X-FILES FROM THE VILLAGE - MYTHS OF RAINMAKERS

Monday

Throughout the year, the rains have been erratic and rather unpredictable. Even Walyaula, who could predict the season with precision, has made mistakes on several occasions. The village seems to be losing confidence, and lately, we have stopped consulting him.

It has been known for ages that our rain comes from the southern side. Once we see the clouds forming from Namwenula side towards our direction, we are sure that it is going to rain. Many times, we spread millet out on the big rock for drying as we head to school, with confidence that if we see the cloud from that side, we must rush and help with putting back the millet into the storage (shirara). But if the cloud comes from Namwalye, that is not our rain, and we shall never bother.

 

Tuesday

Just like all the surrounding villages, ours also has rain stoppers. We call them Bachimba, and their title borders on a witch. Indeed, when referring to their act, it is khubirisa ifula, which translates as deflecting rain. When we face a prolonged drought, it is always suspected that someone is stopping the rain, and in some cases, it takes a traditional rite and a few beatings to salvage the situation. It is not uncommon for that custom to precede heavy rains. But these days, things seem to be changing. Who does not remember the shame our elders faced when they beat up Waswaka up to three times, and it never rained?

Wednesday

Surprisingly, each one of us has ever been trained on how to deflect rain to another area, and on most occasions, we have done it as a collective effort to stop rain from disrupting a function like a burial or wedding. But all this is done in good faith. How else would Father Kuroonya have stopped Masaba's wedding to allow his father to perform the tradition that stops the rain that was threatening to disrupt his son's holy church wedding ceremony?

However, some people like Khaukha are known to deflect rain at the time when we need it most. It is why he is called a witch. So, everyone is wondering why Khaukha, who is always accused of being umuchimba, cannot stop the current rain that has become a menace at this moment.

 

Thursday

Everyone is worried that the burial shall be disrupted by rain. Under such circumstances, we normally ask the head of the family or the clan to perform the rituals to hold back the rain, at least until the burial is done. In stopping or holding back the rain, the most common tools to use are the hoe, ash, a mortar and pestle (shiwili ni kumutsungilo). And in circumstances like where someone has died, you throw their (the deceased's) cloth onto the roof of their house, and the rain shall be blocked until the funeral rites are done. But of recent, nature has become stubborn and less obedient. We don't know if it will heed our commands.

As the priest stands up to preach, Wekoye is summoned to urgently rush behind their father's likubili. He is being summoned for the very important purpose, being that he is his father's heir. Nasila brings Late Nalyaka's floral dress and hands it to their brother, Wekoye.

Friday

Meanwhile, the clouds hovering over our heads, playfully chasing each other, signal the approach of the mother of rains that has characterised this period. Even the priest's voice does not sound firm as he says away his godly words, to which no one is paying attention, save for some of his choir members. All people's hopes are now hideously in Wekoye's next course of action, which will save the funeral from disruption by the rain, and especially this important session of the scripture.

"This rain cannot be stopped, not even by the god the priest is talking about," says Khaukha the witch. Those who hear look at him with envious eyes, knowing how his skill can come in handy. But Paulina, who is known for speaking without mincing words, loudly asks why Khaukha cannot put to good his witchery, causing a frenzy of laughter. The priest is able to suppress his laughter with "Alleluia," which goes unnoticed.

Meanwhile, Wekoye, when done with the hoe, sprinkles ash around it. All eyes are on him; the mood is tense. Surprisingly, people have hope and faith in the rituals he is performing, including the religious chaps. "Isn't it said that God helps those who help themselves?" the choir leader whispers to her neighbor.

Saturday

They then bring him a mortar and its pestle.

Sunday

As soon as Wekoye throws Nalyaka's dress to the roof, the first drops of rain come and hit harder. Everyone starts scampering for any shelter they can locate, under the trees, banana plants while the priest and his team press farther into the house shed. The problem is that a body, once brought out, cannot be taken back into the house. That is a taboo. But there is a simple shelter to protect it from direct rain. The priest looks farther for a better place under the roof, lest the holy book and the holy clothes get rained on.

