’t mind the discomfort and sleep deprivation anymore. The bags under my eyes make me look sexy.

Because if I had woken up from that dream and had NOT found Gabby sleeping with her foot in the middle of my back, I would have DIED of fright. I would have yelled the house down. OR I would have lay there, shivering, too afraid to leave the room, too scared to even blink. And that would suck.

These are the things on my mind today:


THE ULK PARTY tomorrow that you! Must! Attend! Tell your relatives.

Sometimes Icing

Aaaand The liberation, the complete and total freedom that comes with acknowledging and shaming your mortality. Like yea. I’ll die. I know. So what? I win. You lose. Eat a colon.
Because now, there’s nothing as delightful as living 🙂

P.S. Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I wore a maxi dress.

Legs! No legs.

And my family is just the silliest when it comes to UNbirthday celebrations.

Mangada cake

Unbirthday definition: An excuse for us to eat bad cake from Nakasero market and celebrate the fact that we HAVE birthdays.


Tune: The Band Perry’s If I die young

Lyrics: Mostly stolen

Now child, Auntie has tweaked the lyrics a bit. Go along with it, OK? One, two, three all tooogedarrrr:

When I die young, bury me in a sundress.

Lay me down on a bed of orchids.

Put me next to mother, at dawn.

Send me away to The Shining by Badly Drawn Boy. (Or to something by Libera)

Lord make me a rainbow-I’ll shine down on my father

He’ll know I’m safe with you when he stands under my colors

Oh and, life ain’t always what you think it ought to be, no

(I can’t stand that line of father not being gray but he’s burying his baby, so let’s skip)

The sharp knife of a loooooong life.  

Well, I’ve had just enough time.

And then the song got too complicated for me to rip.

Yesterday but one or something, this arrived in my inbox: Just had a conversation about you with someone who expressed super lovedmiration for the way you charge at life, extremities on lock down. I’d rather not say who but. Lol.

LOL. LOL!! I live so aggressively precisely because I hate life’s guts so much. I hate it. Hate it. I hate the mewling idiocy of everything. The weak, pathetic nothingness.  The posing and posturing. The pointlessness of everything as I’ll one day be as dead as the road kill I caught myself giggling at this morning.

I’m afraid of sleep. I’m afraid of people I know being asleep. I’m afraid of my own fucking back.

So I explode in pretty pink bubbles of bubbliness or a red mess of rage or an octarine shimmer of boldness to counter that bullshit. And also because If death is as inevitable as tomorrow, then it’s not going to find me living limply.

Its raining now, which is cheering me up.

I love rain. Lightning actually (a lot more before the bastard started  picking people off the street).

But rain is good.

Which brings me to the end of this post.

Hampy Bansday, Mamalai

Hellai Mamalai.
Happy Birthday :)!
What’s up? How are you? What are you doing?

If heaven is anything like what The Lovely Bones described, you’re in things! Your heaven has a HUGE sugarcane plantation behind your house and the sugarcanes are thick and greenish purple with lots and lots of juice.

You have a cat that looks just like Salvie, but because you only like cats when they’re at least 10 meters away from you, she lives in a cat-mansionette attached to yours.

You have lots and lots and lots of flowers, I know. Don’t pluck them all off banange. Leave them in the garden for us to see when we come visiting.
I really want to come visiting, mummy so if you can slip a note to that God fellow…I really want to see you, Ma.

Daniela is so fat, my goodness. That is our number one present to you, mamalai. Your bapalai is huge (in a good way). She grows every single day. But the kyejo! Eh! She pouts when we take long with her bottle and then when we try to put it in her mouth, she spits the milk back at us. Can you imagine? At 1 month and 8 days!

She doesn’t have tety ears like mine. They’re small and lovely and perfect like yours. And everyday, she looks like somebody else! Anyway, Ma, your healthy bapalai is gift number one. Please pidu my baby for me. That one must be four months old now.

Mummy, should I smack Gabby and Joshua when they’re being bad? I don’t want them to take advantage of the tenderness I’m desperately trying to rip from the memories that I have of you. I know I won’t be able to give them that special thick, smothering, heady love that you gave me, but I really want to try. And you know me, I can be very angry and shouty and horrible when I lose my temper. And they give me lots of reasons to go batshit.
So ma, should I smack? Cupped palm, not much pain? Because gabby hates homework. And Joshua just doesn’t listen.

Anyway, back to your heaven. I’m sure you have very nice table clothes. All beautifully knitted and very very clean. And your sofas must be super plush! And that floor of yours must be clean enough for Daniella to lick her milk from.

