week-ends!

the rule for all my weekends especially Saturday, was stay in all day, clean up and just be lazy all day flipping channels, eating and sleeping. but of late, its been filled with scrabble games, meetings, tea somewhere, dinner, and the latest,an exciting BBQ (last weekend at my place..)it was great hanging with my boys and a few of my gals and getting them to mingle and know each other; and like i hadn't had enough nyama kyoma, i over did myself again on Sunday with my relatives! and this weekend started on a Thursday:
the birde and groom expo dinner was lovely. i am not a sucker for weddings and their nitty gritties but i loved the display and the models!
when i get the pics i will let you in on a model i totally loved. she was the definition of graceful on the catwalk while a number of them fought to sway and look fierce... which just didnt cut it! but her..., her!Lorrrrrd! she floated with ease and elegance and made me want to rewind time back to the day when i effortlessly graced the catwalk in school. she was a goddess, i totally landed for her performance. then there was one i anticipated a fall...and she did stumble. i could imagine how terrible she felt as she went behind stage prolly saying 'oh my God, oh My God! I ALMOST FELL!" She didnt surface again till the last show case from Sylvia Awori.Stella Atal, Brenda Maraka had unique interesting wedding gowns to display, i thought they were gurrreeeeeaaat!
anyway then a sickle-cell fund-raising dinner on Friday that knocked 'Boston Legal' off my 'to do ' lists was lovely too, i had never seen Navio perform till then. and just when i thought i would sleep in Sato, i still had stuff to do, and appointments to keep. the highlight being meeting up a good old friend who came in to the country from the states three weeks ago. it was great catching up over dinner at Centinary Park before he dropped me off home. and today i just want to go home and chill, long week ahead , so much to do and so much to pray over, wisdom to glean and 'to-do-priority' lists to make!
enjoy your week people.
'your life is only as beautiful and fulfilling as you want it to be!'
mwaaah!

Hey Jimmy have you heard....A thousand words

There was this particular folk-acoustic song that used to send chills down my spine, goose bumps up my arm and thaw my heart into a messy puddle of molten butter at my feet. It was called, ‘nothing to say ‘by an Andrew Peterson (or was it Peter Anderson?). Goooossh that song! Well there was the verse always started with ‘hey jimmy,’ (it’s as though he is having a light yet thoughtful conversation with a friend or cabman called ‘jimmy,’ about what he sees through the window, as they drive by) and the second verse was

‘Hey jimmy,
Have you heard?
A picture paints a thousand words
That photographs don’t tell at all’

I took that as gospel truth for sometime till I saw photography that rendered Andrew Peterson’s (or Peter Anderson’s) lyrics null and void.
While my sisters and step mom answered to the call of estrogen by responding to my pap’s ‘Santa Claus’ statements, of what-can-I –get- u- this- holiday-when –I- am- in-town.’ With cheery answers of ‘perfume, gold jewelry, shoes, etc,’
Mine, (I always viewed myself as some future travelling photographer) was-most times when I could decide- ‘a camera, a lap top, driving lessons. Okay a car! (Lol, I never got there.)
Anyway so my very first camera (that I still own) was my best kept possession, my sis used to laugh and tease me on how I had everything in my room and life so disorganized except that camera. My love for art and forever dabbling in pieces, sketching people in my class, at restaurants, in taxis…was a passion; still is…propelled me to that point where I believed I could defy Andrew Peterson(Peter Anderson)… And have my photos say a thousand things. Besides, I had been totally smitten by a book on campus on award winning photos in Reuters and various journalists of the year for pictures that to me spoke volumes! I got obsessed with sepia and black and white forms of picture but I had to deal with the limitations of my own camera and make the best of it.
I took pictures of landscapes wherever I went. There was one I thought I liked; while taking my usual evening strolls in the neighbourhood, I came to this flat grassy ‘scape that usually fascinated me with the serenity it emanated. And within its silent peaceful moment, a beautiful exotic cat strayed right to the middle of the field. Along with the breeze that caressed the grass as in humble obeisance willing to be swept away- the cat, seemingly sensing the air, sat back on its hunches taking it all in. And we all as one drunk in the only thing that that moment communicated. PEACE.
And CLICK went my camera, capturing and saving an unforgettable period.
But not long after I found another captivating picture.
My tourism class traveled every semester break and this particular time we were heading to Queen Elizabeth National Park. We stopped in kasese, it was terribly hot and we were all dying to step out for a leak, stretch, some food, water, or just to stop. I always sat at the front next to the window and I kept in, staring at the buildings, dilapidated, old colonial structures lay scattered about. I can’t remember what exact town it was, but it was easy to tell that a large population was Indian. I was enamored by the dirty poles once white, the dome shaped roofs and archways, the wind and dust as they swirled against the heat and the feet of the residents. It was all too picturesque. But what totally took my breath away and truly redefined that ‘a picture says a thousand words …’ phrase was a few feet from me… a huge once white pole stood some way off from the bus. It was still jagged with orient designs that disappeared into its pealing plaster but quite visible and two children played round it, trying to catch each other as they raced round and round that pole; a 7 or 8 year old Indian girl and boy both about the same age, prolly her friend kept abreast with her in their little game of ‘chase’. She soon grew weary and leaned back against the pole her shoulder length dark disheveled hair blown haphazardly by the wind, her little worn orange floral dress in curious orange hues, clung loosely to her little frame and her black eyes gazed far far out like in some blank reverie; oblivious to us, foreigners and everyone else. The little boy hardly tired out, came up behind the pole and started pulling lightly, teasingly at her windblown strands, tapping her playfully on the arm, nudging a bit roughly and she wakes from her daydream and returns his pokes but unenthusiastically before returning to her position and almost in a non irritated way shoving her head away occasionally as he played with her strands, leaning out onto one side of the pole. Then he stopped bored I guess, or sensing his playmate’s mood and stared out as she did, leaning out to her against the pole behind her.
Click!
The story in that was volumes for me and I needed it on camera, I saw ‘innocence,’ friendship beyond colour and culture,’ and well, at a an advance level, ‘a love story in 10 years,’
I never kept the film, I procrastinated developing it and watched in horror as it got destroyed by some leakage on to it…that killed me!
But I hope my words described my most captivating moments of camera ever.

