Counting it all joy

In that fabulous novel, The Great Gatsby, Nick Carraway begins by revealing the advice his father gave him as a teenager: "Whenever you feel like criticising anyone," he told me, "Just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."
 
That has in a way become my philosophy on life. I was looking at the resolutions I made at the beginning of this year and was shocked that the most important didn't work out. I didn't get to complete my Masters degree, didn't buy my first car and didn't even slide an engagement ring down the finger of the gorgeous woman God has preserved for me.

But I'm not going to gripe and blame myself and smash things because of the plans that worked out not. As Bebe and Cece Winans sing, I'm rather going to count it all joy because the trials that confronted me left me with a maturity of character that can only be learned in the school of hard knocks.

Besides, when I look back at where I've come from, and the advantages I've had such as having a father that so believes in education that he did everything to see me through school, and when I peer at the golden promises hidden in futurity, I lift my hands to the Almighty God with a grateful heart.

That's why December is my favourite month because in it the sun sets on the year and rises on another in January with fresh expectations. It's almost synonymous with finishing a great book and picking another with hopes of it being a greater read. Better still, it's like making love to your wife for the first time on the nuptial night and knowing the second will be about more discovery toward perfect consummation!

That's why you won't catch me brooding on the melancholy that defined this year; the sickness that almost shoved me into the jaws of death, the choking teargas following the (in)famous walk-to-work protests, the economic crisis and the unpleasant brokenness it birthed, and Umeme's capricious power that ruined my electronic gadgets.

Keep walking no matter what

The optimist is approaching next year with the fervour of a meteor man! Like Nick Carraway at the end of the novel musing on the "green light" that his departed friend Jay Gatsby very much believed in, we must "run faster, stretch out our arms further" till all our dreams come true.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, Mary

I remember being arrayed in new "Kaunda" suits, and flowery ready-made cotton dresses for my sisters. From a distance, the instrumental versions of popular Christmas carols oozed nostalgically from the church organ.

Posing with Dad on Christmas in the good 'ol days

But sweeter was the night arrangement when natives grouped on Christmas Eve and moved house to house singing their hearts out. It would start in my sleep, the mellow notes reaching my ears with angelic faintness. And then the music would rise with such grudging beauty as would rouse me, lighting my face up with a smile on realising they were the night choristers singing outside our veranda.

My father would give them money, and they would ask us our favourite carols, and would sing, longingly, particularly Silent Night, from the core of their hearts, before moving on to the next house.

I would linger out in the moonlight, watching the stars twinkling aesthetically in the sky. We were living in Kigezi back then, and I've never seen anything like the beauty of the stars in the Kigezi heavens!

After church, we would sit round the dining table garnished with all sorts of delicacies, devouring and washing them down with sodas (soda was a big deal back then) while between swallows, father entertained us with memorable anecdotes.

Later, he would teach us rare poses while the village photographer snapped away. Christmas was the only time father was not tough, the only time we were completely free with him. And how we relished the good merry cheer together!

At night, he would insert new batteries in his Phillips radio-cassette, and with a single glide across the floor, bow before my mother, his hand extended. She would pick it with an obliging smile, and soon they would be gliding and flying and whirling together in a dance of waltz to the effervescent sounds of Dolly Parton. We would watch, hypnotised, till father said it was our turn. And the best dancer would earn some money for sweets.

That way, my father gave Christmas a special definition that always makes me look forward to every December 25.

Even though times have changed, it still moves me that some people have lost faith in Christmas. That's why I'm dedicating this piece to my colleague, Mary Atuheire. Ditch your office plans, and come spend it with me. It'll be a Christmas to remember, I promise. December will never be your worst month of the year again.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, Mary!

Running for Love

In a race with an elephant, so goes the saying, even the chameleon reached the finishing mark! That much was true in last Sunday’s MTN Kampala marathon.   

Anyway, as the throng set off in their yellow jerseys for the grueling race, memories of my inaugural participation in 2009 gushed back. That year I got involved, not for charity but for love! I was secretly in love with a woman but had failed to muster the guts to tell her. So I figured that if I can endure the rigors of completing the marathon, it meant I had the stamina I very much needed to look the beauty in the eyes and profess my love. 

Before set off in 2009 on a run for love!

But just 2km into the marathon, my lungs filled with burning pressure, my heart was almost exploding, and my muscles were throbbing excruciatingly. I was on the verge of quitting but the optimist in me taunted, “You quit now and you'll never see that girl again!”

