Beauty Tips By Audrey Hepburn

Source; 21century Beauty Bible

For lovely lips, speak words of kidness

For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people

For a slim figure, share your your food with the hungry

For beautiful hair, let a child runn his or her fingers through it once a day

For poise, walk with the knowledge that you will never walk alone

People, even more than things, have renewed, revived, reclaimed and redeemed; never throw out anybody

As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.

The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes, because that is the door way to the heart, the place where love resides

True beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives and the passion that she shows. And the beauty of a woman with passing years only grows.

Aaaand, Drum Roll….

Fnally, the French have won!

Maybe am seeing it all so differently from what/how it actually is
maybe i am just a sucker for conspiracy theories
or maybe am just a girl who has been shunned by her own homeland
and is now seeking company with the french- that thing they say about misery.

But whatever it is, Whatever Afande Kagame’s reasons are, I am certain that the French,
right now, feel just the some way as i do.

(Mr. Sarkozy, do you have time -in you frolicking schedule- for this. have you noticed yet, that it is the British on top right now…?)

It is interesting, the ‘best’ news I have heard all week, maybe since the year opened… oh, hold that, it doesnt beat my ‘all paid for journalism school scholarship’. Yeah, now you know why those immigration guys need to remove that stick up their.. (sori mom)

Anyhow, back to Uncle Paul;
First it was the Francophone schools,then there was this thing about him wanting his country and all its people (obviously) to be one with the Common Wealth countries… All Hail the Queen, Long Live England (thats the french chanting).
And now, now, uncle Paul has asked Mr. Blair to come on board, become his right hand man…. some one hit speed dial for Bush in 2009. Kigali is gonna be the new Camp David.

So Mr. Blair is becoming an ‘aide’ of another third world country. very good PR. more news space for him. ( Does it work like Hollywood. the more covers you’re on, the more times you appear in the news, the more money you make!? -this would leave Mr. Sarkozy, and Mr. Musharaff fully loaded for these past few months)

See, between my going all over the place with this one, (dont you worry for the people who listen to my conversations- this is the air brushed version. so you go figure. very uncommunicative person i am, and am not even proud of it), and my attempt at eventually getting to the point you will figure out that i have been a huge fan of this president.

I admired his guts when he said no to the British and all the other anglophone countries when he refused to turn Rwanda around from Francophone to Anglophone.
It is what everyone expected he would do- go the Anglophone way.
He, together with his boys (and some girls) had been fighting the French and the Belgians, so to speak.
But he did the ‘upright thinker’ deed. There were people in that country before he (and his boys and some girls) took over. Those people were Francophone. They were teachers, proffesors, doctors, drivers, citizens of Rwanda. And besides, he insisted, Rwanda was not to be Uganda, or Kenya. it was to stay as it is, only with some adjustments- improvements.

So students, at whichever level would have to learn french because classes would be conducted in both english and French.
Those students who felt that they couldnt handle this, were to leave the schools, or the country ASAP. And they did leave. I remember them- especially those from Butare University. Always saying that Kagame was being impossible.
Enventually, everyone got into the system and it has been no complaints. they study in French and English, and especially if it is in an Anglophone school. They follow the French system.
And all the ladies there, they are all soooo french.
So in short, even with an administration that was/is hugely Anglophone, the French still had a hold on the one African country that is constantly in the news for the right reasons- since the Genocide.

And then BANG! some one in some french courtroom over there went and said unsayable things about this very His Highness. Some people have got guts… and little forward thinking.

And now, now, the Brits are becoming the ‘insinders’. Before we know it, it will be the Americans, and before we know it, those sweet smiling francophone ladies will be dancing on tables, holding beer bottles to their mouths and enganging in public ‘muscline’ arguments.Very un french.
And once it is in Rwanda, it will spill into Congo and Burundi. And just like that, death to the french cultural (and everything else) influences in central Africa will be declared.

And just the other day, i watched their teary documetary about how their culture, art and general relevance is dwindling in the world, and even in France.

I want …

to go sit in a heavily air conditioned empty bar

no music… no television

Just the guy at the counter and a refigerator filled of drinks

I want to eat fattening food… with more calories than i can count

I want to run away/ hide from a girl called Carol… because she laughs.
she interrupts her own self with new kb.
she is not sure that what she has is what she wants to have, even after searching the world for it.
she disses every thing around her, even when there is nothing.
she forgets her phone on supermarket shelves, her house keys in her room and her money purse wherever….. 
yet for some reason i cant stay away from her.

I want a black ice

A Cold Black Ice

I want to spend this evening with the man who continues to make me laugh especially when he is not trying. who makes me feel like just because i dont ‘get’ myself right now, just because whatever am going through right now may make me feel like i the world is comming to an end, The world ISNT comming to an end.

I want to go home and sleep not in my bedroom but my little cousins’… I dont want to be alone, i dont want to feel alone, atleast not tonight.

