My Ugandan pancakes go missing after flight

I started 2024 with missing luggage after a flight home from Uganda.

Immigration officer: Where are you coming from?

Me: Uganda

IO: What was the reason for your travel?

Me: To see family

IO: How are they doing?

Me: They are well, thank you.

IO: How much money are you bringing into the country?

Me: (Thinking to myself—"dude is this a trick question?”) I said, “None really”.

IO: Welcome back!

With that I went off to pick my luggage.

I scanned the luggage conveyor belt for a while… nothing. Exhausted but chill and with hubby still way out, navigating the highways, I took my time. I watched the luggage spin round and round: green cases, black cases, pink cases, checkered cases, cases with bright colored strings (you know the pieces of cloth torn off dresses or belts—the ones used to tie sacks of cassava or millet? Ya! People real know how to mark their luggage, so it stands out).

My cases: one maroon-soft cover and one green-hard cover were nowhere in sight.

A muffled announcement came over the airwaves, I heard “…Mary Ong”, unless there was an East Asian with a similar name, I had a feeling it was meant for me. Not good.

I traced the voice to the counter. A little East Asian lady dressed in blue and white uniform hustled with disgruntled passengers concerned about their missing baggage.

I introduced myself, she begun to stutter “Yes please! Your bags… didn’t arrive. I don’t know…” She handed me a printed form—my name.

She continued, “We will deliver your suitcases in a day or two...” She looked worried as she handed me a pen—probably thought I was about to cause a scene. There’s a way one looks after a long flight—angry Black African woman vibes—those things. I had flown over 20 hours halfway around the world—Uganda to Rwanda, Rwanda to Doha, Doha to D.C. And now my chapati and kabalagala (Ugandan pancakes) were out there somewhere, alone and frightened. No, I wasn’t in the best mood.

I narrowed my eyes, looked down at the lady (nanti she was like 4 feet tall) and with gritted teeth said, “Look here Miss. my bags had better be found. No one messes with a Ugandan woman and her kabz.”

Ok, if you believe I said that to the lady, we need to talk. Hahaha.

I wrote a description of my suitcases, signed the form and went off to find my people.

The baggage arrived at my door two days later and all was intact. The cool temperatures outside helped preserve the chapati and kabalagala. I placed the valuables in the freezer and now, for the next two weeks or a month (depending on my self-control) I have some easy meals—chapati and chai garden tea.

The hustle of living away from home—bu simple pleasures naye!

Happy New Year!!

Kampala Pentecostal Church a meeting spot for young professionals in pursuit of life … and love

["You trust people because you’re courageous, that’s why, because you are grateful. It’s a mark of courage, it’s a mark of commitment. 

It’s like you and I are going to make an agreement and you are full of snakes and so am I. 

There’s lots of ways this could go sideways but we are going to put together an agreement, we are going to articulate it, we are going to try it out. 

We are going to find something that’s of mutual benefit to both of us. 

We are going to put our hands out and shake on it and we are going to stick to that. 

And we are going to risk trusting each other. I don’t think there’s any other natural resource than trust.

And for trust, you need courage not naïveté”. Dr. Jordan B. Peterson]

The way young people today navigate relationships is a puzzle - social media, online dating, swipe left, swipe right. I hope things work out. Then I think back to our days and how clueless we were, we also jumped on life with gusto with all those group outings and retreats, older generations probably had their fingers crossed too.

Some things worked out, some things didn’t.

In the meantime, in my study, Spotify lifts the carpet. My favorite music: Randy Rothwell (Hosanna Integrity – back to the beginnings); Pink Sweat$ (groovy tunes recently discovered); John Legend (an absolute no-go especially without a significant other); Amapiano and Afro-beats (the best vibes in town – those log-drums go thump-thump all the way home). 

While the music plays, I’m carried away and I land smirk in the outskirts of Bukoto.

