Rev Laban Bombo; A Celebration of A Life Well Lived.

By Arthur M. Katabalwa.

On December 3, 2016 I joined a number of former students in the chapel at Kings College Budo to celebrate the life of our teacher, our Rev, my father Rev Laban Bombo. This is a copy of the speech I made on that occasion.

A message to Rev, from your student, your son, Mwenkanya.

I have been higher than a mango tree! You should be happy about that. I think I am quite a bit wayward for a vicar’s son, a self-confessed lazy Christian but you always told me to be who I am. You probably found it amusing, almost rebellious I think.  I remember that look of absolute horror when you first saw me with a French cut. You were mortified but you let me be. I know one time you got wind of my unhealthy interest of one damsel in S2. You handled it well…….by making her stand right in front of this very chapel for three days!!!! Thanks so much. Needless to say the unhealthy interest was never returned.

The Late Rev Laban Bombo

I failed just about any exam that was placed in front of me. But for some reason you never lost hope in my academic capabilities which by the way through my school years were virtually none existent. I was not average, I wasn’t even below average; I was just a dunce. In my S4 when failure of my O’Levels was all but assured you went for a yearlong holiday to England! Dad, your failure at having a blind panic then paid off. I have a Master’s Degree now in the only thing I know how to do well, Journalism. But I want to tell you about me, we, the family, my friends, your friends, your students gathered here today in KCB chapel. We are all OK!!!

I really struggled with what to say today. When you were diagnosed with cancer several years ago, I knew I wanted to speak at a service like this one day, when the pain had eased. I thought of some great stories to share, and I heard these really great song lyrics that seemed appropriate, and I pictured this moving, emotional speech that would perfectly encapsulate everything I have been feeling for the past six years.

I sat down to write that speech a couple days ago, and nothing came.

Part of the problem with knowing what to write is knowing what tone to take. I firmly believe that everyone should grieve in their own way. I have grieved in a lot of different ways at a lot of different times for a lot of different reasons. There is pressure – from whom, I don’t know – to be brimming with hope and praising God for taking you to heaven. But we still want you here. We have our hopeful moments, but we are not without sorrow. Personally I cannot have spent 36 years with a man like you and not be broken to the core having to say good-bye.

But no one wants to hear a speech about that.

I read a note from one of your friends. Your death was a blow to them. I saw another friend, and when he hugged me, I could feel the loss. You are a great man. You are my hero. You are an inspiration to those who knew you. I’m sorry, but it’s going to take us a while to get over this one. It’s going to take a lot of us awhile. And that’s okay. Anyone can give us the message of hope, the best I can do is tell you where we are at today. We are all OK, remembering you with fondness, joy and love.

Personally I have been reluctant to look at old pictures of my dad. That is a hard thing to be when you are planning a memorial service like this with friends. You would be impressed at the lengths I took to avoid that video I posted on Facebook the other day.

Not looking at pictures probably sounds more callous than it is. I am not afraid to remember you the way you were. I am afraid of crying and breaking down and losing control of my emotions, but I’m not afraid of remembering. During these last few years, I kept reminding myself and reminding my mom and my siblings that the hard times will be overwhelmed by the good times soon enough. I believe this will be true. I have to believe it.

Thankfully, I don’t need the pictures to remind me of how he was. I can see him clearly when I close my eyes and draw from the memories I hold dear in my heart. I can see him and my mom, the greatest love story I know, newlyweds, grinning from ear to ear in their first house – never happier than to be with each other. I can see him carrying me on his shoulders in Nsangi, beaming with pride. I can see him in his wellington boots felling a tree for firewood hauling us grudgingly from TV to go and collect the firewood, I can see him scolding one of us his boys, who proudly call ourselves The Three Musketeers. I can see him at every major event in my life to this day. I can see him here today. He is gone physically but spiritually he is a constant presence, sometimes even losing his temper when I mess up.

When I look upon my father now, he is incredibly proud. When I look upon my father now he is at peace; when I look upon my father now he is proud of his daughter; Namutebi; when I look upon my father now he is proud of us, his boys, in all our flawed ways (especially myself), when I look upon my father now he is still deeply in love with one lady, our mother whom he shook physically even at 70 when he saw her. When I look at pictures of my dad, I see us, his family. I see us, here in this chapel at Kings College Budo, happy, content and with hope.

