#WinterABC2020 Day 22/22; Thee wrap up!

Dear Afrobloggers,

This whole month has been a sunset of butterflies and landscape full of stars. The recollections, storytelling, reading page per page and ohhhh my, the lessons. I couldn’t have been served a better way to have spent my June. My gratitude to this challenge is bigger than the enormous smile you’ve given me and crawing through my 2021 for another June calendar looking forward to meeting us here again. At first when I saw the Winter challenge, I thought here’s yet another sail boat I can’t board, I mean Uganda has no Winter but here we are on day 22 and with all the working, sick days, lazy days and procrastination doses I still made it this far.

So my wrap up of the challenge will be my pledge and a note of Becoming Livia, the two prompts I missed that I so wish I could have been part of. I Livia Lina Koburungi Abbooki pledge to partake in this challenge till the very end, I promise to write on every prompt and also take time to read the various blog participating as I. I shall comment and learn where I can and so today I hope that my day one(the pledge) and day twenty two(the wrap up) are a blend of unbroken promises.

Moving on, becoming Livia is a tiresome journey and a very long read that is still going on. Livia is this child that was everywhere, raised in two different families and this taught me to keep trying everything until I found where I would fit in right. And if you’ve watched Zootopia, you know what I mean. See I’ll jump start at the old me while in high school, I sang, tried leadership, played basketball, volleyball, cricket, badminton, did swimming championships, even played football, tried spoken word poetry, and cooked all in the name of defining who I truly was. This went on for most of my o’level and I should say I have been hyper-active since I was a toddler so finding what talent I could develop was never enough. So I have this incomplete puzzle of me that I run the world every day to get closer to finishing it. And so today I choose to thank AfroBloggers for contributing to finding me. This journey has turned a lot of quilts that had me covered-lazy to moving forward into a future for I thought that my search party had stopped.

I have more than enjoyed this experience and more than I ever thought, I have learnt a lot. And to the blogging community I have met here, I couldn’t have bonded more with anyone better than you guys. I am grateful and I should say it’s been so much an honour to have a seat among such amazing writers. I look forward to doing this again, can’t believe I was scared to try it before. You’ve made every day blogging an easier medicine to swallow and if I am a flag bearer, here’s to have it proudly raised.

Thank you Afrobloggers and every one of us that’s been here, I will surely miss having a read every now and then, and to write after a day’s work.

Cheerio’s my dears, till next time. Thank you for passing by.

Recycling thee Omusaijja Tayangwe post.

Hello my dears, so today I will be having the same dinner I served us sometime back in June 2017, a post I would like very much to recycle and here is https://raymondtheafrican.wordpress.com/2018/06/27/fort-portal-propaganda-omusaijja-tayangwa-a-man-is-unrejectable/. So we once did the culture thing from our communities. And this phrase was so close what I almost talked about but since I have to recycle something today, I am pleased to have this post back in the eyes of my dear readers.

And before we even start translating this short statement to English which I have to warn you first about. English won’t do any justice to the true ancestral depth of any cultural meaning in Africa and applying this here, this short sentence merely means; “A man can never be rejected.” I wrote the first post purely out of rage and indifference for what people associated the phrase to. Most people used it as an excuse for being loose and in my cultured world that’s not the meaning it was intended to carry. See, Fort Portal has been that cradle land that I have so much talked about during this challenge because most of my life has happened here. So when I share about it I want to portray what I learnt from the source. There is always a clique about a group of everything, everyone or everywhere, and this is one you won’t miss catching in the waves that a mutooro lady can never reject a man. Hearing this I am sure you know you are sorted with just one trip to this land of milk and honey. But honey let me stop you right there, that whole rumour is just a bad generalisation even if we are a small community. Heed this, you will be rejected and you will soon start calculating your transport fare back to where you came from. Batooro are very assertive and I mean this in the nicest way possible (hahahahha) and just like that sir you will be rejected in your face.

