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”

A silent retreat - good for the soul

 

“Come away, come away, come away with me my love. Draw aside, rest a while, let me surround you with my love”.

I don’t know where you are all going but this is scripture – Song of Songs 2:10. What I included up there is a version of it - lines from an album that often played in our home growing up.

Father God calls for us to retreat, to spend time in His presence - find renewal, respite, restoration. It’s bloody out there – the world is like a war zone sometimes.

When a friend recommended a Jesuit silent retreat I stepped back. Who? And what do they believe? For me, it boiled down to the basics – do they believe Jesus is the son of God, that He was born of the virgin Mary, that He was crucified, died and on the third day He rose again and is now seated at the right hand of God the father, that He will come again to judge the living and the dead? Those things. If yes, I would take a shot, besides, I wasn’t about indoctrination just a quiet space to be with God.

God shows up where He is sought; in the church, in the mosque, in the temple – He is there - He is the God of all space.

“I pulled up to the retreat house about five or six and texted my hubby, "Yo hon’, smell ya later". I looked at the house, I was finally there, to sit in my prayer room as the princess of the most-high”. Cue the music! (I hope Fresh Prince doesn’t come after me for plagiarism or whatever).

The smell of baking pastries. A cozy living room with sofas and single chairs positioned to give a homely feel with privacy vibes. Newspapers and prayer books splayed on a side table in front of a fire place. A rocking chair. Gentle lamp light, miniature ornaments of Mary and Jesus, the stable, the shepherds.

Prayerful silence.

My room; a neat compact space large enough for a desk, a chair, a bed and wait for it, a sink and toilet – a comfortable cell. If another person walked into the room, it would be claustrophobic. If I decided to hibernate, if the quest for God required total isolation – decent solitary confinement of sorts – I could immerse, not see another human being and resurface 4 days later (3 days is exclusively for Jesus). It was possible is all I’m saying, but not my plan.

Program of events: Arrival, dinner, orientation; breakfast, mass, lunch, dinner (x3) … departure. Enough information for one to plan their time and involvement.

At six, dinner was served in the cafeteria. I picked a tray, served my meal and joined a lady who sat invitingly at a table in the corner of the room. I introduced myself. Two other ladies consecutively joined our table and with each new arrival, we took turns to introduce each other – that way we all remembered the names; Patrice, Robin, Mindy and Mary.

We were about twenty retreatants all together. Most in their mid-fifties and up. The ratio of females to males was 5:1.

Our table got rowdy as we exchanged stories of what winds blew us to this quiet. Both Patrice and Robin were grandmothers, they retreated regularly and found these moments of prayer centering. Patrice had been married twice, Robin lost her husband quite young and raised five children by herself. Mindy and I reveled in the stories. As we wrapped our heads around individual situations, our faces probably displaying extreme concern, the grandma’s assured us they’d lived good lives. 

“We were hot” Robin said, “We know hot!” she flipped back her gray ponytail. She added, “Don’t get us wrong, things may have shifted (she pointed to her body) but we turned heads in our day.” 

Her face filled with color as she described meeting her husband. “He wore a denim jacket and a buttoned-down shirt” she flipped her hair again – she’d clearly gone back to the moment somewhere in the 70’s – her eyes glistened. Patrice added, “Yeah, we did things that would turn your hair grey”. 

At this point Mindy and I were doubling over in laughter and cheering. It was nice to see older ladies light up – remind us that all ages are beautiful and life doesn’t end when one hits 60 and above – sometimes it actually gets better. Needless to say, our table was the loudest that night. But that was alright because those who needed to would go to the confessional and we’d be silent for the next three days.

I’m perfectly fine with silence but Robin was chocking her words back the next morning – her eyes were darting back and forth and I could tell she had words bouncing around in her head, words that so desperately wanted to escape but all we could do was smile and wave – it was God’s time.

A silent retreat means just that – no talk - a quiet time of prayer and meditation.

I signed up for directed prayer out of curiosity. I wasn’t ready. For thirty minutes each morning, I would meet with the father for guided prayer. Y’all, I know this sounds crazy like I told you, I wasn’t prepared but I was also curious about guided prayer.

