IT'S A CRUEL WORLD...

“When you move, you get to see things,” my late grandmother, R.I.P and God bless her beautiful soul, used to say. She was a jolly one, a plump brown woman who always smiled profusely and was extremely generous with appreciation no matter the size of your contribution. Always with a head scarf, it was rare to see her hair and once in a while, she would remove the beloved piece of cloth to have her head groomed, revealing a beautiful white mass on her head with slight traces of black, an angelic smile on her lips. She seemed to have a preternatural fascination for modern travel stories, so she would watch you intently while you narrated to her about wherever you had been and then she would suddenly clap her hands and then raise the left one to her lips in awe.

“Nyabura okugyenda kuteera kubona!” She would exclaim. Moving means seeing. Travelling is discovering.

My fondest memories of her are when as a kid, I would go to my grandfather’s in the afternoon. Mother being in the garden almost always, my brother and sister would return to school for the afternoon session and I being too young, would go to stay with granny till evening. Then I would find her, having secured a two-and-half liter jug full of concentrated, sugarless milk. I would then tip the jug over and drink my fill, leaving white drops on either side of my mouth like a kitten.                         

On a special occasion, I would have cluster of sweet bananas to go with it, little lumps of sweetness that can put chocolate cake to shame. Those were the times.

I cannot state with much confidence that at the time I understood what she meant by her favorite cryptic exclamation. Time has come up with cruel practical sessions, leaving me wishing she was still around…

A few days ago, I went to MTN towers. Big companies always reward their affiliation and so it was whispered to me that there was a Christmas voucher for every company employee. On a hot sunny Kampala afternoon, I braved the dusty streets and headed to plot 22, Hannington road. I had never been there before but I had a faint picture of a certain yellow storey somewhere around the Garden City area. Without difficulty therefore, I spotted the building soon as I exited from the taxi, so I headed straight in that direction.

It is like a dystopian universe every time I enter a corporate building. Getting past the security check, I headed straight to the reception, sighting four personnel and then carefully, with a dexterity developed over the years, I zeroed in on the Indian receptionist who looked like she eats dinner at Serena every evening. You know their kind. You need a microscope to find a scar on their skin. So I approached with utmost humility.

“Good afternoon madam,” Said I, bowing my head a little, “I am here to pick a Christmas voucher.”

“Oh. How are you? Head to your left, on the first floor.” She replied.

One of the things I have come to learn the hard way is that while in a strange environment (I mean government or corporate property), it is safer to express the highest level of humility. I will dish out several 'Sirs', 'Madams' and 'pleases' anytime I get presented with an opportunity.

I headed to the elevator direction. Then there are these ugly barricades that you have to open using either your finger print, access card or a combination. A gangly fellow came in, presented his index figure and proceeded. I came too, presented my figure to the brute and it lighted red. Finger print not recognized. I froze for a moment and waited for a siren. None came. I inhaled sharply and got stranded.  I had to step back to the security clerk, a thin fellow in a Blue and Black Saracen Security Uniform. He saw through my plight and signaled to the reception and then I saw them bend over, reaching for a switch definitely and then there was a clicking sound. Entry at last.

It was no walk in the park either on the first floor. Being literate however, I picked up a sign beseeching whomever it may concern to pick the vouchers at ‘this’ point and then headed to that direction. The lady seated right there looked like she had God on her speed dial. Dressed in a black and yellow corporate shirt, she only raised her head slightly to see me through her glasses, making me feel more awkward than I already was. I quickly addressed her as madam and let her know that I was there for a voucher and I was a company employee not a street kid like she was probably suspecting. She checked through the files but could not find my name. She said she was standing in for a colleague who had gone for lunch. So I had to wait, the fellow came in and couldn’t find my name on their godforsaken lists and I could not get them to give me a voucher, though I presented a company ID and an access card. Not my day obviously. Whoever had cast a spell that day had obviously not gone to the shower yet. Dejected, I planned my exit.

