Hold up, let me first dress up. I can’t go downtown without dressed; I am always cautious of my safety. What if I go downtown and I get bruised? No, I won’t take long. Should I put on blue? Ah, forget it. Look, my neighbor is not around today. I am told he’s re-campaigning in Jinja. You see that? Let’s make use of his absence. I don’t want him to eavesdrop our pleasurable exercise; let’s make sensual campaign in solitude.  Kiss me. Kiss me with your teargas canister. How do you want it? For me, I love it rough. The citizenry know me as a rough lad.

I want to hit you with my stiff baton as I tenderly touch your nether parts of Wandegeya. It’s been drizzling in these parts of Kasangati; I am all wet. And I want to give you wet kisses, my love. I want to plant a wet peck on the cheek of your Kampala Road. Come closer. I want to tear through the crowded pavements of Jinja Road with my teeth, remove the bra and throw it down on Nasser Road. And there, right there, with your tits peeking into the skies, I want to playfully touch your hardened tips with my tongue as I preach the gospel of defiance. It’s harmless, my love. I am only asking for your support, will you support me in this exercise? Look into my eyes, my blood-shot big eyes. Defiant glassy eyes whose retina has tasted all kinds of teargas. But hey, pretend as though they are the infamous ‘come-to-bed’ eyes.

My agenda has been already approved by the EC. So, worry not. I want to move down on you. Can I? Nasser Road is inches away and I want to move my tongue slowly, chasing the contours of your bare belly. I want to inch closer to the navel of Arua Park. There, you will turn restlessly. You have always told me that this is one of your most sensitive parts. I won’t stay long here, I promise. Still, with the tip of my tongue, my dangling baton in hand, I will pepper wet pecks on your navel and you will grab hold of my supporters. You will squeeze them, you will hold them tightly and pleasurably try to push them away and drag them to Kiira Police Station. “I am almost there,” I will quip. Forget my horrible voice, by the way. Baritone voices, world over, are deemed as sexy voices. Even late-night radio hosts try to imitate me.

Where was I?

I want to slip through your grip and move my hands below your navel of Arua Park, and inch downwards. This, too, won’t last long. My hands are slightly rough, but hey, let’s not dwell on that. I want to move them, downwards, towards the Taxi Park, a few inches below the navel. Here, I know I will be about to touch your oil wells, but hang on a bit. I have supporters here. People in these parts love me. I am told KCCA slashed the bushes and renovated that Taxi Park below your navel. Can I go down on you? Great! I can hear you panting like a police sniffer dog. Help me open those legs, help me open that gridlocked traffic towards Kisenyi. This is where I am headed. This is where I will end with this exercise today. Wait, don’t touch me. Come on, hun, I am almost there. Almost! Don’t you fucking lay your hands on me; let me cum to Kisenyi. I am almost!


Shit! I am back to Kasangati!