The Uber Vietnam Veteran: Surprises on the road

I meet different people on my commutes – some funny, some intense, some honest and some plain – I like those the best. The conversation begins with a simple question and escalates to a deep human connection, an appreciation for the different journeys we walk.

I watched the Uber driver circle the cul de sac and then leave. Did that just happen? He just turned around and left? I stood out in the cold, checked the app, it was the right number plate. I tucked my hands into the jacket and hoped the car would circle back. It did. He stopped, helped put my luggage in the trunk/boot and apologized. He said he got a little confused with the directions. Well, nothing to add. He was on the older side probably in his mid-fifties. He looked like he’d been in an accident that altered his face a little. It didn’t help that his car was not all that but hey! I trusted it would get us to the destination.

Music whispered through his car speakers – country rock-ish – not really my taste. It streamed in and out of my mind as I looked out the window and pondered the journey ahead, the cars whizzing swiftly by, the highways and the thought that winter was upon us as the temperatures dropped and the cold winds blew.

We drove quietly, for close to an hour engrossed in two separate worlds. Suddenly the silence was cracked.

Uber Driver: (In the most respectful tone) If you don’t mind me asking, do you live here or in China?

Me: I live here. I’m traveling for work. China is a layover on the way to my destination.

UD: That sounds exciting!... Twelve days after graduating college I was drafted into the army to fight the Vietnam war.

You!!! I sat up. Fully attentive. Now I wanted to know everything. What was his experience? How long was he there? Does he have a family?... But his thoughts were swift, darting here and there. He said only that which he wished.

UD: It wasn’t great, it was ok.  But I’ve also been to Japan. I travelled with my father, he was a naval officer, that’s how I got interested in the army. It took us twelve days to get there. We traveled by sea.

I wanted to know his experience on the ship, did he get sea sick? How old was he? What does he remember of the trip?

We run out of time. Before I knew it, I was at the gate. I encouraged him to write a book, he gave me a bored look. Perhaps I should have said – “Let’s keep in touch. Tell me the stories and I will chronicle them.” What was his name again?

Lost opportunity!

I got a glimpse – a bird’s eye view into an aspect of his life. I repented for making assumptions about him based on the first few minutes of our interaction.

I thought about him again today as I listened to Richard Flanagan discuss his book: Narrow Road to the Deep North. He said “What happens in war is that good people are made to commit crimes for which in any other sphere of life you’d be locked up or executed. And then we expect these people, after the war to come back and live as normal human beings. But they are not normal human beings because they carry great sins on their soul for which in the end they are not responsible.”

This now informs my view of veterans but I’m also reminded to embrace humanity in its entirety, to make a conscious effort not to place people in boxes based on external factors.

May God be our constant guide in 2018.

Saxophonist at the Farragut North Station

 

I enjoyed listening to this young artist play his saxophone. Great way to wind down the day.

One Writers Beginnings: Chimamanda's Story Rooted in Africa

Chimamanda gives second annual Eudora Welty lecture. 

I stood a little downcast in front of the Lincoln theatre, the air chill nibbling at my extremities. With hands tucked deep into my jacket, I waited with anticipation for a kind stranger to come along. See, I’d hoped to purchase a ticket to the Second Annual EudoraWelty Lecture but they were sold out. The lady at the ticket booth apologized. I held on to the prospect that someone would show up with an extra ticket. People begun to trickle in. Girlfriends who’d planned an evening out spoke in excited tones and took selfies in front of the lecture poster. They showed their tickets and stood in line, while I a little envious thought about heading home to my family and getting in from the chilly outdoors. Then it happened.  A lady walked up to me and mentioned that her friend had bought an extra ticket and just like that I had a close to front row seat to listen to female African writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche’s lecture on “One Writer’s Beginnings”.

Her lecture centered around four values that informed her writing; home, family, church and school. Her articulate narrative and funny anecdotes sprinkled with a good dose of self-awareness held us captive. Standing in radiant red, in the center of the spotlight, she serenaded the audience with her clear calm voice that peaked and dipped at alternate junctures. She shared stories of her childhood, of life on the University of Nigeria campus. Her reading passion rooted in her father’s study, and watered by books such as Pacesetters, Mills and Boon and James Hadley Chase. These books wonderful but foreign informed her imagination growing up.

