Mrs.O's writing room.

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