A hot Saturday afternoon, at a Campus and Careers Fellowship (CCF) - there’s about twenty of us. We are peers (plus or minus five years), we attended the same high schools; were university students or recent graduates feeling our way through life, building careers, shaping goals and dreams, thinking about the future. 

The ties of faith bind us. We are good friends, like siblings but not quite. Loves mysteries loom over our heads and hearts – to find the right one, be found by the right one, be the right one, all that.

Laughter rises from a place of naivety, budding Christian professionals out to have good fun grounded in biblical principles or at least we are learning. We treat the young men as brothers, the young women as sisters. 

Then hearts start to summersault. 

We are not sure if this, this tag, this attraction, this draw that makes us feel a certain kind of way, that this is good, is ok. We pray, “Dear God, if these feelings are not from you, please take them away.” (Ahem!)

Friends pat our backs and respond from a place of uncertainty. We all charter unfamiliar territory.

“Pray about it”- they urge.

“You guys look good together”- they affirm.

“Tell her”- they encourage.

“Wait for him to make the first move” - they caution.

“Man! She’s spoken for” …

It’s tight.

Spinning and spinning through murky waters. But “What would Jesus do?”  Christian romance 101. Was it okay to take a second glance? Was it carnal to spend extra minutes in front of the mirror, touching up that makeup in case brother Michael looked your way?

We were certain, we were uncertain. We had pastors to guide us, may be one or two married friends (who mostly looked like unicorns. We could not comprehend what they’d done). Our parents chattered a different course, did they love each other or were they sticking it out for our sake?

We were determined to do it right - God’s way. But how? “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known…”  I Corinthians 13: 9-12 

Once the young lady wore a graduation cap and was conferred with an academic degree, the guy got on bended knee and asked for her hand in marriage. Mpozi how long should one date? Six months? Two years?? 

He’d worked three years, had a descent salary, good prospects with his employer, he was ready to make the commitment (shaky knees and all). She wanted to make a home, she was ready, or at least she thought she was, even though she constantly checked in with her friends for reassurance.

Couples sprouted like mushrooms after the rain, you’d catch glimpses through café windows. They’d take romantic walks to the old taxi park. Engines raved for hours in the church parking lot before she’d be dropped at her parent’s home. 

Then it got quiet. You’d look around, wonder if you missed something, a clue, a hint gone unnoticed. Thoughts would dissipate in the merriment of the next fellowship meeting; everyone happy to gather again. Thoughts would return later as you analyzed the days conversations, as the taxi collected all the potholes on your way home. 

Big questions: How will I know? How do you know someone? How do you get past the heart flutters to the real person? What are their habits? What is their faith like under duress? What about their family dynamics? What are their non-negotiables? How do they handle money? How does one explore these principles and values outside of relationship? Can you walk away when the alarms start to sound? Is there grace to accept faults? Can one differentiate between weaknesses and plain bad manners – poor upbringing? Is one trapped the moment one says, “I think I like you”? Is it the same as “I do!”? 

I Corinthians 13 begins to look like a hard paper.

A guy opens his home for yet another CCF meeting. He has a large enough compound, with a music system that shakes the house. Limit X gets heads bobbing, we do the shuffle. 

In the vein of leadership, the men take charge, sort the muchomo guy, he delivers a sizzling marinated goat stuffed with rice pilau. We dig in. Talk about school, about hopes and dreams, share prayer requests. We read scripture, listen to sermons and talks. We are a family of believers, a little clueless but we are headed in the same direction, so it’s good.

The wedding meetings begin.

One chairman makes rounds in the church overflow, in pockets of restaurants on Buganda Road. The church choir is glued to the pulpit each Saturday morning.

Couples climb off the wall like the green bottles in that nursery rhyme – “And if one green bottle should accidentally fall, they’ll be one green bottle standing on the wall.” 

You get the strange feeling that you might be the last green bottle up on the wall. A look below is not too comforting some of the bottles in the grass cracked. Maybe safer staying on the wall? 

Again, there is no manual, just prayer and belief that there will be light enough for the next step.

Roads divide further on this memory trail but I must return lest I get lost. 