What a privilege the Lord gave me 36 years to learn from the greatest man I have ever known, and it is an honor to carry on his legacy. I don’t know if I am up for it, but I will never stop trying.

My dad loved the Lord. He was faithful to the church. His faith and the many beautiful ways it manifested itself served as such an example to me. In my last personal conversation with him in the summer of 2009, a few months before he passed away, as his body failed him, ravaged by cancer,he was praying to Jesus. He spoke to Him with a natural ease. When everything else was fading away, the one area that always remained was his love of the Lord.

He was such a good father to us. He was utterly devoted to his friends. He had his flaws especially a fiery temper but at the end of it one knew it was never out of malice.  All of us here we were adored completely, wholeheartedly undeniably, unmistakably, unconditionally. I wish I could ask my dad our Rev how he did it. I want so badly to be the father that my dad was to me.

He is home now.

ANNETTE NAMATA; SHE COULD BE YOUR SISTER.

Defiantly sitting up!

By Arthur M. Katabalwa

One day after I had just stepped off Urban Televisions’ flagship show press digest I came across a family sitting in the foyer. They had a scrawny looking kid whom they were carrying. She looked almost not aware of her surroundings.  At New Vision printing and Publishing Corporation, they  get so many people coming through its front doors looking for help and it is easy to dismiss any as they come on a daily basis. Frankly, some are trying to “pull a fast one.”

I asked this family if someone was tending to them and they said no one had spoken to them. Twenty minutes later, after I had contacted Bukedde Television, I saw that they had been dealt with. A journalist had taken their story and their plight was going to be aired on TV. But this kid (that is what I thought because there was hardly anything of her) hanged on to the man who was carrying her in total silence. I inquired a bit more what the problem was and I was told that she was suffering from cancer. I asked what her name was and that was when I was told she was a 20 year old girl called Annette Namata. I was shocked! She was twenty? I could not believe how the disease had wasted her.

Here they were and all they were asking for was UGX87000 (about $26) to buy her medication. I could not believe that that was the sum that they were looking for; a sum that some of my friends have happily blown away in an evening on booze. That was the sum they wanted to save a life for that month. That was what they wanted to save this poor wretched life. 87K!!! That was when I decided to try and do something. Later on Annette’s mother confided in me that they came with UGX6000 ($1.76) on them and she had decided that if they could not get the money, she was going to take her daughter back home and watch her slip away. That was the situation.

The poverty that this family experiences is beyond comprehension. I have been to visit them at their home two miles away from Mawale, a town near Semuto in central Uganda. They have been given what I can only describe as a poor attempt of putting mud bricks together for a house. They have no functioning toilet that I saw and the kitchen is simply laughable. Annette sleeps in a room with a mud a wattle floor. The walls do not connect to the corrugated iron sheets leaving a gap about ten inches which must let the rain in on a stormy night.

Most times she is alone in her room.

Every day at 0500AM her mother has to make the painful decision to walk about a mile or so to go and till the land for that is what they live off. She has a brother who has to go to school by 0630AM so from that time until her mother comes back at 1000AM, she is left to her own devices.

Until recently, her mother used to buy a cows’ head which she would get as much meat from for sale. That gave her some income but that has dried up as she has had to continuously fight adversity in light of her daughters’ health.

The issues surrounding this case are not isolated. In the villages in parts on Uganda, the locals believe a lot in the occult. They believe in witchcraft. When Annette started complaining of headaches and pains, her mother thought someone was playing quick and fancy with her daughter bewitching her. For four months she was being treated with pain killers and herbs until her left side seized up and she could not walk. Her mother sent her to the local health centre who asked her to go to go to the main referral hospital in Kampala for further diagnosis. Annette got to know that she had cancer alone. Her mother was not there. Her father has never been part of her life.

At 100K ($29.25) a month for the basic drugs, her mother could not afford them. So for a while they simply went without medication. Her mother has told me that she was once asked for an egg and she couldn’t afford it. On a good month her income used to be about UGX50K ($14) now anyone can do the maths. That has also dried up.

She loves a good old gossip when possible.

The family thanks all those who have come to their help.  The most expensive thing is the medicine which they must have. When she needs to see the doctor, they have to make the journey from the village but in her condition, it is not possible to come by public means.  She must use a privately hired car which with the mileage, the costs add up.