In my preparation for the race, I had read the spectacular story of Pheidippides running from the village of Marathon to Athens to deliver the good news of a military triumph. Now his story came back to me, as if to spur me further on. I mean this Greek patriot had moreover done 40km and here I was already fretting over a mere 12km! I gritted my teeth in shame, swearing to complete the race even if it meant dropping dead afterward. 

It was an invigorating revolve that saw me overtake a buxom girl whose breasts were jouncing inside her vest in rhythm with her pace, and a man who was slogging it with frightening weariness etched on his face, his tongue sticking out like a dog’s. He looked about to drop dead but was a better athlete than the muscled guy that shamelessly jumped on a boda-boda when the going got tough, making me realise I wasn’t doing badly after all. 

As we approached the finishing mark, I barrelled past others like a bullet. I had found my groove and there was no stopping me now! What a great feeling as I crossed the finish line. I tell you it was more elating that what barefooted Abebe Bikila must have felt when he aced the 1960 Olympic Games marathon in Rome. 

And that evening, with the new found confidence, I dialed that number and won that long overdue date with the apple of my eye!

The Difference Between a Hero and a Coward

I’m no movie buff, but once in a while I go on a scouring mission to video libraries in my neighbourhood for something unique. And last weekend I returned home with Tyson, the 1995 movie about the highs and lows of the former heavyweight boxing champion. I was so earnest to see if this movie would validate my offering in this column last Sunday that we ought to approach life like boxing pros approach a bout. 

“I was just a kid when I first got to see Muhammad Ali,” the movie opens with Mike Tyson (Michael Jai White) saying. “I saw the way people looked up to him, I saw their smiling faces, and I said to myself, ‘that’s what I wanna be –I wanna be the champion of the world!”

I had to hit the pause button and savour these words! One has to have something to stir him, for which he has to begin striving for early in life to get to the top. For Mike, it was watching Ali doing his thing, though it really was Constantine “Cus” D’Amato (George C. Scott) that completed Mike’s metamorphosis from the notorious street purse-snatcher to the heavyweight boxing champion of the world.  D’Amato is the man who discovered Mike, adopted and mentored him.

My most memorable lines in the movie is when he tells his protégé about heroes and cowards: “What’s the difference between a hero and a coward?” he asks one morning, and provides the answer before Mike could speak. “There ain’t a difference. Inside they are both exactly alike. Both scared of dying or getting hurt. But it’s what the hero does that makes him a hero. What the other guy doesn’t do that makes him a coward.”

As Franklin D. Roosevelt once famously said, the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. D’Amato agrees, telling Mike never to worry about getting scared going into a fight because “fear is a friend of every good and reasonable athlete” but that he has to turn that fear into fire, into a gun! Mike relied largely on that to knock out most of his opponents.

American boxer Rocky Marciano retired in 1956 with a record 49 wins and no losses, becoming the first heavyweight champion in history to retire undefeated. Here Marciano takes Roland LaStarza to the ropes in 1953

And like Rocky Marciano, one has to be tenacious and refuse to accept the prospect of losing, or the concept of defeat to enter your mind. This is as real in boxing as in life for one to win, no doubt!

The Joy of Achievement

“Who am I,” Phionah asked rhetorically, doing her best to control the avalanche of emotions vibrating through her. She was wearing an academic gown, complete with a hood on which dangled the characteristic green laces.

Last Friday that was, and Phionah had just graduated from Kampala International University with a degree in Business Administration. An achievement the only daughter of a poor mother in a place as remote as Bitereko, somewhere in Mitooma district, knew not would be hers, had her Uncle, Daudi, not sponsored her campus education.

And now Phionah vowed to go on and probably become the first woman PhD holder in Bitereko! With that glint of ambition in her eyes, I can see abundant vicissitudes of good fortune stalking her everywhere.

Phionah was sharing a class with her cousin, Sixtus - Daudi’s son, so it was understandable they got one graduation party.

Phionah and Sixtus were overjoyed for the road that has been!

Sixtus’s speech mirrored the joy of achievement too, but differently. His was animated, and sprinkled with humour and witticisms that were quite a delightful surprise to some of us who know him as a quiet, shy guy. When father looked son in the eye and asked to be paid back soon in form of a wife who would give him clever grandchildren, Sixtus thanked him heartily but asked, “for only 10 years” to make his father’s wish come true! Of course everyone burst out laughing, including his father.

