Loving children (part one)

Something happened on Easter weekend that refuelled my optimism and renewed my faith in what we are capable of as a people when we join hands to make the difference. On that unforgettable Saturday, the Happy Times Dormitory was opened, and officially became the home of 210 orphans and vulnerable children in Luwero District.

It is amazing that the dormitory was exclusively built through the small but selfless efforts of mostly young people determined to be the change they want to see in the world. The campaign to build this dorm started virtually on Facebook headed by E-star Kalenzi and her team at 40 Days Over 40 Smiles Foundation when they asked us to “chip in” with a bag of cement, a window, a brick – whatever you could afford, however little – it was most welcome. And when these 'little efforts' combined, with love at the centre of it all, great things began to happen! Over 44 bags of cement and other building materials were collected worth over 26 million shillings. 

I feel lucky and fulfilled to have been part of the ‘little efforts’ that led to a life-transforming achievement. The dormitory, as that remarkable lady E-star observed, is now proof that together, each one contributing as little as they can, we can make a difference our communities. 

What makes it special is that those children who had no comfortable place of abode now will not only feel a sense of belonging but will also subconsciously be inspired to believe in the generosity and kindness of fellow man, and aspire to do better as they grow up. Remember children make up 100 percent of the world's future, so when they are helped and loved today, they will find it in their hearts to help and love too; they will grow up better people, thus guaranteeing a better future.           

Enduring Christians

I don't know why my Christmas memories have always overshadowed my Easter memories. It makes me wonder what is greater – Jesus' birth or His ascension? It's a question as complex as the debate of what came first between the chicken and the egg. 

As I rummage through my Easter memories, I see chilling drama after chilling drama; blood and gore as Jesus gets crucified. I hear His scream as a Roman soldier with gigantic arms drives a 10-inch nail into Jesus' feet…

When I was a child I envied the priests' vestments

Growing up,  the reenactment of the death, burial and ascension of Jesus was always brought to life by the church’s drama team comprising men and women of the village that were known to me. Their mastery improvisations, creative props and fine acting always brought out the suffering, enduring and eventual victory of Jesus so realistically that it always made me hate on and curse the Pharisees who had nailed Jesus.

Then I would repent and forgive, even love them shortly after the Easter play when the benevolent Fr. Wence would stand behind the magnificent pulpit and deliver the Easter Mass in his sing-song voice. He would preach peace, love, forgiveness and reconciliation with such passion as would move some women to tears. I revered and envied him in his golden vestments and flamboyant  birretta especially when he lifted his hands to the heavens to give benediction to the eager congregants.  

This Easter finds me in Bushenyi, enjoying with my parents,  and rehashing the memories.  I hope it stirs new optimism in you; to know that no trial is great than what Jesus suffered. Every condition however challenging has an expiry date. We just have to endure like Jesus endured on the cross and the power of resurrection that brought him from the grave will give us victory too, and make us enduring champions. 

Happy Easter.

Slowness cannot win the prize

"Fabius is my name. My friends call me "Fabulous Fabius" but I'm not as fabulous with ladies. When I was at Campus, I fell in love with a woman. She was a distinctive girl; skinny and comfortable that way, full of charm, with a sparkle in her eyes that will never be erased from my mind.

Gotta move fast if you're gonna win this beauty

One day she found me reading a novel and sat down next to me. "What book is so engrossing that you ignore beautiful ladies, huh?" she teased in a voice that filled me with thrills. It was the day we became friends. But I still could not bring myself to revealing I was in love. I read many books on dating and picked several tips from magazines on how to profess, but always chickened out.

Then it happened. I spontaneously invited her to my place for coffee. She delightedly told me it was her birthday and asked how I knew. But it was sheer coincidence. She enjoyed her coffee and her joy relaxed me enough to pour out my heart to her: "I love you and want you to be my wife!"

Even on bended knee, my proposal didn't light up her big beautiful eyes. She dropped them instead and said it was too late. She was pregnant, she said, and was going to abandon her course to fly abroad and probably not return. She hugged me goodbye and stepped out. 

The sky outside was gloomy and a raindrop fell on my arm. I walked her in silence to the stage and stood like an idiot till the taxi filled. Then I returned in the now pouring rain with a heart of pain, cursing the man who had impregnated Anna. It was a lesson hard learned. Friend, being slow will never win you a prize. Being slow cost me the only woman I have ever truly loved."

As told to The Optimist

Guarding what's yours

Many years ago when I was in primary school, my gave me a rabbit. It was beautiful; white in colour, with patches of black, and much fur that had a way of standing on its back whenever it was anxious.

It lived in a hutch that my friends and I built for it, from where it gave birth and became a doting mother of eight cheerful little bunnies that often made lively music skipping about and stomping their little feet happily. There is nothing I loved better than watching them nibbling at lettuce leaves!

The world is full of wolves; jealously guard your 'rabbits'

One day, I woke up to find my doe gone and its babies sprawled all over, dead. A wild cat --entuuru -- had broken in and wreaked havoc. I was devastated, and could not be consoled until my uncle gave me another rabbit, and a black puppy with a hulking chest he said would grow into a fierce police dog that would scare prowling predators. In fact I nicknamed that dog Police.

Our shamba boy built for me a much more secure hutch that no beast would break into. Even then, I took no chances. Every night I stood by my bedroom window which faced the new hutch, watching like a night guard. Dangling around my neck was a sling with which I was used to shooting down birds that used to terrorise our millet garden. I was ready, with one shot, to kill anyone who came close to my new hutch and rabbits like the boy David used one sling shot to slay the arrogant giant Goliath in the valley of Elah.