Lucifer was not yet done with me however. The door though which I had entered had been open at the time of my arrival. It was locked now. I looked for any tell-tale signs of a security lock but found none. So I proceeded with an artificial confidence to open the door. It did not budge however. So I tugged it with a renewed strength but it did not give in. I was stuck again. Damn these corporate prisons. I could not figure a way out. So I reversed my steps and landed on the elderly man that was now revising important looking documents through his sage glasses.

“Excuse me sir, the door is stuck!” I could not eliminate the agitation in my voice, try hard as I did.

A strange smile creased the old man’s face, he looked up at me, the way you look at a kid trying to catch his reflection in the mirror, or the kind that runs across your face when you see a dog chasing its tail.

“The door is stuck because you have to use your access card to open it!” He said.

I returned to the door, this time under the man’s watchful eye. He peered over to see me reach it.

“Do you have an access card?” the guardian angel asked.

“Yes I do.” I pulled it out of my front pocket, laughing nervously as I did.

“Swipe it over that black patch there.”

I did as instructed and the treacherous door beeped meekly and then I pulled it with the little energy I had left. This time it acquiesced. A deep and warm gust of blood covered my face and had I been white, they would have been able to see the beet-red blush of shame as it eclipsed my facial features. Luckily I am coal black. I thanked the man and headed out.

Reminded me of the time, having checked into Nordic C hotel in Stockholm, we headed up the building with luggage in hand. Into the elevator we went and checked into the room too. The journey downstairs was one to remember. The elevator doors do not require security. Inside the elevator however, it is a different story. You have to insert the access card into the machine and keep it there till the end of your descent. Poor I swiped the card and pulled out for over fifteen minutes, till a blonde woman found me on the inside, pushed her access card into the machine and left it there, then we began the sweet flight downwards. Travel is discovery you say, but you know nothing.

If Grandmother Cecilia was still alive, I would head to Mukwano arcade and buy her a beautiful kitenge and a decent dress. I would jump on the bus to Kabale and head straight to her, hug her plump body and probably cry while at it. I would not forget a cold Krest bitter Lemon, her favorite soda. I would watch her hold it with both hands like a traditional gourd, make a sign of the cross and proceed to take large generous gulps out of the green bottle and then belch with satisfaction. I would tell her all about 1000 feet into the sky and all the places I have been and then let her know that I am a grown ass man now and that indeed travel is discovery.

May be someday...

JESUS OR JESUS PIECE?: Inside an 'international deliverance' church.

I went to visit a friend last Wednesday. In the Old Park, I boarded a taxi to Namugongo at around 18.00 EAT and Kampala being Kampala, we negotiated with jam, till at about 19.30 hrs. when I arrived in the vicinity. I am not friends with taxis and occasionally I always swallow saliva repeatedly to avoid wreaking havoc to my neighbors. It was with much relief therefore when I shouted at the conductor, a shabbily dressed fellow.

“Maasawo!”

I alighted just before crossing the bridge over the northern bypass and proceeded on foot along the Kamuli-lubaawo Namugongo bypass. By this time it was alarmingly dark and I fought several urges to take a boda. The Swahili always say it, there is no problem that travels alone. When shit is going south, expect a bucketful. My host made it clear that he had stepped out shortly. I had to wait on the outside. Turning on my mobile data, the battery level dramatically dwindled to fifteen percent. Great. Just what I needed. I quickly turned the phone to the ultra-power save mode and dropped it into the pocket. Mosquitoes of every bleed and race buzzed over my head, forcing me to pull over the hood of my sweater. They buzzed over me again, like the unwelcome visitor that I was. Then I decided to take a walk.

I hunched my shoulders, pushed my hands deep into the pockets and then proceeded on my forced tour. There was nothing much. Just a typical Kampala suburb, a saloon here, an aroma of freshly made chappatis, roadside sausage stalls and music. A cinema hall with V.j Jingo in full blast.

“Nga tuli Kasubu na kki?”

“N’aloo.”

I felt my pockets keenly, anticipating a call but there was nothing. My host was not yet back. He would call if he did arrive. No worries. I headed north, more uneventful saloons and chappati stalls. Nothing to get my attention.