Father Jeff: “Get into a comfortable position. Place your feet on the ground. Feel gravity – the centering of your body”

My mind: Ok

Father Jeff: “We see God in nature and feel blessed but we don’t stop long enough to hear what He is saying to us.”

My mind: He is right – that’s one way communication.

Father Jeff: “What is God saying to you?

Me: “I sense the warmth of His love”

Father Jeff: “How does it make God feel to hear you say that?”

My mind: Uhm!

Father Jeff: “What is He saying?”

My mind: Blank, like… wot? Like I should be a vessel through which both God and I communicate? I mean He speaks through the Holy Spirit in me, through other people, through scripture…

Eh! It was hard – like catching dandelions puffs blowing in the wind.

The basic idea is be so present in the moment, aware of our bodies, bringing them into submission to God. It takes practice. 

By the end of the retreat, I was getting a hang of it except in that last meeting. We sat quietly to pray when my stomach begun to growl. I’d just had breakfast but man! I think my stomach was super happy. In that silence you guys!! I burst into laughter – I tell you.  Father Jeff smiled, his first smile in the entire retreat. Anyways let’s just say God has a sense of humor.

My moments of prayer and worship in the quiet of my room, in the chapel, out walking by the waters were life giving and joyous. God truly waits for us to get alone with Him.

After communal prayer on the last day, Patrice, Robin, Mindy and I sat down to lunch – we could talk again. What did God say? There was consideration for fulltime ministry, clarity on certain family situations, and a resounding reassurance of God’s love and acceptance.

Get alone with God – when you wake up, on your commute, in the middle of the market, in a secluded hideout – He is waiting. Talk but also listen. He speaks.

“Keep your life so constantly in touch with God that His surprising power can break through at any point. Live in a constant state of expectancy, leave room for God to come in as He decides.” [Oswald Chambers – My Utmost for His Highest January 25^th]

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.

Bungee Jumping on the Nile

 

My Girl Goes Bungee Jumping

My girl is reserved. She speaks only when it is absolutely necessary. Her dad bends all sorts of which way to get her reaction but she is often impassive. She remains expressionless sometimes with a subtle smile pasted to the ends of her lips – that’s when you know you’ve really got her. Her diary is lethal – yo! I don’t know where she gets it but she’s a certified mystery. I’ll confess I’ve flipped through those pages a few times and each time I quietly place the diary down and slowly walk backwards out of the room. I gently close the door behind me, take a deep breath and watch the branches on my prayer list bud into new more complex items.

She’d give Sherlock Holmes sleepless nights.

Anyways here is the story. After soul nourishment in Teso with my parents, hubby dearest suggested we stop in Jinja for family time small-small. We were happy to sleep late, wakeup late and lounge around refreshment away from America’s rat race.

This is how it goes. Everyone heads off for some alone time, as in, we are together apart. Do you know this? Let me explain. Once you have teenagers, stress levels can as if peak. The young people don’t really want to hang out with the parents, just the parent’s money. When they begin to earn their own money, all bets are off – your relevance is held on a balance so help you God. If you have a boy and a girl then each one wants their own space because really, “What do you know about what I’m going through?” The parents are left looking at each other and they too are processing life from different angles.

A panoramic view shows the boy sprawled on his bed scanning his phone. The girl is in the living room watching a movie. The dad is on the porch reading news events in world. The mom? Now, where is the mom again? Oh yeah! She out somewhere marveling at nature, taking pictures, thinking about her kids, happy that she doesn’t have to cook the day’s meal.

Next morning dad has a brilliant idea to take his family for a thrill, an adventure in the jungles of Jinja. The teenagers are like, meh! But what can they do? Rules are dictated, they are in unfamiliar territory, so best stick close for safety. One likes to swim, the other is water averse. One parent loves adventure, the other is calculated – if the full equation is not understood, it’s not happening, but for the sake of peace and harmony, they’ll lay down their lives. Sacrifice – the man’s calling.

The car drives onto the gravel of this open facility – water of the Nile roars in the distance, there’s a vast space of dark green vegetation, a beautiful canopy. Music blasts through the speakers.

Boy: “What are we doing here?”