He also talked about how life at school had sometimes “boxed” him, but how in spite of the “punches” he had gone on to triumph. Sixtus’s juxtaposition of life with boxing reminded me of heavyweight pugilist Joe “Smokin” Frazier who died recently, the man who brought new delights to my favourite sport with what experts dubbed the “leapin’ left hook” that famously earned Muhammad Ali his first loss.

Take a pause and think then what Joe’s joy of achievement was on that memorable day –Match 8, 1971? Maybe it’s high time we started looking at life as our boxing opponent. That way, you rise early every day, train more, work harder, and when it tries to throw jabs at you, it’ll find you ready –ready to duck and throw harder punches back. Nothing will scare you.

And you know what you’ll become? A champion! And you know what that brings? The deserved exultant joy of achievement!

The quintessential juice

It had come in ripe from the village many miles away. It looked so big and inviting that I didn't have time to balk - I took a bite with an already salivating mouth, and another and another and another!

the quintessential juice of life is in eating your mango and loving it!

"Aah but this mango is sweet," I sighed, the succulence in my mouth bringing back memories of my first kiss, its juice forming and coursing down the corners of my mouth and soaking my goatee. It was the sweetest mango I had ever eaten, and I dare say the sweetest that there never shall be another just as sweet!

I couldn't help thinking how delicious and fulfilling the simpler things of life can be. It reminded me of the day a friend took me to a five-star hotel in town at which we spent Shs 400,000 on a meal, a meal that later gave me a stomach upset that shook me to the marrow.

It also reminded me of those Campus days of brokenness -- those days in Mitchell Hall, when you would rush to Wandegeya to buy that hot girl chips and chicken when you had just had beans and posho from the mess. And then you would punch walls in anger when she was gone.

This and the mango experience made me wonder how we Ugandans know how to put up appearances. And it makes me miss the daring days of high school when we would slam the detoothers, calling them ugly to their faces! We were bad boys because we didn't give a hoot, and we were loved for it!

But, oh, man, what happened? Why would one spend a million bucks on a mobile handset when you live in a two-room muzigo whose rent you struggle to pay? Why would you accept to be shamelessly ripped off in the name of a VIP ticket, all so you can create an impression that you've 'arrived'?

I guess it's one of those mysteries of life that we put up with superficiality even when we know it's more destructive than attractive. I've also observed that piling up riches after material riches is not guaranteed to bring you that most desired thing called contentment. That's why Kane, the protagonist of that fabulous movie, Citezen Kane has all the power and money in the world but dies longing for his boyhood sled.

Clearly, the quintessential juice of life is in eating your mango and loving it!

First Meeting with the General's Daughter

You might want to ask what in the world a rough-hewn son of a peasant wanted to do with a General’s daughter but the absolute optimist strongly believes no girl is above his station. So on that Thursday evening, she had dragged the teetotaller to a kinky bar without even trying. Her mysteriousness and the emotiveness of her astonishing writings had pulled him to her like a magnet. 

So there she was, a sad-faced girl with big, bright—no, haunting eyes, and a massive mouth that peremptorily ordered him to take off his “T” baseball cap so she could clearly see his face. And when she had done, she smiled a roguish smile that dug dimples in her bronzed cheeks and affirmed he sure was the guy on his blog profile picture.

Now it was Daniel’s turn to examine her. She’s short but the spike heels made her not too short. And the charcoal-black pair of compact jeans vertical-ised her butt so much that he concluded, quickly, that if physical beauty is embodied by great curves and wide hips on a slender figure, complete with effeminate daintiness,  this pony-tailed girl with the ample bosom and a stomach to match, was far from the embodiment!

Yet, the dreaminess in her eyes said she could light up your room when Umeme strikes again, and the firmness of her mouth whispered it was capable of passionate things that could drive a man insane. But Daniel was only interested in was her mind; that large head was certainly not swelling with sentimentalities from Mexican soap operas but intellectual substance from her wide travels and countless books she had devoured. 

After the introductions, Daniel sat down in a corner and quietly nursed a cold Coke. When the straw whinged, he stepped over again to say goodbye and goodnight to the heroine, who was now sandwiched between two men that were literally hanging on her witty lines.  