God has blessed Annette in such a way that despite her disease she has her appetite. She loves her food. So contributions have also made sure that she eats well. The last time I visited her in hospital, she jokingly asked her mother for a yogurt “which her friends have already sent her.” It was touching to see that the argument between mother and daughter was about the flavour of yogurt not whether they could afford it.

Annette Namata has stage four Primitive Neuro Ectodermal Tumour. It is a very rare form of cancer mainly found in kids. Her doctor has told me that it is incurable. Her brain, orbit/eye, chest, and abdomen are now affected. She has had 6 sessions of chemotherapy at the moment which involved vincnstile, cyclophosphade and Actionolycin D (sorry if I have got the spellings wrong for those of you who are knowledgeable about these things)

Her main issues now are social. She needs upkeep. She needs transportation. Her lower body is covered in bedsores. She also needs physiotherapy.  She thanks all the following (and I will only use first names and Initials to maintain privacy) Paul W, Julia K, Steven and Cathy K, Paul N.L, Georgina M and her friends and so many friends her in Uganda. In the UK, Nick E from the BBC in London thanks so much and “Thamantha” (That is how she pronounces the name)Samantha J from First Group in Stoke On Trent she loves you guys very much.

That is where she has come from.

My appeal to everyone who is reading this, please don’t cease with the help. I have some people who have now offered to actually go and see her in Mawale. She likes visitors. She is only a 20 year old after all. She is also deeply religious so she wants your prayers.

One might ask why I am so taken up by this case after all there are so many others like her. Simple answer is that I also don’t know. This poor girl just struck cord in my heart and I thought let me help. Maybe I was at the right place at the right time. But it is not about me.

Your help will make sure she has drugs, she has food, she can go and get physiotherapy, she can live the rest of her life knowing that outside the walls of her house, a multitude of people she will probably never know is willing her to live on. That in all her suffering, in all her poverty she is not alone. That is why over the last two or three days as a way of putting up the proverbial two fingers to the disease she sat up in her bed straight!

If you want to help in the appeal to help Annette Namata please contact me, Arthur Mwenkanya Katabalwa on +0256789288917 or at mwenky99@gmail.com

HAJATI

By Arthur M. M. Katabalwa.

I boarded the 0815 City Centre to Ntinda taxi and settled in for the journey.  I always had a seat for myself. It was usually at the front because of the leg room.  Even the conductors knew my preference and on certain occasions they would ask someone to move which embarrassed me a lot. This taxi does not actually exist officially. It just so happens that I have worked on the transport industry for a while in England that I tend to think of all public travel pegged to a certain time. Well, taxis in Uganda only move if they are full.

Hajati

On this particular morning I sat right behind the driver near what some might call “akameeme”. It was better for me to sit there I thought as always I found that I was nearly the first to alight near where I worked on Kira road.  I never took much notice of the lady sat next to me.

About ten minutes into the journey by which time we were negotiating the biblical traffic jam near Kisekka market, this lady without much sense and sensibility plonked some ladies lingerie on my lap. I mean these were really large knickers, bras and petty coats. She had a huge bag and she was arranging the rest inside.

I froze!!!

Here I was with a heap of ladies stuff on my lap. I am not good with ladies lingerie at the best of time even in private. Yet here I was in a cramped taxi with 13 other passengers, sitting with a heap of second hand bras the size of which I could fit my head in (not that I tried).

I looked at the pants (which I thought was wrong) and they were the size of parachutes. It was horrendous. I feared that this lady was going to ask me to muck in and help her arrange the garments now sat on my lap. I looked and wondered who could have been the owner? What would they think if they found out that their knickers and God knows what were sat on my lap on the 0815 City Centre to Ntinda?

I summoned all the strength I could and turned round to look at this lady who had had the audacity to place these things on my lap. Here was a Muslim lady maybe about 60. She was dressed in the modest way that Islamic ladies like to dress. I could not see her hair. Her hands were covered up completely and her dress reached the floor. So I thought to myself “Why are you travelling about with a sack full of whatever when you are all covered up?”

She was completely taken up by what she was doing. Here was this Hajati merrily arranging away these garments. She could hardly notice that my face was taut with fright at the thought of having all these garments on my lap. It was the first time that I was in the possession of underwear that belonged to more than one girl in public. I don’t know if I should be proud of that or not. But anyway………………………………..

