They'll Clap When You're Gone

It's rather disheartening when after taking a rather large step towards banging your life long dream into reality that the people who you always thought are supposed to be the happiest for you aren't because being happy for you would mean that they would have to admit to you and more importantly to themselves that they were wrong about you. It would mean that they would have to acknowledge that your dreams were valid after all. It would mean that your stubborn refusal to give up or to give in was indeed warranted. Worst of all, it would mean that you were more in tune with God's plan for your life than they were. For them that's a hard pill to swallow and so instead of swallowing it they spit it out while you aren't looking and simply pretend to.

It's when you get responses like, "Well, at least you're doing what you enjoy." with a condescending pat on your shoulder and a grimace disguised as a smile and, "Well, you've always wanted to write so I guess you have that going for you." that you start to wonder why these people are congratulating you so begrudgingly. You honestly thought that they would be over the moon that you finally managed to bag a job with an employer and a contract and a salary and an office. That's what they always wanted, wasn't it? For you to be gainfully employed? Well, not necessarily. A month into the new job and you're beginning to realize that what they really wanted was for you to give up on what they thought of as a childish and ignorant pipe dream and do what they wanted you to do- get the kind of job that required you to present your papers just to be offered a seat in the waiting area. The fact that you had gotten a job by using your talent, a thing that they thought was nice to have to be sure but certainly not something they ever thought would ever make you employable, angered them. But hold on a second, why on Earth would that anger them? It didn't make any sense, wasn't that a good thing? To be employable beyond just having a certain piece of paper? If you had to venture a guess however, it was probably because in their minds, any place that would dare to hire you solely based on your talent cant be that serious a place of employment, can it now?

A month surrounded by an entire team of gainfully employed outliers, wild thinkers and charismatic eccentrics and you've come to realize something else too; that it's not just you. A few of your fellow workmates have shared with you how their families don't really take their jobs seriously either and are more often than not expecting them to at some point grow up, get a real job and save being creative for their free time, as if that was even an option. Which begs the question, what is it about creating, and more specifically writing, that causes people not to take it seriously? Think about it. If you say that you write for the New Vision or for the Daily Monitor, people get that. They understand that. They even may respect that.  But if you say you write for a TV show well then everyone's face scrunches up in confusion. You mean that's actually a real thing? Never mind that already your basic salary is twice possibly even three times as much as you would have been making at Vision or Monitor and that there's really only one place to go and that is up. Never mind that what you write will be watched by people all over the continent, not just read by people over the age of 35 who still read the newspapers instead of just scrolling through their Twitter timeline in a country with a literacy rate of 66.8%. Never mind that you are working in a field that you naturally excel in and that even though you have a gift for it have also worked very, very hard to hone into a very precise skill. Never mind that you have consulted the God that you strongly believe in and pass everything by and that he has made it abundantly clear time and time again that you're exactly where you need to be right now. The sad truth of the matter is, if it doesn't fit into their myopic view of what one's life is meant to look like then you're the one in the wrong, not them. Never them.

A part of you also sometimes thinks that another reason for the sour expressions may be because you dared and continue to dream at all. As far as they're concerned your gaze shouldn't be aimed so high, you should be setting your sights on being a work horse, to plowing the field, to harvesting the corn, so to speak. Writing is not working. What's so hard about sitting in front of a computer, tapping at a keyboard and making up stories? At least if you were reporting news, well now that's a real contribution; heck, advertising is even better. But writing a script for actors to read and act out? That's not a job, that's a hobby. It doesn't matter that you're getting paid for it, you cant build a life on a hobby. They'll even throw scripture at you;

"When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me."

Yeah, Paul said that. According to them dreaming big was childish and it was way past time for you to put the ways of childhood behind you. But the way you look at it, just because they stopped dreaming doesn't mean you have to. Especially since it's God that planted the seeds of those dreams in the first place. And so at the end of the day those people can say what they want to say, they can pretend to smile and pretend to be happy for you while quietly gnashing their teeth when your back's turned but at this point at time you cant waste any more energy on trying to make them happy and doing things for them. You love them, yes, but you can no longer afford for them to be your barometer, there is no joy and no peace in that. God is joy and God is peace and so from here on out he will be your barometer. Now and always. And so if that means that they'll clap when you're gone then so be it. You've got your God on one side and your ride or die on your other and as far as you're concerned, that's all that matters.

