Uganda Presidential Elections: May God Uphold Thee.

Ugandan flag infront of Washington National Cathedral

 

Missing Pancakes

I started 2024 with missing luggage after a flight home from Uganda.

Immigration officer: Where are you coming from?

Me: Uganda

IO: What was the reason for your travel?

Me: To see family

IO: How are they doing?

Me: They are well, thank you.

IO: How much money are you bringing into the country?

Me: (Thinking to myself—"dude is this a trick question?”) I said, “None really”.

IO: Welcome back!

With that I went off to pick my luggage.

I scanned the luggage conveyor belt for a while… nothing. Exhausted but chill and with hubby still way out, navigating the highways, I took my time. I watched the luggage spin round and round: green cases, black cases, pink cases, checkered cases, cases with bright colored strings (you know the pieces of cloth torn off dresses or belts—the ones used to tie sacks of cassava or millet? Ya! People real know how to mark their luggage, so it stands out).

My cases: one maroon-soft cover and one green-hard cover were nowhere in sight.

A muffled announcement came over the airwaves, I heard “…Mary Ong”, unless there was an East Asian with a similar name, I had a feeling it was meant for me. Not good.

I traced the voice to the counter. A little East Asian lady dressed in blue and white uniform hustled with disgruntled passengers concerned about their missing baggage.

I introduced myself, she begun to stutter “Yes please! Your bags… didn’t arrive. I don’t know…” She handed me a printed form—my name.

She continued, “We will deliver your suitcases in a day or two...” She looked worried as she handed me a pen—probably thought I was about to cause a scene. There’s a way one looks after a long flight—angry Black African woman vibes—those things. I had flown over 20 hours halfway around the world—Uganda to Rwanda, Rwanda to Doha, Doha to D.C. And now my chapati and kabalagala (Ugandan pancakes) were out there somewhere, alone and frightened. No, I wasn’t in the best mood.

I narrowed my eyes, looked down at the lady (nanti she was like 4 feet tall) and with gritted teeth said, “Look here Miss. my bags had better be found. No one messes with a Ugandan woman and her kabz.”

Ok, if you believe I said that to the lady, we need to talk. Hahaha.

I wrote a description of my suitcases, signed the form and went off to find my people.

The baggage arrived at my door two days later and all was intact. The cool temperatures outside helped preserve the chapati and kabalagala. I placed the valuables in the freezer and now, for the next two weeks or a month (depending on my self-control) I have some easy meals—chapati and chai garden tea.

The hustle of living away from home—bu simple pleasures naye!

Happy New Year!!

Kampala Pentecostal Church Campus and Careers Fellowship

["You trust people because you’re courageous, that’s why, because you are grateful. It’s a mark of courage, it’s a mark of commitment. 

It’s like you and I are going to make an agreement and you are full of snakes and so am I. 

There’s lots of ways this could go sideways but we are going to put together an agreement, we are going to articulate it, we are going to try it out. 

We are going to find something that’s of mutual benefit to both of us. 

We are going to put our hands out and shake on it and we are going to stick to that. 

And we are going to risk trusting each other. I don’t think there’s any other natural resource than trust.

And for trust, you need courage not naïveté”. Dr. Jordan B. Peterson]

The way young people today navigate relationships is a puzzle - social media, online dating, swipe left, swipe right. I hope things work out. Then I think back to our days and how clueless we were, we also jumped on life with gusto with all those group outings and retreats, older generations probably had their fingers crossed too.

Some things worked out, some things didn’t.

In the meantime, in my study, Spotify lifts the carpet. My favorite music: Randy Rothwell (Hosanna Integrity – back to the beginnings); Pink Sweat$ (groovy tunes recently discovered); John Legend (an absolute no-go especially without a significant other); Amapiano and Afro-beats (the best vibes in town – those log-drums go thump-thump all the way home). 

While the music plays, I’m carried away and I land smirk in the outskirts of Bukoto.

A hot Saturday afternoon, at a Campus and Careers Fellowship (CCF) - there’s about twenty of us. We are peers (plus or minus five years), we attended the same high schools; were university students or recent graduates feeling our way through life, building careers, shaping goals and dreams, thinking about the future. 

