Raymond Ofungi

THE WEEKEND PLATE There are two types of people as #EidElFitri approaches. Those who have fasted for 30 days… And those of us who have been fasting in imagination -waiting patiently for #kyakulya. You know the second group. We are the “strategic friends.” The ones suddenly remembering long-lost Muslim classmates. The ones who can pronounce “Asalam o Alikum” with confidence on D-Day, but have never quite recovered from saying “Alaikum salad” last year and being politely ignored near the meat pot. Let’s be honest. For many ordinary Ugandans, Eid is less about the crescent moon and more about the curvature of a well-loaded plate. It is about lusaniya rising like a small hill, pilau perfumed like a five-star promise, and that chicken -oh, that chicken -moving from theoretical discussion to practical application. But somewhere between the second serving and that ambitious third scoop, reality taps you on the shoulder. Because while you were negotiating invites and perfecting greetings, someone else was negotiating with hunger. For thirty days. From dawn to dusk. No shortcuts. No “just a small bite.” No “let me taste the stew and confirm salt levels.” Discipline. Quiet resilience. Faith in its most personal form. And then comes the evening. The breaking of the fast -not with a stadium cheer, but with a humble prayer. A date. Water. Gratitude. The kind of moment that reminds you that food, before it is enjoyment, is provision. That is the part we, the “festival specialists,” often miss. We show up for the feast, but forget the journey. Yet maybe -just maybe -that’s the beauty of Eid. It invites even the clueless among us. The ones who come for the pilau but leave with perspective. The ones who arrive with appetite and depart with a quiet respect for devotion. So yes, by all means, locate your Muslim friend. Confirm your invite. Wash your hands like a man about to change his destiny. But when you sit down to that glorious plate, pause -just briefly. Remember that what you are enjoying is not just food. It is the celebration of endurance, faith, and gratitude. Then proceed. Because even spiritual reflection should not interfere with well-prepared pilau. Eid Mubarak. And please -get the greeting right. #Uganda

@CalebSsozi @smackists @odagacharles @patrickoyulu @Rwak1Moses @SmackObs Morningside, Sandton. Just after the Caltex at the corner of Rivonia & Summit

@Rayofungi @smackists @odagacharles @patrickoyulu @Rwak1Moses @SmackObs Where is it located

For a while been meaning to stop and take a photo of this jointcin Morningside, Sandton. Finally scratched that itch ...If you know you know!! @odagacharles @patrickoyulu @Rwak1Moses @SmackObs

@patrickoyulu @odagacharles @Rwak1Moses @SmackObs Swaibu truly complimented the diet of men a happy man.

@Rayofungi @odagacharles @Rwak1Moses @SmackObs I see lives are in the making here. And those lives were built on Sabulenya (sabs) and Kibuga, not pepperoni. Sabs after class and Kibuga by the kitchen — crunchy, oily, unforgettable. This Sandton place should respectfully rebrand to SMACK Sabs Joint.

@patrickoyulu Jadit, I have to admit it was all going well and I rolled in my eyes as you took me down memory lane. That's until you crossed the line daring to mention elephant #Arsenal . So, as we identify the ship that wrecked the sea cable you are not welcome at the kifunda

