DR LOVE
HILARY BAINEMIGISHA

Sorry for the hard language but I must say there are many ignorant, narrow-minded and just plain stupid people who will tell you that the Olympic Games in Beijing are not about winning or losing.
Most of us in Uganda, and our sports contingent to China, agree with these people. We all decided that the games were about improving international friendship, which prompted some officials like Musoke, to take their sons instead of the real team for the Beijing Olympics.
Musoke and Sons Ltd participated in such games as visiting the Great Wall and enlisting in a wrong weight lifting category. Musoke’s wrong-weight-lifting-category son was consequently disqualified, his other son, who was registered as the disqualified son’s coach, found himself irrelevant - but not before spending a bit of our money, which, very sadly, was deducted from our pay-as-you-earn, the one that always hurts me at the end of the month.
And as a result, I cannot take Beloved for one-one this weekend, I am writing crime watch instead of love and we still need a microscope to locate Uganda on the Olympic medal chart.
So, while Olympic records were falling, human talent heralded, legends born and heroes crowned, Ugandans were wasting time accompanying others in water, on land and in spirit.
It is in the same spirit that I decided to enter fantasy land with female Olympic athletes.
It was this last Sunday. I set aside some special time to attend to the Olympics from the comfort of my sofa and before long, as usually happens to active men with idle minds, I was swimming deep in fantasy with some of the female athletes. And because at that particular time, Romania’s Constantina Tomescu-Dita was leaving her colleagues in her dust during the women Marathon, I caught myself imagining me and her on the other side of daylight.
Experts believe that female athletes have better stamina, more sexual prowess and the desired self expression to raise the required dust. Their Olympic competitive spirit is very impressive and their perseverance can stretch longer than Nyangweso’s reign at our national olympics committee. (My grandfather used to tell me about Nyangweso heading the Uganda Olympic Committee before World War II).
These athletes willingly sacrifice their femininity and subject their soft bodies to the rigors of olympic challenges. And in the process, experts say, they improve their performance to become what any testosterone-filled guy would wish for on a good night.
Then, I startled myself briefly to look closer at Constantina through romantic eyes.
That woke me up completely. I have known many Constantinas but this one is alone. Her face had a mournful expression that tore it into ugly postures of a manly nature; with her stout muscles and her lean metallic body, she could have easily passed for a man.
Apart from the hair on her head, she could easily have confused the whole Vatican conclave to win papacy and become Pope Joan II.
You know in 850AD, some smart lady, walking under the name John Anglicus, confused learned Cardinals to become Pope John VIII. She reigned for two years, seven months and four days, until her luck ran out. They discovered she was not a man when she became pregnant by her secret lover; you see how women cannot keep secrets? The embarrassment made history which referred to her as Pope Joan I, though we Catholics don’t want to hear of it.
I think Constantina is Pope Joan’s great grand daughter. And for that matter, I guess I would not go for an olympic athlete. Imagining myself with an imperious tigress, looking up at me like a hungry crocodile, with stomach muscles harder than Drogba’s and bones shaped like Crouch’s, gave me goose pimples.
It can’t be good news to sleep with a female weight lifter, probably weighing 150kgs, which, if you know anything about kilogrammes, is a hell lot of them. Or with a gymnast, who occasionally does a 180 degrees stride that definitely traumatises the headquarters.
I am more inclined to prefer a softer arm, factory-made to sooth a baby to sleep, feminine features, a fragile vulnerable pleading face that declares me a gold medallist and a dragon I will easily beat into submission.
Am I speaking for men?
Actually, since my suckling days, I hated masculine women and I could not wait to grow up so that I could hate female boxers too.
But why am I writing this? (I know my editor wants to know). Honestly speaking, the answer is very simple: I also don’t know.