Of Holidays and Resolutions.
I usually prefer to be in the know. To fit in without effort. That's not what's happening now. It's the holidays again. It's Christmas time and soon it'll be new year's. Somewhere along the way I've come to accept that I'll never know the true motivation behind pre Christmas excitement in the real authentic meaning of the word. I'm not at all sad about this but were I to be only slightly inspired, were I to understand the need for a new dress and a new shoe, I'd have a gloriously perfect story to write home about. So I can't fit in for Christmas and I couldn't possibly fit in for new year's. I don't make sound resolutions and I never disappoint on any front, which qualifies me as an odd aspirant for new year celebrations. To qualify for new year one should've made resolutions 12 months back that they wouldn't live up to. There should be a general air of self reproach which I can never seem to summon on any new year's day.
2015 hasn't been miraculously different. Nothing thus far has been inspiring enough to make me resolve anything for the approaching new year. In that respect I have nothing of value to share with you.
But I can tell you about 2015 escapades that weren't sound resolutions in the first place.
I finally took the city bus last week and it wasn't to appease the gods of transport as I'd unsoundly resolved to do twelve months ago. It was to evade the advances of an unusually chatty homeless person and to avoid the enveloping darkness of the late hour at a lone stage in a lone part of the city. I had positive thoughts entering the bus and seeing all seats were taken-I'd stand straight above potholes as we rode through the city. Maybe not the most dignified position for a young 20-something year old female still looking to impress but it screams adventure on any day.
Ugandans on a Ugandan bus have a way of making one feel new. I could tell they knew I wasn't a regular on this bus. I passed by bus driver without paying for the ticket and that wasn't a good first impression. Then I angrily contorted my face because I didn't want to stand next to who I stood next to. My neighbour wasn't any better than the homeless individual I'd left at the stage. He was worse. He was a drunkard with an irritating urge to grab onto his neighbour's clothes. He tended to sway to my side every time we hit a bump in the road. He kept whispering drunken words into my ear. I wasn't happy with him or the lady across the aisle who looked boldly in my face and laughed out loud. I wasn't really mad at her though, I might in fact have laughed with her at one point.
As the new year draws near, I shall simply continue with my small acts of model citizenship. Ranting here and there about nothing in particular. Caring for fellow humans as I educate them. Loving this country as I positively criticise it. It's a love-hate relationship with me and Uganda. Rarely do I speak ill of my countrymen. When I'm pushed to my limits, say, for instance in a taxi somewhere in Busoga getting squashed between a woman with a breastfeeding baby and an unsettled toddler and a man with three chickens and a young turkey, I remain calm. I imagine given the same circumstances I'd behave exactly as my kinsmen have chosen to behave. But that train in Namanve crosses the line.
That train in Namanve is a big fat conspicuous joke. It's as if whoever instituted it picked up random carriages at the abandoned station in Jinja and went ahead to paint the thing an offensive shade of green. That train is terrible. It shames me. It still hoots in a primitive fashion and quite steadily pollutes our air. It uses coal or charcoal in this bright new civilised day as it shamelessly rattles along on the Uganda Railway. Yes. Uganda Railway. S.S.T-Indian-Coolie Uganda Railway! The very same. Still in its original state, never renovated. Never painted green-like the train-even as it disappears beneath the ground in some parts (and we all know that this is no unique case of a secret underground tunnel). Even as a 'new' train, a revered symbol of this country's 'steady progress' was dumped upon it. I don't like that train at all. I wish it jams up and never sees the day again. I wish earth swallows up more Uganda Railway so that that painstakingly slow excuse of a campaign strategy has no choice but to stay put in Jinja. I'll not take the train. Not even for a selfie.
Maybe I've finally resolved. Perhaps I'll join in on the fireworks.
Happy holidays. Happy new year!
Monday, 21 December 2015
Tuesday, 1 December 2015
Pope In Uganda: The Story I'll Tell
Pope In Uganda: The Story I'll Tell
At Munyonyo, the announcer said, "be joyous, try to be as joyous as possible when he comes." I thought it reminded me of a once upon a time when mother hen prepped her brood in anticipation of a long lost, socially better placed relative. But the crowd at Munyonyo did not need that sort of prepping. They heard the announcer's words and they nodded with polite consent but they had already thought this through. Months back when news of his coming was first confirmed, they had unanimously agreed that they'd be joyous. In line with African norms, when a richer, more exotic relation decides to pinch some minutes off his important time and comes for a visit, joyous is often the resultant mood.