So anyway let me just share why we all shouldn’t be misled by this statement; one according to my research and the true heritage of this phrase. It is said that, this saying originated at traditional marriages. Say during the days of lock up of the bride prior the actual introduction day, she is locked in a room with her mother hidden away from outside contact; she is fed well with intent to fatten her and also smeared with ghee during those days. The bride’s father however, on the actual day is heard saying that the man, our daughter has brought home for marriage can never be rejected (omusaijja tayangwa). Simply indicating that our forefathers never at a point indulged women in forced marriages but rather respected the decisions of their children. That it is upon the bride to choose a man of her liking and that same man can never be rejected by her family. Today however, there are certain families that choose to have a say in their children’s marital lives, I say that’s why there’s so much extra-marital affairs, infidelity, concubines, early pregnancies, cohabiting relationships to name but a few. It shouldn’t be upon whom my father likes or dislikes but whom I chose to marry. This phrase came to do away with arranged marriages and also to have respect for women.

This phrase is not just a sarcastic saying to laugh about and move on but it’s one to focus on with caution. Every woman should have the liberty to choose who she prefers to spend the rest of her entire life with, it’s just courteous to have a say in your own life matters. Advise is however welcome and like we’ve been told that elders always carry good intent with the advice they give to us. The same should come without decrees or ultimatums. But all in all, I love this phrase for one thing, it’s part of an African culture that so far has not been shunned for being an archaic practice.

Cheerios’ my dears.

Of music; My Love Language.

Hello lovelies, been a minute but I won’t let inconsistency get to play with me again. So I don’t know if this week from the very start has been confusing because it reminds me of how much fun I’ve had during this challenge and that I will surely miss reading the different thoughts from similar topics. And also cause mom’s birthday is around the coner and I don’t know how to surprise her. So before I lose my focus, I am so deeply sorry about missing yesterday’s prompt but I will surely catch up and so about today, yes music is my love language. My favourites might change timelessly but there are afew songs that carry so much meaning to my heart and so lets get to it.

  1. Home ft The Collective Ug.

This one right here has been on my repeat playlist for a while now and in it I find a peace stirring amidst whatever my mind can’t settle. It calms me down and builds hope that’s why I find myself constantly rewinding it every second. It’s message just speaks to me. And my ears would bleed if they could from the repitition stunts I pull with this very song.

2. Hills and Valleys ft Tauren Wells

This song is a whole life expression and adventure of the highs and lows. I find the thin line relationship my life has with the lyrics to this song. Sometimes we are on top and the next we are resting somewhere in the valleys and I just have to appreciate the view everytime life travels up and about but honestly it is the music that gets me through it.

3. My Bestie ft Abochi.

My best friend and I have been through alot and this song reminds me of the love I have for her. She has wiped most of my tears before they even managed to peep at the world. She always holds my hand in those hospital rooms even when I am not scared of the injections she is always there. So it is special because I use it as her own ringtone customaised for only when she calls, I know it’s cocky but that’s us. (hahahhaha)

4. Never Alone ftLady Antebellum.

This song is love itself. I greatly treasure friends and I am a crier (I doubt this word even exists hhaha). But I am one of those kids that used to cry when candidates were leaving school depending on how close we were. This was because they had grown so much on me and them leaving school felt like I was being deserted and left alone which makes me so emotional. Till one day a special friend of mine dedicated this song to me, I know country is not most people’s breakfast but this song has an amazing message and I have carried it with me since 2011, this i call my special love song.

5. Jesus Take the Wheel ft Carrie Underwood.

This was the first ever song I performed on a stage. It’s not like I had that vibrant Whitney Houston voice, but as a young girl I always tried out alot of things trying to find where I fit in. And this song has a strong story that I always equated to my life and my mother has never missed in this picture. And so when I first learnt and sang this song before my friends it was a turning point for me to accept who I was and not to give up ever. Everytime I hear it being played, I drop a tear without shame, cause it’s storyline is my life so I am always looking for that last straw to grab onto but God always provides me a landing.

