Namasagali productions and the impressionable years

Namasagali productions were the talk of the town. Around March, girls in brief red dresses flowered the streets of Kampala, especially near Uganda National Theatre.

I looked forward to this time of year, my brother would be home in the middle of school term – a change up from my mundane routine. He’d come with stories and lots of friends.

 

I attempted to hang out with his friends, they’d pinch my cheeks and tell me how cute I was. I felt prized, like I belonged in this group of boisterous, sexy, carefree grownups.

 

Sitting on the edge of the green worn out theater seats I’d marvel as my brother captivated the audience. He’d spin, leap and swing from one corner of the stage to the other in his leotard. His strong muscular frame moving to the rhythm of a song that rose from under our feet and out through each strand of hair on our heads.

 

A pretty girl also in a leotard would emerge, twirl and jump into his arms. He’d raise her into the air like an empty delicate pot – the magic! The audience clapped and I’d be like “Yeah! That’s my bro!”.

 

At the end of the show I’d walk out expecting to be greeted and patted on the back like I was the star. Like, “Did you see my bro? We live in the same house. Family genes please!”

 

Nobody knew me. The crowds gave accolades to the rightful owners.

 

I grew older. A shy, impressionable twelve-year-old girl.

 

At another production a girl strode on to the stage. Her tall, svelte frame captivated the crowds. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate – the darker the berry the sweeter the juice kind of beauty. Her posture and presence brought the building to a pause. Her confidence carried the auditorium.

 

Her dance moves had the audience in get-set mode. She’d mastered her lines.

 

It was easy to see she was all that – “Oil wells pumping in my living room” kind of sassy.

 

I admired her severely.

 

After the show and enshrouded in the crowds making their way out the theatre corridors, her beautiful face stayed imprinted on the ceiling of my mind.

 

I’m sure many girls wanted to be like her.

 

Something about artists portraying the best self we secretly desire.

 

In the theater’s restroom, I looked into the mirror.

 

A certain reality stared back.

Uncle Ben and Auntie Joy Mugarura: Faithful Stewards in St. Francis Chapel and Beyond

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 people ministry teams like Come Alive, Teen Challenge and Youth Group were birthed. Groups like Heaven Bound, Destiny, Dove 7 and Voice of Victory served as venues of ministry but also kept the youth engaged positively.

Somewhere the line between spiritual and physical parenting ceased to exist as they fed both body and soul. It must have been quite the experience for the biological children having all these university students vying for space in their parents’ hearts. “We walked into their home unannounced and sought a cup of tea and something to eat. When one of our marriages hit a snug they visited and stayed way after midnight to help iron things out.” Someone else added.

As we sat in the cozy home of one of their adopted sons, tears of joy and words of gratitude flowed seamlessly from grateful hearts that had been touch directly and indirectly by their ministry.

“We owe a lot of who we are to your ministry”. Another said “I came to the Lord under the ministry of Uncle Ben.” The testimonies of their influence continued to resound as we all agreed that our Christian faith was anchored and nurtured under their care. Uncle Ben and auntie Joy sowed seeds of eternal value.

While auntie Joy smiled and recalled all the events like they happened yesterday, uncle Ben sat with hands folded to his chest and gazing up at the ceiling.

Auntie Joy attributed her love for the youth to the fact that her father was a reverend too. “Growing up in church, I knew what it entailed.”  Then she added “But this is God’s work not mans.”

Did they have much? Were their resources over flowing? No! But they had two things going for them; a passion for young people and a faithful God who replenished. Their home was a place of refuge, rest and recreation. There was always a flask of tea and a snack for the hungry campusers who walked through their doors. They never lacked, food never dried out and they never went hungry just like the manna for the Israelites in the desert or the woman with a bottle of oil – it kept flowing.

“When God gives you a gift, use it to serve his people and to glorify Him fully otherwise you will die with that which He has given you.” Auntie Joy said.

She recollected how her highlight in life was having young people in her home. “I enjoyed it. I have never had such a time like that.”

When uncle Ben shared he said “For us, we are weak really, but He is strong”. That right there was the testimony.

His admonition to us: “And for you” he said, “If you have ever met uncle Ben and auntie Joy, you have no excuse whatsoever not to be in a ministry where you are. You don’t need to have theological training. Seek God and see where He places you.”

Colossians 2: 6 -7:

“So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in him, 7 rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.”

-          Live in Him, in the fact that if there was any shake up, you would still be found in Him.

-          Be rooted in the faith. If you don’t know how, go back to the scriptures and please get yourself a hard copy of the bible, one that you can read and mark up and write in – just like you were brought up to do.