Dear child (or children, or grandchildren, or some random 2020's kid),
In the year, 2015, at a time of intense political battles, the period when el nino rains had washed off this very roof you now sit under, His Holiness Pope Francis came to Uganda.
Some said that with him would come immense blessings. Others hoped that if they prayed with the Pope, kissed his holy foot or succeeded in shaking his holy hand, they'd beat bitter rivals in the forth coming elections. Most were curious observers who'd had the misfortune of missing the two precedent sets of events when previous Popes had come to this country.
Overall, the mood on the streets had steadily drifted from hopeful smiles to exuberant euphoria. Masses had thronged to and filled Namugongo martyr's shrine to capacity the week before. Talk of this anticipatory mood filled our tabloids and national papers and the campaigns were all but relegated to the alleys. Our leaders had warned us of historically delicate times ahead. The police had frightened off the last traces of errant behavior in us. Our general thoughts leaned-rather dangerously I might add-towards the same similar positive angle. The Pope was airborne and most were ready to receive him. No, they were nervous and apprehensive but that's the kind of irrational agitation befitting a visit from a man of His Holiness' station.
Kenya had bade him farewell, H.E Magufuli had diverted another sum of tax payers' shillings to more important, more humane matters, the Pope had arrived. His earlier commitments in Kenya had not tired him out, neither did the 45 minute flight to Entebbe. He was immediately treated to a lyrical composition of notes in a language he could never discern and a string of dance moves to beats he would never decipher but the Pope, we had heard, was a people's Pope. Upon arrival at Entebbe International Airport, he waved and smiled and showed no signs of fatigue. He was 78 years of age, so more than once I was tempted to suspect that perhaps His Holiness was a devoted member of a gym somewhere in the Vatican.
At Namugongo, the Pope might as well have landed at the shrines themselves. The crowd there was beside themselves with rapture the moment live feeds showed the Kenya Airways plane the Pope had opted to use, touch down. And although the Pope wasn't to attend to their needs until the next day, at a holy mass, this did not deter faith filled individuals from hoping that somehow, with His Holiness only a few short kilo meters away from them in their very motherland, blessings would gravitate through the winds and soils towards their pious repentant souls.
The Pope did indeed bring blessings and peace. On mass day at Namugongo, in a rare, never-seen-before moment of political bliss, long written-off foes became friends. H.E Yoweri K. Museveni shook his arch rival's hand, and said rival, Rt. Col. Dr. Kizza Besigye W. Kifeefe smiled bright as he shook back. It was epic, newsworthy, slow motion-worthy. It reminded us, for a fleeting, reality sparked second, that it was still campaign period and our vote would soon be cast.
One or two individuals might have remarked that permitting a few 'Very Very Important Persons (VVIPs)' to use certain purpotedly closed off roads while others trekked miles through foot paths to see the Pope, was a grossly ironic fit for such an event.
But that was not all the quarrel there was. Some further argued that the official broadcaster of the events did not deliver to expectation. They had stayed home to view the Pope's proceedings from the luxury of their sofas but like I've been telling you all along, when a visitor (a richer, exotic, socially better placed visitor) decides to come by your place, you ought to come out and greet in person, body and spirit. You ought to somehow obtain those VVIP invites, beat Kayihura's security men, shake the visitor's hand and with a humble smile say 'how are you?"
I guess I should also mention that men had been working tirelessly to revamp the shrines and make them shiny and new for the Pope. This had been going on for weeks before the Pope's arrival date and there were stories (these we later learnt had been exaggerated) of progress and success but final touches were still being made even as Pope Francis blessed Kenya one last time.
I do not know how he slept, although I'm certain that as a man of God, he had bigger concerns he rather discussed than the smell of fresh paint and sticky bed posts. He did not say how he slept, I doubt he ever will be inclined to tell, but I can reliably relate that there was the smell of fresh paint and sticky bed posts in His Holiness' bed chamber.
Disclaimer: Nothing written here is to accuracy, believe at your own peril.
It's highly appreciated when you comment and share.
