Kanyindo's Random Ramblings

I made a resolution half way through this year that I was going to make an effort to be nicer to people.  I have been accused of being a bit harsh in certain circumstances, but I make no apologies when it comes to people and their hygiene.  If the rest of us have taken the time and effort to ensure we do not assault your nostrils with body odour, what gives you the right to assail our nasal passages and singe the delicate hairs that dwell therein? Of course I know that certain smells are perfectly natural.  We all sweat.  Some more than others.  But we also all have access to soap and water, not to mention deodorants to suit even the most humble of budgets.  Which is why I refuse to accept excuses like ‘oh, but so-and-so works as such-and-such.  It doesn’t matter that they smell.’ In fact, I would go one step further and say there are certain jobs where you are not, under ANY circumstances, allowed to emit any kind of offending smell whatsoeve...

Tusaba Gavumenti Etuyambe!! #TGE!! Let’s petition the President!! Seriously, Ugandans.  Aren’t we tired of asking our government to help us with every little thing? Family land wrangle?  Let me write to the president!  I have jiggers.  Let’s ask the First Lady for money! My wife won’t sleep with me.  HELEP!! When does it stop?! What happened to asking not what your government can do for you, but what you can do for your government? Every government needs help from its people.  I’m not just talking about getting them in office so they can enjoy our blood sweat and taxes.  Sometimes I read about initiatives, bills being passed and sacks of money being donated and think, hang on- surely this is misguided?  I hear people complaining in the office or grumbling on social media, and I just can’t help thinking that governments are not taking advantage of their people.  Not as much as they could, anyway. There are so many things...

I’ve had to learn a few tough lessons on forgiveness over the past couple of months. I always thought of myself as a relatively easy-going person- I don’t hold grudges, and once I have told someone exactly how their selfish, dim-witted actions made me feel I tend to move on and not drag up the past. But I recently realized that I might not be quite as forgiving as I believed myself to be. Laying my father to rest is easily one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.  Of course, growing up, you know it to be an eventuality, but nothing quite prepares you for that moment, no matter how many times we may have talked about it (Dad always said no lengthy speeches and tedious wreath-laying. We did our best.) Apart from the emotional turmoil, disbelief and everything else that comes along at such a time, I often found myself with a knot of anger in my stomach.  Please understand- devastated as I was that my Dad had left us, I wasn’t angry about it.  Oh no....

I consider myself very lucky to work at the largest media house in the country (ok not exactly lucky, I work my butt off and deserve to be here, but you know what I mean).  The fact that I get to work with people from all walks of life means it is a constant hub of activity.  There is never a dull moment.  Oh, and I get to listen to music the whole time I’m in the office. One thing I have failed to come to grips with in the work place is women and their mutual suspicion of each other. Have you ever walked into an office, or another department, and immediately been scanned from head-to-foot by the women in the room?  And not in a very friendly manner? I was chatting with a colleague the other day who works in a department dominated by women.  He was complaining about a particular meeting that descended into madness when a seemingly trivial issue blew up and normally constructive criticisms became personal attacks.  Everyone in the meeting, apart...

I have come to the conclusion that women are like avocados. Let me explain. I was having a conversation with a male friend of mine recently. The poor guy was being frustrated in his efforts to woo a certain young lady. After weeks of trying to get her to go out with him and meeting a solid wall of resistance, he gave up and set his sights on someone else.  Not in an attempt to make chick #1 jealous, mind.  He simply acknowledged that his energy might be better spent elsewhere.  No sooner had his romantic endeavours begun to bear fruit with chick #2 that chick #1 suddenly realized that actually, this fellow was a bit of alright and could be worth her time. My hapless friend was now in a state of total confusion.  Should he back away from a sure deal and into the arms of his original conquest?  Or continue on his current mission?  Like a moth to a flame, and after giving chick #1 a week to stew, he went crawling back to her and left chick...

I made the regrettable decision to have lunch with my Aunt Liz last weekend. I say regrettable because it seems I failed to learn my lesson after the last one. There’s line in a Luther Vandross song that goes ‘The first time- a mistake. The second time- a bad decision.  The third time- there won’t be one…’ Totally applies to me. After months of avoiding her calls and her Whatsapp messages, I finally caved in and agreed to meet her for Sunday lunch.  My man was out of town, my sisters were busy, my brother was all set for the Arsenal game, and I couldn’t convince any of my girls to accompany me. So off I went, like a lamb to the slaughter.  I love my aunt but sometimes she is just. Too. MUCH. I’ll spare you the details of the lunch, for now.  What transpired is that Aunt Liz is very happy that I have a dude, she really likes him and so on and so forth.  When she reiterated all this I was pleased, but only because I didn’t know what was ...

One of my proudest moments ever was when my Mum felt comfortable enough to leave me alone in the kitchen and not keep peering over my shoulder, giving me tips and being helpful yet somewhat annoying. God bless her. This may seem like an everyday occurrence but what made it all the more momentous for me is that I was making lunch for my Dad. My late Dad was particular about his food.  Not that he was difficult. It’s just that as he got older, his tastes changed. A lot. Frequently.  So it became a challenge keeping up with what he liked or could not stand the sight of.  Being in the kitchen was never a chore for me.  I love food and hold the grand title among my siblings, bestowed on me by Mother Dearest, as The One Child Who Ate Anything and Everything Placed On Her Plate. I wasn’t that child who carefully separated each and every sliver of onion from the rest of the food (my sister Asiimwe). Or the child who baulked at the thought of drinking milk or...