-          Abound in thanksgiving. Live as men and women who are thankful for salvation and what Jesus did on the cross.

We left blessed and glad that we had to opportunity to thank them for such selfless giving. What is the scripture he and joy have lived by?

“Not by might, nor by power but by my Spirit” says the Lord of hosts: Zachariah 4:6

“We trusted the Lord of hosts. Love for young people was placed like an imprint on our lives. A tattoo on our hearts.”

A Memory of Things

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. 

Dog Window-shops with Old Man

Old man and dog

"Bagyenzi bange!!" In Ateso we say "ikatunga!!" It's an expression of surprise.
When I first came to America, I was shocked at how close people were to animals. In some cases it seemed the relationship with other humans had been interchanged for that with animals.

Where were you in January of 1986?

If you were not born, never mind – I’ll just go ahead and date myself.
In January of ’86 I was under the table, for the most part. No! I was not playing “hide and seek”, but I was hiding and desperately praying that the army men would not come seeking in our house.

Ordinarily Simon and I were dropped off to school and we rushed to our respective classes. Depending on the day we studied Math, English, Science and Social studies: played a little bit during break and lunch time, then had a blast running around after class until we were picked up. The preceding months however were no ordinary months, they were filled with uncertainty. Typically the days started off dull, and just as we were being lulled by the usual, cars zoomed into the school compound. Drivers and parents were picking up their kids, it was rumored that war was breaking out.

The country was going through strife, Tito Okello had just over thrown President Obote in a coup and so far no body knew what would happen next.
After 2 weeks or so, there was seemingly less chaos around the city. People were back on the streets, cars whizzed passed, children were dropped off to school, and parents went to work.
But friends whose parents were government ministers stopped showing up at school, some had fled the country, others were barricaded in their homes – unsettled about the future.

Road blocks were the order of the day. One couldn’t travel more than 20 meters without being stopped for a check. Woe unto you if you didn’t have an ID or if you looked of age and didn’t have an ID. My brother would have opted for anti growth hormones (if they existed); mom had to profusely plead and swear that he was only a kid – he was only 11 but his height was a serious factor.
The officers, dressed in army uniform and speaking Kiswahili didn’t care to smile what so ever. At each road block you prayed you would get passed without any trouble. You would get the sudden urge to use the bathroom if the officer raised his voice or if by some bad luck he wasn’t having a good day.
If he looked at your ID too long and decided you were not the same person because; - you cut your hair, lost weight or smiled when your photo had a sullen look - “Ka chini! we adui!” meaning – “lie down you are one of the enemies”.
You wanted to use the bathroom with even more urgency when you found friends and neighbors humbly sitting at the road blocks probably because they had no identification or any of the above reasons.

Ahh! Those were the days - gun shots on the streets were like music in a dance hall. One pop sent every one cowering for cover.
As if that was not enough, if some one decided to run for some reason, say they needed to get to place in a hurry or they tripped over a stone and trotted a head to avoid falling – the whole city begun to run. It was a ripple effect.
People seldom stopped to ask “why?” the motto was - run for your life and ask questions later. Those who dared to ask were told, and most times by someone who had no clue why they themselves were running – “they are coming” and if they went on to ask “who?” they were told “err… you wait and see”. At that point even the most curious didn’t wait to see.
We spent weeks on end running all over the city. Businesses were closed in the middle of the day – owners running for safety.
Shops were ransacked and looted on a daily basis; - army men took money and other valuables at check points. Such was the life.

When it was safe to come out again and the gun shots had stopped popping, people languidly stepped out of their homes. On most occasions it was in an effort to trace relatives, friends and neighbors who didn’t return the day the drunken sounding man announced on radio
“Dis iss Brigadier so and so. Deya hass bin a coup. … General Tito Okello Lutwa iss de presssident of Uganda. We are not goin to lib any stones unturned until we finiss all ob our enemis”
We held the hope that the missing persons had found fortress some where else, but news that their bodies were seen lying in some trench, on a street or by the road side left many bereaved. The next trek would be to the mortuary, hoping to identify them and give a half decent burial.

It had been about 6 months since all the chaos had seemingly died down.
I went to school as usual and then at about 10 am, drivers and parents started arriving again, picking up our friends and telling teachers how the city was not safe.
It was rumored that war had broken out in Luwero and that the army, led by a man called Museveni was taking over towns and was headed for Kampala, the capital city.
Before I knew it, our driver was at my class room door – it was time to head home.

