The Male Sponsor vs The Investor

I am a very introspective person. I have many conversations with myself. There is hardly a quirk that one can point out about me that I have not noticed yet. I am generally curious about myself and have often wondered what kind of person I would be if I was born in a different century; or if I was a bird; or (most often) if I was a man. I have had the whole "If I were a man..." *muse-fest many times. This is probably because twice in my life I have met people who have made me think, "You are my alter-ego! You are me, just male!" and it has been exhilarating.

I think I would ace the whole manhood thing. I have a diverse portfolio of beautiful friends so that says a lot about my taste. However, there is one area that still leaves me bewildered to date: the whole concept of being a male sponsor. You meet a beautiful damsel and treat her as if she is in distress. You swoop in and solve the homelessness that she was not even aware that she was suffering from. You revamp her living room furniture, despite the fact that it makes your inner Southern Belle show. You then go ahead to become her new fashion stylist who definitely does not believe in thrift shopping. I feel that some of the things I would be running away from in the land of womanhood are listed above!

Proudly sponsored by...


In this era of teaching a man to fish and promoting trade over aid; I have begun to see a new version of the male sponsor: the investor. In addition to the roles listed above, the investor provides start up capital to open a trendy business. Given his eye for fashion, the business is usually an up-scale hair salon or a trendy boutique. The investor probably thinks that he is playing the long game here. Eventually, the little social enterprise will sustain itself and his duties as a sponsor will come to an end. He can finally retire and focus his philanthropic efforts elsewhere. The investor is usually on to something. After all, the business will have a ready clientele in the form of beautiful damsels who are proudly sponsored by other male sponsors.

The investor's happiness is usually short-lived, unfortunately. He only realizes just how far gone he is when he goes to drop the beautiful (now entrepreneurial) damsel at her swanky boutique and before she pecks him goodbye, she turns to him and asks, "Babe, what about lunch money?"


*muse-fest (n): an occasion on which you embark on a journey of random musing... mainly about stuff that would probably see you committed if you dared to share!



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Chronicles of the Great Beyond: Kitenge Pants

I will go as far as to say every narcissist's cliche: I generally prefer my own company to that of about 80% of the people I come across. I figured I should open with that line before you fraudulently begin to like me. However, once in a while I venture into the Great Beyond. In Kampala my Great Beyond is a dark, haunted looking bar called Iguana. The lights either do not work or have been intentionally switched off. There never seem to be enough bar stools and you will usually see people perched precariously on the ledge on the rooftop. You do not want to get me started on the floor boards!

The appearance is nothing to write home about. This is one of those places that you see during the day and shudder. This really is ideal because you can't let yourself be caught out till dawn. Once treacherous sunlight shows you the real state of your surroundings, you will never be back. At this point, it begs the question: why would I, a self confessed narcissistic introvert, go to a place like this? It is definitely not the service, seeing as we usually have to beg the waiters to take our order. Glasses are an unheard of luxury as well.

Well, I go to Iguana for the people. No, not my band of comrades and drinking buddies (of which I have none). I go for the random people, the outright weirdos who flock there by the dozens. I am that girl sitting at the corner, having a private laugh at it all. I've seen some fun things, but last night topped it.

It took me a while to realise that a big number of white women revelers love men in dreadlocks. The longer and more rugged, the better. If you can add in a few crude piercings and a jacket made out of animal hide, even better! Last night, however, there was a great deficit of the usual rastamen. My heart was growing weary and I was about to call it a night until a clean shaven guy in the most ridiculous kitenge get up strutted in. For a second I was distracted by yet another short and chubby man skipping by, but fortunately I did not miss my Kitenge clad man's entrance. He swaggered to the centre of the dance floor and pulled out a killer dance move. No, really, he did something with his waist that possibly left it dislocated.

Once I was sitting at Iguana, minding my merry business and listening to a live band when a group of acrobatic dancers jumped in, twisting and turning and belching out flames. Last night was not one of those nights. My kitenge clad ninja was but a mere mortal. However, he held me in a trance. It is no wonder that moments later, a group of white women flocked around him. I grabbed my phone and shared the great news... and I am sharing it here yet again: Kitenge pants are the ultimate aphrodisiac. All ye men, heed this great news.

Watch and learn


I have received several messages of gratitude from men from all over the world. I do not mean to presume, but I would not be shocked if the awarded me a Nobel Prize in Human Activity. These, boys and girls, are the perks of being a wall flower.

Oh, Happy 2016.

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