#UGBlogWeek By Ugandan Standards: An Expert Talk Gone Horribly Wrong

So I was fortunate enough, or unfortunate depending on how you look at it, to be asked to speak at a long running event called Expert Talks where people making waves in their fields are invited to share ideas.

At first I didn’t really want to do it but my wife and a friend who happened to be one of the organizers colluded and convinced me that it would be a good thing for me to do.  I saw the sense in that and so I agreed.

I wrote down a script I was going to follow, practiced reading from it, put it on my Kindle and without even a shadow of nerves went for the talk. I can honestly say that I was pretty confident that I would ace this shit. I’m not a stranger to the stage. I’ve been acting since forever (although not recently), I’ve given several talks before (although also not recently), I’ve read out my work at various conferences, festivals and fairs to not bad effect (although again, not so recently), I’ve MC’d events, graduation parties and service hosted at my former church numerous times- I had this. Only I didn’t. My Kindle went defunct at the last moment and although I managed to get my script onto a friend’s tablet it still wasn’t my tablet and so I wasn’t used to how it functioned.

The tablet started giving me trouble almost as soon as I stepped on stage. I tried to ditch it but found that as soon as I did, even though I knew exactly what I wanted to say and knew all the facts, figures and information like the back of my hand without my script in front of me everything went *poof!* and was gone. I limped through my talk which was jumbled, incoherent and laced with a series of heart felt apologies. An excruciating experience to the people in the audience I’m sure. I recovered a little during the Q&A but the fact is by that point I just wanted to get off the stage.

Everyone was really nice about it afterwards but on the level, I wasn’t as bothered by it as I thought I would be. That being said, I do feel like I misrepresented myself and what I wanted to talk about and so I’ve decided to publish my script and give guys a look at what I was trying and so epically failed to say and so here.


The Talk

I attended a writer-director friend’s movie premiere a few weeks ago.

It was twenty K for a regular ticket and fifty if you wanted to go home with the DVD, though I doubt very many people paid for one of those. As for myself, I set aside a twenty thou with the intention of showing my solidarity and support but somehow, on the day before the premiere, I scored two free tickets and so decided that my presence was solidarity enough and calling up a friend said, "We go."

The invite said 'Red Carpet' and so I dusted off my one black suit, polished my shoes and got ready to party. I liked the idea of dressing up and celebrating a friend's achievement. Because make no mistake, even if the movie wound up being the worst movie ever made, it was still an achievement.

I guess it shouldn't really have surprised me that I was one of only 10% who actually adhered to the dress code. Even the director just threw on a coat and was done with it.  As much as I was probably being paranoid, the whole night I had this insurmountable feeling that everyone was side eyeing me because I actually took the time to dress up.

In any case, people posed for pictures, walked the red carpet that was more brown than red and made their way into the auditorium.

Two minutes into the movie and my silent knit picking began and didn't let up until the credits rolled and the lights came up.

Turning to the friend I had come with I asked him, "So, what would you give it out of ten?" He gave it a moment's thought and then answered, "3 out of 10." The low score surprised me. Not because I thought it was undeserved but because I assumed that my friend, let's call him Charlie, would show the film a little leniency. A little good will. A comfortable 5/10 to be nice. And so I asked my de facto follow up question, prefacing it with, "As much as I hate using the term, what about by Ugandan Standards?" Charlie looked at me with a wry smile, "That is by Ugandan standards." What? Really? How? And so I followed up again, "And what about by real standards?" There was no pause before Charlie  answered, "Probably like 1.3."

OUCH.

The thing is, he was absolutely right. It was a horrible movie. I know some people who actually walked out of the auditorium half way through because they were so bored. Ask me why I roughed it out, with a hell of a migraine too and I'm not quite sure what I would tell you.

Two things caught my attention about that exchange with Charlie though.

The first was;  the automatic, almost unconscious lowering of my internal barometer as I sat there in that darkened auditorium. Or maybe it happened earlier, maybe it happened the moment I decided to go and show my solidarity. I mean, I knew this guy, he’d never made anything that I had ever liked but he was a friend and a colleague...I couldn't very well tell him that the movie sucked huge, hairy king-kong sized balls, could I? That would be mean. Plus, the guy had tried. This was a huge step for Ugandan film, is what I told myself...but was it really?