I had not been feeling too well that day, so we passed by Poly family clinic in Kisementi to get some medicine. Before long I was groaning in pain, my head felt so light and the walls were spinning. Mummy came home from work and found me lying in the sitting room. She had been stopped at a road block and the army man had taken all her money. That was sad, but we were glad that she was safe.
I didn’t know that we were going to spend the next weeks crawling on the floor to avoid stray bullets. I didn’t know that we would spend the nights huddled together in the dinning room – no body cared for soft, cozy beds at that point.
I had no idea that we were going to spend the weeks, eating rice and beans, posho and beans, beans and more beans.
No one cared for TV any more but we constantly listened to news on Radio Uganda. I was sick to my stomach the entire time - turns out I had malaria. We crawled to and from the bathroom; lights were out the entire period. We saved on everything, water, electricity, food – amazing what human beings can do without in times of crisis.

Uganda is a lot better now or is it? That is a whole other can of worms which I chose not to open.

So you tell me, where were you?

My First Apple

Flash back

I made it into the room just in time to see Peter and Simon chew the last slices.
I begged for some but it was too late; already gone, making it's way passed the epiglottis and down the canal.

What a sad moment that was.

Standing as close to Peter as I could get, I looked in the black spot of his eye, desperately hoping I’d savor the taste as he swallowed.
When he finished I asked – nearly chocking on my tears.
“What did it taste like?”
He squared up his shoulders, cleared his throat and was about to explain when Simon shouted “It tastes like chocolate”.
Oh! My mouth watered as I relished the thought of munching on a chocolate apple.
“No” Peter said “He is lying, it tastes like a sweet raw mango”
Huh? I was confused.

While I was trying to think it through Simon asked me if I really wanted an apple.
My eyes lit up, I said “yes”.
He said, “You want it right now?”, more excited and louder I said “yes, now, now”.
He asked me to follow him into the kitchen which I did in a hurry, almost tripping over a stool. He smiled and pointed to the spiky fruit on the kitchen counter and said “this is an apple, a pine-apple”.
My little heart was crushed.

Uncle Henry, seeing the mess I was in offered to buy me an apple from Fairway hotel. It was the only place that sold apples. Some people didn't even know what apples were but curiosity was building pretty fast.
The apples were few - we had to sprint.
We scrambled out the door and run as fast as our legs could carry us. Uncle Henry trotted a long, out of breathe - nearly limping.
He pulled out 10 shillings from his worn out wallet and paid for my first green apple.

Without wasting time we dashed back home, headed straight to the kitchen, diced the fruit into 4 equal pieces and munched away just like we had seen in the movies.

Yumm! It had a sour-ish, sweet-ish taste, kind of like... a sweet raw mango.
My first apple.

Okonkwo

I just finished re reading one of my all time favourite books by Chinua Achebe - Things Fall Apart.

Quite apart from the thrill of recalling the events in Umofia and Okonkwo's life, it was a fun trip down memory lane. Back to secondary school, literature class, the discussions, arguments and essay writing ...

Coming across names like Ezeulu, Obierika, Ikemefuna was like stumbling upon old buddies .

Hey, Unoka, I remember you, Okonkwo's dad right? boy was Okonkwo ashamed of you, you're probably the laziest man he ever knew. You just liked to party didn't ya?!, I hear you were most blissful drinking, playing your flute and dancing with the locals.

Obierika, man! you represented the epitome of friendship, the way you stood by Okonkwo when he had been exiled to Mbanta ( his mathez home) was really commendable.

Uchendu, you were one dry fellow, you didn't mince your words around your nephew Okonkwo. As you knew how to rub salt in a wound?!, but I guess it was sawa because then Okonkwo sobered up and faced his situation like a man.

Ikemefuna, things were tight for you, I mean first they grab you from your home (no fault of your own), they take you to live in a different village, then the man you ended up calling father (Okonkwo) killed you just like that.

Looking at Okonkwo, it seems that even though he despised his dad's laziness, and worked mighty hard never to be associated with such "fakeness", when it came to their demise, they both died miserable men. Unoka died an old, poor man with a lousy reputation - Okonkwo hanged himself.

Is it that the very thing we loath in our parents is what becomes our destiny some how?

Kitante Primary School Circa the 1980's

In memory of A.D Ssozi the former headmaster of Kitante Primary School who breathed his last on March 19th 2014 at 5:45pm in Texas. He was 81 years old. May his soul rest in eternal peace.

Kitante Primary School Emblem: Child between two parents

Kitante Primary School anthem:

"There's a school near the museum by the road side,  

Oh come to the school of the world 

No school is so dear to your child  

Kitante is the best in the world. 

Oh come come come come 

Come to the school by the road side 

Oh come to the school of the world 

No school is so dear to your child 

Kitante is the best in the world "

The children sang loud when it came to the chorus: "Oh come come come come COME to the school by the road side" - even those who didn't know the song well knew this part.

