Olaf takes pictures

Oh oh! This doesn't look right

Okay guys! Take 1

Take 2

Just take me

Uhm I didn't mean literally

Jesus in the Choir

Its Christmas time! Tinsel and lights, spruce and pine trees are all on display.

An invitation was made in church to join the choir for our carol service. As I toyed with the idea I recalled my experience last Christmas.
We had just moved into the area and I wanted to get involved. I signed up. Every practice my faith was tested. I got to see another side of Jesus that I had brushed aside or didn't care to notice even though if was written all over the scriptures.

Because of my low tone I sing tenor. That's not a problem, I'm used to being one of the few ladies that sings with the men. I was sandwiched between two goofy guys. One smelled like a chimney and the other a bar. I struggled to hold my note through "glo -o- o-ria" as fumes clashed right at the center of my nose.
During the 5 minute break, one dashed out to get another puff while the other hurried to the restroom. I enjoyed their company for the most part but couldn't wrap my mind around their habits. From the look of things this was not their first carol service either. Dave the choir master always called them by name.
Billy the smoker was quite free with his hands, he placed them over my shoulder like we were long lost buddies. "Got to leave early today, my 9 year old son is spending the weekend with me"
Jeff on the other hand pulled a crumpled sheet of music from his jacket pocket straightened it out and sung like he composed "Joy to the World". The day of the carol service, Jeff came a little late,
dressed in a maroon shirt, black suspenders and a bow tie. Even though the clothes hung off his skinny frame, he seemed pleased with himself. He had made the effort to clean up. He walked up to the choir master and said "Look Dave, I made it! Couldn't find a red shirt though"
Billy and Jeff, sang their hearts out. I could tell they loved Jesus in spite of their brokenness. He came to seek and save the lost. He asks us to come just as we are, He is looking for the sick and not the well. Church is the place for the sick not the well who have it all together. For some the brokenness is evident on the outside but for people like me, the brokenness is hidden behind a quiet demeanor.
The beauty with Jesus is that His arms are always open to welcome every one.

Merry Christmas!!!

…But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. "This will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger."… Luke 2:10 - 12

Remembering Evelyn

“The value of life is not in its duration, but in its donation. You are not important because of how long you live, you are important because of how effective you live. And most people are concerned about growing old rather than being effective," ― Myles Munroe,

"The people who have impacted the world didn't live long. Martin Luther King. John F. Kennedy. These people who impact the world were not old people, but they lived so effectively that we cannot erase them from history,”― Myles Munroe,

On this first day of December I remember Evelyn, a graceful leader, elegant, intelligent, compassionate, thoughtful and selfless. She was here for 24 years and left a precious imprint. She led a school, she was a faithful friend, a big sister and a wonderful daughter to her parents.

At a young age few things terrified more than being dropped off to boarding school. I watched clouds of dust rise as my dad drove away. My stomach plunked down on my pelvis and like a full stop there was nothing more to say. It was going to be a while before I saw him again. I faced the enormous school campus with resolve and trudged down to the dormitory. Oblivious to the possibility that the sun would shine again I sat on my bed, unpacked my suitcase and begun to count down to visiting day.That changed when I received a note from Evelyn. I had been wrapped up in my own little world I forgot I had a family friend in the school. She became the head girl and with that came a private room. She showed me where she kept her key and gave me access to her stash of grab. Compared to the O'Level dormitories crammed with 10 girls on double Decker beds, this was a welcome change.
As a junior in college little else topped access to the head prefect. I felt invincible. Chances of being bullied were slim to none. In a sweet spot between students and the school authorities, I heard both the dormitory gossip and administrative decisions passed on to the prefects.
One day a girl said "The head girl is back. Have you seen her legs, they have black dots. She is sick." I was puzzled. I knew Evelyn went home on occasion but I assumed that was a privilege head girls enjoyed. Clueless as a sheep, I mentioned what I heard and asked her what she was suffering from.
I found out she had HIV. She was probably 18. The first young HIV patient I knew.
She excelled and joined university for a Law degree. She came back to school often, sent me a success card and wrote me letters about life at the University.
She fell seriously ill but that didn't rob her grace, even on her hospital bed. At the end students, parents and teachers from schools near and far packed the church service and filled her parents compound. She loved and was loved by many in those 24 years.

