A poem: The battle of place Uganda Vs America

 

Ugandan flag - shot taken in backyard during fall

They say let go, move on
They say when you boarded the plane and shook the dust off your feet 

When you peeled the sun off your back and covered your body with winters jacket, shielded your head with springs umbrella, exposed your legs to summers heat and raised your hands to falls leaves 

When you embraced this new life 

You gave up Toto’s Atap, Tata’s Acok 

You gave up lighting Asigiri - blowing into that small open door to encourage the embers 

You gave up playing dodgeball with Acen, Babirye, Mbabazi and Amito 

You gave up twisting the Sound-solo knob and listening to Boniface Toterebuka Bamwenda, Sidney Jingo and Toya Kilama bringing the news of the day 

You gave up lighting Atadoba and the deep sighs that heaved in your chest when “karra fired” in the middle of watching “Another Life” 

You gave up the memory of the kid who stole your red and black pencil 

The classmate who took the Bic pen that you’d marked with your name on a torn piece of foolscap paper carefully tucked between the tube and the see-through plastic 

You gave up crushes and boyfriends 

You left 

But you see I’m more than this body confined to one location 

I’m spirit, I’m emotion, I’m memory 

All you see and all you don’t see make up who I am 

What do I leave? What do I take? 

If I must leave everything, it would include you.

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.

Her pages

He scrolled through her pages and picked himself off her poems, her stories 

He traced a semblance of who they once were etched in the details and light moments that floated through the words 

A distant romance fell lightly in cues sprinkled along the way  

His signature engraved in her writings 

The first line of his favorite phrase 

A stanza on heart break 

A nostalgic tweet 

He could feel the emotion as he run his fingers over the lines 

Aged attraction watermarked the pages held up against the afternoon light 

The run in of old paths secret and true eased his mind

 

Seeds planted in youth now rooted and mazed like thread on a quilt 

Telling histories revealing mysteries 

Stories on life’s tapestry 

Mrs. O 

Poem 6. Page 22.

Just ride

 

Ah! Little guy

We hustle you and me, me and you

Up and down we go

Through emotions and hormone tempests we go

Now you want dread locks

Now caramel hair

Now you want earrings

Now diamond teeth

What?! A necklace?

Want to shop with mom in the jewelry section?

Find identity within I say, find identity in Christ I say

How you present yourself is key I say

You say I don’t understand and maybe, maybe

You grow here, I grew there

America, Africa – different countries

You grow now, I grew then

America, Africa – different cultures

Young black man you fit the profile

No one will know you are mom’s little guy when you are out on the streets and there is trouble everywhere

No one will know you are mom’s little guy when you walk into a store dressed in a hoody and goofing around with friends

You are not little anymore, but you will always be mom’s little guy

Yes, you tower over me

Yes, you are stronger than I am

Catching up to dad real soon and that’s real cool

Little guy

Listen. Stop. Think.

You probably can’t hear over the emotions and loud music

Emotions will fade, there better be more when all is spent

Ah! Now you cool off

Now you trim the hair

Now you pull up the pants

Now we spend more time together

Now we exchange ideas and plans and thoughts

A steady young man emerges

What’s around the corner?

What does a parent do on these youthful roller coaster rides?

Hold onto your hat and ride, just ride

Let God deal with you both on this journey

@Mrs. O

8/12/2020

Confession

 

A short story.

Today I went to confession.

I had been thinking about it for a while, preparing for it, not the sinning but the confession part.

During confirmation classes our teacher mentioned confession was a requirement. He also said one couldn’t have the Holy Eucharist unless one had confessed one’s sins. I wanted to have the Holy Eucharist; it had been on my mind for many years.

I Imagined the day I would humbly walk up Christ the King church aisle, head bowed, hands neatly clasped behind my back. I would stand before the priest eyes closed and mouth open. He would place the white wafer on my tongue, I would slowly close my mouth, pause a second before turning around and walking back to my seat. I would kneel by the pew and pray looking pious and pure and mature – no longer a kid but a young lady growing up in wisdom and stature, in favor with God and Man.

My brother and I practiced the act of receiving the Eucharist with crisps; stick the tongue out, give enough circumference for the piece to land squarely in the middle of the tongue and then retract the tongue reverently. We got good practice with the crisps; it was the confession that needed some more work.

The confirmation class was scheduled to confess on Saturday, and I still didn’t know what to tell the priest. I had stolen a pencil and lied to my mother – that was as heavy as it got, but was it enough? Would he send me away admonishing me to dig further and find the real sins? Were these sins good enough for confession? I mean I had a crash on one of the alter boys but that wasn’t a sin or was it?

I walked up to the confession box in the corner of the church. I drew the purple curtain to enter, it was deemed inside. The priest sat behind a veil. I knelt afraid to look around in case he recognized me or I him. Something about anonymity brought security although I still struggled to be vulnerable.

I uttered the words “Father, I have sinned”.

