We try to convince ourselves that we do not matter enough. Our decisions affect no one but those closest to us. We make those decisions to better their lives and maybe what is left of ours. This is why we do the things we do.
We tell ourselves no one is looking. No one else really cares. No one ever seemed to care before. No one will care now. So it is alright. The decision has to be made.
We try to believe we are giving into a temporary situation. We will not be changed. We can go back to who we were when we need to go back. We are not changing at all. We will be fine. Everybody will see.
In the meantime, we learn to pray. We have not prayed for years.
We did not see that coming.
Monday, July 06, 2015
Tuesday, June 02, 2015
One of the most important art exhibitions Uganda will host this year is taking place at the Makerere University Margaret Trowell School of Industrial and Fine Arts right now.
But you have to hurry, if you wish to see it because it closes on Saturday, June 6.
The Ebishushani exhibition opened on Thursday, May 14, 2015, put together by HIP Uganda.
HIP Uganda is History in Progress Uganda, an exciting, dizzying outfit that has been collecting historic Ugandan photographs for more than a year now. I would say more about them here but that would distract me and you from this important exhibition which you really need to go see before it closes.
Ebishushani showcases the work of two Ugandan photographers, Musa Katuramu (1916- 1986) and Elly Rwakoma (1938- ).
HIP Uganda founder Andrea Stultiens has a soft spot for Katuramu bordering on the starry-eyed but I’ll talk about Rwakoma, who is still alive and hearty and as spell binding a story teller as he could be a photographer even at 76. (A hint: Stultiens believes Katuramu may have been one of the most gifted African photographers working in 1930s through to 1950s, a man who understood the value of the work he was creating with a very basic camera).
But back to Rwakoma.
Rwakoma is why I was interested in Ebishushani, Rwakoma is why I dug up my ageing Olympus recorder and placed it before his lips, Rwakoma is why I want to blog again, Rwakoma is why I’m suddenly going to exhibitions again. Rwakoma is why you should go see Ebishushani.
If you do choose to go to this exhibition…
1. You will see the Yashica camera that took photos on October 9, 1962, on the sunny Tuesday Uganda was declared an independent nation, free of Great Britain rule. We can debate whether Uganda actually got “real independence” long into the night until Umeme turns out the electricity, but the camera is on display during the exhibition! A museum piece not yet tucked away for scholars to pore over.
2. You may run into Elly Rwakoma himself, Newsboy cap stuck firmly on his head, brown eyes twinkling behind thick glasses, grey bearded, with a walking stick but voice booming; ready to talk to anyone who asks a question about his photographs. Rwakoma, a qualified grade two teacher, still has a very sharp memory for dates and people he photographed or met. If you are lucky, he will tell you about some of his “camera-man” escapades in 1960s Uganda or more importantly…
3. Rwakoma photographed nearly all Uganda’s Presidents from Milton Obote to Yoweri Museveni over 50 years, was fortunate to lunch or drink with them. Be a fly on the wall when some major political events were planned or just happened. Rwakoma walks around with 50 years of Ugandan history in his head and in his photographs and it is only when you go see Ebishushani and realise what is on show does not represent even 20% of what still remains to be developed from his film strips that you are forced to whistle in wonder. And hope Stultiens and her assistant Rumanzi Canon can quickly out more Rwakoma work.
4. Rwakoma “accidentally” documented an assassination attempt on President Godfrey Binaisa in Iganga sometime in 1980. Frame by frame. From just before the shooting started to the aftermath with a shaken President Binaisa brought out before the people again to reassure them the president had not been shot dead. But many died. Future President Yoweri Museveni was at the function and in the VIP tent when that shooting occurred, he was a minister of defence, and could have died too. The photographic evidence is on show in the Ebishushani exhibition. I could spend hours gazing at those faces and trying to identify the people in them and their subsequent fates.
5. You will see Uganda pre-1986. Pre-1962. Before the people who lived through those significant years knew they were living through epochal changes. Ebishushani is a chance you will not find anywhere since the destruction of the Uganda Television (now Uganda Broadcasting Corporation) during the privatization fever of the 1990s.
