Church Pews

“When was the last time you went home?” Ms. Organ Stealer asked as we settled into the coaster seats.

I thought she would for sure go for the window seat, but to my surprise, stood aside to let me pass. I smiled at the question. I hadn’t thought of Jinja as home in a while. Every time I promised to text someone the moment I got home, I was thinking about Luzira, not Jinja. Not Bukaya, squared neatly away in Njeru. But she was right. Jinja was home.

“Not in a bit,” I said and then thought to myself, “I’m as much of a tourist as you are.”

She hadn’t done much traveling. Well neither had I but at least I could tell Yusuf Lule from Jinja Road. She had been as far as Mbale for a friend’s graduation so that was something even though she had spent most of the journey sleeping. What had spurred this weekend trip to Jinja? A question. “Where do you come from?”

Rather than tell her, I had decided to show her. I trusted that like its name, Jinja’s story was written in stone. Unchanging. I would be able to walk down the street I grew up on and show her Victoria Nile P/S where my Mum would drop me off every morning. Where I would later make some life-long friends and some passing acquaintances. Where I had had my first crush on Miriam Ssemakade. Where that first crush had been quickly extinguished by her indifference. Oh to be young.

I planned to walk her to where the best video store had stood on Main Street. Where my sisters and I weren’t fined for forgetting to rewind the video tapes because the proprietor was a friend to our mother. It was now replaced by an Indian supermarket. Not a supermarket selling indian things, but a supermarket run by Indians. All supermarkets in Jinja were probably run by Indians.

I wanted to show her Our Lady of Fatuma where we had prayed every Sunday. Almost every Sunday and hardly any Christmas because Christmas was when the rest of the world remembered to pray and the announcements were twice as long. She wouldn’t be able to listen to Fr. Picavet preach, he was long out of the game, but she could still sit in those same pews that I did as a child. We would think back on the things we prayed for then.

The sermon was about being moved to act and not letting things continue as they are simply because they have always been. I couldn’t help but think to myself, What an un-catholic thing! Like Jinja, Catholicism is deeply set in its ways. Unchanging. Or had been for the last 2000 years or so.

The priest drew from his visit to “Europe” where parishioners had fled the church because of the abuse scandals that had been awash in all the major media. I was pleasantly surprised that instead of sweeping the scandal under the rug, the priest had chosen to address it, head on. I was proud to turn to her and say, “This is where I come from.”

Being constant can be good, but we know the only thing that is constant is change. Let us all dare to unlearn those toxic traits that hold us back from being all we can ever be. We can only do that by submitting that maybe not everything we took to be gospel truth is that. Maybe not all things have to be set in stone.

 

 

 

 

 

Fix the damn switch!

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with the kitchen. I remember marveling at how easy those TV chefs made it look and tried replicating their recipes in my own kitchen with usually disastrous effects. Over the years, I picked up a recipe or two that I could muster without burning down the house. Meat and pasta mostly, but that was a source of pride for me. Lately though, my obsession (if we can call it that) with the kitchen took a different path from trying to emulate the 5 star recipes plastered all over the Food Channel to a more holistic perspective: Healthy eating.

2018 was the year I was made aware of my unhealthy feeding habits. Junk, junk and more junk. That coupled with a regimen of no exercise at all meant that I had added a few more inches to all the wrong places. Who knew more inches could be a bad thing? I tackled my problem from the exercise angle by opting to walk more and use bodas less. That and the home work outs allowed me to shed some of the fat. Hiking took care of the rest.

But, as all humans are wont to do, I fell back into my comfort zone. My excuses were that I had started a new job which meant a different route to work that I hadn’t yet scouted out blah blah blah. The inches weren’t buying my story and so true to their nature, they made their way back. I would also have eaten healthier if KFC didn’t have that Streetwise which they promised they could get to me in under 40 minutes.

My wake-up call came one morning when I tried to climb the 4 flights of stairs at the new workplace. I was short of breath by the time I got to my desk. That couldn’t be right. I used to climb 6 flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. Something needed to give. I had to break up with Streetwise. I had to give up the convenience of take out. I had to cook healthier meals for myself. I didn’t want to be that guy that needs to hold the sides of the taxi door to hoist himself in because he can’t handle his own weight.

The catch with cooking home meals is finding the time to do so. I’m at work during lunch which only leaves supper. My accomodador (thanks Paulo Coehlo) is that I haven’t got round to fixing the kitchen light switch that’s been broken for almost 3 years now. Once that’s fixed, it will be 5 star healthy home cooked meals to go around. I took a step back and looked at my situation as an “innocent bystander” I couldn’t help but wonder how many other people are dealing with a “light switch” situation in their lives? That certification that they swear if they had would guarantee them a promotion at work. If they saved enough, they’d be able to afford that car. If they told someone how they really felt, they could resolve a long running family feud.