the week that has been AND the inside story

'government must be afraid of her people, not people of her government." V for Vendetta

and Museveni asks Kabaka 'why havent you been picking up my calls in the last two years?" in a public address yeeyee!?

MONDAY
the Buganda saga begins, rather mildly though, all i know is the Kabaka is to visit bugerere and kayunga, etc and the UPDF insist they must be deployed to guard the dude but Buganda PM Segona could have eaten dirt before Kulaigye brought his green armed men. in other devastating news, probably a lovers tiff resulting in death on 8th floor worker's house. shudder. shudder.
My morning news week plus doubling over with articles to write and hand in for FLAIR and an interesting interview with Sarah Zawedde over lunch and then meet up with a pal over nitty gritties till late. my phone reminds me about my younger sister's bday. start making plans

TUESDAY
Buganda saga continues but i am really not following, i am doing some story on EAC and Education for my producer, Bitamazire stands me up for an interview. i decide not to call Karooro Okurut either for an already scheduled interview. hand in articles. make appointments to do proof reading of the Mag raw on Thursday. call up lil sis and tell her i wanna take her out for a movie or pizza. (meanwhile its a day too early for her Bday, my phone makes the reminder like two days earlier). take her for pizza anyway. Get dropped home by a buddy.I have no power.

WEDNESDAY
still no power! meanwhile another death at Workers house; 14th floor this time.murder? suicide? not known but the pictures were horrific, his brains practically gashed out of his split head! someone teases me that any day i wanna die i should go to worker's house!
The Buganda youth are beginning to boil, there is tear gas in Kayunga.
I MISSED 'Iam Arl,' BECAUSE there was no power. wished my sis happy birthday again.
went home early, too sleepy to think.watched twilight again. got scared. no power you know.

THURSDAY
Buganda saga rages on.done with news and a late lunch... the scuffle starts. i head to vision to do proofreading...and i am there till 9.15pm. cant go anywhere. my elder sis is calling like every five minutes till i get home at 9.50pm; where are you? are you safe? come home if you cant go to your place. will you get a taxi? no, don't risk your life. i have a bed at home. tomorrow will sort itself out. no, come home!every five minutes. i am so touched by her concern. Another buddy in wandegs calls asking if i am Kawa. time flies so fast all i can see is the pandemonium in town from NBS, Big Brother Forgotten completely as everyone starts calling home to find out how the kids, the hubby is etc. 8.30pm, another buddy calls asks where i am. i say work. he asks if i will get a taxi home. i say i am kawa, i can even do a boda from industrial area, he is utterly shocked and offers to pick me up and take me home if i fail to get a taxi, strongly urging me not to use a boda. i get home by Taxi anyway... in like 15mins all together (we should have riots everyday. clear streets!) he calls again, i say i am safe, young sis texts to find out if i am okay, older sis calls. i am fine and got a lotta more proof reading to do tomorrow.

FRIDAY
September 11th and we just had our September 10th! yesto...
dreading to be up at 4.45. wish i can call the driver and tell him not to come.i wake up in stages. totally exhausted! the news all over the televisions even in outside countries is about yesterday's chaos!. i quarrel with the watch man about the newsroom keys. meanwhile as i type, i haven't had news this morning, no one has come, no camera person. the streets are almost deserted. yesterday, Nateete police station was set ablaze, strangely only police and foreigners were attacked. in Kayunga, it was tight, radios CBS broadcast the riots live! the control person came in late complaining of transport and Baganda (she is a Muganda). the whole news room is so not around... not a very usual sight on a Friday. so anyway in a moment, i will fix me tea, and continue reading Archer's 'A Twist In The Tale' then go on to proof read at 2pm till late....the only highlight for this adrenaline-rush-packed week is good food, Boston Legal and a much anticipated sleep-in!
so how's been you're week?