There's an Entire Whole World Out There to Get Lost In, Are You Still Breathing?

Note: The above title has nothing to do with the below post. I came up with the title before I wrote the post and then after I wrote it and realized that the post didn't fit the title I just couldn't be bothered to come up with another one. You have been warned.

....................

I've lived in Kampala long enough that versions of myself haunt every corner of this city. They perpetually pass out in muddy ditches and make out with strangers. They haggle over taxi fares and purchase TV chicken, roadside sausages and titanic rolexes. They walk the long way home, hands shoved into pockets at 4 O'clock in the morning after a sweaty booty call and help elderly women collect their groceries after the bag that was holding them tears and spills boxes of cereal, kilos of sugar, packets of milk, bars of dettol, tubes of toothpaste and the such like all over the street.

I bump into these ghosts of Lloyd's past every where I go. I catch glimpses of them while sitting at restaurant tables and peering through taxi windows. They are a constant reminder of who I've been, where I've been & where I've come from. They are my sins, my triumphs and silly stories. They are unavoidable. I think I now understand why people up and move entire cities when they want to get away from their past; it's not only to get away from the people that populate their world, it's to get away from themselves. Every version of themselves.

Different parts of this city haunt me in different ways. Not only with various versions of myself but also the various people I was with and all the chemical reactions and electrical impulses attached to them. The phantom scent of peach body spray whenever I find myself along Ntinda-Kisaasi Road, the softness of lips kissed and the faint taste of Redd's Vodka whenever I walk through the entrance of Zone 7, the crunch of fist on the bridge of my nose whenever Kisimenti becomes the destination of choice. Pangs of heart break, bursts of joy, jolts of pain as well as an array of other sensations bombard me every minute of every day that I am outside the comfort my four walls. And even then, the walls are haunted too. It can be exhausting sometimes constantly having to keep the waves of the past at bay. Especially for someone who tries their best to keep their eyes on tomorrow.

'Learn from the past but don't linger on it.' I heard from someone somewhere, I forget who. But just how does someone do that when the past is everywhere they turn; peeping out from behind parked silver Rav-4's, lapping up spilled beer off of bar counter tops and perched precariously on top of headboards knocking rhythmically against bedroom wall?

If anybody out there knows, heck, please let me know.

Under The Skin

The other day I was sitting in a taxi, up front with the driver when a woman got in and sat down next to me. She was slight of frame, light of skin with relaxed hair pulled back into a pony tail. She wore red, large-framed glasses and an engagement ring on the middle finger of her left hand. A navy blue skirt, striped blouse and black suit jacket with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. She was severely burned from the elbow to the knuckles of her left arm, from wrist to knuckle of her right hand and from ear to ear and hairline to throat. I couldn't see what kind of shoes she was wearing. She greeted me as she got in and I nodded and greeted her back, shifting over slightly to give her a little more room. There was no timidity in her greeting, no shying away from drawing attention to herself. This surprised me. Why? Because even when I just have a pimple I try my best not to draw attention to it or myself, invariably doing so anyway with conspicuously stilted movements. Though to be fair, that says more about me than it does about her.

Now, although the burns were probably the last thing that I noticed about the woman in the seat next to me they were most definitely the thing that left the strongest impression. They set my mind in motion. Not in a morbidly curious kind of way but in a more searchingly introspective one. I found myself wondering about her. Who was this woman under all of that scar tissue? What was her name? Who were her parents? Where did she go to school? Where did she work? What kind of music did she listen to?  Did she watch 'Deception'?

What was her life beyond living with all those scars?

There was a moment when I let my mind dwell on the pain she must have endured. The flames that had licked at her face and arms and for all I know other parts of her body as well; melting her skin, disfiguring her for life.

Had she been beautiful? There was no way for me to know.

In an instant my mind conjured up the hospital bed, the painful rehabilitation, the hopelessness and horror she must have felt the first time she looked at herself in the mirror; the doctors telling her and her family that there was nothing else they could do. The alienation. The inferiority. The despondency. I didn't know her but I grieved for her.

