This Post is for PetesMama, who was the first and original Muse. I’m thankful still and that you’re blogging again fills me with happiness I can barely describe.
I’m incapable of being unfaithful. Fact. I have tried and failed. This is the one post I should not be writing but am dilly dallying before I discover if my latest met deadline is approved and am so nervous I will talk about anything but that deadline so I will tell you. I’m incapable of being unfaithful. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I have a friend, close since I was 16, who thinks it is a major failing. He says the p**** missed because of my failing is inestimable. There was a time when I was even top of a list girls in my school had made of the guy to seduce to prove that they were the queen seductress in our school. I saw the list that explained so much.
I remember walking home that Saturday afternoon on Balintuuma road, elation and confused disturbance mingling. Before I got the job that I currently hold, I met the Zikusooka that Philly Lutaaya sings about in Nkoye Okwegomba, did I ever tell you? A Saturday afternoon before I went to Botanical Gardens alone with a bottle of Uganda Waragi alone and did not leave until proper dark night had fallen. Never disguising that the girl I was going back home to was the only girl I could ever go back home too. Is it somewhat not right that I have never been unfaithful?
After Nkoye Okwegomba, I was listening to Sarah Zawedde’s Kambeere Nawe, a woman who was a familiar acquaintance when I used to work in National Theatre and she was their publicity secretary or some sort of title where a journalist basically has to buy you lunch every time he wants to talk to you. That is if a major beer or telecommunications company is not already camping at your door. I remember her vividly like I remember those walking back home evenings, waiting out Monday evening until the National Theatre end of the month music extravaganzas jam on the green had started; before everyone had heard of Theatre Factory. I remember all those days when Philip Luswata was more in Uganda than out of, when I was the only one who knew Makutano Junction would be on Ugandan television soon and I actually used to sit and watch TV for hours. Not needing a newspaper guide to recite what was on today.
Evenings I have never told to anyone about how I tracked down Red Banton to ask him how he had written Noonya Money and found in the underground of a building after where Cineplex Wilson Street used to be, a man who remembered his glories and was content again with the comforts of weed because no one would help him relaunch a career with innovations that had saved Ragga Dee. And he spoke with no bitterness though he was walking back to some village he now lived in. No newspaper eager for a story of a musician whose influence I hear to this day when I download Lugaflow songs and rhyming posers.
I could tell you about the Rubaga morning with Afrigo’s Moses Matovu, saxophone tooting amidst the boda boda horn honking, and Wandegeya meetings when Ugandan musicians still believed they could control their business, before the PAM Award machines and Mbiire came and took over with and Kampala Music School looks everywhere but home. I have been there.