   

Her description of life in a middle-income family in Nigeria left the audience a tad jealous. She, a privileged African living in a close-knit family without the need to question her origin. With parents and grandparents, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, she developed a sense of belonging by simply living in community. I was reminded of Africa’s dynamism. I nodded in agreement occasionally mumbling to myself for she told the African story like I couldn’t and yet I identified as though we grew up together. She painted a picture of a rich and industrious continent. The juicy mangoes picked from a tree in the compound. The luxury of slaughtering one of the chickens for Sunday lunch. The outdoor markets, steaming with life and color and stories with no end. She owned her story and told it well, no one could contend her experience as she talked about the Africa she knew and grew up in. An Africa she loved and was proud of. The audience was dead silent as we each secretly reached back into our past to compare and contrast our origins – some in envy, some in amazement, some in agreement. She weaved in themes from her famous lecture – The Danger of A Single Story. Africa is not all starving, malnourished children or potbellied corrupt government officials, it has educated hardworking, fun loving people too.

Her lecture and in her writing, she shows the power of authentic human truths curved out of experience and conviction. She also shows how being rooted to a physical place  informs narrative and self-awareness. Motivated and inspired at the close of the lecture, I joined the procession of energized ladies and a few gentlemen as we walked out of the theater to parked cars, cabs and Uber drivers. As the crowds thinned, I crossed the road, slopped down into the U Street Metro station. I tucked into a corner train seat for an hour of contemplation thank full for my physical heritage that springs from Usuk, Serere, Kampala, Kigezi, Kisoro, Tororo, America but more my spiritual heritage rooted in the cross of Christ.

Happy Sunday!

Stranger Connection

The Needle Tower (Hirshhorn museum)

Ever meet a stranger and immediately connect?

For the longest time such stories were safely locked in a box I labeled "Movies" - guy sees girl at bar counter, guy buys girl a drink and they lived happily ever after. I mean yeah right! Coming from a small city like Kampala chances that one would befriend an outright stranger in the middle of the day were slim. America on the other hand is huge, people leave familiarity and travel to new cities for school and work among other reasons. And that is how I met this guy.

The museum had closed and I was taking photos of the Needle Tower in the Hirshhorn gardens when he came over. We exchanged a few remarks on angles and lighting then I decided I best get on home.

He said “There’s going to be a photography club meeting here on brutalist architecture. I don’t know much about it, but you might want to stay.”

I thanked him and said "Sure, why not." It was going to start in 20 minutes.

We met up again at the venue and he signaled me to sit with him.
There were a few moments of silence before he said, “Hey, I would like to smoke, come with me.”

The casual expectation that I would willingly tag along came as a surprise. His carefree nature and humor had me intrigued. We went to the designated smoking zone and he blew clouds into the fading sun. Labels made loops in my head: Black woman. Black married woman with 2 kids. Black married woman with 2 kids and a strange accent. Black married woman with 2 kids, a strange accent - a Christian. All little boxes society made me conscious of. Boxes I carried around for identity. He didn’t peek into any of them. He didn’t seem to care for them. His freedom to live outside the boxes of societies expectations held my intrigue. We laughed and talked about shared interests. He mentioned a museum he thought I should visit called “Post Secret” and I immediately recalled listening to a fascinating story about the same on National Public Radio (NPR). It was a cool Saturday afternoon about 3 years ago, a guy talked about how he’d asked people to anonymously send him their secrets on post cards and how he’d received an overwhelming response. “Yes, yes” I said with excitement, "I remember that guy." Then he showed me some photos he’d taken there. I was amused at our connection, at how in less than an hour of meeting he knew something that would interest me. He showed me photos on his phone, occasionally handing it to me with ease. I guess he felt safe with this stranger.

We attended the meeting, listened to a talk on brutalist architecture and mingled with other photographers. At some point he turned and said, “I’m Brian by the way”, “I’m Mary. Nice to meet you”. We shook hands.

As the sun disappeared over the horizon, I bid Brian adieu and run along home to my family. I don’t know if I’d recognize him if we met again but I was glad for the brief, meaningful connection. Something about human beings wading past stereo types to appreciate human connection beyond race to deconstruct that single story.

