Mrs.O's writing room.

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 yo

  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 goe

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

  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 exhil