Post Christmas Blues

Bar an attack of horribly bad humor from the Big Guy, I think it is safe to assume that nothing catastrophic is going to happen between now and next Thursday when the new year finally comes along.


But I'm having a few problems of my own and if things keep happening this way, I probably won't be seeing the new year.

How, you ask? well, this is how. I arrived home pretty late last night... All right! I arrived home very late last night. Happy?

Anyway, because of the slur in my speech and the fact that I don't subscribe to the Christian faith, I kinda figured the "I went for midnight mass" routine wouldn't work with my girlfriend, so I decided to go the "Stop nagging, Woman!" way.

Fine, except I hadn't counted on three things:

1. My girlfriend was pissed off. As in really, really pissed off.

2.For some reason, she took up Karate classes when I was in Kampala.

3.She's got an impressive 5ft8in kick, which by unfortunate co-incidence, is the exact distance my face is from the ground when I'm standing.

Well, you can see where this is leading. I was very practically reminded of these three facts, and by the time I picked myself up from the sofa which had mercifully broken my fall, she had disappeared into our bedroom and locked herself in.

Obviously, I had to find an alternative place to sleep, and the carpet was quite fine by me. So after setting my radio to automatically turn itself on at 7am, I fell asleep under the coffee table.

When I woke up this morning and looked at my watch, I was petrified. You see, there was this article that my editor wanted in her inbox by noon today.

My editor bears a frightening resemblanbe to Brig. Hussein Ali at a crime scene when she is in a bad mood. Believe me, you don't want to get on her wrong side, for example through unmet deadlines, or worse, unsubmitted articles. That can honestly be considered a health hazard.

So my worst fears, were confirmed when I looked at my watch and saw it was a few hours past noon. I sat up in shock...

And my head connected with the underside of the coffee table.

In that instant, I saw more stars than most astronauts ever got to see in their entire careers.

Rats!

You can tell that a ship is leaking by the inexplicable absence of rats in the ship scullery, so goes a saying I've read in one of my lengthy travails through the world of literature. What basically this means is that if something is wrong somewhere within a system, you tell by the mundane manifest discomforts.

Back to that in a tri. My semester ended jana, and like most reprobates in pretended pursuit of education at the Ivory Tower, I am looking foward to several weeks of continuing what I have been doing throughout the semester-alot of nothing. I am looking foward to it because much as it is a continuation of what I've been doing all along, this time I get to do it from the more pleasant surroundings of home and so I don't have to feel so guilty about it!

But before one gets to enjoying the next phase of his lazy existence away from the incredibly irritating distractions posed by courseworks, lectures, tests, projects and other equally useless things, there exists one very minuscle but nevertheless extremely pertinent phase: Getting home.

Of course that won't be a problem if you hail from Wandegeya or Kikoni or Bwaise any other place disturbingly near enough for your dad to access your faculty notice board when the coursework mark list for your worst-performed course unit is displayed, or worse still, near enough for your good-looking coursemate from Ethiopia to meet your younger sister.

But if you come from more far-flung places such as Bulemia village of Budalang'i division in the Samia district of western Kenya, such problems are mercifully eliminated, but getting home requires more than just packed belongings and a quick good-bye-see-you-next-sem-please-keep-in-touch to your friends. It also requires fifteen thousand Uganda shillings for a taxi ride to Busia Kenya, fifty Kenya shillings for another taxi ride from Busia town to Bumala centre, and two hundred Kenya shillings for a ride in a contraption that bears a frightening resemblance to a pregnant pig all the way to Bulemia.

The problem in this case however is not money, but comfort. Between Iganga and Bugiri, you eat more dust than a mafia execution victim in the sahara. Between Busia and Bumala, you pray very hard that you won't meet the fate of all the bugs that hit the windscreen of the taxi you are travelling in at between 120 and 130k.p.h. Between Bumala and Bulemia, you struggle not to gag at the stench of unwashed humanity around you. Such scenarios, you will have to agree with me, don't measure up to a vast many people's acceptable standards of comfort.

