Tough problems demand for tough solutions. Now, this is something for which I am claiming a copyright. I am as well recording it for posterity noting that it was not someone else, including you reading this, who said it before me.

Nedda ssebo; the craftmaship is mine and I am ready to fight for it nail and tooth. May I repeat it? Okay. I am saying that tough problems demand for tough solutions. Period. You can copy it at your own peril because nobody other than me is able to defend it to any other person's satisfaction.

I have come to that coinage following the tango I had the other day with this middle- aged mzungu, an American, so she said, down here in Capetown. Okay, you may fault me for being here and instead of concentrating on watching the world cup, I am obsessed with tumbling.

But if you do so, it will show that you are unaware that when crowds gather in a place guided on by the excitement of things like soccer, you are bound to find the following things taking place: There will be shrieking, laughter, tears, sometimes brawls, throwing of stones or bottles and flying abuses.

After the match, supporters of a winning team will gather in bars and bufundas and amid guffaws, discuss their win while mercilessly guzzling tribes of drinks of their preference. And of course they will later sex themselves as if paying homage to the win. The defeated supporters will sulk and, like a frightened dog, twist their tails between their legs.

Me, because I never side with losers, that's how I came into the company of this American who, with a big group of her countrymen, were in a bar celebrating a win of their home team and doing justice to booze, loud talk, dancing and doing merry making in its true colours.

Bad thing is that when the good lady warmed up to me and we ended up in my hotel room, she declared that at her age of 35, no man had ever entered her wolokoso, tear through her virginal membrane and qualify her for membership of a class of fuckies- the people who engage in war with their groins.

On hearing this, I at first could not decipher what she was talking about but when I went a step further with her and tried to wade in her turmoil waters of love, I found that as true as the fact that you are reading this and are unwilling to stop before you finish it, the damn kawoman was as tight and impenetrable like Bwindi forest.

I belong to a class of people who don't easily succumb to defeat so, when I discovered this scenario in the making, I did a jazz on the outer wings of her poor pussy.

Seeing that she liked this and that her kathing was reacting to the treatment in the normal way known to you and me, I furiously foraged to gain admission into her class nsome but wapi. Entering her was as difficult as romancing a rock.

This is when I concluded that this woman was a victim of what you at home refer to such a woman as 'ow'olwaazi;' I doubt whether the wazungu have words with a  close meaning to this.

Puzzled but not ready to give up, it was at this stage that I had to fall back on age-old wisdom of the people back home who say that a solution to such a scenario is for the man to strangle the woman but stop short of killing her.

If you had never heard about this, common talk in our UG has it that strangle, or make such a woman stop breathing, and bbwa! Her closed, or locked kathing will open and offer you safe passage.

The only warning is that never ever give up the strangling while your kamemba is still inside the woman's tunnel. Do that and you may have to dial 999 or any other of those kanyama boys of Kayihura to get you back to freedom.

Mbu the kathing can fix you in a lock which is tighter than the handcuffs which I saw fixed on cowboy Jamwa as he was being paraded around court premises in Kampala.  

That's why I told you that tough problems demand for tough solutions. I had to get practical. I first explained the steps to the woman assuring her I was not about to kill her. Excited about a first experience of being truly surfed, Ruth, her name was, agreed but cautioned me to be careful.

Myself fearing to commit murder anywhere, and especially in a foreign land, I laid the good girl in the lillies and went for her throat. Not knowing how far I had to squeeze her throat gave me the nightmare of my life as I placed my little friend at the entry point in readiness to make a fast plunge.

Sometimes you can be desperate in certain situations and so was I. It was like being in a science laboratory doing practicals where you had to prove a certain theory for the first time.

To tell you the truth, me I had never sweated prior to a sexual encounter, except at such times when I had to first engage a young girl in a wrestling.

Maybe you also remember those times when the kagirl wastes your time when she knows you are alone with her in some hidden place, she wants you to surf her kathing yet she engages you in a real but fake struggle sometimes requiring you to tear through her knickers.

But on hitting base, she just whimpers her thanks to you, praising your workmanship and, as with some girls I have met in my youth, even giving you Ssabasajja's gombololas.

Ssebo. I strangled the kawoman and heard, no, felt my one and only little friend tearing through a hot and tight tunnel of understanding you would forgive me for weeping with excitement at discovering virgin territory like happened to those acquake 19th century explorers.

Somewhere from afar, I could hear the kawoman whimpering in sweet pain and wonder while repeating, "Oh yea, Oh yea. I can feel it. I can feel you inside me and it's soooo beautiful…. Do..do…please don't stop."

You must be crazy if you want to know the rest of the story like what happened when, in my own excitement, my strangling hand lost grip and my little friend got into a grip yours and mine had never experienced. But that's a story for another day.

This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it blog comments powered by Disqus

< Prev		Next >