The day I became “Happiness”

It happened during a courtesy visit to a group of women in midmost Tororo District. Let me tell you early on they are ex-victims of domestic violence and abuse. In fact, the stories we heard about them beforehand were stories that engraved my mind with images of sorrow-gnawed women that had long forgotten the meaning of happiness.

Imagine my surprise then when they welcomed us with energetic performance in form of folk songs accompanied by wild clapping and pliable wiggling! Soon the music became whispery and the women took turns sweeping us in motherly hugs. The music then leapt with a fresh lease of pomp, and the women danced vigorously, their breasts bouncing underneath their tops with carefree abandon.

They welcomed us with music and dance

When the lead singer with the missing incisors picked up a new song, the well-rounded young woman with a face lovely like a daffodil and a skin shining like ghee in the sun, let loose her hair like Diana King of old and boogied like no one was watching.

When the music finally came down and the lead singer said it was the tradition of the area to christen me with a local name, I amused myself with the thought that they would add that dancing belle to the surprise! My fantasy was however fleeting, for I began to think of a fast way of graciously rejecting the name in case I was named after some Japadhola millipede.

But when the name "Kisangala" issued from the full lips of the village belle, and she quickly explained with a shy smile it's Japhadola for "happiness", it was my time to smile exultantly. It was a huge relief to my hosts too, for to reject the name would have been rude and their worst embarrassing considering how much they cherish the customs of their ancestors.

So telling them the name was beautiful was the inducement they needed to burst into a new song, to which they danced boisterously, enchanting the ground with their feet, and the neighbourhood with their voices. I remember thinking there's nothing like a country rhythm; nothing like home-baked choreography as the women of Kirewa forgot the horrors of domestic violence.

Music and dance had become their assuaging optimism. They sang heartily and danced tantalisingly on; way into the golden dusk, prompting the fireflies to come out and gild the music and dance with their own twinkling.