tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55366002898294373732024-03-08T16:13:43.590-08:00The Exodus of WhateverUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-38735549110475965222010-05-05T02:45:00.000-07:002010-05-05T02:46:42.545-07:00Beverley Nambozo Poetry Award school projectThe BN Poetry Award began in 2008 with the aim of promoting poetry for development amongst women. Since then, Rt. Honourable Rebecca Kadaga has taken over as patron. It was registered under the name Beverley Nambozo Poetry Award under the number 169929 in November 2009 pursuant to and in accordance with the provisions of the Business Names Registration Act and the rules made thereunder. The owner of this is Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva. The project’s goals will be met by partnering with various stakeholders in the financial and literary sectors for example GILGAL Family Network, Lantern Meet of Poets and Entrepreneurship clubs of schools. Since inception, the project has evolved to meet the financial and literary needs of both male and female students in schools through linking poetry to financial literacy. After several sessions, students will submit poems that speak largely on saving, investment and the culture of money. These poems shall then be reviewed by a panel of judges after which they will be printed and distributed amongst other schools in the region.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-30601333487488430692010-03-15T03:11:00.000-07:002010-03-15T03:12:09.174-07:00WHERE IS MY MUSE?Where is my Muse? by Nambozo<br /><br />My best poetry has been inspired and created during times of intense sadness. The state of not having anything to smile about is such a high motivator to write. It was so easy for me then to seek refuge from the prison walls of structure, traffic rules, escaped dreams and misunderstood ambition. I would cry and watch my tears crystallize into verse and as the words appeared and reappeared on paper, my life would take on a new meaning.<br /><br />I’m often asked about the reason behind my poems like Al Qaeda, In the Restaurant and We made Love on Mt. Elgon and my response is simple. It is easy to fantasize when you don’t have. It is easy to create that which is not. To make something out of nothing. Sadness makes me create. Emptiness makes me want to feel full and so I write.<br /><br />Now, it is difficult to write because I’m happy almost all the time with a wonderful husband and daughter and great friends. I personally don’t like writing about happy things. Some of my worst poems are love poems, poems about singing birds and smiling flowers. A poem for me should not just make me smile, but make me frown, cringe, throw up, vent, consider and reconsider. Poems are personal and these are all personal opinions.<br /><br />I do not miss being depressed and always being in want and need. It’s an awful state. I just miss the creative energy that it gives me. I know there is a muse for me somewhere. I’m still searching.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-34252364475749376702010-02-14T22:57:00.001-08:002010-02-14T23:05:11.494-08:00Valentine's DayThis year's Valentine's was so so much better than last year's. Last year my husband, 4 month old daughter and I went to the Shires, on top of Tank Hill and saw the view of the whole city at night. Quite romantic. But it was very ordinary and common and I do not do ordinary. People who know me will tell you that. Yesterday,I stayed at home with my daughter who was a little unwell, I watched Desperate housewives, baked cookies and when my husband came back from church, we had katogo for lunch and stayed home together the whole day. Different and exhilarating. I wonder if next year's will top that.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-19679330803576467052009-11-06T03:40:00.000-08:002009-12-15T04:34:57.497-08:002010 BEVERLEY NAMBOZO POETRY AWARD2010 BEVERLEY NAMBOZO POETRY AWARD<br /><br />Push Your Pens to the Pinnacle!<br /><br />Beverley Nambozo Poetry Award is here again this time linking poetry to financial literacy and so we invite you to push your pens to the pinnacle. The theme for the 2010 Beverley Nambozo Poetry Award is Money and Culture.<br /><br />Criteria: <br /> Ugandan women residing in Uganda from the ages of 18 to 45 <br /> Unpublished poems between 15 to 30 lines <br /> Poems must be in English following the theme, Money and Culture. Translations from local languages are acceptable.<br /> Submit your poems by email to ugpoetryaward@aol.com or by post to P O Box 8470 Kampala, Uganda<br /> Typed poems must be in Times new Roman size 12 single spaced. Handwritten poems must be in blue or black ink.<br /> Submissions will be accepted from November 15th 2009 to March 31st 2010<br /> We accept up to 3 submissions.<br /> Include the title of poem, your name, phone contact and email address separate from each actual submission.<br /><br />PRIZES:<br />The first three winners will receive 250 USD, 150 USD and 100 USD respectively. In addition, all first six winners will receive autographed copies of The African Saga poetry collection by Dr. Susan Kiguli and How to Save Money for Investment by celebrated Kenyan author and motivational speaker Ken Monyoncho. All shortlisted winners will receive writing journals.<br /><br />JUDGES:<br />1. Dr. Susan Kiguli; celebrated poet and author of The African Saga<br />2. Iga Zinunula; returnee judge, entrepreneur and poet<br />3. Joseph Mugasa; President of Literature Association of Uganda and published poet.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-50854648446082552012009-08-25T07:10:00.000-07:002009-08-27T03:10:53.613-07:00THE REBEL FELL, THIRD WINNER IN BEVERLEY NAMBOZO POETRY AWARDSTHE REBEL FELL<br /><br />Somewhere a bullet pierces a woman,<br />Beyond the reaped edges of her clan’s farmland.<br />She gets caught in a thicket whose thorns she does not feel,<br />Limp feet drag onto a tree whose name the woman does not know<br />With the sun at her back,<br />Here breaks the charm for luck.<br />Off her neck are the fetishes<br />From the sacrificial white hen, herb and hallowed water<br />To the bosom of the waiting earth.<br /><br />The woman slumps, face down-<br />Watching her life drain away<br />Now the stained soil seeps from her lips;<br />Heavily the grain is still in the sack-<br />drawn to the feast a fly lands on her lips.<br />The light dips lower as the last sounds<br />Mute in the darkness, still she droops lower<br />into a night without mourning.<br /><br />About her who fell unceremoniously<br />One day someday shall write;<br />No rock or wood marks the grave<br />Of these bleached broad bones<br />Save for a clump of wild sorghum<br />Hailing her lost name<br /> By Sophie Brenda Alal<br />This poem won third prize in the first ever Beverley Nambozo Poetry Award in 2009, the first poetry award of its kind for Ugandan women. Sophia Brenda Alal won a cash prize of 100 USD. This award was proudly sponsored by Uganda Women Writers’ Association (FEMRITE), WordAlive Publishers and Uganda Health Marketing Group (UHMG). <br />Contact: ugpoetryaward@aol.