#WinterABC2020 Day 17; Of Trending Current Affairs Topic.

Already at day 17, Hello dear reader. Took me a while to be back at my computer I am still a bit shaken to face demons of pain that rest in words we hardly express but yesterday we bleed them out in plain black and white. I hope that today and that to follow you stay healthy and more than ever revamped.

So today’s prompt is like a dealership that just hasn’t picked a speaciality. And if i run about from this topping to the next I just simply have so much focus on everything that is happening and for starters I thought I would talk about the increasing body count on streets from racial deaths but been there, done that already. So today I will talk about what I wish to tell Covid 19.

In my country Uganda, it was an exciting treat to have schools closed for the first month atleast for afew studnets that is. Though as I made my way through Mukono Seeta till Bewyogerere, a very close friend of mine had lost a dad during that very week when schools were expected to close and the burial was to happen regardless, so I found myelf on the road many times. And it was sad seeing children thrown out of school premises waiting on their parents with all their property in hand. The newly constructed roads of this regime could only accomodate afew of the various fly-like vechicles of the country. The traffic was the first slow down but it got worse, and knowing that you are still around I don’t know how to summarise something that is infinitive.

Dear Corona, you have so much dug into the pitchers we drink from that getting to a tomorrow by waking up is like reliving yesterday. Like that visitor that has over stayed it’s welcome. You’ve brought forth with you new formalities and the stacks for becoming a legacy have changed. Covid 19, you have brutalised treasuries and my oh my’ should I say, the Telcommunication companies might be the richest from the everyday payments made for communication. You have implanted a mark on each grocery we need to take back home, and so we face the tinny eruptions turn violent everyday.

At first it was words and wit then it generated to a fist fight, now yesterday he torched the kitchen cause it seems like all the food he purchases varnishes to thin air when it arrives in the kitchen. See even the new normal of hidden faces crossing the streets feels awhole lot more like armed robbers with fastened bows at the neck. Tomorrow just doesnt look normal anymore, unkess we turn earth into mars and hazmat suits are the style fashion, Slyvia Owori and A’byrans recommend.

It’s even more heart aching to remember that there’s a jaja in the village battling old age with only a survival garden to live up for. Dear corona virus, I no not if your ears are as sharp as your sustenance ability, or your mind as strong as the attacks you’ve made on thousands of victims. But for a panting heart, you will release this grip. Torture and toment are not spices of this life and living wounds open where they shouldn’t be is a gap we have no blue prints to. So dear Mr Virus it’s been quit an acquitance to have met you even not in person but your speeches will live on like a hot zone trying to antidote the ancestral gene. I don’t want to ask of anything but everything for your little ship hasn’t sailed or is it the black hole of magic that landed you here? My generation is not going seeing the wick bend for you to walk over because you the treasured medical teams have not shivered from all your drama yet. But this light will honor the deaths you’ve thrown at us.

And your’s sincerely to; thank the doctors and all experts that are working tirelessly,

the resting souls, May they continue to rest in peace,

and to the world, there is a convincing future that God has prepared for us.

Cheerios’ my dears.

I Promise Not to Cry this 29th June.

Life is not a good poem
I try to live it but on some days,
Some days it just feels like I am
Reciting it on broken strings of a violin
The noise like fingernails against a chalkboard
And these days are measured in doses
That sometimes are escorted with sugarcoating

poem by Livia.

