My Father’s Shoes
My father has been dead 12 years this month. A few days after my eleventh birthday, we put him in the ground. I don’t think about him as often as I used to years ago. Everyday, he recedes further and further from memory. The most distinct memory I have of my father is him bringing his shoes for me to brush every morning. It was a chore I at once loathed and prided myself in. Every morning, as I was turning over to continue with my sweet sleep, I’d hear him drop his shoes at the foot of my bed, and then walk out without saying a word. I was proud that he had chosen me out of the seven children he had. Well, I can’t really count my two littlest sisters, but he had not chosen the older ones either. He had chosen me! So I’d crawl out of bed and perform the duty assigned to me with ardor, until I could see my reflection in the shiny leather. Later in High School, I’d brush my shoes the same way. My room could look like a tornado had spared just me but my shoes always looked like they just came off a display window. I remember a friend asking another friend whose shoes were particularly spotless one day, If it was I that had brushed them. I was proud.
He was a lawyer, that’s why his shoes had to be spotless. I remember that each one of us, wanted to be just like him. He spoke so beautifully, and he commanded such a presence. A tall lanky man that I saw in shirtsleeves only over the weekend. Not a hair out of place, his tie steady below his Adam’s apple, his suit in demure colors,well pressed and the fruit of my labor at the foot of this sober getup. If you chose to speak English, you had to do it correctly and if it was kumam(my language, you had to do just as well). I think this is why to this day I have a pet peeve about people pronouncing words wrongly. I took after him so much in this regard that my family started calling me “Dictionary”. I remember that in primary school, everyone was so jealous that I had such a father. He would come in on visiting days to check on the progress reports as was required. I wold stand by him as he looked at the list of pupil’s names, arranged in order of performance in the midterms and his eye would not go beyond the first name. His daughter was yet again at the top of the class. It pleased me to please him. Then we’d gather around my desk, I and the other pupils that looked at him in awe. He’d go through my books, then with his fountain pen, scrawl with panache his signature(God knows I’ve tried to replicate it, but I guess I am not my father)
I never really knew him I admit. My father and I never really hugged,or said I love you to each other. I wish we did. But mostly, I wish he had lived a little longer. I had lunch with a colleague of his from work one day. In the middle of the meal, we were both bawling our eyes out. This was a 50+ year old man, weeping about the best boss he’s ever had and the best man he’s ever known. Yeah, people were looking at us bizarrely, I guess no one should try to confront the past in a restaurant huh?
Today is not the anniversary of his death, something weird just triggered his memory. That’s how people that are dear to you and are very dead behave, they just walk in without knocking. I miss my father…and I am trying to be a lawyer like him. These are some big shoes to fill(pun)
Being Touristy
I had a friend visiting this Friday so I decided to do touristy things. We went to The Louvre, to see the Mona Lisa and her less famous sidekicks. First of all, brownie points to the EU for having us get in for free. If you’re living in the EU for a year or more, you get into the national sites sans paying! Score ☺ Better still, if you’re younger than 26 in France, you get an almost 50 percent discount at the movies. I wish they did that at H&M too. Anyway, YES, I finally gazed upon the Mona Lisa. Let me put it this way, Museveni is more likely to get killed than Da Vinci’s “masterpiece” done any harm. When we got to the salle Jaconde, where the Italian paintings were, one had to only look for the painting with the biggest number of fawners. After much jostling and jabbing in the ribs, we finally made it to the front. There, behind bullet proof (I suspect) fireproof, waterproof and appreciationproof glass, sat the Louvre’s crown Jewel. As if the glass is not enough, the area is cordoned off such that there is still a great deal of space between you and it. I suspect that there is a guillotine hovering somewhere above it, ready to sever busy arms. It reminded me of catholic church where the congregation is left wondering what the hell Fr Safari is retrieving from the tabernacle since that part of the alter is off limits to lay men. This must be the most protected artifact in the world. Why is the Mona Lisa famous again? Well, because society has dictated that’s important. When I stood before the there, squinting through the glass, I felt nothing. I was like, ok…moving on. I mean, there she was, arms folded and all. I couldn’t even make out the mysterious smile. Frankly I was more impressed with the enormous painting of The Wedding at Cana at the other end of the room. It’s impossible to appreciate the Mona Lisa with everyone trying to get a picture with it in the background (proof of having visited the Louvre) and all that glass!! I want to touch it, that’s what I want to do. Maybe I’ll appreciate it then. I wonder how important you have to be to have that privilege. Well should I be dictator of France one day, that’s what I will do on my first day in office.