Today I think about Evelyn and the many young women who have faced and are facing AIDS.
There is hope. Let's Focus, Partner and Achieve an AIDS-free Generation.

 "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose." Romans 8:28

Worship with Danstan; Kampala Pentecostal Church in the late 90's

"The greatness of a man is not in how much wealth he acquires, but in his integrity and his ability to affect those around him positively"
...and if that man's life is under Jesus' Lordship his purpose has been fulfilled.

Some people come into your life for a period and at the time you may not realize that their influence in that season will be a pivot for life. Today, I celebrate Danstan Kisuule for his influence as a worship leader. He taught me to revere God's presence, to love God's Word and to worship with abandon.

As a young Christian in Kampala Pentecostal Church I found my gift of service in the Worship ministry. Danstan selected the worship teams, scheduled the backup rotas and chose the choir specials. He exhorted us to keep time and make good on our word. To be present in "the moment" and not to worry about things we couldn't change. He encouraged us to tithe and dress well. "If you have just one shirt or dress, wash it every night if you must but always be clean”. When we compartmentalized songs in praise and then worship he reminded us that it was all worship regardless of whether songs are fast or slow. By the end of choir practice one had not only learned a new song but been given a few principles by which to govern life.

I always looked forward to spending time at church.There were times as a student at Makerere University, I would give the taxi conductor the last 200 shillings I had without a clue of how I would get back to campus. Eager to attend choir practice I would walk up the steep slope in a hurry and hope that if nothing else Andrew (one of the sound men) would escort me back and he always did.

The day I received my first schedule as a backup singer the ground softened under my feet, there was a spring in my step. A good voice was only half the equation. Danstan's intuition coupled with consistency and integrity served to determine whether or not one made the cut so I knew I had done something right. 

I pinned the schedule up in my campus room and flipped it over more times than I care to mention. My heart was a flatter from Saturday morning before rehearsal until Sunday evening after the fourth service. I never tired of leading worship. I learned that I had signed up to live a public life, I would be recognized anywhere. I also learned that even though the congregation looked like a sea of unrecognizable faces, standing before them gave them permission to scrutinize my life.

When I listen to  Don Moen and Hosanna Integrity, I recall the days of my first love. The days when I learned to sing Scripture. Every Friday Danstan taught us songs he had listened to during the week. Some times we covered full albums of Integrity music. We raised the roof of the cinema hall with songs like "Mighty Man of War". Our voices went hoarse in joyous celebration of the mighty God we serve!

On days when course works were difficult, relationships were rocky, or I just needed direction,these songs would come to memory.

"If your presence doesn't go with us, Lord we don't want to leave this place"; Don Moen off the album, "Let Your Glory Fall".

"If we call to Him, He will answer us, if we run to Him, He will run to us" Don Moen off the album "I Will Sing"

"Trade your heavy hearts for a heart of Joy, celebrate what God has done" Don Moen off the album "God For Us". 

One afternoon I got the privilege to ride in his car. A song begun to play that continues to lift my spirit today “Lord We’ve Come to Worship”. He soaked in the songs and played them over for private worship and for instruction. His car was a worship room on wheels. He knew the songs back to front and ensured that the choir learned them right. He took the time to sharpen his skill.When he played the drums, he hit every last cymbal with passion and precision. His song selection involved intricate preparation. He knew in which key each song was played. Just like with King David, God didn't consider his appearance or his height. “The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” I Samuel

He raised his hands, closed his eyes in prayer and danced before the Lord. He led the congregation into God’s presence and left them there.

He encouraged us to lift up our voices in prayer “ Don't peer through the crowd to see if your friends have come. Your audience in one – God.”

Today, I know God looks at my heart  it doesn't matter whether I stand still, kneel down or sit. In the privacy of my room or among people who may be less expressive in worship, I can lift my hands and dance knowing that my audience is one - God.  He busks in my praise an act cultivated over 15 years ago. 