I want whatever this crap is that am going through to stop, to be finalised, because am losing a part of myself that i love so much. I am losing my natural happiness; the proud to be me happines. the satisfaction that i might be different, i might not have had what others have, most of my life but i still turned out great.

I want to have what is rightfully mine.

I have no energy to smile at that guy asking me to apply for Ugandan
citizenship. I cant see the humour in there, and strangely, it doesnt even come off as an attempt at sarcasm. I would know.

What Is In A Name?… (hmm)yeah right.

People, well every one who gets a kick out of pointing fingers (i would give anything to say …get a kick out of finger-pointing…- sounds most appropriate) have said a whole load of things about others (people) who grow to switch names.

Forget Pamela Otti, there those bigger, even bigger than Alicia Cook, or antipop… people who know that to fit in, to make an extra dime or have people see you the way you would like to be seen, you need to have a new name.

And unlike homosexuals, transsexuals or again, any kind of sexuals, these people are never called weirdos or given death threats. You have a new name, you go places, you break barriers… you are a whole new person. the real you.

So where am I going with this.

It is the passport guys again. the second interview. or the ‘almost interview’.

This guy looked at my application and went; “What, you are called, oh young girl (?) i dont think i will help you on this one.Your name is Rwandese, sorry, I would be lying to you if i said i will help you. You need to go and see (the lady i saw the last time) maybe she would know what to do.”

Now here i didn’t just shut up, get off the chair and walk home. I gave it to him- even when i knew he was only doing his job. and i went…. with a controlled voice and maintained eye contact….

“So Mister, if i go change my name to Busingye or Kyomahangi, get a new dad, a clan and ancestors… all born, raised and died in my little brain, will I then get a passport? Will that make me more Ugandan than i already am, because, seriously, if all it takes is a new name….”

Then i did that deep sigh thingy, and went, “anyhow, i cant pretend to be someone else, i cant switch names, I am this person (pointing at the applications) and i cant be Asimwe, or any other, much as it might seem, right now, as the only way out.

and i walked out… headed to the higher office. where am hoping that telling the truth, and not taking on a new name, or handing over a heavy envelope (someone assured me that if i gave some chic 250,000ugx, i will get my passport before i can even say please- and she told me this because she’s my friend, she cares. but i turned her down, said thank you, but no. not yet i guess.

Moving on to better things,

today i thought i should educate myself on the morning after pill. The other day, a friend told me she needed 10k for the pill, and was probably way past the 72 hours.

I didn’t even think twice about it after this kb.

Then just yesterday, i found myself thinking about this pill. Everyone seemed to talk about it when i was on campus. (this friend above is still on campus). And strangely enough, its the guys who used to talk about it. I first heard of it from my brother. he was in 3rd year when i was in first. Told me i shouldnt be having sex at all, but if i do, i should use a condom and when it so happens that i dont, which should never happen, i should rush to that wandegeya pharmancy and buy the Morning After Pill.

Now, i want to buy it, the urge is so strong. am hitting my mid twenties, my brother now lives far, far away, and so does my big sis (who by the way, the only times she talked about sex with me, she would ask if am still a virgin. With… you know you can tell me anything.). So yeah, i need to self educate on these things.

Its not easy when you are raised one way, but intend to turn out the other.Its a whole new world…

My Home, My Country (?)

The day I went for the passport interview (like a week ago). I had never felt so misunderstood in my entire life as i did then… and the biggest dilemma was that i understood that this lady was only doing her job, routine work just; ask random question, cross examine, accuse, laugh a little, play serious then eventually point figures and say Hell No- in whichever language or style.

Before everything else, she had a problem with my name; there is no way a Mutetsi could be given a Ugandan passport, she said. Never mind that i mentioned how I am “third generation” of the people she continued to say that cant get a Ugandan passport.

My grandfather studied, worked and still lives in this country, i told her. which means my parents were born and raised here, not to mention that “here” is all i know and therefore if i cant get a Ugandan passport, then i cant get any passport whatsover.

So how have i been traveling before now, she asked. travel documents can take you almost every where- that dont need visas, I tell her. she is not conviced.

If you are from Mbarara, and therefore pass yourself as a Munyankole, lets only speak in Runyankole, she instructs. kawa.. i say. I cant hold a straight conversation in runyankole same as i cant hold one in straight kinyarwanda, luganda, swahili or any of those other languanges ( people who know me know that am actually verbally challenged never mind which language). Any how, i did speak in runyankole, solve her riddles (shaku-shaku… is this really necessary?)

Then she found a problem with the fact that my parents seem to come from the same village (unheard of according to her).

Then she needed a contact, some one she could call to confirm my non-kiwani status. But there was a twist, she needed a source from my father’s side.

I have no idea my father even ever existed let alone that he had a “’side of the family”. She totally flips at this one.

Her: ” who instructed to answer like this? Was it your uncles. they advised you to talk like this?”