The Louvre is like a huge shopping mall, with people from all races, color and whatever else defines people congregate, to see the Mona Lisa I guess. It’s a store where everything is out of your price range; you’re allowed to look, but not touch. Why do they always put up those signs “ Ne Touchez pas”. It always piques my curiosity and I want to run my hand on the paintings to follow and feel the power and mastery of old brushstrokes. But there are caretakers stationed allover the place, watching like hawks, ready to whack your hand should you dare touch.
The Louvre is the size of several football stadiums. Well, that’s what it felt like. My host mama says you’ve got go there at least 10 times to finish browsing the entire collection. My friend and I were there for 3 hours and we covered only about a quarter of the museum! It actually felt like walking from Kitintale to Nakawa and back. After checking out Napoleon III’s apartment, legs aching and tummies complaining, we decided it was time to leave.
This weekend, I’m going to be out of Paris, going by train towards the English Channel to Mont Saint Michel. I am hoping it will be fantastic
Nigerian Party Part Trois Starring A-Pimp-Named-Slickback, Steve Biko and the Extras
This was supposed to be posted the other day but the site was down 
Nigerians have become a constant feature in my social life. Well they really are pretty much the only black people that speak “English” in Paris. I say English with some reservation because they always have to say something at least twice before I understand what they are on about. A Nigerian bred at Eton and Oxford will still sound like he just got off the boat from Lagos.
Last night I went for another party. No this was not on my calendar. I am have been so broke lately that going out has been one of those things I’ve decided to shelve. The ATM has taken to laughing at me for trying to abuse its intelligence. The other day, the screen screamed, “You’ve exceeded your limits Bitch, how many times do I have to tell you that?” when I tried to withdraw a measly sum. Where the hell does one get an ailing rich man, ready to leave me all his fortune? At this rate I just might have to take up residence with that guy that sits conveniently next to the ATM that’s near my house, all the while sipping a coke and chewing God-Knows-what and then demanding for “un piece” the moment you withdraw your money. The nerve!
So anyway I got a call from Williams, telling me to go. He was gonna make sure I got the V.I.P treatment, a table, drinks, cool company and I wouldn’t have to pay at the door. Williams and I met at the first Nigerian party I went to. We started off by expressing our mutual distaste for each other. He thought me a diva, I thought he was an incompetent bartender. After paying 20 Euros at the door, I felt that I was entitled to a more comprehensive menu of drinks, not just rum and coke. By the end of the night, we were best friends. Yeah, alcohol does that to people. I gave him my number and he said he would call me whenever an “African” thing was going down. So after much deliberation, thinking about all the homework I had, whether or not I was actually gonna do it, I decided to go.
I missed the train(trains close at 2am on weekends) and I was a bit relieved that I had finally gotten a valid excuse for not showing up, when a guy(50+) that had missed the train as well asked me if I wanted to go for “un verre”, mull over our misfortune at missing the train I guess. I said I couldn’t have drinks with him because I was meeting up with friends. He said he was gonna take a cab to wherever he was going and I could share it if I wanted. At this point, I need to say that if there is a serial killer somewhere in Paris right now, I’m gonna be an easy target. Lately I’ve been surprising myself with how much I throw caution out of the window. The only thing that seems to have stuck with me is watching my drinks like a hawk, lest I get ruffied. He was from Senegal he said. He gave me his card, “Give me a call sometime”. His card said he was a film director (and probably father to teenage girl). Men have no shame.I got to the bar after a short ride and long small talk. I hopped out, relieved that my sense of orientation seemed alright still.
A Pimp Named Slickack
Later on when I went to the vestiaire(I don’t know what the English equivalent of that is, a cloakroom?) to get my blazer, I ran into Steve Biko. No, he did not look like Denzel Washington, he looked like Denzel Washington only in his role as Steve Biko. He had never met anyone from Uganda, nor anyone named Leah!
This post has gotten too damn long…I’ll finish it later 
A Decidedly French last Couple of Weeks
I haven’t written in so long. I made a promise to write at least every week but French homework creeps on one when not looking. The assignments I get here are not even half of what I do at Williams but I’ve been exploiting how slowly things move here to no end. Also my head has been in the clouds. Each year, without fail,the onset of Spring brings with it its version of helium-filled tidings, which carry my head off into the fluff of the clouds and leave me with a stupid grin forever plastered on my face until I realize I have a paper due in 2 hours! Anyway, here’s a quick résumé of what this unadventurous tour guide has been up to. I think I’ve been very French lately. French people are so cultured, they have a bookstore/landmark/museum at every turn. I would like to think I’ve been taking advantage of this.