Dad: (Silent because really… “For you don’t you just enjoy life ko?”)

Girl: Acts invisible.

Mom: “Let’s see what we can do”

A few meters ahead a set of metal fortified stairs lead up to nowhere. Basically, if you start the journey up, there is only one way you are coming down – free fall.

Boy: “That’s just crazy!”

Mom: “Come on! Let’s give it a shot”

Boy gives mom the look, she knows it’s not happening.

Girl: Acts like she is not there, then suddenly blurts out, “Ok, I’ll go.”

We all turn. The question on all our minds: “Are you sure?”

She’s only 11. Does she know what she’s getting into?

The guide, a bulked up young man tells her there is nothing to be afraid of, it is safe. The equipment is tested and he’s trained so he will walk her through the steps. He adds, if she is uncertain, she has time to change her mind. Still acting like she’s invisible but consumed with resolve, she nods her head, “Let’s do this!”

The family is led to a balcony where we watch the spectacle go down – feel the guilt of letting our baby fly in the wind, strapped with ropes.

The DJ pumps up the volume, “I feel it coming” by The Weeknd.

Boy is bored – like, “What madness in this?” like, who in their right mind thought this would be fun?

DJ increases volume.

Dad is pacing, looking out over the Nile. Pebbles on the ridges now look like rocks.

What if there are crocodiles? We’ve seen those creatures literally walk on water for their prey.

DJ increases volume again. “I feel it coming”

Now the beats are in sync with our hearts, soothing the thumps, numbing the sudden jerks.

Where’s mom? She’s watching her baby get strapped in to the gear. From this distance, her girl looks like a stick figure, hands up, then hands down, like the cock screw. She’s thinking, “wait, what? This kid is actually going through with this? Some nerve!”

Then woosh! The girl is catapulted into the air. Dad makes a sound between a growl and a howl.  The teen’s hands are spread out superman style. She goes with the wind, suspended in space. The seconds freeze in-slow-motion each micro second doing a full stage act. Then the rope drops, then the rope pulls her back half way up, it drops again – we feel that – sweaty palms, dry throat. We are all breathing like women in labor, our legs shake.

I look again, ok she’s still strapped to the rope, good! Nothing has malfunctioned and no crocodiles or hippos emerged for the spectacle.

A boat rows out to the girl, she is gently lowered onto its floor. Now we can’t see her. She could be kidnapped down there although frankly with her stare even a kidnapper would think twice.

She emerges unperturbed, dad and mom are frantic like they did the bungee jump. Boy still thinks humans are crazy to consider this fun.

Mom: Squills “Oh my! How was it?”

Girl: “Hm! It was ok”

Mom: “So what was the guy telling you up there? You talked for a long time.”

Girl: “Oh! He asked me to choose, I could have the rope around my waist and fall forward, but that’s basic. Or the harder level, have the rope around my ankles.”

What did this reserved, non-expressive, quiet, assume-invisible-state of a girl decide? Yup! Option two.

Who is this girl?

African Dance

Have you listened to Amapiano? Man! The log drum hits different. It irons out emotions on its threshing floor. When faced with those gentle persistent hills on a morning jog, the log drum pushes me forward, it gives me resolve. As my heart races and my lungs expand for air, the log drum keeps my feet in motion with its sequence: one-one, two-two, one-two, two-one, five-five, a hundred. “You can do it!” I go. 3 miles, 4 miles… nice! 

The African drumbeat speaks and African’s love rhythm, it is magical. Rhythm reaches deep into our souls. It gets people going. I listened to the drum beat in Jinja, by the Nile River – the translation of the rhythm in to language was not lost on me. The drummer layered sensual sentences into his beats – you listen and know, then you watch people dance – the communication is complete. It is crazy. 

But have you also noticed that most traditional African dances are racy? I guess there are only a set number of body parts that can groove. I had never thought about it until uncle J came for an evening chat with my parents. This was the era when Congolese dance videos saturated UTV – Tshala Mwana and Pepe Kale disorganized Uganda. My mom was appalled by all the movement, dad couldn’t be bothered but uncle J, a little tipsy and free of all inhibitions grabbed the elephant in the room. 

