I just dug my way out of an online avalanche; just in time to pen this piece and then hibernate; far away from all manner of civilisation. I am embracing my inner hermit. Or maybe not. Why the dramatic opening, you may ask.
Unless you are living under a rock-today’s speak for having no social media account, you have certainly been called to a multi-day public lynching of yours truly. It has been like one massive party of ‘punch-a-Tony’.
See, I occasionally give some passing commentary on things public affairs. Sometimes, I pen a piece in these pages; a privilege I quite feel fortunate for because our dad raised us on Daily Monitor political commentary by the likes of Austin Ejiet (RIP), Charles Onyango Obbo, Allan Tacca etc. But most of my work is on X. To me, a lot of my takes seem rather like obvious portrayals of daily life; banal even.
But occasionally, said opinions draw significant backlash that I usually put down to polarisation of society that will take the most basic of statements, twist it and package it for outrage. Controversy sells. I get it. Nothing serious. But the end of last week, leading into this one, has been particularly ferocious. Casus belli? Must be that election work we did.. Hmmm! I sure stepped in it!
Each day, I have woken up to chants rising like dark incense smoke from poop infested altars. I have read missives from literal strangers who seem to know me better than my own dad, siblings, Namilyango College friends and even more than I know myself. My largely imagined sex life has become canon fodder for online jokes and chatter.
For the most part, I cannot quite recognise the person these people are talking about but sometimes, I have found myself smiling and wishing my life was that exciting. If I did, these pages would certainly read like grande debauchery on tap, as I regale you with tales of my conquests, parties and nights of binge drinking. But alas, I am not a fiction writer.
Panicked friends I have not spoken to in more than a decade have inundated me with calls reminding me to keep my head up, keep doing me but embrace a silence of graveyard weight. That last piece of advice reminding me why we have not spoken in ages. These people do not know me. I have not found a battle I did not like. I quite like to stare down highly unsophisticated globules of testosterone hidden behind a keyboard and face their flatulence with eloquence. But this week, I have been drinking from a geyser.
The overwhelming supply of online invective has got me looking over my back in the real world. It is particularly rough when individuals you have broken bread with, come holding pitchforks and axes in the form of twisted information aimed to just injure for injury’s sake. The likes and laughs from strangers are the currency they seek. I guess.
That feeling of betrayal that you get is not just pain; it is a sudden, cold square of metal in the chest. But I find comfort in knowing that I am simply answering a call of duty.
To channel Noam Chomsky, it is the responsibility of intellectuals to seek the truth and expose lies ‘hidden behind the veil of distortion and misrepresentation’. But what the American father of modern linguistics did not say is that this triggers online trolls in a way that no kryptonite can extinguish. The punches come in all shapes and forms; some are well constructed uppercuts that give you that ‘ouch, that was cold’ feeling, while others read like neurological events typed out at the tail-end of a particularly long, drunken night.
Muhammad Ali meets Chris Baryomunsi; all in one fell swoop. But hey, if one does not stake their reputation on the truths they posses, they are merely voyeurs watching someone else’s war. So, the show goes on.
My Bugisu ancestors would not have it any other way. Do not call me. Send hugs. And copious whiskey or beer, depending on which troll you listen to. Also, Mark Ssegirinya better not have me in his ‘The Timeline’ this week. We shall fight!