And then I remembered the engagement ring. I looked down at it. Golden band, shiny stone perched on top. Did that happen before or after the accident? Either way though, that was one hell of a man. He had that hell or high water love. That for better or worse love. I didn't know him but I kind of envied him. I envied his strength, his dedication, his refusal to quit. I'm loath to admit it but a part of me hoped that the ring was just for show. That ring, on that finger, belonging to that woman threw my up to that point unquestionable dedication to my beloved into the harsh light of scrutiny. If, God forbid, something was to ever happen to her; stripping her of physical beauty, relegating her to crutches or wheel chair or hospital bed, would I have the the strength and fortitude to stand by her? Would I have that immovable, unshakable, invincible love that I swore both to her and myself that I would have for the rest of our days together?

I didn't know. I really didn't. I always thought I did but faced with 'Hell or high water' the way I was sitting in that taxi I just didn't know. And that's what scared me the most. It threw into question my entire notion of my perceived 'goodness'. Would I really still love her if she looked like the woman sitting next to me? It's easy to say yes from this side of things. My beloved is gorgeously and wondrously put together. But the truth is, I really don't know.

What's more, does any of us?

Day 18: Untitled

I used to think that I would write until the day I died. That I would pass away with a pen in my hand and a posthumous novel slated for publication once the right amount of respectable time had passed. I know different now. I know that I wont be writing that seven book saga that requires years and years and sometimes decades of dedication or clinking champagne glasses while shouting out, "Eight seasons & a movie!" or penning the next big film franchise. Nope, not this nigga.

The last few weeks have been rather illuminating for me. I've discovered things about myself that I think I have always known but never thought were really of much importance.

As I've mentioned in an earlier post, I've been reading Sir Ken Robinson's book The Element, a book about marrying your passion with natural aptitude in the search for direction in one's life. I've been reading it with this whole, yeah, I've already found my Element, it's right here and it's called writing. thing going on. But then I was having a conversation with my mother, a cousin and another cousin's wife the other day and she went around to each of us and asked us, "What is your passion?" when it came to my turn to answer my cousin said, "I think we all know what that is." She was referring to my writing of course. I countered her by saying, "Um, actually..." and went on to tell them that although writing has always been a part of my life, and will probably always be my actual passion is seeing people pin-point, pursue and achieve their passions. Especially within the arts. To provide them with anything that I can to help in achieving this. Which at the moment mostly consists of nothing more than the knowledge that I myself have accrued in my own pursuit.'

Looking around I've realized that as a creative there are very few platforms with which I can express myself without feeling hampered or inhibited. As a writer I have no desire to be an "African Writer"- I just want to be a writer. Yet most of the platforms available out there are on the look out for "authentically African" writers that produce "authentically African" work. Whatever that's supposed to mean in 2014. I may be wrong but I feel as if there are a lot of writers out there that want to break free of what I think is a rather dated and constricting construct. I may be wrong but if I'm right then I believe that they can not do it alone. We can not do it alone. We need help. We need platforms that will say, "OK, here we are. You can express yourself exactly how you want. We wont force you to be politically conscious or socially aware or subtly pan-African or brazenly feminist. You can just be you. And if you are any of those things, good for you!"

But where are these platforms? I've searched high, I've searched low. I've cracked Google in half looking for them. I'm starting to think that maybe, just maybe they still need to be built. From foundation to helipad roof. And it is this, that I realize, that I truly see myself doing in the years to come. And I say this not only for the writers out there but for creatives across the board. We. Need. Help. But don't get me wrong though, I'll still be writing- certainly; creating things- always. but at the end of the day all I really want to be is the coach, not the star player.

Day 15: But Some People Can Be Bold

I love going places but I hate being in transit, if that makes any sense. Even the trips that I make frequently, like Kampala-Gulu, Gulu-Kampala annoy the hell out of me with their cramped buses and often times rather intrusive passengers. For, for every one passenger you exchange numbers at the end of the journey and plan to hang out with there four or five others that you wish you could hire a hit man to have them shot. Over the years I've been puked on by babies, shat on by chickens, rained on by motormouths and crushed by obese, smelly women who spend four hours out of six screaming into their phone in a mixture of fluent Acholi, competent Luganda and broken English.

Now, although yesterday wasn't as bad as any of those, it was still kind of a little annoying. Thank God I didn't have to sit through that for the entire ride.