Come see the Ebishushani Exhibition. It is not just a once in a year experience, it may be a once in a lifetime event.
Tuesday, May 05, 2015
Lissingmink is dead!
That is what flashed through my mind when I read the death announcement for Joy Masaba in Monday’s New Vision (May 4, 2015). Not the Joy Masaba name I was reading but Lissingmink! One of the funniest, best bloggers I had ever read, started to know in 2006 and was reading right up to 2010 when her interest in blogging, like many of us petered out as Facebook, then Twitter, then all the rest consumed us and juggling between the many blogging platforms that came up was no longer worth it.
She was bold in print. She spoke tenderly. She loved. She was fierce. She wrote like this…
Monday, May 08, 2006
so sick of love songs...
he is leaving... i am trying to figure out what i am feeling.
"what do you find in him, he is soooo annoying, can you believe who she's going to see...? and the usual grumbles and mutterings went on and and on about this new fellow in my life...well, this was the second phone call, I was going to hook up with him...he just drove everyone nuts with anger, irritation or jealousy- "my God" i thought- "he must be like an enigma of sorts- jackpot!". this is just too interesting to pass over; should keep me on my toes.
After the first date...well, it wasnt a date date- but yeah, there was no looking back... the attention was flattering, his arrogance refreshing, his outlook endearing- till the moon came out, and that was it! like the annoying itch that you can reach- then it was just pain... stumped my feet, lashed my toungue, hissed, pulled silent treatment... but always had amnesia of sorts- yeah must have been, why did i keep on going on 'not a date dates'?
settled into genuine camaradarie... enjoying each others company and knowing when to scream "red flag!!" and the other party sounding the retreat... soon lulled into distant camaraderie... and after 3 weeks, "oh hi, ...ok let's hook up" or bump into each other at one pub or the other...and "where u seated ? what you drinking..." pretty cool.
Then silence... 2 months " want to lose at pool?" cant resist a challenge ok a dare; meet old friends laugh, argue, get really really drunk- was a good night... then the question comes "when did you say you were leaving?" he clears throat, and mumbles something about going to take a piss ...i think hell no "you taking the piss!" "what?" he asks- did i say that out loud? i must be pissed..." see you guys; when do YOU leave? "
he is cowering- weird coz he is like really tall- 'in two days"
"does it make a difference?.. take care, was great.."
phone ringing..." what?" "what do you mean... am I ok...oh you leaving.. no cant see you off, fucking hangover...call, write if you can, bye"
ok, you cannot cry. why, he was a good friend... so, he didnt... doesnt matter!- can someone turn off that goddam radio!
phone again... "jazz tomorrow? baxmba and austrian jazz string quartet..." "ok.. what time?...cool."
we back- yeah, how did you guess? no one likes him either- ...and i aint sick of love songs...lol time to move on.
posted by lissingmink @ 5:16 AM
Notice how she ignored all the grammar rules and you did not mind? She was idiosyncratic like that.
Do you really need to write a carefully written love story, an anthology piece, after reading that? I did not and begin to believe, for Uganda, the best writers were blogging.
Now that she is dead, died Saturday, May 2, 2015, I see condolence messages on her Facebook page that bring rushing back so many of her poignant posts and I see how steeped in the truth of her life they were.
When I told a friend that I had just learned Lissingmink was dead, she was surprised and asked me, “I thought she was Kenyan? Isn’t she?”
No, Lissingmink was not Kenyan but Castro Ambiyo in his grief stricken remembrance gives me a clue why so many thought Lissingmink was Kenyan…
That Joy Masaba went to be with the Lord is sad. Joy was my sister. You see, one night I woke up and decided to go to Uganda to search for opportunity that was in 2006. I got myself living at Wandegea flats just opposite Makerere University main gate and within the estate was this tuck shop where we all shopped and engaged with Professors in discussions through the night. But there was this lady, brilliant in thought and with such a big heart. She had lived in Kenya and had all the mannerisms of a Kenyan. We hit it off, we shared books, watched loads of movies, had gin and tonic together, argued, played chess and scrabble together, she became like my sister so we had those sibling moments. But all else, Joy had a big heart I remember the beef peppered with sugar, cabbage and ugali. RIP Joy Masaba. — feeling sad. (Castro Ambiyo)
I learned through the tearful reminiscences on her wall, she was not simply showing off when she blogged, “Clearing book shelf now, and what do i see, my piano sheet music- i was supposed to get back to that. drat missed the exams this year! sigh...soon, very soon- stroke favorite music book lovingly, hum a few notes, and oh well, where's my Kaweesa CD(topping my charts at the moment).”