February 28th, 2020 found me a busy body. Hustling to finish everything on time and also trying not to disappoint my best friend. It was her sister’s birthday, and if I knew the reasons why rain delayed me back in Mukono a bit longer maybe I would have hugged him longer or ran up the highest building on campus and got him the only thing that he ever asked of me ~a sticker with his Empaako on it. He was a mutooro, like a little brother with unmatched wit. And I was his little sister, that kind of bond. So he ran to class after our short run in and when the rains cleared, I made my first stop at a sick relative’s home. Then proceeded home to pick something that seemed important at the time but was not. And all that while I was just excited to be finally attending a law dinner with my best friend, this event I always fantasized but it doesn’t come cheap. And so with my happy thoughts about tomorrow I made it just in time for the birthday. It was such a lovely night, with family and friends I have to say tears of joy hit the floor more than once. Then came our ride back to mukono, part of this fun night was driving back such a lengthy journey with two of my close friends at least for once we never had to sit in public means at such wee hours of the night.

Arriving at hostel tired, worn out, and ready to finally hit that soft fluffy mattress after almost an hour of waiting on my water to boil for that quick shower. Nothing I came with on me had been shifted or checked just thrown on the chair waiting to be undone the following day. Drifting into dreamland was easy, when an hour later a panicked phone call drove me back to reality. It was around 2:00am in the night making it 29th February already. My best friend on a different number did call me and the half dead me picked up to hear a breaking voice that only made out “Livia please bring my phone to my hostel right now, it’s an emergency.” And the line went dead. I didn’t know if I should call back and question her why and also if she was concerned for my safety but I didn’t and the sleep was gone. So I walked to the gate dark as it was, I wore my courageous skin and made barely three steps outside but boy did I turn around almost immediately when I remembered rape and robbery were not just newspaper articles. And by God’s grace I met a friend in the corridors, when I asked for a favour he was more than willing to actually take me to Martha’s hostel. He obviously asked lots of questions that I also didn’t have answers too. But maybe if I haven’t shared with you, my best friend and I have a weakness in common we both have health problems and that call to me even knowing that my hostel was in the most dangerous parts of Mukono was a 911 call that I thought better not to wait till the morning blues drew. So we embarked on our short journey and seeing blue and red flood lights of an ambulance headed for her hostel ahead of us. If I didn’t run it’s because dogs around that neighborhood scare me, but I made the call so worried for I knew having stubborn her in the university ambulance was a joke she just wouldn’t even if she was in absolute pain. She kept assuring me that she was fine but hold on, “who doesn’t say these words even with a broken leg?”
I ran into her gate, the frenzy in that small hostel welcomed us. I saw all my friends in tears. Glass was broken. The third door had been broken into or at least they were still trying to break into it. I don’t know what I asked or where I started from but she was okay in tears and at the verge of a heart attack though he was not.
Edgar was lying on the floor of his locked room, I looked in only once and the sight I won’t explain. I don’t think I have healed enough to talk about it and this post I might delete later. It was horrible, and at 3:00am or something we saw the tail of the ambulance ride into the night, I am sure it was a bumby ride of course the pot holes of mukono are not to blame.

My eyes could only do one thing cry, my uncharged phone kept dailing the only home number we could get. They trusted me to be brave and speak my mother tongue without breaking to his mother. And even after twenty rings the number was still off till 5am when it came to life and the other end was a sweet voice of a mother… By that time I been escorted back to my hostel and since I obviously couldn’t be in the room alone I invited a friend to spend the rest of the hours in my room. I am sure I startled him more than once with my screams and he held my hand to comfort me, it worked. I swallowed hard enough and explained that she had to drive to UCU almost immediately to see her sick son but she didn’t know he wasn’t breathing anymore. I was already done showering dressing up and on my best friends door by 6:00AM. Whom alike to me had not closed her eyes since we last saw each other but yet that evening we spent it in a ball room trying to forget.
Accepting that we had just lost a friend was hard and even harder for me to live with. The burial was full of everything but seeing him in there I only managed to scream in my head for them to remove the glass cause it was stopping him from breathing. My best friend fainted first and two hours later after the short visit to the hospital. I was next, I thought my lungs would just hold on at least for today but from huffing and puffing for an entire day, they needed support and they gave up on me just then to an asthama attack. I don’t know how long it lasted but I remember hours later the van we travelled in for the burial broke down in a place called ‘kibira‘ with no cell signal with darkness creeping and no one around. Though we somehow made it back safely. I never talked about all what happened on that night and every 29th day of every month haunts my heart, at this point I don’t need time to heal, I want to accept it and hope that the angels are taking care of my little brother. rest in peace Isanga (Ivory) Edgar Amooti, surely we your friends do miss you and this month I promise not cry but to make a prayer. RIP my dear.

