Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Of late I write less not just because my life is that uneventful, but because life has been overwhelming. Not to alarm you, overwhelming on the whole in a good way. I have known joys and happiness that I did not think I would ever know.
I have been so altered that two little boys from a houseful of bending cooing uncles, remember my pet family name before all others. When I’m the uncle who forgets their birthdays, I have to be dragged to their Saturday afternoon birthdays, and we set off on sojourns from Entebbe to where they are at 10am, though in the night before we had agreed by 7am we should be in the taxi there. They call my name when whoever is trying to teach them new words and in baby talk asks, “Uncle where?” It brings me close to tears sometimes, to hear down the phone, these stories retold to me, as I travel from one appointment to another, numberless cars, automobiles, settling back into a Kampala I’m falling in love with again.
I thought the dreamer was dead. I once held mental funerals, commemorations and created mementos in bitter months, years after efforts seemed fruitless and vain, and all I laboured with seemed to produce moon-faced still birth demons, how I wept! Parliament Avenue evenings, walking eternally with worn collars, shoes with smirks at my efforts, and 200 shillings in pockets that jigged their loneliness, trying to learn how to harbour no hopes, dream no dreams, go for the money only and be content with beach Sunday afternoons, Bell gulping, oily chicken wings choking, to forget the dreams and the hopes and grow my second fat chin, the fat pork necks, be a success conventionally. I had to go away and come back to find the dreamer not dead, into years of brooding hibernation a refugee, triumphantly arising! To see you, child again, you will never know, hiding this face from the world for the happiness was killing me!
Collect these moments and treasure them, find a Long John Silver chest, a place for what is most precious to you, and you need a smile, a laugh or to look back again once upon a time when your timetable is not so hectic and from morning till night, you wonder how the hours rush past like flitting kisses from the wind, look in. Kayunga Police Station and the four friends, their own obligations thrust aside, rushing with concerned faces in time to help; and remember the ten pondering minutes, pen over torn Police form paper, considering who to call for and who would respond in this emergency, and how they all did, even if it had been months since you laid eyes on most of them. 8th October, 2008, what she said, when you thought she had been kidding, did not mean it, it had all been a joke, and your gratefulness, a first time realization of the endless possibilities with her, a deepening new respect and the wonder of how love never stops growing, never stops changing, never stops surprising, and reaching inside yourself for a new gentility you did not think you had, because this was a precious gift beyond all the precious gifts she had given you before.
Because some of you might not know what he looks like but might want a sneak peak…
The great Okot P’Bitek is the guy up there!
Deds: Melt the Snow by Shayne Ward
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
It is the inexplicable lethargy that warns something is wrong, at first. The lack of desire to simply get out of bed. The greater lack of desire to mumble even the politest of greetings you are known for. The world beyond these car windows passing by in clichés, all freshness gone, to where no idea. No sounds register to make a difference, no faces are welcome moons in the motionless inertia of your planetary stillness.
So this is it. The stillness before the leap. The frightening silences amidst the endless chatter. The need for new vistas to distract from the thought of what must happen. To sit on a park bench with a little stream under a tree watching tadpoles, not thinking, back to the busy road with zooming vehicles, getting away.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
As we down here, struggle for as long as we know
In search of a paradise to touch (my nigga Johnny J)
Dreams are dreams, and reality seems to be the only place to go
The only place for us
I know, try to make the best of bad situations
Seems to be my life's story
Ain't no glory in pain, a soldier's story in vain
And can't nobody live this life for me
It's a ride you all, a long hard ride
Somebody wake me I'm dreaming, I started as a seed the semen
Swimming upstream, planted in the womb while screaming
on the top, was my pops, my momma screaming stop
From a single drop, this is what they got
Not to disrespect my peoples but my poppa was a loser
Only plan he had for momma was to fuck her and abuse her
Even as a little seed, I could see his plan for me
Stranded on welfare, another broken family
Now what was I to be, a product of this heated passion
Momma got pregnant, and poppa got a piece of ass
Look how it began, nobody gave a fuck about me
Pistol in my hand, this cruel world can do without me
How can I survive? Got me asking white Jesus
will a nigga live or die, 'cause the Lord can't see us
in the deep dark clouds of the projects, ain't no sunshine
No sunny days and we only play sometimes
When everybody's sleeping
I open my window jump to the streets and get to creeping
I can live or die, hope I get some money 'fore I'm gone
I'm only 19, I'm trying to hustle on my own
on the spot where everybody and they pops trying to slang rocks
I'd rather go to college, but this is where the game stops
Don't get it wrong 'cause it's always on, from dusk to dawn
You can buy rocks glocks or a herringbone
You can ask my man he's a mind reader
Keep my nine heated all the time this is how we grind
Meet up at the cemetery then get smoked out, pass the weed nigga
That Hennessey'll keep me keyed nigga
Everywhere I go niggaz holla at me, "Keep it real G"
And my reply till they kill me
Act up if you feel me, I was born not to make it but I did
The tribulations of a ghetto kid, still I rise....