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-84386588458008179322009-08-25T07:03:00.000-07:002009-08-25T07:18:21.560-07:00BETTER AT DAWN, SECOND WINNER IN BEVERLEY NAMBOZO POETRY AWARDSBETTER AT DAWN<br /><br />If I am going home tomorrow<br />Let it be at dawn<br />Before I have heard the cock crow <br />Thrice at noon<br />But not at dusk <br />After I have seen lurking shadows on the walls<br />Neither in the night<br />When a knock on the door<br />Shall hang my soul over roasting fire <br />And set me on a precipice <br />Let it be at dawn <br />For then, I shall go fulfilled. <br />Should I not at dawn <br />I shall have to return<br />To settle the score <br />For I never forgot an injury<br />Never forgave an insult. <br />To pay the debts I owe <br />For I was never dishonest <br />Then, I shall go in peace <br />At dawn I must depart <br />So let me go – at dawn <br />After I have traveled around this world<br />Eaten all the delicacies <br />Drank from the wells of Love, Unity and Justice<br />And tasted all the sweet wine of forgiveness <br />When I have found my lost treasure <br />When I have cast all my miseries into the sea <br />It shall be utter dawn<br />And I shall be gone. <br /><br />By Catherine Kemigisha<br /><br /><br />This poem won second prize in the first ever Beverley Nambozo Poetry Award in 2009, the first poetry award of its kind for Ugandan women. Catherine Kemigisha won a cash prize of 150 USD. This award was proudly sponsored by Uganda Women Writers’ Association (FEMRITE), WordAlive Publishers, Uganda clays Limited and Uganda Health Marketing Group (UHMG).<br /><br /><br />Contact: ugpoetryaward@aol.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-46362091191934671342009-08-24T03:48:00.000-07:002009-08-25T07:17:23.655-07:00SOFT TONIGHT, WINNING POEM OF BEVERLEY NAMBOZO POETRY AWARD, 2009I feel so...<br />... soft...<br />tonight...<br /><br />I feel like...<br />...butter...<br />under the sun...<br /><br />...on hot stone...<br />spreading out...<br />melting...<br /><br />...flowing...<br />a yellow rivulet...<br />sliding down that slab...<br /><br />...towards you...<br /><br />I hope you catch every<br />t...r...i...c...k...l...e...of love<br />I hope you catch every<br />d.......r......o......p......of me<br />when I d...r...i...p...intoyourpalms <br /><br />'cause I feel so...<br />...soft...<br />tonight. <br /> By Lillian Akampurira Aujo<br /><br />This poem was the winning poem of the first ever Beverley Nambozo Poetry Award in 2009, the first poetry award of its kind for Ugandan women. Lillian Aujo won a cash prize of 250 USD. This award was proudly sponsored by Uganda Women Writers’ Association (FEMRITE), WordAlive Publishers, Uganda Clays Limited and Uganda Health Marketing Group (UHMG).<br /><br />Contact: ugpoetryaward@aol.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-51002736627433310302009-08-21T00:42:00.000-07:002009-08-21T00:43:14.328-07:00BEVERLEY’S SPEECH DURING HER AWARD GIVING CEREMONY; 21ST AUGUST 2009 AT FANG FANG RESTAURANT.BEVERLEY’S SPEECH DURING HER AWARD GIVING CEREMONY; 21ST AUGUST 2009 AT FANG FANG RESTAURANT.<br /><br />In December of 2008, a poetic rumbling stirred inside of me and the rumbling has been growing louder and louder up to this point where poetic lava is about to explode on each one of us. Each of you here is a literary sojourner, and you belong to a large family who in one way or another wants poetry to be unearthed from the graves of misconception and skepticism. Each of you, in your own way, believes that female poets have a stage that for several years has been left empty to cake dust. Those that have made recognizable landmarks must be congratulated but right now we need to see that stage meant for women poets to be active once again. This is the stage, and you are the players. <br /><br />Deep down inside of me that December in 2008 I knew that something had to happen and I was not sure what. Questions like, Will anyone believe me if I say I’m starting an award? When I send a call out for submissions for a poetry award, will anyone in their right mind respond? If I walk up to FEMRITE and tell them that I need 2 judges to look through the submissions, will they just dismiss me as someone with dead ambitions? <br /><br />Well, seeing each of you here answers all those questions. The hard work I have put into the whole Beverley Nambozo Poetry award is immeasurable. I have climbed so many hills and waded through so many valleys to get to this point. I do not even have any poem at the moment to share the experience with you. When I see WordAlive Publishers sitting there giving me a nod of approval and pushing me forward, I get tears in my eyes. When the Right Honourable Rebecca Kadaga offers to grace this occasion as guest of honour, I am even too humbled to jump. Believing that UHMG and Uganda Clays Limited can stand by me and trust my effort to make an indelible mark on Uganda’s poetic scene, I feel a deeper sense of purpose and understand more than ever, my role on this earth.<br /><br />I cannot thank each of the poets enough for submitting their poetry because it is those submissions that made me wake up and clean my literary lenses everyday so that this vision would reach its completion. While many women may shy away from this, I want to also thank Emmanuel my husband for always trusting that this day would finally come. Thank you.<br /><br />I appreciate all of you here and thank you very much for coming. <br /><br />The Beverley Nambozo Poetry Award will be an annual event and after this one, I will launch into an even more aggressive national campaign to even out the submissions. Every woman with a creative spirit, should have a chance at empowering themselves with the pen. I cannot do it on my own and so I request you, just as you have supported me this year, to support me again for the next event.<br /><br />In my own unique way of saying thank you, I will give Rt. Hon Kadaga and each of the sponsors one of my own poems that was recently published by FEMRITE. The Chairperson of FEMRITE, Jocelyn Ekochu, will assist me.<br /><br />May you enjoy the rest of the evening.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-59385129299759812322009-08-18T03:14:00.000-07:002009-08-18T03:32:04.162-07:00BEVERLEY NAMBOZO POETRY AWARD SHOW DOWNOh my goodness, it is here, the poetry award. You know I started it last year in December and after the submissions, i realized that it was actually getting bigger than me. So I got my judges together and they wound up with the winners. All the poems were judged anonymously and now it is time for the award giving ceremony. <br /><br />It will be at Fang Fang Restaurant on Friday 21st and Hon Rebecca Kadaga the deputy speaker of Parliament has agreed to be guest of honour, how cool is that! Also, WordAlive Publishers and UHMG are main sponsors, i am excited about this. Can't wait for Friday.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-35210227240617927872009-07-03T06:32:00.001-07:002009-07-03T06:32:56.404-07:00JUSTICE OGOOLA-HIS BRAIN IS BIGGER THAN HIS EGO.JUSTICE OGOOLA-HIS BRAIN IS BIGGER THAN HIS EGO.<br /><br />I’m on a team that is organizing the launch of a book of a great man, Justice Ogoola. What makes him great is despite his status and fame, none of it gets to his head. If I have to call him concerning something important about the launch, he allows me into his office and we chat, even on phone. That’s cool because his brain is bigger than his ego. I’M NOT QUITE SURE ANYMORE how I got to be in this committee but I AM THERE. The launch is today, 3rd July. And I am pretty sure it will turn out okay. The only nag is on that team are these ‘know it alls.’ I strongly believe in team work but when I AM ON a team where some people want to take over every player’s role and belittle me in front of others exposing their lack of decency, respect and tact, it bothers me. It bothers me because there is no need to horde every task and there is also no need to treat me like you would treat your boda boda friends or waitress friends who you usually order around to do your bidding. I am on the same team you are and I was incorporated on the team just like you to make the event a success. So DO NOT shout down at me. If we plan to meet at a particular time, respect that time as much as possible and do not come panting one hour later yelling at everyone as if you are the reason for the launch. The reason for the launch is Justice Ogoola and not you.