The ties of faith bind us. We are good friends, like siblings but not quite. Loves mysteries loom over our heads and hearts – to find the right one, be found by the right one, be the right one, all that.

Laughter rises from a place of naivety, budding Christian professionals out to have good fun grounded in biblical principles or at least we are learning. We treat the young men as brothers, the young women as sisters. 

Then hearts start to summersault. 

We are not sure if this, this tag, this attraction, this draw that makes us feel a certain kind of way, that this is good, is ok. We pray, “Dear God, if these feelings are not from you, please take them away.” (Ahem!)

Friends pat our backs and respond from a place of uncertainty. We all charter unfamiliar territory.

“Pray about it”- they urge.

“You guys look good together”- they affirm.

“Tell her”- they encourage.

“Wait for him to make the first move” - they caution.

“Man! She’s spoken for” …

It’s tight.

Spinning and spinning through murky waters. But “What would Jesus do?”  Christian romance 101. Was it okay to take a second glance? Was it carnal to spend extra minutes in front of the mirror, touching up that makeup in case brother Michael looked your way?

We were certain, we were uncertain. We had pastors to guide us, may be one or two married friends (who mostly looked like unicorns. We could not comprehend what they’d done). Our parents chattered a different course, did they love each other or were they sticking it out for our sake?

We were determined to do it right - God’s way. But how? “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known…”  I Corinthians 13: 9-12 

Once the young lady wore a graduation cap and was conferred with an academic degree, the guy got on bended knee and asked for her hand in marriage. Mpozi how long should one date? Six months? Two years?? 

He’d worked three years, had a descent salary, good prospects with his employer, he was ready to make the commitment (shaky knees and all). She wanted to make a home, she was ready, or at least she thought she was, even though she constantly checked in with her friends for reassurance.

Couples sprouted like mushrooms after the rain, you’d catch glimpses through café windows. They’d take romantic walks to the old taxi park. Engines raved for hours in the church parking lot before she’d be dropped at her parent’s home. 

Then it got quiet. You’d look around, wonder if you missed something, a clue, a hint gone unnoticed. Thoughts would dissipate in the merriment of the next fellowship meeting; everyone happy to gather again. Thoughts would return later as you analyzed the days conversations, as the taxi collected all the potholes on your way home. 

Big questions: How will I know? How do you know someone? How do you get past the heart flutters to the real person? What are their habits? What is their faith like under duress? What about their family dynamics? What are their non-negotiables? How do they handle money? How does one explore these principles and values outside of relationship? Can you walk away when the alarms start to sound? Is there grace to accept faults? Can one differentiate between weaknesses and plain bad manners – poor upbringing? Is one trapped the moment one says, “I think I like you”? Is it the same as “I do!”? 

I Corinthians 13 begins to look like a hard paper.

A guy opens his home for yet another CCF meeting. He has a large enough compound, with a music system that shakes the house. Limit X gets heads bobbing, we do the shuffle. 

In the vein of leadership, the men take charge, sort the muchomo guy, he delivers a sizzling marinated goat stuffed with rice pilau. We dig in. Talk about school, about hopes and dreams, share prayer requests. We read scripture, listen to sermons and talks. We are a family of believers, a little clueless but we are headed in the same direction, so it’s good.

The wedding meetings begin.

One chairman makes rounds in the church overflow, in pockets of restaurants on Buganda Road. The church choir is glued to the pulpit each Saturday morning.

Couples climb off the wall like the green bottles in that nursery rhyme – “And if one green bottle should accidentally fall, they’ll be one green bottle standing on the wall.” 

You get the strange feeling that you might be the last green bottle up on the wall. A look below is not too comforting some of the bottles in the grass cracked. Maybe safer staying on the wall? 

Again, there is no manual, just prayer and belief that there will be light enough for the next step.

Roads divide further on this memory trail but I must return lest I get lost. 

I wonder again how today’s young people chart these waters – being “blue ticked”, “ghosted” and then ati now they have “options”. Owaye!!!