To everyone's surprise, however, the rain does not last a minute. A rushing wind comes momentarily, and with it, the rain stops. But we realise that it has just been pushed to the neighbouring village.

The priest asks us to clap in appreciation for this deliverance, to which we oblige. Only that we cannot tell which god it is that we are clapping for!

X-FILES FROM THE VILLAGE - BY THE RIVERSIDE

Monday

There are many types of snakes known to inhabit our village, but the common ones are Nalunyaasi, Mamba Leo, and Mukoboyaka. Nalunyaasi is the green mamba; it is venomous and stealthy, so much so that, in most cases, you will not see it until you’ve already reached it. Mamba Leo, to us the young ones, is any big poisonous snake, while Mukoboyaka, which are rare, are pythons said to have the capacity to swallow whole animals or even people. They are rumored to be in Marekerero, those sides of Lwaboba in Muyekhe, as well as along the shores of River Manafwa.

But about the ability to swallow a person—my brain has never come to terms with it. Because the animal said to swallow people is Wanesilikhe, the one that swallowed Selah, according to Grandma’s story. So, what is the link between that monster and a snake?

But anyway, snakes are sacred. And much as the known venomous ones are supposed to be killed, there are patron snakes that are revered, respected, and indeed hold a high place in the village. There is no water source that exists without a snake watching over it. From Musweema to Wenyukha to Nakunuku, all these wells are protected by a known snake which, when we encounter, we must not kill but rather let it crawl away.

Tuesday

At the moment, there are rumors of an active python roaming around the river. We’ve been cautioned against walking alone, especially along the riverbank.

They say Chetulita, the wife of Wekwanya, was killed by a python. But that story has gaps and doesn’t really make sense. The only person who was there, Kaloli, says that by the time he reached the scene, the snake had already coiled itself around the woman and was trying to swallow her. Out of panic, he grabbed a log and hit the python. The snake let go, but by then, Chetulita was no longer breathing.

But there’s another story to her death that sounds more believable. It is told in whispers. It is said that Chetulita was not killed by any python. Instead, she was bitten by a snake as she eloped with Kaloli. They had made a “bed” besides the hole that harbors the black mamba at that time of the month when the snake is said to be sick and rarely comes out of the hole. How do we know that a snake inside the anthill is sick, you may ask? We tell this when the mushrooms called Bumekele start sprouting on or around the anthill where the snake resides.

Wednesday

Bumekele are tiny mushrooms that only grow on an anthill (ishiili or shishili) that harbors a big snake which patronizes it, just like we know that snakes patronize wells and other natural water sources around the village. The moment that patron snake is killed, the water source will dry up, or the mushrooms will stop growing on that anthill.

When the mushrooms sprout upon the hill, it is a sign that the snake is sick. Therefore, the women and girls can harvest the mushrooms without threat of being bitten by the snake.

On that particular day, Chetulita could have thought the snake was sick and there she lay with her lover, Kaloli. It is said that when the snake bit her, she did not take it seriously. Some people even joke that the ecstasy of the moment was too much that by the time they realized it was a snake bite, the poison had already reached her heart and she could not be saved. How this version came up, they say Kaloli told it to his wife.

“Women can never keep a secret,” they add. But Chetulita died!

Thursday

Related to that, so many scary animals are said to live around Manafwa River. One time, Namaumba claimed to have been chased by Imbulu, a feared alligator that has a sharp tail which, we are told, it uses to chop off the legs of its prey. Nonetheless, these stories never stop us from going to the river.

Friday

Life is lived to its fullness. We grieve and celebrate together. Not that we never fight and more than a few times, suspicion arises but to the boys of our age, it is all about living. On a day like today, we wake and join the rest for communal work. After the work, we lead the cattle to the riverside for grazing; here we are always on our own. We spend the day fighting, cheering the fighting cows, and for lunch, yes, we steal people’s sugarcane and then wait for evening time to lay the girls. It is by the river that the boys start transiting into men.