So I'm sitting there, waiting for the bus to fill up, sitting in the isle seat so I would be able to stretch out my leg during the journey when a woman, probably in her early to mid twenties asked me if the seat next to me was taken. I shaking my head I told her, "No, it's free." and got up to let her sit at the window.

She was tall, almost my height with short, red texturized hair and black thick-rimmed glasses. She was attractive, if not necessarily pretty. She was wearing a yellow, low cut, sleeveless top and tight blue jeans that hugged her ample hips and thighs.

We sat down and although it was only about three quarters of the way full a few minutes later the bus was putting tarmac under tire and we were off.

Phillips head phones, music turned all the way up, SZA's new album "Z". Thirty seconds into the third song I felt a tap on my shoulder. I removed the head phones, "Yeah?"

"Where are you reaching?"

"Kampala."

"Huh. OK. Where do you stay in Kampala?"

"Bukoto." I lied. I wasn't about to tell this complete stranger where I lived.

"Bukoto?" She repeated, this time as a question. It was like she knew I was lying.

"Bukoto." I confirmed.

"That's nice."

This was where I was supposed to ask her where she was reaching, where she lived. I put my headphones back on. No thank you.

A few minutes later, another tap.

"Yes?"

"You work in Gulu?"

"No. I was visiting family."

"You're an Acholi?"

"Yes."

"Really? You don't look."

Instead of responding to this I stood up, reached into the overhead baggage compartment, dug into my bag, pulled out my Kindle and sat back down. If she didn't get the hint this time, I didn't know if she would at all.

I turned it on and began to read. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso's double António Claro was telling him that he was going to go away with Tertuliano Máximo Afonso's fiance and sleep with her as a form of revenge for the intrusion of his life that Tertuliano Máximo Afonso had caused and there was nothing that Tertuliano Máximo Afonso could do about it. But there was you see. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso resolved to himself right there and then that after Antonio Claro had escaped the city limits with Maria De Paz he would in turn assume the identity of Antonio Claro and sleep with his wife. Tit for tat. An eye for an eye and all of that.

Another tap.

"But I don't get what is happening. What is it that you are reading?"

I gave the woman a sidelong glance. Was this chick being serious right now? What the hell was her problem? Why couldn't she just leave me alone? Didn't she get that I didn't want to talk?

I took a deep breath to calm myself.

"It's a novel about a man who finds out there is someone who looks exactly like him living in the same city."

The woman leaned closer as if for further explanation. I didn't give her one. Instead I said,

"Now if you don't mind I would really like to read this."

And the headphones came back on. And I really thought that would be the end of it. I really did. I really, really did. I was wrong.

Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes passed without any disturbance. I was about to finish the book, I could feel it, the book that had been on a tortoise like pace from the very first page had suddenly revved it up to hare and was sprinting towards the finish line. And then, tap-tap-tap.

"Yes?" This time I didn't try to mask my growing agitation.

"I have an idea."

"Yes?"

"Why don't you get off with me in Bweyale & then go to Kampala tomorrow. It would be fun."

It took me a moment to process what she was saying. And then, once I did I was in complete shock. Was? She? Being? For real? She didn't even know my name. What kind of woman propositioned a man who they know completely nothing about? Wait, I take that back, stranger things have happened. Stranger things have happened to me. Stranger things have happened to me on a bus. I think I had just forgotten how things could be sometimes. In my earlier days maybe, I would have taken her up on her offer. If nothing but to have a story to tell the boys. It would have been one hell of a story. Not anymore though.

"No." I told her. I did a pretty good job of covering up my surprise and disgust I think. "I have to get back to Kampala today."

"Then we can just take a couple of hours and then you can proceed."

If there was any doubt as to what she was suggesting, there wasn't any more.

"Still no. I have a girlfriend I have to get back to."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

That shut her up real quick. She didn't say another word until she was getting up to get off the bus nearly half an hour later.

"Have a safe journey." she said after pulling down her luggage from the overhead compartment.
I nodded but said nothing.

I watched as she climbed off the bus and standing with her back to me signaled for a Boda.

In another life, I told myself. Just not this one.

Slipping my headphones on I pressed play and dug back into my book. Three and half more hours to go.