The “soldes”, (sale) signs came off the windows marking an end to a frenzied 30 days or so of “rock-bottom prices” so Paris is drab again. In france, the government dictates when sales take place (mid-January to mid-Feb and then sometime in June). But even those jawdropping prices did not bring me any closer to owning a pair of Louboutins(we’ll get there someday) Of course I splurged, some things necessary(I needed shoes for Spring ) and spent too much on what I knew I shouldn’t have been buying, a pair of jeans at Gap. The U.S is on average a land of giants so finding jeans for someone my height is a hoot(I am only 5″7). France on the other hand has pint-sized Nicholas Sarkozy as president and a good representative of the populations’s average height. Yeah jeans in France tend to be really short on me and the ones that are long enough are too big. The only store that seems to carry a variety is Gap which is way more expensive here than in the U.S. Even as I paid for them, I knew I would be returning them. But then I got home and the receipt conveniently got lost, so…:D
My host mama and I went to see a Christian Lacroix exhibition at the Musée des Arts Premiers.The museum houses African and Asian art (first art). Lacroix who is a haute couture designer went bankrupt in 2008? when the global economic crisis hit and everyone decided that his opulent designs were a bit much so he has decided go back to historical fashion which was his passion in the first place.The exhibition was about handmade clothes made by women in the Middle East before the west watered down their sartorial aesthetics.The gowns told stories about marriage, trips to the well with urns hoisted shoulder high and social class. The bright colors told of a happier time and the niquab that was worn with everything else portended mystery and sexual allure not Islamic oppression as seen today. The skill of the embroidery reminded me how I had hated Home Economics class in High School when I had to make a dress for a little girl. My accomplishment for making that dress felt hollow when compared to what these women had done. It must have taken months for them to finish all the skillfully done embroidery on the wedding dresses.
I can totally see myself wearing this today, I haven’t decided where to yet, but if there is a place that requires me to carry an urn then I’m all set.
I went for a Nigerian party. Nigerians are everywhere. I bet that there are at least a handful of them in Iceland. The club was right next to the Moulin Rouge which was quite exciting. I had actually forgotten that the 18th arrondissement is Paris’ Red Light District until I noticed that I was the only girl with too much fabric covering skin. The street was lined with stores with neon signs blinking the word “sexy shop”, beckoning to one’s inner depravity to go check out whatever services are offered. Now I’ve never been in any of the sex shops (I think I should, it would be a shame if I left France without doing it, I think it’d be the equivalent of going to Amsterdam and not smoking that legal weed. I need a partner in crime though) but I have a friend who has been. Besides the assortment of sex toys, there are viewing cubicles. So for a certain fee, one is locked in a cubicle with masturbation paraphernalia(I don’t know if this is complementary or one lugs their own lotion from home) and a T.V screen with an infinite amount of Porn. I wonder why these guys just don’t do it at home. I mean, it’s free on the internet, and it’ll be in the privacy of one’s bedroom. The chances of running into one’s Boss and teacher are therefore significantly slimmer. Wow, that was quite a tangent. Anyway, the party was great. The music was the best I had heard in Paris ever since I got here. I could actually dance, and there were willing partners!(JOY). I can’t stand the electro-pop stuff they play here. I can only bob my head and jump up and down so much. Just one thing I would have liked to tell a certain Nigerian I met; Please gurgle mouthwash after a nap when you know you’re gonna go in public. There he was leaning into my ear to tell me he had just slipped out of bed, as it was not apparent. The problem is that when in a club, one is forced to bring one’s ear close to another party’s lips since the music is really loud, which makes me very self-conscious about my breath. It’s only courteous that if you’re gonna lean in to talk to someone at a spittle in your eardrum distances, a little oral hygiene is in order!