And the smells you sometimes encounter are exceedingly strange, for example the smell of a fresh cob of maize being chewed by a decent-looking guy I sat next to inside the pig-inspired contraption. Not strange in itself until you consider that the maize cob being chewed is straight up raw, as in straight from the fields into the belly, no hint of fire or a milling machine having been involved anywhere its lifespan.

Maybe some of you wouldn't find that strange, but I did. It was actually the first time I have ever seen someone who is not a child or someone of unfortunate mental circumstance chew on a raw maize cob, and much as it is anyone's inaleniable constitutional right to chew on a raw maize cob if he so wishes, I just had to ask him why the hell he was doing that.

"The price of maize flour has gone up." He answered.

Back to rats and sinking ships. You know the food situation in your country is really bad if you see a sane person eating raw maize because he claims he can't afford the finishing product!

Conspiracy theory. [Is it just me...]

Today, we woke up to the news... To be precise, yestyerday we went to sleep with the news that coordinated groups of gunmen shot and blasted their way through tourist sites in the Indian financial center of Mumbai

Throughout November and indeed, for the better part of the year, partly due to the frustrations that come with the paenuts I am yet to start earning despite a university education, [education which, by the way, is being threatened by Makerere University's policy of overcharging Kenyan students,] I have been seriously considering a career in bucaneering, since it seems there is alot of money to be made there.

But seriously, authorities commented on this latest terror incidient by saying it exhibited a previously unseen degree of reconnaissance and planning. The scale and synchronization of the attacks pointed to the likely involvement of experienced commanders and very detailed planning. Several witnesses also said the gunmen demanded to see passports from cornered guests, separating American and British tourists from the others.

A previously unknown group calling itself Deccan Mujahedin said it carried out the attack.

Now, let's do a little math.

1. Such a flawlessly planned operation needs money. Lots of money.

2. Money pouring in from pirate ransoms have reached $30 million this year alone.

3. The indian navy has been protecting ships from the islamist pirates, with support from Britain and America.

4. Somalia, despite being a very failed state, has never ever let go of its strict and very extreme Islamic way of life.

5. Deccan Mujahedin sounds like an islamist group to me.

Is it just me, or does anybody else notice a thread?

pick-pocketed

I went for a rave... I mean an overnight at Steak Out... sorry. this fellowship centre in Kampala near Steak Out the other night.

There, I met this chick... I mean this Sister-in-Christ who had my heart boiling with gratitude to the Allmighty for bringing such beauty to the world. Actually, she had quite a few other parts of my body boiling for reasons totally unrelated to gratitude, but I won't get into that.

Well, as the night wore on, I went to her and suggested we dance...sorry. I suggested we praise the Lord together at closer proximity since, I pointed out matter-of-factly, even the good Lord himself had promised reward for those that worship at close quarters. She was quite open to the idea, and we got into groove just as the DJ...excuse me. The pastor unleashed 'Smooth Operator'...Ahem! I mean 'sweet saviour.'

I do remember feeling her hand in my pockets. Only I reasoned that it being a cold night, she probably just wanted to keep her palm warm. Also truth be told, I didn't really mind the sensations her other hand was causing to other areas of my anatomy which, for purposes of decorum, shall remain unmentioned. Plus there must have been something in the beer... I mean the tea, that made me drowsy.

Bottom line is, I woke up minus my wallet and cellphone, and being a safaricom subscriber, I can only swap my sim in Kenya. So in the meantime, I have to resort to my old Nokia 1011 and one of the simcards I... I mean my my roommate used to play chilles with during his reign as the local Don Juan.

I'm never going to a rave...I mean an overnight, again!

Why is mommy's tummy so big?

A couple of dozen years ago, a young boy walked up to his mother and asked her, "Mommy, why is your tummy so big?"

