Chasing Your Dreams Part I

This piece first published on Facebook  on Thursday, 29 July 2010 at 15:2 
I Hope to continue this walk from here.

Sweeping my sitting room floor this evening, or is it night; it was 11:45 pm, I mused at how much pleasure that single act brought me. In fact I had paused a series I was watching because I was overcome with the urge, so to speak, to clean my house and test my new broom.

I just love the way it sweeps and I love the way simple things now bring me joy. No longer do I have to pray for the joy of the Lord but now I take joy in the Lord and the things that He has made. Joy is no longer something that I have to search for in fact I find it in the most unusual places these days and mostly in the everyday things of life.
It’s funny how the little things bring out the best in you and you know what it’s also a good thing because these little things are all around me so I don’t have to search far for a smile.

I rewind back to the days when I seemingly had it all, a good job, a good pay chaque and with this a new freedom that even my lack of curfew could not bring. Man, I was “in things” but I was out of touch.

I hated my job, not because it was a bad job, heck I spent three years and nine month and an extra retake semester preparing for this. I chose journalism. I was made for this. I had all that people said it took, confidence, an eye for detail read critical thinking, I was good and English, literature, I was an avid reader and I was average with people. But for some reason Mondays seemed like another tool the devil was using to torture.

I was groggy right out of the stock and I knew it. Something just did not feel right, at least not the way I had expected and I did the obvious Christian thing, I prayed about it and put my back into it. But like a bad stain, the more I rubbed the worse it got and soon my work begun to reflect the death that I was feeling on the inside. 
I felt like every day I spent chasing the news I was losing billions of brain cells every day. Million, trillion little creative cells seemed to fall off like dandruff. I felt like I was doomed, sentence to a life of routine and…well whatever it was that I was living at that time.

I could not find solace in my secular friends the just said I was lazy and to an extent they were right. To my Christian friends, well to them it was all about attitude and praying or speaking positive things in my day. The only positive thing to the day was the fact that it would end I could go home and spent another restless night waiting for the next day.

But my life was not all drudgery and pain, in fact there were some pretty colorful things about them but sadly they had little to do with my life as a journalist or even getting stories into the paper. I enjoyed the times I finished a story and could go and hang in church for a few minutes. I enjoyed the books I bought with the money I earned and the ideas that swam around me head when my boss was not breathing down my neck. My job gave me the money but robbed me of the time.

It was then that a crazy notion hoped and skipped its way into my heart, why not quit it all and just do something you love? Why not just shout “screw you world” and run out and follow your dreams. But reason stepped right between me and this thought and said, 

“ What? Are you crazy? Do you know that this job pays the rent and buys you cloths and food and all this other stuff? It asked
“Heck it even allows you to do some ministry on the side” it’s said rolling its eyes and stood back with its hands on its hips.

Leaning forward and pointing a finger into my face, it lowered its voice and said, “ Do you know that that would mean you going back to your father’s house?
We all shivered at that thought.
Poking its head through the window, the journalism Angevil, that yellow eyed, red faced, off white cross between an angel and devil chipped in. 

“Do you know how many lives you could change? Think of it, we are the ones who keep everyone honest and bring all that filth into the light? Man we are engaged in a national duty. You don’t have to be in church to change lives? Boy gets back in here!” he motioned with his pen spiked fork.

Taking all this in, I thought for a moment. All that was said was true and made good sense. The idea of going back to live under my father roof terrified me. Id sooner lived under a bridge than done that. Journalism did do some good but what evil I had to be put through to do it, I was not willing to pay. 

What about the Christian folk and all their peer pressure? What would they say? What about my reputation for laziness and failure? Wouldn’t this just prove them right? But if I leave what shall I do, God whom shall I say sent me? These and thousand other questions filled my mind, they were so many I took me 2 months to tender my resignation and another month to serve out my notice period.

But there I was, free and a bird and as clueless as a deer caught in headlights. What was my next move and where would I go? I went where every sensible Christian would go, I went home, to my Father’s house.

When death Visits...

I am mindlessly clicking through random websites trying to drown out my thoughts as they linger around death and tragedy.

