For God and My Country; The Uganda flag, the Court of Arms, that Kob and Crested Crane, lakes and rivers, coffee and cotton.
Black Yellow Red. Black for my skin tone, red for the blood-sisterhood and yellow to represent the sun that rises and sets on my horizon everyday of my life – as i know it.
All of these are the things that i know and identify with. All of the things that i had to know and identify with. And yet everything, everything is to be replaced. or maybe already has been. with new signs, new symbols, new mottos, new beliefs. An adopted accent, a new languange or maybe two to pick up, a look that am only happy to embrace, yet …
lately, for the past two weeks that i have been away in coldland, sleeping fully clothed and spending most of my days inventing ways of warming my self up. and i did find a way, on day number two; Activity: man-watching.
There were days in my past life when I would close my eyes and imagine the perfect man, (physically), but somehow, the picture was never clear, always hazy. Well i have now seen a clear one. clear ones. very many of them- clear perfect man Pictures; walking, talking, laughing, and breathing.
And in-between these episodes and my alone and cold nights clothed from head to toe, I… well, watched the news and got bored of the debate (by the ordinary people) on whether or not Obama is Muslim or Christian. Even Mrs. Clinton wasnt excatly sure; “as far as i am concerned he is a practising christian…” ooh, his middle name is Hussein, lets all get scared
I got sick of the suicide bombers (i am very liberal, and i genuinely respect every single person and what they stand for. i know that because you are different, because you hold values separate from mine, it doesnt make you less or better than me. it just makes you another person, a human being, just like myself. But i have failed, (and believe me i tried), to respect suicide bombers and their organisations or even see the sense in what they claim to stand for. And i am a girl who holds a certain amount of respect and even a somewhat
physical attraction for Richard Arinaitwe.
I have also found myself praying, really, for all the injured and the died in the Tibetan demostrations.
It has been a two whole weeks devoid of Hollywood drug overdoses, the latest movie and Mrs Rancic. I had, almost voluntarily gone back to my t.v habits of ‘before the war in Iraq. ( i stopped watching the news channels the very day CNN decided to screen the war in Iraq. truth)
I read in the news about His Excellence the Libyan president’s visit. And i laughed. I laughed like i always do about and at the game politics.
He had come to open, the already opened Gadaffi mosque. Yet he had said no to opening this same mosque not so many months past. He hadnt been here in the last seven and half years, the East African mentioned.
I actually, seriously, played all my favourite movies, Barbie Rampazel, Cinderalla and Mulan. But still this story couldnt stop playing in my head- loudly
Once upon a time. There once was a beautiful queen. she had two children. she had no husband. Tragic death. she was young and again, very beautiful.
There was a strong and powerful man in a country far, far away. He took liking to this queen. he promised to provide for her and her to children material possesions and protection. to give her every thing that she needed if only….
But there was another man, maybe not equally strong and powerful but strong and powerful enough to keep things under check. just below the dots on ‘if only…’
There was not to be a happily ever after. Well until black gold came into the mix.