The second was; by my own admission I knew that this "Ugandan Standard" I was talking about was a sham. It was nothing more than an illusion to blind myself and everyone else who subscribed to it to the irrefutable fact that by real standards, by the world's standards, we were off in some corner of the play ground playing duel.

Now, I've come across this notion of "Ugandan Standards" quite a few times, across several different fields, for quite some time now. For me, it's almost become synonymous with settling for less. I try my best to combat this type of thinking but I don’t exactly live in a vacuum and so it gets hard sometimes.

I guess my question to you guys is; are we OK with this? Are we OK with the idea that outside of our very small borders we're not really better than anyone else at anything? Are we OK with the fact that if a Ugandan and a Kenyan apply for the same job, barring any nepotism, tribalism or any other kind of -ism, the Kenyan will almost certainly get the job? Are we really OK with expecting less and therefore receiving less and inversely giving less because less is expected of us; creating this vicious cycle of tepid expectations that solidifies into a culture of mediocrity that starts with our Head of State and ends with the rolex guy I sometimes go to just down the road from my place who rolls his chappatis with the nonchalance of a dog lifting its hind leg.

I know I'm not. It bothers me, a lot, and although I know I'm probably not going to bring everyone along with me on this, I want to look at this thing called the "Ugandan Standard" a little more. Maybe find out what it looks like, where it came from, even maybe what we can do about it and if my search comes out inconclusive I do apologize; if there's one thing I've realized, it's that I know nothing. I'm just trying to shine a little light on something that pierces like a splinter in my mind.

And so like me in that darkened auditorium please lower your expectations.


But What About Us?

I guess I’ll just say come right out and say it, I think many of us have this strange third world apathy-small town mentality kind of thing going on.

As we all know, Uganda's a small country. A poor one too. Our population is about 38 million and of those 38 only about 1.7 live in Kampala. According to The World Bank the average Ugandan earns about 170,000 a month. We're a third world country that has lived through one dictatorship after another, through bush wars and war lords, through power cuts, water cuts, bad roads, horrible health care and a whole long list of things. Politicians can still buy votes with sacks of sugar and bars of soap. Sitting here, it can be easy to forget just how bad most of our country has it. How little it takes to make the average Ugandan, if not happy, then at least relatively comfortable. I mention this because living in such an environment most Ugandans can not really afford the luxury of setting high expectations for themselves, for their lives or the people and institutions around them. Most people live and die fighting to rise just a little higher below the poverty line.

It's disheartening to think that our bar for success is set so low that convincing people to make the effort to raise it is a task that many would say is not worth undertaking. But what’s even more disheartening is that I wouldn't blame them.

But what about us? I mean, I'm pretty sure most of us here are pretty well educated, are in a substantially higher income bracket than a ghastly 170,000 a month; as well as rather exposed too; that’s to say that you've watched the latest episode of Game of Thrones (or maybe you're like me and waiting for all ten), you Snapchat more than you instagram, you use  VPN's whenever the government decides to go loco and you're probably live tweeting this right now on a phone that costs more than some Ugandans' annual income...what's your excuse?

Why aren't you demanding more from the status quo? Why aren't you demanding more from yourself as well as from the establishment? Why aren't you demanding for more on behalf of the people that can't because they've been so brutally beaten into apathy...?

But the more pertinent question is one I have to ask is of myself and that is; why aren't I...?

Because even though I have a little more money, a few more opportunities, a sliver of influence for some reason I keep getting dragged back under by this horrible sense of lethargy that tells me that even though I posses more than most of my compatriots, it's not enough. I'm not American, I'm not British, I'm not even Nigerian- I'm Ugandan. I'm the son of Kony, the son of Obote, the son of Amin and the only thing I can do is to use what I have to either get out or get mine- period.


"This isn't Hollywood, this is Uganda."

