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!!

A spin through Heathrow airport

You guys’, Heathrow airport is huge like this.

It is oba the size of Soroti city?

You haven’t been to Soroti city? What’s your excuse? I will wait.

If you have friends from Soroti and you’ve not visited their home…

You know where I’m going with that, in fact, let me go there. My absence shouldn’t be an excuse for you not to visit my home, to check on my people. In fact, you my Ugandan friend should make the trip to Serere - check on my zeyi’s give me updates.

Whoosh!!! I went deep there and no, I’m not joking.

Okay back to the size of Heathrow airport. The surface area is like a combination of Soroti flying school, Soroti airport, Soroti sports field, Soroti rock, Soroti Nurses’ quarters…you know?! As in if you clear everything; buildings, trees, petrol stations… then add Soroti market, yup! Large area like this.

Era at Heathrow airport, if your flight is at gate No. 62, get ready. You’ll take the elevator, get to the underground terminal, then you’ll take a train (okay it’s a cart but as if a train), you’ll take another elevator and then scan the boards for directions. If you are bad with math, I don’t know how to help you. Those days when you fumed at Mr. Kasisiri as he taught increasing and decreasing numbers and then grumbled how you didn’t see math’s relevance in your big life, well…the kuku comes home to roost.

There are several departure gate sections; - A, B, C, D – each a cluster of an even larger section of gates - you had better know your destination. If you are running late, may the powers be with you otherwise you may start humming “Oh I wish I had wings like an angel, like an angel that ever did fly.” Mr. Isabirye taught us this song in P4. “I would fly to the hands of my darling…” Yo, yo!! Didn’t the class experience bu little tornadoes that twirled around each desk?! Big words like “darling” were unmentionable. In fact, some pupils didn’t recover. 

Mr. Isabirye looked stunned, he wondered what the excitement was all about. Some sober students (usually the goody two shoes at the front) explained to him how “darling” was in the category of bad words. He was undeterred. He had to finish the song “for I’m tired of living alone.” Disorganization just. So, we learned the song but in place of darling we said “mm mm”.

But I’m still telling you about Heathrow.

I got intricately familiar with Heathrow airport one fine day on a layover to Glasgow. In the end I was done. Enough! Even me I said, this whole idea of seeking new experiences? Simanyi adventure, simanyi exploration…I don’t want. Just tell me the gate number well in advance nga I know where to go and sit. I will read a book, listen to music, watch family travel vibes, couple coordinates, lone travelers, people with infants ... byona. Just situate me in one place. But no, Heathrow airport would not have it.

First, one has to gulp down or pour away drinks in containers larger than the recommended size for carry-on luggage. Era for those of you who carry Uganda Wa, oba Scotch, oba Johnnie Walker - those ones - in your hand luggage just know it’s going in the bin oba you’ll stand there and set your throat on fire. Mpozi nga you have the mini bottles - there you’re sawa. Place contents in see-through zip lock bag (kaveera) nga the machine scans and everybody knows that this one is not a teetotaler.

Empathy guys, it’s all empathy, you know I don’t drink this stuff. But yeah, the liquids have to go at the security check point before you enter the terminals - that’s if you have a connecting flight.

The waiting area is like a sophisticated market; screens, escalators, duty free shops, coffee shops, restaurants, mini bars… every possible bright electronic color screams - see me. But that’s not the worst of it. Travelers pack like sardines in the foyer - at least ko sardines are stationary - travelers are wiggly, they pace, they are pensive, others are strewn in chairs like exhausted marathoners. Meanwhile Maaso ku lutimbe as they wait for their gate numbers to flash on one of the digital screens suspended in the air.

                                              

I think some humans go through the airport with the sole or soul purpose of finding their people. It’s in the eyes. Guys be looking around like, “Are you the one?”, “Maybe?”, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”. I learned not to make eye contact. Don’t idly look around. The questions change to “Yes?”, “I mean, you know?”, “Why not?”, “Let’s talk about this”.

At this point, I lengthen the handle of my carryon case and roll to another location. 😂😂😂😂

Back to gate numbers. This is where my problems begun. I was accustomed to having all details on my boarding pass: Flight Number, airline, time of departure, gate number - awo I knew the plan. Mama! My flight through Heathrow airport? Perhaps doing things cheap-cheap was half the problem, nanti they say you get what you pay for but yo! One never knows the gate until like an hour before boarding time. Then there’s a mad dash - like a real rat race - era just watch the movie Rat Race to familiarize yourself with the concept. People trip, jog, knock others as they attempt to get to their gate on time.

What is this game Heathrow airport, really? Making grown humans run around like…

This is how things unraveled. My first flight was delayed, as a result I missed my connection – domino effect. The smart and delightful British airways staff rescheduled my booking but, you guessed it - no gate number. So, I was hovering, not sure whether I should stay nearby or go to the middle just to have a vantage point - nanti maalo. Era maalo may be my undoing in this life. 🤦🏾‍♀️

Let’s first have a moment of silence right there.

Then I over relaxed – nanti 4 hours - lost in thought and fascinated by technology. I didn’t get to the gate in time. I huffed, panicked paka my heart was like oba I just come out and beat double-double on the outside. Eh! It was too loud.

I explained to the flight attendant on ground. “I’m going to… the gate number… I missed the connection.” The lady listened, nodded her head like yeah, what’s new?

                                                      

I was placed on another flight, given a new boarding pass and yeah! Life continued. I calmed down but I also gave myself a pep talk - that kind of stress is unnecessary. What was I going to do? Did life stop? Free stress just to move from one place to another. Ah! Airports.

That’s how I toured Heathrow airport looking for my gate; up the escalator, down the escalator, through the terminal, onto the train, out of the train, up another escalator. Nkugambye!!

Naye on my return I real confirmed Heathrow airport is about as large as my beloved Soroti city. This time I got the gate right - I can also be a ninja please 😎. But there was a twist. Where usually, you show your boarding pass and get ushered onto the plane, this time we went through the doors and were told we’d get onto buses waiting on the ground. The bus would drive us to the plane. I was like sawa, just a quick ride to the plane.

Gundi, we went, as if on the main road (but this was on airport grounds), through more terminals, round a bend and another - like we’d gone into a new district. I was like ka le we are being driven to America. You may say, but Mary how? Nange simanyi. I was not the only one thinking things.

The young lady at the front of the bus turned to her neighbor and asked in an East European accent: We are taking a flight to Baltimore, right?

Her neighbor nodded and smiled.

I laughed.

I had company. Ka le Heathrow!

Anyways we weaved around several stationary British Airways planes. Each time we thought we’d found our plane the bus driver drove on. We gave up and just waited for him to stop. Then it was off the bus on to the plane. Naye Heathrow!

Just to say I hahad.

New experiences can be fun but also unnerving when things are out of your control, in unfamiliar territory. It builds faith and trust muscles. But as you can see my Ugandan village genes are still strong.

The ultimate expression of trust is boarding the plane, storing away your hand luggage, buckling your seatbelt and believing that this monstrous machine is going to somehow balance in the air, and you will land in the city of your destination.

The irony of it all.

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. :-)