memoirs of a kangaroo in the sun.

Day one Dear Stella, I am falling into what seems like a bottomless pit. Its pitch black so I can’t see much around me but there is a damp smell and the sound of air rushing fast past me. I struggled at first, frantically moving my hands trying to reach for anything I can grasp, but nothing. After a while, when I realized I was still falling anyway, I let my hands hung limp by my side and decided to see how it goes. I loved you Stella, more than I let show probably. I saw the doubt that flickered across your face sometimes when we were together, a shadow that only lasted a second but I saw it. How could I have shown you what you meant to me without looking weak? Yes, I loved you desperately, it scared me sometimes. I am still falling and it’s getting warmer. I think the pit is narrowing because my fingers are grazing what feels like protruding plant roots. It’s getting more humid too so maybe I am close to the bottom. I didn’t fight the fall Stella; you would have been disappoi...

                                                                               With all the eateries springing up everywhere in Kampala these days, it has become a bit difficult to look forward to going to a new restaurant or food. If you are a restaurant trotter like myself, always looking out for something new and unique, looking for cuisines that will leave you palate refreshed, you might encounter a bit of frustration. I have now learned to look at going to a new restaurant like I would meeting someone for the first time. Each dish has a personality and just like people, some are agreeable while others are not so much. These are some of the food personalities I have encountered so far; -The old faithful  Much as I really despise the use of this word, I feel it...

My mother is my real definition of a full woman. She is the woman who left work every day at lunch time so she could breast feed each and every one of her children. She is also the one who held the fort down when my father was away for one scientific escapade or the other, in one country or another. She is the one who, when asked what he could bring her each time he was away, always answered with either a certain set of saucepans or a particular brand of cutlery. I personally would have asked for shoes or something... My mother is the woman who supported my father when he was running some crazy experiment in one of the bedrooms, she supported him even when she didn’t get it. My mother is the woman who still believes in true love. My mother is the woman who smuggled a pack of sausages for us in her handbag during school visitation days when home-cooked food was not allowed. She is the same person who always called relatives to tell them of an abrupt plan that needed me to retu...

That’s me at the back over there. No, not the one holding the large blue umbrella, further back… Yes, that one, the one with the knowing smile and a few drops of rain on my face from standing just slightly outside the umbrella. It’s okay if you don’t notice me at first, that’s how it usually is, and that’s how I’ve come to like it. I walked about ten kilometers to be at school today, but that’s okay because other than that, I may have had to go without lunch again. I was happy to come today; it’s been five long days at home. Five days without lunch. Five days of no movement because it was that time of the month and I could not afford those fancy sanitary towels that I saw in the television commercial through the window of the brick house that’s just on my way as I walk home every evening. My friends have warned me about passing by that brick house. They say that if one of the older boys catches you there after dark, you have to become his wife. I’m among the lucky ones;...

I'm in awe of this poetry... so the few custom made pieces I have, I intend to share sparingly.  Enjoy :-) I don't want to know about you, About those boys you talk with, on your phone, Or the girls, The ones you flash your heart to, and they laugh and you laugh, The ones you like to try and taste The ones who come and leave Empty tins, rolling Stones While I sit here waiting for you Gathering moss, Those running waters pouring where everyone pours As I quietly wait, running deep for your soul. I don't want to know. You're piercing my midnight thoughts While you and your boys, and girls Exchange morning thoughts each time you meet. You're the sack I poured into Which had holes, The shoes I sought to fill Which had no soles. I loved you deliberately Yours was whenever you felt like it So perhaps I don't want to know how you are And I'm okay with it. But am I okay with it? This bittersweet when you ...

Images of you race across my mind, and then quickly run off to hide, like a shy girl from unknown guests. ‘It’s been long enough’, they say, but what do they know? How can they know when knowing was only ours? A narrow tarmac road, twisting slightly to the left as it slopes, only to straighten out and show the way home; home for a while, home forever; Home. Silence, friendly silence. All sounds combining at once to match the music in my head, or is it in my heart? A mouth with a wide smile, lips that tell of dreams long forgotten and yet coming alive once again, a heart with such kindness, hands that accept, embrace and give. Warmth from every pore. Hands that hold. Hands that work. Hands that lead, gentle hands. A gentle soul. Night lights, of every color; yellow, orange, blue, green; speed by like a man on a mission, a man blown away by strong winds that squeeze through small spaces looking for the quickest smoothest way out. Eyes that stare at the lights, eyes full...

As a writer, you pride yourself in the fact that you are able, on a higher level than the ordinary man, to put into words what exactly it is that you are feeling, what it is that you see, smell, hear, name it. Whether it is a terribly scrumptious heaped plate of spaghetti with a slightly orange tinge that tastes like ocean waves at sunset or a large tree with red and brown leaves that bends slightly to the right whenever the wind blows and has endless trails of tiny black insects harvesting sweet cold nectar up from its pale pink flowers down to its partially hidden roots...you get the picture. That was not the case with the writer’s retreat on Bulago Island over the Independence Day weekend.This retreat was organised by Jackee Batanda of SuccessSpark Brand and Nyana Kakooma of Sooo Many Stories. Don't let the fact that this was the first of it's kind fool you... Imagine a big orange house, with large glass windows that cover almost fifty percent of the walls. Imagine...