Worship is not just the songs we sing on Sunday morning but a lifestyle of prayer, reading scripture and obedience. 

Other days an old worship song will make me smile as I remember Uncle D's dance moves; the swift simultaneous movements with each hand and leg ..."oh sing for Joy to God our strength..." Thanks Uncle D for being faithful. You made a difference in my life. God looks for true worshipers, those who worship Him in Spirit and in truth, thanks for showing me how.

A Great Mind At Work

One morning my little guy lined his bowl with foil and proceeded to add cereal and milk. After a while I could not resist. I asked why the foil? He said it was to reduce on the number of breakfast dishes he had to wash. I smiled all the way to work.

Help me understand Ugandan children raised in America - I have two

I have the bad habit of checking my phone every few seconds; at the dinner table, between mouthfuls, in the living room, during family banter...

I check my phone - anxious to receive an imaginary email, text message or stumble on the news of a life time on social media. My son throws me daggers and I can almost hear the words boiling in his head.

Sometimes I eat while standing in the kitchen and sermon my little girl to her seat when she roams the house with a snack in her hand.

When it's time to head out with the family I sound the alarm "It's time to go - put on your shoes and get to the car". Then I remember I didn't close the curtain or get the book I had planned to carry, so I rush back in.
My little girl insists the humidifier should be plugged in her room because she senses a cold coming on (it's been "coming" for a while now). To reduce the incessant requests I tell her yeah I will do it tomorrow and never get round to it until she pulls it out herself and tells me - "now mummy!"

At times, I'm exhausted, tidying up after little people have run all over the place and dropped stuff makes me weak in the knees, so I ignore the mess. The problem is sometimes, I ignore the mess for far too long - there is so much to do over the weekend; shop, cook, do laundry, attempt to sleep... I create enough space for the plates to fit on the table never mind the homework and art crafts that have piled all week long.  Then I'm hit with a sudden fever when friends hint on a desire to visit.

Kids develop a familiarity with their parents over here. We are a community of four mingling in each others space. We get a break with school and work, and the Ugandan fellowship once a month but our safe place - the place where we are most ourselves is in the community of four (Mom, Dad, and 2 kids).  I get upset in front of the kids. I make mistakes. They hear about my struggles. After a while mom is just another human being - she is not magical. When I approach my son with instructions I'm always shocked when he responds with peer attitude. Where is the respect? I wonder. How dare he respond to me that way? Then it hits me; we are in each others space all the time. He sees my excellent points and my weaknesses, he knows my passions and what upsets me.

What happened to the days when we worshiped the ground on which our parents walked? I remember the fear that gripped me the moment my dad returned home. "Welcome back Daddy!" We run to pick his briefcase, get him a glass of water and so on. Mom was approachable but  we never took her for granted. Here, you know where the kitchen is, yeah we've all had a hard day so get with the program. "Why should I be the one to get you water?" "But so and so is right there, why don't you ask them to do it". So I go and get the water myself.
Perhaps because we spent more time with uncles, aunts, helpers, neighbors and everybody else - the parent was honored. Perhaps there was more respect because we didn't spend each waking moment together and thus were not exposed to their quirks. Play time was reserved for age mates. 

When my little girl calls me her best friend and insists that we color together - I love it! But I suspect that as she grows older she may arrive at my 10 year old son's base where he is upset that I didn't consult him about weekend plans. "What?! You invited visitors? Why didn't you tell me? Next time I will also invite my friends over without letting you know". I look at him and wonder when the need to consult crept onto the scene. On the inside I wonder"who is this boy?" There is a constant battle of cultures: the one I was raised in and try to impart and the one he lives in. I was raised to respect and honor, he believes every opportunity is presented so he can assert himself. God please help me understand children raised in America - I have two in this house and they leave this Ugandan mama speechless".

Hallucinations In The Sun

The beginnings of craziness:

The swelter of a summer’s day stirs a sudden desire to perform regrettable acts, to disregard values that have governed life. As I strain to make my way home after a day at work the sun beats down with relentless pressure. I force one foot in front of the other and resist the urge to remain motionless - to shrivel up under its burning gaze. Concerns and frustrations coupled with the need to fit into a different culture, to be accepted and understood boil within. 

