The Lovely Ghosts of Bagamoyo. By Patience Nitumwesiga The journey to Bagamoyo started with me missing my flight. So I walk onto the departures entrance and the clerk asks for my flight name. I give him my ticket. He takes one look at it and says “checking in for precision Air is closed”. I don’t believe him. For a brief second I think he’s joking. But you know how airports are. You miss your target and everyone moves on. Like it doesn’t matter that you’re trapped in one ‘time zone’ and they are rolling on with the globe. It’s like death. Just because one person somewhere has stopped breathing doesn’t mean the world will stop and mourn them. After a while, partly because the clerk has moved on to other people without hesitation or a care in the world about what I’m supposed to do, but also because enough time has passed for it to sink in, I move away. Through the glass, I can see the people I’m supposed to travel with still sorting their baggage but I’m unable to join them.
DAY TWO; DELAY As daylight brightened up the sky, we came to a halt. The bus parked behind a row of trucks and though I kept thinking it had to be the border (it was hard to see ahead from where I was seated), I didn’t want to believe so. It was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by only the bush (this much one could tell from any angle of the bus), and the road had one and a half lanes. Half of the other half was filled with mud and stagnant water. As I watched passengers move out, confirming my fears, I almost wished I were still asleep. But as it is, I was awake, and my neighbor was rambling about a thousand reasons why we were where we were, and I had to get out. I got to learn from another passenger that the border was ahead and that we had to hurry as there would be a long queue at the immigration clearing point. We walked. We walked along that abandoned dirt road in the middle of the bush and until now I find it hard to believe that it took us not less than
So most of March I was thinking about my grandmother Nyamwire, my dad's mom. Considering she's been dead for a long time, some of my uncles freaked out when I told them she was visiting me in my dreams. I was told to go and pray, blah, blah, blah. To which I replied that I'm trying to decolonise my mind and to stop listening to the demonising of everything traditionally African. Before colonialists arrived, I told them, our religion depended highly on contact with the dead. One of my uncles was so shocked by all this that he just changed the subject. But a cousin of mine was very intrigued and she told me to keep listening and see if maybe grandma had a message for us. A week later I went on a writing retreat in Lira and embarked on my first feature film. There is a character in the story who's the backbone of the protagonist and a symbol of love and protection. I was struggling so much with her back story because she's a Munyankore woman who lives in Buganda. I di