DID 'DARK MODE' SHOW WOLOKOSO A MOVE? Ugandans, welcome back. If this is the first thing you’re reading after the internet came back on, pause. Breathe. Stretch your thumbs. Civilization has reconnected. When Gava quietly unplugged the nation, #Uganda didn’t just go offline. We went historical. Properly so. Somewhere between Tuesday evening and collective silence, the country slipped into #DarkMode -no bars, no beeps, no “Seen 2:14pm.” Just vibes. And radios. A Naija sounding voice cried out online -seconds before extinction - “God ev mercy upon us.” Then it flatlined. Beep… beep… beeeeeep. The ICU monitor screamed. Only @UCC_Official heard it. Uganda had gone AWOL. Off-grid. Back to radio calls - confirm 1-2 check! Affirmative. Or Negative. With the internet purgatory, #GenZ must have tasted what some of us felt in our childhood. Indeed people -allegedly, reverted to factory settings. Cash resurfaced. Physical money. Folded. Counted twice. MoMo evaporated. SendWave vanished. Trust issues were restored. Some carried money in envelopes, others in pockets, others -rumour has it -in sacks. Financial literacy, vintage edition. Homes filled again. Couples watched TV together. Remote-control wars returned like stubborn uncles. People rediscovered #DeltaForce VHS tapes instead of Netflix. Neighbours greeted each other properly -not as profile pictures. In Nebbi and Kabale, lung power replaced Wi-Fi bars as people shouted across valleys for salt. Funz Video Cynibel in Kiwatule became a pilgrimage site: laptops open, USBs dangling, gigabytes of movies being uploaded like it was 2004. Radios with SW bands flew off shelves like emergency rations. Pedestrians looked up. For real. Situation awareness was restored. Arsenal fans? Quiet. Deeply suspicious a spell was being cast on their #PremierLeague chances. Then… the signal returned. @UCC_ED declared it officially today. And suddenly, Uganda understood how people must have felt in 1876, when Alexander Graham Bell leaned into a strange contraption and said, “Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you,” and -miracle of miracles -Watson heard every word. Civilization gasped. Or 1878, when newspapers screamed, “At Last, At Last!” announcing the Shavers System -a telephone that worked regardless of angle, didn’t roar in the wind, and actually behaved like communication. That joy. That disbelief. You mean… it works again? That was Uganda, staring at the bars on the phone. Messages flooding in. One prominent message read "Muraregye?" WhatsApp screaming back to life. Arsenal fans resurfacing with evidence of a draw. Manchester United fans taunting City fans. Seatbelts on. For us in the diaspora, we watched like ICU visitors -online, whispering in empty WhatsApp groups, changing seats and still asking, “Ab’eno?” @Kasuku256 and @MubarakMunyagwa on Tuesday were caught mid-shoot. Uganda couldn’t download anything. But we could. So no, this wasn’t the Stone Age. It was memory. Browsing once meant flipping black-and-white TV channels. Dial phones clicked like hyperlinks. Every “Let me call you back” was buffering. Posters were timelines. If your church notice survived the rain, engagement was strong. When the internet went offline, Ugandans became the network. Now it’s back. Arguments may resume from exactly where they paused. I guess a section of Ugandans -once loud, will remain quiet. Just guessing. Nevertheless, WELCOME BACK. Thank you for flying into the past -in airplane mode. We kept the space. Now the Wolokoso can flow again, like never before. You know Ugandans. Nga Boogera! #UgandaDecides2026 #UgandaDecided #SocialMedia #SatireIsNotACrime @netblocks

@patrickoyulu @Makerere To Uganda 🇺🇬

THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW! Ugandans of a certain vintage remember Cadre 18 -the first @Makerere bound cohort that went to Kyankwanzi for political training, the way sailors remember storms: with laughter now, but fear then. October 26, 1991 they passed out, quite relieved that they had made it. But they still remember Kyankwanzi aka 'Kyankwi'. Shirts off in the 4am cold, barked commands of “kka kitako!”, rolling in mud before sunrise. At target practice, miss your mark and you kunja ngumi or beba dunia. Nervous 'Meridas' (ladies) had instructors sit on their backsides to steady the rifle at target practice. Songs like "Nani amewaleta Kyankwanzi" followed punishment and were meant to harden you. Punishment followed songs. Trained by Afandes with names that sounded permanent -Afande Orita, Afande Mwana Mboka, Afande Bado etc, - many genuinely thought the sun would not rise for them. Yet it did. They passed out. Joined Makerere University, and life moved on. Uganda’s political life has often felt like #Kyankwanzi -intense drills, raised voices, the recurring feeling that tomorrow might not come. In 1962, we voted peacefully, hopeful that elections would always be so. History corrected that optimism with coups, contested polls, and bruised trust. By 2006 -our first multiparty election since 1986 -tension was thick. Besigye’s arrest, riots, nerves. I voted in Konge that year; a friend of mine may have been Miria Obote’s only vote in that line. We argued, laughed, worried -and survived. That is the quiet truth we forget in heated seasons: Uganda has a stubborn habit of waking up the next day. The Sikyomu drum makers in Ndeeba still beat their skins. Boda bodas at #Wandegeya still argue with traffic lights. Kalerwe market -with it's chaos, will still be open. Life insists. Friday -January 15, 2026 - may be tense. Elections often feel like musical chairs: many rounds, fewer seats, music stopping abruptly. That stop will be felt kesho. Elimination hurts. Victory intoxicates. But when the music stops, we must resist flipping the chairs themselves. Let the game end without breaking the hall. To the likely winner: understand your mountain. Unity is not marching in one direction; it is agreeing to keep walking together. And together we should walk. To those who will fall short: disappointment handled with dignity is leadership delayed, not denied. To all #Ugandans: do your civic duty, peacefully, deliberately, humanly, and -preferably, go home. As the saying goes, where I am from, difficult takes a day; possible takes many more days to come. We've endured challenges. In 1991, many colleagues rolled deep in the #Kyankwanzi mud and still stood up. The Day After Tomorrow -is always a given. It comes. And Uganda -with its katemba, noisy, resilient, impatient, hopeful #Uganda -will still be here. The drums will still beat. And we will argue about the election -over tea, in taxis, and on Social Media (after they rescind the temporary internet shutdown) -like a country that plans to be here for a while. BE SAFE. HAPPY VOTING! @newvisionwire @DailyMonitor @UGIndependent #UOT #UgandaDecides2026 @nbstv

