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

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!"

Social media hypocrisy

Author with Ritah Nahurira (RIP) at Wanale Natural Pool

When going through the social media accounts of the Uganda community, I am terrified with the opportunity it gives us to pretend and lie without remorse.

scroll through a few lines and you will come across a post or comment by a man glorifying another person's wife on Facebook. Then his next comment on another girl's photo will make your heart skip a beat. 

All over the place, people are flirting and on public platforms and with persons some have never met in real life. Somehow, it has helped to push true love down the drain. It is now hard for one to differentiate between flirtatious post from genuine show of love.

What has actually triggered this write up is the lamentation of a friend. He was crushing on this lady for some months until January when he chose to man-up and texted her. He did all this against my advice. I had advised Paul to never hook up a lady in January considering the financial conditions which push some Ugandans to desperation. But Paul went ahead and linked up with the damsel.

Her response was telegenic and right away, Paul decided to push the interaction a notch higher by suggesting a physical meeting. It was then that all hell broke lose; the lady asked Paul to wait until she had consulted her husband..

You cannot imagine how flabbergasted Paul was upon the revelation that she had a husband, not even a boyfriend.

Pejoratively, he wondered why the lady was being nice and flirtatious and yet she is married.

"It is just social media", I told him.

Nonetheless, the lady had her intentions as I later came to learn; she has been looking for a job and Paul posed on social media as a person with networks from his posing in pictures with big names in the country. unfortunately, Paul was merely putting up looks to impress but he is also looking for a job

Paul blocked her!

My Love Affair With My Dentist

 Last week, I visited my dentist; same problem as I had 4 years ago; stains on my teeth.

 He served me well to the extent that even when he did not say it this time round, I would not disobey him again but....

My dentist is a wonderful guy; he talks and jokes a lot. In 2019 when I went for my second visit over the teeth stains, he asked what he had asked 3 years ago; whether I smoke, take lots of coffee or coke. I replied in the affirmative to the latter and he advised me to tone down or abandon them altogether.

This, I promised that I would do after emptying my tin of Nescafe and I did. I stopped taking coffee and Coke for a month and a few weeks.

However, in early tweni-tweni (2020) I heard that there was a strange outbreak of disease which was going to kill all of us - COVID-19. Within, I asked, why preserve teeth when the flu is going to kill us anyway? Therefore, I resumed my caffeine diet. This time round, it was too much that I could count over 5 liters of Coke in a week and the coffee in plenty.

By the time Museveni locked down the nation, I had forgotten all about my dentist and as you, town people rushed to buy toilet paper, I was scampering for large stock of coffee and assurance that the village shop will not run out of Coke. Who cared about toilet paper when there were trees all around us?

Just like that, COVID derailed my efforts to keep my teeth healthy.

Therefore, when I walked back to his dental clinic, I was praying not to find Wilber but lo, he is the one who received me. He smiled but I could not smile back, my heart was heavy with guilt. 

"I can tell that you have been taking coffee and coca-cola"

He summoned me to his room and started his work. Mid-way through the cleaning, I was just praying that I may retain my jaws and the teeth gum; lucky enough, I did. Since then, every time I have been seeing a dental clinic I take to my heels, lest I am summoned for another operation.

When I told this to my best friend, he gave me the best advice you would receive from a friend; "continue taking coke and coffee, but stop staring in the mirror, it is the one which will show you that your teeth have stains", he said.

As I speak, my heart is divided between taking the advice of the dentist or my OB who owns a depot of coke!

Support to Complete their House

The family of Kaboole Robert and Muyama Sylvia stays in Malukhu village, Musese Parish, Mbale District in Uganda. The father was working as a security officer at Musese Primary School. He was earning Ugx 30,000 (less than 10 dollars) per month. He lost his job when he was sick for 3 months in 2020.

Kaboole with his wife, 2 of his children and grandchildren 

They have borne 10 children between themselves but one died last year.

They currently stay with their 4 of their own children and 2 grandchildren in a badly damaged, old house seen below.

Their House in the background

In January 2020, the family started saving money to buy iron sheets and build a new house. But in 2022, one of their daughters, Esther fell so sick and after a few weeks in hospital, she died and they used up their savings.

But before Esther's death, they had started building a mud-wattle house (made of soil) and bought 10 iron sheets. However when she died, the building stopped because they had used up all the money and part of the wall was destroyed by the rain as seen in the pictures below.

Robert standing before the collapsed section of the new house

In their house, they have 1 mattress which they bought in 2022. The children sleep on papyrus mats and rags which they put together in the night. I did not enter to take pictures in their houses, for respect of their privacy.

For a latrine, they have a hole which is surrounded by dry banana leaves to cover a person when they are inside. 

Appeal for help!

Their appeal is that if someone lends a hand to them, they can complete the house. 

The following are what are needed to complete it:

Estimate cost to fix and complete the house. Dollar rate use is 3684.9

This is an estimate and it is a bare minimum based on the fact that when building this house, some materials can be collected locally and the family can offer support during construction. The labour cost is for the person who does work which needs technical skill.

More pictures of the family and the current situation are below.

The roof of their current building.
When it rains, the roof leaks and the family gather in one place to keep warm

The small structure is a kitchen which is roofed with plastics (kaveera). If he gets new iron sheets for their new house, they will use the old iron sheets to make a better kitchen.

A cross-section of the cracked house

The New incomplete but broken house.

END

THANK YOU

Can I Be Doctor by Proxy?

Author at Sipi falls in Kapchorwa, Uganda

A few weeks ago, I entered an office in Kampala and a people there mistakenly referred to me as doctor. I did not bother correcting her. Even when I was exiting the building she gave me “gooddbye doctor” look which I took with grace.

 

That mistaken identity raised my ego, and since then, I have been trying so hard to become a doctor. I thought about completing the Masters and going for further studies to gain a PHD but that is a tall order and will take me a lot of time.

 

I contemplated becoming a witch-doctor but I think my Catholic faith may not allow.

 

So, after a lot of thinking, I and my team* have resolved that I explore further a possibility of becoming a medical doctor.

 

This brought back memories of my graduate bachelors degree at Islamic University In Uganda. I was admitted in 2012 but didn't graduate until 2017; a whooping five years. My cousin who knew my struggle with tuition sacarstically asked, “Are you doing medicine?”

 

Therefore (in Museveni's voice), after spending all those years at University, I think I can rightfully become a doctor; specialising in herbal medicine and treatment.

 

At least I can treat some diseases like mutobolya. Then there is this other disease; I don't know its English name but we call it “malenge” here in Mbale. These are diseases I can easilly treat without much thought or research.

 

Indeed mutobolya heals when the doctor makes the patient dance around a tree called muurukuru while malenge needs hot malwa. We call it “ipau” in Lugisu!