Such questions tend to be very awkward for the parent concerned, since they mostly come from children whom until a few seconds before you assumed were several gazillion years away from beginning to understand the dynamics behind gestation and the accompanying physical attributes which afflict women involved in the process of gestation. Other questions in this genre include gems such as "Where did we come from?" Or, "Mommy, why do you like eating stones and yet you beat me when I do?"

Now, if you are a parent with even the slightest inkling of an idea on what ideal parenting is, then at some point in time you must have been involved in such an excruciating scenario. It is nature's way of reminding us that whatever we think, that very active mass of matter inside your child's head won't remain stagnated in childhood forever, and of informing us that raising our kids just got a hell lot trickier.

When such questions begin coming our way from the little brats, they can take on the atmosphere of an inquisition and won't go away until a satisfactory answer or a hefty enough bribe is obtained to defer their attention. As it was, this aforementioned boy was more inquisitive than most children, and so it took a highly creative tale about the stones clearing worms in Mommy's stomach to clear his curiosity and a very huge five shilling coin to curtail another torrent of questions along the same vein.

But what goes around really does come around. Boys tend to be freer with their mothers while girls can twist their fathers round their little finger. How are these two phenomena related? Well, last week, this boy, now a fully grown man with one daughter and another one on the way, was seated in the house doing nothing in general and nothing in particular, when his daughter walked up to him and asked, "Daddy, why is Mommy's tummy so big?"

Usually, this man refers the child to her mother when she starts asking questions of this kind, but this time the daughter was very insistent. He couldn't bribe her because he was flat broke, and attempting the explanation he once heard from his mother about worms was futile since the wife in question never puts anything that even vaguely resembles a stone anywhere near her mouth.

To cut a long story short, each and every one of us, as we grow tend to go through the following stages:
1.Dad knows everything
2.Dad knows almost everything
3.Dad knows many things
4.Dad knows one or two things
5.Dad knows nothing
6.Maybe Dad does know one or two things
7.Actually Dad knows many things
8.Dad knows everything.

Well, by the time my daughter was through with me, I moved from No.1 to No.5 without going through 2 to 4. I can only pray I get to 8 really soon.

Of PAMA and logic.

The 2008 PAM dropped by when I had gone to pay my final respects to a very sadly departed aunt, so although PAM is now old news, I question your perceptive abilities if you thought the subject would just slip by without a word from me.

I won't comment on the sideshows. That will take too much space, time and more importantly, words. you see, according to my second-favorite blogger Baz, a blog shouldn't be more than a thousand words. I guess that means a picture is worth more than a standard blog since it is said that a picture is worth more than a thousand words, but that is just Baz. [By the way, Baz, what the hell were you thinking with that pic last sunday? As an ardent fan, I feel duty-bound to inform you mbu that was a very bad joke indeed.]

Anyway, back to PAM. Now, with the possible exception of the Obsessions winning Best Hip Hop in 2004 and yet everybody knows that Obsessions are to hiphop what Abdu Mulaasi is to, let's say, Gospel KrautRock, no category has proved more controversial over the years than Artiste of the Year award, mainly thanks to whatever concoction it is the judges must drink before they choose the winner. [No disrespect to J's fans, but honestly, you can't convince me that she deserved to win this year. Last year maybe, 2005 Very Definitely, but not 2008.]

But that is not what I want to dwell on either for this year, believe it or not, the category was actually awarded logically, by which I mean the way it was awarded contained valid demonstration and inference, on top of being possessed of reason, both intellectual and dialectical. [Wikipedia, I admit.]

The last time this category was logically [albeit inexplicably as regards the winner] awarded was in 2005 when Mesash/Meschach?/Meshack/Whatsthespelling Semakula won both male artiste and artiste of the year award. Previously, only the inagural 2003 awards had followed logic [Previous parenthetical content NOT applying. Jose was really HUGE then and richly deserved it] in awarding this category.