School prayer:

"Look at me Oh God

As my heart silent all

To you all I turn

For all the sins that I have committed

I beg to be forgiven

Where I have been good I ask to be encouraged ..."

Can somebody please remind me of the rest of the prayer, its been a long time since you know.

School Motto: The Struggle Continues for Better Horizons

Head Master: Mr. A.D.Ssozi: The man with the pipe, he had it everywhere he went.
It was great just listening to him talk he sounded very unique, you see, he spoke the queens English with a British accent. Very smart and sophisticated man, rode a classy motorbike and was an avid tennis player.
He knew all the children in the school, no matter where he met them, he smiled and waved.

Head Mistress: Ms. Sajaryabende (R.I.P): Tough lady.

Gate Keeper: Mzee Kato: (I know some of you didn't meet him. He was at the gate between 7:30 and 8:30 in the morning).

Gate to Kitante Primary School. Mr Kato spent his time inside the little house

Kitante Primary was a very special school. By P7 I was able to remember all the children in the school (by face) even the ones in P1 at the time, no kidding. To date Sam thinks there was something weird about the school because many times I meet people and when he asks how I know them I tell him we were in the same primary school.

OK, I'll start at the beginning and tell you a little bit about my school. Just like the anthem says, it was a school near the museum by the road side and it had classes from P1 to P7. It was well known for its good academic performance and was the envy of the other primary schools around Kampala.
We were the only school with an amphitheater, the neatest kids, most well-behaved and brilliant.

Kitante Primary School amphitheater

P1 and P2 classes, were referred to as "lower school" and indeed they were lower school.
Apart from the fact that the children were the youngest, their classes were also at a lower level compared to the rest of the school. They had their own assembly meetings every morning and their own little waiting shed which often had crying faces and scattered property lying around. In the excitement of playing after class and the anxiety to get home, bags, sweaters, shoes, containers got left behind. Luckily one would be able to claim them back in the "lost property" department at the head masters office.

Lower school play ground

Lower school waiting shade

A view of lower school; Classes 1 and 2

Classes 3 to 7, were referred to as "upper school", the distance between lower and upper school was quite a stretch and the most important offices, the headmasters office, the disciplinary room, the bursar's office and the amphitheater stood between them. Looking back it seems to have been built that way because moving from P2 to P3 was like the long walk to maturity, once you crossed over it was clear that you had made much progress in life.

Children in class: P3M

It was only when you got to P3 and the classes after that certain names became extremely important. 

In my day the names that made childrens' blood stop were:-

Mr. Makeeri: P5 maths teacher, just one stroke from his cane would make your back side feel like it was on fire, so you didn't want to get into his bad books. Even the naughty boys who put on "bullet proof" (double shorts) or those who tried fixing books in their shorts would feel the strokes of his cane like they weren't putting on any clothes.

Mr. Mugumya: P5 geometry teacher, he was new in the school but you didn't want to mess with him, please do your homework, pay careful attention in his geometry class and you will be okay.

Mr. Semakula: P5 Geography teacher, you better be a good pupil. He was left handed and there was just something different about the way he caned, you would not forget for a long time.

Then there was Mr. Sebujega: P6 Math teacher, I heard a story about how he once fixed a boy into one of the pigeon holes (these were small box like sections where we kept our schoolbags). That story alone was enough to make you think straight, you have no idea what such a story would do to any one in a lower class. Children in P6 and P7 appeared the biggest in the school, so by the time one could fit in a pigeon hole, chances that you would fit a pigeon hole were greatly increased.
I never got to know if these stories were true because thankfully I got them second hand from friends and family who had gone before.

One other teacher whom you would prefer that he didn't so much as look in your direction was Mr. Tibuhoire: P7 English and Maths teacher, he was just bad news. If you didn't perform well in his class and you were asked to go to the science room, it would be between you and God, just pray that you score above the pass mark, otherwise life would get very complicated.

I'm beginning to think primary school teachers had a special calling from birth because, these names are rare, I haven't met any other people in my life with these names.

Kitante Primary School Administration block: First murals I ever saw

On the whole I have good memories of my primary school days, the only times my stomach hurt and I felt like I was running a fever where when I took home the wrong homework book and there was work to be handed in the next day, or when the math numbers were a bit hard and I had left gaps. It was very important that we all did our homework and completed it, if not the consequences were pretty clear, you didn't have to stir up your imagination too much.

They say 'Work without play makes Jack a dull boy" so we had times for sports and games, this was a time we all looked forward to, I certainly did.