A few years ago, long before I knew even the little I know about my field now, I found myself amongst a group of people intent on shooting a pilot for a TV series. They had the will and they had the way and they asked me for my help and so I thought, "why not?" I was brought on as a consultant but quickly found myself in the thick of things, taking on the role of Alpha without even trying or being asked. I over saw the development of the pilot through the locking down of a script (which I co-wrote), casting of the principle characters, scouting for locations, recruiting of the crew and even brought a lawyer friend on board to serve as a consultant (it was supposed to be a legal drama).
Doing as much research as I could on the process of  pre-production I knew that professionally, a certain process was to be followed and demanded for such, my fellow team mates, however, thought differently. After pleading my case I was issued a curt "Relax, this isn't Hollywood." The guy who said it gave me an almost apologetic smile. It was like he felt sorry for me for setting my standards so high. Only I wasn't. I was asking if we could push shooting by one week so that instead of the actor's getting the script on a Friday evening and having to shoot the following day, they would have at least a week with it. Maybe we could even fit in a rehearsal or two but no such luck, I was asking for too much, "This isn't Hollywood."

I walked away from the project without looking back and left them to their own devices.

I feel like that phrase, "This isn't Hollywood.", could be translated into another one I hear quite a lot: "This is UG."

But I have to ask, what exactly does that mean: "This is UG."? Does it mean, "That's just how things are so get used to it."? Or maybe, "Those things are for those people those ends so you leave it to them."? Or maybe even, "You just make your few shillings and be happy, OK?"

I think it’s probably all three, and others as well.

But here's the thing, I believe that we're not supposed to get used to it. That we shouldn't leave it to them and that we should want more than just Shillings;  we should want Dollars, we should want Pounds and we should want Yen- you name it.

And even though not everyone would succeed in their pursuit for something better I still believe that a collective pursuit for something more than just, "OK" would be the beginning of something to behold.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

I say all of this, of course, with the full knowledge that not everyone in this country is completely zombified by the apathy thrust upon them by a poverty stricken existence. That there are people out there who do want more than the hand life has dealt them. What of these people? How do they start? Where do they begin?

Well, by studying the people who already have the "more" that they want like they would a formula to an equation or a blueprint to a building. And then what will they do? They will mimic, of course; they will copy and they will paste. They will borrow, they will steal and they will assimilate.

That kind of sounds like a bad thing, doesn't it? I know it does to me. Well...is it? Yes...and no. Let me explain.

I watched a trailer for a Ugandan made horror film the other day. According to its synopsis it's about a group of university students who go on a "camp fire trip" with their lecturer. Their vehicle breaks down and the group has to trek through a forest where they encounter a group of cannibals. Sound familiar? Maybe like half the horror movies made and released in the past fifty years? Now, the production value didn't look half bad but the story looked so half cooked and half-assed that I couldn't wrap my head around a single reason to watch it besides the need to know what people are making out there.

I witness this kind of whole sale rip off almost everywhere I turn. A logo and graphics for a local award that look way too similar to the graphics that BET uses for their own awards to just be a coincidence. Or maybe it's a music video of a popular local artist, shot by one of the premiere music and video production studios in the country that is nothing but a cheap imitation of an Alicia Keys and Maxwell video; without the context, without the sexy and without the cool.

Some supposedly smart white guy once said,
"You need to make a decision - are you an imitator or an innovator?"

And for a very long time my own thoughts mirrored that sentiment. And then, in trying to improve my own craft, I realized something, that imitation is actually one of the very first steps towards innovation.

As Pramoedya Ananta Toer said,
"At the beginning of all growth, everyone imitates. All of us, when we were children, also imitated. But children grow up and begin their own development."

Or as Jane Yolen so poetically put it,
"I have pulled threads from magical tapestries already woven and used them to weave my own cloth."

And so there's nothing inherently wrong with imitation. I do think, however, that there's a right way and a wrong way to imitate.

"Do not repeat after me words that you do not understand. Do not merely put on a mask of my ideas, for it will be an illusion and you will thereby deceive yourself." were the words of Jiddu Krishnamurti, the late great thinker and public speaker.