Music was a very real part of her life and she had her faithful companions in that activity too like Joan Ngarachu, “This is distressing! You were loved by many. I loved your humor, energy, your smile! and insight. I loved harmonizing with you! This is a tremendous loss. I rest you in God's loving arms! May you rest in peace.”
Here comes the “couple” she blogged about who were in an accident, and omitted, in her post, her kindness to them or how much her visits meant to them, the joy she brought them. First Felly Juma, angry at her friend’s demise, “Pain...gut wrenching, throw up, can't believe it kind of pain! Joy Masaba, we survived a nasty accident and boarding school and all the ish in between!!! Can't believe it you are gone. R.I.P Love. Sleep with angels. May the Lord welcome you safely in His arms.”
Cheek-o Dread was in Lissingmink’s life, in nearly all the windows she opened up, and they made music and merry and he tells us, “Joy Masaba you have been my one true pal since the mid 90s, and I recall the chat we had soon after my accident when I flew to Kla and you had just been discharged from hospital.
I remember the drum sessions & drinking over by that pub near Phoenix, and the many bars we haunted in South B.
I remember the bitchsessions about Touch FM, and the many drinks in Wandegs!!
You my dear friend will sorely be missed!!
May you R.I.P!!
Julliet Opondo speaks for all the rest of us, too busy, absorbed in our lives, who let the important people fade quietly out of our lives, “Lord knows, I enjoyed my 20s. The mischief, the partying...its the kind of stuff memories are made of. The best bit is the fact that you are surrounded by like minded friends that made those years priceless. So it breaks my heart, almost 100 times over when I find out, through fb, that my dear friend passed away on Friday. I am so heartbroken right now, but for the most part I am overwhelmed with guilt. Because if our friendship meant so much to me, I should have kept in touch...All I can do now is cry and slowly process this reality. Joy Masaba, we had some of the most fun times ever. And my biggest regret is that we did not get to pick up and continue this in our 30s. Sleep well dear friend. Today I mourn from the deepest part of my being.”
From her blog, when she used to blog, Lissingmink lived her life fully. She loved, was loved, cherished and was cherished, remembered and is remembered, “I have vivid memories of you, and yes, we should have hooked up in Kisumu when you suggested it, and you have come to Kampala that time- and should have made it to Mombasa too.
I am stuck with your cell number which is off! you shant log on to your IM again and we shall not share another 'piano bar' moment'.
This saturday as you take your final earthly journey, listen out for Beethoven's 'moonlight sonata'- dont make a face, I played that better than you (Dr. Fr. Okello can bear witness!). We can share one last moment.
Rest In Peace Ramu- (you said it came from ramulus right- shall read up my greek mythology, till then, i will still crack up when i hear that name), and thank you for all the moments we shared; they were happy and carefree moments.”
Friday, January 02, 2015
2015 is here I would like to listen to Ugandan music again. I have not tried to listen to any since 2011.
I know who I want to hear from more.
Henry Tigan (put down the weed, pick up the mic. You have too much talent to leave us with singles, no cohesive album. I’m talking to you too Maddox Ssematimba. Show up, give us music we can replay.)
David Lutalo (never got a chance to enjoy this balladeer because mainstream radio play lists rarely ever gave his music in Luganda a chance. He was hardly ever on TV because he did not shoot too many music videos. Ugandan chanteuse Juliana Kanyomozi, asked, once said Lutalo had the best male voice among Ugandan musicians.)
Jamal Wasswa (I don’t want to believe you’re a one trick pony, have one song in you: women are heroic. They are, but there is more under the Ugandan sun to sing about and I hope in 2015 you show you have range. Averse to publicity, intensely private, Jamal can surprise and I hope in 2015 he does. In a good way).