@Rwak1Moses @odagacharles @patrickoyulu @SMACK_UG Like most cuffs we seem to misplace one. So @Rwak1Moses how about you send me the piece you so I can complete my set. And then we consider all debts, bets, dares, arguments etc settled. 😅😅😅

@Rayofungi @odagacharles @patrickoyulu @SMACK_UG I need a replacement too!!

Lives in the Making, Cocktails in the Shaking: SMACKOBA Dinner 2025. If @SMACK_UG had served Friday night’s cocktails back in our school days, half the Dining Hall would be on a one-month suspension, easy. “SMACK Jabba” – that innocent-looking blend of Johnnie Walker Blonde, lemon juice, simple syrup, jam and Sprite – is the sort of thing a Brother would only need to hear about to send you home. Add “Kiss-U-Baby” and “Tinker Teaser” and, my friend, you’re not just going Up and On, you’re going sideways. So when I started demanding a proper deluge of photos from the @SmackObs dinner, a few OBs tried the old line: “OPP, one cocktail and the brain is telling you stories…” I wasn’t buying it. You mean all those SMACK #Jabba refills and not a single Crystal-clear shot of the emcee? With @CrystalANewman in the house? Kale, banange. Because you know how it is: in the excitement of networking, speeches and strategic refills at the bar, the emcees are always the first to be forgotten. Not this time. I wanted proof of presence: Crystal’s smile lighting the ballroom, and @kasyate beside her, keeping an OB crowd both in stitches and in line. Someone needed to walk up and say, “Eh Crystal, the guys online say I can’t get a selfie with you. Let’s prove them wrong and split the difference.” The brief was crystal: only images that project the event in a positive light. Old Boys smiling. A radiant Crystal. A few wifely svelte petites. Rich food. Respectable beverages. No half-closed eyes, no mid-chew struggles, no chaotic backgrounds. And, as always, @odagacharles stepped up like a prefect on inspection day and delivered. The pictures say it all: the Bell rang, and @smackists showed up. Distinguished achievers awards were handed out, including to my @HMV_SMACK cohort – @kkalyegira, Prof. Martin Lawoko, Eng. Francis Olul, Eng. Henry Kiggundu, Dr. @ddembe and others – proper #DucInAltum men as Patrick Kateihwaho (RIP) would call them. My sister Edith @oyulu82510 and her daughter @MoreenOyulu stood in for yours truly, proving that even from afar, you can still be part of the story. From the “Belle at the Bar,” the Bell Beer guzzled, to the Bell that calls us back, the #SMACKOBA dinner reminded us of what the anthem has always said: lives are in the making here, hearts are in the waking here. We’re still pluming wings for higher flight. Up and On, boys. This one was worth it. Thanks @rbaguma608 , @munlex50 and the organizing team for job well done. #SMACKOBADinner2025 #Uganda @HotelAfricana

@odagacharles @patrickoyulu @SMACK_UG Great one!! Though need to remind Mr. Odaga that I am still waiting for his guidance on where to find the SMACK cuffs . Been holding onto this one that I got from @Rwak1Moses gave me almost 20yrs ago