Market Day Excites Serere

Market day (Okisoni) in Serere

Early in the morning, before the birds came out to sing, before one could see beyond their nose -  in the pitch-black dark of night, feet shuffled outside; People talked in the distance and footsteps went pitter-patter on the village paths. A special day dawned. A day to buy and sell - to exchange and trade.

People came from miles around, from neighboring towns and villages. Some walked, some rod bicycles, others came by bus or taxi.

Uganda’s Green Grass: The story of a homesick woman

Kigezi hills 

Once the excitement over clean, organized streets and sophisticated infrastructure in the developed world wore off, it came down like a wet blanket -  I missed home. I observed as people rushed along pavements, up and down escalators, round and round revolving doors. There was no time to lose, no smiles to share, and eye contact? No way! Were they embarrassed by my presence? But then again they didn't know me. I could as well have been invisible. I began to miss the familiar strangers on Kampala road. The smell of wet soil after the rain. The sense of community and interdependence I'd grown to take for granted. I longed to hear the “toot toots” of taxis and the sounds of diverse languages spoken with ease. I yearned to speak Ateso, even Luganda however broken and mispronounced the syllables tumbled out. The gnawing desire  for home chewed at every fiber.

Chaka Mu chaka Military training at Shimoni

Dad tuned to radio Uganda one bright Saturday morning and heard an announcement inviting boys and girls on holiday to attend "chaka mu chaka" military training at  Shimoni Demonstration School. "Chaka mu chaka" refers to the military march in Swahili.
Soon after the announcement Daddy declared that my brothers and I would attend the training. Our jaws dropped. What?! A whole 3 weeks holiday was going to be spent on military training? So while our friends shared stories of fun holidays events our hot news would be military training at Shimoni Demonstration School, nice!!
I rather suspect, he didn't want us to idle around. This was a cheap easy way to keep us out of trouble.

Happenstances of a Ugandan woman in Washington D.C

"The largest book in the world"

Project not realized: This book would measure at 21 feet long and 12 and a half feet high. It’s a testament to the Kabakov’s long-standing interest in literature and storytelling.

As I studied Kabakov's unfinished project of art work in the Hirshhorn museum a guy dressed in some kind of security uniform came over.

Guy: "This book reminds me of judgement day when we'll stand before God and account for how we lived our lives."

Me: "Oh yeah! I totally see what you mean. Are you a Christian?"

Guy: "Yes I am, amen to that."(almost switches to tongues)

Me: "Oh great! I'm a Christian too."

Guy: "I'm looking for a wife to marry "

Me: "Wow!! You are quick."

We laughed 🤣🤣🤣

Guy: "The registrars office down the road is open till 5:00pm. There's no time to waste. We’ve got to cease the moment." 🤣🤣🤣

He returned to say "I talk to people everyday and they scowl, they may respond but you can feel the tightness in their stomachs (he made a grimaced face) but you smiled”.

Unsure of what to add, I said "thank you"

He walked away with a big smile.

We need more smiles in Washington D.C. to keep the human connection alive.

Dear Uganda - A poem

Dear Uganda
I think of you at 55
I may not be with you but
I see how you've grown and regressed
Taken two steps forward and two steps back
The runyegege, the bakusimba, the ding-ding

Are you my son? (Flash Back)

As Sam and I conversed, Mich eagerly awaited a chance to slot in a word. His dad was still in mid-sentence when out of frustration Mich said “But daddy, you don’t have to use all your words at once” He had our full attention. He is six years old.

How Stories Mushroom

As I crossed the street this morning something caught my attention.

A space craft? A little tree in a sea of green grass? A sombrero (Mexican hat) sprouting from the earth?

No!

A mushroom! Ebaale! Obutiko!

Scientific name - Amanita phalloides also known as the “death cap”. One cap has enough toxins to kill a human being. It is one of the deadliest mushrooms in the world.

Interesting how some things in life can be so alluring and yet so deadly.

But oh! The detail took my breath away.

That God would attend such detail to this stray fungus that just pops out of the ground when it rains? You Guys!!

How much more vested is He in you and me – creatures created in His likeness?