I straighten a paper clip and fix it in the Nissan parked in the car lot. I want to get in and drive away. The alarm goes off but I don’t care. I don’t care for the consequences, my instincts are not motivated by the need for a car. I just want a little attention. Sweat oozes from my pores. The reflection from the sun irks me. I want to scream. Now I understand why Camus’ Stranger pulled the trigger. The rays unravel crude instincts buried under frustrations and nagged by egotistic living and self-promotion. The sun messes with my senses, it melts my social conformity's, toasts my dignity and allover a sudden, nothing matters anymore. I turn the corner and see a man, the only other human being for miles. He is tall and fit, dressed in a light lavender shirt and black pants. I walk up to him and suggest something. A disconnection between what I believe and what I feel. I don’t care for his race. I don’t care that he doesn't know me. He says yes and we go our separate ways, forget it ever happened, we are strangers. The tension is released until another scotching sun roasts all my concerns in its flame.I won't see him again, he will move to a different city, use a different route and probably forget we ever met.

It has been 3 years since I saw familiar strangers on the street. We looked alike and spoke the same language even though our dialects were different. We crossed paths daily. On occasion we exchanged smiles. We were comfortable in the little city of Kampala. We shook our heads at the government’s lack of credibility and laughed at the same comedians on the taxi radio. Here, genuine smiles are few. We are permanently hypnotized by our gadgets; we download the latest apps, respond to office mail after midnight, advocate for animal rights, human rights, gun rights and the right to be wrong.

Cars whiz by, I come to a traffic light; red, yellow, green - it's my turn to walk across. The sun continues to play on my senses. I snap back into the present, my feet firmly on the ground - I keep walking.

Dentists and Poverty

Every time I walk into a dentists office, I'm reminded why I should have listened to mom. She told me sweets were not good for my teeth but it didn't register - Big G, toffees and tropical mint were essential to life. I insisted and look where it got me - constant sessions on that dreaded chair opening my mouth wide, sweating profusely as huge needles pierce my gums. I have cut a few inches off my waist and strengthened my stomach muscles in that chair.
The doctor drills, fills, cements and crowns and all the while thoughts of building sites and house construction flash across mind. My stomach feels like one big pool of cold porridge at the sound of those machines. I imagine the doctor might drill through my skull, or pierce through my lower jaw. When silent machines are invented perhaps I will be a happier patient. If  teeth were on our elbows perhaps it would not feel so life threatening, one could then choose to look away while the doctor poked and pulled. But because the teeth are attached to the head with special organs such as the ears and brain close by, the trauma is doubled. See,  my visits are not the 6 month routine checkups - they have increased to every 3 weeks or so (depending on my finances) it's a filling, a root canal, a crown or something similar.

In America once you have teeth trouble that is the beginning of bankruptcy. Dentists rub their hands in glee each time you walk through their doors. They scheme on how to squeeze every last penny out of you. They have always been on my "not so liked" list but the ones in America have quickly graduated to avoid at all costs. I'm inspired to floss and brush with extra gusto or else they will be the death of me. Each tiny problem is doubled in size and depth, cosmetic procedures are presented as essential.
I knew it was time to look up my dental insurance cover when one of my teeth started giving me trouble. In this country no doctor will touch you with a ten foot pole without insurance.
In Uganda by the third visit the dentist knew enough to go beyond the pleasantries and ask about the family and work. Here even after the 4th visit the doctor is still asking which country you come from and if you have family - the same questions he asked the first time you walked into his clinic. With his instruments in your mouth, the best you can do is roll your eyes.
I chose the closest dentist under my insurance cover. The first order of business was choosing what treatment he would provide - the cheap vs expensive . He let his assistant do all the negotiations while he listened in the background. Once the decision was made he put on a big smile and introduced himself with a handshake.  Every visit after that was like placing a down payment on a car which I would never drive. Sam had to intervene as the quotes were getting out of hand. Sometimes I didn't quite understand what I was paying for. We approached the accountant to ask about the overall bill which she printed. Sam began to ask line by line what the different charges were for and by the end of the visit it turned out I had paid $1,200 more than was necessary. By coincidence, on the day I decided to end the unhealthy relationship the dentist asked me to write him a review. I said I would and before I knew it and while still in the dentist chair he presented me with his own ipad - I was pressured to write the recommendation under his breath. That was the end. Lets just say I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley - his stern facial expressions and clear thirst for money still give me the chills. Money hungry doesn't even begin to describe him. I guess they are instructed to put up photos of their kids so that patients feel comfortable with them but I'm beginning to suspect, those kids were on loan.
I found a more pleasant dentist who explains the procedures before hand and gives you an estimate before he starts any kind of treatment.
Oh why did I not listen to mummy?!