Another person was killed on the Kisaasi-Bukoto road. That makes the Third accident and second death in as many months. The most recent was a white lady and her bajaj guy who was hit as the joined the road at a T junction.

Strangely enough I have arrived on the scene moments after these three different accidents happened. I was furious. I was sad. I was tired and sometimes waved it away with the traditional luganda phrase. “Kitalo”

The very first accident was a cyclist. He lay still and unconscious on the side of the road. His bicycle squashed that both tires not touched lay a few feet away. Around his were a few people who wanted to help but could not. Makes you wonder why first aid is not compulsory all the way to university.

The dimly lit taxi cabin illuminated the expressions of its occupants. I wonder how many of thought to do something. This was the day where I was tired. I waived it off. Our taxi lurched forward propelling my homeward but my heart was unsettled. This new beautiful road was just another death trap waiting to happen. When I finally got to my stage, I opted to skip my boda ride and walk that last few meters. This had been a terrible punctuation to what has been a long day.

I reported the incident to police and sat there listening as he tried to cut through all the chatter on his radio and get the right authorities. Funny how the roads are totally a different jurisdiction and he had to call a highway patrol man from God knows how far. After a few moments of chatter back and forth, I heard the confirmation that a car had been dispatched. I hoped it would reach in time. I trudged home, I felt a little better.

Today’s accident is still fresh in my mind. I wonder if it’s because there was a foreigner involved. You see one of my fears was dying with no one knowing what had happened. In this our pearl I am sure you know how that is possible. Here he or she was, far from home, pursuing God knows what and boom out of nowhere a speeding motorist ends that journey. She was So far from home. I guess death needs no visas.

The second of these events was a collision between a boda and a van. That impact was horrific because the damage done to the van looked like it had been clipped by a truck. Irony was that a friend and I were heading home on the latter’s motorbike. Coming upon this scene makes you think on how getting home alive is a blessing.

Thankfully my friend was a medic and he gathered a few people and they lifted the injured into the van and rushed them to hospital. His prognosis was that one seemed to have suffered and fractured hip and the rider, who took the brunt of the impact, would not make it.

We rode in silence for a while.

There is a bad taste in my mouth now. Death visited my neighbourhood this afternoon.

The Flags of our fathers: An introduction.

The flags or our fathers are a tedious thing. A great burden we have to carry. A heritage and an inheritance we never ask for but must bear most of the days of our lives.

I have always wanted to write these pieces, actually make it a series of pieces, talking about what our fathers here in Uganda have left us and how many of us are forced to contend with these long after we have left our parents’ home and grown into young men and women.

I wanted to write but I did not want to sound like a defeated youth blaming the acts of yesteryear for their misfortune especially in an atmosphere that seems to whisper, “if you have failed it is your fault.”

I did not want to cuddle up to the other masses of on line attention seekers who illicit sympathy and readership because of their dark brooding lives and tales of woe and misfortune…I did not want to be a cynic either regaling you with how the world is quirky and sort of does not work by poking fun at other, myself or you the reader.

I want this to be one man’s honest journey into his past and his present, investigating the things that make him who he is and how they shape his future.

It will be a tale of some joys but mostly sadness for I cannot write about the laughter I did not have or the smiles I could give but the tears cried and uncried that defined many aspects of my life.

I want it to be a roadmap for my future. A statement that from henceforth I shall not be the man that my father was but I shall surpass him or I shall die trying. I shall carry my name proudly but I shall not carry the shame or the heritage.

This is a chance for me to lie on the couch and let loose into the cosmos the burden of my heart and hurt and let the flags of my father unfurl in the breeze allowing a chance for new life and new hope, that this symbols that has been such a burden shall start to breath a new an air fresher than that of the savannah after a heavy African rain. That the wind shall carry away with it my fears and hurts and pains, but like the moisture heavy ocean winds bring with it a torrent of newness and life.

The flags of our fathers

Are a burdensome thing

For our desperate hope and

Identity to it we must cling

Dearly like the fragile sapling

borne to the crevice whilst

just a seed , it’s the sum of our

Of our existence.