Now about how I captured this angle. Let’s just say the employees in the building across the street must have been like – “yup! She’s lost it for sure!”  Did I mention I was in a dress? Yeah!

And that is how stories mushroom in my little world.

When Breastfeeding is a Struggle

Breastfeeding can be a challenge for new mothers - an additional sore to an already exhausted body. During pregnancy, the mothers body prepares to deliver and feed the infant. While the birth of a healthy baby is celebrated the mothers, body can potentially take a while to get the memo of the child's arrival. It's a moment of reckoning when the baby is hungry and a cup of juice and a cookie will not suffice because guess what?! The little bundle doesn't have the stomach to handle refined foods. Only milk will do and preferably the mother’s milk. If the mother doesn't produce colostrum or the baby is unable to suckle, there's a mad dash for glucose and a syringe. But that is only a temporary solution because cute and wrinkly as that little bundle is, when hunger strikes and it will strike often - no amount of "shh" ing will settle it down. These are moments fathers sweat in helpless frustration. Mother has to learn to breastfeed and sometimes it's not as easy as it looks. The art has to be learnt.

Of Presidential Pursuits and Such

My metro life.

This guy, noticing my camera says,
G: You must be a photographer
Me: Aspiring. I love taking photos yeah, but not yet at the professional level
G: I like taking pictures too but mostly of myself and for work.

I'm like cool. Good to know. There's silence. Then the proverbial question.

G: So where are you from?
Me: Uganda
G: Oh really? I thought you were Kenyan. I have friends from Tanzania and Congo, now you from Uganda.

We get on the train, he has a lot more to say:

G: I think Uganda could do a lot better, its smaller than Kenya but man! It's GDP leaves a lot to be desired … (he spews statistics and speculations on how Uganda can exploit its natural resources better.)
He says “Museveni started well. He set a good example with HIV awareness and reduction but I think it's about time he let go.”

I agreed with him.

G: By the way, I’m Jeff
Me: Mary, nice to meet you.

He tells me he’s an author, a motivational speaker, a professor of Financial Economics…
He’s humor though -  a class apart just! Had me laughing out loud, and he tapping my shoulder like we were long lost pals.
Turns out our kids attend the same school - I mean what are the chances?!
When I asked about his website he said,
“Give me your number and I'll text it to you”
Ohh! Alarm bells and sirens went off in my head. This “getting a ladies number” game had gone to another level. But you know what?! I took the risk and gave it to him.

I received a text that evening - his website? DrJeff4president2017.com 😳. He is running for president of Kenya. You people!!! 😳

A few weeks later he added me to a WhatsApp group and immediately I thought “no way!”
Before I could leave the group, the first message came in:
“Hey Dr. Jeff. This is Liberia president Sirleaf” Aya!!!
I sat up and immediately told my husband there was no way I was leaving the group, the party was just getting started.

Two months on we are in the thick of campaigns and I'm watching Kenyan elections from a front row seat. It's tight! 8 candidates and Dr.Jeff Kaluyu on an independent ticket is sweating it out. What can I say? He’s a passionate man, who wants to see change in Kenya. He's 6 point plan: Make life affordable, Job creation, Jobs skills training, Cut taxes, End corruption and Team up with the diaspora to bring wealth home. I wish him the best of luck on August 8th.

And no! I haven't heard a word from President Sirleaf since.

But what I didn't tell you is, in the middle of last year I met a tall guy in the office - probably 6’4. He took keen interest in my son, asked if he wanted a job and engaged him in a short conversation. After a few random run-ins in the corridor, he told me he was running for president for the Republic of Congo. Now I'm like, what?! 🤔

4th of July Fireworks

The city of Rockville put up a splendid show of 4th of July fireworks. 

A good attempt at writing my name in the sky. They get  an A+ for effort :-)

Colors of the American flag

Funny, Talkative and Deaf on the D.C Metro Commute

Girl Sings at Farragut North Metro

Today I had a conversation with the funniest, most talkative, deaf man I've ever met.

So I was minding my own business as usual, waiting for the train, when this guy walked passed me and suddenly turned around. He tapped my shoulder.

DG: Excuse me!

Me: (I turn)

DG: Where are you from?

