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.