Mrs.O's writing room.

I meet different people on my commutes – some funny, some intense, some honest and some plain – I like those the best. The conversation begins with a simple question and escalates to a deep human connection, an appreciation for the different journeys we walk. I watched the Uber driver circle the cul de sac and then leave. Did that just happen? He just turned around and left? I stood out in the cold, checked the app, it was the right number plate. I tucked my hands into the jacket and hoped the car would circle back. It did. He stopped, helped put my luggage in the trunk/boot and apologized. He said he got a little confused with the directions. Well, nothing to add. He was on the older side probably in his mid-fifties. He looked like he’d been in an accident that altered his face a little. It didn’t help that his car was not all that but hey! I trusted it would get us to the destination. Music whispered through his car speakers – country rock-ish – not really my taste. It s

  I enjoyed listening to this young artist play his saxophone. Great way to wind down the day.

Chimamanda gives second annual Eudora Welty lecture.  I stood a little downcast in front of the Lincoln theatre, the air chill nibbling at my extremities. With hands tucked deep into my jacket, I waited with anticipation for a kind stranger to come along. See, I’d hoped to purchase a ticket to the Second Annual EudoraWelty Lecture but they were sold out. The lady at the ticket booth apologized. I held on to the prospect that someone would show up with an extra ticket. People begun to trickle in. Girlfriends who’d planned an evening out spoke in excited tones and took selfies in front of the lecture poster. They showed their tickets and stood in line, while I a little envious thought about heading home to my family and getting in from the chilly outdoors. Then it happened.  A lady walked up to me and mentioned that her friend had bought an extra ticket and just like that I had a close to front row seat to listen to female African writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche’s lecture on “One

The Needle Tower (Hirshhorn museum) Ever meet a stranger and immediately connect? For the longest time such stories were safely locked in a box I labeled "Movies" - guy sees girl at bar counter, guy buys girl a drink and they lived happily ever after. I mean yeah right! Coming from a small city like Kampala chances that one would befriend an outright stranger in the middle of the day were slim. America on the other hand is huge, people leave familiarity and travel to new cities for school and work among other reasons. And that is how I met this guy. The museum had closed and I was taking photos of the Needle Tower in the Hirshhorn gardens when he came over. We exchanged a few remarks on angles and lighting then I decided I best get on home. He said “There’s going to be a photography club meeting here on brutalist architecture. I don’t know much about it, but you might want to stay.” I thanked him and said "Sure, why not." It was going to start in 2

Market day (Okisoni) in Serere Early in the morning, before the birds came out to sing, before one could see beyond their nose -  in the pitch-black dark of night, feet shuffled outside; People talked in the distance and footsteps went pitter-patter on the village paths. A special day dawned. A day to buy and sell - to exchange and trade. People came from miles around, from neighboring towns and villages. Some walked, some rod bicycles, others came by bus or taxi.

Kigezi hills  Once the excitement over clean, organized streets and sophisticated infrastructure in the developed world wore off, it came down like a wet blanket -  I missed home. I observed as people rushed along pavements, up and down escalators, round and round revolving doors. There was no time to lose, no smiles to share, and eye contact? No way! Were they embarrassed by my presence? But then again they didn't know me. I could as well have been invisible. I began to miss the familiar strangers on Kampala road. The smell of wet soil after the rain. The sense of community and interdependence I'd grown to take for granted. I longed to hear the “toot toots” of taxis and the sounds of diverse languages spoken with ease. I yearned to speak Ateso, even Luganda however broken and mispronounced the syllables tumbled out. The gnawing desire  for home chewed at every fiber.

Dad tuned to radio Uganda one bright Saturday morning and heard an announcement inviting boys and girls on holiday to attend " chaka mu chaka " military training at  Shimoni Demonstration School. " Chaka mu chaka " refers to the military march in Swahili. Soon after the announcement Daddy declared that my brothers and I would attend the training. Our jaws dropped. What?! A whole 3 weeks holiday was going to be spent on military training? So while our friends shared stories of fun holidays events our hot news would be military training at Shimoni Demonstration School, nice!! I rather suspect, he didn't want us to idle around. This was a cheap easy way to keep us out of trouble.

"The largest book in the world" Project not realized: This book would measure at 21 feet long and 12 and a half feet high. It’s a testament to the Kabakov’s long-standing interest in literature and storytelling. As I studied Kabakov's unfinished project of art work in the Hirshhorn museum a guy dressed in some kind of security uniform came over. Guy: "This book reminds me of judgement day when we'll stand before God and account for how we lived our lives." Me: "Oh yeah! I totally see what you mean. Are you a Christian?" Guy: "Yes I am, amen to that."(almost switches to tongues) Me: "Oh great! I'm a Christian too." Guy: "I'm looking for a wife to marry " Me: "Wow!! You are quick." We laughed 🤣🤣🤣 Guy: "The registrars office down the road is open till 5:00pm. There's no time to waste. We’ve got to cease the moment." 🤣🤣🤣 He returned to say "I talk to peo

Dear Uganda I think of you at 55 I may not be with you but I see how you've grown and regressed Taken two steps forward and two steps back The runyegege, the bakusimba, the ding-ding

As Sam and I conversed, Mich eagerly awaited a chance to slot in a word. His dad was still in mid-sentence when out of frustration Mich said “But daddy, you don’t have to use all your words at once” He had our full attention. He is six years old.