I wonder again how today’s young people chart these waters – being “blue ticked”, “ghosted” and then ati now they have “options”. Owaye!!!

I walk through the neighborhood. The trees have shed their leaves – they are now bare – not as pretty. I remember spring and all the flowers that came with it – gone; Summer and all the green shade from the suns glare – gone; Fall and its beautiful leaves – gone; It is winter. The trees that survived the seasons have naked branches, but their roots run deep, having a source of nourishment fortified over years. When spring comes, there’ll be budding again. 

Life I guess is a series of seasons.

“And for trust, you need courage not naïveté”

At the Spa

A famous author once advised writers to “Write what scares you”, to “be vulnerable on the page”, apparently it makes the writing come to life. I don’t know, I just think it is super frightening. But as my writing grows, so does the kind of content and sometimes I will visit subjects or write about subjects in a less conventional (Mary) style. 

Let me start with a disclaimer and legal-ese, okay maybe this piece is not too risqué but just a heads up, there may be a few surprises. If you’re not ready, please go on your merry way, if yes, let’s get to it.  

Kati I’ve over set the scene, oh dear!

Anyways, in boarding school there was always that girl who didn’t care much for people’s opinions. The girl who lived by her own rules. The girl with a revelation – she would do her and let the world sort itself out. She’d come into the dormitory from the shower and immediately drop her towel on the bed. We’d all be like “gundi pleeeaase!!! 

With a straight face she’d ask, “What?!”

“What haven’t you seen before? What I have, you have. So now?!!”

We couldn’t argue with that. Still, I thought it was important to be private. The world has no business looking at one’s melanin glory without cause. Mr. O got a bloody nose a few times, I had to remind myself we’d made a vow that included everything. What can I say? Old habits die hard, but also, that’s not the topic for today.

I was guarded – helmet, shield, breastplate – the entire armor, that is until the children came along. I mean once you’ve been through labor, once you’ve visited the ob-gyn, eh! Like what the fuss? A certain slice of novelty is lost. You grow older, you hit your 40’s – things shift around, and then you look in the mirror and say, “It’s okay, I have fought the good fight, might as well get comfortable with this “house” ♬” We are not getting yanga” ♬ When the components of the “house” are bent of jogging down-hill, you resolve to jog down with dignity. 

On this journey of adult living the stresses and strains of life weigh heavy on the body - stiff necks and ailing muscles become the order of the day. Good health and wellbeing become paramount.  Once, I discovered I had a “back mouse”. A back mouse (not the medical term but I like how crazy it sounds) is a small nodule – the size of a bead or a pea - on the lower back, close to the dimples of Venus. You don’t know the dimples of Venus? Guh! Ask Mr. Google. Just know if the nodule is situated close to a nerve, it can cause excruciating pain, the muscles get tight and sore and one form of relief is a massage. I was not a fan of the massage, the idea of stripping down before a stranger wasn’t exactly welcome in my mind but life dictated – doesn’t it often? 

Reading up, I found that massage therapy has several health benefits; reducing stress; reducing pain and muscle soreness and tension; improving circulation, energy and alertness; lowering heart rate and blood pressure and improving immune function.

I found an Asian spa in our metro area. The sweet scents and ambiance had a soothing effect. The soft lights and serene East Asian music calmed the nerves. A raised bed covered in white linen was positioned in the center of the room with cloth hangers set in one corner. 

The notice on the wall had two words “Be Quiet”. A masseur entered the room, oiled her palms and begun to knead my back. As her fingers settled on the sore tissue, I let out a groan. Her dainty hands, firm and smooth followed the full length of the tight muscles from my lower back up to my shoulder and neck. I wanted to scream – that pain is torture. She stopped and asked if everything was okay. I mumbled something about my condition. Then I remembered the notice “Be Quiet” What did other clients in this thin-walled establishment think?  Perhaps that I was being smothered? 