Hajati and her daughter which was a crowd stopping moment.

Over the next weeks, I started observing this lady. We kept getting the same taxi. It seemed like the weather had completely dried her skin which made me think that she worked in a market further down the road. Interestingly she wore a very nice perfume.  Sometimes she had a distant look on her face like she was lost in thought. I started listening to what she would say to other people.

Hajati lightened up the taxi park when she arrived with that bag which at times seemed to weigh more than her. She would arrive and all the taxi touts would swarm around her. She also had a special place like me because of her bag and when she arrived she would sit in the same place.

I noticed that she was also deeply religious that is why I called her Hajati. I never ever got to know her name. In fact we hardly ever spoke to each other. She knew I existed and on many occasions she called me “Mutabani” (son) which isn’t out of place for ladies her age in Ugandan society. She would board and share what she knew of what was going on. Many times it was off the mark especially on politics. It was complete speculation. But many times Hajati was delightful.

There was a time when she came with her daughter. We all went MENTAL!!! The taxi men, the public everyone went mental because she looked absolutely gorgeous. Her daughter I think was at the time about 20. She seemed to be taken aback by the reaction her mother got because of her. I think Hajati was a bit of a show off because when she arrived she made sure everyone knew that this was her daughter. The poor girl spent the whole journey shielding behind her mother.

On occasions she said a curt word. Actually I must say that Hajati had an acerbic tongue. If she was irritated she would not take any prisoners and would take anyone on and put you down. I think this was the best way for her as I can imagine that if she worked in a market then that would have been an aggressive environment.

Over time I started noticing other women in society, looking at what they did for life. There are many to whom life in the city is a daily grind against all the odds. You will never find a Ugandan woman completely inebriated by alcohol during working hours like you will do men. In the taxi parks the ladies are the majority now taking round all sorts of things selling them through the windows, many times under the punishing sun. You will find them selling cold drinks, snacks and even once I saw one selling SD cards. All the while with their hair tied back in a bun and a splash of makeup.

I have a lady who gets me my groceries at Nakasero market whenever I can go. She knows exactly what I want and the never gets things wrong. I have spoken to her about her work schedule and her day starts at 0400 in the morning when the delivery arrives. Many times she will still be sat at her stall at 2200 hours at night.

If one were to take a walk through the old taxi park before the rush hour one will find young girls and women literally sat on the hard tarmac (where ever one can find a spot of it) selling greens, tomatoes, bananas, ginger, beans, peas and the works. I have stopped and seen one of the older women literally out asleep and I have wondered what her life story is. It isn’t that I will call it a bad life because only they can call it that but I wondered what set of circumstances got her there. Who are her family? Did she have children? Where was her home? I turned round quickly and watched the people who were selling fried ants.

We see all these girls, ladies, women working as hard as hard can be. We see the ladies who sweep the roads with nothing more than broomsticks at Mulago roundabout at great risk to themselves physically and health wise because of the dust. We see these ladies carrying bananas on their heads in the sun at the Electoral commission junction, being chased by the police and KCCA.  We go and eat their food in Kinamwandu (who has been there?) which is so cheap one wonders if they make any profit on it. We see these ladies who are selling clothes in the “Kajja” near Park Enkadde Mall, the ladies who are sat in the markets in the heat and the filth.

The other Hajatis in Uganda.

I have been asked many times if I have ever got to know who Hajati was. No I didn’t. I left her in her peaceful world and I moved on. For me she is all those women I have described above who after a hard day’s work the onus is on them to maintain a marriage. That is a representation of some Ugandan women. That is HAJATI!

mwenky99@gmail.com

@mwenky

I want to thank all of you who have read my account of my stay in Uganda as it stands. This is the last one in these series. The story, the tales go on and many are still being written. When the time comes I will put pen to paper and share with you all about this amazing journey. 

Love You Loads Holly and Tendo Katabalwa. Daddy will soon be back.

Mwenky.

Espana 85 (E85)

By Arthur M. M. Katabalwa.

Budo Junior P7 class 1985. 

That photograph above was taken in November 1985 when we had just finished our Primary Leaving Exams. (Prize for whoever finds me). At the time Uganda was in the grip of a ferocious war. We were slightly oblivious to what was happening. The smiles on many of the faces are innocent.  After that, we all scattered as war descended on Uganda as the rebels made a final push for the capital Kampala. A number died.

