A Glitch?

A Glitch?

Somebody tells me it's called glitching in the cool world when your brain can't comprehend momentarily. And I'm guessing we’ve all experienced that incredibly ridiculous moment when we "glitched". Once, I read the word ‘safes’ as sa-fe-z before realizing they were talking about hidden jewels all along. Not so long ago I saw the word ekidduka on a mechanic's flyer on a taxi window and I was left mystified. Why the aggressive negativity? I wondered. Why refer to people's shops with such viciousness for someone seeking business? Then again, why did said shops need a mechanic? The word was ekidduka though, not ekiduuka.
Maybe you’ve failed to spell the word girl at one point? Or maybe you’ve just failed to fill up a sentence with that familiar term that you use on a daily basis.
It happens all the time and it is even acceptable to have those occassional glitches in brain function. But to altercate with a madman, that is a very curious form of glitching
We call them balalu in my tribe. Whenever someone yells "mulalu" in Lusoga, they do not refer to the metaphorical madman-the friend that loses their mind and wears mismatched Bata slippers. No. It is almost always a certainty that the mulalu reference is directed at the dirt coated, haggard looking mister with peeping bums and unfortunate hair.
So this man I met, he was a mulalu in every sense of the word. He had aimlessly stumbled infront of my boda boda in Iganga town. After a long day on the road from Kampala, I didn’t see the obvious mulalu-ness in him. I almost, almost wished his negligent bottoms had been knocked down as I jumped off the boda boda to save my head. Whoever it was was going to see the end of this. Somehow boda boda man brought his bike to a screeching halt and turned around. Somehow he could tell I was about to embarass myself. Nervously, he smiled and said, “mulalu".                                        “Ofcourse mulalu”. I shrilled. It had to take a mad man to saunter through the heart of traffic at a round-about. But my reference was metaphorical. I still couldn’t register his haggard nature and stunned look. (I effected a stunned look in a madman). He was probably stunned because noone had dared to stop and directly address him. I knew being in Busoga was an advantage to drive my point across; my grievances were going to be understood at all cost. Lusoga it was then.
I’ve seen shock written on the faces of men before but nothing compares to the looks on the faces of the people that had gathered around to witness this spectacle. It was a long minute into my beautifully executed Lusoga tirade before I noticed that something wasn’t right. My boda boda man had whispered the word mulalu a few more times during the diatribe but none of it had hit home. Then a woman on my right laughed, “mwanaiwe mme oyo omulalu katyo...olowoza oti aliitegela nibyolikoba. Wejiile buje.”
And that’s when it came to me. That’s when I realised what was going on. I knew I had only a minute to retrieve my dignity from wherever it had flown to and convince this crowd that I wasn’t insane. They had to know that I was as composed as I looked. The madman blinked at me then, presumably out of his shock, and took a bite of the mango I had arrested at his lips when I launched my speech. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered to him for lack of a better way to rectify the judgement on my sanity. He blinked once more, murmured a few desultory words and ambled right across the round-about. The crowd had quickly dispersed. I never got a chance to redeem myself with them so I merely smiled and bounded onto the boda boda again.

True Hustle: What It Is

True Hustle: What It Is.

The other day I had a very good laugh. The kind of laughter that wells up inside your cheeks and turns you into an embarassing shadow of yourself. The sort that has you behaving incoveniently; banging tables, wiping tears, gripping people's arms and producing animalistic sounds. I was stamping my feet so hard I thought my soles would wear off. I laughed hard because I made a new friend who taught me-in the most comedic way possible-the true meaning of hustling.

When it comes to hustling, you can not simply claim you're a hustler. You can not brazenly start your success story with, "back then I hustled...". First and foremost, think very clearly, have you earned the right to claim use of that word? Do you understand what it is to hustle? Is it a pronoun? Is it a verb?

The new friend I made, a self-professed expert on everything 'hustle' changed my whole perspective on this matter of social import (Im assuming it is) and like a new born being ushered into the world of accurate knowledge, I was educated and I'll pass some wisdom on.
If ever you're faced with one of two choices in the middle of town on a hot Monday afternoon, to either eat too much at the cheapest restaurant so you have adequate energy to foot home or to forego that meal and use the money for transport instead, that is a true definition of hustle.”

If you can effectively bargain and drop a shoe price from Ug Shs 90K to 25K in a matter of five minutes or less and in the decisive moment right before the salesman intones "kale sasula", you realise the extra 10k you thought you had in your pocket was spent on laundry the day before, and it's all you had but you willfully vow that your dignity will leave that street side unscathed-which it does-then my friend, you're a qualified depicter of true hustle.
To hustle is to know when to deliberately-and without suspicion-have lunch at 4.30pm. In the event that evening tea and supper are hard to afford, such wisdom should come in handy.

Hustle is what gets you braving the tropical heat and coming out a shade lighter at the end of it all. It is what has you calculating the equivalent bags of cement in a cute ensemble of cake tiers at a wedding reception.
Hustle is what has Bad Black thriving in her current situation. She made news before prison, promised to make even more news after, came out looking unrecognisable and still kept good on her promise. That is a true hustler.

But if you're the man who, at his own wedding, takes it upon himself to usher guests in and serve food, to mcee and make speeches having done away with groomsmen and bridesmaids, having picked out one of his old suits and a pair of old shoes for the ceremony, having insisted that his bride wear her one-month old pair of middle heeled shoes from kikuubo, having placed a dozen cup cakes at the central table instead of a real iced wedding cake...if you're that kind of man, you are no hustler. You are not deserving of this prestigious term of black men. What you're doing is B.S (Im censoring this word). That is no hustle and that sort of man doesn't deserve a day in heaven.

And apparently, a 5 years' experience in 'hustle' before marriage is an added advantage for the woman or man contending for the position of life long partner, for better or worse. Such experience would guarantee a wrinkle free life, happy children and happier in-laws.”