After she repeatedly traveled the length of the strained muscle, the pain eased but the situation got tense when she complimented my skin. Something about being complimented while alone with another human being in a state such as I was felt uncomfortable. “You athlete?” she asked, I said “No”, I wasn’t even sure where the conversation was headed. But more on this later.

Female masseur’s have quite the job easing tense muscles for clients from all walks of life. Like customer service professionals, masseurs sometimes engage entitled clients who think they can have their cake and eat it too. 

While in Kampala I visited a friend’s spa – my back was acting up again. Also, throw a stone in any direction in Kampala city suburbs and it will land on a spa or a salon or a kafunda – the difference in these businesses is the quality of service. 

I was received at the front desk by a lovely young lady with a wide dark gummed smile – it’s still imprinted in my mind. I almost asked, “Do I know you?” But then again this was Uganda – smiles are free and in plenty.

I was given a cushy-gown, I experienced my first sauna with step-by-step instructions - nanti maalo. 

By the way Ugandan’s are a head on good stuff, I can be here in America clueless about good life meanwhile Ugandans know what’s goin’ on!! Yeah, so I was there gasping for air, sweating like crazy, wondering if this heat, steam and pressure was normal - ati 30 minutes of suffocation. Yo!!! But when I emerged, I felt as fresh as a cucumber.

In the Spa room the masseur told me she loved her job. The Spa offered various services: wellness treatments, skin care, body scrubs, therapeutic massages and so much more. She paused and added, the one thing she didn’t like?  - “Men!” She continued, “No matter their status in society, once that thing is up, they go stupid. I tell them I don’t do that but sometimes they insist.”  I asked a follow-up question “Then what?” I mean it’s an odd situation. An honest worker hustling to earn a living has to face clients interested in selfish indulgences; a risk to her job, her health, her reputation, her values, life. She said “I leave the room.” As we had this conversation it suddenly hit me that I’d grown. Here I was with a total stranger talking about the challenge of serving entitled male customers. Ugandan’s have bolder conversations these days, the subtlety of yester years has fizzled away but also, I get the impression that people from certain regions of the country feel freer to talk about these subjects. Maybe I’m just giving excuses for being older and more aware, I don’t know, but there was a shift in my mind. We talked like old girl friends.

This got me thinking, we need male masseurs in Uganda – although the way the world is going, it doesn’t look like that will solve some of these issues. I’m just advocating for a balance of gender. I read somewhere that the strength in the hands of male masseurs can help heal aching muscles faster. But also, if I walked into a spa and a male masseur was the only option, Cheptegei would have a real contender for the gold medal in 5,000m. Good ol’ Chep would know he had fierce competition.

Now, remember the Asian Spa I talked about earlier? After the massage, the masseur led me out to the reception, I was given a cool glass of water. She smiled and complimented my skin to her colleague at the counter and said something about how I should not worry, that she is not like that. I thanked her for the service and left. It was only later that her message registered. 

Ah! This life!!

Meanwhile, shout out to Aqua Spa Naguru, Skyz Hotel – you guys are the best. 

I hope to visit again sometime.

When words crumble under life’s challenges

Some people suffer rough patches and bounce back with renewed energy. You’d never know they’d experienced a challenge except for visible scars.

I was thinking about my Literature teacher. She lost her speech but not her spirit.

Mrs. Mubiru taught us how to identify and argue character strengths and weaknesses. Our A-level Literature, from The Poor Christ of Bomba to The River Between was music to her ears.

In her red cotton dress, she’d stand before the class and reel in our attention with her soft firm voice.

She scanned the class like a mother pleased with her offspring. Her eyes settled gently on astute youth, bubbling with promise. She was molding lawyers, teachers, writers, responsible citizens who would go on to impact Uganda. Even the naughty students had a special place in her heart.

After class, she’d walk down the flight of stairs with gaiety.

One day, Mrs. Mubiru didn’t show up to teach. The day turned into a week, then a month, then we didn’t see her again. Our substitute teacher became permanent.

News trickled to us every few weeks – little drips of information on her health thickened as time wore on.