I was about to turn back when I picked up an all-too-familiar sound. The sound of evening praise and worship from born again churches. I had never been into one before and I had nothing worthwhile to do. Why not?     

                                                              

I branched to the left, past an abandoned automobile washing bay and beyond. Just like I had pictured in my mind, it was an iron sheet structure. It shined in the dark, the pale moon light reflecting on the ‘walls’, signifying the presence of the Lord, I mused.

prayer and divine healing ministries international.

The blast of music hit my face with such force as I entered this holy iron sheet structure. Sounds of praise and worship, akin to the midnight atmosphere at Rock Catalina filled my ears and it was sheer providence that my eardrums remained intact. A tremor run through my body. Inside the house of the Lord, I felt like s stranger and expected to be bundled up at any time and thrown on the cold outside in case someone noticed the devil ridding on my shoulder. I was not roughed up however, not at that moment and not in the hour that I spent looking at frenzied worshipers.

The floor was covered with red woolen carpets that had seen better days no doubt, with plain white chairs scatter across. The lot of them however had been bundled to the sides, creating an expanse of space in the middle. The altar  was a different dimension. Ornately constructed with stone and painted immaculate cream. A glass stand was elected thereon with the church Logo gloriously emblazoned, the mark of the church. This juxtaposition is usually symbolic… flamboyant shepherd, wretched sheep.

Inside this house of the lord, it is a different universe. I felt like John Carter on his first day on planet mars. The worshipers were marching, like army recruits, pacing back and forth. Sometimes they picked up pace, like in an Olympic race walk, mumbling a heavenly dialect that I could not fathom. I felt ill at ease, shifted from one leg to another till I settled in the corner and keenly watched the proceedings. I could see the lot of them and more than half were young women not yet into their thirties obviously and about half of the latter had babies slung over their shoulders, young mothers perhaps?

The leader of this praise and worship was an equally energetic young man, spotting a plaid shirt and a black trouser that looked worn out from a distance. And occasionally he would pump words into the microphone. His voice, so powerful had by now grown hoarse and constantly he would pose for a breath before barking bark into the microphone again.

“Twaala okusaba okwamaanyi!”

“Twaal’emikisa gya Yeesu!”

A young lad probably gripped with the holy power, circled around the church and finally linked up with a young lass, they joined hands and prayed so powerfully that the young man’s abdomen shook, the young lady shaking like an autumn leaf in the wind. I know nothing about praise and worship rituals so I just starred in awe like a teenage boy having extracted a word from the girl of his dreams.

It took me a while to realize that the microphone had changed, to a young lady this time. The lady’s voice had been no different from the young man’s that the transition had gone unnoticed. Hers in fact was over the top you would think we had a lion growling in the church. Her predecessor, visibly exhausted made his way to the altar, to the glass pulpit and picked up a glass of water, took a long swig and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He then paced around the altar and shook his head in appreciation, like a man inspecting a half days work.

Waking up from the eerie, I could see a young man who had now lain on the floor, like an expectant heifer about to bring forth its calf. A young girl, oblivious of the lad’s intentions went up to him and shook him, probably fearing the worst. He did not budge. She then imitated him and spread her miniature body on the carpet. Her mother came and whisked her away, admonishing her to stay put.

Inside the house of the Lord, I did not feel any different. I looked at the men and young ladies pacing around in prayer and mumbling in tongues and wondered if it was not a hoax. That deep within, they were just problem-laden people looking for release. I remembered a time a friend of mine showed up with a string of new beads on his arm. Keith is not really the religious type so I was a little bit shocked to see the word Jesus etched on the bracelet.

“Uh. So now you are a believer.” I had exclaimed, a strange light shining in my eyes.

“Turn it around.” he had said.

I twisted his arm around to complete the bead maze.

Piece. It said. Jesus Piece. The Game’s fifth studio album...

Aren’t most things usually like that. Look once, it is that, look twice and it is a different story.