I walk through the neighborhood. The trees have shed their leaves – they are now bare – not as pretty. I remember spring and all the flowers that came with it – gone; Summer and all the green shade from the suns glare – gone; Fall and its beautiful leaves – gone; It is winter. The trees that survived the seasons have naked branches, but their roots run deep, having a source of nourishment fortified over years. When spring comes, there’ll be budding again. 

Life I guess is a series of seasons.

“And for trust, you need courage not naïveté”

At the Spa

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 you seen before? What I have, you have. So now?!!”

We couldn’t argue with that. Still, I thought it was important to be private. The world has no business looking at one’s melanin glory without cause. Mr. O got a bloody nose a few times, I had to remind myself we’d made a vow that included everything. What can I say? Old habits die hard, but also, that’s not the topic for today.

I was guarded – helmet, shield, breastplate – the entire armor, that is until the children came along. I mean once you’ve been through labor, once you’ve visited the ob-gyn, eh! Like what the fuss? A certain slice of novelty is lost. You grow older, you hit your 40’s – things shift around, and then you look in the mirror and say, “It’s okay, I have fought the good fight, might as well get comfortable with this “house” ♬” We are not getting yanga” ♬ When the components of the “house” are bent of jogging down-hill, you resolve to jog down with dignity. 

On this journey of adult living the stresses and strains of life weigh heavy on the body - stiff necks and ailing muscles become the order of the day. Good health and wellbeing become paramount.  Once, I discovered I had a “back mouse”. A back mouse (not the medical term but I like how crazy it sounds) is a small nodule – the size of a bead or a pea - on the lower back, close to the dimples of Venus. You don’t know the dimples of Venus? Guh! Ask Mr. Google. Just know if the nodule is situated close to a nerve, it can cause excruciating pain, the muscles get tight and sore and one form of relief is a massage. I was not a fan of the massage, the idea of stripping down before a stranger wasn’t exactly welcome in my mind but life dictated – doesn’t it often? 

Reading up, I found that massage therapy has several health benefits; reducing stress; reducing pain and muscle soreness and tension; improving circulation, energy and alertness; lowering heart rate and blood pressure and improving immune function.

I found an Asian spa in our metro area. The sweet scents and ambiance had a soothing effect. The soft lights and serene East Asian music calmed the nerves. A raised bed covered in white linen was positioned in the center of the room with cloth hangers set in one corner. 

The notice on the wall had two words “Be Quiet”. A masseur entered the room, oiled her palms and begun to knead my back. As her fingers settled on the sore tissue, I let out a groan. Her dainty hands, firm and smooth followed the full length of the tight muscles from my lower back up to my shoulder and neck. I wanted to scream – that pain is torture. She stopped and asked if everything was okay. I mumbled something about my condition. Then I remembered the notice “Be Quiet” What did other clients in this thin-walled establishment think?  Perhaps that I was being smothered? 

After she repeatedly traveled the length of the strained muscle, the pain eased but the situation got tense when she complimented my skin. Something about being complimented while alone with another human being in a state such as I was felt uncomfortable. “You athlete?” she asked, I said “No”, I wasn’t even sure where the conversation was headed. But more on this later.

Female masseur’s have quite the job easing tense muscles for clients from all walks of life. Like customer service professionals, masseurs sometimes engage entitled clients who think they can have their cake and eat it too. 

While in Kampala I visited a friend’s spa – my back was acting up again. Also, throw a stone in any direction in Kampala city suburbs and it will land on a spa or a salon or a kafunda – the difference in these businesses is the quality of service. 

I was received at the front desk by a lovely young lady with a wide dark gummed smile – it’s still imprinted in my mind. I almost asked, “Do I know you?” But then again this was Uganda – smiles are free and in plenty.

I was given a cushy-gown, I experienced my first sauna with step-by-step instructions - nanti maalo. 

By the way Ugandan’s are a head on good stuff, I can be here in America clueless about good life meanwhile Ugandans know what’s goin’ on!! Yeah, so I was there gasping for air, sweating like crazy, wondering if this heat, steam and pressure was normal - ati 30 minutes of suffocation. Yo!!! But when I emerged, I felt as fresh as a cucumber.