Let 2019 be the year you fix the damn switch people.

What “light switch” situation are you dealing with right now? Let me know in the comments section.

Photo by Clever Sparkle on Unsplash

 

 

 

Off the Grid.

The older I get, the more I understand people that walk away from it all. Love, work, religion, all of it. They just wake up one morning and their tea doesn’t taste the same anymore. It hasn’t for a while yet they remember a time when they were passionate about that first cup of tea in the morning. That cup that meant they could persevere, at least till midday, have lunch, then count down the grinding hours till 5:00pm so they could rush out into the evening traffic and just sit in that taxi that isn’t going anywhere fast. Get home. Eat. Shower. Set their alarm for 6:00 am. Sleep. Repeat steps 1 through 5.

Except the tea company, in trying to keep up with the competition from all the new brands from Kenya, decided that they could still rope in a handsome profit without curing the leaves (or whatever process they use to give it that flavor). Our ardent tea drinker presumes the change in taste to be something much more. A message from the universe perhaps. Something epiphany-worthy and so decides that this life isn’t for them anymore. They pack a bag. Try to explain their decision to loved ones and friends, most of whom don’t get it. This is just a phase. It will pass. How can you be so irresponsible? Grow up Kenneth! (Kenneth sounds like an ardent tea drinker) They don’t bother to pen a resignation letter because their supervisor hadn’t even learned their name yet. Even after 2 years in the same role, she still called him Amos, a far cry from Kenneth.

So, with their bag in hand and the last of savings which don’t amount to much, they set off for a distant place where nobody knows them and they know nobody. Rid of social obligations, routine, deadlines. Free.

How did your tea taste this morning?

Writer’s Block.

It was a lot harder hearing your call this time. Hearing your voice. I think I was too distracted by the loneliness of this place. By the sheer desolation of it all. The dry sand and the cactus and and the unrelenting desert storms..Oh, there I go again.

But there is no drowning out your call. Not entirely anyway. A little bit always manages to seep through. That little bit is always enough to make me turn around and walk back. Enough to make me realise what was missing and at the same time, make me forget why I wandered in the first place.

I’m afraid it’s going to be a little harder this time. Getting back in your good graces, but like you always say, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. You say all I have to do is pick up my pen and the words will flow again. I wish I could tell you how much harder it is, but I’m all out of negativity. 

So I pick up my pen and will myself to write. 

Absolute or Not?

Freedom of expression.

That is the theme around which Ugandan bloggers are expected to tailor their seven day posts for the second quarter #UgBlogWeek. Pause. Am I the only one that sees the inherent irony in telling people what they should write about while maintaining the theme Freedom of Expression?

If yes, then by all means, pay me no attention. If however, like me you feel that this unforgivable irony tickles you in certain ways then perhaps spare a moment to answer me something. Is Freedom an absolute concept? Is it an all or nothing arrangement? You’re either free or you’re not. OR can it be relative? Can you be relatively free? As is the case with this theme business. You can write about anything you like BUT it must be centered around freedom of expression.

If you’re leaning towards the former, then I guess there is no freedom of expression because even the slightest infringement undoes that freedom. Picture that hideous sweater you once got for Christmas, one tug at that string standing out of place and the whole thing comes unraveled. To your delight I might add. Not so much when it comes to the freedom thing. To achieve this absolute freedom, would mean that every one’s opinion would matter, which if you’ve been on Twitter or any other social media platform for that matter, you’d agree isn’t necessarily a good thing.

On the other hand if freedom can be relative, then maybe that’s a more attainable goal. The problem then would be how much of it are we willing to compromise to let us enjoy whatever is left.

Yes. Age makes philosophers of us all.

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting On A Bus

Ever wondered why miracles aren’t as commonplace as they used to be in biblical times? Perhaps it’s because people began to take God and his miracles for granted. Why milk a cactus when you can just coax Aaron into striking a rock then lo and behold, a spring of clean water to quench the desert thirst. Nobody likes to be taken for granted. Perhaps in that regard, God is like us. Perhaps that is why he chose to withhold his miracles and now we are left with no choice but to see the ordinary as miraculous. Like the miracle of a bus being on time.

Time check 8:30pm

I make my way to the Modern Coast offices on Dewinton street. I’m exhausted after a harder Monday than most but I have to be there. See, she’s leaving for Kenya and I have to ask if she remembered to pack everything. If she has her ticket, enough clothes and whether my heart will fit in her carry on luggage. She insisted it would. Right next to her power bank and Tomy Takkies.

Ms. Organ Stealer approaches the front desk to confirm that the bus will be here and that it’s headed to Nairobi. The bus offices have a few scattered early travelers. It’s comforting to know we aren’t the only ones naive enough to expect things to be on time even in Africa. A head nod is all the confirmation she can muster out of the guy manning the ticket window.