Saturday

Today the older boys were helping one of their own who is going to be circumcised next year. When we asked why they were placing the termite on his boyhood, they said it is an initiation called khukhala kharandasi. I watched as the termite’s mandibles gripped a lining of skin below the sheath on his penis. He almost showed cowardice by biting his lower lip, but Watenga hit the calf of his leg while proclaiming, “kamani mwibili!”

Sunday

Daytime by the river is for the boys and maybe some adult women. The girls come in the evening to draw water and bathe and yes, to be laid. Most of the thriving marriages started from the river. The girl who went to fetch water never returned, she did not even return the jerrycan
. From the river, she just proceeded to Namwalye, and it was the boy’s uncles who came to report that they have our sister.

Till then, we shall keep you posted!

X-FILES FROM THE VILLAGE- TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE A CHILD

Monday

"You see this madness of acrobatics where one puts their legs on the bicycle handlebars, lift hands in the air as they slope down Nakunuku? It is what killed his brother, Wayeno," Walumbe chided as Nekemiah rode past the elderly but strongly built village defense chief. Having lived all his life along the road, he has seen countless bicycle accidents happen on this road, and most of them are caused by reckless riding by the young men. His wife knew that Walumbe is always concerned about the welfare of the young men in the area and beyond. But she teasingly shot back, "You're just jealousy of the boy because you cannot do what he is doing. Let them enjoy their age."

Tuesday

"Woman, you never saw me in my teenage. Only that in our years the bicycle was a rarity, only to be found in the homes of the chiefs and the headmasters. Therefore, we learnt to ride by stealthily accessing Chief Wananda's bicycle through his son. We would ride in turns, with each round costing you a piece (inyengo) of sugarcane. But because Wananda's son had an eye for my sister Wanyenya, I was always able to drive an extra mile due to my closeness to the crown prince of the village."

Wednesday

"But before bicycles were given to the chiefs, there was only one bicycle we could see in this area, and it was ridden by Semei Kakungulu. By then, I was still a young boy. Most people referred to it as a two-legged metallic horse. And being what he was, Semei was not ready to tell us the truth. So, every time he could visit the sub-county, we were asked to carry milk to be given to the horse. Apparently, Semei's horse used to drink milk and did not eat grass like other donkeys and horses. Therefore, he would come with a big imuuka (gourd), and everyone who went to view the horse would take with them milk as a gift. Little did we know that Semei was the horse that drank the milk, and this was just a bicycle."

Thursday

Walumbe continued:

"So, around that time when we had come of age, more bicycles were brought into the area. But, if a big person gave you the honor of pushing their bicycle, you were not allowed to ride it. One time, the headmaster of Musese gave me a bicycle to take to his house. When I went around the corner, I got tempted and started by pedaling one side before garnering the courage to lift my leg over the frame. But because I was short, I could not reach the seat. I therefore rode on the frame—kumutti. When I was approaching his house, I got off and pushed it to the house. One thing I forgot was that I had not cleaned my behind well. My contact with the frame left some stains and a small stench that gave me away. For riding the headmaster's bicycle, I got some good beating at home."

Friday

As Walumbe was still telling the tale of his experience with bicycles, Nekemiah came back pushing the bicycle with a limp. His face had bruises, and you could tell that he had just had a fall from his bicycle. Walumbe walked slowly to Nekemiah in a perceived show of empathy, saying, "Itsila ikhaboola, shiina ndi?" meaning the path does not tell what lies ahead of you. Nekemiah intimated how the bicycle hit a rock, and he came tumbling down. Slowly, Walumbe walked toward him, relieved Nekemiah of the bicycle, and asked him to follow Walumbe to his house. He calmly rested the bicycle on the mango tree, went behind his house as if to get water for the injured boy. He instead returned holding a stick behind his back, got hold of Nekemiah, and gave him 5 strokes to the buttocks.

