Boundaries and Restraint

..like having tea in Mummy's cup or taking her seat at the family eating 'table'. These silent rules drew invisible boundaries and planted the first seeds of restraint.

Community property was shared custody. The survival and social benefits of a village well were upheld in preservation of the livelihood of the community.

Now things have changed:

The ring-fence on Kapere's new acquisition beholds the village well. The envious eyes on a stolen treasure and thirsty tongues craning over the fence longing for sweet freedom, have turned Kapere into a semi god.

When we draw boundaries, we are practising restraint: putting the common good before our individual gain. This is one of the values that has fostered amicable relations and upheld communities for generations.

It starts at home, in the heart: you can not restrain in public what you have not restrained in your heart. We restrain under authority and within limits set by rules that govern us.

Out of home and the village,

Like re-known lawyer Daudi Mpanga once questioned: What then do you have to say about someone, who thinks they can change the long Buganda tradition of members of the same clan not getting married to each other, because the girl they love belongs to their clan?

Ideas are seeds; they are God’s whisper in your ear.

If your business relies on the selling of ideas, you will agree that a good idea is like God’s whisper in your ear. It is divine: like the fullness of time, it’s in line with your life’s journey and all things are lined up just to bring it to pass. It is bold: clear and empowering; in your mind, you can see the end from the beginning. The jolt of energy from its formation inspires you to cut through the spin of creeping economies and unstable political situations. Ideas are the seeds for every business: they need diligent custodians to drive them to maturity.

Ideas emerge in the stillness of the mind, they are like drops of mild rain: if they fall through dry air, they may never touch the ground. Similarly, a cluttered mind is like a disturbance in the sea. The idea is spiraled into waves of distortion and soon forgotten. To appreciate the power of a good idea is to shield your mind from the waves of distraction that life throws at us.

Ideas are seeds: they are gifts. We simply take on the role of custodians. We must stay humble. No one can steal your idea:they may be able to copy the cover but not the revelation. Do not start your business with stolen seed. The owners of the seed will claim their harvest.

Every seed goes through a cycle of growth. When a seed is put into the ground, it dies before it brings forth new growth. Some seeds take longer than others to sprout: waiting earnestly and drawing inspiration from the boldness of your idea is what will bring you forth to your harvest.

Death brings forth newness. Longing brings forth surrender. Waiting grooms perseverance.

Lessons we learn when we run businesses. #iBRANDat7years

The Preserve of Beauty for my hands

My childhood memories were made in a tiny house, nestled by a canopy of bamboo shoots and draped with an enviable view of Lake Victoria. In the early 80’s, Mbuya hill was home to civil servants working for large government institutions like Coffee and Lint Marketing Board. Even though my parents have never worked for a government institution, I spent the greater part of my childhood here. The Mbuya Army Hospital- now turned UPDF headquarters, stood like a fortress just above our house. By some degree of measure, ours was a home in the city; but my upbringing and the code of instruction in our household was largely traditional. My mother invariably embraced new technology, albeit with some reservations: the Matooke meal for example, had to be prepared using charcoal.

For a very long time, my mother and I were the only ladies in the house. Since she was against the idea of hired help, the ladies did all the house chores. So my hands got busy at a very early age, in fact, by the time I joined boarding school in Primary one, I could do so many things with my hands: I prepared the family meals during the holidays, cleaned the house and washed my Dad’s socks and handkerchiefs.

On one of those days, the traces of Matooke sap mixed with charcoal on my hands frustrated me deeply. These stains were a rude reminder that I had peeled Matooke and lit the charcoal stove that day. Unfortunately for me, washing never quite removed all the sap: and as a matter of consequence, it got stuck to the cups and plates as I did the dishes which infuriated my mother.
As I grew older, I got more concerned about my hands. Even though my mother rewarded me heavily for helping her with the housework, the intrusive remarks from my peers about what had happened to my hands were daunting! I looked forward to the day I would never have to use charcoal again.

Today, I embrace my Shell gas cylinder with my hands: this is the fulfillment of a childhood dream and a preserve of beauty for my hands. Now I can fix quick meals for my daughter and not worry about staining my hands. And today, more than anything, it’s not just the nosy remarks from my peers that I’m worried about…

Give us this day, our daily bread

It is 1:00pm. The ‘bench and the bar’ at Uganda’s Temple of Justice, take a break from the petition hearing. It is lunch time!

At, Kololo Independence grounds, the sight of our gallant soldiers, in multiple immaculate cues, with their white plates sharply contrasting from their green army uniform, is a sight to behold. It is lunch time!

I make a stopover at Forest Mall, to send my mother her weekly allowance. Just before I drove away, a young man of about 27 years old comes to me and makes a sign requesting for some conversation. I oblige and ask how I can be of help.

“Madam, my name is Kasule. I’m a casual laborer at a construction site but I did not have work today because my boss lost his wife. “I’m so hungry, please help me with some money so that I can buy something to eat.” It is lunch time but…..

I shared some of my money with him, he said thank you and walked away.