<br /><br />Justice you are hardly aware of what is going on behind the scenes but I am honoured to have worked with you and for you. It was also an honour to meet David Waweru your publisher. He is a good decent African man and it is always refreshing to meet one of those. I have read your book and though I THINK the beginning is quite preachy, the political ones are quit something.<br /><br />If you ever would like me to work with you, I would be glad to do so but on certain conditions; tasks have to be allocated a bit more specifically. It would be easier to have a driver or two to assist with some tasks. Thirdly, please do not have three emcees at one function. I am not sure how today will turn out but three emcees is a bit too much; especially if they do not have all that chemistry together.<br /><br />All the best with the launch then.<br /><br />Cheers.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-17887797749116586462009-07-03T06:30:00.000-07:002009-07-03T06:31:58.524-07:00RIDICULOUS 50 YEAR OLD WOMENIt is ridiculous for a 50 year old woman to stand before an audience ill-prepared for a speech which she had a month to prepare for. It is even more ridiculous when this 50 year old woman gets up to talk and after about 15 minutes; no one remembers anything of substance that she has said. It gets worse. What we do remember is that she berated the rest of us who she felt had chided her in any recent past and also who she felt did not match up to certain artificial beautiful standards. Read: Too much make-up, artificial hair.<br /><br />My own theory of 50 year old women is thus:<br />Try to help younger women become better by sharing experiences and training them in various skills, introduce them to good opportunities and remember that you are 50 years old and there is no need to behave like a 50 year old stuck in a rut, chatting away about men in their twenties, flirting with 40 something year olds, sleeping with peoples’ husbands and depleting office funds faster than the rise of stupidity amongst Ugandan drivers.<br /><br />I hate hanging around 50 year old women whose non-existent self-esteem ruins their otherwise inner beauty. Shameless and pitiful.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-13386470947986932572009-06-17T06:52:00.000-07:002009-06-17T07:02:00.141-07:00I joined facebook my other jobI left my job and just got another one called face book. Who knew? Found one of my best friends of 25 years ago. That's a good thing because my novel , I am now on page 4, is about my childhood and I need all the old friends I can find. If you are an old friend of mine from the 1980s hey! help me get this novel out.<br /><br />Being a stay home mum is so empowering by the way let nobody tell you otherwise. I plan my clothes according to the weather and day and not according to a human resource manual. that rocks...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-78801615420580467512009-05-18T00:02:00.000-07:002009-05-18T00:17:50.829-07:00MOVING ON and LOOKING FOR A PUBLISHERIt's a Monday-I have no problems with Mondays I just wish they came like in the middle of the week. Anyway no worries, I'm leaving EASSI end of the month and so I will be able to embrace Mondays more wholeheartedly.<br /><br />I need to revive my inner energy by writing more, spending more time with Zion and Emmanuel and also see how I can make more money doing the things I love. Sounds a neat plan....where do I start?<br /><br />Our family is preparing for this huge retirement party for my jajja daddy, Prof. Senteza Kajubi. Don't know if it's a surptise anymore because we meet every other week on a Sunday. It'll be kool. Our relatives from all over the world will be coming over and well, looking forward to it.<br /><br />By the way, where are all these wonderful publishers of poetry. I ahve a whole collection which has been ready for a while and I need a publisher. Looking for a publisher people! Or maybe they should be looking for me?<br /><br />I used to be unafraid to call myself a write when i was just starting out and now the more I write, the more afraid I become really.<br /><br />Well, since it is a Monday, let me get back to work and make the most of my two weeks left here.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-75604725323337009632009-03-06T00:05:00.000-08:002009-03-06T00:06:43.373-08:00Brown Ring-short story by NambozoThis morning my mother gave me a boiled egg for breakfast. I hate having boiled eggs on Fridays because that is our swimming day. And now as I enter the car to go to school with my younger sister Lisa, I know that something bad is going to happen to me. Bad things always happen on Fridays. Our coach instructor told us that if we ever need to go to the toilet that we should go before we leave the house in the mornings or just before the swimming lesson. He said that the swimming pool is like God's drinking water and if we make it dirty, then God would get sick and die. I knew that this could not be true, however, but what if? I have this huge feeling that my body will do something bad in the pool today. And what will I tell Flower? What will she think of me? Flower is the girl I am going to get married to after I have become a famous writer when I am twenty one. I have written thirty two poems for her in a blue exercise book. I always keep the book under my bible. I have even written about how I shall kiss her for a whole hour in church after saying our vows. <br />Oh No! Now God is going to get sick because of my bad stomach. It is funny. I sat on the toilet seat for so long after breakfast and nothing came out. I heaved and closed my eyes and held my breath and nothing came out. I even tried to widen my buttocks with my hands but still nothing came out. <br />Oh Lord, hear my prayer. I do not want anything bad to happen to me in the pool. Please Lord. Let me not get embarrassed. The coach said that a brown ring forms around any one who does something in the pool. Please let no brown ring form around me. Please Lord. Thank you. <br />I am standing at the edge of the pool. My knees are wobbly and knocking against each other. It is cold. Jim, the class bully has already swum three laps butterfly stroke. He is such a show off. Just because he is the tallest and (I regret to admit) most handsome boy in class. Well, at least that is what the girls think. Well, I have a better name than his. My name is Yesiimye, meaning he is blessed. And when I get married my wife will be called Flower Yesiimye. My latest poem is called Mrs. Flower Yesiimye. <br />Yesiimye, it's your turn now!" the coach yells at me from the other end. <br />I am petrified. I climb up the short diving board. My stomach begins to rumble. I feel it. I can no longer hold it in. I climb up the five stairs while squeezing my legs together. I hear one or two giggles from below. Standing on top and looking down I feel it. As soon as I part my legs, I feel the warm wetness flowing freely down. And then I feel the soft mushy lump. Should I end this as a hero or a victim? Posing for the dive, I look at the coach and then I look at Jim. This one is for you Jim. With arms stretched, I incline towards the water and dive headfirst. <br />Splash! Into the water. I manage a long marine glide underwater. The boiled egg oozes out with ease. Bit by bit. It is first thick and then it becomes watery. I feel it slide down my legs. The urine feels warm under water. I swim under water almost half the length of the pool. While I am under there, I know that I shall get up and see a huge brown ring. Maybe God will fall sick even. The coach will punish me. Jim will take Flower away from me and marry her. Just before my head bobs the surface, I say another prayer. Don't leave me God. <br />I hear people shouting. I cannot make out what they are saying. The coach is clapping. I wonder what is going on. <br />"Congratulations Yesii!" my friend Bob shouts.