He said, “But you know African dance has always been about …” he started naming body parts. Mom sprung from her chair; uncle J was known to have little restraint with his language. She closed the door with the hope that the heavy words flying from his mouth would sail into the open air and dissolve somewhere beyond the gate. But uncle J was not done, he kept on talking. They moved to the veranda.

On the veranda, they could engage in further conversation with a bit of privacy or so they thought. As it turned out, my bedroom was adjacent to the veranda so when uncle J begun to speak and with the influence of alcohol raise his voice, it carried without restraint through the open windows. It settled on the beds, the heads and the ears of anyone in the room. Suddenly mom remembered the windows to my room were open, every syllable pushed its way in. She slammed the shutters muttering something about mosquitoes. I was seated on the bed, not quite dotting the “I’s” and crossing the “t’s” in uncle J’s sentences but mom’s antsy behavior drew my attention and I listened in. Uncle J was quite on a roll about legs and backsides. I had never before considered the “Bakisimba” and "Nankasa" as anything more than a cultural dance. Ah! Then I looked at “Ding-ding” and saw a pattern of human expression saved by raffle skirts and long flowing bitenge. 

Mom was at a loss, the words flew where ever they willed, no doors or windows would stop them. 

She resigned and in the next breath as if waiting for her to calm down, uncle J swiftly moved on to politics. She called for one more round of hot water for the Ajono. 

Before long, dinner was served, the news was read by Baale Francis (RIP) and uncle J was ready to head back to his home fully satiated. 

Oh the things that come to remembrance. I think these are signs of aging. :-)

Kampala like a Rowdy Teenager

 

Wandegeya

“I could hardly believe it when I heard the news today. I had to come and get it straight from you. They said you were leavin'. Someone's swept your heart away. From the look upon your face, I see it's true.

So, tell me all about it. Tell me 'bout the plans you're makin'. Tell me one thing more before I go. Tell me how am I supposed to live without you? Now that I've been lovin' you so long. How am I supposed to live without you? And how am I supposed to carry on? When all that I've been livin' for is gone.”

Michael Bolton’s husky voice sounds like he’s lost every reason to live – yeah! Love can get that way sometimes.

Anyways, just shaken off the fog of jet lag – the cobweb cast - soft and stretchy and yet sticky and firm. I bobbed between exhaustion and exhilaration. Memories of home still fresh, the taste of mangoes pasted on my pallet.

Now I emerge.

Was I even in Uganda? It was too short. The overall experience was exhilarating but when I start picking it apart, I’m like hmmm! I see the good and the complicated – just like in all relationships.

Ugandan’s give the best hugs – paka the hearts as if squish, high five and attempt to merge. My hair grew. 😊

It was great to be with family again – those people who embrace every bit about you – who notice the subtle changes but acknowledge you are still the same. You have the courage to bare your scars and know they’ll be around to the end. Safe.

Kampala has grown. The Cafés, the lounges, the new buildings, and incessant construction. The Air bnb’s and hotels, the malls, the lodges, and supermarkets – it’s amazing the businesses brewing in this small country.

I came across “Secrets Guest House” – but Ugandan’s!!! Is it Sidi or Lakunle in “The Lion and the Jewel” who says “Have you no shame – at your age…” anyways none of my business.

Time is money. Kampalan’s have got with the program – whether they can’t see you because you are not priority or because schedules are tight – some people are more aware of the value of time. Trying to get across town for a meeting? The stress of a taxi going back, back, forth and forth is the last thing one needs – in comes Safe-Boda flying passengers from Ntinda to Muyenga in no time. Want to send a package, the phone number of a trusted boda-boda guy should be set in your contacts. He’ll do all the couriering you’ll ever need.

Once I had car trouble; Suzan gave me the number of a mechanic. Our conversation went something like this:

“Hello, my name is Mary, your number was given to me by a friend. Can you do some body work on my car?”

“Yes madam, let’s look at the car. Where are you?”

I told him.

“Ok, we are coming.”

They found me, looked at the car, took it, found the parts, returned with a quotation, sorted the car, and delivered it, all at my convenience. Not bad – I could get used to this.