I had the discomfort of watching the fall of Kampala from the vantage point of Nakibuuka, the Buganda coronation site on Budo hill. This place has a commanding view of Bulenga and the surrounding villages where the final push for Kampala started on January 17 1985. At the time all my friends in that photo were bunking down with their families across Uganda. I remember at times when I heard the shells fall or the mushroom cloud that signified the direct hit of the army stores in Rubaga knowing that lives were being lost. I thought about each of those faces in that photo. Charles Mawa and Andrew Songa (also in that photo) were with me but the rest I didn’t know what was going on.

On June 23, 1986 a number of us joined Kings College Budo. I was relieved seeing all my friends again. We had gone through a horrendous six months since that photo. There was not much changed and we settled into our innocent lives as young adolescents. As teenagers we did what teenagers do. Some of us got into romantic relationships after all here we were again cooped up again in boarding school. The hormones were raging!! However I was aware several friends who had not joined Kings College Budo. Andrew Kamila Musuubo, George Ayesiga and Hanifa Mawanda were among many that hadn’t joined us at Budo who are in that photo.

With Andrew Kamila Musuubo. The smiles are telling.

Life got on well until I happened to track down another long lost friend Tucker Nsubuga Walugegga in 2014. To tell the honest truth he was a brute in primary school. He made all the girls cry. We were kids so that is OK. Yet when I heard of him in 2014 he was the biblical Saul turned Paul. He is a man of God. He is a community leader, a business man and a Pastor. I decided to go and visit him in Kireka where he lives and he had not changed at all. He is still built like if he ran through me there would be not much left for forensics. We talked and planned to meet again but also encourage others to come along.

I saw an opportunity in this. I was going to catch up with my friends again but this time I never thought much beyond the 1986 group. Then I got leads to where Andrew Kamila was. This was a break. Dan Mwanja (also in that photo) gave me a phone number and I nervously called it. The voice at the end crackled and it was unmistakable. It was Kamila!!! He still sounded the same.  We planned to meet up in a week and agreed to meet up in Bulenga. It was exciting that a few from the 1985 group would also be coming.

Dancing with Eva Nakirayi.

On the evening when we met It was dark. I was calling on the phone. The air was thick with acrid car fumes. I could see that familiar figure in the dark across the road, also phone firmly to the ear talking back. We had last seen each other 30 years ago. I was nervous be we had both decided to do this. Andrew was standing there squinting at me through the dark. I have grown rotund. He still looked the same. All the memories came back from our chaotic childhood at Budo Junior School.

We headed to Zone 7 a posh pub that belongs to one of us, Gonza Lukanga Kaggwa. And that was when history started coming from the dark as more people from that photo started showing up. Girls and boys rising like a phoenix from years past. Now they were men and women. One, Edmund Rushekya had made a special trip from his home in Bukoba Tanzania. And I must add that the ladies....have grown into very fine ladies!!! All of them.

My intention had been to go and look for Andrew and maybe a few others but the faces in the photo started coming out all these decades later. A few had to have the memories jogged as to who was who.

That evening I rediscovered an integral part of my childhood. I stood back and watched all these men and women now whose friendship was forged in those days at Budo Junior School. We shared the beatings from the teachers, we fought each other, we went hungry together, and we had sleepless nights together because one of us had created a story about a headless ghost called Konyo. We all at times slept under beds when the shelling became too much. We have in short seen each other in our worst times.

From left Paul Kavuma, Gonza (standing) and Erias Kiwanuka whose fingers I nearly chopped off with a hoe in 1981.

But we also danced together; we played together and cheated at ssonko and dduulu some African games. The competition in athletics was whole hearted. We raided the school kitchens together at night to steal beans. We went to the well together and played on very muddy slopes. The poor teachers’ gardens had no vegetables at times because we destroyed them just out of boredom. At night we all went to classes together to do our homework and wrote the girls naughty letters.

Some of the E85 girls Fiona, Winnie and Khula (Erias on right squeezing in)

Espana 85 (Or E85) was born that night at Zone 7. A group of people who are fast approaching middle age but have a common past that is very strong.  Even our spouses don’t fully understand but respect the bond that exists between us. I helped form E85 more for selfish reasons. I wanted to meet up with my friends without spending too much seeing them individually. That bond is stronger now than ever before.

