Oh! What have I done!?!
I have started to feel some pangs of remorse. The Machiavellian in me was waning, giving way to the little teddy-ruxpin-teletubby-softy-wuss-care-bear within me that is otherwise called a conscience. I know it sounds silly, and that I am completely overreacting, and that I am being ridiculous and that you will roll your eyes but I could not help asking myself what you will doubtless consider an asinine question:
Did I really have to go and have a nigga killed?
I spent the weekend trying to shake the question off, but it wouldn’t go. Every unguarded moment it was there. During the commercial breaks, it was there. When one bottle was finished and I was waiting for the next one, it was there. Every idle moment, conscience was asking, “You could have just had him transferred, or fired. You didn’t have to get a hitman to kill him.”
In the end I broke down and cried. This end happened in the middle of a burger dinner at Nandos and caused a couple of patrons to look at me and sneer at such unhygienic behaviour i.e. sobbing uncontrollably on my knees in the middle of such a classy place.
I was able to stop sobbing long enough to give each of them the finger and articulate the words “classy my ass” before I returned to my breakdown.
I fortunately able to regain my composure as I was being carted to Butabika, and convince the cops to drop me off in Nakawa (50K did the trick), where I started to think optimistically. Maybe he is not dead. Maybe he really is on leave. Maybe I am not a horrible and evil and ill-mannered person after all.
“Yeah right,” conscience said.
So I went and had another beer. Okay, another crate.
Did I really have to go and have a nigga killed?
I spent the weekend trying to shake the question off, but it wouldn’t go. Every unguarded moment it was there. During the commercial breaks, it was there. When one bottle was finished and I was waiting for the next one, it was there. Every idle moment, conscience was asking, “You could have just had him transferred, or fired. You didn’t have to get a hitman to kill him.”
In the end I broke down and cried. This end happened in the middle of a burger dinner at Nandos and caused a couple of patrons to look at me and sneer at such unhygienic behaviour i.e. sobbing uncontrollably on my knees in the middle of such a classy place.
I was able to stop sobbing long enough to give each of them the finger and articulate the words “classy my ass” before I returned to my breakdown.
I fortunately able to regain my composure as I was being carted to Butabika, and convince the cops to drop me off in Nakawa (50K did the trick), where I started to think optimistically. Maybe he is not dead. Maybe he really is on leave. Maybe I am not a horrible and evil and ill-mannered person after all.
“Yeah right,” conscience said.
So I went and had another beer. Okay, another crate.
Comments
I have been called nigger before, with clear intent to insult, and I know the word cuts through like no other. It was an Indian guy. I almost broke his neck.
But when I returned to my black friends, I would hear the word this nigga, and hear the word that in the racist’s mouth was a vile and deadly thing – I have a thick skin, it takes quite a lot to offend me, but this guy had got me with just one word—suddenly turned impotent. Now it is a meaningless utterance we toss around carelessly; it cannot do us any harm. It’s a rush, actually, to take the enemy’s deadliest weapon and turn it into fluff, into less than a word, into an interjection, something you just throw into a sentence to make rhythm because it hardly has meaning otherwise: Nigga doesn’t mean “man”. It certainly doesn’t mean “black man”. It’s just there: hardly a word at all.
Like the word “Fuck”. I just noticed that I never even use the word in reference to sex. And “shit”—I hardly ever talk about faeces, yet I say”shit” all the time.
Of course this is an illusion. You haven’t destroyed the racist’s weapon. If a racist calls me a nigger again, I will lose it, but it does feel good to know that the word is not that powerful after all.
Generally I cuss by default, not because I think it is cool, or to imitate anyone. But I actually like the word Nigga. Meanwhile, I think you should re-examine your attitude toward people from Katwe. They are Ugandans just like you, man.
Sorry, this is not related to the "Oh! What have I done!?!" post, but I could not reach you at your newvision.co.ug address. How do you get fan mail, then? Such as:
Thanks very much for the weekly laughs/thought-provocation provided by your Bad Idea column in the New Vision Sunday magazine - I look forward to many more installments.
Just a note, since you seem like the kind of person who likes to have his facts straight: A couple of weeks ago, you mentioned Mozart's Fur Elise - in fact, this piano piece was written by Beethoven. (Either way, I agree it doesn't sound nice as a mobile phone ring tone.)
Best regards,
Heidi Hopkins
Wandegeya
By the way, I hope the email thing has been fixed. Just to make sure, my address is ebazanye@newvision.co.ug if you catch me messing up again. I would love to hear from you.