Republic of One

The ink on this page of my diary is runny. I must have left it near an open window one time to many.

The entry I’m about to lift is dated 25-03-11. The girl who wrote this must have been going through one hell of a heartbreak because the words are so raw, so reflective of what I am feeling now. When I read her words, I was like, how embarrassing that I was wiser at 20 than I am right now. I was more open to feeling my feelings.


Confusion, regret. Been there, done that, will not waste my youth on such.

Scrape them all together, M. raid their nooks, bombard their crannies

Sweep them up into one tall pile, pointing to heaven

and then bring out the lighter fluid.

How is it that my mind has moved on but it has only occurred to my heart to start bleeding now?

Bruised and seeping but determined.

One second at a time.

Grief is not shameful. Shame is.

Grief is not shameful. Shame is.

Grief is not shameful. Shame is.


Journalling is good because later in life, you are able to help yourself through some difficult situations. It is just as wise as saving money.


We’re not in P.3 any more. We have (some) dime.

It was P.3, right? When we were taught about the “tourism sites” of Uganda. Teachers drummed them into our soft brains for exams and then we promptly forgot them to make space for P.4 work. That sucks.

When somebody posts about their plans of holidaying in Seychelles or Mombasa or Zanzibar, your first feeling is eh maamaa.  A big fat mango of Nugu. But when they post about going to Jinja or Mbale or Kabale, you’re like, whatever that one is traveling for work.

bunyonyi beauty

Nti work

Forget the notion that tourists are white men and women in short shorts, with fat cameras dangling from their necks. A tourist is anybody with enough  interest and good sense to explore their surroundings!

Like this goofy madam

Like this goofy madam

Take some of your salary out of the bar/ boutique and be that person with me. Spend a little on exploring the awesome rock that you live on.

Nze as Apenyo, I’ve made a conscious decision to learn more about Uganda and to travel as much as my 9-5 job will let me.

Come along? On the 8th of March, Sabili Tours is taking three busloads of people to Jinja for a day of sailing the Nile, bungee jumping, white water rafting and big, big fun. 185,000 is not much when you consider that you will be driven to and from Jinja, given  a scrumptious meal and free water the whole day.

You can even bring your babies who will get a meal, boat ride, refreshments and will swim all day (under the supervision of several adults). Their package is 75 bob.

We goooo we go!

we go


Unrelated: Go and be friends with Apenyo oso you.


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

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.

The Love Of My Life

Healing is a small and ordinary and very burnt thing. And it’s one thing and one thing only: it’s doing what you have to do. It’s what I did then and there. I stood up and got into my truck and drove away from a part of my mother. The part of her that had been my lover, my wife, my first love, my true love, the love of my life.

You want to read this story.

Vuga, that fantastic woman who is also my bestfriend sent me this story. Thank you, madam. You are full full condition.

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.


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)!

I’m a bad girl.

I have bad manners. People only become properly human, more likeable, more interesting to me after I’ve read and liked their writing. That’s some fake shit right there.

(Is it? Because I’ve been trying to feel bad for the last five seconds without success.)

Anyway, I love it when I stumble onto a blog and find enjoyable posts on it. That’s the best thing in the world( after onions) because its writer becomes one more person that I want to meet, even if I’ve met them already.

Every writer has a special kind of magic, a kind of energy that changes me and the way the imp in my mind fashions things. Somehow, I change.

I hate conversation. Even though I’m the biggest motor mouth in the world, I hate talking. I resent long phone conversations (except when it’s you calling, Pwinchy boo, and then what I feel is a bittersweet sort of thing. Like strawberry flavored bile. Also, all the pacing that I do keeps me on the right path to svelte.)

Ko if conversation only meant sending each other notes? It would be a lot more truthful and enjoyable. As things are, voices, diction, accents, inflections, current state of mind, whether or not you have a cold, mood, history; these all affect the way you respond to the other person, which sucks buttocks.

SO I’m very grateful to the intergoddess for leading me to a very delightful blog today and I ask that she continue being so awesome. That’s one more girl whose guts I DIG so much now.

Instead of editing this brochure…

Life, living and all their relatives can go fuck themselves. I’ll (live? Exist? Be?) vicariously through my writing.

Writing, like a nice strong drink takes the edge off. It gives me my most genuine giggles.

When I’m in the zone, despair can’t touch me.

Existence is torture. Constant pretense.  An incessant bully, a charade that gorges itself on my pleas for it to end.

Which is why a Memento Mori tattoo is such a kickass, string-colon-around-neck, dangle-elephant-balls-from-ears idea.

It will rob death of the element of surprise. I will see it coming. Every time I look at my arm, I shall be reminded.

And when it does come, when it anticlimactically shuffles its pathetic, second-guessed, outshone self in, I’ll punch it in the pelvis and yell that tired line at it: YOU CAN’T FIRE ME. I QUIT!

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.





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