Me: Uganda

DG: (Drops his hands - the sparkle in his eye deems - he was disappointed. He thought I was from Ghana.)

Me: You from Ghana?

DG: Yes! But I don't like Ugandans

Let’s Talk About Sex – there! I Said It.

America is such a vast country, my Uganda of 93,065 mi² can fit in America’s 3.797 million mi² like 40 times. As such it mirrors how minute my perspective is when immersed in its culture.

The topic of muse today – Sex Education. I couldn’t quite find the right transition but here we are.

Do you recall when you first understood the difference between the male and female anatomy and how they are beautifully designed by God to create babies?

Teen- age: A Parent's Confession.

Aah!! Remember the days we thought our parents were clueless about life? Like they came down in yesterdays rain? Well, it comes back full circle.  

I Want to Dance

When he says "May I have this dance"

I will gladly oblige

I want to get onto the dance floor and feel the rhythm in the soles of my feet

As it pumps to the beat of my heart

Takes me high into the realm of breathless allure

my body asks

my soul and my spirit thirst 

More energy, more thrust, more shake, 

Move, move, move

I want to hit that all time high under the spot light

He guides me with his strong arm

Moves his leg enough so I can lean on it

So I can turn on it

With his arm gentle but firm around my waist, I want to dance.

Dance till beads of sweat pour down my back leaving me drenched and exhilarated all at once.

I want to dance.

There's an applause 👏 

I didn't realize the audience☺

Uncle Ben and Auntie Joy Mugarura: Faithful Stewards in St. Francis Chapel and Beyond

Dressed in Gospel Dancers uniform, we were scheduled do a processional dance at a wedding in St. Francis when I bumped into Uncle Ben. He was walking through the aisle. When we said we were not the bridal team but dancers, he was perplexed. Dancing? In Church? In an Anglican church at that? Unthinkable, unheard of. (The rematch between Pentecostals and Anglicans).  He reminded me of Tevye in the Fiddler on the Roof – too many changes with these youths.

As Reverend at St. Francis chapel Makerere, Uncle Ben and auntie Joy nurtured generations of university students and what a delight it was to sit at their feet last night. To sit at the feet of spiritual parents and reminisce the days we were nurtured. Times when as clueless, passionate youth eager to change the world they listened, provided guidance and allowed us to spread our wings and fly. Someone said “You believed in us even when we were terrible. You never gave up on us and protected us.” Out of that love for young people ministry teams like Come Alive, Teen Challenge and Youth Group were birthed. Groups like Heaven Bound, Destiny, Dove 7 and Voice of Victory served as venues of ministry but also kept the youth engaged positively.

Somewhere the line between spiritual and physical parenting ceased to exist as they fed both body and soul. It must have been quite the experience for the biological children having all these university students vying for space in their parents’ hearts. “We walked into their home unannounced and sought a cup of tea and something to eat. When one of our marriages hit a snug they visited and stayed way after midnight to help iron things out.” Someone else added.

As we sat in the cozy home of one of their adopted sons, tears of joy and words of gratitude flowed seamlessly from grateful hearts that had been touch directly and indirectly by their ministry.

“We owe a lot of who we are to your ministry”. Another said “I came to the Lord under the ministry of Uncle Ben.” The testimonies of their influence continued to resound as we all agreed that our Christian faith was anchored and nurtured under their care. Uncle Ben and auntie Joy sowed seeds of eternal value.

While auntie Joy smiled and recalled all the events like they happened yesterday, uncle Ben sat with hands folded to his chest and gazing up at the ceiling.

Auntie Joy attributed her love for the youth to the fact that her father was a reverend too. “Growing up in church, I knew what it entailed.”  Then she added “But this is God’s work not mans.”

Did they have much? Were their resources over flowing? No! But they had two things going for them; a passion for young people and a faithful God who replenished. Their home was a place of refuge, rest and recreation. There was always a flask of tea and a snack for the hungry campusers who walked through their doors. They never lacked, food never dried out and they never went hungry just like the manna for the Israelites in the desert or the woman with a bottle of oil – it kept flowing.

“When God gives you a gift, use it to serve his people and to glorify Him fully otherwise you will die with that which He has given you.” Auntie Joy said.