Saturday

It takes a village to raise a child—and especially a boy, they say.

After caning him, Walumbe confiscated the bicycle and asked Nekemiah to go and call his father to pick it. That is Walumbe. The boy went home knowing that this ordeal is going to earn him more canes. What could he do?

That is when the village buddies come in.

Sunday

The bicycle was rescued. The parents were not i
nformed until Sunday when Walumbe found them at church.

X-FILES FROM THE VILLAGE - THE DAY AT SCHOOL

Monday

(ŋ)Ngooli, walya maito (ŋ)Ngooli, wawa wawa

(ŋ)Ngooli, walya maito (ŋ)Ngooli, wawa wawa

Munialo and Buteki clasp their hands behind their backs. Woniala lurches forward, climbs up, and the clasped palms of Munialo and Buteki form a platform on which he stands. He begins lunging forward, swaying up and down to imitate a crested crane (ŋooli). The boys are grouped into threes, forming the same combination: two boys support one. As the procession moves around, the girls sing:

(ŋ)Ngooli, walya maito (ŋ)Ngooli, wawa wawa

(ŋ)Ngooli, walya maito (ŋ)Ngooli, wawa wawa

It is an illustration of a Crested Crane that has been arrested for stealing people's groundnuts but the lesson that follows is that when you steal, you will always be caught and the Crane on the back is a symbol of vulnerability when the law catches up with you. Just like it did with Wamimbi Uwa Wapondo.

Tuesday

The first trio to lose is Wangamati’s group, followed by others who can no longer sustain the weight of the ŋooli (Crested Crane). They switch to another game until break time.

Break time it is, and we all race to our favorite engagement. The older boys usually carry a ball woven from polythene and rubber, while we, the younger ones, head to the selling point for bolingo and kabalagala.

Wednesday

We don’t need money to hang around the selling point—just a buddy with whom you’ve made a pact, or you hang around hoping for a sympathizer to offer a bite of sumbusa, bolingo, or kabalagala. Sometimes, just say pandye, and you’re entitled to your friend’s share of the snack. But today, Wolayo is wise; he has folded his shirt sleeve. The only way I can get a share of bolingo is by promising to share mine tomorrow. He’s not swayed. So I walk to where they’re selling sugarcane and decide to eat the tip, which is usually cut off—it’s called ruburi.

Before I can finish my ruburi, the timekeeper bangs the gong. We call it a bell, but it’s not a real bell—it’s a piece of metal which, when struck hard enough with another metal, alerts the children. On a normal day, the gong is sounded six times, but on special occasions, it also summons us for events.

Thursday

The gong that summons us is usually sounded a few minutes before classes resume. We all run to class as the prefects take their positions to catch latecomers. I miss Wandyetye’s cane by a whisker and make it to class.

After ten minutes of waiting for the teacher, who doesn’t show up, the boys organize a duel. Watiila invites Ekisofeli to a fight, and as always, Katami is the referee. The rule is simple, and it is one: no one should hit the other in the stomach. That’s the only rule. Fighting in class, where we keep quiet and watch while some keep checking to see if the teacher is coming, is a common thing here.

Friday

Wakooli is asked to keep watch and alert us when the teacher is coming. Quietly, the fight begins. Ekisofeli wrestles Watiila to the ground, then starts raining fists on his opponent. We’re all enjoying the fight in silence, and some of us are standing on the only three desks in the class to watch. Wakooli enjoys the fight and loses guard. He is just as surprised as the rest of us when the Headmaster walks in and goes straight to the fighting boys.

Saturday

Around here, fighting among children is normal—an acceptable way to earn respect among peers. Parents and teachers seem to approve of it implicitly, though never in words. When Mr. Buteki found us fighting last week, he encouraged us to continue, and only the loser was punished.

