Prime
You should be worried when tycoon Sudhir roasts maize
What you need to know:
- Inner circle: There are usually one or two journalists in the inner circle of any high-profile persons. Usually, you can pass through them to get to the public figures. Not with Chameleone. This guy is probably more depressing than the sight of a tycoon cremating kasholi.
Today marks two weeks since the man who, 39 years ago, ensured that some of you do not stop coming to this page every Sunday, rested. Genesis Ochaki was his name. We called him Baba, a Swahili for father.
Now, while other columnists of this paper have been spending the last few months paying tributes to many departed souls, this page has its own purpose. If I start making readers cry, Monitor will not pay me anymore yet I’m not even sure Nabbanja’s money will ever reach my kabiriti phone.
The other day they promised Emyooga and took my phone number. But I got tired of waiting and convinced myself that these charlatans had remitted my Emyooga toward one of those classified supplementary budgets. Even Jesus might return before Emyooga happens. They also promised radios and whatnot. I believe that pigs will stop coiling their tails before these chaps fulfil a promise.
Anyway, resting Baba was the first time ever I was crossing the Nile from the north into Pakwach. The burial reminded me of something I vowed I would have to go through when that time comes: cremation.
And this has nothing to do with the tycoon who goes around dressed in all-white. The other day, I saw him cremating maize under the guise of roasting the poor thing. He was fanning the fire faster than a blacksmith forging ancient swords.
From resting Baba and then straight into seeing that charade of cremating maize on a sigiri, it couldn’t get any worse, eh?
But talking about the cremation, back in 2009, went to meet the chairman of Indians in Uganda for a story about cremation. We got to his shop on Jinja Road and on explaining the purpose of the visit, he led us down the allays into his Rav4.
“You’re in luck,” he had said, completely oblivious of the irony of it all. “I’m on my way to oversee the cremation of one of our members and this means you will have a first-hand experience of what goes instead of just what I say.”
Until then, my experience of cremation was limited to Bollywood films. Acted stuff. But now I could see it all and I still swear it was nice -- for lack of a better diction. I decided then that when my time comes, I should be cremated. When I told Mama, she looked at me the same way she had done years ago when I flirted with the idea of owning a dog as a kid.
Cremation is actually a very peaceful exercise, not violent like what that tycoon was doing with the poor maize. What we saw in that brief clip is unforgivable. The only way he could be forgiven is if he was roasting this music reptile called Chameleone.
Trying to reach out to Jose Chameleone is very depressing. It’s more believable to convince a random guy downtown that you have Kim Jong-Un’s private contact and that you often jazz with the North Korean Dear Leader than to claim to speak to Chameleone.
There are usually one or two journalists in the inner circle of any high-profile persons. Usually, you can pass through them to get to the public figures. Not with Chameleone. This guy is probably more depressing than the sight of a tycoon cremating kasholi. If only he could change his stage name to Zea Mays (scientific name for maize), it would be more consoling and some of us would be donating bags of fresh kasholi for the tycoon to cremate.
Eternal repose, Baba, and eternal repose to the tycoon’s cremated maize. But what do I say of this elusive reptile?
Disclaimer: This is a parody column