And now into the fray: Religious Freedoms?

(this is a loooong one)

I have finished reading an article online in which a University Professor asked his students to “stomp on Jesus” or more accurately write the name Jesus on a piece of paper and place it on the floor and then stomp on it as part of a lesson on intercultural Communications. This particular exercise was from a teachers handbook that accompanied the text book “ Inter-cultural Communications: A Contextual Approach, 5^th edition”

Even as i read this i am reminded of the uproar that surrounded particular incidences where the Prophet Muhammad was made fun of either in speech or at that time caricature. At that time i really thought that perhaps Muslims needed to loosen up and not be too uptight. In fact i was really annoyed that people seemed to walk on eggshells when it came to Islamic issues. I was like, “ how come Christianity or other faiths don’t inspire such uproar from their follower” and i also wondered as to why, when it did, most people just brushed off the other faiths with the response, “get with the programme” and many times these other faiths were beaten into submission with big words like bigoted, narrow-minded, backward etc. etc. Basically they were about as in touch with modern society as dinosaurs and so had no right to speak or at least that is what it seemed.

I came to the conclusion that such “respect” from the secular world depended on how you used machetes in relation to human heads and your prowess with stones and said human heads. I further hypothesised that perhaps it was high time Christian demanded respect for their Faith minus the ‘pangas’ and the like.

But Muslims have been over taken as the number one indignant lyrical waxing inducing topic by homosexuality. I bet the best situation for anyone seeking asylum in a “western” forward looking society would be for one to not only me homosexual, but also Muslim, persecuted by Bible waving Christians and Governments in the a certain third world country. But this is just a stereo type. Oh and i digress.

So reading the above mentioned article plus the many debates i have followed on Facebook between apologist of Christian faith and apologists of the atheist “faith” i have noticed that perhaps the “open minded” people are not as open minded as they claim to be.

The article clearly states how being “different” from the main stream, in this case Christianity vs. liberal whateverism (i term coined to represent the apparent lack of any sort of belief system among today’s youth), means you get to be “mistreated” legally. Some of the words used by “secularists” vs. “faithists” really leave me dismayed and i wonder if they actually are as liberal or open minded as they claim. Words like bigoted, ignorant, small minded or narrow minded are bandied around freely. Sometimes threads descend into needless provocation and veiled insult. Mark you, both sides are not innocent, but perhaps more is expected of the liberal forward looking open minded folk than sheer gutter talk and underhandedness.

Why did this professor have to pick on Jesus of all religious figures? According to a friend who i once asked a similar question, it’s because Christians are the ones who proselytize the most.

I was confused because i thought their aversion was to all faiths that rejected the forward march of science and the crystalline “truths” it embodied. It seems there is some bias coming from both sides of the isle…oops sorry...road.

I am a Christian and my faith informs a lot of the decisions i make and it’s from that stand point i write this article. I may not know all there is to know and i don’t claim to do so. Something don’t make sense still others make total sense but i also know that salvation is both and event and a journey and to borrow the word s of Paul the apostle, we know in part but then we shall know in full.

And this is my take on some of the controversy:

I believe that Atheist need to show some respect even for those things that they do not agree with. There is no difference between what you do and what the roman church did back then. You both operate from a pedestal of superiority, one stemming from the fact that they felt they were called of God and another from their intellectualism.

Both of you have persecuted in one way or another those that do not see as you see. The church did it with inquisition and burning but the scathing attacks launched from blogs, post, comments and dialogues is just the same but without the physical flames.

Perhaps it would be prudent for the secularists to realise all that they do is simply because they hold the popular opinion just as most of the people then were behind the church’s actions.

Of course secularism claims to be more educated and enlightened and progressive now but don’t forget the same could be said of the church at that time. Who knows, should this world tarry for some more trillion years, our knowledge would look just as archaic to people in the future as stone tools seem to us today.

Isn’t the amount of abuse heaped on those that have tradition Christian views towards certain subjects not be compared to the abuse that those with alternative lifestyles have suffered? Granted fewer traditional Christians are beaten or maimed or killed by radical secularist however the ostracism they face is probably as damaging.

