Showing posts from 2017

Self-recovery and self-care in the new year.

When this year began, I had lost everything. I was still recovering from a relationship that had left me broke and brokenhearted. I was a complete mess. If it wasn't for the generosity and kindness of a few friends like Angel, Lilly and Juliette, I would have been in a ditch. I had tried going back home but some of us were not made to live within the confines of our parents' homes. My career had been on halt since the previous year, I was feeling like a failure and I liked very little about myself. My insecurities had doubled and my strengths were dwindling. The core of who I am, as a feminist and nonconformist, had been reduced to little glimmers of anger stiffled within. I was in so much debt and had almost no work. As this year comes to an end, I look back and wonder where it had all started going wrong. But to cut the story short I have found everything I ever wanted, and I'm a bubbling little rebel again, so happy to be myself and completely debt free. I've done

Mary Karooro Okurut Tell Us!

It’s not the patriarch that shocks us.  It’s not his yielding subjects, who seem to enjoy being oppressed and never raise a voice. No. That has stopped shocking many of us. But what still eludes me are those who claim to be progressive, but continue to do the bidding of the dictatorial patriarch. Those who say they care, those who call themselves feminists, those who claim to know what is good but keep on doing what is oppressive. In the spirit of criticizing the oppressors who are supposed to be our guardians, of questioning people from home who sell us to the war monger, I want to talk about you, Mary Karooro Okurut. I want to know if I’ve been lied to all along, or if you’re not above the lures of power and domination. As a member of FEMRITE, which you founded, I always prided myself in believing I was part of a progressive organization, of a feminist society rooted in doing away with domination and taking the reins of all good things and female. But tell me, as you reached ou

I've Touched Love

I've been painted and colored as a love. A perfect love. A permanent rainbow as clear as day. Don't paint me on water, like I'm a temporary fairy, that will go up on smoke. I've been built in stone. I've been made a temple, I've been fortified, I've had guards installed by my walls, keeping me safe, like a treasure. I've tasted pure erotic humility I've laid my soul on the floor and dined with a king who makes thrones out of solidarity. and I've let that one go. I've torn him out of my bleeding soul and watched him dance on clouds,  going to the gods. where you offer uncertainty, he offered a sure resolve. where you offer exaggeration,  he gave modesty. Where you stumble to find words, he didn't need words...  where you strive to be impressive,  he reclined into himself. Don't settle for less,  he said. I've been worshiped, with pure, sacred emotion. Not sensation. No. The complete journey of the head and the heart,  t

Why I stopped being Daddy's girl.

Why I Stopped Being Daddy’s Girl. There comes a time in every girl’s life, to reevaluate life choices. To stop hating your mother and put yourself in her shoes. To become a woman. To see things for the first time in clear light. To understand family dynamics and uncover the big lies that protected you as a child. To see your dad for what he really is and not the dream and idol you made him. First of all, let’s talk about pampering. Why did my Daddy pamper me? Why did he ask my mother not to shout at me and ask me to take a walk with him more times than my mother? Why was it always her screaming and him sitting back and me running to him and hiding under his wing and wishing she was gone? Well, as a child, the answer was simple. He was perfect. He understood me. He was my Daddy. But as a woman, it is uglier. The answer though, is still simple. Because she did everything.  And each time we went for a walk, she had to put it all back together and do the things that needed to be done,

Return my feelings

In the traffic at clock tower, I was robbed. Within the restraints of that closed up taxi, I couldn’t reach out and grab him or run after him like I’ve done before. I felt utterly helpless.  A conductor from the taxi behind us tried to grab him, but the thief was too swift for his hands. Our conductor looked away, undisturbed. He had this look of “I’ve seen this before” on his face, as did other passengers. Suddenly this violent crime became my fault, for being careless and not being mindful enough. This helplessness became misconduct. How could I forget, for one second, about thieves? And I began thinking, what life is this where to forget about thieves for one second, makes me the villain? How about the police? What gives them the right to parade neighborhoods looking for jobless youths who do not agree with the regime and yet they are nowhere to be seen on the streets where thieves snatch phones and bags in broad daylight? Why haven’t they deployed at clock tower and grabbed the

The cowardly Activist.

I sat in an Entebbe - Kampala matatu today. I was on my phone, trying to keep the world out of my head, trying to be invisible. Then I heard them. And something stirred me to sit up, say something, defend someone, be the human rights activist I have been calling myself. But I did not. You see, the matatu conductor (some of you call them touts) was telling these two Germans that he would charge them 15k to sit with their back packs in the back seat. Ideally, each seat is 2500 so the three seats should have been 7500 whether there was a bag or a person in the third seat. He had tried to fix their bags in the boot (some of you call it trunk) but you see these matatus don't really have a reasonable boot you can fix a bag in. But even then, he wanted to charge them extra whether they sat with their bags or he threw them under the seats. Now, before I mention my next statement I should let you know that I know many people around me are very uncomfortable with straight up words like ra

These Islands Will Be My Death.

These Islands Will be my Death.                 By Patience Nitumwesiga Perhaps I should mention that I’m attracted to terrifying, mysterious, precarious things. THINGS, not people. I’ve also narrowed it down recently to places. And islands are some of them. Once, when I’d just left a very serene island, (Bussi Island), my boat guy was arrested for attempted murder and robbery. The other time, when I was at an island somewhere in Mayuge district, I was told that sometimes, they hide dead bodies among passengers on the boats. But once you love travel, it doesn’t matter what comes with it. And somehow, islands keep luring me. So this one time I’m in Kampala, bored to death. A friend is visiting from Muenster, Germany, and she wants to go somewhere quiet. We decide to go for a boat ride. We head down to Gabba and look at the boats. If you’ve been to that landing site, then you know that it proliferates the hygiene issues of Kampala. So to escape from it all, we grab the next bo

The Lovely Ghosts Of Bagamoyo

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.