Soon, Daniel was in his way, way home. The night was nonchalant, and the luminance from streetlights made his shadow unusually picturesque. He walked on like a philosopher on one of his mandatory constitutionals, many things wandering about in his mind, but not intense enough to obscure his resolve to win the confidence of the blogger he had finally met at the kinky bar; the General’s daughter whose burning writings he had devoured for two years and could still not get enough of. 

Letter to my old friend RJ

Dear RJ,

When you came to my home early morning looking the way you were, I reminisced with near tears in my eyes on times of our profound friendship at Kigarama S.S. when we were the coolest kids there and in the whole village.

You had completed your Primary Seven in the city and scored only distinctions when death stole your dad, forcing your mom to switch you to a village school. You quickly adapted and we became instant chums.

You taught me good and correct English, and no one in our class ever beat us in that subject. In Senior three you won by a landslide to become the entertainment prefect, and revolutionised disco-dancing at the school, hiring the best machines from Ishaka town. You gave me my first lesson on asking a girl to dance and told me how girls are crazy about confident, charming guys.

How you used to ride your bicycle down the rugged slope near the school like a man possessed. I was afraid that bicycle would kill you, but you said I needed to know real men are afraid of nothing except God.

I look back with wonderment that even at that age you were that enterprising; dealing in coffee and waragi, and oh how you used to splurge on us at the canteen.

How happy we were to get admitted to the same school for A-level. Sadly, that unfortunate fight got you expelled, opening the door for further misfortunes. You failed to make it to Makerere University as you badly wanted to, got a child, then booze and drugs exacerbated your plight.

Although many have lost the last modicum of faith in you, I still pray for you, RJ. You may be down but you‘re not out yet. You may have lost your looks and swagger, but you’re still breathing. Your little daughter might be missing you, but there’s still time to catch up. Yes, I’ve that faith and optimism that out of your great tests will emerge a greater testimony!

Deep down, I’m still convinced the funny, bright, confident, enterprising and generous friend of mine back in the day could still conquer the world in spite of everything that’s happened. And I want you to know that whether you appear dirty, smelly and staggering like last Sunday, I’ll always open for you because I still believe in you, RJ.

The day I became an assasin

I will continue to relive in my mind last Saturday’s Chelsea-Arsenal match not only for providing me with entertainment per excellence, but also for validating what I have long believed to be the top secret to solving problems –refusal to panic.

refuse to panic, play on

The Gunners were higgledy-piggledy in the first half, but found their confidence in the second. “We showed great spirit in the way we came out in the second-half 2-1 down with complete desire to go forward,” said coach Arsene Wenger. Underline those words “complete desire” and “go forward.” When a man has the desire and will to take action in even a disillusioning situation, nothing can stop that man.

Life has the tendency of taking each one of us through the school of hard knocks, and it’s how we react that makes all the difference. I’ll never forget the first months of my working life when I used to struggle with rent.
My landlord had insisted on being paid three months in advance and it was not easy. One day, I got a text message from him that had a touch of finality: “Dennis, your rent was due a month ago and you have been all along making pseudo promises to pay. Now I am sick of them. You pay this Friday or vacate my premises before that date. No more excuses!”

It was Tuesday, oh, how was I going to raise close to a million shillings in two days considering how hard-up as I was? Truth to tell, I was on the verge of throwing a pity-party as I was wont to do in tight situations. But this time I dared to be different. It helped that I had just read a line from the Bible that said God has not given us a spirit of fear but of power and a sound mind.

I hate borrowing money, but I called up someone and asked for a loan. He gave me the money, leaving me amazed at how easy it all was. That’s the day I learned never to panic no matter the situation. And watching Arsenal come twice from behind to slay the giant in an away match reminded me of the day I outwitted the landlord’s from throwing me out.

That was the day I became the assassin that has since been assassinating all my fears with the kind of dexterity with which Van Persie assassinated Chelsea defenders. The day I became an optimist!

Conspiracy to marry me off

Come commiserate with me. I’m wounded from being hounded day and night over something I’m not yet psychologically ready for. The pressure is so mounting I’m left with no option but to seek asylum! Maybe I blow it out of proportion but you don’t know what it’s like to be reminded everyday that time is running out. Tell me why do people want me married off this desperately?

It started innocently with my folks asking good-humouredly when they would see my “object of my desire” that would become their in-law. A couple of days later, I got a call from an old boy from high school. A city stunner who he said Nicole Parker has nothing on had secretly watched and admired me long enough and now wanted us “hooked!”. I was told she’s convinced I’m “really the one” for her, the one she’s been waiting for!

