conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a story about Abyssinian, Chronicles, Uganda with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this story could be 'Abyssinian Chronicles'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a story titled Abyssinian Chronicles about Abyssinian, Chronicles, Uganda with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Abyssinian Chronicles: The story is set in Uganda, in the 1970s and \'80s.\nThe story follows the life of narrator Mugezi Muwaabi, as he plots his own independence from his parents and capitalizes on his considerable natural resources of charm and intelligence.\nA grandfather, a father and his son are the three figures that form a tripod from which the novel is set.\nGrandpa represents the traditional order, his son Serenity the chaos of transition, and Mugezi the despair of a younger generation over the dead end of transition and its own prospects.\nRootless and bitter, Mugezi flees to Europe from Uganda.\nThe first part of the story centres on Mugezi, a young man growing up in post-colonial Uganda.\nBorn in 1961, a year before Uganda attained independence, Mugenzi describes a troubled childhood living under the tyranny and strict rules of his parents.\nThe family moves to Kampala, the nation\'s capital about the time Idi Amin comes to power in 1971.\nIn the second half of the story Mugezi is excited about the country\'s prospects under Idi Amin, following the ouster of Milton Obote and his corrupt government.\nSoon, however, Amin\'s regime descends to the depths of brutality and mismanagement – starting with a botched "Africanization" campaign that leads to the expulsion of thousands of Asian businessmen.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: \nThe story follows the life of narrator Mugezi Muwaabi, as he plots his own independence from his parents and capitalizes on his considerable natural resources of charm and intelligence.\nA grandfather, a father and his son are the three figures that form a tripod from which the novel is set.\nGrandpa represents the traditional order, his son Serenity the chaos of transition, and Mugezi the despair of a younger generation over the dead end of transition and its own prospects.\nRootless and bitter, Mugezi flees to Europe from Uganda.\nThe first part of the story centres on Mugezi, a young man growing up in post-colonial Uganda.\nBorn in 1961, a year before Uganda attained independence, Mugenzi describes a troubled childhood living under the tyranny and strict rules of his parents.\nThe family moves to Kampala, the nation\'s capital about the time Idi Amin comes to power in 1971.\nIn the second half of the story Mugezi is excited about the country\'s prospects under Idi Amin, following the ouster of Milton Obote and his corrupt government.\nSoon, however, Amin\'s regime descends to the depths of brutality and mismanagement – starting with a botched "Africanization" campaign that leads to the expulsion of thousands of Asian businessmen.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first paragraph for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Abyssinian Chronicles
  The transformation adults underwent with the onslaught of pain both fascinated and frightened me. Women who normally worked like horses, digging, fetching water, carrying mountains of firewood, washing hills of clothes and the like, would suddenly be reduced to whimpering wrecks, head turning this way and that, arms beating weakly, legs gone rubbery, self-control in tatters. They reminded me of a dog under attack from thousands of bees or a teetering paper canoe in a stormy swamp.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: What did all this say about us seminarians and the priests we were supposed to emulate? Were we indeed pussy-whipped and glass-balled? Were those wax-faced priests indeed money-awed turds? There they were, sitting, standing, as a fat blue-green fly wiped his feet on their stupid faces, laying eggs in their gaping mouths which would soon be gobbling a rich breakfast as we lapped thin, worm-infested porridge. Was that why they remained silent? Apart from their color, what had they added to priesthood? Had they expanded the vision of life and spirituality? Had they combatted suffering or added to human knowledge in any special way? When they opened their mouths, they merely regurgitated rotting Church rules, worm-infested dogmas and slimy platitudes created in the burrows of the holy armadillo. They were just perpetuating the stink-old order: white, nuclear-warhead-privileged priest above the black, shit-scared peasant priest, who was above the shitty-assed peasant nun, who lorded it over the wormy peasant faithful—man, woman, child. Hundreds of years of Catholic dictatorship later, ninety-five of them home-grown, had come only to this! What a waste!