<br />I glance back at the pool. The brown ring! It isn't there. There is no brown ring. I swim back to shallow end and climb out. Bob and other friends give me a hug. <br />"That was a great dive Yesii,' the coach says.<br />"Thank you."<br /> And to God, I say a special thank you in my heart for hearing my prayer. For keeping the brown ring away. I see Flower walking towards me. God, how can I thank you enough?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-64717329423606256792009-02-09T23:00:00.000-08:002009-02-09T23:03:29.496-08:00I am- poem by Kalanzi Kajubi-12 years oldI am a persevering person who enjoys drumming.<br /><br />I wonder where I will be in 2020.<br /><br />I hear a steady beat tapping in unison with my heart.<br /> <br />I see a world with no errors.<br /><br />I want to live a life for those around me and not for me alone.<br /><br />I am a persevering person who enjoys drumming.<br /><br />I pretend that I am in the many books that I read.<br /><br />I feel that I will accomplish much in life.<br /><br />I touch keys on a piano and I play my self away.<br /><br />I worry that my grandfather will die before he sees me succeed.<br /><br />I cry for all the dying people in the world.<br /><br />I am a persevering person who enjoys drumming.<br /><br />I understand that life will not always be as easy for me as it is now.<br /><br />I say that if you put your mind to it you can reach any goal.<br /><br />I dream of being the next Donald Trump.<br /><br />I try to live my life to the fullest before my life is over.<br /><br />I hope to see a woman president before I die.<br /><br />I am a persevering person who enjoys drumming.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-51682470015698554952009-01-09T01:38:00.000-08:002009-01-09T01:50:36.653-08:00Feminism and MotherhoodBeing a mother has its perks. My daughter reminds me everyday that motherhood is a school of learning where graduation day is everyday because everyday is a test of love, compassion, fortitude and laughter. If you pass the four, you can graduate to the next day. <br />In Uganda however, some misguided, misinformed and miserable people, some of them witchdoctors, traditionalists, businessmen and even parents deliberately choose to fail the parenting test.<br /><br />Child sacrifice is not new. In Uganda, thanks to some courageous individuals, it is being exposed in the media quite often. One story irks me every time I recall it. Mugombe is a nine year old boy who at his age should ideally be discovering his gifts at school, playing with his peers, playing the occasional prank and having no real reason to distrust adults. One afternoon in December 2008, when most of his age mates were going home from school, Mugombe was on his way to a shrine. What could have been his last day to alive on this earth. A neighbour and friend to Mugombe’s mother picked the unsuspecting child from school and led him to a shrine on the outskirts of Kampala. <br /><br />He says. “They undressed me inside a shrine and smeared me with some things (herbs) But when the witchdoctor realized that I was circumcised, he said I was unfit for sacrifice.”<br /><br />Rightly so. The boy was unfit for sacrifice because he deserves a full chance to live and succeed in life like everyone else.<br /><br />Another father of twins late in 2008, beheaded both of them to win a mere few millions of Uganda shillings. He managed to behead them and ended up in jail. Miserable, misinformed and misguided.<br /><br />Feminism is a hunger for truth and women and men feminists are hungry for truth, for justice and passionate about equality and human rights. Motherhood makes me passionate and hungry for the good health and excellent future for my daughter and I will stop at nothing to make sure she gets just that. As long as there is no underhandedness or manipulation, I will search and seek for all that goodness can bring to my daughter. <br /><br />A feminist should seek and probe and search for truth so that human madness and injustice is redressed to make life a better place to live in.<br /><br />A story of a Zimbabwean feminist who held onto her son as the clutches of a crocodile threatened to plunge him to a murky death is a story of a feminist who cared enough to let go to what she loved. Her son survived and the scars on his body are the scars of his mother’s nails as she dug into him to save him. Feminists will leave scars but only because they are holding on to what they cherish and believe to be right. Through mistakes of course, and challenges, a feminist, like a mother, rejoices at seeing her/his baby grow through infancy to adulthood.<br /><br />Another female feminist that encourages me to move forward is Mukhtar Mai, the author of In the name of Honour (A memoir). I would like to share a review of her book.<br /><br />Mukhtar Mai has the fortitude of a lioness. This memoir is a struggle of a real woman with real problems that came to the surface after the worst humiliation any woman from her clan in Pakistan could receive. Instead of giving up in a suicidal act, she rose up from the ruins. Mukhtar is a Pakistani woman from a lower caste in Southern Punjabi called Gujar. Her brother, Shakur, is wrongfully accused of rape of one girl belonging to a richer caste, Mastoi. In form of justice, as is usually done, the Mastoi rape a woman, usually a sister to the accused in order to clear his name. The unfortunate woman chosen is Mukhtar Mai, sister to the accused. Her punishment: Brutal rape by 4 members of the mastoid clan in front of the community. Most women after this ordeal, commit suicide, because the shame is too much to bear. For Mukhtar, it was different. In her search for justice, her biggest handicap is her illiteracy because girls and women are not permitted to formal education. However, her resilience and steed work in her favour. As a result, Mukhtar has become the voice of the voiceless in Pakistan and the region beyond. Through the quest for justice, she has gained international support and has managed to establish a small school in Southern Punjab for young girls.<br /><br />As feminists, leaving a positive path for those behind us to follow is one of the most important legacies we can leave behind.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-50090442220773996272009-01-08T03:43:00.000-08:002009-01-08T03:56:40.794-08:00Me and My Electric Guitar in 2009I am a rock star this year. Me, my husband and daughter and my electric guitar. I will strum my way from January 1st to December 31st. If you like rock, you can dance to my guitar. My one resolution-to be a rock star. Most people say they will stop biting their nails, make lots of money, take up a new hobby and read the whole bible from Genesis to Revelations. For me, I will rock with my guitar.<br />When Somalia continues to fight, I will play my guitar. When Kenya passes a media bill that strangles press freedom, I will pick my guitar. As Ugandan fuel problems escalate, I will still play my guitar. Like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, all you begrudged folk, feeding on anti-depressants, fleeing from the landlord and boomeranging every time you hit a top, follow me as I rock on my guitar. <br />God played His electric guitar and I have been rocking with Him ever since. And ever since, I have felt like a rock star. Because rock stars are bold, wild and they rule. My daughter Zion looks more like the daughter of a rock star everyday. We pierced her ears, took a family photo shot and laid out a whole plan of places where we will travel around the world. <br />Rock stars travel. They are not afraid to see the world. Not afraid to jump. Not afraid to swim even though they don’t know the depth. <br /><br />I’m a rock star.