At dinner with host mama the other night,we shared stories about getting drunk at parties and the night life then and now. It actually freaks me out how similar they are. Host mama was born in 1932(I found that out the other day when she told me help her with her mail and she gave me her password ha!) So it turns out that our parties are not the only ones that get shut down. In her hey days, she loved to dance. I found out about our shared love for great dancing partners.She told me about a Russian guy she believes is the best dancer she’s ever met. Too bad they didn’t get married. I only ask for fate to throw in a few malleable parts here and there onto the man I’m gonna marry, so that he can dance Dear Lord,lol. I would hate to go out with him and then have to dance with someone else because his legs couldn’t carry a rhythm. (But come to think of it, with the slew of, to put it politely, rhythmically challenged people I have had to make do with at Williams, I may even get so used to terrible dancing that I won’t even notice. But yeah, fingers crossed for marriage to Maksim Chmerkovsky.)That was some beautiful bonding we had that night. Everyday I think about how I’m gonna miss this woman when I leave in May
Spring has been rearing its head. It rained today but it’s been beautiful the last couple of days. I wore a dress to celebrate this foray into the sun. When your legs have been constricted in trousers for the last couple of months, the caress of the wind on one’s nude legs is refreshing and apparently traffic stopping. Do all French men have a foot/leg fetish?
I am the worst tourist in Paris. I have not been to gaze upon the Mona Lisa nor gone up the Eiffel Tower!!I know. I have eaten a lot of fromage and drank plenty of wine though:)
This is what’s gonna happen in the next couple of weeks
Weekend-hosting friends from Williams here for Spring Break
The following week, Dior exhibition at Bon Marché
April 1st. My Birthday. I never do this with flair but I’m in Paris, might step it up a notch
Birthday weekend, My program will be going to Normandie to visit Mont Saint-Michel. I am told it’s beautiful(Will try to put my grainy pictures)
April 5th-Maurice Kirya Concert in Paris. Finding this out was the highlight of my week. I need to go and see for myself that his dimpled smile is not photoshopped.(I am even gonna make sure I have my homework done since it’s on a Tuesday night)
I am only writing this so that I can have someone to account to. Now I really have to go.
Going out for drinks with friends now. Later
Turn Off that Damn Telenovela, the Real Drama is in the Elections!
The elections came and have refused to go away.This morning, (er, afternoon…I am on holiday and have been binging on sleep) I woke up to the news about more rigging, this time in the mayoral elections. The good pastor’s flock had been caught frolicking with the wolves in the tool shed. If you have not been following the theatrics of the Ugandan election, stop right there and go to your room. Now to you dear Reader with a finger on the pulse of everything, let’s continue our discussion in matters intelligent. A rehash of what has happened so far is agreeable, non? Peter Sematimba and Erias Lukwago (and some other guys of no note) are running for Mayor of Kampala. Sematimba, who is a pastor and running on the ruling NRM ticket(the government never stops shooting itself in the foot does it, or they just never hear themselves speak. Whatever happened to the warnings to the church to steer clear of politics?) is the accused of this crime of massive rigging. Allegations of pre-ticked ballot papers have abounded pointing at the metro-sexual pastor. Rumors also abound about his good looks. Frankly I don’t see it. But then in Uganda having a has-been accent, one such thing that the good man has in his arsenal, gives you atleast 20 points on the hotness meter. It doesn’t matter if it’s Russian, no offence intended Boris, it will get a Ugandan’s interest picqued. Why do you think those radio-presenters always have their jowls open in an attempt to capture different accents floating up above even at the risk of being left sans-langue? OK, maybe if Sematimba wore fewer turtle-necks, stopped wearing that second place finish ribbon that’s got Museveni’s scowling face on it and ditched Sam Witwicky’s grandfather’s glasses (which by the way I thought the Decepticons had stolen but can be found sitting snugly on the culpable’s nose)then maybe we can loosely use the term attractive. Here is the pastor with none of the terrible things I talked about but with ole Witwicky’s glasses
Who the hell turned this into a cheap Sematimba-bashing post.Let’s go back to real politics
Here is his opponent who has got none of that swoon inducing stuff but has his head screwed on right.
Erias Lukwago and I may not see eye to eye on a few issues(him not backing Nobert Mao being one of them) but if there is a parliamentarian that has always gotten my attention(with the exception of Theodore Sekikuubo) then it’s him. Kampala, just like Chicago just did with Rahm Emmanuel needs a tough talking, take no prisoners Mayor. Someone needs to beat City Hall and our roads for that matter into shape. Lukwago has adequately ruffled the ruling party’s feathers and needs to do some more when Kampalans finally elect him mayor(whenever that will be considering the elections have been postponed indefinitely because the number of jugular veins they threatened to burst)
Dear Reader, Exhibit A:
Fastfoward to 1:40.