If you are truly open minded and liberal dear secularist, perhaps the old adage would work perfectly, live and let live.

A word to the Christian

Much of what i have said above applies even to us.

Treat all divergent views with respect and learn that you can disagree without being at war. Do not resort to abuse or maligning of any sort in the name of defending the faith. Remember, the faith we now practice has been here for year and has faced even greater more focused opposition. God is capable of defending himself. That’s why we believe he is supreme.

I sharing your faith, remember that God did not ask you to seek converts but to speak Truth. Stand for it whenever possible and speak up when needed. Do not argue, or use fear tactics or such other tools of “public speaking” Instead share, simply what you know, what you believe and why.

Our avenue is love, first for one another then for the non-believer. The book of acts, so aptly named, demonstrated the faith and love the believers showed for each other and it testifies that this is what drew the people of that time. I think it’s a method we could try.

Know that God has not forbid you from questioning him both about what you understand and don’t understand. Questions do not scare God. However you cannot fling away the scriptures based on what someone said or what you read or heard because the answers you seek are in the word. You cannot find the truth about Christianity apart from Christianity. I Hope that made sense. You cannot ask a baker the secrets of plumbing.

Perhaps also it would be a good thing for you to read intensively and extensively and prayerfully ponder these things through the word of God. I shall illustrate.

Seven days is how much time scripture says God took to create the world. I believe our idea or concept of time may differ from God. So perhaps, evolution or aspects of it are also Gods method. It would also be good to note that while we may have evolved from monkeys, we don’t seem to be evolving into anything else.  That may not be the best example but i hope you get the gist of what i mean.

There are those among us who lean towards more liberal inclinations. I have seen many use their status updates to belittle and poke fun at their own faith for various reason. I think that this is bad form indeed. To those i say, be careful because you associations may be mistaken as your endorsements and while you are passionate about ridding the faith of “ignorant radicals” you still have a responsibility to speak and stand for the truth. Besides, you are also held to the same level of scrutiny as the other xtians are, so if in your crusade for reform you do something the faith considers wrong, you will be held accountable for it.

50 Shades of Grey.

For those of you who may not be in the know that is the title of a very popular novel that no self-respecting trend follower cannot be seen totting around or at least say they have read it. Normally such people will then delve into how the book speaks to something more and will try to explain some existential mental orgasm the experienced at the hands of the masterpiece.

I have not read this book. I doubt I shall read it. In case you are like me u suggest reading the wiki-pedia page on this book and you shall quickly realise, unless of course approval by these yuppies is what you crave, that you should spend your time on more worthwhile things like reading an African classic or picking your nose.

For me the book is just another example of how women’s lib really has to work more and a dive into one man’s sadomasochistic fantasies. But hey that’s just my opinion. But seriously reading a book on migration in Uganda would leave you better educated unless of course you are into Sado-masochism of which then this book is just what you need.

That said this post is way too late. It was meant to be a piece on 50 things I love about my country and a dedication to my mother nation on its 50^th celebration of Independence from British Colonial rule but I just never found the time and as such, this is late. But no matter, i shall plod on.

Furthermore I doubt I shall be listing 50 things on spot either so feel free to comment and suggest some of the things you like about your country. Please avoid the bizarre, inane, asinine and lewd.

Solidarity: I was once on this bus coming into town and as i got of some other lady darted outside and immediately started throwing up. From what i gathered she had been unwell and the passengers harped upon the bus driver till he stopped and let her out. But that was not the amazing thing; they made the bus driver wait for the lady until she had finished with some even offering to pay for the delay if the impatient driver could not show some humanity. They all threatened to get off the bus and not pay if he dared leave her behind. Needless to say he waited; the lady finished retching and got back into the bus. I on the other hand was left with a warm feeling in my pumper.

I love Ugandan(s) party mind-set. While i may not condone excessive partying, i condone even less people who take life too seriously. While we may not hold a candle other festivals around the globe I can tell you, you have not partied until you have shaken it to the rhythm of the pearl. 'Nuff' said.