Heavyweight king

In 2004, Whatsthespelling Semakula was the Male Artiste of the year, while Sheila Nvanungi was the female Artiste of the year. Logically, one of them should have scooped this award, for in awards which have logic as an integral part of their judgement, these two have already been declared the best and it should therefore be a tussle between them for who is Best of the Best.

The best movie ever.

OK. Not the movie. But you must admit, the karate was stunning!


Anyway, that year PAM decided that Jose Chameleone was the Artiste of the year.
The same thing happened in 2006, when His Excellency Yoweri Kaguta Museveni took it home despite Iryn Namubiru and Whatsthespelling taking the female and male awards respectively.

His Excellency

In 2007, Jaberi Ssali's pride and joy [who is also his worst nightmare.] took the male artiste award,


and when we thought Sophia Nantongo had just served us with the best example of how NOT to dress when she stepped up in her bra-showing greens to pick the female artiste award, Ronald Mayinja EMPHATICALLY staked his claim with the WORST belt I have EVER seen when he went to collect the Artiste of the year award.

I'm drawing dangerously close to a thousand words, so I'll wrap up. My question is, how could Jose, His excellency and Ronnie not take the male artiste awards in their respective years and yet still won the ultimate prize?

Kwani are they Hemaphrodites?

Big boys do cry.

The word "Cry" means "to utter inarticulate sounds, usually with tears." It usually happens during moments of great emotion.



I'm a pretty reserved, quiet person, not given to crying. As a matter of fact, I have once been described as 'frigid in the emotional department' by some lady whose affection I craved but wasn't up to declaring my affections in the manner of a character from one of Shakespeare's or Danielle Steele's numerous literary works.



But I do cry sometimes. Like on May 21st this year, at the exact moment this happened...

And on the morning November 3rd, when this picture appeared on the screen as I was watching CNN's Wolf Blitzer.

Ethics and Integrity and Nsaba Buturo

This month alone has seen more than a hundred people lose their lives in grisly traffic accidents.

Nsaba Buturo, when he is not busy being Uganda's national clown, finds time to be our sovereign state's minister for Ethics and Integrity.

That has to be the most absurd ministry Uganda has ever come up with since the ministry for Disaster Preparedness.

Even more absurd was What the good minister allude such traffic accidents to.

Us being Ugandans, we swallowed his comedy and went about our daily lives. Like Leo DiCaprio said in Blood Diamond, This Is Uganda. Anything goes here {Actually, what he said was "This Is Africa." But I got my point across, didn't I?}

On a more intellectual note, let's analyse the basics of the two concepts upon which the ministry is based: Ethics and Integrity.

Ethics is a branch of philosophy, encompassing right conduct and good life. It is significantly broader than the common conception of analyzing right and wrong.
Integrity is consistency of actions, values, methods, measures and principles.

[Before you bagin marvelling at just how bright I am, let me confess that I copy-pasted that from Wikipedia. But I really am clever, nonetheless.]

Back to Hon Buturo.

With Temangalo, Gavi, Junk helicopters, Third term and all the not ethical stuff that has been perpetrated by his cabinet colleagues under his watch as the minister charged with maintaining ethics and integrity of society, ills which he never once criticised and sometimes even outrightly supported, does he really have the steel, competence or moral authority to lead this country's fight for lofty ideals?

Let me introduce to you another term: Hypocrisy.

OK, not the rock band.

Hypocrisy results when one part of a value system is demonstrably at odds with another and the person or group of people holding those values fails to account for the discrepancy. Hypocrisy is considered to be the opposite of integrity.

[That one too I got from Wikipedia]

Of the three concepts, Ethics, Integrity and Hypocrisy, which one best describes the minister?

Church hazard

Indongole came from church last sunday with two black eyes. "Man, what happened to you? I asked.

He said, "I was seated behind this very fat, ugly woman in church,




"When we stood for prayer, Her dress had stuck itself in the crack of her ass. It was an ugly sight, and so I bent foward and pulled it out, but all I got for my noble effort was she socked me on my right eye."

