There is a man in Kampala who owns a Hummer H2. Nothing personal against him, but fuck that shit!

There is something just so eye-rollingly, spine-twistingly, brain-curdlingly, and in the case of some people, most of whom once did or still do reside in Lumumba, underwear-soilingly wrong about spending that sort of money in the middle of the third world. It isn’t just tacky and in very poor taste, it is downright immoral.
I mean, luxury is one thing, and it’s okay to enjoy your life if you can afford it, but for crying out loud it is a fucking HUMMER in UGANDA. Do you have any idea what sort of poverty exists in this country? And you you just want to buy a hummer? They don’t make Benzes big enough to compensate for what you’ve got? This is proof that ostentation is going too far. Hummer H2s and Ray-Bans. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned...

But that’s not the point.

The point is, as an avid anti-materialist who recently converted to yuppiedom, I have issues. The transition has not been smooth. Leather shoes with pointy ends are not as comfortable as well-beaten Reebocks, khaki pants are not as cosy as jeans, ties get into your gravy when you are eating, and visiting a barber every week is more of a hassle than it sounds. Because sometimes the barber wants to reach a particularly hard-to-access corner of the cranium, and you end up with your nose in his armpit.

The reason I sold out was, what else? I needed the money. And a wise man told me that, while the corporate world is slow to respond to manifest intelligence, a necktie will bring it to its knees. It sounds absurd but it is true. This guy had been tossing me around for a while over some freelance ass-kicking I had done for his company but when I walked into his office the other day and he saw my tie, it was like I had put a gun to his head. That is why I am so wealthy right now. A tie.

And Gillette sports roll-on (Cool Wave).

However, there is only so far a man can go. I am still, at heart, the loveable rogue, the rough-and-tumble ragamuffin, the cheeky rascal, the naughty rapscallion with the glint in his eye, the blackhearted fiend and the personification of evil that you know your boy to be. Even though I do look like Agent Smith from the Matrix.

Yes, with the shades. Not just the tie and coat and dress shoes, but the shades. I am a boy of contact lenses now, so I have to wear shades, Doctor’s orders. You know, in case I need to interact with the public. The public is very dirty and is always covered in dust.

I almost didn’t get the sunglasses. When the woman in the shop told me how much a pair of designer shades cost I was seized with righteous indignation. A flame of pious anger sprung up in my very soul, my very soul, people, and the only things that stopped me from immediately razing the entire shop to the ground in a whirl of my wrath and fury as a punishment for having the audacity to even mention those numbers to me were that I didn’t want to embarrass the person I was with, it wasn’t really the shop attendant’s fault, and I didn’t have my machete with me at the time. I had left it at the office.

You guys can go and wear all the outrageously priced clothing accessories you want. As long as they look good and the sight works for my edification, entertainment and pleasure. But a) Don’t tell me how much you paid and b) If you are a shop attendant, and I am asking around, make up a lie. Say something like, “Sorry, sir, these are just for display.” Or, “They make you look fat.” Or even, “White folks only.” Do not tell me to pay that much for a fucking pair of sunglasses.

Look at them.



Actually, they look kind of cool. Maybe I should just go back to the shop…