We all look for wealth in many ways. Monetary terms or even through our faith. I have wealth beyond measure through my friends especially those in the E85. We have faced so much together that there seems nothing can come between us. We meet up periodically and have a drink. We are all equal despite current social standing when we are in E85.

The boys (men) in a silly mood break into song and dance reminiscent of how we used to entertain ourselves.

We are all parents and we give each other parenting tips. We help with business plans and rally to any of us who are in difficulty. What shapes us and cements our friendship was formed when we were innocent. That innocence still governs us to a large extent how we relate today.  We watched our backs when we were in boarding school all those years ago. Now as adults that spirit still exists. We still watch each others' backs.

mwenky99@gmail.com

@mwenky

Tales of An Adopted Clay Head. Walks To Work.

By Arthur M. M. Katabalwa.

On occasion when I have not had the money for transport I have joined the walking masses.

A friend, Ian, once told me that having money gives one options. I suppose having loads of money then gives one loads of options. Armed with what I thought was a wealth of experience and exposure I descended on the Ugandan capital Kampala to make loads of money. There are loads of opportunities about. You just need to know where to look. And there are so many pitfalls. You must know where to look out for those as well!

I was lucky that as soon as I arrived, I had a few days off and walked straight into a job working as a Media Consultant. The excitement was palatable. I knew that I was going to be able to touch the sky with my new job. Nothing could go wrong.

The owner and director of the business is an old friend. On my first day I realized that our relationship had to change on the spot. Where I used to call him directly using pet names, now he was my boss.  This was something that I had to get used to very fast!

Work lunch with Peter Sematimba.

Then he went and put me in a room full of kids as far as I was concerned, tucked away in a corner with a fan that was just wafting hot air round. It was a surreal experience to say the least. The oldest of these “kids” I realized was probably born when I was in S6. And here I was with them. I could hardly understand their jokes. I was old enough to be their father. There work ethic completely deferred from mine. They were talking about alien stuff; dating and stuff like that. They spent inordinate amounts of time urging about football. I couldn’t work them out for the first weeks.

When we were offered lunch (which was a downfall to my waistline) l always found it hard to line up with my work colleagues. For a while I waited until they had all served their food and then went and got myself something as well.

The work was absolutely banal after a while. I spent quite a lot of time staring through (not at) my computer screen wondering where all had gone wrong. I wondered why I had left my comfortable existence to sit in this absolutely hot annex. Christians know the story of the Israelites wondering in the desert and asking Moses to go back to Egypt? My faith was quickly waning especially when on one occasion another friend invited me to his office and it was the size of my bedroom. It was air conditioned and he had a team of people answering to all his whims. Here I was stuck in a hell hole. It really got me down. But I had to plod on regardless.

A few weeks into my appointment I was asked to look at our operations online. That was when I started feeling slightly challenged. I started looking at the business critically and I felt like I was part of the decision making process. I even started joining the others in the queue for lunch. I suppose I started getting out of my shell. I started getting proper helpings at the lunch table.

Later on I discovered why he did what he did. The Ugandan working environment is full of unknown unknowns. I knew absolutely nothing so he threw me on the shop front and let me fester there. In the process I learnt a lot about the work environment in Kampala. I learnt to readjust to the new reality. It was difficult but I had to. The silver lining is that I made friends like Peter, Jona, Benjie, Charlotte, Mercy and Dalton amongst others. To their credit they were not thinking like I was and they always made attempt to make my stay easy. We ended up creating a racket at our offices teasing Mercy on how she used to coo “Dalton….Dalton….Dalton….” when she wanted him.

I was also working with people who I was otherwise not used to and I had to adjust the way I dealt with people in a way that I had never done so before. If I was elevated to a managerial position at that time I would have had a spectacular crash. As many before me, we have arrived in Uganda thinking that the country works on systems and styles that we know. It doesn’t.

One morning I woke up completely at a loss of any meaningful employment. Nothing! Events had led to me losing my job. It is a frightful situation. You see, in the UK one can run and “sign on” and get some money from the government so that one can go by. In Uganda there is no social security at all. So if you don’t work you are flat broke.

