Showing posts from 2014

002 B.C: Ngyendo.

002 B.C: Ngyendo. Kanyarushokye, 60, Ngyendo, Buhweju. I’m only telling you this because I was not the only one present when it happened. Otherwise I wouldn’t have. I’ve heard stories about people who were never allowed to say what they saw or heard from the Bachwezi. But when this particular incident occurred, we were all there, about ten of us, and I remember us standing there and not saying a word, pretending nothing had happened. We were so scared of them! Anyways, so we are constructing a road right? And we arrive at that difficult spot along Ngyendo hill. There had been so many accidents along that part and we wanted to enlarge the road. It’s quite steep; you’ve passed there, right? You know how the road is suspended on the side of the hill, the valley lying below it, deep and hollow. The place itself creeps some people out. But I wasn’t really terrified, I just knew if we enlarged the road a little bit, it would make the drivers a little more confident, and the accide

001 B.C: Omwokorezi Rwabureire

001 B.C: Omwokorezi Rwabureire Rutaza, 57, Bujaga, Igara. Listen, I am a catholic. I didn’t even believe the Bachwezi existed.   But then there were just too many stories going around. You’ve heard about the fire, haven’t you? The cows, the shrines…   There are things I just chose to ignore. And I did, for quite some time. Until I met Rwabureire. Thing is, I had heard about him before. But I thought ‘they’re all drunks, they wouldn’t tell the difference between a tree and a human’. Besides, I really didn’t like the guy. He was all, you know, you probably wouldn’t understand. He was one of those guys who looked like he didn’t know where he was going half of the time. Like he woke up and just went wherever his feet took him. He wasn’t the talkative type, no. Rumour had it that he had quite a scattered number of kids that called him father, from around Kibona and Bujaga. But that wasn’t his biggest folly. There were too many men with too many kids thriving with their blood an

Men are Like Cars

MEN ARE LIKE CARS I’ve been meaning to tell you some things since we came to that point where you thought you could make believe, my lonely heart that she was stuck with no choice, only your kind. And I remember your words, at first disturbing but now only a whisper fading in the sound of laughter “all men are the same” you said. “None is going to be only yours. There is no man that’s going to be completely honest with his woman. Trust me, I know so.” I have looked for ways and failed to let you know that men, no matter how male, are different.   Forgive my supposed sexism, but men are like cars. Again I beg to disappoint you by not going into makes but into usage on the street. For some, they are like taxis. You need one in the old taxi park but when you reach town you can’t differentiate between the old and new parks because they’re all a jumbled piece of a mess. And when you finally get the taxi you hope will take you home, compromising your comfort cause it’s the onl

Flower shop

Flower shop. Yesterday I went to a flower shop. My friend’s sister had given birth to a baby girl and I was on my way to the hospital to see them. The flower shop was packed, florists moving up and down, flower stalks being picked up from different vases and buckets and put together for different customers. It was like a bee hive!   Then I realised most flowers being prepared were wreaths. This week there’s been so much sad news everywhere. Note, that I say sad not necessarily bad. I’ve learnt that not all sad things are bad. Sometimes they are unexplainable courses of nature. Or so I believe. Anyhow, there I was amidst such colorful, beautiful flowers of all types, put together to celebrate the dead. There were daisies and roses and lots of flowers whose names I didn’t know. But they were beautiful, at least that I know.   A number of wreaths were on the floor while others were still being prepared on a huge table. The florists attended to them with such care you would thin

Lost of words

No clue how to begin Dusty shoes all there in No mud to leave a mark Yet scars that blur the heart No sanctions to create some limit Beyond measure trying to zip it No hearts to decorate or draw But glitters everywhere show Oh my I could go mad I still think it's not so bad No heaven could be so pure Perhaps I sound imature But birds know no wings For all that ever wins Is flapping from sky to sky And wind does not stand by Perhaps I make no sense Even when I am so tense I tend to stutter About things that matter  

When Gold Digging Isn't such a Bad Idea

WHEN GOLD DIGGING ISN’T SUCH A BAD IDEA Recently I have talked to people and worked with clients/organisations that are asking the question; what is going on with today’s male child? I should say, that there are men who are on track, but popular opinion shows there is something that has gone completely wrong with today’s man. Some organisations blame it on the problem of absentee fathers in the recent centuries. I shall not mention names, as I prefer to write this like an ordinary observer in the web of our social norms, not a researcher or anything ‘official’. A long, long time ago, some people wrote books and told their children that the role of the man was to provide for his family. Years passed by, the man provided; the woman maintained the home and looked after her husband and her children. But as time went by, humans, as is their making, kept evolving and there were no bushes to hunt, and earth became very mean and difficult for man alone to provide. So woman also went o