On the flip side, every transaction is layered – something for something – the levels of dodginess are through the roof. The love of money brings out the worst in some Ugandans even people you once considered friends. I made a transaction last year that left a sour taste in my mouth – that “friendship” is on the shelf.

Kampala felt like a rowdy teenager caught between childish ways and maturity.  The wild swerves of boda-bodas through the alleys of Industrial area, Wandegeya and Ntinda – left me breathless. My son likened a trip through Kampala city to survival in Grand Theft Auto – surprises and life-threatening events swing out of nowhere – a pothole, a bump, a motorcycle swerving in from a blind spot, a street kid suddenly peering in through the car window. The sun’s laser gaze, and a gush of dust blown by the wind for extra measure. Traffic-jams riled my stomach, pasted over by police officers flagging the car down every few meters.

People everywhere, doing everything, minding their own business, not! Their ears are set to the ground, they know all the secrets of the town – who’s fooling who, who’s dodging what. Make one wrong or sudden move and they’ll be all over you like rash. I sat at the Kamwokya bus stage and observed the taxi touts, women selling bananas, people making phone calls, school children crossing roads. When I attempted to take a photo, I got side eye of “Don’t even think about it - been watching you”.

I observed the go-getter pretty girls in four-wheel drives cutting into traffic like – “Babe! I’m the real deal.” The seething competition to be the best dressed. The frustration – “because why are you so chill?” I didn’t have the time.

Young professionals on fire – ambition, mood, travel, vibe, confusion.

Made in Uganda is sizzling – beauty products, food, fashion, business, consultancies, authors – it’s a whole new world.

The people with money are going gaga! Saturation at embarrassing levels. Plans and business deals being sliced on corner tables in cafes and lounges. They slide into their cars and roll up windows to block out poverty.

The language and city accent has morphed.

Kampala is growing out – Kyanja, Wobulenzi, Lweeza, Mukono and beyond – the city is shifting. Sure House, once the hotbed of activity has locked shops but Muyenga is literally heaving, buzzing, expanding – shops, medical centers, restaurants, cafes ….

There is news of an oil pipeline running through Buliisa to the port of Tanga, Tanzania on the Indian Ocean. Money! Then there’s the Parish Development Model (PDM) and whatever that stands for. Money! One just needs the Wi-Fi passcode and location of the power socket to plug in and charge.

There are no sidewalks in Ntinda, Bukoto, Kamwokya, Mulago, Wandegeya, but we can eat – the weather is still the best and food stuffs are still juicy and growing everywhere. Perhaps there is a method to the madness – gotta believe it.

The Mystery of the Woman’s Body

 

I have been thinking about Joanna Namutebi – a bride who died a few days after her wedding. She lost her life trying to protect her body from unplanned pregnancy.

In many parts of the US, girls are educated on contraceptives as early as 11 years old. As a girl grows, her parent’s influence on her sexual decisions begin to diminish. By the time she turns 18, what she does with her body is fully her responsibility. Unless she gives permission, her parents are not privilege to her medical records.

Whether we are equipped with knowledge on contraceptives or not, the bigger issue is the delicate nature of the woman’s body. The woman’s womb, nurture’s life and extends the human race. The woman’s womb is also sensitive and when mishandled can lead to a tragic end - the irony of woman’s existence.

In The Economist issue of June 24^th, 2021, under the section of “Books and Art” it says, “When Serena Williams struggled to breathe after giving birth in 2017, she knew something was wrong. She also suspected what it was. Six years earlier the tennis champion had endured a pulmonary embolism, or blood clot. But a nurse thought she was delirious from pain medication. Instead of the CT scan Ms Williams wanted, a doctor did a fruitless ultrasound. Eventually the scan was ordered—and revealed clots in the arteries of her lungs.” This could have ended a different way, but Ms. William’s listened to her body and insisted on what she knew was right. Even staff in the world’s best hospitals can be clueless about the woman’s body.