Trying really hard not to laugh, I asked, "And what happened to your left eye?"

"Oh." Indongole replied. "I figured she hadn't liked what I'd done, so I pushed the dress back in."

My favorite song.

I really love this song by Dr. Kitch

I am not a qualified physician

And I do not want to give this injection.

I am not a qualified physician

And I do not want to give this injection

Dorothy's begging for trouble

She is insisting I give her this needle

Darling one thing I want you to know

Don't blame me for where the needle goes

I push it in

She pull it out

I push it back

She start to shout

“Dr Kitch,

you’re terrible

I can’t stand the size of your needle”

She lied on in such a position

It was difficult to give this injection

She start holding on to the needle

Making me so uncomfortable

I said “Darling can’t you be steady

I’m going to have it done very shortly”

She said “Dr Kitch I am sorry

But the size of the needle frighten me”

I push it in

She pull it out

I push it back

She start to shout

“Dr Kitch,

it’s terrible

I can’t stand the size of your needle”

She still wouldn’t lie down quietly

Constantly moving her body

So I slap her in the face with vexation

And I went on giving the injection

She screamed “Doctor stop! I can’t stand the pain!

I don’t think you’re inside the right vein”

I said “It’s your own fault you wouldn’t be told

The needle must be stick in the wrong hole”

I push it in

She pull it out

I push it back

She start to shout

“Dr Kitch,

it’s terrible

I can’t stand the size of your needle”

I pull it from that hole and start again

I have the needle now in the right vein

The needle just gone in half a inch

The stupid young lady start to flinch

Suddenly she she calls 'Doc it's working!

Doc I can feel the penicillin going in

I said “You little fool, look what you do

You talk until the needle break in you”

I push it in

She pull it out

I push it back

She start to shout

“Dr Kitch,

it’s terrible

I can’t stand the size of your needle.”

And out went Mimi

Finally, Mimi shoved her huge Ghanaian ass out of the BBA3 house. What can I say except that it was long overdue!

I watched the eviction show at Allen's Hostel in Kavule together with my good friends

Chris,

Sammy

and Katumanga,

and from the way they whooped when Mimi's name was called, you would have thought Geovanni had just scored his wonder goal against Arsenal.

During her post-eviction interview, Mimi said in an obviously bravado performance, "Thank you Africa for voting me out!"

You're more than welcome, Mimi!

To be a great writer

He came to me in a dream,

The greatest writer who ever lived.

His works,

Provocative, intrepid and vast,

Are glimpses from the very pith of life

Immortalised in ink.

Role model. Inspiration. Demi-god.

To me,

He epitomised all I ever aspired.

What would I not give

If only a tenth of his achievements

Were to be my entire eulogy?

Now, he stood before me;

A genie

Beholding Alladin of the rusty lamp.

Great sir, I cried. Ye lord of the written word,

I beg your indulgence.

Speak, he commanded. Spill forth your distress.

Teach me, kind sir, to be a great writer.

Sprinkle upon me droplets from your sea of wisdom

So that I can be like you.

He looked at me with mirth in his eyes

And laughed in a voice that was terrible.

Teach you? He laughed and then laughed some more.

What are you, a fool? An incurable idiot?

Why is God God? He suddenly asked.

Because he creates, I quickly replied.

And why is your mother so? He continued.

Because she brought me forth, said I.

Why is Erykah Badu a siren?

Because she sings, I rattled on.

And why is Dubya an imbecile?

Because he is stupid beyond compare!

You are what you do, he summed it up.

You say you desire to write great works.

Then why the hell are you still here?

Get yourself a goddamned pen and write!

I awoke

I got myself a pen and paper

And I wrote.

We have ourselves a winner.

The rhetorical distance between JohnMcCain and Barrack Obama's campaign teams is as enormous as the two candidates themselves.

This was seen after last night's debate in Hempstead, NY, when both teams summed up their respective candidates' performances.

