Spiritual Aura in the School of Life

 One blog post for 2025.

This year has been one of a kind, all years are, but 2025? Yo!!!!

Let’s skip to the good part.

I became aware of my spiritual aura—that presence that surrounds one as they walk through life. I noticed a pattern in the kind of people I attract and the way people respond to my presence.

This requires more intentionality.

Let’s see what happens in 2026.

 

Total Eclipse 2024

Total eclipse shot in Pennsylvania. Photo by Mary Ongwen

You guys, this eclipse thing exhausted my head.

It was in every second article on my news feed, my social media platforms, school…I couldn’t get away but I also couldn’t be bothered. 

Mr. O mentioned it twice, once like two months ago and then last week, just to make sure I’d cleared my schedule. 

I was like yeah, yeah! 

He read up on it, mapped out routes, and locations for the best view. I should have taken note. Dude patiently waits for people to come around.

When something is major, it’s major. 

After 23 years I should know he’s right—99.9% of the time. 

So I asked, what time we needed to start the journey, he said 6:30am 😳.

I mean I love nature and I’m usually up by 6:30am but for some reason when it’s outside my plans it’s as if eh?!

6:30am, I was up and ready. 

Snacks were packed—road trip-ready on Monday morning, can you handle?

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!!

A spin through Heathrow airport

You guys’, Heathrow airport is huge like this.

It is oba the size of Soroti city?

You haven’t been to Soroti city? What’s your excuse? I will wait.

If you have friends from Soroti and you’ve not visited their home…

You know where I’m going with that, in fact, let me go there. My absence shouldn’t be an excuse for you not to visit my home, to check on my people. In fact, you my Ugandan friend should make the trip to Serere - check on my zeyi’s give me updates.

Whoosh!!! I went deep there and no, I’m not joking.

Okay back to the size of Heathrow airport. The surface area is like a combination of Soroti flying school, Soroti airport, Soroti sports field, Soroti rock, Soroti Nurses’ quarters…you know?! As in if you clear everything; buildings, trees, petrol stations… then add Soroti market, yup! Large area like this.

Era at Heathrow airport, if your flight is at gate No. 62, get ready. You’ll take the elevator, get to the underground terminal, then you’ll take a train (okay it’s a cart but as if a train), you’ll take another elevator and then scan the boards for directions. If you are bad with math, I don’t know how to help you. Those days when you fumed at Mr. Kasisiri as he taught increasing and decreasing numbers and then grumbled how you didn’t see math’s relevance in your big life, well…the kuku comes home to roost.

There are several departure gate sections; - A, B, C, D – each a cluster of an even larger section of gates - you had better know your destination. If you are running late, may the powers be with you otherwise you may start humming “Oh I wish I had wings like an angel, like an angel that ever did fly.” Mr. Isabirye taught us this song in P4. “I would fly to the hands of my darling…” Yo, yo!! Didn’t the class experience bu little tornadoes that twirled around each desk?! Big words like “darling” were unmentionable. In fact, some pupils didn’t recover. 

Mr. Isabirye looked stunned, he wondered what the excitement was all about. Some sober students (usually the goody two shoes at the front) explained to him how “darling” was in the category of bad words. He was undeterred. He had to finish the song “for I’m tired of living alone.” Disorganization just. So, we learned the song but in place of darling we said “mm mm”.

But I’m still telling you about Heathrow.

I got intricately familiar with Heathrow airport one fine day on a layover to Glasgow. In the end I was done. Enough! Even me I said, this whole idea of seeking new experiences? Simanyi adventure, simanyi exploration…I don’t want. Just tell me the gate number well in advance nga I know where to go and sit. I will read a book, listen to music, watch family travel vibes, couple coordinates, lone travelers, people with infants ... byona. Just situate me in one place. But no, Heathrow airport would not have it.

First, one has to gulp down or pour away drinks in containers larger than the recommended size for carry-on luggage. Era for those of you who carry Uganda Wa, oba Scotch, oba Johnnie Walker - those ones - in your hand luggage just know it’s going in the bin oba you’ll stand there and set your throat on fire. Mpozi nga you have the mini bottles - there you’re sawa. Place contents in see-through zip lock bag (kaveera) nga the machine scans and everybody knows that this one is not a teetotaler.