In the Spa room the masseur told me she loved her job. The Spa offered various services: wellness treatments, skin care, body scrubs, therapeutic massages and so much more. She paused and added, the one thing she didn’t like?  - “Men!” She continued, “No matter their status in society, once that thing is up, they go stupid. I tell them I don’t do that but sometimes they insist.”  I asked a follow-up question “Then what?” I mean it’s an odd situation. An honest worker hustling to earn a living has to face clients interested in selfish indulgences; a risk to her job, her health, her reputation, her values, life. She said “I leave the room.” As we had this conversation it suddenly hit me that I’d grown. Here I was with a total stranger talking about the challenge of serving entitled male customers. Ugandan’s have bolder conversations these days, the subtlety of yester years has fizzled away but also, I get the impression that people from certain regions of the country feel freer to talk about these subjects. Maybe I’m just giving excuses for being older and more aware, I don’t know, but there was a shift in my mind. We talked like old girl friends.

This got me thinking, we need male masseurs in Uganda – although the way the world is going, it doesn’t look like that will solve some of these issues. I’m just advocating for a balance of gender. I read somewhere that the strength in the hands of male masseurs can help heal aching muscles faster. But also, if I walked into a spa and a male masseur was the only option, Cheptegei would have a real contender for the gold medal in 5,000m. Good ol’ Chep would know he had fierce competition.

Now, remember the Asian Spa I talked about earlier? After the massage, the masseur led me out to the reception, I was given a cool glass of water. She smiled and complimented my skin to her colleague at the counter and said something about how I should not worry, that she is not like that. I thanked her for the service and left. It was only later that her message registered. 

Ah! This life!!

Meanwhile, shout out to Aqua Spa Naguru, Skyz Hotel – you guys are the best. 

I hope to visit again sometime.

Bungee Jumping on the Nile

 

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 goes. Everyone heads off for some alone time, as in, we are together apart. Do you know this? Let me explain. Once you have teenagers, stress levels can as if peak. The young people don’t really want to hang out with the parents, just the parent’s money. When they begin to earn their own money, all bets are off – your relevance is held on a balance so help you God. If you have a boy and a girl then each one wants their own space because really, “What do you know about what I’m going through?” The parents are left looking at each other and they too are processing life from different angles.

A panoramic view shows the boy sprawled on his bed scanning his phone. The girl is in the living room watching a movie. The dad is on the porch reading news events in world. The mom? Now, where is the mom again? Oh yeah! She out somewhere marveling at nature, taking pictures, thinking about her kids, happy that she doesn’t have to cook the day’s meal.

Next morning dad has a brilliant idea to take his family for a thrill, an adventure in the jungles of Jinja. The teenagers are like, meh! But what can they do? Rules are dictated, they are in unfamiliar territory, so best stick close for safety. One likes to swim, the other is water averse. One parent loves adventure, the other is calculated – if the full equation is not understood, it’s not happening, but for the sake of peace and harmony, they’ll lay down their lives. Sacrifice – the man’s calling.

The car drives onto the gravel of this open facility – water of the Nile roars in the distance, there’s a vast space of dark green vegetation, a beautiful canopy. Music blasts through the speakers.

Boy: “What are we doing here?”

Dad: (Silent because really… “For you don’t you just enjoy life ko?”)

Girl: Acts invisible.

Mom: “Let’s see what we can do”

A few meters ahead a set of metal fortified stairs lead up to nowhere. Basically, if you start the journey up, there is only one way you are coming down – free fall.

Boy: “That’s just crazy!”

Mom: “Come on! Let’s give it a shot”

Boy gives mom the look, she knows it’s not happening.

Girl: Acts like she is not there, then suddenly blurts out, “Ok, I’ll go.”

We all turn. The question on all our minds: “Are you sure?”

She’s only 11. Does she know what she’s getting into?

