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Bold & beautiful proud African Woman. Living passionately,indulging selflessly and loving deeply.

Monday, July 11, 2016

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

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

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…


Monday, March 21, 2016

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.