Empathy guys, it’s all empathy, you know I don’t drink this stuff. But yeah, the liquids have to go at the security check point before you enter the terminals - that’s if you have a connecting flight.

The waiting area is like a sophisticated market; screens, escalators, duty free shops, coffee shops, restaurants, mini bars… every possible bright electronic color screams - see me. But that’s not the worst of it. Travelers pack like sardines in the foyer - at least ko sardines are stationary - travelers are wiggly, they pace, they are pensive, others are strewn in chairs like exhausted marathoners. Meanwhile Maaso ku lutimbe as they wait for their gate numbers to flash on one of the digital screens suspended in the air.

                                              

I think some humans go through the airport with the sole or soul purpose of finding their people. It’s in the eyes. Guys be looking around like, “Are you the one?”, “Maybe?”, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”. I learned not to make eye contact. Don’t idly look around. The questions change to “Yes?”, “I mean, you know?”, “Why not?”, “Let’s talk about this”.

At this point, I lengthen the handle of my carryon case and roll to another location. 😂😂😂😂

Back to gate numbers. This is where my problems begun. I was accustomed to having all details on my boarding pass: Flight Number, airline, time of departure, gate number - awo I knew the plan. Mama! My flight through Heathrow airport? Perhaps doing things cheap-cheap was half the problem, nanti they say you get what you pay for but yo! One never knows the gate until like an hour before boarding time. Then there’s a mad dash - like a real rat race - era just watch the movie Rat Race to familiarize yourself with the concept. People trip, jog, knock others as they attempt to get to their gate on time.

What is this game Heathrow airport, really? Making grown humans run around like…

This is how things unraveled. My first flight was delayed, as a result I missed my connection – domino effect. The smart and delightful British airways staff rescheduled my booking but, you guessed it - no gate number. So, I was hovering, not sure whether I should stay nearby or go to the middle just to have a vantage point - nanti maalo. Era maalo may be my undoing in this life. 🤦🏾‍♀️

Let’s first have a moment of silence right there.

Then I over relaxed – nanti 4 hours - lost in thought and fascinated by technology. I didn’t get to the gate in time. I huffed, panicked paka my heart was like oba I just come out and beat double-double on the outside. Eh! It was too loud.

I explained to the flight attendant on ground. “I’m going to… the gate number… I missed the connection.” The lady listened, nodded her head like yeah, what’s new?

                                                      

I was placed on another flight, given a new boarding pass and yeah! Life continued. I calmed down but I also gave myself a pep talk - that kind of stress is unnecessary. What was I going to do? Did life stop? Free stress just to move from one place to another. Ah! Airports.

That’s how I toured Heathrow airport looking for my gate; up the escalator, down the escalator, through the terminal, onto the train, out of the train, up another escalator. Nkugambye!!

Naye on my return I real confirmed Heathrow airport is about as large as my beloved Soroti city. This time I got the gate right - I can also be a ninja please 😎. But there was a twist. Where usually, you show your boarding pass and get ushered onto the plane, this time we went through the doors and were told we’d get onto buses waiting on the ground. The bus would drive us to the plane. I was like sawa, just a quick ride to the plane.

Gundi, we went, as if on the main road (but this was on airport grounds), through more terminals, round a bend and another - like we’d gone into a new district. I was like ka le we are being driven to America. You may say, but Mary how? Nange simanyi. I was not the only one thinking things.

The young lady at the front of the bus turned to her neighbor and asked in an East European accent: We are taking a flight to Baltimore, right?

Her neighbor nodded and smiled.

I laughed.

I had company. Ka le Heathrow!

Anyways we weaved around several stationary British Airways planes. Each time we thought we’d found our plane the bus driver drove on. We gave up and just waited for him to stop. Then it was off the bus on to the plane. Naye Heathrow!

Just to say I hahad.

New experiences can be fun but also unnerving when things are out of your control, in unfamiliar territory. It builds faith and trust muscles. But as you can see my Ugandan village genes are still strong.

The ultimate expression of trust is boarding the plane, storing away your hand luggage, buckling your seatbelt and believing that this monstrous machine is going to somehow balance in the air, and you will land in the city of your destination.

The irony of it all.

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”