A visit to Kasubi tombs

Ever get tangled on the fence of - the grass is always greener on the other side?
Peer into your own back yard, you just might find something new.

After 2 years in the United States, getting acclimatized, enchanted and offended; I missed home.
I dreamed and reminisced about the unique experiences Uganda offers, so much so that I made a list of must-do's when I got back.
Apart from munching on my favourite local dishes, spending hours on end with family, meeting friends and dismantling pork at Zanzi and other such places, I wanted to travel the country.

When you see hundreds of thousands of people flocking historic sites - rain, shine or snow. Countless numbers waiting in line to buy tour tickets, view the Vietnam wall or the Lincoln memorial, then you will also be tempted to ask if your country has nothing to show.

That, my friends is how I ended up trekking up to Kasubi tombs.
The burial grounds for Bugandas Kings.

I was greeted at the entrance by a young man who asked me to sign the visitors book. He led me to another room where I had to pay a visitors fee and sign yet another book.
Then I was introduced to Nicholas, my tour guide.

Because I wore trousers, I got handed a fabric to hide my indecency.
Shoot! how could I forget tradition? - visiting the tombs of the Kabakas' of Buganda in pants? What was I thinking?
I certainly didn't want any of them sitting up in their graves on my account, getting scandalized by this Atesot girl who didn't know better, so I wrapped the clothe round my waist.

The place was near deserted but then again it's a grave yard. Duh!
Most every thing was ancient, with the musty smell of dried herbs, dust, papyrus, bark cloth, coffee beans and animal skin. My senses were on the road to archaic events when Nicholas asked, "where are you coming from" I said "oh!... Ntinda". Not convinced he asked again and again I said "Ntinda"
He seemed to imply that there was no way I could have woken up and decided to spend precious moments at the tombs. I had to be a journalist or visiting from another country.
Realizing that short of scratching his curiosity I'd never get to tour, I mentioned I'd been here and there.
That got us moving.

A couple of old women sat, weaving mats, at the entrance to the hut.
We paused and I let Nicholas do the greeting while I mumbled something in the back ground.
Apparently those women were "Bazaana"- Kabaka's wives.
Fine, but explain one thing, how is it that the kings wives are still alive decades after the guys passed away, did I miss something? I should have asked Nic.

I took off my shoes, humbled myself (whatever that means) and entered the hut.

As we sat down this man walked in, knelt, put some money in the basket and bowed. Apparently he had come to seek a blessing from the gods.

Anyway, Nicholas narrated the history of the Buganda Kings; King Mutesa was born in 1856 died in 1864, he had 84 wives,100 children.
That explorer Henry Morton Stanley wrote a letter to the Queen of England resulting in the introduction of "religion" in Buganda through the Church Missionary Society.
That before Mwanga became king he was a chef.
Daudi Chwa became king at the tender age of 1 year, Mutesa II succeeded him and Mutebi is the present king .
He was reciting this information like he'd memorized a history essay.

I got a little impatient.
Recalling the stories from my P3 and S3 history classes, all I wanted to do was check out the place - 'show me the graves'.

Behind the curtain of bark cloth covering a section of the hut was a place called "the forest". King Mutesa I is said to have disappeared into the forest where he died and that became the burial ground.
It's a restricted area so I was left high and dry.


 Nic pointed out that the hut was supported by 52 pillars, all wrapped in bark cloth, and the 52 rings on the roof of the hut represented the 52 clans of Buganda.

He led me out of the hut and as we walked to the gate he tried to sell me a book he'd written.
He said he wanted to study for his masters in America and asked for advice on how get connections. Sadly I couldn't help.

That was the end.

I handed back the fabric and made my way home.
It was an anti climax; I thought there was more to see than just that one room.

If all the history is in crammed in there, then... ??