Day 13: Please Insert Your Name Here

Truth is, (and you may hate me for it but I'll make it up to you I promise) I really couldn't bring myself to write about anything else. Mom's better now; she's walking around, watching bad Eddy Murphy movies, making tasty omelettes & getting finicky about food containers that she is convinced are missing and so I no longer have an adequate excuse. I miss you. Miles and time have made this aching that I carry around with me every waking moment frighteningly poignant. I don't know what we would have done if we had lived at the beginning of the last century instead of this one. One with no phones or Facebook or instant messaging. I reckon this full head of hair would have become a few lonely wisps of longing looking for something to cling on to by now.

I'm coming back to you soon though, I promise. Maybe not as soon as I thought but we have plenty of days ahead of us to make up for the tortuous ones we've had to endure these past few weeks. And oh, please make sure that when I do you don't make any witty quips about my busting gut or bulging cheeks; going home = good food and it being fed to me virtually all the time and so it's really not my fault. Who am I to say 'no thank you' or 'I'm not hungry'? When Grandma says you eat, you eat. But just so you know, even though you said that I don't really have to, I'm gonna make sure I fit in that suit yo.

Being home has been nice though. A little exhausting, having to make the rounds of grandmas (well, Grandma - singular really), aunties, cousins, family friends, friends I used to party with, friends I used to work with, friends I used to pray with and the such like and so on. It's all been a little tainted though, being home but still being soul crushingly away from home. It's the oddest of feelings. It's the most conflicted of feelings. I cant make heads or tails of it. And it is probably this that is the most exhausting.

I'm coming home soon though, I'm coming home soon.

And oh, just one more thing before I pack it in; please, please, please make sure you have a big, tall glass of juice waiting for me once I arrive, OK? And before you ask, yes, that is a euphemism.

Day 10: On Giving My Maisha Idea Legs

So my best ideas usually come to me in one of four places; in the shower, on the toilet, during a church service or on the road. I've never really thought to think about it and so I really have no idea why. I know each place probably has its own catalog of reasons but I'm not sure I want to attempt to make sense of any of them right now.

What I do know though is that my latest 'good idea' (I won't really know whether it's really good or not until it comes to fruition- if it ever does) came to me on the bus ride up to Gulu last Sunday. For the last couple of weeks I've been reading Jose Saramago's The Double; an equally intriguing, frustratingly mundane, unputdownable and grade-A snooze fest of a novel. Whatever the case, however, I've promised myself that I will get through it and was reading it during that bus riding while my latest crush Kelela (good bye  Lupita- it was fun while it lasted) tickled my heart and sang sweet nothings to me through my headphones. It was then that the idea (blind and limbless) wiggled its way up and down the various passage ways of my brain looking for somewhere to lodge itself and make its presence known. And after a little searching, lodge itself it did. Presence seen and felt. Mission accomplished.

As such ideas usually do, it came to me hapless and rather hopeless looking for a little help. "Give me some legs." it told me, "I would really like to Kiprotich this bitch."

I said that, that could probably be arranged.

"And some arms too." it added a minute later, a tad too smugly for my liking, "I've got a five star, five course meal to make. And make it snappy."

It obviously thought it had me.

I begrudgingly obliged.

"And don't forget the eyes!"

It did.

The 2014 Maisha Film lab is coming up in a few months, you see, and I'm planning on submitting something. It is for this that the idea had swam the canals of my brain.

was racking my brain for over a week trying to figure out what I was going to write when after the rest stop just outside of Kigumba the idea stuck it's head up and said, "Hey. You. If you want me, I'm right over here."

I could tell instantly that it was trying to play it off as if it didn't want me as much as I wanted it. Complete hogwash of course. I still decided to play it the same way though.

With a nonchalance that I'm pretty sure it knew was put on as its own I told the idea that as much as I saw some potential I wouldn't get my hopes too high. On the inside though, I was ecstatic.

It hasn't been all sunshine and swimming pools though, I've been lugging this armless, legless pile of slime around for the past few days trying to figure just what I'm going to do with it.

This morning though, I think I had a breakthrough. Not a big one but one enough to start drawing some blueprints for the limbs that its asking for. And yes, the eyes too.

I guess some thanks goes to Jose Saramago (the book isn't a total wash) as well as to Haruki Murakami whose story A Poor-Aunt Story I posted yesterday. Hopefully something will come of it. If not then oh well, they'll always be other ideas.