Friday, February 06, 2009
Sometimes I’m afraid I’m killing off who I used to be. I like to tell myself then that any change comes with fears and these are my fears that still inspire these backward glances, yearnings to return from where I’m fleeing. Caught in the between of who I’m becoming and who I have been and this mixed bag I currently am.
I used to have this gift of leaving the past in the past, people, memories and all the things I did. Meet a person with whom intense experiences were shared, struggling a few months down the road to recall this face, the hurt expressions in the voice, because they could not believe I had forgotten. It was not callousness but a simple driven desire to keep moving forward, to keep going and what held me back I simply discarded and expected no hard feelings. Affecting and never affected.
A thousand lies have made me colder/And I don't think I can look at this the same/But all the miles that separate/Disappear now when I'm dreaming of your face
But this is different. This forward propulsion is in many years the final kind I will ever make from where I stand and when I begin to go forward again, it will be all new again in a new league learning new rules, barriers erected between the here and now and what is going to happen. Insurmountable like the divisions that separate Ages, one lover’s lips from another on your own, like the lock on the door has been changed and no key you have now will turn it to open.
I have accepted changes I never contemplated even contemplating, without so much as a raised voice in anger, quibble or doubt. Adjustments that were not asked of me happening before I even thought about what exactly they mean and who they are affecting. I have stopped thinking of the everyday in terms of what I can no longer do and in what I will soon be able to do. Reclaiming heart portions from muses so long in thrall of; rather shocked at the paltry invested affection or lack of desire to continue the back & forth.
I've heard this life is overrated/But I hope that it gets better as we go
I know the exact day when this began to happen. I know where I was and who I was with. I remember what we were talking about when the fade-outs became something I could no longer ignore. I remember wanting suddenly to be somewhere else and with someone else completely and brusquely terminating the meeting to do so. I vividly remember Kampala slipping back, the gratified sigh the enchantment of these solitary night lamps and lit windows regaining their hold, the back of you receding, and the complete knowledge and security of a cherished nook accessible once again with no guilt at all.
It won’t be long before I get you by my side/ And just hold you, tease you, squeeze you, / tell you what’s been on my mind
Quitting these phantoms was the hardest; racing against standards no one else aspires almost breaking me. It has taken me this long to set my own race, realise how far ahead I already was, accept what I always dreaded about myself as perhaps the most vital of who I will be, take it and be unafraid to show it off.
I want you to fly with me/I miss how you lie with me/I just wish you could dine with me
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Monday, February 02, 2009
"A hundred days have made me older
Since the last time that I saw your pretty face
A thousand lies have made me colder
And I don't think I can look at this the same
But all the miles that separate
Disappear now when I'm dreaming of your face
I'm here without you baby
But you're still on my lonely mind
I think about you baby
And I dream about you all the time
I'm here without you baby
But you're still with me in my dreams
And tonight it's only you and me
The miles just keep rollin
'As the people leave their way to say hello
I've heard this life is overrated
But I hope that it gets better as we go..."
3 Doors Down, Here Without You