Mrs. Mubiru caught malaria; Mrs. Mubiru was admitted to hospital. Mrs. Mubiru was in intensive care. Mrs. Mubiru was unconscious. Mrs. Mubiru had cerebral malaria - there was a chance of serious organ failure.

Mrs. Mubiru improved and was discharged, but she would not return to teach her literature class. Mrs. Mubiru would have to learn to speak again.

Mrs. Mubiru visited the class, a sign of committed to her vocation, her students. Her smile was bright and illuminating but the words? The precious syllables that drew her to her profession? The words she once sounded out and played with? Those words were out of reach. They would not roll off her tongue.

How does one comprehend the reality that the one thing that gives purpose - your vocation - the reason you wake up each day - your source of livelihood, has been snatched by a disease?

I’ve experienced my own crisis. In the depth of that hole, I assume creation has paused to contemplate my case. It is sobering to realize no beat is missed. The world keeps turning. The players keep skipping and I must count myself in - “one, two, three, enter” – or leave the game.

I struggle.

But Mrs. Mubiru showed no sign of being hampered. The spark that glowed the next time I saw her, lightsup in my mind. I wonder how she did it.

Once, while attending a choir recital at Namirembe cathedral, Mrs. Mubiru and I met.

The emotions that flooded her face sprayed like sun rays after the rain. Messages formed clearly in her mind, letters lined up to form words in her mind, but when she attempted to speak, they tumbled out in a mess. I didn’t attempt to rearrange them, I listened to her heart.

She pulled out a pen and paper, and wrote she was happy to see me. Her illness deprived her of speech. She lost hearing in one ear, but she was getting better and learning new ways to communicate.

Because of her sons love for music, she’d brought him to listen to the choir.

Her little boy hardly 8 years old, sat on the front row.

Even with the uncertainty of words we connected.

These pebbles continue to wash onto the shore of my mind. I pick them up and run my thumb over the smooth surface. I marvel. What a beautiful woman! What strong resolve and fighting will.

Challenges build strength inside. Challenges mold us into different people. Where peace is broken it is smoothed out like the pebbles.

We evolve. Empathy becomes a close companion and hopefully we are better for it.

Selling bed sheets on Kampala streets

 

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 but the moisture swimming between his head and the sheets makes him sweat.

He is on an undeterred mission to make something of his life, to earn a living, to be useful, to meet personal needs and make the world a better place – a batter trade with the universe.

The askari idling by the gate signals for him, they haggle. “Buy for your wife, she will be very happy” He pushes, hoping the askari will yield. Askari says the bed sheets are too expensive. “Ah! Maybe next time.”  The askari responds.

Nakasero streets are quiet, cars zoom past the golf course to the traffic lights. He makes his way through the shade of trees in Kololo, down the valley and into Naguru.

A woman stands outside her door “Mama! Onno gula?”, he stands at a distance, not sure if she’ll respond or shoo him away. She pretends she hasn’t seen him and engages in an imaginary phone call .

He walks around the corner – he’s shoes flattening out – he can feel the stones pushing up against his soles. He may need to buy another pair of shoes as these ones surrender under daily pressure.

Another woman is out washing clothes in a basin, he’s about to walk past when she calls, “Ssebo, otundotya?” He turns around, walks towards her, hoping this is the good omen – his first sell of the day.

She spreads the colorful bed sheets out for a closer look. His back drips with sweat, he is a little tired but wills his body into submission, adrenaline surges with possibility. “Gyebaleko mama!” He greets. She finds a pair she likes; she is willing to pay. He pockets the money, thanks God for this mercy and keeps walking. It’s 3:00 pm, he’s just made the first sale of the day.

He walks by a shopping arcade, a little boy runs up to him, “Ssebo, bakuyita wali”. He turns around and walks into the dark shop. The lady behind the counter asks to see his bed sheets, he spreads them out, she seems interested but eventually says she doesn’t have the money. His heart sinks. People who idly scan his efforts, spread them out and hold his business to the light but never look to see his hard work.

