Dave The Writer

Motomoto never quite knew when he had grown so mean. Killing for him had become seamless, petty, a walk in the park… Before, he had felt bile rise in his gut when he took a life; when it was a senseless one, when innocent blood was spilled, his heart grieved and he felt sick to his stomach. Now, he didn’t think twice. Orders were no longer to shoot to scare but to kill. He adjusted his gun strap to the back and helped carry the lifeless body of a woman off the main highway in Kansana. ‘Damn, she was heavy,” he cursed under his breath. The bullet had caught her square in her extended belly, both unborn child and mother would not see another day. He smiled at his marksmanship. Still, he wondered about his callousness…maybe it was the growing resentment with his job; was it the delayed payments of a meagre salary that had made him cold or was it that he had never gotten any promotion in his 23 years of service yet other recruits he had joined with had been quickly elevated. Could it be be...

The last time I woke up to a soldier at the foot of my bed was in the early eighties.  I remember that night like it was yesterday…the night my one-day old red blanket my Dad had just brought from Nairobi was stripped off me...forever leaving me scarred…(https://www.facebook.com/100064126593718/posts/pfbid0FRaqF9xurxdQpUJhP1EWT9uMpaeM9KMCiCZhX5Za8LV4JFzztbMjdfcUEukQpzoGl/?app=fbl) The next time this happened was last night…This time it wasn’t soldiers on an side mission to plunder but an officer, brandishing a stick….i shared thus👇🏿 Hasn't some Afande just budged into our room brandishing those sticks cattle keepers keep, claiming we took his bags....that we should give him his bags...he left his bags in here (opening up the wardrobes and pointing...) Just imagine 4 guys entering the room....the shouting afande, another short bloke in a similar blue Kaunda suit, another quiet agent and a member of staff materializing out of your dreams at 3 a.m. with a whole bunch of claims!!...

A thoroughly enjoyable time I had at my cousin, Pam's Book Launch . She was launching not one..not two but three books! That's Pam for you- always doing things in a big way.  The books: Time Traveller's Mailbox– Journey Worker's Edition (for that 25 to 45 year old negotiating life's purpose amidst the chaos of life), Time Traveller's Mailbox –Teenage Edition (very good for those parents raising teens-Mums navigating hormonal changes even as they deal with their own changes), and God's Masterpiece-Fit for Purpose (for the 45+ masterpieces tried and tested journeyers rooted in purpose?) The execution of such a herculean task would spell anxiety and worry among lesser mortals but not Pam…she pulled it off with all the flair and pomp it deserved as well as a finesse that showed a master in her craft. Did I tell you she was also celebrating her 50th? The verve and youthful exuberance she displayed would mislead you into thinking she was in her teens (she payed...

In 2013 Andy Murray won the Wimbledon singles title after a 77 year drought for his homeland. Many a time, he had come close and choked, falling to better opposition when it mattered-often in the semis and finals stage. You see, that's what sports is about: a winner and a loser with the latter honorably congratulating the former and leaving to hopefully win another day. What was interesting was how the press carried this story?..when he won, he was the British champion; when he lost, it was the defeated Scot. Murray is of Scottish birth but British by heritage. It was always amusing how with a simple interplay of words, one's nationality was thrown then claimed, conveniently.  After last night's Euros finals where England lost in the lottery that is a penalty shootout, some petty miscreants have chosen to debase themselves further by choosing to aim their disgruntlement at the three black lads that missed their penalties. They seem to opine that the color of their skin rath...

 ....Conversations on boda ride down Buziga Terrace .... Me: Chief, how much to Roofings? Him: 3000 Me: (feigning surprised face) -not 2k? Him: But you are a boss man..you see me here even the site engineer didn't come..I am trying to make some money to take home for my children (I can see he's dressed in an electrician's overall...he has his tools in a small bag strapped to the back of the passenger seat) Me: (As we ride)... Him: You stay in Kyanja? Me: No, on Jinja Rd.. Do you stay in Kyanja? Him: No I am just going up here Munyonyo Me: You see, you are the big man (teasing him) Him: (laughing and shaking his head) There are ghettos everywhere...even here- pointing back at Lubowa...There's what is called forcing life...u can tell someone you live in Munyonyo but let them come to your place... you're poor, he laughs then continues..you are not a car because you stay in a garage.' Me: Now you have become a poet? Him: No, no that's the truth. Every rich place...

Mama goat and her kids gathered…or were gathered for their daily graze. The lad who tended them always tied their ropes on a hinge in the rails that skirted the highway. The little kids always fidgeted in fright when a huge truck screamed past, retreating to their Mum till the sound reduced only to advance again to feed. They strained their necks to reach the greener, more succulent shoots just a little out of their reach but they could only manage a few unsatisfying bites. They cursed the lad that tied them out of reach as they chewed on what they could. Before they knew it, it was dawn and the lad was there to untie them, and lead them home. Another day awaited tomorrow. In the dead of the night while they were asleep miles away in their shed, one of those huge trucks that interrupted their feeding by day, came speeding by and failed to negotiate the turn. With tyres screeching, it rammed square into the rails where they were tethered every feeding morning. When the lad showed up th...