African DNA!

I suspect Africans possess particular hereditary material. Some of the Africans I have met here highlight the very issues we are constantly battling in Uganda. To think that these people don't know each other and yet act the same way leads me to this interesting conclusion that there is African DNA. Certain streaks die hard!

I made an appointment with a Senegalese hair dresser and called her the day before to confirm. Because I had to juggle my schedule between taking kids to daycare, dropping my husband at the metro station and getting to my dental appointment, I rushed the little people's breakfast. So glad I was on schedule after the dental appointment, I drove at a good speed to the hair dressers 17 miles away (you could compare that to a trip from Kampala central to Namagunga). She let me in as soon as I arrived and proceeded to tell me how she burned her finger two days ago and therefore couldn't braid my hair. I don't know why she didn't provide this information earlier. I was speechless! I got into the car and started the journey back, this after she promised to call me later in the day to confirm another appointment. All my plans were thrown into disarray.
I decided to visit the shopping mall near home just in case I had some luck. I saw a "Best African Braids" sign on one of the stores but there was no one in sight. I stood there a while before a man (Ivorian) walked in from one of the rooms. He said they were open and would be happy to braid my hair but the girls were not yet in. He said they didn't live too far away and immediately made a phone call.
"Yeah! I got her, she will be here any time" He was looking over my shoulder as though she was just round the corner and would make an appearance any moment. Those actions were familiar but I thought "Nah! We be in America. Here people no do that". He took my number and told me to stay close by, my phone would ring any time. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and lingered around. An hour later, still no phone call. As I walked towards him he said "yeah, she has arrived, just in the parking lot". She must have had trouble parking the car because fifteen minutes later she still hadn't arrived.
The day was slipping through my fingers. The stylist (from Togo) finally appeared, we sat down and the first thing she told me was "I need to let you know that I'm pregnant!". Well, nice to meet you too. She said some people are superstitious about pregnant ladies plaiting hair which I thought was funny but I also thought - welcome to Africa! Confirmed DNA.

Bit by the Cat-love bug

Growing up I knew there were cats period. Dad brought kittens home and we loved them. We scrambled to carry them, to sleep with them, to feed them. They lapped milk in the morning and sometimes we shared our bread. We watched TV together and put pieces of meat or chicken bones on their plates at dinner time. We curved card board boxes for them to sleep in - life was simple. However since my little guy was bit by the cat-love-bug, I have been introduced to several tribes of cats.He did the research. He counted the cost. And now a cat has to come home.

Types of cats

His dad and I are not too thrilled about getting a pet, it's an additional member to the home and it comes with extra expenses. I don't have strength or the money for that. My little guy insists he will take full responsibility but if his room is anything to go by, I doubt a cat will help with the situation. Cat adoption in this place is a whole other thing; the temperature in the house should remain favorable even while you are away. The cat should be vaccinated, spayed, visit the dentist and a whole lot more.

shopping list

 Half the books he borrowed from the library were about cats.

 Internet research

He'd found out cat adoption was cheaper. He could get a cat for $4, it sounded cheap but I thought since it's adoption, it could be true.
We drove to an adoption center and browsed the cats. Most of them were asleep but occasionally opened one eye to lazily look out their cage windows at these human beings ohh-ing and aah-ing at them - definitely not impressed.
The kittens were active in comparison, they played together, chased their tails and other imaginary objects. Little miss A caught the cat-love-bug, she skipped and jumped, more excited than her brother.
I was still hangup on having to find someone to house sit the cat if/when we traveled away from home for a long period.
We inquired about the price of a cat and were told they went for $100. My little guys jaw nearly dropped to the floor with disbelief. "These people are too expensive".
I hoped that would be the end of that, but no! looks like he is over the shock.