The guide, a bulked up young man tells her there is nothing to be afraid of, it is safe. The equipment is tested and he’s trained so he will walk her through the steps. He adds, if she is uncertain, she has time to change her mind. Still acting like she’s invisible but consumed with resolve, she nods her head, “Let’s do this!”

The family is led to a balcony where we watch the spectacle go down – feel the guilt of letting our baby fly in the wind, strapped with ropes.

The DJ pumps up the volume, “I feel it coming” by The Weeknd.

Boy is bored – like, “What madness in this?” like, who in their right mind thought this would be fun?

DJ increases volume.

Dad is pacing, looking out over the Nile. Pebbles on the ridges now look like rocks.

What if there are crocodiles? We’ve seen those creatures literally walk on water for their prey.

DJ increases volume again. “I feel it coming”

Now the beats are in sync with our hearts, soothing the thumps, numbing the sudden jerks.

Where’s mom? She’s watching her baby get strapped in to the gear. From this distance, her girl looks like a stick figure, hands up, then hands down, like the cock screw. She’s thinking, “wait, what? This kid is actually going through with this? Some nerve!”

Then woosh! The girl is catapulted into the air. Dad makes a sound between a growl and a howl.  The teen’s hands are spread out superman style. She goes with the wind, suspended in space. The seconds freeze in-slow-motion each micro second doing a full stage act. Then the rope drops, then the rope pulls her back half way up, it drops again – we feel that – sweaty palms, dry throat. We are all breathing like women in labor, our legs shake.

I look again, ok she’s still strapped to the rope, good! Nothing has malfunctioned and no crocodiles or hippos emerged for the spectacle.

A boat rows out to the girl, she is gently lowered onto its floor. Now we can’t see her. She could be kidnapped down there although frankly with her stare even a kidnapper would think twice.

She emerges unperturbed, dad and mom are frantic like they did the bungee jump. Boy still thinks humans are crazy to consider this fun.

Mom: Squills “Oh my! How was it?”

Girl: “Hm! It was ok”

Mom: “So what was the guy telling you up there? You talked for a long time.”

Girl: “Oh! He asked me to choose, I could have the rope around my waist and fall forward, but that’s basic. Or the harder level, have the rope around my ankles.”

What did this reserved, non-expressive, quiet, assume-invisible-state of a girl decide? Yup! Option two.

Who is this girl?

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.

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.

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? 😊

 

What about the Teso children?

As the sun crowned behind the horizon, the village stirred to cock crows and cattle moos. A new day dawned in Serere. I was eight years old on school holiday, 275 km from bustling Kampala. Each day was filled with adventure; gardening, milking cows, tethering goats, and picking eggs from the chicken coop. Dad stocked the house with a library of world books - knowledge waited to be plucked off the shelves. We balanced life skills with leisure reading and exploration – what privilege!

Faithful men

Create your light - home project. Photo credit: Mrs. O

“I was young and now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken or their children begging bread.” Psalm 37:25

Bishop Henry Luke Orombi’s bible devotions have made rounds on WhatsApp. With simplicity he delves into scripture and expounds the Word of God.

Summer Fly's By

Whoa!! It's been a while since I was last here.

Yes, and now I return for the heart loves familiar places :-).

I miss blogging, chillin’ out with my peeps, talking about life. I thought the summer would be quiet and relaxed but it’s been filled with work assignments and stresses.

Chobe with the view of river nile
Chobe Uganda. Photo Credit: Mary Ongwen

This picture of Chobe in Northern Uganda gives me pause – a breath of fresh air. It centers my thoughts on good things – nature, wildlife, peace, rejuvenation.

What about you? What have you been up to?

Happy Weekend!!

Kampala - An Intense City

A view of Arua Park in down town Kampala. Photo Credit: Mary Ongwen

I had missed Uganda and its capital. I wanted to experience the downtown markets of Nakasero and kikuubo, roll with the cool guys on SafeBoda’s, sit with the local women as they lit sigiris’ and fanned firewood. I wanted to dine in Kampala Serena, sip cappuccinos and lattes at Cafesseria. I wanted to travel to the countryside, see all things, do all things, taste, relish, embrace. I wanted to nourish a hunger that had grown over three years. See my papa and mama and siblings.