At Munyonyo, the announcer said, "be joyous, try to be as joyous as possible when he comes." I thought it reminded me of a once upon a time when mother hen prepped her brood in anticipation of a long lost, socially better placed relative. But the crowd at Munyonyo did not need that sort of prepping. They heard the announcer's words and they nodded with polite consent but they had already thought this through. Months back when news of his coming was first confirmed, they had unanimously agreed that they'd be joyous. In line with African norms, when a richer, more exotic relation decides to pinch some minutes off his important time and comes for a visit, joyous is often the resultant mood.
Dear child (or children, or grandchildren, or some random 2020's kid),
In the year, 2015, at a time of intense political battles, the period when el nino rains had washed off this very roof you now sit under, His Holiness Pope Francis came to Uganda.
Some said that with him would come immense blessings. Others hoped that if they prayed with the Pope, kissed his holy foot or succeeded in shaking his holy hand, they'd beat bitter rivals in the forth coming elections. Most were curious observers who'd had the misfortune of missing the two precedent sets of events when previous Popes had come to this country.
Overall, the mood on the streets had steadily drifted from hopeful smiles to exuberant euphoria. Masses had thronged to and filled Namugongo martyr's shrine to capacity the week before. Talk of this anticipatory mood filled our tabloids and national papers and the campaigns were all but relegated to the alleys. Our leaders had warned us of historically delicate times ahead. The police had frightened off the last traces of errant behavior in us. Our general thoughts leaned-rather dangerously I might add-towards the same similar positive angle. The Pope was airborne and most were ready to receive him. No, they were nervous and apprehensive but that's the kind of irrational agitation befitting a visit from a man of His Holiness' station.
Kenya had bade him farewell, H.E Magufuli had diverted another sum of tax payers' shillings to more important, more humane matters, the Pope had arrived. His earlier commitments in Kenya had not tired him out, neither did the 45 minute flight to Entebbe. He was immediately treated to a lyrical composition of notes in a language he could never discern and a string of dance moves to beats he would never decipher but the Pope, we had heard, was a people's Pope. Upon arrival at Entebbe International Airport, he waved and smiled and showed no signs of fatigue. He was 78 years of age, so more than once I was tempted to suspect that perhaps His Holiness was a devoted member of a gym somewhere in the Vatican.
At Namugongo, the Pope might as well have landed at the shrines themselves. The crowd there was beside themselves with rapture the moment live feeds showed the Kenya Airways plane the Pope had opted to use, touch down. And although the Pope wasn't to attend to their needs until the next day, at a holy mass, this did not deter faith filled individuals from hoping that somehow, with His Holiness only a few short kilo meters away from them in their very motherland, blessings would gravitate through the winds and soils towards their pious repentant souls.
The Pope did indeed bring blessings and peace. On mass day at Namugongo, in a rare, never-seen-before moment of political bliss, long written-off foes became friends. H.E Yoweri K. Museveni shook his arch rival's hand, and said rival, Rt. Col. Dr. Kizza Besigye W. Kifeefe smiled bright as he shook back. It was epic, newsworthy, slow motion-worthy. It reminded us, for a fleeting, reality sparked second, that it was still campaign period and our vote would soon be cast.
One or two individuals might have remarked that permitting a few 'Very Very Important Persons (VVIPs)' to use certain purpotedly closed off roads while others trekked miles through foot paths to see the Pope, was a grossly ironic fit for such an event.
But that was not all the quarrel there was. Some further argued that the official broadcaster of the events did not deliver to expectation. They had stayed home to view the Pope's proceedings from the luxury of their sofas but like I've been telling you all along, when a visitor (a richer, exotic, socially better placed visitor) decides to come by your place, you ought to come out and greet in person, body and spirit. You ought to somehow obtain those VVIP invites, beat Kayihura's security men, shake the visitor's hand and with a humble smile say 'how are you?"
I guess I should also mention that men had been working tirelessly to revamp the shrines and make them shiny and new for the Pope. This had been going on for weeks before the Pope's arrival date and there were stories (these we later learnt had been exaggerated) of progress and success but final touches were still being made even as Pope Francis blessed Kenya one last time.
I do not know how he slept, although I'm certain that as a man of God, he had bigger concerns he rather discussed than the smell of fresh paint and sticky bed posts. He did not say how he slept, I doubt he ever will be inclined to tell, but I can reliably relate that there was the smell of fresh paint and sticky bed posts in His Holiness' bed chamber.
Disclaimer: Nothing written here is to accuracy, believe at your own peril.
It's highly appreciated when you comment and share.
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