Why The Caged Bird Sang

"Everyday bring everything all the time" Maya Angelou

Somewhere within us is the desire to leave a legacy. My 10 year old son is on a constant search for ways to become famous. One idea he contemplated was to jump out of a flying plane without a parachute. His dad explained that with such an act he would be far from famous and not have the chance to listen to what people thought about it. Now he is on a quest to find the one thing that hasn't been invented yet.
The road to greatness is not certain. Some people just know they are great, others stumble upon it, yet others wake up to it when encouraged and others still grow into it through the fortunate or not so fortunate events of  life. These events propel them to find the fire in their bellies that shoots them up to the top.
News of Maya Angelou's death ripped through social media like a wild fire.The Internet was like one big slide show of her photos and quotes, tributes were on every page. Those who had never heard of her quoted her like she was a personal friend. This woman was really great! I wished I had met her in person but the books and poems she wrote tell me almost everything I need to know about her.

I first learned about Maya while looking for a birthday present for a friend in Aristoc Booklex on Kampala road. I came across the book "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings", intrigued by the title I wanted to know why the caged bird sang. The author a plain African American woman, her simple look endearing. Her story; a black girl who at the age of 7 decided never to speak again after the man who raped her (her mothers boyfriend) was found dead. She blamed herself for his death after she had told her family and found out he had been "taken care of". She knew her words had killed him. In her mutism she read lots of books and only spoke to her brother. But that is not even half the story, so you know what to do to get the rest. She had me at "I Know Why ", I was hooked as a young girl myself. Her narration made for enjoyable reading presented in story form even though it was an autobiographic piece. The book I had meant as a birthday gift never left my home.

Many years later I came across audio biographical tapes on her life in the Dallas Public Library. I listened with diligence to the struggles of a young black single mother trying to forge her way through life. How she struggled with her identity as a black American woman, her relationships with men, with her mother and grandmother. How she moved to Africa and lived in Ghana and Egypt. Her involvement in The Civil rights struggle, The New Africa Movement, The Women's Movement. She was a vocal woman. She was a tough woman. I could only admire her and learn from her courage.
Imagine my excitement when late last year I read of her book signing event at the Politics and Prose bookstore a few blocks away from my office. I had just read her latest book "Mom & Me & Mom".  An autographed copy would have been a major highlight in my life. Sadly she canceled the trip due to poor health but I clung to the hope that the signed copy I had been promised would be delivered. It didn't happen.

Dr. Maya fascinated me. Her first hand encounters with several historical icons set her apart. She literally lived to tell the tale.  She was history in flesh - the Jajja who was there with Malcolm X, Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King Jr. Did you know he was shot on her birthday?. When in her deep voice she said "You should know what happened" it was time to drop everything, sit up straight and listen. Her account of events were detailed, engaging and truthful. It's wonderful to know that all this information is available for generations. She orchestrated her conversations to make every word  and every moment count. Her intelligence sprayed cool showers of enlightenment on all who listened.

Greatness emerged out of her misfortunes, they shaped her into the phenomenal woman she lived to be.The lists of accolades and awards she received are extensive. The little girl committed to mutism because she believed her words could kill flipped that around to become one of America's most famous activists, whose words are quoted all around the world. Her voice reached this little girl in Kampala and many other little girls around the world. Now I know why the caged bird sings and hope I too can tweet the message to the next generation.

"The most important virtue is courage, for without courage you can't practice any other virtue consistently" Maya Angelou
"The truth is you must value every year, every era, every condition that you experience. None is more valuable than the other". Maya Angelou

A Girl with imagination and zest

"I'm going to turn you into a  bear!" She mumbles, waves her wand then strikes. The look on her face is priceless, like she actually believed her brother was going to start growling. She looks at him intensely as though in her mind it happened.
Perhaps she is the only one who sees the brown fur and the sharp teeth, she left us behind, running away with her imagination.