“I miss you already,”

“It’s just four days. After which you’ll return a wiser and more rounded writer”

“I still miss you”

“I know. I miss you too”

It felt strange waiting for her to leave. So I preferred to think of it as waiting with her. I begun to wonder which would be the greater miracle: for the bus to be on time or for it not to show up at all so we could cut our losses and chuck it up to unaligned stars. Or fate. Or destiny. At which point we would head home and think of ways to combat the combination of the heat and mosquitoes.

Even then I knew which miracle would come to pass.

So I chose to be thankful for another miracle altogether. The one resting her considerably hard head on my shoulder. The one hungry enough to board a bus to another country to pursue something she was passionate about. The one that was capable of pushing me further than anyone ever had, to my limits and then pulling me right back. A miracle I wouldn’t take for granted.

9:15pm. The bus arrives 15 minutes late. We say our good byes because I won’t be let on the bus and steal a few kisses. After a brief security check that does little to allay fears, she gets on the bus. I watch from the outside as she finds her seat.

I walk away from the bus and head home to freedom and the now looming question of what to do with it.

Reciprocity

Reciprocity.

I think that’s all anyone ever genuinely hopes for when they take the leap of faith and let someone in; when they let someone see them at their most naked. Demons and all. A hope that someone will match whatever energy they put out there. Desire for desire. Longing for longing. Anger for anger. Fear for fear.

It’s more than just a hope. It’s a need. To know that you’re not in this alone. There’s a comfort in knowing that when the world won’t take any more of your madness, there will be someone to share the room with the padded walls with.

Reciprocity because emotions are currency and no one wants to feel like they are spending more than they are earning. Reciprocity because otherwise there’s no balance and where there’s no balance, it all falls down.

Reciprocity.

 

 

Bribe

I was offered a bribe last night.

I didn’t really know how I’d react if such a thing happened. In principal, you know what you will say and what your stand is on the matter. In practice however, it’s an entirely different thing. It was a really tempting offer, I must say. Even more so now that there’s a lot more month left at the end of my money. I thought of a million things I could do with the extra cash. I could finally go to Pineapple bay for that Kampala cocktail week signature event that all along seemed like an unreachable dream. All I had to do was make sure a few documents got to the right places.

 

Here’s the thing though: Even with the minimal 10% risk that this was a control measure to weed out any graft at my workplace, the wiring in my DNA just wouldn’t let me have a moment’s peace. I guess all those years of Catholic conditioning were finally good for something. I knew what lay ahead, sleepless nights punctuated with condescending looks from my conscience that has recently taken the shape of a chubby baby sipping porridge.  She’d from time to time put the cup away to make sure I felt the full force of her disapproval.

Maybe it wasn’t even that.

Maybe it was all those times that I applied for a BOU job and later heard stories of people paying millions of shillings just to be shortlisted. Maybe it was all the times I’ve read about GAVI funds or the dire state of our public hospitals. Maybe it was just the rebel in me and not wanting to conform to the norm that is the procurement process in my country. Maybe it was all the above.

So I turned down that bribe. Even when she so suggestively added that she’d be prepared to do whatever it took to have the business. Monetary or otherwise.

The sun came up today and will go down later, as it will continue to do in perpetuity and has done since the inception of time. Maybe my decision in that moment won’t count for squat in forging the future of my country. Or maybe, just maybe, it will.

 

 

 

 

 

Of Birthdays and Growing Old

I feel old in my soul.

Funny thing is, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. There was a time when celebrating a birthday meant two days of binge drinking and debauchery followed by memory loss of my actions for those two days. Actions that perhaps should have taken a hint and stayed in the recesses of my mind, never to rear their ugly head. Ever again.

Having done that excessively, to a point of almost losing my life in a car accident, I can say with certainty that I don’t miss it. I find, that with each passing year, my appreciation for the smaller finer things is growing. I’ve come to take delight in a simple voice note from a family member, those e-cards that mysteriously find their way into the junk folder and a monstrous(not everything has to be small)  slice of delectable chocolate cake.

Being an old soul isn’t bad at all. Finally I don’t need an excuse for not wanting to turn up to your bar opening. Conversations now take a form akin to this:

“Will you be coming to my event?”

“No”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to”

Sigh. Life is so much simpler now. There’s no complications when you have your steaming mug of Earl Grey to look forward to on a chilly Saturday morning. It also feels damn good being sober over the weekend.

If there ever was a point to this post, it’s this: don’t fight too hard to hold onto your youth, rather find a comfort in how much more wiser you get with everyday you are blessed to walk this earth.

Also, it’s not too late to send in your birthday presents 🙂