Sunday

The Headmaster had come to inform us that Wamimbi son of Wapondo, who is Watiila's father, had died after stealing Wakauna's cows—and the traditional doctor had sent a spell to catch the thief! It was unfortunate that after casting the spell, the doctor was called to a distant place and couldn’t be reached on time for the antidote to save Wamimbi Uwa Wapondo.

Justice in this part of the world is intricate. Tell me—will you blame Wakauna for Wamimbi’s death? Maybe yes. But will you hold him accountable? He was only trying to find out who stole his cows.

And as we speak, Wakauna's herd is being led back to the village. The cows had been taken to Bumia and we are told that even there, some people are reeling from the great traditional healer's medicine and if it was not for the great medicine men from Bunyole, they would be dead.

Till then, we shall keep you posted!

X-FILES FROM THE VILLAGE - DARK JUSTICE

Monday 

The sound of alarm early this morning draws the entire village to Wakauna’s homestead. Everyone gathers around his kraal— known to house dozens of cows. But now, it stands nearly empty. I can see only a few: a mulukumu, inyenda, and the dreaded white cow.

Tuesday 

In our village, there are three types of cows we disregard. They hold little resale value. They cannot be slaughtered for ceremonies, offered as dowry, or given as gifts.

“Mulukumu” is a hornless cow, feared for being possessed—the only known carnivorous cow. Some people say it is the one that devoured Wamono’s twin brother. Others insist that Wamono was born with leopard that roams the area, said to live in the shrub near the school. I’ve never seen it, but Munialo swears to having encountered it several times.

A white cow is another we don’t keep for value. It’s only used for rituals to cleanse a person or the village. But no one wants to keep it because when a white cow dies in the kraal, it’s a bad omen—often followed by a death in the homestead. We can’t forget what happened when Walyaula’s white cow died: Walyaula himself passed away, and his family fell apart. Some of his children never returned for circumcision even.

“Inyenda” is a cow with a stained coat, as if paint had been spilled across its skin. It’s unlike Friesian - Musubulaya, which bears neat black-and-white patches. Inyenda is also used for rituals and rarely do people buy it except for special purposes like treating infertility.

Wednesday

Therefore, Wakauna was robbed in the night, his kraal swept clean. To help catch the thieves, Munialo was tasked with guarding the kraal to make sure that no one enters it or picks anything before “investigations” are conducted. Meanwhile, Wakauna has gone to Busukuya to find a traditional healer - umufumu.

Thursday 

When the traditional healer arrives, he was a skinny man, not one who inspires the fear or aura that engulfs one when you stand under the big healing Murukuru tree. Immediately he asks for a hen, which he slaughters at the kraal’s entrance, mumbles a few words, enters the kraal, pulls some grass, bites into it, and walks out.

Friday 

“You will find the thief before the day ends,” he says —and walks away. Such persons in our area do not ask for pay; it is the served who is compelled to take a befitting gift to thank the gods’ messenger for the work done. If the cows are recovered, we are sure that he will be rewarded with a cow or two. But if the thief is caught and the cows not recovered, he will be appreciated with a goat. 

Saturday

Before sunset, Wamimbi uwa Wapondo comes tumbling toward the kraal. Without talking to anyone, he drops to the ground and begins mowing grass—just like a cow.

The thief has been revealed.

Sunday

Justice has to be served. The healer has to be called back to release Wamimbi uwa Wapondo from the spell. Munialo is sent to fetch him. But by twilight, neither Munialo nor the healer have shown up. Wamimbi’s condition is worsening. If they don’t act soon, he might die.

Yet no one dares to approach him.

Till then, we shall keep you posted

X-FILES FROM THE VILLAGE - MUTOBOLYA - MUURUKURU

Monday

It is a chilly morning, and we are awakened by the gash of water on our small, rugged bodies. The most common way to wake us is by pouring water on us. It matters not that the bedsheets shall be wet—we always keep them out of the house till evening. After all, Watasa wets the bed (read: mat) every night. Musuya is waking us again, but this time for a special mission. All children of the house have to slope to the banks of River Manafa to perform a ritual that will send away the Mutobolya outbreak.