“Dude, you would be a fool not to snatch this chance,” he pleaded as if this was a matter of life and death. “The girl’s a really good girl,recently completed law school and is one of those that don’t mind a man’s financial standing, she believes true love don’t cost a thing…” I was humbled by the guy’s determination to get me “connected.”

He added conspiratorially that my folks were willing to buy me a car and meet all the wedding costs. That’s when I learned he had been planted to get me hitched up; their reasoning being that the only plausible reason that explains my singleness was that I was too shy to approach girls, if not impotent!

But the real shocker came from a woman friend of mine who insisted she knows just the kind of girl I need. “My pastor has a daughter that could make a fantastic wife for you Dennis. I’ll propose to her on your behalf because time is flying on you my friend,” she said with a sympathetic smile.

I don’t have a fortune to brag about but I guess I can still give in to convention and accept to be married off even when many believe with Jane Austen that only single men in “possession of a good fortune” qualify to want a wife! Come to think of it, a Reverend’s daughter wouldn’t be a bad idea. I just hope there’s no moneyed sugar daddy somewhere high on her heels already!

Morning jogging is the perfect stress reliever

My alarm clock went off, jolting me up. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, and yawned my way out of bed. 5.15am, I stepped into my living room and galloped a glass of water, which tasted, yuck, bitter on my tongue, but served to mop the sleep out of my eyes.

the road was deserted

It was still very dark outside and drizzling. I decided to do a couple of press-ups to warm myself up a bit while giving the frightening darkness outside time to subsidize a little. 5.30am, I stepped into the cold. Except for the pitter-patter of rain on the road, it was very quiet –a sharp contrast to my boyhood times when at this time of morn delightful cock-a-doodle-doos and the music of birds in the nearby trees could be heard all over the village.

As I increased pace, the jog became enjoyable, my chest felt free, and the dewy breeze felt like kisses of love all over my face. I was now so in the groove that had it not been for the rhythm of my footfalls on the hard wet tarmac I would have thought myself a flying eagle!

The chapatti maker was missing at his stall outside Shalom Bar and Restaurant, and the two men I often bypass conversing pushing large cans of milk on bicycles on Kasubi hill were nowhere to be seen. So the road was kind of deserted but it felt good that I had endured; that not even the rain had stopped me.

As I consumed Kasubi hill, one of the dim street lights suddenly splattered its radiant beam on the runner, making me feel like a victorious pugilist after a fierce bout in the ring. It’s at the top of the hill that I made my u-turn. The freedom and peace I felt made me want to sit there, right in the middle of the road with my sweaty and gasping self, and call the love of my life to tell her about the amazing, almost indescribable secrets of lone predawn jogs when everyone is still savouring the joys of fitful slumber.

Back at my crib, myriad words flashed beautifully through my mind like the colours of the rainbow, and I briskly entered a long entry in my diary about morning jogs being the best balm to the depression that comes with the economic recession my country’s experiencing.

A letter to all you special women

This one’s dedicated to the ladies in the house; the ladies that have been ridiculed and maligned on account of their outside appearance. The stand-up comic said you’re ugly and should deal with it because you are not alone. As they laughed, he added you should not play hard to get because your ugliness on its own already makes it difficult for guys to even hit on you.

beautifully and wonderfully made

But, listen, baby girl, the ugly duckling turned out to be the most beautiful swan! And in that fantastic Shakespearean play, The Merchant of Venice, when the Prince of Morocco picks the golden casket, he is told in gilded tombs worms enfold. And in the silver casket, Arragon finds a portrait of a blinking idiot! Both men lose Portia because they choose by view. And Bassanio who chooses not by view chooses true and beats the other men to the prize –he finds the desired portrait in a dull lead casket and claims his Portia with “a loving kiss!”

The high school joke goes that a man loved women so much that once when a skirt was tied to the lorry, he run after the lorry! This is the kind of guy for which anything in a skirt goes; the man that will even use a woman’s looks to blackmail her into his bed. Tell the player, “no contact without a contract!” The contract being the ring on your finger, of course.

Besides, the world’s definition of beauty is skewed. The outside beauty’s often fleeting. As Henry Lowe (Nate Parker) tells us in The Great Debaters, “I heard the old, old men say, ‘all that’s beautiful drifts away like the waters.’” It’s only the beauty that comes from the inside out that lasts. That light within. That intrinsic beauty that cannot be bought at the beauty parlour.