He gathers the bed sheets, folds them neatly, steadies them on his head, on the length of his arm and shoulder. He must go on.

It’s 5:30pm, traffic begins to build up, he walks past the cars. A guy in a Pajero rolls down his window “Gwe! Jangu” He skims through the bed sheets, points at the blue pair with yellow flowers. Meka?  He whips out his wallet and pays. Traffic eases up. The bed sheets are placed in a kavera on the back seat and vroom! The car is gone.

The rich man drives away hardly aware that he has helped the young man get a step closer to his days goal – 50,000 Uganda shillings. If he can make 100,000 shillings every day that would be great, but 50,000 shillings is a good start. He pockets the money. A little profit from the day. He will walk back across town to his room.

He stops by a food stall – “Tekakko bijanjalo, kawungu, ne’nva” he tells the food lady. He can’t afford the meat, but a little sprinkle of the meat soup makes all the difference. The aroma fools his stomach that this poverty has stepped up a notch. He holds the hope that one day he’ll have the meat and the chicken but for now beans will do.

He sits on the wooden bench to watch the world go by. He will visit his mother over the weekend. She will be so happy to see him, ask about his life in the city, caution him against city girls and their hunger for money. He will assure her he’s thinking straight, saving up a little to build a house on their land.

He’ll return to the city on Sunday evening and find a huge padlock on his door – pending arrears.

He will not give up – just a hitch on the journey, but now he needs to visit the landlord.

Is the Black Boy Child Prone to Prison in America?

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 them in the house – the internet beckons the curious teenage mind. Allow freedom of the outdoors – odd friendships creep in. It’s a losing battle – it feels that way.

Profanities spew like broken cisterns; clothes are restrictive on and off television. Sensitivity and decency are seared.

King David’s question in Psalms 119: 9 stands: How does a young man keep his way pure? The struggle to hide God’s word in the heart intensifies.

Conservative societies like Uganda do not have it any easier. Children are exposed to adult themes in constricted living quarters. Uncles take advantage of young girls. Profanity is at par with modernity and the cool western lifestyle.

The scenarios are countless, parents are concerned the world over but the case for the Black Boy Child ending up in prison seats heavy in America. Three strikes and you’re out.

What do parents do?

Is the Black Boy Child Prone to Prison?

These questions linger.

Namasagali productions and the impressionable years

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 audience clapped and I’d be like “Yeah! That’s my bro!”.

 

At the end of the show I’d walk out expecting to be greeted and patted on the back like I was the star. Like, “Did you see my bro? We live in the same house. Family genes please!”

 

Nobody knew me. The crowds gave accolades to the rightful owners.

 

I grew older. A shy, impressionable twelve-year-old girl.

 

At another production a girl strode on to the stage. Her tall, svelte frame captivated the crowds. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate – the darker the berry the sweeter the juice kind of beauty. Her posture and presence brought the building to a pause. Her confidence carried the auditorium.

 

Her dance moves had the audience in get-set mode. She’d mastered her lines.

 

It was easy to see she was all that – “Oil wells pumping in my living room” kind of sassy.

 

I admired her severely.

 

After the show and enshrouded in the crowds making their way out the theatre corridors, her beautiful face stayed imprinted on the ceiling of my mind.

 

I’m sure many girls wanted to be like her.

 

Something about artists portraying the best self we secretly desire.

 

In the theater’s restroom, I looked into the mirror.

 

A certain reality stared back.

Perspective

Sunset on a Turkish air flight to Kampala

Do you ever wish for innocence again?

I do.

Do you ever wish you’d stayed young, 18, maybe 12 - free of life’s cares?

I do.

Sometimes I wish I could un-feel things, un-hear things, un-think things, un-see things.

Ah!! But life won’t let. Life grabs you like a big cuddly clawed bear, it flings you around, knocks every bone out of joint. The heart expands, emotions heighten with each new thrill, each new pain, each new pleasure, each new heartache.

