My soles are worn out from dancing

I could listen to Lingala and Soukus all day, every day. I could walk tirelessly for miles, all fatigue obscured by my deep enjoyment.

When a track is particularly nice, I start to dance in my head. Sometimes this dancing enters my walk, so I can be striding purposefully to office when my leg  kicks out abruptly. Sometimes, my bums perform lifts and wobbles of their own volition! I almost never know which part of my body is going to decide to bring the party out of my head.

Today morning, I remembered the way Binyavanga described how he learnt to dance Lingala and nearly died laughing. He said, and I hope I remember right, that he was able to get the hang of it by telling himself to move like he had a terrible itch in his ass that could only be scratched by him revolving his pelvis in the manic way that Lingala requires, while keeping his upper body as stiff and nonchalant as possible.

Lucky for me, my body didn’t decide to start practicing on the street.


I love dancing and I love addmaya for that promo that got me my Beats by dre headphones. Life is good.

Unrelated but totally important, March 8th is a very special date. Sabili Tours is launching the first phase of its campaign: Around Uganda in 7 trips. One of my biggest dreams is to be a full time travel writer, but you know how dreams work. You start small small.

I am Sabili’s resident writer, which means I get to go on all their trips in exchange for kalango and words. Not bad, eh?

Come and we go? More details HERE

And now, a picture of meeee dancing!

Lets dance

Birthdays, drama and religious cake.

I swear I meant to write delicious. I have no idea where the ‘religious’ came from.

Daddy, Praise, I love you.


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.

Ten things (out of a hundred thousand trillion) that I love about Daniella

1.   She cries for puscat. Not AT or because of puscat, but FOR puscat. She’s not one of those annoying babies that make you want to torture them because of how irrationally afraid they are of animals.

2.   She sleeps the moment you put her on your back.

3.   She adores other babies. Anything from 0 years to 7 is her best friend. She’s great with the kittens!

4.   She has a fantastic appetite. Wonderful levels of omnomery just. We don’t have to dance like we did for Praise, or force like we did for Joshua or hide all things edible from her like we had to do for Jero (who had the BIGGEST appetite in the world). This kind of sucks because we can’t afford to steal her cerelac. That shit’s expensive. She loves pineapple and eats it with a greed that surpasses understanding.


5.   She has a really goofy smile and just the best sounds to go with it.

6.   She will try to sing along with you, every time. This has helped me explore my voice a lot, because however off key I get, I am never going to surpass her level of off keyness

7.   She miaows with puscat, but not so much that you start to think the cat or one of her babies bit the baby in the night and turned her into cat-woman. No. Just miaow! miaow miaow!

8.   She outgrows her clothes in that way that has always made us brag about Opwonya babies. We’re biggies, we are. And healthies and cuties and oh my God this child is         adorable.

9.   She loves her tweety doll so much that we’ve attached many different theories to this relationship. The more obvious ones are:

Maybe the doll comes alive at night and plays with her (as she’s one of those babies that will wake up and stay in bed, quietly playing with her dolls).

Maybe in the way of spirits, mummy occasionally enters that doll and hangs out with bubuna. (This one we’ve always entertained. from when she was 2 months to maybe 5? She’d smile at the ceiling, make adorable sounds at the air. Soo. Yea. Duh? We know what you’re about mamalai.

10.   She eats her toes, just like I used to do. Only she bends forward to them and I used to pull my leg to my mouth.

She’s just the cutest little thing in the world, isn’t she? I love you adannybabe. Read this when you’re all grown and feel special.

ohmyGUSHNESS Women.

I DIG chicks. I love women. They’re the most fascinating creatures in the multiverse, I swear. All females are the pork and beans and tomato sauce, but human ones just take the cup.

Not even my mad fascination with hermaphrodites which came from my reading Middlesex by Jefferey Eugenides (Sigh. Cal. Sigh) and Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami (Oshima!!) one after the other was able to wrest the yoghurt from women.

The swish of a skirt, back of a knee. Back dimples. Pretty calves. Giggles! The a thousand and ten ways they can make themselves look even more beautiful (accessories rock).

I swear. My day can be going as smellilyy as a finger that has been stuck into a moist and dirty navel until a girl looking pretty or a woman looking just so…womanly appears and shines her awesome, cleansing femininity on it. The softness. The tenderness. The violence. The scheming. The everything!

The nice fingers, shapes, the way a woman can just shake your week by being beautiful in ways that refuse to conform to the 27 documented kinds of beauty .

My newest girl crush is The Floacist. My goodness.  




On a very unrelated note, growth.

Growth is one searing pain in the bums. One minute, I’m in the zone. I’m as comfortable as no one but me has ever been. I read my articles, I laugh. I put fingers to keyboard, they fly. 
And the next I’m hating on every single adjective. I’m hating on the subjects I choose to write about. I’m staring down at my muse, disgustedly asking it what the hell it thinks its doing.
I used to despair whenever I’d get attacked by this feeling, but now because I know what it is, I’m OK. Not happy that I’m more likely to trash an acceptibly written article 5 minutes before my deadlinekicks me in the face, but tolerant of this mind PMS. Because its me getting better. Shedding. Growing up and over the place that I’m currently writing from.

This week will be a good one. I have a feeling.

Dedike: Something ’bout a woman by Lady Antebellum (ona di replay)!


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.

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