  Lwendo's reaction to the incident mortified me. I found him at the water tank. He was waiting to draw water in his yellow plastic basin, at the bottom of which was an old loofah brush and a worn cake of Sunlight soap. Ah, Sunlight soap! A triumphant glint touched my eyes when I remembered that long ago I used to draw water and take it to the bathroom for him.
  Lwendo's conventionality in some respects defied my comprehension. This was the same fellow who used to grab other people's things and use them without permission. This was the same one I nabbed fucking our very own Sr. Bison. Yet now he was defending Fr. Lageau's indulgences. Was it obeisance to "might makes right"? Had Lwendo's wild-man stint been just a type of inverted conformism? His reaction made me think that maybe I was the only person from a screwed-up environment and that I smelled rats where there were none. Why was nobody else experiencing a sense of outrage? Had I originally expected too much from Fr. Lageau and was now just working off my frustration?
  I retired to the library. I wanted to stab Lageau and his ego, but which word could I sharpen like Dorobo's monstrous arrows? Dirty words were out of the question: they would just confirm Lageau's beliefs about us. Irony was the best ship home across the swirling waves of frustration and outrage.
  Lageau was down but not out. A few days later, he took a bale of secondhand clothes he had received on behalf of poor seminarians to Lwendo's barn, doused it in paraffin and set it on fire. The flames and the thick smoke drew a crowd of boys and a few nuns who came to see what had happened. Lageau stood in front of the barn, at the spot where Lwendo stood to watch Bushmen fighting for charcoal, and watched without blinking, without saying a word. The nuns put their hands on their mouths when they saw what was burning, but said nothing. The boys stood a respectful distance away from Lageau and whispered among themselves.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There were many things I never told Magdelein—mood-souring experiences in town, for example. I would return home and keep quiet, happy to fight my own wars. I discovered later that she kept a diary, which was almost exclusively about me. One day I took a look at it and felt like throwing it in the fire. To me, life was lived day by day, and the actions of yesterday might have nothing to do with what happened the following day. Life was a journey of discovery, and character was a variable that kept veering left and right in search of the perfect way for a particular day. To Magdelein, character was unchanging, life a balance sheet to be rigorously monitored. I realized that the union between a fastidious banker and a free spirit with piratical proclivities was fraught with danger. In this respect, I preferred Eva, with her ego-maniacal tendencies. With sweat trickling down my back, I read: Jay—as she called me—has changed... Jay moody... Is Jay still interested in us?.. Jay drank tea with milk... Jay talked for thirty minutes with somebody in the ghetto. I didn't understand a thing, because it was all in his language: Luganda. Jay hasn't touched me for... Is some old ghetto flame beckoning in the background...? I bought Jay a fifty-dollar tie. He did not appreciate it, saying it was a waste of money...
  We had a row. She accused me of not paying sufficient attention to her. She said she refused to be ruled by bigots and insisted that we go out more frequently, hold hands, kiss in public and make them suffer. I refused. Billboard intimacy had never been my thing and never would be. She questioned my motives. I said I was tired of the pressure. She said we would win. I said I did not want a pyrrhic victory. She ran out of the house and came back with a packet of cigarettes. She lighted one and smoked it clumsily. I said I did not like the smell of cigarettes, and that it was bad for her health and her breath. She said she was free to do what she wanted. I agreed. The damage had been done. The tears didn't mend the rift. I was determined to go out and be my own man. She was determined to change me and still be her own person. It could not work.
  I left on a beautiful spring morning. She looked like a puppy fished out of a pot of porridge. I looked like a pirate thrown off a ship.