Trying to wake up without opening my eyes, I realise that my cheek is heavier than it was yesterday, and there is a numbing pain that stretches from my mandibles to the ears. Oh, the scourge of Mutobolya that attacked us five days ago has now spread to all the children of the house and the neighbours.

In this part of the world, when disease strikes, there is always a fix just around the corner—it is either medicine or some ritual. And since Mutobolya cannot be treated by isuufa or kumururutsa, we have to go to the river for the ritual.

Tuesday

Along the banks of River Manafa, the gods placed a special tree called Murukuru, and it heals Mutobolya as long as the rituals are performed right. So we go, led by the older brothers who cover us—the young ones and the girls from the front and behind.

We stride through the shrubs, trekking a well-known path, we have to push aside the thorny mukwate and avoid the sticky lusongofa as we beat the dew toward the river. Munialo almost steps on a snake, and as is tradition, we all make sure that it does not cross the path before we do. “What if it has already crossed?” Wolukawu asks, and we all silence him. We should stop negative thoughts. To the river we go. We want to be the first group to reach there because we hear that it works best for the first ones.

Wednesday

As we approach the big healing tree, the elders organise us into three groups—older boys, the girls, and us, the young boys. The order shall be maintained: we are to be the last, possibly because we are young. As the older boys go, Musuya reminds us of what we should do—the recitings we have to make and how many times we have to stump the tree.

After their ritual the big boys sprint past us one by one. So it must be until they reach home, signalling that the girls are next. After them, it is our turn.

Thursday 

It is my first time beneath the magical tree. Under it, you can feel the presence of a god—or gods—so supreme I tremble. One by one, the boys recite until it is my turn.

I go to the very spot Walyaula was stumping, and I start stumping my little foot on the tree as I sing:

Mutobolya a'ambe Muurukuru, Muurukuru a'ambe Mutobolya

You have to recite it thrice, and after the third recitation, you have to turn your back to the massive tree and run so fast back home that the disease does not catch you. You're not supposed to look back, they have told us.

Friday

But no sooner have I made a turn toward the path that leads home than a big creature emerges out of the bush. Without asking, I run back toward the giant tree. Just like that, I have gone against the prescription, and therefore, my Mutobolya cannot heal.

I go back home crying, tell Grandma, and for causing this trouble, Munialo is punished. He has to wash plates the whole day, and another day will be organised for me to go back and perform the ritual.

Saturday

Apparently, Munialo had hidden behind the shrubs and emerged to prank me as soon as I had finished my ritual. There was nothing like a big animal, it was Munialo.

 

But before I can be led back to perform the ritual, Mom returns from school and takes me to the village doctor—one who has medicine of all sorts. None of us knows where he trained as a doctor, but he has been treating us, and his medicine works. Just as the other children are healing from the mumps that we call Mutobolya, I also start feeling better—by the village doctor's medicine.

Sunday

And as I stand on top of this hill facing Manafa, I wonder if that tree still stands. I wonder if I could go there if I contracted mumps again. And I wonder if the tree would heal me—just for once!

Memories Under the Kampala Sun

 
Memories Under the Kampala Sun: A Reflective Journey Through Childhood Challenges and Resilience

By WABUYI DENIS

Kampala is currently hot, extremely hot. The scorching sun in Kampala triggers poignant memories of my childhood. The recent intense heat has made mundane tasks challenging; a shirt hung out to dry can be parched before one even reaches the basin to hang trousers, and handkerchiefs seem on the verge of combustion.

Reflecting on childhood, our mother assumed responsibility for us at a tender age, before completing her education. After giving birth to all five of us, she made the difficult decision to return to school. To make this possible, she divided us into three groups: the eldest stayed with our stepfather, while I and my immediate younger sibling stayed with our maternal grandmother until her declining health made it impossible for her to care for us. The youngest pair, consisting of my sibling and our youngest brother, were entrusted to our mother's elder sister, Aunt Agatha.

