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

Considering Marriage, Choose Wisely

 

Internet Photo (May be subject to Copyright)

Well, you can call me what you want after reading this article but I am not what you think I am. I am starting it on a bitter/negative note because the first person to read this article was a woman. She intently read everything (as she always does for my articles) and after that, she called me a male chauvinist pig. I swallowed it.

Our topic for today is marriage, love and relationships. It was inspired by a true story from my "presidential" advisor on love matters. Since I started following his advice, he has only been wrong 3 times. Since we met I have taken his advice only 3 times.

So, we were talking about how he ended up with his wife of now 2 beautiful children. He told me how it happened as some sort of an accident and assured me that in this world, a man cannot get what he wants in regard to marriage**. This was his story:

“After graduating and getting a simple job in Kampala, it was time to start dating real women - outside campus life. My desired quality was a slim, brown girl with a matching height. It was not long until I landed on this "fantamaglorious" charming lady from one of those big churches in the city. We started dating. The problem with these girls is their social life which is limited to church, and outings for food. For me, life started after 10pm and the obvious places you would find me would be bars watching football and quite often, I would end up in a club or music concert. In all these outings, I would be with my buddies who at times would move with their chics and in most cases, side chicks. It was not long until I got my girlfriend a helper.”

At this time I looked at my advisor and inside my head, a voice said, “fumitta embozzi” and like a loyal story teller, he continued.

“I met Nalumansi in one of those top clubs in Kampala. She was in a situation almost similar to mine; her boyfriend was a Christian lad who seemed more committed to church than anything else. One thing led to the other and I don't know how but she ended up at my apartment on one of those funny weekends.”

“She was the best girl ever. We did all that we did while knowing that each of us had our loyal partners who we kept at heart and they also had us in their prayers everyday.” my advisor added.

I was somehow getting angry that the story was going to end so fast because I see him ending up with Nalumansi but then he told me in a clear loud voice, without mentioning it, “katandika butandisi”

“So how I ended up with my current wife is a long story; but to cut it short, God relieved me of my beautiful Christian, brown girl. She called one evening, asking to meet at my house. I could not believe that a girl who has held out for this long had finally accepted. It was a Saturday evening. She came and everything happened. But in the morning as she was organising to leave, that girl made a revelation that left me wondering why I did not know the brown devil that I was dealing with. Amidst sobs and tears, she told me it was the last time we may be meeting. I could not understand but she made a confession that if the devil was listening, I think satan too was startled, but that is how it ended. I tried pursuing her alongside Nalumansi but we reached a time when we had to let go and we ended it”.

He did not tell me what the confession was about but he said, it was at around the same time that Nalumansi's boyfriend was arrested over something that went wrong at his workplace and taken to prison.

“It was at the same time that I made a self evaluation and thought about how fast life was moving. I helped Nalumansi have her man secure bail and at that moment, unfortunately or fortunately, we struck up a friendship that you would never wish for. But the guy had vibe. He started advising me about relationships and told me some of his dirty dealings with women. In one of “them” conversations, he told me to never count myself to be in a relationship unless I have a woman who has real “nyashi””

Wherever this conversation was heading was a totally wrong direction. I therefore called it off and asked my advisor on love, marriage and relationships to stop there because his advice was sounding like Kusasira's advice to Museveni and I thought that he needs a few words of advice from myself. After all, we have known that some advisors need more advice than the advised.

To my advantage, his wife called and asked him to find her at Senana. She had come with the kids and did not want to go back home on a Bodaboda. He promised to continue the story when we meet next weekend.

"I want to know how this relationship with Nalumansi went and how you ended up with your wife. But first tell me what the confession from the other Christian Lady was about" I asked him soon as we re-united the following weekend.

"Anyway, I don't know how those people (the Christians) do their thing but after denying me conjugal rights for over 1 year, she accepted on the day she came to announce our break up. Her Church Parson had called her and convinced her that a conversation between the Parson and God had ended in agreement that Sheila (that was her name) should get married to Pastor's son. Being what she was, a confused young woman who had spent more time in Church than, anywhere else, she obliged. But before she could commit herself, she had thought to sin just this once and with me."

That was startling.

"Since then, I took advice from Nalumansi's boyfriend, between beauty and intelligence, when picking choosing a woman to marry, choose Nyashi, you will never regret!"