  I returned to Central Station, sat with my bags at my feet and watched the multitudes. The sun was shining, doves were fluttering about, three youths were banging out a rock tune on scuffed instruments. I tapped with my left foot. Half-naked youths were watching, travellers streaming past, trams rumbling. People of all nations and colors poured into the great city like ants streaming toward predestined locations in subterranean tunnels. As I looked, my head began to spin: I was getting dizzy. People seemed to be walking upside down, the dead rising from their graves, the living diving into fresh graves. There was motion and inversion everywhere: the invaders were being invaded, the partitioners being partitioned, the penetrators getting penetrated. The mixing and juxtaposition of peoples became mind-blowing, the destinations and points of departure mythic. I held on to the cement bank in order to stop myself from spewing or getting spewed. I had found myself a stone to lay my head on, an enchanted hilltop made of boulders from all the corners of the globe. I was back in my element: watching, planning, waiting for the right time to strike. Abyssinia was on my mind; so was my new foothold on this precipitous hilltop. It has always been a Herculean task for Abyssinians to get their foot in the door, but once in, they never budge. I was in.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about accused, monitoring.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There were many things I never told Magdelein—mood-souring experiences in town, for example. I would return home and keep quiet, happy to fight my own wars. I discovered later that she kept a diary, which was almost exclusively about me. One day I took a look at it and felt like throwing it in the fire. To me, life was lived day by day, and the actions of yesterday might have nothing to do with what happened the following day. Life was a journey of discovery, and character was a variable that kept veering left and right in search of the perfect way for a particular day. To Magdelein, character was unchanging, life a balance sheet to be rigorously monitored. I realized that the union between a fastidious banker and a free spirit with piratical proclivities was fraught with danger. In this respect, I preferred Eva, with her ego-maniacal tendencies. With sweat trickling down my back, I read: Jay—as she called me—has changed... Jay moody... Is Jay still interested in us?.. Jay drank tea with milk... Jay talked for thirty minutes with somebody in the ghetto. I didn't understand a thing, because it was all in his language: Luganda. Jay hasn't touched me for... Is some old ghetto flame beckoning in the background... ? I bought Jay a fifty-dollar tie. He did not appreciate it, saying it was a waste of money... 
  We had a row. She accused me of not paying sufficient attention to her. I accused her of monitoring me like a spy. She said she refused to be ruled by bigots and insisted that we go out more frequently, hold hands, kiss in public and make them suffer. I refused. Billboard intimacy had never been my thing and never would be. She questioned my motives. I said I was tired of the pressure. She said we would win. I said I did not want a pyrrhic victory. She ran out of the house and came back with a packet of cigarettes. She lighted one and smoked it clumsily. I said I did not like the smell of cigarettes, and that it was bad for her health and her breath. She said she was free to do what she wanted. I agreed. The damage had been done. The tears didn't mend the rift. I was determined to go out and be my own man. She was determined to change me and still be her own person. It could not work. 
  I left on a beautiful spring morning. She looked like a puppy fished out of a pot of porridge. I looked like a pirate thrown off a ship. 
  I returned to Central Station, sat with my bags at my feet and watched the multitudes. The sun was shining, doves were fluttering about, three youths were banging out a rock tune on scuffed instruments. I tapped with my left foot. Half-naked youths were watching, travellers streaming past, trams rumbling. People of all nations and colors poured into the great city like ants streaming toward predestined locations in subterranean tunnels. As I looked, my head began to spin: I was getting dizzy. People seemed to be walking upside down, the dead rising from their graves, the living diving into fresh graves. There was motion and inversion everywhere: the invaders were being invaded, the partitioners being partitioned, the penetrators getting penetrated. The mixing and juxtaposition of peoples became mind-blowing, the destinations and points of departure mythic. I held on to the cement bank in order to stop myself from spewing or getting spewed. I had found myself a stone to lay my head on, an enchanted hilltop made of boulders from all the corners of the globe. I was back in my element: watching, planning, waiting for the right time to strike. Abyssinia was on my mind; so was my new foothold on this precipitous hilltop. It has always been a Herculean task for Abyssinians to get their foot in the door, but once in, they never budge. I was in.