JUSTICE OGOOLA-HIS BRAIN IS BIGGER THAN HIS EGO.

JUSTICE OGOOLA-HIS BRAIN IS BIGGER THAN HIS EGO.

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.

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.

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.

All the best with the launch then.

Cheers.

RIDICULOUS 50 YEAR OLD WOMEN

It 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.

My own theory of 50 year old women is thus:
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.

I hate hanging around 50 year old women whose non-existent self-esteem ruins their otherwise inner beauty. Shameless and pitiful.

I joined facebook my other job

I 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.

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...

MOVING ON and LOOKING FOR A PUBLISHER

It'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.

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?

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.

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?

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.

Well, since it is a Monday, let me get back to work and make the most of my two weeks left here.

Brown Ring-short story by Nambozo

This 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.
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.
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.
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.
Yesiimye, it's your turn now!" the coach yells at me from the other end.
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.
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.
I hear people shouting. I cannot make out what they are saying. The coach is clapping. I wonder what is going on.
"Congratulations Yesii!" my friend Bob shouts.
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.
"That was a great dive Yesii,' the coach says.
"Thank you."
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?

I am- poem by Kalanzi Kajubi-12 years old

I am a persevering person who enjoys drumming.

I wonder where I will be in 2020.

I hear a steady beat tapping in unison with my heart.

I see a world with no errors.

I want to live a life for those around me and not for me alone.

I am a persevering person who enjoys drumming.

I pretend that I am in the many books that I read.

I feel that I will accomplish much in life.

I touch keys on a piano and I play my self away.

I worry that my grandfather will die before he sees me succeed.

I cry for all the dying people in the world.

I am a persevering person who enjoys drumming.

I understand that life will not always be as easy for me as it is now.

I say that if you put your mind to it you can reach any goal.

I dream of being the next Donald Trump.

I try to live my life to the fullest before my life is over.

I hope to see a woman president before I die.

I am a persevering person who enjoys drumming.

Feminism and Motherhood

Being 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.
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.

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.

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.”

Rightly so. The boy was unfit for sacrifice because he deserves a full chance to live and succeed in life like everyone else.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

As feminists, leaving a positive path for those behind us to follow is one of the most important legacies we can leave behind.