Boda-boda:  No one word can describe these chaps. From what I have heard the term originated about the border areas of the nation where bicycles where used to ferry people across the border to locations from which they could then hop a ride into whichever town they fancied. They were not legal in the strictest terms but were “normal” and where popularly referred to border to border hence the basterdised term 'Boda-boda'.

There are several reasons i love these little two wheeled demon driven machines. Ok yes most 'boda-boda' riders seem to have their brains at the base of their skull and yes they do get into nasty scrapes on the road and yes they have now forced the National Referral Hospital to create one whole ward for 'boda' related accidents but boy do they come in handy. They are the closest thing to an adrenaline rush that does not involve jumping of or over something or going down rapids meant to kill crocodiles and it is way cheaper too.

However that is secondary to the stories that they tell. Boy do they live interesting lives. If you have taken one of these rides especially late at night you will be amazed. Just know they are so good they convince me to use my atrocious Luganda skills just so I can follow the story.

We may not like them very much but we cannot live without them and they may be one of the closest things we have to a modern national symbol, crested crane notwithstanding.

To be continued (maybe)

If Super Man Could Cry.

According to the internet, the only place where I can take personality tests for free, I am a choleric sanguine. This sunny side up personality has a lot of good points and several equally outstanding bad one. One of these is that I don’t cry that easy.

I thought this was all humbug but, sigh, sadly it’s true. Crying is not my strong suit and crying really unnerves me. I also have the fortune of being a man so crying unnerves me twice as much.

But this does not mean I do not feel deeply. Actually I don’t think any other temperament other than melancholic feel as deeply and passionate as we do. It may not express itself in the mushy way that Mels do but it’s there, a slow bubbling volcano of emotion waiting to burst forth.

What makes me cry? Well I don’t know how to describe it but this video will give you an idea.

If superman cried the world would panic and so superman does not cry. Not because he does not feel pain but simply because he cannot allow himself to. Superman does not cry before the people even if he is moved to because in times of trial and turmoil someone needs to keep their heads about the. And so superman cannot cry.

But when superman does cry, the world trembles and shakes, heaving under the burden and weight of his grief.

When superman cries, vengeance resolute is the result. Strength unimaginable comes forth.

When superman cries, promises are made, loyalty paid back.

When superman cries, each tear a molten drop of emotions singes the ground forever recording the plight that brought it forth.

When superman cries the world remember.

When superman cries, sadly the world rarely finds out, because the world needs a strong man to look to, so superman rarely cries…except in the confines of his heart and castle.

Before his God he weeps, on his bed he moans and groans, under the weight of his grief he sobs and the halls echo with his voice. When superman cries, he weeps and the world stands silent.

When superman cries he weeps.

But superman does not the luxury of grief for superman is after all Supermen and the world needs him. So he dons his cape, bottles up his tiers and rises forth to meet the new days yellow sun, drawing strength to be strong for those for whom he first became Superman.

Family Portraits: Broken home. Broken lives. Broken kids.

I turn a juicy 30 in a year or so. Not quite the dried out wrinkled raisin but I have enough life under my belt to make some fairly accurate Observations.

Broken homes.

The generation of our fathers were the last of an old stock. In Uganda, they probably are the last to have seen three presidents and lived through Amin’s reign of terror. They are the last of the baby boomers. They still hang on to traditions like going to the village, the opinions of the public still determine how and why they do things.

The mothers of this generation are enduring symbols of strength. Most of them have endured the hardship of raising children in an uncertain times and making due with the little that the ripped economy could offer. They were your everyday run of the mill MacGyver’s. They were cooks able to scrounge up a feast with a tomato, half an onion and some dried out greens. They were doctors and nurses who only rushed to the hospital when all home remedies, both theirs and the supermoms in the neighbourhoods had failed or when sickness and injury dropped on their loved ones like a ten tonne bomb.

They stood tall, like the ageless rocks, filled with so much wisdom, and love but like the other side of the coin they struck terror into our childish hearts when we crossed the line. My mom’s favourite weapon was her hard rubber Bata sandal. Many a Ugandan bottom turned blacker after a few good whacks and when all tears were dried, her voice and hands soothed the skin she had bruised. Moms were everything.