You learn to trust less, you learn to forgive more, you learn to be more cautious, more committed, less patient, more forceful. You learn. You unlearn.

They say, “How are you?”

You think, “What do they want?”

They say, “I missed you”

You think, “What do I owe?”

You say, “I’m fine!”

They think, “What’s she not saying?”

It’s exhausting!

Look at the bright side.

There’s no bright side inside.

It’s dark this inside, gloomy this inside.

Longing for light - the soul source or sole source.

The sole source that rearranges, reassures, refreshes, reforms, reinvigorates, renews, restores, revives.

This little red, pulsating organ, that throbs within a cage needs to locate that soul source.

Rest.

Eh! But I can really be melancholic.

Moving to WordPress: http://www.ugandanmama.wordpress.com. 

Valentine's Day And It's Troubles

The clock struck midnight! She sat up in bed, “Era if he doesn’t come!”.
By 12:10 am she was frantic. A few roommates surrounded her bed to provide reassurance. There she sat like a queen surrounded by her subjects.

“He should be at the door anytime now” she said. We all turned towards the still wooden frame. No knock, no twist of the handle – just a door held under the gaze of twelve eyes.
What had brought on our roomies distress? Was it her birthday? “It’s valentine’s day!” I was told. She awaited red roses and chocolates from her boyfriend at the stroke of midnight.

My bunk mate and I exchanged glances, what did we know about such matters?

“I swear!! If he doesn’t show up, he is going to see!!” She threatened.

I imagined the poor soul traipsing all over Wandegeya in search of red roses, his legs suddenly quickening up Makerere hill with each telepathic threat. Or was he twiddling his fingers waiting for her to send him a message of her love?

It was late. We turned off the lights. She was left to contemplate her boyfriend’s mysterious absence in a pre-cellphone era. Did this mean he loved her any less?

As the sun came up, I hoped her bed would be cushioned with roses so high she’d be lost in their midst. Alas there she lay fast asleep – her legs in the “get-set” position. Anxiety spread like the flu as the girls stirred, each one secretly hoping their boyfriends had received the memo. They surrendered to curiosity occasionally peeking out the window.

Across the hall, another student lay in bed, she’d been carried in two days earlier. Something about heavy bleeding or was it a miscarriage? It was complicated.
Red roses, red…

I picked my books for the day, I would not be back for a while. Well I had ... lectures.
“Dear God, please let someone bring me a valentine’s card.”

The day had to end, I had to return. A girl handed me a red envelop. “Huh?! For me?” I asked. “Is this your name?” She asked, probably wondering why I feigned surprise. From whence did the card come? What did he look like? I interrogated. “He asked if I was a first-year student and if I knew someone by your name. I said I did. He gave me this card”. Off she went.

“Signed David.” David who? I mentally lined up all the David’s I knew.
David 1: No! That’s so and so’s boyfriend.
David 2: Nah!
David 3: Not in touch.
David 4: Still a kiddo.
I cancelled all the David’s out and I still had this beautiful card in my hands. Perhaps that was the idea behind the day.

My dramatic roomie had calmed down, her bedside bamboo rack bright with flowers. A beautiful valentines card stood paper-arms wide proclaiming her boyfriend’s unending love.

He took her out to dinner that night. All our other roommates had dinner dates too, that left just me and my bunk mate. I tucked the card into my suitcase, we made ourselves dinner and talked late into the night.
Perhaps some February 14th we would be taken out to dinner too.

 “Love, a word that comes and goes, but few people really know what it means to really love somebody” Kirk Franklin – God’s Property

Mowzey Radio and Marvin Gaye: Singers Cut From the Same Cloth

“Marvin Gaye is Shot and Killed; Pop Singer’s Father Faces Charges”: The New York Times April 1, 1984.

“Uganda's Mowzey Radio dies after 'pub brawl'”: BBC Africa February 1, 2018

Two music icons, two news headlines 34 years apart.