Look you in the mirror; see you are fearfully and wonderfully made! The plastic surgery girl has nothing on you; her nose’s slowly crumbling! But you, you have a secret that keeps men awake though they won’t admit it. Because you are beautiful, graceful, delightful and precious. You are fabulously virtuous, intoxicatingly intelligent and divinely arranged for that one special man that’m will soon manifest to be thy wedded husband, and to love and cherish you with an incredibly respectful and sincere love for –to quote Maya Angelou –the “Phenomenal woman” you are!

An encounter with English royalty

Prince Edward was regaled by our creative spirits

Tell the men on Buganda soil that go about bragging they are Kabaka’s men –tell them all they do is talk but in essence haven’t met real royalty as I did last Friday when I rubbed shoulders with none other than His Royal Highness Prince Edward Antony Richard Louis, the very son of Elizabeth II, Queen of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the old lady that visited during Chogm and greeted President Museveni with a gloved hand!

In royal parlance, he is called the Earl of Wessex. This is the guy who shook my sweaty hand at the Uganda Museum, and we shared a literary tête-à-tête. When he dropped by and found us in the middle of a creative writing session, the ladies were left fantasising about stroking his pointed nose and caressing the enveloping bald patch on his head. I meanwhile seized the moment to tell him about my fiction and even read him a two-line excerpt from what I had written about a conman meeting his match:

“The man with the scar opened his mouth to say something but with the muzzle of the pistol an inch from his forehead, no word came out…” 

He seemed genuinely interested, and commended my meticulous use of the Queen’s language. All the while the paparazzi, mostly foreign, that had been accredited to cover the event were busy knocking themselves over in a bid to capture the best moments on camera and in their notebooks.

If you check, you might find me in all the British press! Even people from places as far-flung as Kirinya saw me on TV, and called in wonderment about how in heaven a commoner had pulled it off rolling with the regal class of the United Kingdom! Not that it was such a big deal hanging out with British royalty. I find monarchs a little medieval in this day and age, plus the Prince had neither travelled with ravishing nieces if any (who wouldn’t want to hook up a real dame), nor his Countess.

Still, hobnobbing with royalty is a privilege that no doubt elevates one above “y’all lesser” mortals! Consider it a sign of the great things in futurity! Some day, who knows, the optimist could receive the royal sceptre, with the military band pompously playing away and courtiers crying their hearts out in unison: “God bless the noble King; long live your Royal Highness!”

In Urgent Need of a Lamborghini

Have you ever seen an entrepreneur without a car? That was my small voice asking on the night I decided I was going to begin living large. It was a vexing question I quickly dismissed with deserving contempt. I mean even an idiot knows cars are not made for entrepreneurs only.

the fabulous Lamborghini

Everyman ought to have something to spin! And I don’t mean anything on four wheels but a beautiful monster like the Hammer H3 or something that epitomises the latest trends in the automobile world.

Some people have said you are not a man until you own a house, but more men out there would rather have the refined car first, the house later, at least for bragging purposes. I mean which lady wants to know you own a house when you pad to work everyday? Is she playing hard to get? Park that Lamborghini in front of her and come tell me how she responded when you said hi!

I don’t know about you but the optimist has wanted a car from the day Fr. Wence first parked his red Volkswagen Beetle in my father’s compound like a zillion years ago. Some people have talked of love at first sight but it was more than love for me. I was a keen boy of about five years but I have never forgotten his dazzling ‘frog!’

Later at school when the teacher asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I simply said I wanted to drive a car like Fr. Wence’s, and the teacher smiled. But the exposure that comes with growing up changed my vehicle tastes to match Karl Benz’s. Rather than the vintage thing that was Fr. Wence’s, I now visualised myself cruising a dark gray convertible with flashy personalised number plates and tall gorgeous women screaming my name and begging in sultry voices for a ride in my powerful acquisition.

All that has remained a fantasy, er, a dream maybe, because dreams do come true, right? How awfully painful it is to be in love and not be in position to quickly obtain the object of your desire. So I’m sourcing grand ideas on how to acquire my kind of car in the shortest possible time. Don’t tell me to rob a bank because I’m too young and precious to die, and when I have attained the object of my desire, I will remember to give you a lift!