You have all kinds of fruit trees around your house and your blender is always working and you’re filling six bottles labeled Mildred, Jero, Praise, Joshua, Gabby, Dannie with lots of yumtastic juice, right? And right now, the smell of liver must be driving heaven’s collective nostril mad!

And the matookes! Oh the matooke plantation must be HUGE, mamalai. And I’m sure there are chickens all over the place stealing your paw paws. Please leave for me two matookes in the saucepan. I’ll eat them when I get there. Hopefully soon.

Home is empty without you, mamalai. The house is too huge. The laughs are too few. The echoes are too loud. Home is lonely, ma. I wish I hadn’t spent so much time with my nose buried in a book when you were around. I wish I’d hounded your room like Gabby and Joshua. Anyway, I’m sure you have a huge library in heaven, with many of those Danielle Steels that you love. I’m sorry for not buying that last one. I was so fake, also me.

When I come visiting, I can’t promise that I won’t curl up in your sofa and read and read and read. Because reading in a world without you sucks. It’s not warm and enjoyable.
I need you be around so that I can ignore you. Don’t worry. When you come to my heaven house, you’ll be allowed to sing along to the radio and ignore me as much as you want.

Not paying attention to the people you love is one of the biggest manifestations of contentment. So I miss ignoring you mummy. The world is empty.

But don’t mind me. You party with the angels. For weeks and weeks, you party. Go CRAZY. Swing from the clouds. Jiggle your belly. Do the *shake your buttocks* dance that daddy came up with. And my chikuku neck dance. And DANZOLO! Please do lots and lots of Danzolo dancing. Make the whole of heaven’s choir do danzolo. The whole day.
Haha! That visual is killer. I hope they have the booties to do the dance justice.

Please be near daddy today. In his mind. Make him smile, please.
Don’t play sankarai with those people up there. I’m feeling nugu even. 😦

Let them wait for us to come and then the whole of heaven can play sankarai with us.

I love you very very much, my mummy.
Be happy. And contented. And dazzle heaven with that smile of yours.

We’ll be there soon.


World Domination. Best believe.

People are not words.


You can’t make, bully, push, threatenwithediting, cajole, rub out, threatenwiththesaurus, cross out, stare down, intimidate them into DOING things that they ABSOLUTELY do NOT want to do.

How sad (frustrating, boring, UGH inducing) .


New Objective: World domination.

Starting: NOW!

Motto: Neyvah to give up.

Secret motto: Come on world, come on deities. Give this chick a win. Just one.

Secret secret motto: I’m not complaining or failing to acknowledge the teeny tiny wins you toss me from time to time but I want a big win. You know what I mean. GIVE!


Memento Mori.

Now that KABLAM! a fist has shot out of death’s anus and made the acquaintance of my oesophagus, I am convinced, more than ever, more than the LAST time that I want a Memento Mori tattoo. I have done more research since then. Ahem.

“Remember you are mortal”

I sometimes forget. This God complex oso! Eyver to leave you unprepared for things such as actual DEATH and HELPLESSNESS.

“Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may die”

Because I’m prone to depression. Black feelings that just hit me in the heart and head from NO-WHEYA!

No more complaining.

A reminder of the vanity of earthly glory and pleasure.

Because that one thing that you’re most vain about? The one that gives you most pleasure? That one which defines you? It may happen that you, finding yourself desperate, broken, pathetic and finished, stick it in God’s face as a bargaining chip. Leverage!

You offer it saying, “Take this, maker of things and spare me my mother/job/love life/…”. But we human beings, we’re extremely powerless. And God doesn’t make deals with us. So no more vanity.

But I’ll keep the pleasure.

So, HELLO October, darling October. You’re going to give me my first tattoo. Which is going to look like this:

Perfect. With a tiny four leaf clover to the side. Perfect.

I’m warning you, Shadrach. No bullshit this time. I stick syringes into eyes. Ask around.

Looooove Me. As if a 14 year old emo.

Dear blog trawler,


Warrup? How are you? First click this link.

Its about my love life, my mutimzzy.

You will find yourself at ULK which is a good thing, because those people of ULK are very very funny.






I can understand lusting after somebody out of boredom. Crushing, doodling, fantasizing; out of boredom.

I understand being inspired to pen things like, “That moment when you realize that AHA! You haven’t read all his fb notes yet :)”.  You’re allowed to be happy. You have so much to sink your silk tipped amorous fangs into.

BUT falling for them as well? What horrible maDness is this? Crushes are fun, but they (many times) lead to relationships (A.K.A The-best-way-to-lose-friends-and-alienate-people).

So, AWAY from me, sick thing.


P.s: I don’t care (much) that he’s all genres of gorgeous.


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