As I crossed the street this morning something caught my attention. A space craft? A little tree in a sea of green grass? A sombrero (Mexican hat) sprouting from the earth? No! A mushroom! Ebaale ! Obutiko ! Scientific name - Amanita phalloides also known as the “death cap”. One cap has enough toxins to kill a human being. It is one of the deadliest mushrooms in the world. Interesting how some things in life can be so alluring and yet so deadly. But oh! The detail took my breath away. That God would attend such detail to this stray fungus that just pops out of the ground when it rains? You Guys!! How much more vested is He in you and me – creatures created in His likeness? Now about how I captured this angle. Let’s just say the employees in the building across the street must have been like – “yup! She’s lost it for sure!”  Did I mention I was in a dress? Yeah! And that is how stories mushroom in my little world.

Breastfeeding can be a challenge for new mothers - an additional sore to an already exhausted body. During pregnancy, the mothers body prepares to deliver and feed the infant. While the birth of a healthy baby is celebrated the mothers, body can potentially take a while to get the memo of the child's arrival. It's a moment of reckoning when the baby is hungry and a cup of juice and a cookie will not suffice because guess what?! The little bundle doesn't have the stomach to handle refined foods. Only milk will do and preferably the mother’s milk. If the mother doesn't produce colostrum or the baby is unable to suckle, there's a mad dash for glucose and a syringe. But that is only a temporary solution because cute and wrinkly as that little bundle is, when hunger strikes and it will strike often - no amount of "shh" ing will settle it down. These are moments fathers sweat in helpless frustration. Mother has to learn to breastfeed and sometimes it&

My metro life. This guy, noticing my camera says, G: You must be a photographer Me: Aspiring. I love taking photos yeah, but not yet at the professional level G: I like taking pictures too but mostly of myself and for work. I'm like cool. Good to know. There's silence. Then the proverbial question. G: So where are you from? Me: Uganda G: Oh really? I thought you were Kenyan. I have friends from Tanzania and Congo, now you from Uganda. We get on the train, he has a lot more to say: G: I think Uganda could do a lot better, its smaller than Kenya but man! It's GDP leaves a lot to be desired … (he spews statistics and speculations on how Uganda can exploit its natural resources better.) He says “Museveni started well. He set a good example with HIV awareness and reduction but I think it's about time he let go.” I agreed with him. G: By the way, I’m Jeff Me: Mary, nice to meet you. He tells me he’s an author, a motivational speaker, a professor of

The city of Rockville put up a splendid show of 4th of July fireworks.  A good attempt at writing my name in the sky. They get  an A+ for effort :-) Colors of the American flag

Girl Sings at Farragut North Metro Today I had a conversation with the funniest, most talkative, deaf man I've ever met. So I was minding my own business as usual, waiting for the train, when this guy walked passed me and suddenly turned around. He tapped my shoulder. DG: Excuse me! Me: (I turn) DG: Where are you from? Me: Uganda DG: (Drops his hands - the sparkle in his eye deems - he was disappointed. He thought I was from Ghana.) Me: You from Ghana? DG: Yes! But I don't like Ugandans

America is such a vast country, my Uganda of 93,065 mi² can fit in America’s 3.797 million mi² like 40 times. As such it mirrors how minute my perspective is when immersed in its culture. The topic of muse today – Sex Education. I couldn’t quite find the right transition but here we are. Do you recall when you first understood the difference between the male and female anatomy and how they are beautifully designed by God to create babies?

Aah!! Remember the days we thought our parents were clueless about life? Like they came down in yesterdays rain? Well, it comes back full circle.  

When he says "May I have this dance" I will gladly oblige I want to get onto the dance floor and feel the rhythm in the soles of my feet As it pumps to the beat of my heart Takes me high into the realm of breathless allure my body asks my soul and my spirit thirst  More energy, more thrust, more shake,  Move, move, move I want to hit that all time high under the spot light He guides me with his strong arm Moves his leg enough so I can lean on it So I can turn on it With his arm gentle but firm around my waist, I want to dance. Dance till beads of sweat pour down my back leaving me drenched and exhilarated all at once. I want to dance. There's an applause 👏  I didn't realize the audience☺

Dressed in Gospel Dancers uniform, we were scheduled do a processional dance at a wedding in St. Francis when I bumped into Uncle Ben. He was walking through the aisle. When we said we were not the bridal team but dancers, he was perplexed. Dancing? In Church? In an Anglican church at that? Unthinkable, unheard of. (The rematch between Pentecostals and Anglicans).  He reminded me of Tevye in the Fiddler on the Roof – too many changes with these youths. As Reverend at St. Francis chapel Makerere, Uncle Ben and auntie Joy nurtured generations of university students and what a delight it was to sit at their feet last night. To sit at the feet of spiritual parents and reminisce the days we were nurtured. Times when as clueless, passionate youth eager to change the world they listened, provided guidance and allowed us to spread our wings and fly. Someone said “You believed in us even when we were terrible. You never gave up on us and protected us.” Out of that love for young