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-46820092473605868642008-12-22T08:42:00.000-08:002008-12-22T08:58:05.561-08:00MERRY CHRISTMAS-NOT!Last nite, our neighbours, our delightful sisters and brothers of the accepted-polygamy faith, were at it again. This time two of the sisters were fighting over a man. It would have made better sense to me if they had been fighting over a turkey for Christmas-but a man. The screams almost woke up my baby Zion but thankfully did not. <br /><br />Have you ever felt a chill when someone’s long nails scrape the chalkboard? That’s exactly how my husband and I felt. We heard the house help adding onto the screams by threatening anyone who dared interfere and help. That meant us, the willing to help neighbours. We were actually more curious than willing to help. We heard the sticks thrashing someone’s back. Does that constitute as domestic violence if one woman beats another? That is something for NGOs to fret about. As I mentioned before, why not fight over a Christmas turkey? That would make the season a little more merrier and meaningful. <br /><br />I do not know how the fighting women story ends. I just hope that I do not have to spend the night before Easter listening to the same cries. I would rather hear women fighting over an Easter bunny or Easter egg.<br /><br />My daughter’s first Christmas will be at Kingfisher Resort in Jinja because Christmases in Kampala can only be summarized as cooking, cleaning, washing, serving guests and lying idle and it doesn’t get better with a baby. We want to change the tradition. Cooking not, cleaning not, working not and stressing not.<br /><br />As one wise man once said, no, not wise man, wise woman. As one wise woman said, Anyway since there are many wise things that women have said I am finding it very difficult to choose just one.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-77594250051050616082008-12-09T08:00:00.000-08:002008-12-09T08:13:02.208-08:00SHARM EL- SHEIKH<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -22.8pt; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><b style="">SH<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><b style=""><o:p> </o:p></b>I have decided that Sharm El-Sheikh neither exists in Asia nor in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Egypt</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Neither does it exist on any map. I do not feel that there is any map in the world that can locate it to its exact likeness or true worth. In these pages, I decide that Sharm El-Sheikh exists in a place where my mind meets with enchantment. It is also the place that holds the <st1:placename st="on">Sinai</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Desert</st1:PlaceType>, at the tip of the <st1:place st="on">Red Sea</st1:place>, where the Israelites got lost for 40 years.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>I travel through <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Jordan</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">Airport</st1:PlaceName></st1:place> and saliently sail through the stares from the Arabs who either have never seen anyone black before or are not used to women showing their arms. Young children peer at me clinging to the safety of their mothers’ skirts lest I ‘eat them up.’ The braver passengers on the flight whisper to me how beautiful they think I am. I believe what they mean is how different I am from them and where on earth am I from?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>Sharm El-Sheikh is a desert. It stretches from whichever point you are at to as far as you can bear the glare of the desert sun. The Airport is hardly occupied at the time of my arrival in June. My red suitcase sits forlorn on the static conveyor belt. A man in a white uniform ushers me to the immigration desk. A small line takes forever to clear. There is no hurry in Sharm. Finally, after a few questions about where I work, he stamps my passport.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>One cab driver hurries to take my luggage to his car. <st1:placename st="on">Domina</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">Coral</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:PlaceType>, <st1:place st="on">South Sinai</st1:place>, is where we are headed. The desert looms ahead of me. A vast desert with one or two large unfinished buildings. The paved roads are my only link to home and within 10 minutes, I arrive at <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Domina</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">Coral</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>. It looks like a Sultan’s Palace. <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Uganda</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s state house can comfortably fit in the parking yard. I feel like Jack before the giant beanstalk, intimidated by the grandeur of the place. I pay the cab driver his 25 US dollars without thinking of how I have been cheated. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p><st1:placename st="on">Domina</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">Coral</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:PlaceType> is located in <st1:place st="on">South Sinai</st1:place> and was officially opened in 1994. The resort extends across an entire coral bay of 1.8 kms and has the capacity to hold more than 5,000 guests. Two very kind gentlemen relieve me of my luggage as I check in. Despite being the only guest at the check in desk, it takes long to locate my name and get my room. That’s when I make up my mind that apart from the Latin languages, Arabic is also one of the most important languages that I must learn. There are about six sections of the resort at <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Domina</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">Coral</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> which are all five star but even within the five star they are categorized from Standard to Deluxe. I feel filthy standing on the gleaming white tiles and next to the polished plants. I just smile politely at the staff and make up my mind to have a bath as soon as I get to the room. That is when I begin to conceive the concept of vastness. At <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Domina</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">Coral</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>, you need to travel in a shuttle from the reception area to your room. The shuttles run at specific times and they have specific routes to cover all the sections of this magnificent resort. Tourists came walking past me in skimpy swimming suits and trunks with see through tops and sun hats. All the foreigners walking past me are clad in the bare minimum. I notice as I check in, a sign that says, it is forbidden to walk in wearing just a swimming costume. The sign obviously has little or no impact. Shuttle 2 arrives and I ride to my hotel room; and what a room! Oasis is supposed to be five star Standard. It should be called anything but standard. I itch to tear off my clothes and just bask in the view overlooking the <st1:place st="on">Red Sea</st1:place> from the balcony. The heat slowly makes it way through my clothes and I take a cool shower. Sunglasses are not an option at Sharm El-Sheikh. Neither is sun cream or very light clothing. I look at the clothes in my suitcase which I have brought for the AU Summit which I will be attending. I lock the case again. Time to do some shopping. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Outside my room window, hundreds of tourists are milling at the diving center at the <st1:place st="on">Red Sea</st1:place>. Lines of shops lie below me. They glitter with their ornaments and crafts and I can hardly wait to step outside again. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Unlike most five star hotels whose shops are obscenely expensive, I find <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Domina</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">Corale</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> prices quite moderate. At Sharm El –Sheikh, contrary to the popular saying, “All that glitters is indeed gold.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">The shops are lined up just outside the reception area. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">“Sister, sister,” the men from their shops call out to me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">So many trinkets, souvenirs, metals of all kinds and perfect clothes for the weather.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">“Where are you from sister?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">“<st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Uganda</st1:place></st1:country-region>,” I reply.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">“<st1:country-region st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>, oh is that <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Rwanda</st1:country-region></st1:place>?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">“No, <st1:country-region st="on">Rwanda</st1:country-region> borders <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Uganda</st1:place></st1:country-region>. It is not <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Uganda</st1:place></st1:country-region>,” is my firm response.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">“Okay, you are very beautiful.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">“Thank you,” I answer with dignity.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style=""> </span>I notice immediately that there are only men who work in the shops. There are actually only men at the concierge, men who carry the luggage, men who deliver the room service and also men who operate the telephone booths.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">“Where are the women?” I ask.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">“Oh, they are in entertainment,” is the response. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">I look at the US dollars peeping out of my handbag, each dollar worth just over 5 Egyptian pounds. I look forward to changing my suitcase.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>Having heard, read and imagined so many things about the <st1:place st="on">Red Sea</st1:place>, it was hard to envisage that it was just within a walking distance. I could not have been more wrong. <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Domina</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">Coral</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> is as vast as a small city anywhere. The temperature was at 48 degrees and the heat just consumed me. So while the <st1:place st="on">Red Sea</st1:place> seemed near, it was a struggle to get through the heat. It was as if someone’s hot fingers were resting on my head adding a burden to my walk. The walk to the Sea however was worth it. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>It was like clean bathing water with blue shower gel. I could see all the way to the bottom of the coral reef. I could see the fish teasing each other and manoeuvering in between the bare legs of some of the tourists who had gone snorkeling. Parts of the <st1:place st="on">Red Sea</st1:place> had been demarcated to make swimming pools. It was really something else. I got enough pleasure from just staring right down into the aqua depths of turquoise colour. I waded through; battling the coral rocks at the start and then I plunged right into its magnificence and began to glide along just as I had seen the other tourists do. I hoped at this moment that God would not decide to part it again like He did in biblical times because I felt heroic just knowing that I was at the place of the miracle. Unlike the <st1:place st="on">Indian Ocean</st1:place> however, whose salt is good for the skin, as soon as I stood up I felt cuts all over my body. It felt uncomfortable after a while with the heat beating down on me and so I backed out of the water from my million dollar aquatic experience. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>Each day I spend at Sharm El-Sheikh, I keep reminding myself that this is the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Sinai</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Desert</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>. And so every carving, plant and building is from imported material. Part of the place looks like it is unfinished and that an oasis could pop up any time. The other part looks like a city of lights; a dream world. One such place is <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Neeama</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>, an artificial city that sleeps only during the day. It only makes sense that some places are only active from 8:00pm to the wee hours of the morning. The heat dictates so. From the entrance of <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Neeama</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> to its end, there is glamour on every side. All kinds of food restaurants from Italian, Greek, seafood, Macdonalds and so many more that it is hard to make a choice. Dancing dummies parade over the rooftops, swinging palms knock against each other in the night, neon lights illuminate the body of black sleek limousines for hire, couples open their mouths to let the humidity sprays gush into them and for my four friends and I, we try to allow it all to seep in. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>Many tourists have been checking in everyday since my arrival at <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Domina</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placename st="on">Coral</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>. I now know that this is where everyone ends up. The Italian food is delightful. Even the service fee that is part of the bill is not a bother. It is a clever way of making the frugal leave a tip. Arabs enjoy space and colour. In many of the shops, different colours keep blinking back at me. From the shawls, hats, bags, shoes, key holders and statuettes to the pictures on papyrus, colours combine into a mélange. At this place, time waits for everyone. There is no end to the activity. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>At Domina Coral Bay Hotel, I do not necessarily feel any sense of crowdedness. It is only at the Coral Restaurant, where we have breakfast. Thankfully it is always easy to locate my friends because all I have to look for is similar skin colour to mine. The Restaurant is just as far as any other place. While the people directing you make it seem near, it is actually downhill, across a hot plain and then downhill again. The breakfast is a large spread of all types of sweets, beverages and pastries. My favourites are the chocolate croissants and Spanish omelette. I also took a liking to the coffee. Egyptian coffee, they say, is supposed to be very good. A particular fruit which is best described as a green watermelon is popular amongst the crowd too. I usually down at least four slices a day. Breakfast is always a desired part of the day for me especially when it is already paid for. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>During the evening of the first day of the workshop, I saw two types of entertainment that completely dazzled me. The first was of an Egyptian dancer who wore many puffed up coloured skirts with yellow sleeves and black dancing boots. He used huge rattles to spin round and round until he worked himself into a frenzy while his skirts billowed out like a failed parachute. And as the skirts billowed, they covered his head and all we could see were coloured balloons dancing round and round. Quite spectacular. The next was of a belly dancer. Her movements at first appeared easy and tame until she too slipped out of her sanity to lure us into a hypnotic state of awe as she wiggled her belly this way and that. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>It is not enough to keep describing the different scenes of Sharm El-Sheikh. The language of the city is encrypted for everyone to decipher in their own way. I was not sad to leave. I was only humbled to have been part of such an immense existence. At the airport, the wonders did not cease. After ordering a sandwich from there, once again I noted that there were no female staff. That was not until I entered the ladies’ room. Seated on an overturned bucket, I was given some tissue paper and then told to leave some money behind. I did not know if the money was for her or for maintenance. In every perfect place, there is a flaw and I found that the lack of female staff in many places at Sharm El-Sheikh; one of the greatest imperfections. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>Fondly known as Sharm, I can only wait to take my family there. It is the least I can do. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-80600723427629439872008-12-09T07:48:00.000-08:002008-12-09T07:52:29.562-08:00Black is Back; ask Barack<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p><span style=""><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">I hear that Black is Back. It is the next best thing. I don’t know if this emerged after Barack Obama’s successful election to The US Presidency or if it is a more analytical view of the socio-economic cycle of life. Well, whether it is black, brown, blue or green, I tell you that certain hues will remain the same. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>Take for instance an office where someone is in charge of the office driver and which errands are important. Of course, in countries, where the traffic jams and imprudent drivers take the better of the roads, any parent would prefer if someone else could bear the road rage for a while. So this diligent person at the office will occasionally use the driver to pick up a child or two from school and also drop them home. This starts out once during a very busy day at office but after noticing that nobody in office brings the culprit to book, it becomes an obtuse habit. And while other staff members would like to use the office car for office duty…the rest remains unsaid. Black is not back.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p></o:p>How about the dim-witted parents who begin to fret just because their newborn babies are growing dark at the ears? Such lack of confidence in one of God’s most beautiful miracles is a reason to believe that black is not back.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>Is there a chance that the pettiness amongst friends is just play-acting? What car do you drive? How often do you change your hair? Brand of clothes? Is that weight gain or wisdom fat? How about the parents who want you to marry from a certain tribe, religion and class? Is it pettiness of play-acting when friends want to compete over whose baby is bigger, bolder and brighter? Is it pettiness or play-acting when someone faults you for staying sexually abstinent until marriage. They say it is impossible. Black is not back. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p></o:p>The husband who lets his wife do all the bread winning in the name of pro-feminism and activism just doesn’t get it. Black is not back. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><o:p> </o:p>But because we can, because we did-we are back. Black is back</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-80867045415326062222008-12-07T07:29:00.000-08:002008-12-11T09:17:05.775-08:00TRAVEL TALES<span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"><strong>Lamu</strong></span><br />The writers are convinced they will write<br />The lovers are convinced it’s love<br />The Beach Boys are convinced it’s theirs<br />The ocean doesn’t care<br />Neither do the donkeys<br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);"><strong>Horacio</strong></span><br />I shall call you Horacio-my Mexico<br />After the long-haired Spanish speaking gentleman;<br />Mexico-I implore you. Let me call you Horacio<br />You rubbed balm on my Uganda ness<br />I gloated over others who paled against me<br />Your sombrero blushed as my hip glossed over the pyramids<br />The water fountains spurted tequila as we fluttered by<br />The daunting Palacio de Mineria followed us towards the clothes market<br />30 pesos for you Horacio; 5 pesos for me<br /> <br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><strong>Butare</strong></span><br />3 hours shy of Kigali<br />The gorgeous visage of the populace<br />Intimidates me<br />"Muraho"<br />I succumb to my vanity.<br />Doodling like an overpaid journalist<br />So tell me about the genocide?<br />The ugliness of my interview mars the University Woodland<br />I peer at the pines<br />Stately<br />Regal<br />Faultless<br />I puke.<br />Right on the graves<br /> <br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Amsterdam Airport</span></strong><br />The sniffer dogs decide<br />I am unworthy of their time.<br />My budding dreadlocks relax<br />Under blondey’s armpits.<br />I stir to the bathroom<br />Peculiar gawks from a woman.<br />"I’ve had a long journey."<br />Her response - a stiff exit.<br />My dollars cum Euros<br />Clogs and chocolate are<br />My visas for a safe return home<br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 0);"><strong>Sun City</strong></span><br />Posing like African magic<br />I feel wasted.<br />Tourists cling to their egos<br />Animal statues mock my feeble pockets<br />The water slide carries the screams<br />Of spirited infants.<br />I scream too<br />At the ice cream that has stained my last Rand.<br />Kingdoms and dominions-romanticising black wealth<br />Safety<br />Lies in saying no<br />In Sun City.<br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><strong>Mamba Crocodile Farm</strong></span><br />Big Daddy<br />80 and counting<br />Snapped at the hand that fed him<br />Like Moo-S-e(v)nemy.<br />The v is silent<br />It stands for violence.<br />A trimester of empty promises<br />Larger than croc’s jaws.<br />Big Daddy watches<br />As fifty tiny crocs feed and grow<br />The fifty ministers of his kingdom.<br />His children sit on the throne of Bid Daddy’s nostril<br />To grab at the chunkiest pieces of meat<br />The leftovers feed the 28 million populace.<br /> <br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">London</span></strong><br />Freckled legs in roller skates<br />Firing water guns at the tramp<br />Kissing lips and kissing lollipops<br />At Thorpe Park.<br />Sun-tanned babes line up for a ride.<br />Mittens for overcast times<br />Nervous teens chewing their nails at the underground.<br />Graffiti-Terrorism is a hoax.<br /> <br /> <br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Kabale-Western Uganda</span></strong><br />The cold fought for my attention.