@patrickoyulu @SMACK_UG The cocktails 🍹

ALL THE KING'S MEN! When Padyere MP aspirant Denis Olyeko Oryema watched his son Lino Olyeko graduate as a King’s Horse Guardsman in London, it wasn’t just a family milestone – it was an Alur story stretching from Nebbi to Hyde Park Barracks in the United Kingdom. In Buganda, some men don’t simply go to work – they report for duty in barkcloth. The Kabaka’s #Abambowa, wrapped in kanzumingi, step out with spear, shield, top-curved panga (zinzimiya) and a rope to restrain troublemakers. They arrive on empty stomachs to avoid toilet breaks; the Kabaka’s security comes before byakunywa and food. Across in #Bunyoro, history remembers the #Abaruusura – Omukama Chwa II Kabalega’s standing army. Today they’re called Cultural Royal Guards, but the idea is the same: your chest and your spear between the Omukama and danger. Fast-forward to London, where guards have swapped barkcloth for polished breastplates, but the brief is familiar: you blink, the monarch doesn’t, and the stare holds. Now picture the Blues and Royals on parade at Knightsbridge’s Hyde Park Barracks: gleaming helmet, cuirass, sword at the ready, horse standing like it, too, has read the drill manual. The Household Cavalry performs the King’s Life Guard one day and deploys as an armoured reconnaissance unit the next. Into that line of royal guardians rides one of our own: Trooper Lino Olyeko (photo below), son of Padyere, Nebbi District. On Friday, as he passed out with his squad, his father Denis (photo) stood by his stirrup, holding his regalia and sword like every prayer from the hills of Parombo had just hardened into steel. For a moment the usually unflappable King’s Life Guard tableau looked very African: a proud father fussing over his boy’s collar while the horse pretended not to notice. For the Alur and for Padyere county, these photos are going straight to the sitting room wall. They tell a simple story: a boy who listened, a father who encouraged, a family that believes service still matters. From school roll calls to drill commands in London, Lino has ridden a long way. Look closely at those pass-out pictures. The uniform says Blues and Royals; the posture says King’s Horse Guardsman. Tucked just at the edge of protocol, in the set of his shoulders and that almost-smile, is a young Alur horseman who knows that somewhere in the crowd, his father is watching – and that is an honour all of its own. cc @KennedyJavuru | #Uganda #AllTheKingsMen #RoyalGuards #Ugandans #UnitedKingdom

@patrickoyulu @ZohranKMamdani What about us from Kitintale. Are we West coast? 🙃 Bon chance and to a new dawn

‘East Coast’ 'Buzigan' on the Verge of Running New York! By the time New York woke up this morning, Kampala group chats were already five voice notes deep. Somewhere on the campaign trail, a random New Yorker says, “I used to live in Muyenga," and @ZohranKMamdani replies "Oh, I lived in Buziga. Now, yours truly for two years lived in Konge. My hommies and I -who lived that side of town, used to call ourselves the "East Coast" boys. If you lived in Muyenga, Kabalaga, Konge, Buziga, Munyonyo, Gaba etc you were #EastCoast Suffice it to say, we are now claiming 'joint custody' of Zohran, who ironically, also lives in the East Coast of USA. 'East Coast' Buziga to East Coast, New York, game meets game! Today, that once soft-spoken, but curious intern who - according to @Opiaiya (cited in @Roduza beautiful artcle in Reuters) once tiptoed into the @DailyMonitor newsroom, notebook in hand, is staring down the biggest headline of his life – and this time, he is the story. Back then, his job was to chase quotes. Tonight, he might become the quote every newsroom scrambles for: 34-year-old, Muslim, Buziga-raised kid may become #MayorOfNewYorkCity. From that newsroom in Namuwongo to the blue subway line in Queens, the through-line has always been curiosity and stubborn hope. The boy who had to brief his dad @mm1124 every evening on current affairs is now the man about to be the lead item on every bulletin from New York to Namanve. The one who wanted to be a “top reporter” may end up as “top story” instead. And Ugandans? From Arua to Zzana, Astoria to the Bronx, they’re holding their breath. Aunties in Boston have already cooked, uncles in Masaka are pretending not to care but quietly refreshing timelines. The “East Coast” crew are drafting captions in advance, just in case: “From Buziga hill to City Hall – Ki ekiriwo, New York City?” But history doesn’t confirm itself. It needs voters. So if you’re in #NewYorkCity and you haven’t voted yet, this is your cue. Grab your jacket, your MetroCard, your hopes and your doubts – and head to your polling place. Stand in that line like it’s the Rolex queue at 2 a.m. in Wandegeya. Cast that ballot and help seal this wildly improbable, beautifully Ugandan, thoroughly New York story. Today, New York writes its headline. Don’t just read it. Be part of it. #voteZohran

