Chapter 16

It's good to try something different.
That, for some might mean tasting frogs, bungee jumping, going skiing - well, you fill in the gap.

I'm going to try my hand at writing a best-seller, no? okey a seller?!- something. Hoping that you will not delete my blog after this.

It was a drab, wintry night in mid december,
the air outside was choked with snow flakes and gusty winds.
She clasped her hands and prayed as she looked out the car window -
"Lord, Is there any chance of a miracle? a different report?
You know I don't want this - No Lord, please - I'm weary".

Her heart skipped a beat, jolted out of a prayerful mode by the sensation of the little life moving and kicking in her womb.
She caressed her belly, "hush my little one, don't kick mummy too hard" - even though she relished being awakened to the wonder in her womb - the movements made her wince.
She recalled carrying her first child and the thrill that pattering gave.
Why was it so excruciating this time? could the baby sense her strife? was her body escalating the intensity of the problem at hand? or was her little one engrossed a blissful dance, oblivious of events in the world beyond the womb?

As the car pulled up the hospital drive way her heart sank, she could almost feel it making it's way down, passed her lungs, round her intestines, headed straight to the bottom of her belly.
"Lord, is this it?"
There was no answer.

She slowly, carefully, wrapped her scarf around her neck - with a distant look in her eyes, zipped up her jacket and opened the door. With one hand firmly griping the support handle and one below her belly, she placed one foot out of the car, then grimacingly inched forward. It seemed with every passing moment, her stomach got heavier.
Her husband brought the wheel chair close enough so she could sit.
As she raised out of the car their eyes met.
He looked sad - it was a painful night.

She recalled the night, three days before, when she had rushed to hospital; the vacant look in the doctor's eyes as she told her they couldn't save her baby.
How she shook like a leaf, certain that she was losing her mind.
The doctor said she was in labour at only 21 weeks - her cervix was dilating, the situation irreversable.
She recalled, lying on the hospital bed that night, tears streaming down her cheeks, wondering how this happened.
She shut her eyes tight, wishing she could vanish.

In this new country without a friend or a relative to hold her hand.

Her best friend and partner was at home with their son because these people didn't believe in house help, how was a woman expected to work, cook, clean and be wife and mother all at the same time. It was because of this new culture that her husband couldn't be there to hold her when she needed him most.
"Lord, why?
Her heart was pounded intensly, she could barely think.

Looking out her hospital room window, the world was bustling with life - Christmas lights on every street corner, cars whizzing passed in all directions. The merriment of the season was passing her by.
Nobody cared for her misfortune, she didn't exist.

In that room, surrounded by four white walls, she faced death.


Her family was miles away; across the ocean, in another time zone, another place.
She cried out to the Lord again and in the chaos of a wondering mind, a strained heart, a body out of control - she heard a voice saying "FEAR NOT MY CHILD, I'M WITH YOU"
The undeniable voice of her heavenly father.

I love spring

                                                        

Get up, my dear friend, fair and beautiful lover—come to me!

Look around you: Winter is over; the winter rains are over, gone!

Spring flowers are in blossom all over.

The whole world's a choir—and singing!

Spring warblers are filling the forest with sweet arpeggios.

Lilacs are exuberantly purple and perfumed, and cherry trees fragrant with blossoms.

Song of Solomon 2:10 - 14 (The Message)

A visit to Kasubi tombs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

That was the end.

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

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

Happenstances

Today, I'm thinking.
Thinking back to random happenstances that made my heart swell.
Chance meetings with teachers from my past.

My P.1 English teacher - Miss. Kabajasi
She always had a smile, her face lit up every time we met.
In P.2, I missed her, she wasn't my teacher any more.
Each time we met on the school campus, she was curious to know how I was doing.
That's how we begun playing tip/tag.
If we met and her fingers where not crossed I gave her the "tip" or she me.
Almost 25 years later, while walking on the streets of Kampala, some one hoots at me and stops.
I walked over, uncertain of who was inside.
There - Miss Kabajasi, looking pretty much the same and I, 25 years older. She called me by name, that - priceless.

My primary school headmaster - Mr. A.D.Ssozi
In a mass of over 1000 kids, he remembered little me.
He'd wave as he rode passed on his motor cycle.
15 years later, looking a lot older, still smoking his pipe, going off to play tennis at Kampala Club; he recognised me called me by name and asked about my parents and siblings - that, priceless too.

My p6 class teacher -Mr. Senabulya
One of the neatest teachers in the school. On occasion he would request me to fetch his lunch from the kitchen. I hurried along, glad to help.
15 or so years later I walked into the same school.
He, now the headmaster, smiled and called me by name. I sat down and we had a chat like two grown adults - priceless.

My high school history teacher - Mr. Tanga
Short guy, very energetic, walked with his hands bowed at his sides like he was beginning to swell,"throwing around his weight" like he used to say.
He was a very creative teacher, made us laugh and love history.
Most everyone wanted to pick his mind;- he'd written a book, lectured at Makerere University and taught in my high school.
Imagine my exhilaration when about 10 years later, he hoots from his SUV and flashes the biggest smile ever in my direction. I was so happy to see him, I nearly waved with both hands, sigh - that is priceless.

This is a special one.
My Literature teacher - Miss. Mubiru
Sweet little lady, always working to see her class excel. She fell sick at some point and we didn't see her again.
Years later, while at a choir recital at Namirembe Cathedral, I spotted her in the crowd. She was obviously happy to see me, but I couldn't understand a word coming out of her mouth.
She was mumbling.
She pulled out a pen and paper and wrote; she was happy to see me.
She lost her speech and hearing when she fell sick of cerebral malaria.
Because of her son's love for music she brought him to listen to the choir.
Her little boy was on the front row.
I stood there, speechless, close to tears.
She said she was taking speech classes, hopeful that it would all come back to her.

Precious!

That's all she wrote folks.

Dog love

Americans never cease to amaze.

So the other day Oprah proudly announced she'd got a new baby.
I thought that's cool, she is adopting a child?!

"She's a beautiful little girl", I'm thinking okay, nice.
Then out comes a blond cocker spaniel (that's a type of dog - for those of you).
At this point the viewers are "ooh-ing" and "aah-ing".

Once we met a guy in Lancaster, real sad and miserable, when we got talking, his dog was under going eye surgery.
On another occasion, while taking a walk in Philly, I took this picture.

The dog was set in the drivers sit, alone, like the next minute it would flip out the keys and get cruising.

I like dogs, they are wonderful, loyal creatures.
In fact during my childhood my dad had 9 dogs, we played with them, taught them tricks, washed them- the works.

They stayed in their kennels and we stayed in the house.
When it was time to play we all went outside, no sitting room, dinning, kitchen, anywhere in the house sort of thing.
They ate left overs, and no, we didn't bottle fed them.

Even though they were nice and tame, they helped to keep unwanted visitors at bay.

Now, for some Ugandans it takes just seeing a dog to get them weak in their knees, then they are crying for their "mamas".

Remember houses in Nakasero and Kololo that had signs reading "Umbwa kali" meaning "fierce dogs" or something like that?.

When Oprah mentioned dog diapers and all, I nearly got Ma to the damn D E A kind of mad. The "whatchu talkin about?" bewilderment.
This money could really go to a good cause some where in Africa.
Ati dog diapers!

I know this might offend dog lovers but really, lets keep things in perspective - we are human and they are animals, we can't be on the same level.

Those diapers, diets, shampoos, e.t.c could fetch a little starving child a warm meal.

You will say in American style "we've got our rights", "I'll do what I want with what I have", true.
I just figured I might be fighting a losing battle here.