I will not forget this one time in P2 when I forgot my sports uniform at home and we were going to do P.E (physical education) that day. I could swear Ihad packed my uniform, well at least it was washed and ironed. When it was time to change, I literally turned my bag inside out and there was no uniform. Then the sports teacher insisted that those who didn't have their P.E shorts would have to run in their underwear, I couldn't believe it was happening to me. To make matters worse we were going to do a brief cross country run, the route was out through the main gate, passed the museum, down via the headmasters home and back, or something like that.This was absolute misery for me, the boys in my class were going to see me and there were all these people walking on the streets who kept looking and commenting. It's not like I was the only one who had forgotten my P.E shorts but damn! it was the first time it was happening to me. I cried the entire journey and lets just say I was never in such a situation again.

Because I was in P3 and still a bit unsure of who to hang with my parents thought it wise that I had lunch with my big brother Simon. As it happened Simon and I never spoke to each other at school, we would plan where to meet for lunch before we left home. When the bell rang for lunch I would wait for him and his friend at the corner of the amphitheater, then we would eat and go. Now, Simon's friend liked the fried rice that we carried and I liked his rice because it was different. 

One time I asked Simon to ask his friend (whose name I will not disclose until I get permission) if we could exchange dishes, I would eat his rice and he would eat mine. It worked out pretty well, his friend had a blue long flask and mine was red, so we would meet exchange containers, eat, give them back when we were through and that was it. I never really spoke to Simon's friend by the way, and for some reason the whole exchange thing was short lived can't remember why. Picture this, several years later I meet Simons friend because we end up working at the same company, and now am wondering whether he recalls any of this.

To explain the "no talking" thing between Simon, his friend and I, it's very simple, they were boys and I was a girl. Boys talking to girls and the reverse was a no no, and all this happened when you crossed over from lower school to upper school, there was just something strange about the transition.
In P1 and P2 everything was okay, when you got to P3 boys started to look weird or something so we stopped talking to each other. Girls couldn't sit in boys chairs, a boy couldn't stand next to a girl or touch anything that belonged to a girl, if he did he would immediately go and wash his hands because they had apparently gotten contaminated in the process. Then when we got to around P6 third term, and P7, girls didn't think boys were from hell any more and the boys suddenly realized they had been missing out on something and so "cooperation" begun, that was the life.

I haven't told you about how organized the school was, every time the bell sounded for assembly children would run as fast as they could to the assembly ground to avoid being caught as late comers. We were addressed by the teacher on duty after which we would say the school prayer and match to our classes. We stood according to our classes, boys made one line and girls made one line, then when it was time to go, boys and girls would hold hands and head to their classes. Now in lower school this was very simple, you held hands until you got to the classroom door and sometimes the boy whose hand you held would walk with you to your desk.

Kitante Primary School Sports Field

In upper school there was total chaos when it came to holding hands, for the most part people tried all sorts of ways to avoid it; Hold hands until you pass the teacher and prefects then let go, pretend to hold hands, just make sure your skin doesn't exactly touch mine, you could do this all the way to class or drop it as soon as the coast was clear. The other options were to hold the little finger, that way the whole hand doesn't get contaminated, or better still get a small stick so both of you can hold either end of it.
Most of these scenarios occurred when the you didn't like the person whom you were paired up with and even if you did, you didn't want to risk being teased by your classmates for holding hands all the way, so even when you wanted to hold hands you had to pretend that you didn't.

That's about all the drama I can recall, on a more serious note I'll talk about the "class days". Every serious school sets apart days when parents can come to class and see how their children are performing and also get time to talk with the class teacher. This was a good day for some children and not so good for others, the reasons varied. The major one depending on your performance in class and your relationship with the teacher. Other kids were not too happy about the day because they thought their parents would embarrass them either by the way they dressed or the means of transport they used to come, but as you may guess these were issues that older children in upper school had to contend with.

One function that all children looked forward to was the end of year class party. People were moving on to the next class, there was going to be lots of biscuits, bread, cake and soda and that was the one day you could show all your friends your snazzy dresses.
My other brother was looking forward to his P6 end of year party, he had performed real well in class and he was feeling all grown up now, so he came up with a brilliant idea.

My dad had recently come back from one of his many travels and he had got himself some nice boots, so my brother figured they could talk man to man. One evening he approached my dad and asked if he could borrow his boots for the Christmas/end of year party ..." WHAT?!!!, You are not serious,... but you children! you must be joking, eh?! you must be really joking! ..." then he peered at him from over the rim of his reading glasses. I don't quite remember the rest of the conversation but I know my bro attended the party in his own shoes.

Hehehe, now I can actually tell Mich about the good ol days, and indeed they were priceless.