Remembered 35 years on. Honesty, Consistency, Humanity and Humility Thank you dad !!! @Ugandapolice1 #Uganda #IGP REST IN POWER!

Great to see someone finally taking action on #noisepollution in and the cities #NEMA #Uganda @bikhado @tonyofungi @patrickoyulu softpower.ug/nema-intensifi…

UG CRANES JERSEYS RULE At every football tournament, there is always that one cultural spectacle that outlives the goals, the red cards, and even the refereeing scandals. Mexico 1986 had 'The Wave'. South Africa 2010 had the vuvuzela, loved locally but hated globally. And CHAN 2024? Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Uganda’s invention: the back-of-the-jersey philosophy class. Forget Nike slogans - Ugandan fans have taken differentiation to another level. On the terraces, you’ll find jerseys not just numbered, but sermonized: “Nakato Sikusanga Ewange,” “Stingy Men. Enough is Enough,” and my personal favorite, “Ffe wetuli, tetugenda, tumanyi gyetuva ne gyetugenda. Tukubira ku frontline.” 🤣🤣🤣. CAF is frowning, but Twitter is laughing. Instagram is sharing. Uganda is trending. And isn’t that the essence of marketing? Differentiation. Standing out in a noisy, crowded space by being boldly, sometimes scandalously, unique. Apple did it with the iPod. Cameroon did it in 1982 when Pepe Kallé sang the entire Indomitable Lions squad into a Lingala hit. South Africa blew its lungs out on plastic horns until FIFA banned them. Uganda is now writing football literature on polyester, positioning itself in the conversation - not because of goals, but because of wit. The beautiful irony? My brother, a diehard Manchester United fan, didn’t know that the names in “Roger Milla” were an actual World Cup lineup. That’s how African football culture works - songs, symbols, spectacles. The shirt slogans are simply the next chapter. So let CAF threaten. The jerseys are doing what jerseys are meant to do - represent the people. Ugandans are no longer in “Kamooli Mode” (that invisible corner of global football). They are on the frontline - seen, read, heard, memed, and retweeted. And when all is said and done, CHAN 2024/5 will be remembered not for the scorelines, but for the shirts that spoke louder than the strikers. Uganda’s brand? Differentiation, stitched in bold letters across the back. I hope Nakato gets the message! #Nkugambye #SatireIsNotACrime #Ugandan

@patrickoyulu @SmackObs @CedricNdilima @Rwak1Moses @rogerrecommends @Innocentkihika @cmulindwa And indeed, being ahead of him we cheered him on the courts, some still claiming to have beaten him at the game #tennis on the SMACK courts or at Kampala club. We saw him as our younger brother. MHSRIP 🙏

If My Brother Is in Trouble, So Am I: A Farewell to Cedric Babu Today, Uganda lost a son. A @SmackObs old boy. A father. A friend. A sportsman who flew Uganda's flag on tennis courts far and wide - @CedricNdilima . And in his death, we witnessed something more troubling than grief - we saw a country losing its soul. Cedric’s final days were clouded not by illness alone, but by an ugliness on social media that left many of us breathless. What should have been a moment of collective empathy turned into a theatre of Schadenfreude. People didn’t just fail to help - they mocked, they speculated, they judged. Why? Because of who he was born to, or where he stood politically? Let it be said clearly: Cedric Ndilima Babu did not oppress you. He did not steal from you. He simply was. And that should have been enough to grant him peace in his final hours. This is bigger than politics. When a country celebrates - or is indifferent to - the pain of another human being, we are not engaging in resistance. We are becoming the very thing we claim to oppose. In Alur culture, those who celebrate misfortune are called 'Ja-jjok' - witches. And Twitter has become a coven of 'ju-jjogis'. The words of Owek. @dfkm1970 ring true: “We shall never see the Uganda we love, until we develop a central nervous system that enables us see the pain in the other.” Let us rebuild that nervous system. Let us feel again. For #CedricBabu. For #EddieMutwe. For the many Ugandans whose suffering becomes viral content instead of a call to conscience. If my brother is in trouble, so am I. Yap, that line from Jeffrey Osborne's oldskool hit. Let that be the thread that binds this seemingly torn nation back together. Rest well, Cedric Ndilima Babu. Rest well, Old Boy. YOU DESERVED BETTER! cc: @WilliamFBlick #UgandanLegends #Uganda

