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.

When words crumble under life’s challenges

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I struggle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even with the uncertainty of words we connected.

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

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

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

Coffee and a Watoto cookie: The "Prince of Peace" Cantata

It is official, 2020 delivered good, bad and downright ugly packages. However, watching the live Watoto Christmas Cantata (Prince of Peace) under a blanket, sipping on a cup of coffee and on a different continent? Now that was a good!

With top notch choreography and stage production attention was centered. While the sound men set the house mix, the lead vocalists, the choir and the band brought the house down.

As Pastor James Lalobo told the Christmas story, a warmth filled my heart. 

It was like coming home. 

The familiarity of the message was like mom’s cooking – the taste as delicious as one remembers growing up; the recognizable household scent;  the reupholstered furniture;  the favorite tumpeco still in the cup drawer. 

A consistency that communicates – love is strong here. Christ remains the center.

Scanning the choir, it was a delight to see familiar faces - auntie Florence still singing over 20 years on while Irene’s smile glows among the sopranos. 

Aunt Olive’s short frame misses from the first line of tenors – she’s got a front row seat in heaven now – so much better.

As the youth featured dance moves enjoyed around the world, I reminisced over the years when like them mastering the strokes and basking in the groove was all that mattered - invigorating good clean fun.

Now, a new generation takes the pulpit. The continuity of passion and excellence spreads over the air waves. 

The message of Christ keeps giving, keeps hoping, keeps loving. 

Then it hits me. These are our children on stage – 10 to 20-something year old’s - fruits of love now in flesh, looking just like their parents. 

Grandparents smile content, parents are filled with pride as children and grandchildren absorb and share the faith. What a generation of Christ centered families Watoto church has raised!

In his message Pastor Gary Mark Skinner said, “You can’t know real life, real love, real joy until you accept Jesus as your prince of peace”. 

I flashed back to events of 2020: events that made my knees buckle; being wheeled into the operating room not sure I would see my family again; big and small crises that brought me to my knees and there finding the Wonderful Counselor, the Prince of Peace giving calm not of this world. 

Peace that transcends understanding - losing a job, missing a promotion, that bad business deal, (you can add to the list) – when sorrows like sea billows roll, whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, it is well with my soul.

When the credits begun to roll, I recalled how years ago Marilyn Skinner said she envisioned the church choir traveling the world. 

We looked at her gawk eyed. 

The idea of an entire production team (singers, dancers, actors) leaving jobs and schools in this little-known developing country of Uganda to travel the world was excitingly impossible.

It happened this year.

Many across the world flicked to the Watoto Church YouTube channel while others scrolled through Facebook to watch the Watoto Christmas cantata live.

 “Who dares despise the day of small things…?” Zachariah 4:10

May Christ make His home in your heart this Christmas and in the new year.

No God – no peace, know God - know peace.

The quiet coder

                                                                

                                                                                                                                         April.15.2020

Someone said, “Don’t worry about your quiet friends being lonely, they are probably enjoying themselves.”

Quiet people can be mysterious. They absorb information and hoard their thoughts sometimes making the more talkative types uncomfortable.

“What are they thinking?”

“Are they happy?”

“Why didn’t they respond?”

Under no pressure to perform quiet people can unravel like rosebuds in spring. The green buds reluctantly unfurl to reveal a beautiful hue – white, red, pink – pleasing, refreshing, restorative. Intense introspection consumes their moments of silence and when they are ready, they shine.

I was reminded of this quiet boy in school.

He barely said a word. He’d come for lunch hour fellowship, stand at the back of the room and mostly observe with a contented look.

As we hurried off to class one afternoon, he walked up and almost in a whisper asked if I’d ever used code.

Raising my eyes to meet his, I thought “Like what?! He talks??” I shook my head.

Me: Code? No! Tell me more.

His eyes lit up.

QB: Well, they are secret letters. Only the people who know the code can understand the message.

That was probably my cue to run.

Me: Eh! Okay!

QB: Do you want to try it?

(I thought to myself; Do I want to learn secret code? Whatever for? I’ve never considered a career as a spy; besides we were not exactly friends).

My eyes met his gaze, he was waiting for a response. He’d just shared confidential information. Now I felt responsible. If he collapsed in disappointment in the school quadrangle I would have to answer. On the other hand, I was intrigued, curious about this code.

I said “Sure!”

QB: “I will write one for you and bring it tomorrow.”

Eh! You see people being quiet, kumbe they are making ingenious creations in their bedrooms.

The next day I received a yellow foolscap paper with the blueprint code.

QB: “Study it, then write to me”

Now! 

How was I …? What does…?

I tried to make sense of the boxes and what looked like the Egyptian alphabet. (These science students walked a thin line between genius and madness).

Each letter of the alphabet had a corresponding character. I wrote a brief response – something like “Hi… thank you for sharing these codes. They are fun to learn. God bless you ….”

He sent a two-page coded reply. The boxes danced before my eyes as I flipped back and forth between the alphabet and the codes. I noticed that just like in regular writing, some codes were used more than others, I put them to memory. His response read like the news with a bit of scriptural encouragement.

I responded a week later but realized responses were expected without much delay. I couldn’t keep up.

I was like “Dude! This stuff is cool and all, but no contract was signed – you know what I mean?” (Come on! I didn’t use these exact words, but I communicated the same message).

He coiled back into his shell, but we remained friends – bumped into each other at church from time to time. Once, in a taxi, on my way home, just before I reached my stage someone tapped my shoulder. It was him. He’d been seated there all the journey through and didn’t say a word until I was about to get out.

Now if only I could trace those codes or find out if he built on his dream.

A brilliant 18-year-old boy in Uganda creating codes those many years ago is representative of Uganda’s potential – brilliant young minds brewing behind the scenes.

We can hope that at the right time, under the right conditions, they’ll burst onto the stage with a cool invention. For now, it’s up to us to provide the opportunities and believe in their ideas 😊.

I hope his dreams were not snuffed out, that he persisted and improved on those codes.

Rest well Collin

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.