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Anything but ordinary

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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...
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Thoughts on a humid Sunday midnight

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...
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The abuse culture in Ugandan employment

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If you lived in a desert, a place where finding a liter of water is the equivalent of finding a tonne of gold, you would probably look at water differently from someone that lives by the lake. Your tolerance for algae, pebbles or even mud in your water would be much higher than the one who knows all they have to do is walk three meters to find it. This is the same way the employment culture is in Uganda. I’m not talking about the one percent whose parents own firms and businesses so they are guaranteed employment no matter what. Neither am I talking about the other one percent who through relatives in influential positions are able to jump to the front of any application process. I’m also not referring to the law of the jungle where the strong survive and the weak are destroyed. I’m talking about the remaining majority, the ordinary Ugandan who, after struggling through an average of sixteen years of school, an unpaid internship, one or two voluntary positions, and most probably a f...
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