Should Mandazis Have the Right of Way? The Public Accounts Committee (PAC) of Parliament sat yesterday to grill the Uganda Police Force on matters of road security protocols, assets, and the abuse of lead cars. But what grilled me more was the buffet table laid out like a pre-wedding meeting in Kanyanya. Yes, there were tough questions about who deserves a siren and who just thinks they’re Moses parting traffic. But before we even got to the issue of road users being bounced off the tarmac, I couldn’t help but notice that what had real right of way - uninterrupted and unapologetic - were the mandazis. As someone who tuned in because my OB, the Deputy IGP, was speaking on national issues, I expected security talk. Instead, I got snack attack. A Honorable (no need for full names - let's protect the hungry) was on a full food marathon: mandazi after mandazi, washed down with flasks of chai that would make a "Toninyira Mukange" joint jealous. Another MP lamented the lack of a single patrol car at his district police station - with a mouth full of mandazi and a plate featuring more 'assets' than the very police force he was questioning. The irony did not just slap - it set up camp. These committees are supposed to reflect our national decorum. But watching this, I began to wonder: is there a secret committee budget line for tea and accompaniments? Shouldn’t they be served water and national conscience instead? Let’s be clear: there’s a time and place for everything. Breakfast is for home. Mandazis are for the canteen. Parliament is for leadership. Yet what we saw was a merging of all three - a katogo of national shame. We speak of lead cars bouncing pedestrians, yet no one is bouncing these snacks off committee tables. If you squint, you might think you're watching a mukolo in a tent in Kyengera, not a public hearing on national police resources. And now, I hear whispers that some MPs fear the canteen. Eh! So instead, they bring the canteen to committee? At this rate, we’ll soon have bogoya protocols, sumbusa security clearances, and a mandazi marshal to oversee pastry deployment. Maybe we deserve better. If you cannot ask serious national questions without one hand in a samosa and the other reaching for a toothpick, maybe we need a Public Accounts Committee on Snacks (PACS). Otherwise, dear Parliamentarians, before you ask who deserves the right of way on the road, kindly ask: Do mandazis deserve the right of way on national TV? EAT. FROM. HOME! #SatireIsNotACrime #Uganda

@patrickoyulu Thanks to God!! And thanks for sharing your experience with all. Get well soon jadit 😇