I believe that the form of imitation he's warning against is something that many of us fall victim to. Copying without understanding. Like getting the answer of a particularly hard question on a math test from the kid sitting next to you but not being able to show the work and so still getting the answer wrong.

Or the copy and pasting of a staple horror movie narrative without having a clue about the history of horror in cinema. Or its relation to horror in literature and even before that in folklore.

In other words, if something is imitated without an understanding of the 'why' of that thing, or even the desire to find out, chances are the outcome will be brittle and empty. A mindlessly performed ritual, a god prayed to but not believed in, a serpent intent on wiggling its way into the shed skin of another.

Circling back to what Pramoedya Ananta Toer said, as children we all imitate. "...But children grow up and begin their own development."

I think that even for the few of us who are reaching for more, we've played at being children long enough and that it's time to grow up.

Lets weave our own tapestries, and let's make them magical.


Conclusion

I honestly wish I had some more time to talk about this because I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface. There’s still so much to unpack but whether you agree with what I've said or not, I do hope that I've left you with something to think about; that you’ll keep on digging. If I've managed to at least do that then my job is done. Thank you.

***

I did have something to say though, right?

WAR IS PEACE. FREEDOM IS SLAVERY. IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH: Welcome to 1984

So I started re-reading Nineteen Eighty Four last night. I don’t think it will take that many guesses to figure out why.

I was around thirteen the first time I read it. I was into everything science fiction back then. I remember The Matrix had just put a dent in the universe with its techno-punk kung-fu coolness, Star Wars had just returned to the shores of American pop culture with a not so big, over CGI’ed bang (though to a thirteen year old the pod race scene and its corresponding Nintendo 64 video game were pretty cool) and I had just finished all 720 pages of book three of Tad Williams’ virtual reality opus Otherland.

I was a voracious reader back then, still am for the most part and this is mostly in part to my mother who ever I since I was kid made it a point to take me to a local public library once a week and once we moved backed to Uganda regular trips to Aristoc book shop.

It was on such a visit to a library that the kind librarian;  a rotund Caucasian man with feathery hair graying on the sides and half moon glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose who had keenly sniffed out my love for sci-fi held out a blue covered first edition of George Orwell’s masterpiece. As he proffered it he told me it was the very copy he read when he was my age. I took it from him and turned it over in my hands. I opened the back cover and peeked at George Orwell’s black and white jacket picture. I looked up at the librarian.

“What’s it about?” I asked him in typical youngster fashion.

He smiled.  “Well if I told you, you wouldn’t have to read it now, would you?”

He had a point. I flipped it over in my hands once again. It didn’t look very interesting though.

“Are you sure I’ll like it?” I asked him, still a little skeptical.

“You’ll love it.” He assured me. And so I took it.

And he was right. More than right, I read it three times in one week. It changed my life. The world that Orwell so vividly created; one that was permeated by fear, hate and violence shook me so hard, even at that age, that it had me combing the TV programs, magazines and newspapers I came across for any signs of newspeak for weeks. I constantly racked my own cranium for any signs of double thought for months.

I began spontaneously spouting quotes from the book and started pointing out congruencies between the world around me and the world found in the book. I’m pretty sure I had my mother worried there for a little bit. But of course, as the effects of all such thought provoking works of art must, the effects eventually wore off.

I’ve read the book as well as others like it several more times in the intervening years and every time I’ve read it it’s shaken me out of my apathy, even if for just a little bit. I don’t know what I would do if I had to live in a constant state of righteous anger. I honestly don’t know how people who do possibly do it. In any case, I think the current political atmosphere warrants a little righteous anger. But instead of taking to the streets and walking to electoral commission I will do what I do best, tap away at my keyboard. Who knows, I just might have a Nineteen Eighty Four or a Brave New World in me after all.