Unemployed is simply horrendous!. Let me first say that we “summers” are poor at the “hustle”. The hustle is used loosely by Ugandans as a term to basically moonlight or work elsewhere. It also means working for oneself; to be self-employed. It would be alright if the system worked in a straight forward way.

Being unemployed made me see how people treat you. It is either out of paranoia or otherwise but you become invisible. My friends assumed that that I was employed and it is almost demeaning for a man my age (and size) to walk into an office with “campus babes” and ask for work. Once I was sat at a reception of one university and some people thought that I was a lecturer. For the few who were aware of my plight disappeared. In fact one or two I know have deleted all my contacts.

The effects are very profound. Transport is completely difficult. Let me put it this way; there are certain parts of Kampala I know now because taxis don’t go there, if you get my drift. Getting sick is completely out of the question. If I felt slightly under the weather I got worried for if I got sick I would be in a tight spot. There is no free health service. I was looking at my utility bills mounting. One learns to work out whether to have airtime (credit for my British crew) or have MBS (mobile internet) on my phone. It gets that tight.

With my friend and confidant Margaret Wamanga.

There are things that I have learnt about myself from being unemployed. I have an awful temper. I don’t share my problems with anyone apart from close friends. I know it sounds wrong but I thought I would rather lie in my cottage hungry than go and ask for someone for money. I always think that other people also have their own problems so why worry about mine? I am useless at the hustle.

There are other great souls I have worked with like Margaret Wamanga who probably knows all my secrets. Brian "Buula" Byaruhanga, Andrew Kyamagero, Blazey Blaze, Rosie King and many more all of whose names I cant mention here. People who are selflesly genuine and have made me go through tough days. 

In the depths of my despair thoughts of my kids always work.  They always behave the same way. If you have money they will not communicate. If you are broke they will still not communicate so the conversations are always the same. Strangely as well friends also help when one is in such a situation when they are not aware because they deal with you the same way.

One needs to keep their wits about at all times. And to always look at the bigger picture and know that something better will come about. For one to be unemployed in a country like Uganda is unimaginable. Ones options diminish rapidly and there seems to be no obvious way to get out of the rut. At times it seems that all that one has is hope against hope. And if you lose that hope you have lost everything.

mwenky99@gmail.com

@mwenky99

Tales Of An Adopted Clay Head: February 2014

By Arthur M. M. Katabalwa.

I was lost in my thoughts on February 22, 2014 as the huge bulk of the Emirates airlines A380 seemed almost to be struggling to climb out of a particularly over cast Manchester sky. I watched intently out of my window as the patchwork of the streets turned into farmland and started to be replaced by cloud, with occasional condensation being whipped around the giant wings. The plane steadily climbed and I could feel the familiar clunk of the under carriage being retracted beneath us. Another chapter in my life was starting; a bit of my life which I seemed to have skipped. I was heading back to Uganda.

The previous September I had had a conversation with my friend Kasedde in Uganda and I had told him that I wanted to experience Uganda. His response was favorable. I spoke to my family and I managed to get myself a promise of work as soon as I returned.

I remembered that my journeys through the UK had started on a clear day back in April 1995 when I arrived all google eyed at a rowdy Heathrow airport for a six month holiday. I had never been abroad before and here I was with a small brown leather suitcase and an ethnic patterned carry-on bag. I had a pretty horrendous experience with immigration as I had only £50 on me yet I was saying that I had arrived for a holiday. They nearly sent me back to Uganda. With a bit of explaining from my hosts from Winchester, I was allowed in the UK. I was not aware at the time that this was the beginning of my love for the United Kingdom.

I settled into a very comfortable life for that break. My hosts, the Harris family were (and still are) a very kind, loving and very patient family. The house was so well tuned out it was like a palace! Jackie, their daughter who had suggested that I visit her family had written an “operation manual” for her mother Diane explaining that I liked chicken by the bucket load. Jackie was at the time working in Uganda. She warned that I never ate raw vegetables and if I didn’t say “thank you” and “please” I was not being rude. I was being Ugandan. Later I was able to learn British manners.