This is what McCain's side had to say:

“While Barack Obama is measuring the drapes and campaigning against a man not even on the ballot, John McCain demonstrated that he has the experience, judgment, independence and courage to fight for every American,”

Team Obama hit back with this absolute cracker:

“We came into the debate with two-thirds of the American people convinced that John McCain is running a negative campaign... Senator McCain spent 90 minutes trying to convince the other third.”

I know I'm partisan, but does anyone still doubt who is going to win this?

Maskini akipata..

The swahili have a saying. Maskini akipata matako hulia mbwata.

What the hell goaded coach Kimanzi to blast our dear neighbours?

The various emotions of a Martian.

Happy

Anxious

Annoyed

Angry

Very Angry

What the hell was that?

I happen to be a sociology minor at Makerere University, and recently, Dr. Atyekereza, our Soc 3101 [Foundations of Sociological theory] lecturer, gave us a coursework assignment.

Dr. Atyekereza

Actually, he gave the assignment a month ago. I just finally got round to starting because the deadline for submission is monday.

Anyway, we are expected to analyse Roy Bhaskar's critical realism ramblings, specifically his assertion that "society is not the unconditioned creation of the human agency, but neither does it exist independently of it."

Lost? welcome to my world, dawg!

Obviously, such a question cannot be answered by the kind of gueswork you would apply for example in tackling Dr. Bwana's "Examine the threat posed by increased CFC use to the Ozone layer" in POS 31 05 [Environmental Management]

Dr. Bwana

or Dr. Kiiza's "Analyse the role of NEPAD and AGOA for the economic development of Africa" in POS 3107 [International Political Economy]

Dr. Kizza

Such a question requires what every average student dreads: Research. As in SERIOUS research.

Last time I checked, I was still an average student. So obviously, I was dreading this.

But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, especially since this is the kind of paper that makes the prospect of coming back for a re-take more definite than probable. Serious research entailed first of all finding out who the hell Roy Bhaskar is, and since navigating your way through the bureaucracy of Makerere University's main library is the stuff of gladiators, I resorted to the net.

Horror of horrors. [Cue a horror-themed soundtrack. If you can't think of one, any song by Jeniffer Lopez or Ja Rule will do.]

Roy Bhaskar is the kind of guy who writes sentences such as "philosophical approach that defends the critical and emancipatory potential of rational (scientific and philosophical) enquiry against both positivist, broadly epistemological and ontological questions."

Consider this, in his dialectical works, the man actually wrote this:

"Indeed dialectical critical realism may be seen under the aspect of Foucaultian strategic reversal - of the unholy trinity of Parmenidean/Platonic/Aristotelean provenance; of the Cartesian-Lockean-Humean-Kantian paradigm, of foundationalisms (in practice, fideistic foundationalisms) and irrationalisms (in practice, capricious exercises of the will-to-power or some other ideologically and/or psycho-somatically buried source) new and old alike; of the primordial failing of western philosophy, ontological monovalence, and its close ally, the epistemic fallacy with its ontic dual; of the analytic problematic laid down by Plato, which Hegel served only to replicate in his actualist monovalent analytic reinstatement in transfigurative reconciling dialectical connection, while in his hubristic claims for absolute idealism he inaugurated the Comtean, Kierkegaardian and Nietzschean eclipses of reason, replicating the fundament of positivism through its transmutation route to the super-idealism of a Baudrillard."

Please pray for me. I beg you.

Am I still blocked?

Yeah. Just that. Am I still blocked?

Well, I just pleasantly found out that I can still blog. This happenned after I came in yesterday, brimming with stuff to write about, only to be coldly informed that

"This blog has been locked and unpublished due to possible Blogger Terms of Service violations. You may not publish new posts until your blog is reviewed and unlocked."

I almost died, I tell you.

OK, I didn't almost die. Me? Die for a blog? What am I, nuts? Well, maybe I am nuts. But not nuts enough to die for a blog!

