Take her to Namboole
May 30, 2007
I am not trying to be obscene here — you know what musicians mean when they sing about Namboole. I am patriotically inserting love into our plot to massacre the Super Eagles this Saturday come what may.
I am not trying to be obscene here — you know what musicians mean when they sing about Namboole. I am patriotically inserting love into our plot to massacre the Super Eagles this Saturday come what may.
I have heard guys say there will be a lot of chaos, hustle, jam, crowds, thieves, kiboko squad.… so they will not take their beloved there. Cowards! When will you ever show her the wild animal in you. Women, at one stage, fantasise about a husband who is all conquering, so protective and almighty — a human Merkava tank.
Tell me; how many chances do you ever get to draw nearer to her raw dreams? Take her to Namboole, shove people off your path, cheer like mad, dive into her arms when we score and generally show your capacity to be what she normally calls you during her sub-conscious ecstasy at zero hours. She has downloaded praises to do with such titles like kabaka, mayor, the greatest, the most effective.… or animals like lions, scorpions, .… or state resources like teargas, mamba and GAVI resources.
But apart from being gloomy at home, scaring kids from enjoying their childhood and barking at the housegirl (usually to make her (wife) confident that nothing can crop up between her (housegirl) and you), few men get a chance to display their manhood in the natural raw manner. No wonder, many eventually find themselves beating wives and fighting in bars to show their natural muscle ware.
Now Namboole poses a chance and you are shying away saying it is unsafe? Why are you there? To chase and kill cockroaches in the house? Wake up man; real men protect their loved ones, they do not hide them under the bed during a thunderbolt.
A wonderful football match, to me, is one where the right arm is holding a two-litre plastic coke bottle full of a liquor punch; a spirit (Richot can do) lightened by a coke — they make you cheer like a teenager drunk on testosterone.
And your left arm is holding a brown chick, in sportswear, preferably hot pants, revealing light-skinned thighs and a shapely figure, nice black hair overflowing onto her like icing on a cake — I must stop lest someone thinks I am describing somebody.
One who knows which team to cheer. With spirits disappearing into your head, you may blow up if she applauds Kanu just because he used to play for Arsenal.
This brings me to the next point. Coach your partners, who may not be serious soccer fans, on how to cheer The Cranes. Odemwine may be handsome, Utaka may be looking after orphans, Yakubu may have impressed you in Boro and Yobo in Everton, but when they are here, they are enemies. Do not ask why. Our mission is to trash them into small minute pieces and ask questions later.
As for me, I have spent this week fasting. Of course I am eating food and drinking water, but still, fasting — you know what I mean, do not ask questions; I am not in the mood to explain proverbs to adults. I have read a lot on that part of theology and sex where they say that certain rituals and sex cannot mix.
That is why in our traditions, you were required to abstain from sex the night before serious rituals like sacrifice, hunting, brewing, or divining. In modern religion, sexual abstinence has been stretched to priesthood and, if you count my case, the Nigerian football match.
I promised God to fast in exchange for victory. Saturday’s match is the biggest sporting event in the world, that is, if you do not include distant parts like Europe and America. So, by the time The Cranes are through with the thieving eagles, I will be red hot.
Note: this is not an advert. If you want to know me, check me out at Namboole. Only that the probability of recognising me is so faint. I might be painted from head to toe looking more like an obese mould of black, yellow and red. Maybe if you just tell from the beautiful chick on my left hand.
Those who usually call me on Saturdays, sorry. Do not dare, even if you see 72 Qu’ranic virgins looking for me — unless they are bringing me a ticket for Namboole’s entrance.
I have heard guys say there will be a lot of chaos, hustle, jam, crowds, thieves, kiboko squad.… so they will not take their beloved there. Cowards! When will you ever show her the wild animal in you. Women, at one stage, fantasise about a husband who is all conquering, so protective and almighty — a human Merkava tank.
Tell me; how many chances do you ever get to draw nearer to her raw dreams? Take her to Namboole, shove people off your path, cheer like mad, dive into her arms when we score and generally show your capacity to be what she normally calls you during her sub-conscious ecstasy at zero hours. She has downloaded praises to do with such titles like kabaka, mayor, the greatest, the most effective.… or animals like lions, scorpions, .… or state resources like teargas, mamba and GAVI resources.
But apart from being gloomy at home, scaring kids from enjoying their childhood and barking at the housegirl (usually to make her (wife) confident that nothing can crop up between her (housegirl) and you), few men get a chance to display their manhood in the natural raw manner. No wonder, many eventually find themselves beating wives and fighting in bars to show their natural muscle ware.
Now Namboole poses a chance and you are shying away saying it is unsafe? Why are you there? To chase and kill cockroaches in the house? Wake up man; real men protect their loved ones, they do not hide them under the bed during a thunderbolt.
A wonderful football match, to me, is one where the right arm is holding a two-litre plastic coke bottle full of a liquor punch; a spirit (Richot can do) lightened by a coke — they make you cheer like a teenager drunk on testosterone.
And your left arm is holding a brown chick, in sportswear, preferably hot pants, revealing light-skinned thighs and a shapely figure, nice black hair overflowing onto her like icing on a cake — I must stop lest someone thinks I am describing somebody.
One who knows which team to cheer. With spirits disappearing into your head, you may blow up if she applauds Kanu just because he used to play for Arsenal.
This brings me to the next point. Coach your partners, who may not be serious soccer fans, on how to cheer The Cranes. Odemwine may be handsome, Utaka may be looking after orphans, Yakubu may have impressed you in Boro and Yobo in Everton, but when they are here, they are enemies. Do not ask why. Our mission is to trash them into small minute pieces and ask questions later.
As for me, I have spent this week fasting. Of course I am eating food and drinking water, but still, fasting — you know what I mean, do not ask questions; I am not in the mood to explain proverbs to adults. I have read a lot on that part of theology and sex where they say that certain rituals and sex cannot mix.
That is why in our traditions, you were required to abstain from sex the night before serious rituals like sacrifice, hunting, brewing, or divining. In modern religion, sexual abstinence has been stretched to priesthood and, if you count my case, the Nigerian football match.
I promised God to fast in exchange for victory. Saturday’s match is the biggest sporting event in the world, that is, if you do not include distant parts like Europe and America. So, by the time The Cranes are through with the thieving eagles, I will be red hot.
Note: this is not an advert. If you want to know me, check me out at Namboole. Only that the probability of recognising me is so faint. I might be painted from head to toe looking more like an obese mould of black, yellow and red. Maybe if you just tell from the beautiful chick on my left hand.
Those who usually call me on Saturdays, sorry. Do not dare, even if you see 72 Qu’ranic virgins looking for me — unless they are bringing me a ticket for Namboole’s entrance.