AWOL Tours: A bike ride to Cape Town. Photo Credit: Ker & Downey Africa I was having lunch with a friend this afternoon when she mentioned she’d lived in Cape Town for 2 years. I was thrilled. I wanted to know her experience, what she loved. Did she visit Table Mountain? What about the wine country? She was surprised to learn I hadn’t visited but I’d read up on it. So, planning a trip to Cape Town and you don't know what to do? This guide has an ala carte of activities. You’ve not tasted Africa until you’ve visited the mother city. It’s friendly people and natural surroundings make you want to settle in for a while. The food hits your palate with such scintillating taste you think of your own mom’s lovely cooking. As a passionate traveler, experiencing new places, meeting new people and capturing the essence of a place are a few of the things I live for. So while scrolling through my Instagram feed I saw a beautiful photo of Cape Town’s Table Mountain, my next

Summer is almost here and the clothes are gone. I first came to this beautiful country in the middle of a heat wave. I never knew a place on earth to be so hot, I saw mirages everywhere. All shades of skin tones filled the Penn campus and on the narrow West Philly streets. Girls in the shortest shorts and tiniest tank tops. There were bellies and thighs everywhere. “God help the brothers” I thought. But then, I was the only one butting eyelids (I think). Now, 10 years and a tougher skin later I’m just like “Oh whatever! It’s just another belly button, another thigh.” I’m sure the guys say the same no? Is this what they call assimilation? Adaptation? I don’t know how young men handle the situation but one thing is for sure, I can’t afford enough kangas or kitenges to wrap around every skin baring lady. I will therefore mind my house.

I saw these flower petals on a branch, on a tree by a neighbors house. A camera can’t quite capture this beauty like the naked eye but it tries. Looking at it, something came to mind: In God’s time, He makes all things beautiful. Each bud will have its moment in the sun.  Just because one has blossomed, just because one’s petals are luscious and spread out with royalty, just because one looks brighter and more captivating, doesn’t mean the other is any less beautiful. If we wait with diligence, and do what God has placed in our hands to do, our beauty will shine through.  The moment will come. You may not be bright pink but your dark red will captivate -  beauty in diversity. Bright pink contrasted with dark red, makes a rich blend.  For this photographers eye it does.

Spring: A season of the year that inspires hope, rebirth, new life, expectation. Junkie: A person with a compulsive habit. Spring photo junkie: Someone inspired and obsessed with the beauty of spring. Shoots buds, birds and all sprouting life with an incessant passion. Disclaimer - this is a personalized definition. Ladies take pictures at the Washington DC tidal basin Black-capped Chickadee Cherry-blossoms A squirrel skirts over a fence

We blossom and flourish like leaves on the tree, then wither and perish, but naught changeth thee. Hello assassins Did you sleep well? Did you dream sweet dreams? Of flower petals and beautiful meadows? Of children's laughter and cheerful celebrations? Did you lay your head on your pillow and stretch your feet? Did you yawn and seek a comfortable position, grateful for a job well done?

This pot (amoti) is the fridge in my parent’s home in Serere. It’s served faithfully since I was a little girl. I had never seen a pot so huge. I could literally hide behind it in a game of “tapo” and no one would find me. When the water levels were low, my feet dangled as I tried to scoop up a drink of water. Surprising how much it shrunk since. Once the pot is smoked, it yields the sweetest, coolest water at the perfect temperature. It’s reassuring to find it in the corner of the corridor. So much has changed and yet so much remains the same. 

He is dark, 5ft 7 inches. On most days he’ll wear a hoodie and a pair of jeans. As I watch him walk to the bus I think, there goes my baby – my Japadhola/Mufumbira/ Etesot. A Ugandan boy who holds no grudges for his ethnicity. In the world we live in, he is a “Young black man!” - not the description I would use for my son, but like the police here would say – “he fits the profile.” Can one tell that he is not an angry black man when he walks into a store with a hoodie? In moving to America I exchanged one set of issues for another.

" As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path , we walk again and again. To make a deep mental path , we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives. " Henry David Thoreau Walking is therapeutic and magical. It clears the mind and strengthens the body, make that walk for a cause and you've made life more meaningful. I stumbled upon a young man who has made an art of it. Mile by mile, little town after little town he plans to walk through Uganda to raise awareness on issues that affect the poor and disadvantaged in his community. I was curious to know what got him on this journey. In the corner of the office library one cold January afternoon Edwin Barungi shared his story. Thanks to a good what'sapp connection an hour went by swiftly. It was our first conversation but that didn't get in the way.  An exchange of a few pleasantrie

I looked up into the first night sky of 2017, the moon and Venus illuminated the sky. I thought of God's faithfulness, His beauty, His power. He is a good good father and an awesome artist too. May God's light shine in your life to show you the way. May He lead you by day and by night. Happy New Year!