This guy should be given one of those war medals Museveni gives out on NRM day(January 26), the medal of Katonga perhaps for being the first member of the civil society I have seen thoroughly question an Electoral Commission Official. Indeed, where did the pre-ticked ballot papers come from? Apparently only about 50 people had voted so far but I guess there is no difference between that and 100 for the returning officer who was also thoroughly roughed up.
All this begs the question, how much more rigging went on a national scale? For a mayoral race there are far fewer polling stations so irregularities like these are bound to be easily noticed. Imagine what went on in the rural areas where the electorate does not have the gumption to stand up for their own rights. How much rigging went on there? Really? Ugandans love Museveni that much? 68% of the vote? My head is still reeling from this, the people I have been hanging out with have been leading me on.
I received the news about Museveni’s victory with practiced stoicism. My heart did not flutter nor did my stomach contort in anger. The next day all that changed. It’s one thing to think it’s the same old people that tasted the fruits of Museveni’s bush war that are still stuck in the past praising the jolt in the economy that the country received then. I thought us the young people were together, we wanted the old man gone. We did not buy his embellished stories about a post-NRA war Uganda because we had not lived in UPC’s Uganda nor did we care. But as I read my friends’ facebook status updates, celebrating the victory of the ruling government, it dawned on me that it’s their parents that are still benefiting from this corrupt outfit and in turn they did too. I had always had hope that we would be the ones to change our future but it turns out that there are a lot of people who want the status quo to remain thus.
I do not deny Museveni’s excellent achievements but he has done nothing in the past term to merit another. All he did was consolidate power some more by removing the presidential term limits and having the Cultural Leaders’ bill passed. He has not had any “big fish” read Mbabazi(I gun for this man’s head everyday) convicted on charges of corruption and boy has there has been a flurry of such cases in the past term. From the GAVI funds, to Temangalo to the mismanagement of the CHOGM funds. Who has fallen??? Mike Mukula just got re-elected MP for Soroti!!After stealing all that money?? All talk and no “DO”
How unserious and apathetic can our electorate be? And those who did not turn up to vote?! Their numbers could have called for a run-off. Why did you not vote registered Ugandan? If you did not, you definitely deserve every belly jolting pothole you’ll run into. OK I gotta stop here before I too burst a jugular!
Who the hell turned the second-half of my post into an invective against the ruling party
anyway,lol? I am usually more even-tempered.
Ok here is something to make one swoon(sorry to the guys, I do not know any hot female politicians)
Now this guy I have met in person , Sematimba, psshh…Mike Mukula is the shit(too bad he is NRM and a thief)
OH NIGERIA!
I just found this on a Nigeria-oriented thread
Someone asks
My Peeps,
I am on my way to Paris and need someone to assist me with where I can find Nigerian dishes in Paris.Kindly, provide me with the address and contacts details of the restaurant.Thanks!
The reply;
You useless person!
You are going to visit one of the most vibrant cities in the world with thousands of types of food to try.All you want is Nigerian food.
You big mumu stay at home and eat snails & catfish
I laughed so hard my sides ached. I imagined the the person being told off by a big Nigerian mama with a thick accent.
Do these guys run out of things to entertain us? I am going to a Nigerian party tonight. Will let you know how that goes.
Also, I scoured the internet for a befitting picture(Big angry Nigerian/African woman) but came up with only pictures of Genevieve Naji, and we say the Chinese have a firewall? These guys know that we stereotype so whenever you type in anything related to Nigeria,you get pictures of Genevieve Naji!
SPARTACUS: BLOOD AND SAND
I am a T.V junkie but thankfully have not yet debased myself to the level of watching “The Jersey shore” yet. However the characters seem to creep up on me everywhere I turn, I know them almost intimately despite never having watched even 5 minutes of the show, I saw Snooki’s hair in the dumpster by my house the other day and I did not miss The situation’s abs and wobbly legs on last season’s dancing with the stars. I have a new show to add to my ever-growing pile of junk entertainment. Spartacus; Blood and Sand. Here is the trailer for season 1
I am a sucker for epics. Gladiator ranks high up there as one of my favorite movies of all time. Russell Crowe was superb and did the scriptwriter win an Oscar? because this this needs re-tweeting;
My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, Commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next
I just got a boner from this 
Spartacus is a recreation of Roman gladiatorial times characterized by 300′s torso bearing with the violence and gore notched up a tad but with only a sporadic showing of the former or Gladiator’s fine dialogue. The problem lies not with the archaic English but the lead actor(Andy Whitfield) has non of Crowe’s acerbic delivery. Also, the writing is further watered down by the use of expletives. I don’t know often Romans used “Fuck” in their dialogue but this show sounds like The Real Slim Shady. Expect to hear a lot of that and “Jupiter’s cock”!
