Mrs.O's writing room.

It is official, 2020 delivered good, bad and downright ugly packages. However, watching the live Watoto Christmas Cantata (Prince of Peace) under a blanket, sipping on a cup of coffee and on a different continent? Now that was a good! With top notch choreography and stage production attention was centered. While the sound men set the house mix, the lead vocalists, the choir and the band brought the house down. As Pastor James Lalobo told the Christmas story, a warmth filled my heart.  It was like coming home.  The familiarity of the message was like mom’s cooking – the taste as delicious as one remembers growing up; the recognizable household scent;  the reupholstered furniture;  the favorite tumpeco still in the cup drawer.  A consistency that communicates – love is strong here. Christ remains the center. Scanning the choir, it was a delight to see familiar faces - auntie Florence still singing over 20 years on while Irene’s smile glows among the sopranos.  Aunt Olive’s short

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             April.15.2020 Someone said, “Don’t worry about your quiet friends being lonely, they are probably enjoying themselves.” Quiet people can be mysterious. They absorb information and hoard their thoughts sometimes making the more talkative types uncomfortable. “What are they thinking?” “Are they happy?” “Why didn’t they respond?” Under no pressure to perform quiet people can unravel like rosebuds in spring. The green buds reluctantly unfurl to reveal a beautiful hue – white, red, pink – pleasing, refreshing, restorative. Intense introspection consumes their moments of silence and when they are ready, they shine. I was reminded of this quiet boy in school. He barely said a word. He’d come for lunch hour fellowship, stand at the back of the r

  Ugandan flag - shot taken in backyard during fall They say let go, move on They say when you boarded the plane and shook the dust off your feet  When you peeled the sun off your back and covered your body with winters jacket, shielded your head with springs umbrella, exposed your legs to summers heat and raised your hands to falls leaves  When you embraced this new life  You gave up Toto’s Atap, Tata’s Acok  You gave up lighting Asigiri - blowing into that small open door to encourage the embers  You gave up playing dodgeball with Acen, Babirye, Mbabazi and Amito  You gave up twisting the Sound-solo knob and listening to Boniface Toterebuka Bamwenda, Sidney Jingo and Toya Kilama bringing the news of the day  You gave up lighting Atadoba and the deep sighs that heaved in your chest when “karra fired” in the middle of watching “Another Life”  You gave up the memory of the kid who stole your red and black pencil  The classmate who took the Bic pen that you’d marked with your name on a

  The young man walks through neighborhoods balancing colorful bed sheets on his head determined to sell these materials for a living. “Bed sheets! Buy some bed sheets!” Human beings like good night sleep and all the other things done between these large pieces of cloth it is a constant human condition, after work there is rest. Selling bed sheets should therefore meet man’s need for comfort. Before the sun comes up, he takes a taxi to Owino market. He sorts through a variety of bed sheets, haggles for a good price and successfully stretches the money loaned to him by a friend. He walks along Luwum street on his way to the quieter residential suburbs. He hopes. Hopes that today will be a good day for business. He walks by a gate on Mackinnon road, asks if madam is home and if she would like to buy some bedsheets. “Come later” He is told. He crosses to the kiosk to buy a Safi drink – a little sugar to keep him energized in the sun. The folded bed sheets shield him from the sun’s glare b

He scrolled through her pages and picked himself off her poems, her stories  He traced a semblance of who they once were etched in the details and light moments that floated through the words  A distant romance fell lightly in cues sprinkled along the way   His signature engraved in her writings  The first line of his favorite phrase  A stanza on heart break  A nostalgic tweet  He could feel the emotion as he run his fingers over the lines  Aged attraction watermarked the pages held up against the afternoon light  The run in of old paths secret and true eased his mind   Seeds planted in youth now rooted and mazed like thread on a quilt  Telling histories revealing mysteries  Stories on life’s tapestry  Mrs. O  Poem 6. Page 22.

  Ah! Little guy We hustle you and me, me and you Up and down we go Through emotions and hormone tempests we go Now you want dread locks Now caramel hair Now you want earrings Now diamond teeth What?! A necklace? Want to shop with mom in the jewelry section? Find identity within I say, find identity in Christ I say How you present yourself is key I say You say I don’t understand and maybe, maybe You grow here, I grew there America, Africa – different countries You grow now, I grew then America, Africa – different cultures Young black man you fit the profile No one will know you are mom’s little guy when you are out on the streets and there is trouble everywhere No one will know you are mom’s little guy when you walk into a store dressed in a hoody and goofing around with friends You are not little anymore, but you will always be mom’s little guy Yes, you tower over me Yes, you are stronger than I am Catching up to dad real soon and that’s real cool Little guy Listen. Stop. Think. You p