I STEPPED ON A 'LANDMINE'. In Uganda, when someone wakes up with swollen legs or mysterious pain, explanations abound. In Buganda, they'd say, "Yalinye Etalo," meaning they stepped on something supernatural. Among the Alur, it's "Enyonu Tho," an ominous declaration that someone has "stepped on an illness." But in urban Ugandan English, the phrase is more evocative -“He stepped on a landmine.” Well, last week, I didn’t just step on one. I walked right into a whole field of them. And by some miracle, I lived to tell the tale. For three weeks, I had nagging lower back pain, the kind you chalk up to a bad chair or an overenthusiastic day at the gym. But then, on Wednesday, my right leg started swelling. At first, I brushed it off -fatigue, maybe? Nerve compression? So I did what any rational person would do: lay on my back and propped my legs up against the wall like a makeshift yoga guru. Except the swelling didn’t go away. Worse, I started feeling pain in my groin. Now, that’s the kind of pain you can’t unfeel. At 10:45 PM, my wife and I made the call -straight to Robert Wood Johnson Hospital Emergency Room in New Brunswick, NJ. The moment the ER staff saw my leg, they didn’t waste time on small talk. "Suspected blood clot." Boom. Just like that, I had stepped on a landmine. Without wasting time, I was admitted and they ran an X-ray, ultrasound, and CTA scans of my chest, abdomen, and pelvis. You know how, in Kampala, traffic jams snake back from Nakawa to Jinja Road like an unholy mess? That was my blood flow -clogged with clots from my right leg all the way to my pelvis. Some were lounging in my iliac veins, waiting for the perfect moment to break free and wreak havoc. One wrong move and I could have had a pulmonary embolism -a clot shooting up to my lungs. The kind of thing that turns a regular day into an obituary. And you know what people would have said? "Eh! But he was fine just yesterday!" "I think he was bewitched." "Did he owe someone money in Kawempe Mbogo zone?" Sigh. There was no time to play games though. The vascular team at @RWJBarnabas decided: Thrombectomy. A delicate, urgent procedure where they go in and physically remove the clots -like carefully defusing live landmines. On Thursday evening, I signed the consent form. It felt like signing a death warrant, 🤪. By Friday morning, I posted a cryptic tweet -just in case it was my last. It read: "Delicate! But it’s got to be done. God is in control. #LetsDoThis." No one gave it much thought. Then, into the operating room I went. Two hours later, I woke up to the news: success. The clots -8 to 10 of them -had been removed. I even saw them. Thick, sinister, silent killers. Just chilling there, waiting for an opportunity to take me out. Had they dislodged and reached my lungs? Game over. Brain? Lights out. But by some divine orchestration, we caught them in time. If there’s anything this near-death encounter has taught me, it’s that landmines don’t announce themselves. One day, you’re fine. The next, you’re in the ER fighting for your life. The CDC estimates that 100,000 people die from blood clots every year in the U.S. The risk factors? Prolonged immobility, dehydration, smoking, obesity, surgery, genetics -you name it. Some of them are in our control. Others aren’t. But here’s what is in our control: ▪︎ Move more. If you sit for long hours, get up and stretch. ▪︎ Stay hydrated -your blood is like traffic, and dehydration is like closing lanes. ▪︎ Watch for signs: swelling, unexplained pain, shortness of breath. ▪︎ Get checked if something feels off. I got lucky. Many don’t. So, my friends, take this as a Public Health PSA with a side of wit. Check your body. Listen to the whispers before they turn into sirens. Because in life, the worst landmines are the ones you never see coming. I was discharged on Saturday evening. A special thank you to @RWJBarnabas Hospital New Brunswick, NJ Doctors and staff for saving my life. God Bless You!

@shonubimusoke @ChambersGuides @Innocentkihika @NoahEdwinM @AndrewKibaya @HellenNakiryowa @NicholasMwasame @KabayoAlex45153 Congratulations @Innocentkihika and the team @shonubimusoke @SMACKOBA

Innocent Kihika has been recognized by @ChambersGuides for his excellence in General Business Law."Innocent Kihika is very hard-working and knowledgeable and also a practical person. He is approachable on issues." Congratulations!

THE UGANDAN BENCH MARK! Let’s gather round for a gem of historical importance in Uganda. We all know @GardensNajjera for that late-night Kikalaaya Fix, Mama D's Keychen (🖐 @Mama_d256) for its "World Record" Food, strut down Bandaali Rise like it’s a fashion week runway, and map out Kyankwanzi for those intense political seminars. Even the Karuma baboons have mastered roadside diplomacy (read: begging). And don’t get us started on the “hackers” who magically found that vault. But here’s the real juice: Did you know the zero point for measuring distances from Kampala isn’t the Post Office, as most folks, 'who know things', may have thought? Nope! It’s Amber House, home to the @MEMD_Uganda . Hidden in its quadrangle is a historic obelisk, planted in 1907 by Mr. Weldon of the British colonial government. This unassuming stone marks Kampala’s “distance-zero” and elevation—3905.40 feet above Mombasa’s sea level. Mombasa itself is at Zero. It's called the #BenchMark While we’re busy debating potholes, boda boda chaos, did Alien Skin punch gundi, and city garbage, this monument has quietly done its job for 117 years—no bribes, no breakdowns. So, the next time @UNRA_UG tells you Kampala-Kanungu is 424.6 km, tip your hat to Amber House. And to Mr. Weldon. (NB: Not the Mr. Wendal in the renowned Arrested Development song.) Who knew the Ministry of Energy was powering more than just electricity? Does @MTWAUganda know about this gem? #Uganda