The fight scenes are memorable(WARNING; Do not munch on popcorn as you watch this show. It most certainly will be fighting its way up and out of your stomach pronto). They have all that 300-style slow motion blood splatter thing going on. I thought I had been hardened by True Blood’s exploding vampires but the blood display in Spartacus is stomach churning and almost traumatizing. I have oft had to turn away from men disemboweled or who’s heads have been given free rein(read torso left writhing on the ground as it’s head flies high above the arena, eyes frozen in unbelief). Of course shows that are garish always need a counter to “soften” the faculties. This is where the sex comes in. Again, I thought True Blood had broken all the bounds of television with vampires having sex in a recently dead person’s blood but this show puts all that to shame such that people have gone so far as to call it soft-core porn. I would agree. Well for every gladiator fight in the arena there are two sex scenes.I have never in my several years of T.V junkieness seen a full frontal shot of a man’s business and apparently men in those times were hung like horses(I really suspect that this is an embellishment). I was really curious about this and did a little digging around and it turns out these are “prop penises” What the hell? So do they just wrap it around their shafts like that tribe from Papua New Guinea?!. My take on the show, I love it but would not mind the gore turned down a bit. The sex scenes can stay as is
Reasons TO see Spartacus
-Hot shirtless men with torsos rivaling The Situation’s
-The sex and nudity if that’s ya thing.
-Romance (See a battle-hardened guy softened by his love for a woman, ahh I love this)
-The guy that made Gerard Butler say ” This is Sparta” is in it.
-Epics are fun, lovely costumes
Reasons NOT TO see Spartacus
-The Blood
-The sex (not at all to be watched with your mother)
-Dialogue could use a lot of sprucing
-Very disturbing display of men in hot pants, it looks like a lady Gaga video
UGANDA, The Worst Place to be Gay?
I grew up believing that being gay was wrong. Before I went to college in the U.S I was homophobic. When I was a prefect in High School and spared no means in trying to weed out any students suspected of being gay. We would spend hours trying to gather evidence so that they could be expelled. (In retrospect, I am glad we never did get anyone expelled, although we did question a few students about their sexual orientation)I never once did turn it over in my head to wonder if the other side had a reason for being that way. Even a thief, a lowlife, when caught is usually given the benefit of doubt and is asked why he did what he did. Being gay in Uganda is just what is; WRONG! At that point in my life I remember that the explanation for this wrongness had been that God had boiled Sodom and Gomorrah in Sulphur because of their perverted sexual ways and anyone that was gay faced the same fate. The wrath of God had been so potent that Lot’s wife had turned into a pillar of salt by looking back at the smoldering ruins that were once sin city.The Bible spares no expense in painting the depravity of homosexuals wanting to bed any male within sight.
They called to Lot, “Where are the men who came to you tonight?
Bring them out to us so that we can have sex with them.” (Gen 19:5)
Sleeping with a man is painted worse than Lot prostituting his virgin girls to avoid “this wicked thing”. It never ceases to amaze me however that Lot and daughters go unpunished by the same God that looks with so much scorn on sexual depravity when the daughters drug their father, have sex with him and bear children by him in the following part of the story.(Double standards anyone?)This is a story worn out from retelling. It is what some Ugandans recite on cue whenever prompted to defend their anti-gay stance. I looked at homosexuality like this once upon a time.
Scott Mills, a British D.J recently did a documentary about homosexuality in Uganda called “The World’s Worst Place to be Gay?” Uganda?I think not. There are some countries where they’ll be off with your head before you finish your confession, “I’m g…g..a” pssh, blood everywhere!Of course I exaggerate but there are countries out there where homosexuality “does not exist”. It is not even discussed. Uganda should be given credit for atleast having the conversation.
