Republic of One

The ink on this page of my diary is runny. I must have left it near an open window one time to many.

The entry I’m about to lift is dated 25-03-11. The girl who wrote this must have been going through one hell of a heartbreak because the words are so raw, so reflective of what I am feeling now. When I read her words, I was like, how embarrassing that I was wiser at 20 than I am right now. I was more open to feeling my feelings.


Confusion, regret. Been there, done that, will not waste my youth on such.

Scrape them all together, M. raid their nooks, bombard their crannies

Sweep them up into one tall pile, pointing to heaven

and then bring out the lighter fluid.

How is it that my mind has moved on but it has only occurred to my heart to start bleeding now?

Bruised and seeping but determined.

One second at a time.

Grief is not shameful. Shame is.

Grief is not shameful. Shame is.

Grief is not shameful. Shame is.


Journalling is good because later in life, you are able to help yourself through some difficult situations. It is just as wise as saving money.


They called me a cow.

I was weaving through Kamwokya’s mid-morning traffic today, trying to get from one side of the road to the other before the cars started moving in a never ending stream when a boda guy almost knocked me down. Instead of going on his way, grateful that he hadn’t had an accident, he turned his head and yelled, “You stupid woman! Crossing the road as if you are a cow!” and other things that I didn’t hear.

I was angry and embarrassed and I mumbled an expletive at his back, frustrated that he’d go about his life not knowing what I’d thought about him in that moment.

This experience reminded me of a link that I found on Ukamaka Olisakwe’s wall about three people’s experiences in Nigerian traffic. It’s really cool. Read that post here.

I’d really love to do a Ugandan version.

If you’re interested in helping me turn this into a reality, please leave a comment or send this writer chick a message with the most dramatic/ dumbfounding/crazy/annoying/funny experience you’ve while using public transport in Uganda.

If they are many, I’ll turn everything into a Stiletto point. How do you see?

Also, mwanablaadi, all of the fun is over at Apenyo’s place. Go and follow her also.


Peace yo.


September: Life, Death, Zumba, Birthdays, Love.

I hate September exactly as much as I love it, and I love it very much. See, a year ago, in this shitty month, my uncle died, then my little babyboo Daniella was born, then it was my Joshua’s birthday, then my mother died. All this within a period of three weeks. And 18 days into October, it’s going to be mom’s birthday.

This September has found me madly in love, so add that to the emotional pie.

I’m too full of feelings.

I can’t imagine how it must be for dad.

I am too full of feelings.

I read a self-help book once (wrapped in newspaper and only in dark places) about this man who was  learning life lessons from his former college teacher; a man  full of life and wisdom.

In the section about grief, the old man talked about how at 70, he still cried for his mother every day because time had done nothing for the pain. First thing in the morning, he’d allow himself to cry and then make a conscious decision to stop grieving for the day.

I used his system to devise one of my own, one where I wake up, bawl, and then ZUMBA. I do the quickie session- 9 minutes, sweat, stare at my body in the mirror for a second, marvel at how firm it has become and then take my bath.

September won’t drown me, no. I’m too busy loving and crying and dancing to die.

Today is Joshua’s birthday.

Joshua is the most secretive of my siblings. He’s a middleish kid- the 4th of 6 and spends most of his time at home under a blanket with a computer, marahagaring. The blanket is necessary because dad has banned computer football games. Bad for the reading spirit.

Joshua is a beautiful boy with the largest, clearest eyes. He’s a silly, inquisitive inventor.

He’s one of those kids who still excel at mathematics in P.6, which means he’s going to do well in this system we have going that glorifies the coldness of numbers over the warmth of words.

Joshua talks too much and especially after he’s invented something. In the last holiday, he bent an empty beer can and stuck it over the front tire of his bike to make it produce rally car sounds. The boy chewed my ear about it for so long, I got malaria.

He’s a live wire and I love him.

And mom, he’s growing tall. He’s not remained short like you feared he would.


Happy Birthday, Cusi. You’re growing into daddy which is both terrifying and awesome.

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