Me: (thinking, chic, am like going 30. so i need no uncles to feed me with words, and if i say i have no relationship with my non existent father then i dont). I only looked at her and smiled.

Her: Seriously, you are a unique case, i have never met anyone who says they are not all ‘related’ with their fathers and have no idea about partenal relatives.

Me: Really, then i gues thats terribly sad, for me.

Anyhow, the long and short of it, she asked me to see some one different, coz she doesnt deal with such unique cases like mine.

I left that place thinking: Should I go and do some community service this evening, like sweep kampala road and plant an extra tree somewhere around this city.

Should i just take a walk from internal affairs to Mbuya

In the end, i caught a boda and rode home. I went straight to my bed and sent a text to my new fav. person going on about how I hated my life right then and the next time they would see me, i would have had a Britney hair cut.

Right now, am dreading the next interview and have already had the hair cut (not the Britney).

Ps: despite all that, this week has really been a great week for me.

Christmas Break Hosts- poor souls

Happy new year everyone. I spent my first day in 2008 searching for a nice story; to read, to tell, to enjoy. and now that i found it, i would like to share it with you all.

Again, Happy new year! 

Caroline Donald

At this time of year, I find myself phoned by those city friends not ferrying their children across the country between grandparents. Friends with stretches of holiday ahead, and a yearning for bracing walks, followed by mince pies by the fire.

“Shall I pop down for a few days?” is how they usually phrase it. Having been collected from a station 10 miles away, these self-invited guests flop on the sofa, leaving their bags in the doorway for me to trip over.

“Oh, it’s so lovely to be out of town. I just want to relax . . . it’s been party after party and I’m tired out,” they say — having omitted to ask me to any of the parties in question. Then they settle in for their stay, under the mistaken impression that one’s combined home and place of work is a bijou boutique hotel, with hot and cold running staff.

I do realise that we hosts have a certain duty of care. There’s nothing more unwelcoming than arriving at someone’s home after having driven for miles to find that they haven’t even begun to think about your stay: no supper (“Is a boiled egg okay?”), not a drop of booze in the house, and the guest bed, with dirty sheets, covered in piles of clothes and papers.

This is not the way I do things when people come to stay. They are my friends, and I am delighted to see them. No, really I am. However, I have a handkerchief from my grandmother that, but for the large ink stains all over it, I would frame and hang in the spare room as a gentle hint.

Illustrated with lovely 1950s-ish cartoons, it spells out rules for weekend guests. A few, such as “Do not forget to tip the servants” and “Please do not steal our cook”, are no longer applicable, especially if, as in my case, home is a cosy cottage in Somerset where hostess, cook, cleaner, butler, gardener and chauffeur are all rolled into one. (Though someone did once leave a fiver on the bedside table — I must try to encourage that.) But you can’t go wrong with “Show your appreciation to the hostess” and “It is quite proper to bring a present” — Christmas castoffs excluded.

Some of the edicts I don’t agree with. “No gossip, please” would make a deadly dull couple of days, and I’m not sure I know anyone who could stick to that rule. Similarly, “If you must indulge in gardening, use your own garden” is certainly not my view: any man with half a set of muscles is encouraged to get out there with the strimmer and saw — though one friend did go a bit far, chopping down three trees because he “didn’t like the look of them”.

Usually, however, despite their intention to lend a hand, my dear guests seem to be overtaken by events. After an hour or two of post-walk snooze, they come downstairs briefly — “Do you have any lemons? I fancy a gin and tonic” — before vanishing again to run off all the hot water and hog the bathroom for an hour, tipping in industrial quantities of my Jo Malone bath oil to boot. Meanwhile, I lay the table, set the fire, cook dinner, sort out more drinks and tidy up, ready for the dinner party of amusing locals I have laid on for their entertainment.

Worse, they sometimes decide they are preprandially peckish, and start snuffling around in the fridge without checking what’s okay to take. Munch, munch, munch, they go. And down their gullet slips my Christmas smoked salmon (the next day’s lunch) or the first course of dinner. And this always after the shops have closed. What’s the matter with bread and butter?

Don’t get me wrong: I love having city friends willing to make the trip to visit. But those whose idea of entertaining is ordering in a pizza have no idea of the frenzy of activity that goes on beforehand, let alone the cleaning up afterwards — and all, usually, on a working day. To their minds, even the making of toast and the moving of dishes from table to dishwasher is done by invisible kitchen fairies — while the guest settles in with the newspaper, delivered, naturally, by fairy post.

A friend who lived in France for a year got so fed up with guests who used her house as a holiday destination — without considering that it was also a family home — that she started counting the number of times she had to empty the spare-room wastepaper basket. It came to 54.

I long to have her and her family to stay, as I know they would be the perfect guests: amusing and undemanding company, helpful, tidy and appreciative. Above all, they would follow the wise maxim that guests are like fish: they stink after three days, especially on a Monday morning. Funnily enough, they never asked me to stay in France. Obviously too grumpy