Last night with a glitter in her eyes, she said "Mummy, tomorrow is Easter!". "Yes! Tomorrow is Easter". I suspected we were excited for different reasons. Was Christ's resurrection the cause of so much joy?. Curious, I asked. "What will happen on Easter?". She gave me that don't-you-know look and said "I'm going to get an Easter Egg". Hmmm, I didn't want to burst her bubble just before she went to bed, so I smiled and said "Good night!"

It's the birthday season at day care, we are constantly getting invitations. She knows all the kids by name and takes invitations personally. I get constantly reminded that Aliana's birthday is tomorrow, Zack's is over the weekend and Sofia's is today. She celebrates as though it were her own. I made the mistake of popping into the store to buy a card, suddenly wonderful ideas sprouted in her little mind. "Mummy lets get her a balloon", "Let's get her this card too" , "Mummy, what about that bag". I calmed her down and let her know we were getting just one thing. Then she remembered the card she had made and insisted we put it in the bag with the rest of the presents.

There is a grown up in this tiny vessel. Spring is here, the winter boots will not do and the summer shoes of last year don't fit any more so off to the store we go. We walk through the door, up to the kids sections and she comes alive in the most dramatic fashion. "Mummy, Sofia the first!" "Mummy, this is a pretty dress" "Mummy, see!" and then she shocks me by saying "but we are here to buy shoes" and walks off to the shoe section.

I had just dressed when she walked into my room one Sunday morning and said "Mummy, you look beautiful in that dress" there was nothing more to say, my heart and everything inside me went mushy - totally blown away.

Cherry Blossoms at night

Tidal basin

Washington Monument and the capital in the back ground

Washington Monument across the basin

Martin Luther King Jr Memorial

Glorious Sun Rise

Spring is here at last!

The Beautiful Chaos Of Happy Feet

I love it when I walk through the door and a little stray shoe lies in the corner.
When I can't fit my toes into my slipper because someones tiny ball rolled into the dark space to play it's own hide and seek. It bounces into the living room.

I love it when the dinning table is strewn with little toys, sometimes bent forward and other times backwards in a hap-hazard fashion.
It's the little art pieces piling on the table, the pink crayon laying forsaken on the kitchen floor. It's beautiful chaos.

I love this beautiful chaos, bursting with life. Little heart beats pump blood through little bodies. Learning, searching and exploring this vast universe without a care - sweet abandon.

Thank you Lord, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Winter Spring

Clock of leaves

Winter-Spring

Moon trapped in branches

Bird sun bathing

The Peeping Petticoat

Petticoats! Remember them?
If you landed on this planet after the 90's you'll probably wonder what I refer to and no! it is not some fancy coat worn on top of a boob tube.

Petticoats or half-slips are little nylon skirts worn as undergarments. Sound like the dark ages? Yeah, like who would wear extra clothes in the African heat? Probably explains why they were made of nylon and light cotton material.
It was an essential item on every school girls shopping list next to Always and Vaseline.
These skirts were everywhere; in suitcases, hanging up on a bathroom peg, sometimes they showed up on the clothes line outside; black and white - the two most preferred colors.
We giggled when girls in primary six and seven begun to wear them - they were mature, things we studied in biology were taking place in their bodies.

 Woe unto you if the elastic around the waist came loose or the lace on the hem came undone. It wasn't any of our business but when those little skirts peeped below the hem, we were alerted to their presence. It was a shabby sight  to behold but all too common. The half-slips slipped.

Street hawkers strung them on their shoulders with safety pins and what not. The taxi park was strewn with them, one was never short of a place to make a purchase. Then they begun to show up in shades of blue, cream, brown and pink. That made for a really sore sight peeking out from under a white or even black dress. The eye was automatically gripped by it's presence and ladies where constantly pulling them up.

I received my first petticoat in senior one, no longer a little girl but a young woman. The carefree days of see-through dresses were over. Black petticoats were the best, they could be worn under any color dress, however it was important to find the perfect length - the ideal ones fell just shy of the knees.
The one problem with black was, one tended to forget it needed to be washed. The waters turned a certain hue of brown as soon as it was dipped into a basin of water and it wasn't dye because nylon material usually doesn't run. In some cases it only got washed twice in a term.