In Uganda, we stumble, for the most part, unless a girl is sexually active or intending to start sexual activity, contraception is on the back shelf. Teachers may introduce the subject in the classroom but unless a girl is intent of doing “something-something”, the subject of contraception is not even on her “small” mind. In case of a “miss-step”, most protection is presented through condom use and that responsibility is mostly born by the man. Long term contraception is placed on the table when a girl is “going steady” or engaged to be married. The problem is, there are no rehearsals if she is not planning to act before she’s married. She will never know what works best for her body until she tries. I would like to think this is the situation in which Joanna found herself, unfortunately she landed in the hands of inexperienced medical staff.

When I was 23, the gynecologist at the clinic I worked asked me to assist her while she attended to a patient. My role was to handover surgical instruments. The doctor was capable, she could easily have handled the situation on her own, but she took precaution. I was eager to help. Behind the curtain a beautiful lady laid on the table. The doctor, tall and slender with a graying curly bob, snapped on her gloves and asked me to stand close while allowing the lady privacy. Her medical tray had a metal kidney-shaped bowl, gauze, a speculum, and several scissor-like instruments. Soon, the side table began to look like a murder scene as dark red liquid covered everything, her gloves, the cotton swabs, and the kidney bowl. At her instruction, I handed her what looked like a sealed paper airplane in a see-through blue package. She carefully pulled out the t-shaped instrument and inserted it into the woman. I had so many questions. Wait, what?! How does it work? Is it painful? Why all the blood? The patient lay silent, occasionally engaging in light conversation with the doctor about how her children were growing. My attention fixated on the bloody gloves, the European accent, the scissors. When the doctor was done, she said, “You should be fine. This will keep you safe for 3 to 5 years.” The lady confirmed that she felt comfortable, but I was weak in the knees. I washed my hands and returned to my workstation. I wanted to tell someone, but instead, I stored these things in my heart. I also decided I would consider other contraceptive options when the time came.

We were young, we groped in the dark those years – trying to be as careful as possible but naïve about what marriage meant. Counsel from medical staff, older woman and peers brought enlightenment. We were encouraged to wait a year or two before having children – “Get to know each other before the kids come along” they said. A bride was advised to talk to the doctor about available contraception options. She was advised, “If you’re going to take the pill, you have to start like a week before the wedding”. These words swirled in my head when a few weeks before my wedding, at my first examination, I studiously considered the ceiling of the ob-gyn office situated in the Old Kampala. It was the same doctor I had assisted the previous year – the tables had surely turned. Our meeting was no more than 10 minutes, still I hadn’t changed my mind. I’m not good with tablets but I was willing to stick with the program. The rest is history.

Knowledge of the woman’s body is essential, but may I add that the woman’s body is more delicate than we are willing to acknowledge. Woman is a goddess, a temple. Woman is beauty, woman is the house of life. God knits human beings together within the walls of her womb. What a power! Sometimes we forget the potency of the woman’s body. We get familiar until Sarah, a woman passed childbearing starts Christ’s earthly linage and Mary, a teenage girl brings the son of God into the world.

The famous story of the desperate woman who waded through the crowd, determined to find her healing in Jesus, by touching the hem of his garment, I strongly believe that woman had fibroids. That the bible documents the struggles of women and their bodies imprints aspects of being female that cannot be denied or simply brushed over.

It’s like the woman’s body is a target the second she arrives on the planet. Parents and guardians must protect her from child abuse. Once immersed in the blood of puberty, she must learn to handle her body, shield it from rape and unwanted pregnancies. She must hold on as she bears children (or not) and later sweat through menopause.

The woman’s mind is formidable, her body immensely coveted.

In Maya Angelou’s poem “Still I Rise” she says.

“Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?”

Nature celebrates those “diamonds” but in the same existence fights to destroy them – fibroids, cancer, barrenness…

Joana’s death could have been avoided under skilled professional care. Unfortunately, life doesn’t give the chance to undo, re-step or bring her back, but it gives us pause to weigh in and put systems in place that prevent this heartache. We are left with treasured memories of a sweet, cheerful, talented young woman whose life was cut at the cusp of a coveted dream. The pain lingers, branding like a hot iron the souls of those who knew and loved her.

May God strengthen Derrick as he lifts his head up each morning. May God surround Mr. and Mrs. Kizito, may they know it is well in Christ. But may our medical practices do better. May Joanna’s death not be in vain, may it be the saving grace from other young women.