Of course I am disappointed in my country; that the editor of the Rollingstone magazine that ran a story with pictures of gays in Uganda exhorting people to “hang them” speaks so non-chalantly about the death penalty. He thinks they deserve what’s coming at them because what they are doing is wrong. And who appointed you god? Is he trying to say he follows the ten commandments to the letter? May he who hasn’t sinned cast the first stone. If this is a question of morality then the hypocrisy of Ugandans mind-boggling. The law is more willing to punish two adults of the same sex engaging in a consensual sexual act or put to death one involved with a minor but is content to imprison for only a couple of years or impose a negligible fine on someone that has raped a months old baby or taken for a wife a 12 year old girl. Basically this boils down to defilement involving a heterosexual couple not being as bad as that involving a same couple?!If they want to impose the death penalty for aggravated homosexuality which The Bahati Bill explains as sex with a minor or a disabled person, then the same should meted out to heterosexual offenders.
BUT, much as people are already casting stones at Uganda, they should stay their hands. I saw this comment on the documentay Youtube(which is a great resource if you want to see how obtuse the world really is) in reaction to the documentary;
“these particular African guys are just primitive, crazy and irrational. They don’t call them “Third World” for nothing. I hope they wake up and see some change and respect oher people’s right”
Ugandans may be accused of gullibility and conservatism but calling them primitive because you don’t share the same beliefs is below the belt. The reason why the Ugandan society wants off with the heads of the homosexuals is because they were convinced that children are being recruited into homosexuality. I do no think this is anymore possible than that you can make a homosexual straight. But fear of things “foreign” and unknown can make for easy propaganda bait. Ugandans have never really seen a homosexual live freely and “normally”. I had to be extricated from an acerbic society to have my eyes opened. Anyone back at home may think me brainwashed but it takes the society you live in to educate you about acceptance. No matter how liberal one is, it’s more than likely that they will end up homophobic because one never gets to hear the other side of the story and there is never enough breathing room to even think it. I am not saying the U.S liberated me, because there is a lot of homophobia in the U.S as well and I would not be surprised to find closet supporters of the Ugandan death penalty therein. Which brings me to a problem I had with the documentary. Scott kept talking about gays being treated as well as anyone else in the U.K. Who is he kidding? Well it is true if you are looking at it from a comparative view point. But there is a lot of homophobia in the UK as well.
The West cannot draw conclusions that Ugandans are primitive as if gay people are not discriminated over there. They also have to put into account that gay rights movements over there started years ago. Ours is but a feeble few. Ugandans do not support gay people because they are not intelligent, they do so because the propaganda from the missionaries from the same countries that are regarding Uganda as primitive worked. The irony of it all is staggering as is the gullibility of Ugandans. I am glad the Bahati bill has lost momentum and hope that nothing will come of it in the future.
This rant is in no way a comprehensive assessment of the situation on the ground because that’s bound to be pages long. I just needed to get something out there because it was getting stifling being silent.
R.I.P Davis Kato, Gay Rights Activist
ANTI-CLIMACTIC SALSA
My friends and I went to a Salsa bar last Saturday. One of my friends was supposed to call me to tell me when we would be going out. I waited till almost midnight without hearing from him. I decided to call him to find out what was going. It turns out he had sort of forgotten that I was supposed to tag along. He gave me the address and I dressed up as fast as I possibly could so that I could get there before the metro closed. It’s not very easy getting around my quarter because there are not a lot of metro stations here. I was supposed to take line 6, it would take me a while. Midway through the journey, my friend called me up to check on my progress and then I found out I should have taken line 9 instead. It’s then that I noticed that the stop I was supposed to get off at was outside Paris! I was mad but I had looked forward to tonight so there was no way I was gonna go home. I have Sudoku on my I-pod so that kept me company for a while. When I got to the stop and got out, I wanted to leave immediately. I saw a woman that could only have been someone’s great-grandmother blasting something in rapid French on the phone. She was wearing a shirt stopping just above her hips with fishnet stockings. Across the tracks, there was a couple in all stages of undress. A few homeless people here and there. I did not know where my exit was as I had stupidly forgotten to consult Google maps for the “take a left, then right” directions. I can’t read a map for the life of me and it is always a guarantee that I’m going to get lost when I don’t consult google. I called my friend as I wanted him to come pick me up, the whole place was giving me bad vibe. He must have had the company of a really hot girl or the music was so loud so he did not hear the phone ring. I was near-tears now. The semi-nude couple was hollering at me. The most fear-inducing place I had ever been to in Paris so far was the RER train. I live in the 5th arrondissement, chockfull of bookstores and cafes. There was nothing remotely threatening there. And here I was confronted by banlieue hooliganism that had been talked about so often but that I had not particularly cared about. The banlieue are the suburbs of Paris, some filthy rich and others downright trashy, like the one I’d just stepped into.