#UGBlogWeek Day 3: In Honor of Track No. 3 on Forest Hills Drive

I didn’t start having sex until pretty late. While kids were doing bad manners in class rooms during sports time and after evening prep I was buried neck deep in a copy of Lord of the Rings. Or The Godfather. Or Dune. Or The Stand. It wasn’t that I didn’t like girls (I did); it’s just that I liked books more. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy their company though, because I did. I was quite comfortable around them too. It’s just that I never really learned how to successfully cross the border from the federation of friends to the country of heavy petting and beyond. In other words, I friend zoned myself.

It wasn’t until the wasteland that stretched between senior six and my first failed attempt at university that it finally happened. Those were hot days mostly filled with old R-rated movies that I couldn’t watch as a kid at a nearby video library and hanging out with some of the other guys from the neighborhood who would come around. Most of these guys were either university students on holiday or unemployed graduates still living at home hoping that something would turn up soon. I was the youngest amongst this brood of aimless young men by at least a couple of years.

We would talk trash, drink beer and on the weekends sometimes go out. These were the days of Mateo’s, Alzawadi and Steak Out; Sean Kingston, Brick & Lace and Flo Rida.

On one particular Saturday three of us pooled the little money that we had (I won’t name check anyone but I’m pretty sure at least one of you will read this and remember the night I’m talking about) and decided to check out Steak Out. We got there, found it dull and crossed over to Cheese Bar, some new joint next door.

The place was packed the way only a Kampala hang out can be and playing music that was way too loud. Not that it mattered, back then I thought the disregard for personal space, a set of ringing ears and having to shout at the top of your lungs to make simple conversation was a worthy price to pay for fun.

We bought a round drinks and after not too long found a group of girls to dance with us. The idea was to dance with them and then when it was time to leave, to leave without them. Or in case they left first, to let them. And they did leave first. Only thing was, when they did, one of them decided to stay. Yep, the one who was dancing with me. At first this didn’t pose itself as a problem, she lived in nearby in Wandegeya and so when it was time to leave she would just go home and so would we. And so my two friends watched as me and this girl who had gone rogue danced some more, drank some more and made out in some dark corner of the bar. And then, when it was finally time to leave, she left with us.

She didn’t stop in Wandegaya. Instead she boarded a taxi with us to Ntinda.

While one of my friends was saying I should totally go for it, the other was trying to convince me it was not a good idea. I didn’t know this chick. What if she had something? Use your head man; do you think the first time she is doing this? It’s not worth it man. And he was totally right, I knew he was, I told him he was but the devil on my other shoulder just wouldn’t quit. He told me his brother was out of town and he was crashing at his place, I could crash there too. He knew for a fact that his brother had a box of condoms under his bed, so I wouldn’t have to worry about that. He was 100% OK with sleeping on the couch. Come on, the chick had come this far hadn’t she? What was wrong with crossing the finish line with her? In fact, it would be wrong of me not to cross the finish line with her. I found myself nodding along to everything this friend of mine was saying. He made a very convincing argument.

When our taxi reached the end of the line we got out and stood at Ntinda trading center. My friend against the whole idea was going towards Kiwatule while other friend was heading towards Minister’s Village.

One guess which direction I went.

#UGBlogWeek Day 2: The Presidents Nightmares Are Made Of

I went to sleep at a quarter to twelve and woke up almost four hours later, screaming. My heart was ricocheting around my rib cage and my throat felt like someone tried to drown me in a pool full of sand. I was slick with sweat and my wife was up and peering down at me, asking me what was wrong. Was I OK? She seemed like she wanted to touch me but didn’t know if that was a good idea. “You were screaming and fighting in your sleep.” She told me. “Was it a bad dream?” I nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?” I didn’t but I didn’t tell her that. Instead I gently pushed her aside and sat up. “I need some water.” I stood up, teetered a bit and stretched my arm out, planting my palm flat against the wall to steady myself. After a moment I found my equilibrium, found my slippers and shuffled out of the room.

Three cold glasses of water and I still wanted more. I had to stave myself though, I was no longer drinking because I was thirsty or even hot but because I was trying to wash away the details of my dream, with little success. And so I opened up my lap top and began to type:

He was lying on a steel autopsy table a few yards in front of me. From what I could see he was naked except for a white sheet that covered him from ankle to sternum.  He wasn’t moving, he wasn’t even breathing but my hand still instinctively moved to the holster on my right hip. I didn’t draw but knowing my weapon was there was still reassuring.