I felt in my phone pocket for my Tecno m6. It was getting late really. I stepped outside and just then sly thing started ringing. It was my host come back… Time to go home old boy. I pulled over my hood and pushed north, beyond the praise, beyond the worship, beyond the music. 

ISIAH 1.15

I love solitude. It is a love so strong I would pay a hefty price to be left alone to think. So last Saturday I happened to land on the chance of a life time. My brother having left to the village and my sister long gone to work, I stayed in bed, long enough to savor the delicacy of the silence and let the aroma of privacy waft past my nose. I jumped out of bed, shed the last garment I had on my body and prowled around the room, like the alpha lion making sure that it was alone in the lair.

I set about brushing the carpet but no sooner had I landed on my knees to start on the Sisyphean task than I heard a knock on the door. The footsteps I heard definitely meant that I had an entourage of people at my door.

“He is around!”

I froze. It was a female voice. The last time I had heard that phrase used was long ago when I was knee-deep in debt. You would start to look to the nearest corner for cover.

They knocked. I waited, may be it was a wrong door. The second knock was much firmer meaning they were sure it was the right door. So I frantically looked around and landed on a baggy pair basketball shorts (I don’t play the sport, it was a gift) and slipped into it, no time for a shirt and then I opened the door. The female voice was my neighbor's, with whom I have never exchanged a single word, not even a hello. She left soon as I had opened. Her companions on the other hand, they stayed. I instantly recognized the two gentlemen, they were the Jehovah’s Witness preachers who had got quite friendly with my brother. Once in a while they show up and preached to him, I had never ventured to reveal myself, I would casually stay in bed while they preached away, citing evidence from the bible when the occasion permitted.

“Johnpaul is not around. He left, I mean he went to the village and he won’t be back till may be Wednesday.” I was definitely not sounding welcoming. But they were men of God anyway so the stayed.

Well I got to know that one was Ukrainian, I could have guessed by his thick eastern European accent, the second was Ethiopian. They started doing their thing, preaching to me with that phony attempt all preachers usually make to seem friendly. I have always had some questions that I could not find answers to. So I guessed this missionary would offer some answers.

“Do you believe in predestination?” I asked.

“No!” his reply was too curt for a preacher.

“And why is that?”

“Well I have my own reasons.”

“Did you grow up as a Christian?” I asked.

“No. I did not. Back home, people are atheists. They do not teach religion so people grow up when they do not know about it.”

“So why did you choose to come to Africa while folks back home are more in need of salvation?” I asked. I was not giving him rest this one.

“Well, it is not because they did not want to listen to me. They are many of us, well so me I was sent to Africa.”

Perfect.

 I was at this moment that the preaching started to hook my attention in earnest.

“Do you think God listens to our prayers?” the preacher asked.

I told him I did believe He does. He then handed me the bible to read.

Isiah 1.15 “when you lift up your hands in prayer, I will not look. Though you offer many payers, I will not listen, for your hands are full of blood.”

Interesting.

“So imagine a battle field,” said I hoping to make sense of this quote, “there are two warring factions. Both have taken blood and shed some. They are all praying, who does He listen to and who does He let go?”

“The answer is no one!” the preacher said.

I was baffled. So what he was insinuating was that there is actually an ‘autopilot’, a situation when God just abandons all of us and aids none. In this case, all fate is in man’s hands. 

Now I imagined, what if God was to forsake us? What if he was to put the universe in autopilot and let the sleeping dogs lie?

The answer is America!

If you want to know what a godless nation looks like, look at America. Guns on the street, drugs, prostitution, robbery, murder, suicide. The worst situation of a godless nation is when men start to think fellow men are women. A godless nation is doomed. Has no peace and there is chaos anywhere. The first time I got to know that there were psychos and serial killers was in American movies. Read their literature, watch their movies and you will get to know what I am talking about.

I have heard about murdered judges and people who were shot for scratching cars, all in this our Uganda. There is a drug ‘cartel’ in my neighborhood and the ‘kifeesi’ group really rhymes with the crips and the bloods and the Crenshaw kings, American style gangs.
Is Uganda becoming a godless nation?