She recollected how her highlight in life was having young people in her home. “I enjoyed it. I have never had such a time like that.”

When uncle Ben shared he said “For us, we are weak really, but He is strong”. That right there was the testimony.

His admonition to us: “And for you” he said, “If you have ever met uncle Ben and auntie Joy, you have no excuse whatsoever not to be in a ministry where you are. You don’t need to have theological training. Seek God and see where He places you.”

Colossians 2: 6 -7:

“So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in him, 7 rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.”

-          Live in Him, in the fact that if there was any shake up, you would still be found in Him.

-          Be rooted in the faith. If you don’t know how, go back to the scriptures and please get yourself a hard copy of the bible, one that you can read and mark up and write in – just like you were brought up to do.

-          Abound in thanksgiving. Live as men and women who are thankful for salvation and what Jesus did on the cross.

We left blessed and glad that we had to opportunity to thank them for such selfless giving. What is the scripture he and joy have lived by?

“Not by might, nor by power but by my Spirit” says the Lord of hosts: Zachariah 4:6

“We trusted the Lord of hosts. Love for young people was placed like an imprint on our lives. A tattoo on our hearts.”

Good Food, Good Fun and Good Nights in Cape Town the Mother City

AWOL Tours: A bike ride to Cape Town. Photo Credit: Ker & Downey Africa

I was having lunch with a friend this afternoon when she mentioned she’d lived in Cape Town for 2 years. I was thrilled. I wanted to know her experience, what she loved. Did she visit Table Mountain? What about the wine country? She was surprised to learn I hadn’t visited but I’d read up on it. So, planning a trip to Cape Town and you don't know what to do? This guide has an ala carte of activities.

You’ve not tasted Africa until you’ve visited the mother city. It’s friendly people and natural surroundings make you want to settle in for a while. The food hits your palate with such scintillating taste you think of your own mom’s lovely cooking.

As a passionate traveler, experiencing new places, meeting new people and capturing the essence of a place are a few of the things I live for. So while scrolling through my Instagram feed I saw a beautiful photo of Cape Town’s Table Mountain, my next thought? – I want to go there! Situated as a prominent land mark overlooking Cape Town – its size and grandeur serve well as a tourist attraction. From cable trips to hikes up the mountain – there is plenty to do. Table Mountain is also Cape Town’s navigation icon – comes in quite handy for some of us who are prone to getting lost in big cities.

Asoka, fine food and good music. Photo credit: Ker & Downey Africa

Now that the table is set, let’s talk food. With an array of restaurants that appeal to both local and international cravings we can officially call Cape Town Africa’s best restaurant city. Even though Kampala my city of birth has incredible luwombo (local dish cooked in banana fibers), it still has a lot to learn at the feet of the mother city. From local African dishes grilled over an open fire to French and Asian cuisine – Cape Town brings the world’s cuisine to you. 

But what really excites me about Cape Town is its authenticity. As a writer and a romantic, a bike ride through the Schapenberg country side to get a taste and learn the history of Cape Town’s rich wines leaves a good taste in my mouth. For museum lovers there’s the Castle of Good Hope also known as the oldest surviving building in South Africa. My love for artistic expression in poetry and dance, would have me spending evenings at “Outrage of Modesty” – you’ve got to love the catchy names too. For my Ugandan’s friends with a fashion sense Cape Town’s top designer outfits would have us shop till we drop.

Cruise IQ with a back drop of Table Mountain. Photo Credit: Ker & Downey Africa

But hey! I can’t tell you everything, somethings you’ve got to see and find out for yourself. Check out this brochure – there’s a world out there to explore. It gets even better; Ker & Downey Africa can planyour trip. You’ll thank me. And to all the Cape Town lovers out there – woo hoo!! Keep living it up!! Tell me about your experiences. Leave a comment down below.

Summer and Short Shorts

Summer is almost here and the clothes are gone.

I first came to this beautiful country in the middle of a heat wave. I never knew a place on earth to be so hot, I saw mirages everywhere.

All shades of skin tones filled the Penn campus and on the narrow West Philly streets. Girls in the shortest shorts and tiniest tank tops. There were bellies and thighs everywhere. “God help the brothers” I thought. But then, I was the only one butting eyelids (I think).