I slowly closed the distance between me and the table. It was him alright; I would recognize that face anywhere; Yoweri Kaguta Museveni, the President of Uganda. For someone who had been in power for close to sixty years he looked awfully young. His skin was not only unlined but had a synthetic, rubbery look to it. Taking a deep breath I took a finger and ventured a stab at a cheek. It felt like skin but there was something off about it. I leaned in, examined the face that I knew couldn’t possibly be real. I poked at his nose and when there was no reaction I pulled at it- still nothing. And then, on a hunch I’ll never be able to explain, I grabbed his left ear and tugged at it like I was turning a page. At first there was a little resistance but then suddenly his ear came off, the rest of his face along with it.

It took a moment to process but I was staring down at a skull of gleaming metal, a ghoulish grin of human teeth aimed up at the ceiling. Another moment and I remembered that I was holding this things face by its ear and letting out a small scream I chucked it clear across the room. I turned so I could put some ground between myself and whatever this thing was when a cold hand grabbed me by the wrist and pulled. Turning back I reached for my holster and drew my weapon. I---

“Hey, what are you doing?” I looked up from the screen of my lap top; my wife was standing in the doorway in one of my boxers and a vest. She looked concerned. “Nothing.” I told her. “Then come to bed.” I didn’t move. “Now.” Without thinking about it a second more I closed the lap top and went to bed.

DAY 1: Trying and Mostly Failing to Beat my Brain into Submission

NB: This is a work of fiction. I think. What does that mean? Huh?

Valentine’s Day is for cows. I’ve always thought that and I still do. One might think that since I’m married now that would change but I just pulled out one of my wife’s earphones and asked her if she’s sure she doesn’t want to do anything and she looked at me and was like, “If you wanted a woman who cared about that kind of shit you should have married someone else.” Needless to say, I married the right woman.

She’s listening to Majid Jordan right now. I got their album a couple of days ago and she’s been going crazy over them; humming a melody here, singing a loose couplet there. She even took to her Time Line to knock out a couple of 140’s- hashtagKingCity, hashtagTorontoSwag. I can’t even front though, it’s a good album. The 90’s R&B lushness of “Love Is Always There” is what I’ve got on repeat; she’s more into the Weeknd-esque falsetto and deep house synths of “King City”. We both love the heavy 808’s and bounce of “Warm” though.

So I’ve been thinking about it and maybe I should do something special anyway, you know? Join the herd. Even if just this once. But If I’m going to do that then I need to snap on a pair of horns and get a MOOOOOOOOVE on. She deserves it, right? It would earn me some husband points at the very least.

I scratch at my beard. Why I have a beard in this heat is beyond me. It’s just easier not to shave I guess. I’ve been growing my hobo-hiding-in-a-hovel-beard. I haven’t shaved since the wedding and I’m totally OK with that. I’ve barely left the house since then either. Writing for a living makes that pretty easy. I take a walk in the evenings sometimes but that’s not very often. I saw something the other day that made me laugh, “Beards are the new six-pack.” I really hope that’s true because I really need to go to the gym.

Believe it or not but there was a time when people would ask me whether I played rugby. That was a long time ago though. Another time, another me. I don’t really play a sport, unless FIFA on PS3 counts. But then I don’t really play video games anymore either. I really liked fighting games when I did though (“FINISH HIM!!!!”), stealth games like Metal Gear Solid too sometimes but the mayhem and carnage of Grand Theft Auto was my absolute favorite. Screw the missions. What’s the ALL WEAPONS cheat so I can get that kitana, lop people’s heads off and steal all of their money?

Wait a sec, I’m supposed to be writing about Love and Elections aren’t I? I’ve tried, I really have but my brain, it’s messing with me. It’s just decided to pull down its pants and take a hot, smelly deuce right here on my keyboard. How about I try again tomorrow? Deal?

And oh, Happy Valentine’s Day. Cows.

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.

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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.