But I did experience a hefty smack of dissappointment, and went ahead to follow the instructions I was given in order to prove myself worthy of continued blogging. The notice is still there, but at least I"ve posted this and it has been published. [I haven't posted it yet coz I'm still writing it, dummy! But if you're reading it it means that I've already posted it and it has been published, so right now...I think I need to stop deviating.]

Anyway, what I wanted to ramble about was Obama Vs. McCain,

Obama Vs. McCain

untill I read in the new vision that the Kenyan government yesterday deported a guy who wanted to launch an anti-Obama book.

It gave me lotsa food for thought. And when you get lots of food, you of course need to digest it. And digestion takes time.

So, I'll be back in a few hours. Hopefully the notice will be gone then.

Can many people be wrong?

Like half of everyone in Uganda who has an e-mail address, I subscribe to Yahoo for this vital service. Like the other half of everyone in Uganda who has an e-mail address, I also subscribe to Gmail for this vital service.

But unlike any other Ugandan I know with or without an e-mail address, I have an e-mail account with an obscure website called Gawab.

Actually, it's not that obscure. As a matter of fact, last time I checked it had 5,488,804 users. How did I know that? because I own the website, stupid!

I'm kidding! I don't own it. I don't know who fucking owns it. [I also apologise for calling you stupid. I really think you are very clever.] As a matter of fact, I gathered the exact number of subscribers from the website's header, which is '5,488,804 users can't be wrong!'

Which brings me to the point I wanted to discuss all along. Just because an overwhelming number of people, say a whole 5,488,804 of discerning-age adults or even a more impressive 62,040,610, think that something is right, does that necessarily make it right?

I have no beef with Gawab. They are a great service and apart from sometimes sending very important messages to the spam bin, they are way better than both Yahoo and Gmail.

But I think a huge number of people can sometimes be wrong. Like the 62,040,610 American idiots who cast their ballot for Dubya on Tuesday, November 2 2004.

Morning coffee

Arcadius Castrolcallistus Nathaniel Indongole is otherwise known as Archie the dream, Man Castro, King Callisto or simply Indongole, [but the priviledge of calling him that last name is reserved only for three categories of people, the very brave, the very stupid and his birth parents]


But enough with nomenclature. Indongole [I belong to a category that is a cross between extremely brave and incredibly stupid,soI qualify to call him that] is having breakfast when I come downstairs after the superhuman effort it took to coax my head from the pillow. Man,the coffee sure does smell good!

I grab the thermos flask, but it is empty. Not a very perfect way to start the day.

"Man! You only made coffee for yourself!" I grumble.

He looks at me, a quizzical expression on his face. "So?"

"You know, if it were me who woke up before you, I would make sure you have a ready cup of coffee when you come downstairs." I say

"But I am downstairs, and I have a ready cup of coffee." He replies. "Where is the problem?"

Not a very perfect conversation to start the day with.

"Why didn't you just make coffee for both of us? I ask in exesperation.

He looks at me strangely and for a moment, I am tempted to confirm whether seaweed has sprouted on my head. It hasn't, and so I stare right back at him. "Do you have your birth certificate? He suddenly asks. "Please give it to me."

I have absolutely no idea where this is leading, but I do have my birth certificate and he did ask for it, so I find it and give it to him. He scans his eyes over it, finds something and points at it. "I assume this is a true record of your birth?" He asks and I agree. "Then please read this."
It is the part with my mother's name, and I read it out for him.

"Now." He continues. "Does the name you have just read resemble the name 'Arcadius Castrolcallistus Nathaniel Indongole' in any way?

I reply that if my my mother had such a name, I most definitely would have considered a stint in an Iraqi prison before I introduced her by name to anyone, and then I ask him where all this is leading to.

"Do not assign me your mother's duties!" Indongole barks. "And that includes making coffee!"

Now why did he have to use such long route to get tothe point?