A popular musician came to the newspaper office in which I work for her scheduled press interviews.

Tindatiine herself! She walked right into this office. In person! She perambulated upon the premises aboard her own duopoly of personal feet. Lord love us, I was in her presence.

I would have liked to be my usual cool, calm and unflappable self. You know, the cat who meets all these so-called celebs with a cold smirk and perhaps the words, “So what? I’m talented, too, you know.”

Like the time Bebe Cool was all up in my spacial and I had to assure him.

But then Tindatiine walks in and out walks my dignity. My knees turned to jelly, my jaw dropped. My beard was moistened by drool.

“Oh. My. Good. Fucking. Ness. I cannot believe it’s you. Tindatiine! I Looooove your song. Oh my gorrrrsh! I like totally can’t believe it’s actually you. In person. Wheeeeekkk! Wheeekk!” I said, the last two words being me screaming.

I was shaking and shivering and jumping up and down and flapping my hands like those black boys who were acting as white girls in that movie. I may have been splashing sweat and spit on her because she slapped me.

Hard.

She’s a little woman, but she packs a wallop.

She said, “Get a hold of yourself, man! What is the meaning of this outrageous behaviour?!”

It didn’t work. I was still jumping and shrieking. Now I was on, “Oh My Goodness. Tindatiine TOUCHED ME!”

So she hit me with another one.

“Control yourself. Pull yourself together. Cut this nonsense out. You’re acting like the Wayans Brothers in White Chicks, that movie that sucked!”

“That movie didn’t suck…” I started to say, but she slapped me again.

“It sucked! Shut up. Now sit down and stay still. I’m a star, okay?”

My sense began their journey back. “Whatever you say, madam.”

“Now, who is the guy who is going to interview me? I don’t have all day. I have a show at Club Vision Empire this weekend and I need to rehearse.”

While Intrepid Reporter whisked her off to the cocktails/interview room my senses finished their trip and finally returned. I was able to remember that I don’t even like her song anymore. I was able to remember, then, that I am actually getting kind of sick of it. I mean it is everywhere. You can’t escape it.

What I really want to listen to is Angela Kalule’s other song that is as sweet as a mother’s love mixed with chocolate. It is called Oyo Mwana (this is an approximate spelling) and if she would give the internet an mp3, I would put up a link that you, too, may fall for it.

And when I met Angela Kalule, I didn’t turn into whateverthenameoftheguy/girlinwhitechicks. I was dignified, and greeted her with poise and class, informing her that I enjoyed her work, accepting her gracious response and moving on.
And when I met Iryn, I was all, “What’s up.” And she was “What’s up.” and then we were like, “Aight, Later.” And that was it.

Then this chick Tindatiine slaps me.

Surely.



and now our sponors have a word:


In case you have been wondering where Bikozulu is, we had him in a bunker in the Chinese deserts. We put a gun to his head and said, you have two choices: starting a blog is one…”

This is the result.