I made my way out of the station but could not find the street. I asked a couple of people that passed me by. They had never heard of it. My fear intensified. I was surrounded by forlorn looking buildings that had not escaped the wrath of graffiti. There were shadows everywhere and no one in sight which made everything all the more eerie. As I walked down that shadowy street, I hoped that my family knew that I loved them. About halfway through my walk, I saw two men come up the street. I have never prayed so hard in my life. They only gave cursory glances and were off. Phew! I have watched too many movies so you can only imagine my paranoia. I got to the bar eventually and as you may have guessed, there were no bisous exchanged between my friend and I. How could he drag me all the way out here and not even warn me that I might run into drug-dealers (Iwas later to learn that it was a hardcore drug users haven..cringe!). I got even angrier when I realized that I actually had to pay 10 Euros at the door!!I had survived a slaughter and now I was being charged!! Once inside, I made a bee-line for the bar and knocked back a beer in minutes. Having calmed down considerably,I started taking in my surroundings. Large room with raised ceiling full of people that knew how to dance. Well it’s been a while since I saw this. Good looking men moving their hips to cuban music, how much sexier can it get?
I love to dance, but the one dance that has eluded me is salsa. I find it so technical. That I have to keep counting and I’m supposed to know when to twirl and when to get hoisted into the air..arrgghh, too frustrating for me. I also find it overwhelming that people do it so well. I consider myself a descent dancer and I am never really outshone in that regard, but with salsa, it happens all the time. A portly black man asked me to dance, I would rather have not but her insisted. The moment I lay my hands on his shoulders, I realized that I should have insisted on the NO! He was bathed in sweat and his T-shirt was soaked in it. Can this night get any worse? He redeemed himself though. Boy did he know how to dance. I kept a very safe distance in all the instances when we were supposed to move in closer. I touched his shoulder with the tips of my fingers which I am sure made me look like a praying mantis. After a few minutes it was over! And a few after that my friends decided that we ought to leave lest we missed the the metro. Wait a minute, I had spent more than an hour on the train, had paid an entrance fee and could only be here for 30 minutes? FML!
In a nutshell, the night sucked
Café Bohème Paris & Uganda
I was walking down the street the other day when I ran into a Café Bohème. It reminded me of the one in Munyonyo and the great laughs that I had there. A couple of friends and I had gone Paint-balling in Munyoyo, and decided to grab a bite to eat before going into the war zone. For a place where a great number of Ugandans seek to hang out over the weekend, Munyonyo sure is short on restaurants. We had to drive up and down the road several times before we saw café Bohème. The menu was nothing to write home about, a couple of snacks and then a real maama Nalongo style meal (read beef, rice, posho and anything else that could fit on the plate) It was hard to get the waitress to understand what we were saying. I ordered a burger and fries, the lightest meal on the menu.”You wanti a burgg?”, the waitress asked again. Ugandans invariably make affirmative statements but turn them into questions by raising the intonation at the end. ” You’re going to school-u?” They usually know that you are going to school but need to be sure.But I digress.It took almost 30 minutes to get served, almost the same time it took to get served a soda! Did she have to go buy and then refrigerate it? When the burger did finally arrive, this was the arrangement. There was a bun split in half which on further inspection revealed blue band spread on the inside. The meat was ok, clamped down by a hunk of cheese. Now after living in France for a while, you get very particular about your cheese. I don’t know what kind of cheese it was since, paramount perhaps? It tasted bland and rubbery. I had to hew it in half to make it actually fit on the bun. I lose my appetite easily and need to eat before I am too hungry to eat. Well by the time my food did come, I had gotten to that point. I needed to take the food to go and so wanted to ask the waitress to wrap it up for me to take home. Now, I’ve lived in different societies in the past couple of years and everyone makes this request differently. some ask for the food “to go”, others “take away” or whatever. I turned to my friend who had not exactly been living Uganda either how the asked for it over here. ‘Ask for a doggy bag” she told me. I signaled to the waitress and asked her if I could have a doggy bag. “You wanti a dog-oh?” She actually seemed relieved that I was asking for this. No! I replied, I didn’t want a dog. The way she asked made it seem like they actually had dogs to give out to patrons. You get a dog with the happy meal. Needless to say. I laughed so hard at her expense. We had to tip her heavily at the end as she’d been the butt-end of jokes throughout the meal. She had hardly gotten anyone’s orders right and she spoke “English” but never seemed to understand a word of it! With renewed vigor,we went for our paintball game.
I miss home