That is how I learned a valuable life lesson. The world is full of foxes that major in stealing and destroying, and a man must strive, always, to jealously guard what he owns.

Save us from the mosquito

The mosquito is the most arrogant, insensitive, vindictive, unapologetic, persistent creature ever created. In the morning, it bites. In the noonday it bites. Even at night it doesn't want to know that I had a long day and deserve my eight hours of uninterrupted sleep that medics recommend. It just never lets me go to sleep.
 

The irritating mosquito cannot let you enjoy your comfortable bed

When  I cried out to my friends what it is the skinny little creature finds irresistible about my ears that it spends sleepless nights trying to whisper into them, they thought I was being cheeky. But in essence I was crying for a solution to my suffering. Not even the insecticide-treated net has helped. Vanishing inside my blanket leaving only my nostrils for breathing has not helped either. The mosquito continues to make my night life hell.

Now my 'beef' is turned on those makers of treated mosquito nets. First of all they don't do any harm to the mosquitoes. Secondly, mosquitoes are so good at maneuvering that they always find themselves inside the net. I am moreover left restless as I toss and turn struggling to breathe inside the net. Then it gets hot forcing me to fling the helpless net like a dirty rag.

The endless wail of the mosquitoes as they circle you like a vulture around its victim is enough to drive anyone crazy. And no amount of swatting and hiding beneath the blankets seems to discourage the persistently irritating creatures.

Even more alarming is the fact in this day and age malaria is still the second leading cause of death in Africa and nothing has been done to inoculate us all against the anopheles. Surely if global doctors and pharmacists put their brains together they can eliminate the bloody vector once and for all? Or would that mean losing
business since there's would be no need for anti-malaria drugs?

Laughing at others

Recently someone asked why people laugh at those who trip. I remembered an incident in primary school when a teacher missed her seat and fell flat on her back. We giggled and never stopped joking about how she had fallen like an elephant. We felt God was punishing her for us because she had been severe with the whip.

It's uncouth to laugh at people facing challenges

Sometimes people laugh to get even. Consider Teddy Ssezi Cheeye. He used to publish a magazine, The Uganda Confidential, that was merciless to the rich and mighty. I recently read one of its old articles about a minister who had been on a mission to accumulate as much money in the shortest possible time until he was caught trying to fleece an investor of billions of shillings. I am sure when Cheeye was sent to the coolers for misappropriation, many people his magazine used to harass must have said, "Let him taste some bitter medicine too!"

Presently the most suffering Ugandans are Manchester United fans. Their team no longer rules the roost in English club football. Their purpose and arrogance of champions is gone. So shambolic is the once great team that it is now called 'Manchested Disunited', and its home ground is no longer Old Trafford but 'Cold Losefford!' Last Sunday when it was humiliated on their own turf by Liverpool, comedian Richard Tuwangye, who is an Arsenal fan, joked: "Be a good Christian and give a Man-U fan a painkiller!"

So, not everyone who falls is laughed at, but only those who have been on high pedestals long enough and needed to be brought back to earth.

Growing through cracks

One day I went to interview one of the top female radio presenters in Kampala and found her crying in the studio. A notorious tabloid had published a slanderous article about how she was cheating and her fiancé had believed the story and canceled their engagement. So distraught and inconsolable was she that it took her a month to conquer her despair and resume work. Later she quit radio and concentrated on her music career and is today doing way better than those tabloid journalists who nearly shattered her life. 

You must learn to grew through cracks

We live in a world of imperfect people most of who are always purposeless like plants floating on water. They are always thinking the worst of others, are quick to jump to conclusions and damn those better than them. You just have to ignore them or grow a tough skin with which to shake off their judgements and wrong reports. Look at Amama Mbabazi. He has been through so much; from Temangala scandal to his battles for NRM Secretary General post with Kahinda Otafire and 'Mahogany Bukenya. Lately the Premier has been criminalised for being perceived to want the top job in the land. But he has always fought his battles with calm confidence, which is the mark of those anchored in optimism.

 Even in circumstances beyond our control; like when a storm destroys our crops, those are moments in the deserts where we are not entitled to stay. Moreover, those who suffer much are destined for greatness if they don't give up like a rose that the late African American rapper Tupac Shakur said grew from a crack in the rock.

Beauty is a soul thing

I have a black-and-white picture of my mother taken when she was about 20. She is wearing a mini-skirt, her mop of jet-black afro hair has a natural luster and her full African lips would leave men gasping! But it is the spark in her eyes; the beauty flowing through them from the inside our that always leaves me exclaiming: "Aah, what a beauty!" Even when life has been grossly unfair to my mother most of her adult life, she retains the irresistible radiance that comes from knowing who you are.

 Recently I asked my mother what the secret of lasting beauty is. She said, "Doing nothing to the beauty you come with from your mother's womb." When I told her that is an old-fashioned secret that has since lost its relevance, she looked me in the eye like a philosopher and said, "That is why today's world has lost it." 

I am not sure I deciphered but I believe the secret is not in the cosmetic substances with the typical Ugandan woman enhances her beauty. Some women almost crucified me when one of my Facebook posts told them that wigs are scary to most men. But truly, beauty does not come from trying too hard. Beauty is embedded in identity; in accepting and appreciating what psychologists call "individual personality"; that natural uniqueness that separates you from the rest.

But when a woman watches an American movie featuring Beyonce and decides her beauty is what she wants, something is bound to go wrong. Duplication will bring depreciation because no man wants a superficial woman. Imitation becomes a limitation because you will never give that original beauty in you a chance to shine. Thus  beauty is a soul thing that cannot be purchased from a beauty parlour.