Looking back, this period was undoubtedly one of the most challenging for our parents. Despite the hardship, they persevered. It's a testament to their resilience that they managed to navigate such difficult circumstances. This experience deeply influences my desire for my own child to never be separated from their parents, if circumstances permit. I believe it's essential for a child to have the presence of at least one parent at all times, ideally both. The families who took us in during this time were incredibly generous and loving. For our younger brothers, the distinction between their biological parents and their caregivers was blurred by the care and affection they received.

Returning to the topic of the Kampala sun, following our grandmother's declining health, our parents brought us back home. We stayed with a cousin brother known as Kibbande for a few days. Kibbande was a drummer for the circumcision candidates in Bugisu, and during the circumcision season, we spent much of our time together, surviving on the plentiful fruits of our village. A mango tree provided us with sustenance for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. However, life's unpredictability became evident when one day, Kibbande abruptly cut down the mango tree to gather firewood for brickmaking. In an instant, our source of nourishment was gone.

Given that we were essentially left to fend for ourselves at such a tender age, with Kibbande preoccupied with his duties, our parents relocated us to another place where we endured what can only be described as hell on earth. At that time, I was barely six years old, yet the memories of the mistreatment we endured remain etched in my mind, so much so that encountering that individual still triggers a visceral reaction in me.

Growing up under those circumstances was incredibly challenging. We had to trek over 5 kilometers to fetch water from a well. Without mosquito nets or repellents, when mosquitoes attacked, our only recourse was to flee the house and seek refuge in the banana plantation. It was an extreme measure, but it was the only way we could find respite. Despite the adversity, we somehow managed to survive, and that tumultuous chapter of our lives eventually came to an end. Looking back, I believe it instilled a remarkable resilience in us; we learned to endure hardships without succumbing. I recall that during that period, we often resorted to drinking water from the river.

However, there was also another well called Namaloko, which ominously translates to "a place of witches/witchcraft." This was where we were sent to fetch drinking water. Situated approximately 10 kilometers away, this well was not just a source of water; it was also a gauge of our punishment. In the scorching heat of Kampala, I'm reminded of how the length of time spent at the well was meticulously monitored. If you exceeded the designated time, you knew you were in for a brutal reception upon your return - a cocktail of beatings, slaps, and kicks awaited. Remarkably, I always approached the task of fetching water fully aware that I would be greeted with such torment.

The measure of time at the well was not marked in hours or minutes, but rather in saliva. Here's how it worked: the woman in charge would spit on the ground before sending you off to fetch water. If you returned after the spit had dried, you had exceeded the allotted time, and the punishment would commence.

Reflecting on those challenging times, I realize now that my own stubbornness likely contributed to the severity of the punishment I endured. While I cannot recall if my brother faced as much punishment as I did, there were instances when we both bore the brunt of floggings. Despite any perceived stubbornness on my part and whatever punishment I may have warranted, I vehemently believe that subjecting any child to such treatment is utterly unacceptable. The scars inflicted during childhood not only mar the body (of which I bear several as reminders of that harrowing period) but also linger in the depths of our hearts. Witnessing instances of public officials accused of physically torturing citizens, I can't help but wonder if these officers are products of similar torment inflicted upon them by authority figures in their past - be it teachers, parents, or other relatives. In a society where such behavior is normalized, the vicious cycle perpetuates, with some who suffered in their youth perpetuating the cycle onto future generations.

Returning to the topic of the heat, there's a curious belief among experts in Bugisu and surrounding areas that the ideal time for conceiving a girl-child is during hot weather like what we're experiencing now. So, if you happen to notice us closing up shop at midday, rest assured, we're a people on a mission.

If I go beyond this, I may start talking profanities!

Originally shared on Peril of Africa. https://perilofafrica.com/2024/03/memories-under-the-kampala-sun-a-reflective-journey-through-childhood-challenges-and-resilience.html