Bazungu ladies were notorious for disdaining these little skirts. They came to sunny Kampala and struggled to keep their clothes on much less a petticoat. They walked through the streets leaving nothing to the imagination. A Muzungu in a white see-through dress with white underwear - not an organized sight. The street idlers whistled at them, baptizing them all sorts of names. Some were quick to learn and share the lessons with their friends but others didn't quite get in. We concluded Kampala was just too hot for them.

Slowly the little skirts disappeared, women hardly wore dresses, they pledged new allegiance to trousers. Those who remained on the straight and narrow wore clothes with sewed lining. It made life a lot easier except when the lining detached from the fabric and begun playing the peeping game too.

Sunshine

Temperatures were in the 60's today.

We thawed and busked directly under the sun's rays.

Play grounds bustled with laughter and giggles of children previously deprived of their favorite activity.

Thank you Lord for the sunshine.

 

 But for you who revere my name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its rays. And you will go out and frolic like well-fed calves. Malachi 4:2

Man's wisdom and God's foolishness

This morning I finally understood 1 Corinthians 1:25 "For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength".

As I sat in the auditorium I pondered how God placed a simple person like me among the brightest, most intelligent people in the world.  They moved swiftly. Suits and ties flying as they paced with purpose, making haste for an all important session.

Having just returned from the dentist's office (a story for another day) and hungry as could be, I joined the pre-meeting lunch. Obviously not for matooke, rice and chicken but muzungu style nuggets: leaves, bread, cookies, water, soda ... you get the drift (and people wonder why we lose weight in "outside countries") kiri bubi bambi! But you get with the program and eat with more passion than the owners, even looking for more salad dressing.
So I was picking my leaves when this guy, his orientation clearly spelt out by his hairstyle raised his huge gadget of a camera. It was the kind that threatens, not only in it's size but I imagined it would capture every pore and every hair strand. I would have a difficult time convincing any one that it wasn't me. Since I was making an effort to stay below the radar, I darted away as fast as my dainty feet could carry me.
Why was I at this session anyway? One - curiosity, two -  I knew Uganda would be topic for discussion since Museveni recently signed a most controversial bill.
I took an inconspicuous seat.
Among the 400 attendants about 50 were African, clearly not their favorite topic huh?!

The first speaker's opening remark was "Discrimination is bad for people and societies... it carries a cost for development". She said Uganda could lose $6 Billion, for each project which could be implemented what with the AIDS epidemic and sexual minorities. She said wrecking the lives of sexual minorities in place of cultural views is not good for society. She presented links between homophobia and economic development and I couldn't help thinking how she would enthusiastically sell sand to an Arab in the desert without blinking.

I was still rolling that over in my mind when I looked out the door and saw a man leisurely stroll out of the women's restroom. My heart bounced. So with all these arguments for human rights, we also have to make room to bump into men in the privacy of the restroom because well, you see, they are not exactly "men".
Life just gets harder ainit?!

Back to the presenter. She explained how this discrimination affected individual outcomes; the victims lived shorter lives and were less educated. Really? This was a real case of T.G.E because I didn't see the link especially in Uganda's case. No body is banned from school. Didn't we have stories of lesbians in our high schools? How many were expelled because of such rumors? Were students sent home and denied study? I thought that was a little far fetched.
Apparently gay men earn less than their heterosexual counter parts - another story if you asked me. The correlation between your "lifestyle" and how you perform in office is a bit strange, not that bosses are really interested in what you do behind closed doors. Alright, I know some are but you get what I mean.

The second presenter from google shared a presentation analyzing the "sites" that people visit. Apparently there are huge audiences.

After some time, I thought the pending work at my desk required immediate attention so I left.

1 Corinthians 1:25 really did hit home today.

Pictures of The Day

Sun rise on the train tracks

Evening moon

A dash of moon in the evening blue sky

Night sky

Another Snow Day

Looked like a painting

Reminded me of tie and dye :-)

Loved the bright spot of moon in a dark blue sky