Like the rocks the endured another silent torture, one that only they and their kind could endure. They tolerated marriages that died a long time ago to raise their children and provide a stable environment for their precious buds, the seeds of their labour to grow and blossom, nursing hopes, in their heart that they would not have to go through what their mothers had. They took the tongue lashing and the tongue wagging, braced only by the hope that tomorrow would be a better day…not for them, but for their children.

Fathers of this generation were the last of a patriarchal breed. They were never wrong, they were not to be trifled with and they were as stoic and unmoving as a tick on a buffalo’s rump. They were the lions and the jewels. The roamed the grasslands with no equal. They had those silly rituals they insisted on that showed that they were THE MAN of the house. When they got back, tea was served of course after the dotting young sons had taken off their shoes and brought their slipper.

The slumped in a chair, slurped their tea as they perused the newspaper. They then lumbered to the bathroom where hot water, cooled to just the right temperature was waiting and after they had washed away the grime and tension of a hard day, lumbered back to the sitting room and plumped back into the chair, turned on the TV to watch the news and have their supper. This was their routine.

Most of us remember the whole concept of dads chair, dad’s cup and plate etc. if you do not; well you are blessed and should think on your good fortune.

They had one thing in common, there were never really there and when we grew up we were informed that we were not alone for our fathers had scattered their seeds far and wide. For some this realisation was at their father’s funeral, when the many children and wives gathered all vying for a share of his spoils. For others this realisation was much sooner but none the less abrupt. A stranger invited into the home and you informed that you were going to share your room with a new brother almost your age or older.

For me this came when we shifted and my mom did not join us. My new mother was already ensconced in the new residence and my brothers and sisters from another mother waited me. The rest is history.

Broken Lives.

Could they do things any different? After all their fathers were just like that. They sprouted from the earth of polygamy and conquest. They knew no other. Their mothers were powerless, mere property; they could not alter the course of this tide. Into the mouths of their babes they squeezed their life blood in the hope that their desire would be heard by the ear a child has for his mother. But alas this was not to be...

And so they put together new families like ill cut jigsaw puzzles.   Of course there was to be no discussion. His word was law. This chapter is too long to write but just know when we watched fairy tales we understood because we too had our evil step mothers. Some were mistreated while some were just ignored, left to the hands of neglect.

That is that rock onto which the China Cups that were our little vulnerable lives were dashed never to be gathered again. Our Humpty Dumpty experience was begun. The king’s horses or the king’s men could not put us back together again.

Words I have, but alas patience and time I do not. I could fill a book with the injustices perceived and real I suffered. The physical stuff is easy to get over, humans are made to survive those, but the emotional stuff was just too much.

It is at this point that the heroes our fathers were pulled to the ground. His castle, nothing but a man child apparition, sand washed away by the rising tide of his children’s hurt, hate and resentment.

We soldier on for what can children do? We transformed ourselves into child soldiers, true infantry, for the battle that was our home. Through this we had to live through the chaos and confusion that was puberty, another one of life curve balls.

We soldier on and somehow we make it. We travel forward through time doing school and finally university and then our first job. I cannot even begin to unravel the dilemmas we face on the way as the past; the reality of my parents is washed away by new norms and cultures.

I cannot even begin to explain the back breaking nerve racking balancing act to please our parents and fulfil their age old ways and follow the trends of our times. To integrate digital mind-sets to analogue mind-sets.

We were the new kids on the block they the old guys from the village.

Broken kids.

It’s only now, at the threshold of 30, that I begin to deal with some of the baggage from the past. I know what you may be thinking, you may think that maybe I should have done this a long time ago and maybe I would agree. But the past 7 or so years I have been too busy growing and dodging every bullet life has shot at me and its only now, armed with some experience, growth, peace and a knowledge of myself can I go back and look into those trunks packed so many years ago, and one by one deal with the broken kid in them.

The armour is not too big nor the sword too heavy. I am a   man now but I have to deal with the nightmares of a child. There are some dragons in my past that need slaying before I go on.