Maurice Kirya (I hope for music finally from Kirya as interesting as the ideas that fall so easily from his lips. A few times he has fleshed a song with themes Ugandan song writers seem unaware exist: the Ugandan immigrant experience, a good Coffee cup experience) but too often he retreats from his own profundity. I hope in 2015, it is not just hard-core Kirya fans who know this singer can be a reckless frontline revolutionary).
Tshila (Her Sippin’ from the Nile is among the strongest music albums ever crafted by a Ugandan musician. That was nearly a decade again. She may not have the most powerful voice but she knows how to make the most of what she was gifted with. Don’t keep us waiting longer than Sade, Tshila. We need you. I need more new music from you).
Naava Grey (Prefers to let her music be her presence everywhere. More productive than Tshila, I hope in 2015 Grey will be heard by more music lovers. She is a special pleasure to listen to.)
Tuesday, September 09, 2014
1. The People’s Bachelor by Austin Bukenya: 42 years since it was published, still the best book to give to your friend, brother, sister, lover who just got into University. Especially Makerere University in Kampala, where it is set. Those three years whiz past, The People’s Bachelor slows them down, breaks down for you how your 20s will shape the rest of your life. Youth is not wasted on the young. The old ruin youth.
2. The Kalasanda Stories by Barbara Kimenye: What could it have been like to live in a small village in 1959 Uganda; before independence, before the wars, before the dislocation and acquaintance with the bitterness of exile? Kimenye takes you there, in her nostalgic look back. Sentimental, yes, cloying in places yes but it is all heart and it is true.
3. Understanding Uganda by Timothy Kalyegira: read this in manuscript. Kalyegira, like Reverend Innocent JamesOtto, tramped Uganda on his own resources before he wrote this short book barely 150 pages, texting his astonished discoveries back. The book maybe short but compressed in those pages are a lifetimes observations on Uganda by one of her more interesting thinkers, malcontents and lovers. No one writes better than an exasperated lover.
4. The Secret Country by David Kaiza: not available in the public domain, sadly, but I have read it. Kaiza is a great explainer. Reads, absorbs, does not regurgitate but enhances. One of the few writers who almost talks better than he writes, if you can follow his dizzyingly fast train of thought. But no, I’ll have the writing. Especially the essays and this cross cutter that unites Uganda and Kenya, exploring the sartorial savvy and history of the Karamoja region.
5. Run by Ernest Ssempebwa Bazanye: status uncertain, think a few excerpts have appeared. There are passages in this short novel that sear themselves onto the mind’s eye so that you will never drive down Jinja road without quite remembering how these young Bazanye corporates looked at Kampala and life in their Uganda before 2008, before tear gas was part of the downtown restaurant menu, bakoowu was in the slang and Eddy Kenzo had any sort of career.
6. Between Heaven and Hell by Jackee Batanda: I remember reading this and thinking, she got it, she got, if only she can keep it. Not easy to write from the other sex’s perspective convincingly but Batanda was able to do it in Between Heaven and Hell, her best short story of all that I ever read.
7. The Lesson of the Vulture by Sam Jude Obbo: All the best poets I know in Uganda quit or die young. I don’t know why. Obbo quit the form, after this perfect poem on the difficult relations between men and women and their desires when falling in love. Not easy to find this as it was published on the Makerere University Masscom Online platform that has since undergone many changes and probably lost a lot of the first content.
8. Three Levels of Elevation by Akiyo Michael Kasaija: Published in Kwani? When a poet writes prose, you can expect dense word play, undergrowth of meaning and allusion to sort through: a word and intellectual feast. Three Levels of Elevation is that, stuns you less than 10 paragraphs in and keeps hammering away. A story I did not want to come to the end of.
9. The Ugandan Paradox by Joachim Buwembo: Cannot consider this book without its sibling ‘How to be Ugandan,’ and reads like a continuation. A journalist takes you by the hand through his beats and tells you the stories his newspaper column would not let him tell, from myths to subjects he observed, interviewed, pursued and was sometimes pursued by. Too short!