In a calm deep voice, he asked me to confess.

I said “I stole a sharpener at school”

“My child, do you still have the sharpener?”

I said, “Yes father”, and in that moment I realized I was lying because I didn’t have the sharpener, it got lost. I had sinned again in confession. What about the lies? I didn’t mention the lies, oh dear, they were so many, I would never leave confession at this rate.

After a moment of silence Father asked me to go home and say, “Five Hail Mary’s and the full rosary”.

I withdrew from the confessional reverently. I had qualified for confirmation.

One of the other kids got news from his older brother that the priest dipped the wafer in wine at confirmation. We were going to have wine in church. We were almost adult Christians.

This was big!

 

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.

“From Heaven Above” 1996 Kampala Pentecostal Church Christmas Cantata with Ken Serukenya

Journey with me.

It was a dark and stormy night…

No!

It was a cool Tuesday afternoon on December 23^rd, 1996. News of Kampala Pentecostal Church’s (KPC) free Christmas cantata rippled through town. Eager church goers rushed to find seats in former Norman Cinema turned KPC, located in downtown Kampala.

Behind the scenes, music director and producer, Ken Serukenya gathered the choir. Dressed in black, the choir circled the church reception area. It was almost time!

“Choir, thank you so much for coming” Ken said, “…I have learned the closer we get to God, the more our sins are exposed. Let’s dedicate ourselves to God.”

The choir was comprised of believers from all walks of life - students, teachers, businesspeople, accountants, lawyers, musicians, doctors, job seekers, housewives, employers, name it.

Ken continued, “Yesterday was amazing! God showed up. Let’s pray for strength and for God to be glorified again.” The choir lifted a resounding “Amen!”

Lights were turned off! Andrew (aka De’Angs) was the meticulous, serious sound man on duty.

The choir - soprano and bass at one entrance, alto and tenor at the other, walked in with lit candles that illuminated the auditorium like giant fireflies in the dark. The audience gasped.

God’s presence settled in the upper auditorium and flowed down to the stage like a royal robe – The King of Kings was in the building.  

Away on holiday, Pastor Gary and Marilyn Skinner placed Ken Serukenya in charge of the first local Christmas cantata production in KPC (now Watoto church).

A Civil Engineer by profession, Ken worked a regular job but also composed Christian music. Ken wrote every song then taught and directed five, two-hour long productions over three days at KPC.

On the first day of rehearsal, Ken picked a new cast of lead singers; Sheila Dorcus a senior four student, Rose an administrator at Ian Clark’s International Medical Center, Trinity a young man in the choir, and another lawyer who’d comfortably tucked himself in the back with the bass guys. The choir quietly exchanged looks as we all wondered what on earth had just happened. Under Ken’s encouragement and mentor ship the soloists owned the songs and sang them with passion.

Every day of rehearsal, every production, Ken brought all of himself to the choir, to the instrumentalists, to the actors and dancers, to the sound men and the audience.

1996 KPC Christmas cantata “From Heaven Above” was a year of firsts; - first African themed cantata, first live-music cantata, first dance-heavy cantata. From light ballerina moves in previous presentations to Ken’s “We must include dance” This was big!

Ken and I made our way to the Uganda National Theatre to buy beads and ruffle-skirts. He suggested dance moves and often checked on our progress. Would the Church embrace dance as an expression of worship? Would the moves stumble the crowds? How conservatively creative could we get with the costumes? What would Gary and Marilyn say? Whether these were questions on Ken’s mind, it’s hard to tell.

As music director he had a vision board and went about its execution. Following God’s rescue plan, the production started with Adam and Eve’s disobedience in the garden of Eden through the genealogy of Christ’s birth, His death and Resurrection.

Set to music, Ken scripted and taught Christ’s genealogy to the choir: “Abraham was the father of Isaac, Isaac was the father of Jacob, Jacob was the father of Joseph, Joseph was the father of Judah, Judah was the father of… was the father of…” until we came to Jesus and testified how He came into our lives. Now we knew our ABC’s and hoped that next time the audience would sing with us.

On the nights of, actors and dancers got into position. Butterflies fluttered in our bellies. The drumbeat set us in motion. Danstan, immersed in creating rhythm, rolled his drumstick over the cymbals and the butterflies floated away. We moved, we grooved. “From Heaven above, to Bethlehem, down the Nile, the Lord came down into my life.”

With Albert’s gentle hands on the keyboard and Abed plucking the bass guitar right on cue – the choir soared as Ken belted his signature tenor, “I have seen Him, I have seen Him – the Savior of the world as He promised in His Word…”

December 25^th, 1996 at 2:00 pm we closed out the last show exhausted but on a high. The lights came on, the audience clapped endlessly. Every space was occupied; the stairs were filled, all standing room taken and for a while there no one wanted to leave while some clueless people came in hoping for another show.

I got home to scraps of Christmas lunch, took a nap and later watched this movie about a Fiddler on the Roof? 😊