so
UBC was the only TV that didnt run the riot story on any bulletin. it was number one
story everywhere else...but it being a government institute, panic run amock when the story run in swahili, the powers above were sending messages at record speed to newsroom, not to run the stories. i never saw the admin so involved. anyway...await sackings and whatnots from the preferred network.

tHE CoNTRoVErsIAL 'v'' song

i missed the phat fest and i sooooo wanted to go, i actually would have been able to watch Emmanuel Jal, i think he is a great aRTIST, HIS RAP STYLE IS TOOO WOH! I first heard his song Bakiwala on Power Fm it was on the count down then my utmost fave has been 'shirts too short,' lol the tune, is just groovy, his rap style is across btn P-diddy ( in the days he used to rap) and something else i cant yet place my fingers on...but hes really good and he is soooooo real... when he talks about his life as a child soldier and how his life was saved more than once by God alone, it is remarkable. he is a born again christian too.
any way,he performed as late as midnight on the phat fest, on friday and (i heard) christians were sorely traumatized by his song 'vagina" ( i was sooo amused!) he made it worse by telling guys to sing along to the song. i pitied the christians who were not used to certain body parts being audaciously sang especially form a gospel artist....it sounds like blasphemy... however the message was what mattered to me, as graphic and candid as the language used... that was the idea..to get the message across



part of the interview with emmanuel jaal

B.E.: It takes a few years. And then there's this incredible song “Vagina.” Amazing lyrics. [“To Mr. Oil, Diamond, and Gold miner, stop treating Mama Africa like a vagina. She's not your whore, not anymore. You take the riches and you leave the people poor.”] Tell me about that.

E.J.: Well “Vagina” was inspired by Blood Diamond. And also the issues in Africa, what is killing us. Gold. Diamonds. Oil. Those are the things. It's a message for both the companies and the leaders of Africa, the presidents. Because a lot of people don't know what is really going on in Africa. They don't know what is crippling Africa. So because I'm from there, I know what's going on. And this is a song that tells you the real truth. And people have to judge for themselves.
so what you think? i thought it was okay!

you can read the whole interview here

a breather

It’s well past midnight and I should be in bed, I told myself today I would turn in early, not after writng right into the wee hours of the morning yester night and suddenly don’t want to stop writing. Its rather serene and the words seem to be at the tip of my brain rolling off along to the freshly ground album I am so wholesomely listening to. It’s for a review, actually I have three albums lined up for a review and I need to listen to them tonight, at least… so it prolly means no turning in real soon, even though a part of my brain tells me I need to…stop.
I just tried…
Took a gulp of ice cold water and retraced my steps to my room , leaving the lap top on… big mistake, somehow everything I wanted to say kept wriggling out the cage I had built within to keep them in. but I know the sad tales of keeping in what I want to write…morning light comes and like little vampires, every word, every expression dies at the light of dawn. I don’t understand the relationship my imagination and writing posses with the night and the dark. Sometimes I will turn over in bed and scribble it in my journal or poetry book or whatever papers at my bed side I long since learned to keep stationary close by to prevent rapid extinction of my lipsticks and eye pencil that I would grope for from my shelf in the dark along with sheets of rudely torn paper from anything that was a book.
I got smarter.
So I am rambling, just about anything and everything.

Scent

The music makes me think of scent


Barbecuing steak over a hot charcoal stove on a hot hot urban Saturday afternoon on the rooftop of a beautiful flat roofed double storey house... .The delicious scent of half charred, almost ready marinated meat, potatoes and pepper, mingled with the slight dry breeze that swirls around the barbeque guy, sweaty, strong masculine body odor , not necessarily repulsive…more meaty, manly… weird.
And there is light lovers rock wafting teasingly from the amplified player through the wide open doors and windows of the apartment meshed and merged with giggling, loud jesting and off key singing…
The scene changes but it’s always hot…



Something about Freshly Ground is the image of sultry heat it paints,
And with it blithe, adventurous colours of a sunburned afternoon, straw hats, sandy beaches, barefeet, loose see-through clothing and gaudy sarongs, tough cowhide sandals, flashy beaded bracelets.
I breathe…
Hot arid air, the temperature is only helped by the wind, dry monsoon winds that swirl and twist the sand...Into your eyes… sun glasses, huge and sundry… and all the while, sweat dampened sticky bodies, aching for a dip in the cool beckoning sea water…
And the barbeque guy..
Oh yea…
In rudely shredded khaki shorts, bare chest, constantly wiping the sweat off his brow, as his long fork prods into the pieces of meat turning them over, aware of the wanton eyes of the holiday makers, he can hear their stomachs growl, the juices flow fast as they lick their dry lips. He smiles…
The music plays on… ‘Freshly Ground’
The young merry makers laugh, pretend to mime...dance clumsily… a young man steals stealthy glances...Side long glances at a girl that pretends not to notice. She knows. Her friend already told her he was crunching on her.



I breathe…
Hot arid, sea salt air…
It’s all in the music...