Friday, December 28, 2007

Making New Friends at The End Of the Year...

Monday, December 10, 2007

Hours to Go!!!

Tuesday 6:30pm, Entebbe, I’m coming home. Maybe for good. I’m coming home. My wandering days are far from over, they never will be. But I’m coming home. This December I will be breathing the same air Uganda breathes, the same paranoia, your day to day fears and cares will be mine. I will wonder if I and all who I love so dearly will survive Ebola and when President Museveni will come out and say something about it, stop being a poster boy revolutionary and show he cares, he is as worried about this as we are.

December will find me in National Theater to watch the again revamped Obsessions I met in Juba two days ago Beijing Hotel Juba, Ronnie Mulindwa still the brain behind that remarkable dance and singing troupe in a seat engrossed again in their dreams, I maybe seated next to you on my right because on my left she will be seated. Set date. 21st December.

Botanical Gardens Visitor, am keeping my promises this December, I’ll be there Yusufu, Thursday afternoons with my notebook scribbling with my Xuezi blue ink blotting pen my notes so that you can leave me alone to sit on that blackening wood bench to watch the lake once more. Before I come here on Saturday afternoon with her, the Gardens behind where I rented a house for her, packed with afternoon snacks we will not eat because she says I never let her get bored enough to want to snack on Pringles anymore, I will love her madly.

Life is not theory to me. Divorce laws in Uganda are my brother who is getting married this December and I wonder if he is going to be alright though I’m younger than he is and I have never told him how much it has honoured me that he chose me to be his Best Man. One of my few believers that I was not completely madandcrazy, he still wants me a part of his life and I wonder if he will be okay. I like the woman he is marrying. But I worry about him. I have seen his heart, held its gasping throbbing life in my bare palms in a night we thought he was dying and my father was weeping the first tears I ever saw in his eyes, living in that flat in a part of town we have not talked about since we left almost two decades ago. I remember that night. My curse is I do not forget. I love as much as I remember.

Blu*3 singing Working Woman in the best album of 2007 is my mother’s life. A woman among many who gave up her dreams I could have the chance to be Iwaya. Working Woman is MySun in my blogroll, few have I met so courageous as she is. Minty said somewhere that I used to have all the connecting links and I do not seem to have them anymore, Minty I do still have them, I just care so much more, I want them all to be alright, MySun teaching me that I can love all the world. I used to know all this from Percy Shelley but I needed MySun to remind me. I’m saying, Tandra, thank you and you know why, speaking to you bringing a little bit of my faith back, I leave more my clues for the wary than I should but you have changed my life.

Countryboyi said that I write about love too much. He recanted. But it stung. Let me explain myself. Writing, for me, is love. I cannot write about that which I do not love in some way. I’m listening to The Reason by Hoobastank praying there’s a reader who reads me line for line, I wrote this paragraph for you because only you perceptive reader would understand. I do not write about love in the sexual sense only though sex is oxygen to me. Clues to Iwaya here like never before. I could never live without physical sex. I’m just one of those people, will never change. I know this as certain as the sun will be in the Ugandan sky at some point today, I will see a flower by a roadside that will make me wish I had a digital camera, I will want to hear a Kiiba Herbert joke and Busingye Edward I still miss you more and more. My past is my future, inescapable ways revealed, before Destiny set. Ishta speaking of decisions taken before she was born, I’m taking them for the changelings that will be my children. I’ve found a reason to show a side of me that You did not know/ and the reason is You.”

I discovered Joy Division this year, this past month. Ian Curtis, studied myth, I was not too convinced. Strange nights those, Juba dreaming, watching The Notorious B.I.G on youtube, watching the Hit ‘Em Up video for the first time, grab your glocks when you see Tupac/ Call the cops when you see Tupac, appreciating that live Tupac was better, B.I.G was so shy it’s amazing he ever managed to shuffle onto a stage, but that voice remains! Have listened to Robin Thicke who reminds me of Justin Timberlake in so many ways, a singer I like in spurts of drunken glee; but I go back again and again to the original, the King who opens all The Doors of perception, Jim Morrison. We are not dark prophets of Paris nights dreaming of nights we tried to die anymore, we’re in the carnival of life again dancing wildly, husky lusty voice singing,

Don’t you love her madly
Don’t you need her badly
Don’t you love her ways
Tell me what you say

Don’t you love her madly
Wanna be her daddy
Don’t you love her face
Don’t you love her as she’s walking out the door
Like she did one thousand times before

To be on the march!!!

Love Her Madly

L.A. Woman, 1971, The Doors, Jim Morrison full throttle! Sunday through Monday counting the mad hours, I’m coming home!

See Me Change.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Juba Last Days

Baby, when we party we party!

There have been many nights and some slipped in afternoons of this, in restaurants rump leaning into the Nile. I’m one of the riders in the storm, everyday; this land will kill me. I have a week to go baby, and the slow mental arsenic poisoning has been upped. I’ve got to make it, somehow. Danger lurks everywhere and I never told anyone how much each day when my sweaty back sinks into my bare mattress, I’m shaking, my fingers tracing every line in my face, my voice in my throat caught, I can’t believe I have made it through another day, I will find no sleep until elbow sunk in the mattress, on my side again, I take several sips of this gin I have stocked up on. Oh yeah, baby, it’s that bad and I never told you. I don’t know how I could begin. I will never be able to tell you. I know I will look into your wonderful laughing face, and I will never be able to tell you the horrors I see and pass through everyday, I will make it all funny, I will make you laugh, baby, because this is why you love me so, I make you laugh good.

I know you’ll be laughing telling you about the night I walked half Juba, abandoned, and I don’t want to go into the details because into this world we’re thrown. Baby, you’ll find it funny. Killers on the road hunting for foreigners Customs Market brutality, Computer room detentions at Immigration borders kicked in the ribs while trying to squat as ordered, Baby, there is a joke in all this. How many VCT Centers in Juba, girls whose sero status is known through the grapevine looking for the one they had not thought of looking for before, now that the years are passing and the Juba dust cannot hide the wrinkles anymore want one man but all the men want is a one night stand, Home & Away bar and restaurant parked outside the gate 3am, give me a quick one in the car, no one will see, I got my Number One condoms here, double cabin blue pick up rocking side to side, never to call again because this network is so unreliable, Baby, you will be dying of laughter, I have laughed at the sights I have seen. Baby, I have seen more than I ever wanted to see.

How strangely wonderful, ironic even, I will be craving a return barely two weeks in Kampala, muddle water gazing into the future, whiskeys whose names I did not know in my system, I’m terrified of a Kampala return for so many reasons, Kampala has become too small, will I ever wander your streets rapt wondering like I used to, Baby you never got that of me. The desperate dust wind swirling lands are not in your streets, they have always been in my soul, Baby I’m a road man, will never cease motion, don’t love me so much. I don’t think you will know me when you see me again. Talking more than I ever talked, less tolerant, more impatient, time’s winged chariot brushes my left ear, and I know my time is running out, and Baby, it’s not that I’m afraid, I want more than I have ever wanted, I don’t know if you have all I want, I want so much more, so much. I do though still know this; I still find the whole world in a kiss from your lips.