When I read the news of Mowzey Radio’s death, my mind was quickened to the death of Marvin Gaye. Marvin Gaye was a black American soul singer and song writer of the 60’s and 70’s. He helped shape the sound of Motown music. He wrote songs like “Let’s Get It On”, “Midnight Love” and the famous “Sexual Healing”.

Marvin Gaye’s death shocked the world. He was shot dead by his father. They had a quarrel, Marvin fought and beat up his 70-year-old father. His father, wounded and humiliated by his son shot him dead a day before Marvin’s 44th birthday. Marvin struggled with substance abuse and depression.

Mowzey Radio’s death continues to shake his family and fans like an endless earthquake. He got into a bar fight when “a man came out of nowhere” lifted him up and threw him to the ground. He sustained a head injury, lost consciousness and within six days he breathed his last. A few short days after his 34th birthday. It is said he struggled with alcohol abuse and a shot temper.

A Chess Piece in the Masters Hand.

A knight or maybe a pawn positioned in a corner of life’s game board to observe and tell the story.

John Allen Saunders said, “Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” This quote resonated today.

Events unfolded like a skit - the actors right on cue.

I was seated in the train stressing about life - about things not adding up. I wondered how to solve the equation when suddenly a lady let out a deafening shriek “Are you ok?!”

Derailed from my train of thought I assumed she’d lost “it”. I mean we all have issues but to scream in public? No! Well, at least not yet.

I turned to see a beautiful young lady with ruby red lipstick and a gray fashionable jacket. Her almond shaped eyes were wide with shock as she paced the floor. Passengers located in various pockets of our cart shot side glances then refocused on individual matters.

“Call 911” She screamed.

That’s when my eyes were guided to the floor. A man lay spasming in the corner. His limp hand making a poor attempt to control the shaking in his leg. His head tucked under the seat.

A passenger rushed to his side.

“Sir, are you ok?”

“Are you diabetic?”

“You are having a seizure!”.

No response.

A lady in the far corner pressed the emergency button.

A minute later the guy got up and sat down like he’d just awoken from a brief nap.

Security arrived. For a second they couldn’t identify who was in trouble till we pointed him out. 

Metro security: “Sir, are you ok?”

Guy: “Yeah! I’m fine.”

Metro Security: “Sir, you just had a seizure.”

Guy: (Stared into the distance)

Metro Security: “Where are you going?”

Guy: (Checked his watch then looked up at the guard. He didn’t say a word.)

What did they want him to say? 

It was 5:30pm, he was probably heading home.

The Metro Security guard made an announcement like it was the weather focused “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a medical emergency, the train will be holding here momentarily.”

Security backup arrived and escorted the neatly dressed gentleman off the train.

It was over within 10 minutes.

I was jittery. My heart pounded in my ears.

My tear buds begged for release. 

I had witnessed a Partial-onset seizure (POS). It’s caused by a problem in the electrical signaling of the brain. “Groups of neurons suddenly begin firing excessively, leading to involuntary responses, including strange sensations, emotions, behaviors or convulsions, muscle spasms, and possibly loss of consciousness.” 

Imagine the drama that would ensue if this happened in a Ug taxi - people screaming and jumping around like grasshoppers. Ah ah!

Here are some tips: Keep calm, don’t crowd, stay with the person, loosen clothing around the neck, don’t restrict the person’s movements unless they are in danger of hurting themselves. Call for help.

I returned to my seat, fully alert. And my issues? I think God was saying “Iwe!! There are more important things.”

The Master knows His pieces and will move them on the game board at will.

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.

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.

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.

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

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☺

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. 

Coming into America; First Experience in the Land of The Free and the Home of the Brave - July 2006

The American dream evaporated in the unrelenting Philadelphia heat that July. My excitement to see the United States for the first time stewed and dried up. Open windows provided little relief from the hot air that stood stiff like a brick. It declined to dance or sway. Drenched in sweat I watched as cold beads of water - like tears slid down the side of the ice filled pitcher. If only I could shrink and swim in it.