My father, Rev Laban Bombo introduced me to everything British. He went to Birmingham University’s Selly Oak College in 1981 and while there got me a pen pal called Alistair Catherwood. Alistair and I wrote to each other on and off for over a decade before the letters stopped completely as we became teenagers. Thankfully, the rest of our families met over the years. His elder sister Rosie spent some holidays with my family at Budo. My sister lived with her in her flat at Kennington in South London; my family visited their home near Worcester.  The relationship got stronger in the 90’s with my elder brothers spending time with other members of the Catherwood family in Belfast, Northern Ireland.  Still, by 2001, despite me having lived in the UK for a number of years by that time, Alistair and I had never met although we were back in phone contact.

In 2002, a chance availed itself for us to meet in the little village of Belbroughton west of Birmingham. The night before we met, we had a frank conversation on the phone and we agreed that after all we may not like each other. The meeting was in a pub, and we got on like fire. We still talk today and we are very good friends and I am a (poor) godfather to his daughter Megan. Alistair and I have been friends since 1981 and to this day that friendship is as strong as ever.

The UK has over the years provided me with friends all of them now lifelong friends. From people like Keda Tastagh, Richard Strub, Paddy Osmond, Caroline Smith (Rist) and Sam Bernard whose friendship was forged here in Uganda over copious amounts of booze in Kitemu (not the ladies though). I thought about all my crew from Birmingham! Hughie Piper!  

My mind raced to Marie Claire Escudier and Chinwan Chang in London who first taught me customer services to Sarolta Kozma to Andrew “My Love” Currie with whom we were a real nuisance eating pork ribs while walking on the streets of Clapham Junction like chavs (ambulance story?), to Wayne Croxton, P J Taylor, Lofty and Vicki Pointon and her family in Stoke On Trent to the notoriously funny Lee Wild whose capacity to hold down booze is only matched by a whale holding down sea water to Mandy Belfield and Michelle “My favorite girl” Kennedy. I cannot exhaust the list…… Thanks to all for being true friends and adopting this “clay head”.

My heart sank for those whom I lost like my good friend Darren Bray who was an astounding fellow. I had the chance to go say bye to him as he laid suffering from terminal cancer in Bristol’s royal infirmary hospital. When I was leaving his room I turned round one last time and he waved at me in a very familiar way. We both knew that was the last time we were seeing each other.

Then there was John Thompson! What a man! A force of nature! One of the most handsome men I have ever seen with a booming voice and an infectious laugh.

Then there was David Foster to whom words alone cannot describe for one had to see the man to appreciate all his qualities. David was like a father to me. He was so patient and understanding and loving………. They all rest in peace. Thanks to you all for the memorable times together on the railways and walks over bluebell covered fields in the English countryside and the ice creams on the quay side in Padstow. We that had the chance to know you and be loved you will always remember you.

The UK is also the permanent home to my two lovely children Holly and Tendo Katabalwa who live in Stone, Staffordshire with their mother Katie who is doing an incredible job looking after them and bringing them up while I am away. I am truly thankful for all that you do every day to make sure those two are outstanding individuals.

I looked back at my times in Winchester drinking 6X beer in The Hyde Tavern pub, I thought about St Johns on the Isle of Man, New Cross in London, Clapham, Bristol, Stone and Stoke on Trent all places that hold a special place in my heart. I consider myself a Stokie from Bristol, a peculiarity itself. But that is the beauty of my take on the UK.

I thanked God and prayed for those who even up to this day I have the highest regard, love and respect for; My sister “The Commander in Chief” Rhoda Kagwa, Rebecca Kathryn Moat Katabalwa, Diane Harris, Yvonne and Henry Strub, Rachel Foster and the late David Foster. They are all collectively head and shoulders above in their contribution to my success in integrating into British society

I had decided to make this trip back home a while back. I was missing home. I had never lived in Uganda as an adult. I had only worked there for a few months. I had never got a proper Ugandan pay cheque. In January 2014, I decided to act on my dreams. I had procrastinated a lot. I made sure that I got my house in Heron Cross, Stoke On Trent looked after by a property management firm and I asked for leave from my work who were hesitant at first but later my manager Mr. Frank Parkes relented and let me go.

My thoughts went back especially to my children. I didn’t know when I would see them again. I wondered if they would forgive me for jetting off while they were still young. But this is what I knew I wanted to do at the time.

England, my home, had received a young google eyed man on its shores for the first time in 1995. Here I was nearly two decades later heading back to Uganda an adult with one suitcase and a carry-on bag. I sank in my seat and I quietly sobbed to myself.

mwenky99@gmail.com