And then my mind went through my country’s long scroll of lamentations:

1. The specter of a botched election, on which most of our learned friends-whose white shirts are a cause of great amusement for my daughter as she can’t imagine adult men wearing bibs, will spend hours regurgitating.

2. The anticipated civil activism that has had our gallant solders camped at Kololo all these days.

3. The cry for freedom from Kizza Besigye’s camp.

4. The many friends we have lost to Cancer in the past few weeks

5.


6.


But I guess nothing compares to the hunger that makes the stomach growl in longing for some activity. The Judges and soldiers are assured of a meal every day. My 61 year old mother and her cohorts, have survived three wars and adolescent children, their fears have waned and they too are assured of a meal.

The politicians, who many of our young people followed during the election campaign, at the expense of their time and youthful energy and often times, their few material possesions will be assured of a meal today.

But that 27 year old young man, with his dreams begging for a launch pad and his desires to impress that beautiful girl devouring his soul, but without a meal, even though he recited the Lord’s Prayer, is Uganda’s biggest threat. NO! It is not the election.

Happy Birthday to my Baby Brother Veve!

… Mealtimes that year were interrupted by mummy excusing herself. I wondered why she insisted on returning to the dining table after what seemed like a very painful session of throwing up! Just like the baby secretly forming in her womb, she alone could justify it. Mummy was pregnant but this was a strange pregnancy; she was still breast feeding my baby sister Angela. (0-o)

That is the year I caught typhoid in my final year in primary school just before sitting my mock examinations. I recall the image of a heavily pregnant Goretti walking into the sick bay at Gayaza Junior School to take me home. She looked exhausted and the news of my illness terrified her.

On 15th August, mummy labored for over 7 hours to bring forth was would become the last fruit of her womb. Veve, as well fondly call him, was my sister Angela’s attempt to say his name Francis when she was just 2 years old.

He was a special baby, with an amazing temperament. He went through the normal stages of child development until 8 months when he got a polio vaccination. What seemed like the expected fever after immunization turned into a full blown medical condition that saw him bedridden for so many months. A few months before his first birthday, he had attempted to walk on his own but when he emerged from hospital, he could hardly move his limbs. My brother had recovered from Polio but as fate would have it, he would never be able to walk again.

Veve is a special child! Underneath the banner of his fate, his benevolent spirit outshines his shortcoming. God has granted him favour with people and friends at school. He has achieved so much in his life and is on his journey to becoming a computer scientist.

Today I celebrate the life of an amazing gentleman; my brother whose future is bright and full of unlimited opportunities. Happy Birthday bro.

Strength in weakness

3rd September 2014
... the emotion captures my heart and I get overwhelmed; in a nice way! A state of vulnerability overtakes my soul and breaks all my walls. It is then that weakness stares me in the face and the glaring evidence of all the water that has gone under this bridge comes to life but in a distant dream. I see your hand reaching out for mine and then I realize,that it's only when we are weak that we are able to appreciate strength.
I embrace you,the greatest love of all,for even after all these years,I still believe,that in you alone,lies my life's anchor. Yes, Love always wins.

Belated Hero's day post....

If Hero's day is about celebration of war heroes? Today, I chose to celebrate my grandmother Monica Nalebe Kalanzi (RIP) and mother Mary Goretti Nakimera Mutebi and here's why:

My mother’s childhood dream was to get married to someone from the city. She believed that raising her kids from the city would give them more exposure and opportunities. My parents got married at Kitovu Cathedral in Masaka and drove several miles back to Kampala for their wedding reception at Silver Springs Hotel. After their wedding, they lived at William Street briefly before moving to Mbuya flats just below the Military hospital, which is now the Ministry of Defence headquarters.

In 1985, when the road from Masaka to Kampala was intercepted by rebels, my grandmother braved the risky journey from Masaka via ferry to pick her daughter, who she felt was abandoned in the city. On a cold and quiet evening, long after curfew hours, we heard a desperate knock at the door. “Maria Gulawo, nze mama.” –“Maria, open the door, this is your mother.” Jjaja worried that it wasn’t safe for mum to stay in the city alone; the rebels were approaching and….. and…..it was better off if she was back home with family. (My Dad was overseas)
This was a hard test on mum’s resolve to raise her kids from the city. She worried that if she moved back to Masaka, she would never return. With the reminder that her life and that of her children was in danger, mum opted for the suggestion to move to Kawempe-my uncle’s home but not back to Masaka.

Very early the next morning, Mum and Jjaja hired a wheel burrow from Giza Giza market. With some of our very basic belongings, the long treak to Kawempe started; Jjaja walking by her daughter and the two of us (my brother and I) strapped on the wheel burrow. Every time a gunshot was fired, mum and jjaja shielded us with their warm bodies to protect us from being hurt. When we got to Kawempe, Jjaja embarked on the long journey back to Masaka.

Every war is documented with a story; one that is told in the history books. The stories celebrate heros, those who have been brave enough to risk their lives for their country. We adorn them with medals and headline their names in the media. Every child who has survived the war has their story, if they are an 80’s child, it will be a story about who saved their life during 1986 liberation war. Today I applaud my heroines. Maama and Jjaja