  A short story. Today I went to confession. I had been thinking about it for a while, preparing for it, not the sinning but the confession part. During confirmation classes our teacher mentioned confession was a requirement. He also said one couldn’t have the Holy Eucharist unless one had confessed one’s sins. I wanted to have the Holy Eucharist; it had been on my mind for many years. I Imagined the day I would humbly walk up Christ the King church aisle, head bowed, hands neatly clasped behind my back. I would stand before the priest eyes closed and mouth open. He would place the white wafer on my tongue, I would slowly close my mouth, pause a second before turning around and walking back to my seat. I would kneel by the pew and pray looking pious and pure and mature – no longer a kid but a young lady growing up in wisdom and stature, in favor with God and Man. My brother and I practiced the act of receiving the Eucharist with crisps; stick the tongue out, give enough circumf

As a mother, I wake with a start. I realize I’m subconsciously praying for my boys. Praying for my boys in hypnopompic – the stage between sleep and wakefulness. Praying. The Black Boy Child (BBC) in America faces a unique set of hurdles – life and the quality of life. He may escape with breath in his lungs, but he’s restricted on where to breathe. Temptations and trials magnify in middle school and college; alcohol, drugs and sex spin a rope so strong that he easily gets trapped unable to shake the braids loose. Decisions made mold the road ahead. A permissive society compounds the situation. The muscle for restraint and delayed gratification is challenged. “You are free to do as you wish as long as it doesn’t harm others” – a questionable stand but one that many young people live by. Parent’s desire to hover, guard, sneak around, investigate and literally paralyze a child is strong. Bad habits lurk in every corner waiting for an unguarded moment to pounce, lure and take hold. Keep th

Journey with me. It was a dark and stormy night… No! It was a cool Tuesday afternoon on December 23 rd , 1996. News of Kampala Pentecostal Church’s (KPC) free Christmas cantata rippled through town. Eager church goers rushed to find seats in former Norman Cinema turned KPC, located in downtown Kampala. Behind the scenes, music director and producer, Ken Serukenya gathered the choir. Dressed in black, the choir circled the church reception area. It was almost time! “Choir, thank you so much for coming” Ken said, “…I have learned the closer we get to God, the more our sins are exposed. Let’s dedicate ourselves to God.” The choir was comprised of believers from all walks of life - students, teachers, businesspeople, accountants, lawyers, musicians, doctors, job seekers, housewives, employers, name it. Ken continued, “Yesterday was amazing! God showed up. Let’s pray for strength and for God to be glorified again.” The choir lifted a resounding “Amen!” Lights were turned of

Namasagali productions were the talk of the town. Around March, girls in brief red dresses flowered the streets of Kampala, especially near Uganda National Theatre. I looked forward to this time of year, my brother would be home in the middle of school term – a change up from my mundane routine. He’d come with stories and lots of friends.   I attempted to hang out with his friends, they’d pinch my cheeks and tell me how cute I was. I felt prized, like I belonged in this group of boisterous, sexy, carefree grownups.   Sitting on the edge of the green worn out theater seats I’d marvel as my brother captivated the audience. He’d spin, leap and swing from one corner of the stage to the other in his leotard. His strong muscular frame moving to the rhythm of a song that rose from under our feet and out through each strand of hair on our heads.   A pretty girl also in a leotard would emerge, twirl and jump into his arms. He’d raise her into the air like an empty delicate pot – the magic! The

As the sun crowned behind the horizon, the village stirred to cock crows and cattle moos. A new day dawned in Serere. I was eight years old on school holiday, 275 km from bustling Kampala. Each day was filled with adventure; gardening, milking cows, tethering goats, and picking eggs from the chicken coop. Dad stocked the house with a library of world books - knowledge waited to be plucked off the shelves. We balanced life skills with leisure reading and exploration – what privilege!

Neighborhood pond - Photo credit Mrs. O I took a walk this morning. There was a nip in the air - nothing a light jacket could not handle. I turned one corner and rounded another, everywhere beauty called; In the flowers budding, the cardinals and robins singing, twirling around branches and twigs. I came to a pond. The sun gently gazed upon its surface, calm and peaceful. The sun turned to the trees and they glistened, their leaves shone like honey droplets, sweet and golden. ————————- What is it about the trees and the sun that makes artists turn to verse? 🤔

Create your light - home project. Photo credit: Mrs. O “I was young and now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken or their children begging bread.” Psalm 37:25 Bishop Henry Luke Orombi’s bible devotions have made rounds on WhatsApp. With simplicity he delves into scripture and expounds the Word of God.

Budding flowers in the neighborhood - Photo Credit Mrs. O My heart is not proud, Lord,     my eyes are not haughty; do not concern myself with great matters     or things too wonderful for me. But I have calmed and quietened myself,     I am like a weaned child with its mother;     like a weaned child I am content.  Israel, put your hope in the Lord     both now and for evermore. Psalm 131