Familiar tastes, sights, sounds and people allowed for a deep-seated comfort – a return to a warm nook, a favorite place. The warm hugs, the worn paths, the happy stories, the heartaches connecting lives at the origin of life’s pulse. People finished sentences like I was never gone. Virtual friendships were sealed, the connections encompassed faith, beliefs, and life values.

After a while the cracks in the ceiling surfaced, I was reminded of the annoying humps on Ntinda stretcher. The touts who claimed the taxi was about to leave only to yo-yo in the same spot for another ten minutes. I began to dodge potholes from memory and understand the non-verbal communication of the security guards. I remembered personal space didn’t have a place here.

I was back.

I was on the road a lot so most impressions were influenced by journeys and interactions within the city.

Beyond the discomfort of dust caked in layers on my eyelashes and throat, Kampala’s growth is evident. More of everything – economic growth, private ventures, indiscipline, creativity, insecurity, wealth, agriculture and more.

Kampala’s intensity numbed and exhilarated all at once. Urban migration is real. Youth employment is of grave importance. What were once outskirts -Mukono, Najjeera, Kulambiro are now in-skirts and they continue to grow. Growth is good, the disorganization not so much. KCCA has its work cut out.

Kampala is an urgent city – like a continuous party or a scene in a Grand Theft Auto game: a boda accident over here, a fender bender over there. Taxi touts call for passengers, boda cyclists whizz by and assume a ride contract because of eye contact. Music blares from supermarket speakers, road side vendors loom over car windows in traffic. The car hoots and street side conversations – everybody minds their own business and others. 

A huge truck knocks down the wall to a private residence. The back of the truck remains logged between the compound and the road. The truck hangs in midair over a drainage – hard to demystify the “cool” maneuver that resulted in this situation. Traffic slogs up the Kiwatule turn off, idlers surround – each with a version of how the accident unfolded, life resumes.

The incessant traffic jams (except at 2:00am perhaps), taxi drivers with their own set of road rules and the boda-boda cyclists that skillfully made sudden appearances at blind spots were most unnerving. Good to have more traffic lights, and the bypasses that help ease traffic on the outskirts – except everyone is thinking the same thing.

Ugandan’s remain trendy. After one or two meetings with a friend who politely told me to smarten up, I begun to scan the fitted skirts, the high heels and matte lipstick painted in cafés, offices and on Kampala road. It was important to represent and not shame the diaspora. Ugandans have class.

Ugandan’s are still friendly but a little more aggressive. They still help with directions and empathize with those in need. Drivers cut into traffic mercilessly, everyone assumes right of way. After two instances of courtesy on the road one easily joins the road rage because you soon become the enemy for giving way, choice words are thrown through windows. Once immersed in the aggressive zone, one chances on a driver who’s gracious, allows you to join the road or make a turn and suddenly the trance wears off and you realize there are some sane people out there.

The traffic police? I will leave those alone – not enough time or space to delve into the details.

Uganda suffers lopsided development, but development none the less. There’s stack contrast in quality of infrastructure between eastern and western Uganda. A clear line between the haves and have not’s. Again, not enough time or space to delve into the details here.

Good food – Ugandans have not lost taste. The number of restaurants, Cafés and kafundas just go to show Ugandans like their food and they like it steamy hot. From The Lawns, to Café Java’s and all the fabulous eat outs in between the choices are endless from muchomo to muchuzi chips. We will talk customer service another day.

Good music! Ugandan’s love to have a good time. I met a friend in Ntinda, the location had no signage – those who know it, know it. Those who do not probably don’t belong. The music was cool, the ambience just right!  An old tymers kind of thing. Highly recommended as a wind down zone after a day’s hustle. One travels back in time to life’s good moments – you literally forget the guy who nyigged you, the missed promotion that was rightfully yours, the business deal that fell through. Yah!

A lot has changed and yet so much remains the same. I was glad to fit in and yet study the country from a distance.

Subsequent articles will be short stories, interesting events and encounters along the way.

Soon moving to WordPress: http://www.ugandanmama.wordpress.com.