<br />It blurred my vision<br />As the golf ball landed at my feet.<br />The cows stared at me for so long.<br />I envied their tits<br />Covering mine in shame<br />I went to White Horse Inn<br />To eat eshabwe<br /> <br /> <br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Gold Reef City</span></strong><br /> <br />The man with the gold bar calls me.<br />I run and bump into a statue.<br />My obsession with muggers chokes me.<br />The peacock in front spreads out its crown.<br />I bend down and touch the real gold.<br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 51);"> <br /> <br />Samuka Island<br /></span></strong>Raw<br />Wild in Jinja.<br />Untamed love at the Nile source.<br />Virgin hopes-<br />The birds fly away<br />Before I can catch them.<br />A hammock for the fearless.<br />A trilogy of faith, incomparison, tomorrow.<br /> <br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Mbale-Eastern Uganda</span></strong><br />"This is your home,"<br />Father said.<br />I placed my ears<br />To the hard ground<br />As it welcomed me.<br />And the circumcision crowd<br />Knocked me down in their haste for manhood<br /> <br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Kitale-Western Kenya</span></strong><br />I took my thoughts for a walk.<br />The maize stalks swayed in disapproval<br />Of my forlorn imagination.<br />Kitale is for people<br />Not artistes.<br />The local chatter guided me to the market.<br />And I laughed as the cowrie shells<br />Rattled from the shelves<br /> <br /> <br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Nyali Beach-Mombasa</span></strong><br />A tourist caught a salmon.<br />The ocean spat out salt in fury.<br />As digital photos reduced the salmon<br />to a statistic.<br /> <br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Bujumbura-BURUNDI</span></strong><br />It almost fit me like a glove<br />Before I entered into the heart<br />I heard a widow’s faint cry.<br />A grandchild ran to rummage for food<br />Bujumbura is too big for me.<br />Traces of UN patterned the dust<br />My eyes grew sore from gazing into reality.<br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 0); font-weight: bold;">Dar es Salaam TANZANIA</span><br />Scorched by the heat of Kiswahili<br />The coast is dressed in bitenge<br />Tomorrow I will catch Nyerere<br />Before they recolonise us.<br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255); font-weight: bold;">Sipi Falls, Kapchorwa</span><br />Dried coffee guiding my trail<br />The cold hills warm my cold heart.<br />Sipi, make me wet<br />Like the mountain behind you<br />Make them envy me<br />That travel to see you.<br /> <br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-85561045116336233912008-12-05T02:30:00.000-08:002008-12-11T08:14:51.696-08:00BEVERLEY NAMBOZO BI -ANNUAL POETRY AWARD<span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><br />With a strong belief that women have some of the greatest potentials that go unrecognized and unnoticed, this award is opening up more creative spaces for them to excel. The Beverley Nambozo poetry award is open to all Ugandan females from the age of 20 to 40 who are residing in Uganda. The award, which was launched in December 2008, will recognize upcoming Ugandan female poets. There are three prizes to be won. Working with Uganda Women Writers’ Association (FEMRITE), this award, the first ever of its kind is another opportunity for women to push the pen.<br /><br />The first prize is 200 US dollars.<br />Second prize is 100 US dollars.<br />Third prize is 50 US dollars<br /><br />Eligibility:<br />· Ugandan females from the age of 20 to 40 who are also residents of Uganda<br />Submission:<br />· Poetry of not less than 15 lines which do not exceed 30 lines<br />· Poetry that has never been published before<br />· Each participant may submit up to 3 poems of any theme.<br />· The deadline for the 2009 award is March 31st 2009 at midday GMT and results will be announced in July 2009 during the FEMRITE week of activities.<br /><br />Submissions will be accepted by email to:-<br /></span><a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="mailto:nambozo@gmail.com"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">nambozo@gmail.com</span></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"> and </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="mailto:info@ugfemrite.org"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">info@ugfemrite.org</span></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">.<br />The poems should be submitted in English with a title page including Title of poem, Name of poet, phone number and email address. The poets’ names should not appear with the poems themselves.<br />Judges:<br />Hilda Twongyeirwe:<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Currently the Coordinator of FEMRITE. She is a published writer of both adult and children's fiction. Fina The Dancer, her children's book is an all time favourite amongst children. Hilda is the founder of Women Writers Africa Network, an association that aims at promoting creative writing amongst women of <st1:place st="on">Africa</st1:place><span dir="rtl"></span><span dir="rtl" lang="AR-EG"><span dir="rtl"></span>. <o:p></o:p></span> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><br />Sam Iga:<br />A Ugandan entrepreneur who has large experience in creative writing especially poetry. He has often taught at workshops and has inspired many upcoming Ugandan writers. Sam also has a knack for public speaking and persuasion.<br /><br />Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva:<br />Currently serving on the FEMRITE Executive Board and also working at The Eastern African sub-Regional Support Initiative (EASSI). Her passion for poetry and writing has led to several publications and now is a chance for her to open up more space for Ugandan women.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536600289829437373.post-15817351015974721532008-12-05T02:19:00.000-08:002008-12-07T07:47:52.092-08:00day one-the beginning of the exodus<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;color:#009900;"><br /><br /><br />Getting a name for blog is not as difficult as choosing a name for a child. My daughter’s name is Zion. My husband and I chose it a month before she was born. We knew she was coming and so had time to get a name. But this blog-I had no idea if it would ever be born . Needless to say, the name for this blog is The Exodus of Whatever. And that means exactly what you want it to mean. Yesterday was World AIDS Day. On the news, we were told that Uganda’s prevalence rate is 6.4%. I wore my red ribbon and then took it off because I was alone in the house the whole day with my daughter who really didn’t care much about anything else except feeding. She is 2 months and 1 day today.<br /><br />I do support all measures to lower the rate of HIV infections. I just think that maybe there is need for something newer and more radical.<br /><br />I have about 6 weeks left for my maternity leave to end. The first half I spent watching a whole lot of series and trying to fit into my old clothes. Now, I am starting a blog and I hope this lasts at least up to the end of maternity leave. I am a member of FEMRITE and have been since 2000. FEM is a great place. It’s like a place I can hide away to when I want to be away from the harsh realities like food crisis, global warming, Mumbai attacks, The King of Bugisu who is not really a King and whatever other problems are threatening world peace. </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;color:#009900;">This is the start of the Exodus to all the places this blog will take me.<br /> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0