Now, 10 years and a tougher skin later I’m just like “Oh whatever! It’s just another belly button, another thigh.” I’m sure the guys say the same no? Is this what they call assimilation? Adaptation?

I don’t know how young men handle the situation but one thing is for sure, I can’t afford enough kangas or kitenges to wrap around every skin baring lady. I will therefore mind my house.

Flower Petals: Beauty in Diversity

I saw these flower petals on a branch, on a tree by a neighbors house. A camera can’t quite capture this beauty like the naked eye but it tries. Looking at it, something came to mind: In God’s time, He makes all things beautiful. Each bud will have its moment in the sun. 

Just because one has blossomed, just because one’s petals are luscious and spread out with royalty, just because one looks brighter and more captivating, doesn’t mean the other is any less beautiful. If we wait with diligence, and do what God has placed in our hands to do, our beauty will shine through. 

The moment will come. You may not be bright pink but your dark red will captivate -  beauty in diversity. Bright pink contrasted with dark red, makes a rich blend. 

For this photographers eye it does.

Spring Photo Junkie

Spring: A season of the year that inspires hope, rebirth, new life, expectation.
Junkie: A person with a compulsive habit.

Spring photo junkie: Someone inspired and obsessed with the beauty of spring. Shoots buds, birds and all sprouting life with an incessant passion. Disclaimer - this is a personalized definition.

Ladies take pictures at the Washington DC tidal basin

Black-capped Chickadee

Cherry-blossoms

A squirrel skirts over a fence

Hello Assassins

We blossom and flourish like leaves on the tree, then wither and perish,
but naught changeth thee.

Hello assassins

Did you sleep well?

Did you dream sweet dreams?

Of flower petals and beautiful meadows?

Of children's laughter and cheerful celebrations?

Did you lay your head on your pillow and stretch your feet?

Did you yawn and seek a comfortable position, grateful for a job well done?

A Memory of Things

This pot (amoti) is the fridge in my parent’s home in Serere. It’s served faithfully since I was a little girl. I had never seen a pot so huge. I could literally hide behind it in a game of “tapo” and no one would find me. When the water levels were low, my feet dangled as I tried to scoop up a drink of water. Surprising how much it shrunk since.

Once the pot is smoked, it yields the sweetest, coolest water at the perfect temperature. It’s reassuring to find it in the corner of the corridor.

So much has changed and yet so much remains the same. 

Race and the Ugandan in America

He is dark, 5ft 7 inches. On most days he’ll wear a hoodie and a pair of jeans. As I watch him walk to the bus I think, there goes my baby – my Japadhola/Mufumbira/ Etesot. A Ugandan boy who holds no grudges for his ethnicity. In the world we live in, he is a “Young black man!” - not the description I would use for my son, but like the police here would say – “he fits the profile.” Can one tell that he is not an angry black man when he walks into a store with a hoodie? In moving to America I exchanged one set of issues for another.

Walking Miles for the Vulnerable

"As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path , we walk again and again. To make a deep mental path , we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives." Henry David Thoreau

Walking is therapeutic and magical. It clears the mind and strengthens the body, make that walk for a cause and you've made life more meaningful. I stumbled upon a young man who has made an art of it. Mile by mile, little town after little town he plans to walk through Uganda to raise awareness on issues that affect the poor and disadvantaged in his community. I was curious to know what got him on this journey. In the corner of the office library one cold January afternoon Edwin Barungi shared his story. Thanks to a good what'sapp connection an hour went by swiftly.

It was our first conversation but that didn't get in the way.  An exchange of a few pleasantries got us onto the right footing. “Let me tell you my story" he said, "I was born in Nsambya hospital. My only sibling died at the age of five. I lost both my parents to AIDS when I was eight years old.” He didn't hold back. I listened in silence as his story tagged at my heart. Between primary one and seven Edwin had attended thirteen different schools.

Moon and Venus Duet on First Night Sky of 2017

I looked up into the first night sky of 2017, the moon and Venus illuminated the sky. I thought of God's faithfulness, His beauty, His power. He is a good good father and an awesome artist too.

May God's light shine in your life to show you the way. May He lead you by day and by night.

Happy New Year!