Cheerios’ my dears.

It has no Expiry date.

Hello my dears,

Today’s challenge goes so deep that I was sacred abit to start typing that which is so close to my heart without being subjective. So I will stick to a short word count and still shoot at this lump in my throat that’s competing with my typing fingers. And then I heard this podcast with a guest doctor who said something that struck a string in my head,

A woman was made from a man but we all have an equal number of ribs.” 

As that sinks in, of my short heart  felt issue today is “feminism.” Growing up I thought that only people in government or lawyers spoke up, however a voice of anyone anywhere is a step to having a problem solved and to me feminism is just that. The history of feminism is enough a tale to have women more valued though with the current third wave of feminism, this little lit village of hope for the woman is being buried.

 

And to no one’s surprise we are slowly drifting back to the days of domestic violence, work discrimination, rape, assault’s, verbal abuse and much more grief. Believe me you, both gender is at the receiving end of this feast of emotional and physical distortion but statistics will beautifully appoint the female to hold the first position which has been for years the case. And you think because women are now politicians and the like, feminism should be trashed?? wow to you. And just as you continue to rise your fist or hold her down and cover her mouth, remember Feminism has no expiry date.

I often have these so many questions running in the corridors of my mind about patriarchy beliefs though unanswered they stay like vigilantes into the night and pop up like ugly reminders that being a feminist today is a joke. Well feminism is misunderstood and it burns my nerves to have such a delicate subject sprayed with kerosene everyday and an inch of it is burnt away everyday to fit into the drain. The smell so nauseating that society sees no more good in it!!  

I will therefore refer you to the vast knowledge on this same topic that Khanani Danny expresses without holding back. As I recall once a friend and mentor once told me that men too can be feminists which is true depending on what they are fighting for. A feminist is the one that won’t stand a bro’s plan to rape a girl. A feminist is one that will report that male chauvinist constantly sending his wife to the  ICU. A feminist is one that will slap you in the street for slut shaming and disrespecting a woman. 

Disclaimer: this feminist is not a radical extremist and any views on the subject are welcome. Thank you for passing by dear reader.

Cheerios’ my dear.

#WinterABC 2020 Day 14; My Empaako.

Hey there dear reader,

So right into todays prompt we have my cultural aspect. “Pet names,” what I like to call special names and in Rutooro “Empaako.” Well I am more than happy to share from my community for it so hard to meet people from this culture and you don’t hear “Empaako yawe,” said so often.  And if you have not yet guessed it, I am a mutooro from the western part of Uganda in a small town called Fort Portal which is part of Kabarole district. I will save the clans, totems and lineages’ for later but let’s talk about names. Names are a very important aspect of our culture and not just any names I mean pet names. A pet name is a praise name given to any child at birth by either parents or any other close relative and such names are common among the Batooro and Banyoro. A pet name is usually used while greeting one another and it is also a sign of respect. Historically, according a new born baby of a pet name followed a family celebration whereby a baby boy was given a pet name four days after birth and for a girl it took three days. However exceptional cases were twins who received their pet names at birth which was done in a wat that for a set of boys, the first is named Amooti (Isingoma) and the second Abbooki (Kato). A set of girls would take on, Amooti (Nyangoma) and Abbooki (Nyakato) coming first and second respectively.

This custom has existed since time immemorial for I fear that I might not get every fact to it although it was introduced to me at birth. And as my first name, this special name I could tell my mother gave it to me because it’s also hers. Being her second daughter, her first daughter was already named after our father, Abwoli. See my pet name is usually reserved for a child born as a twin or after a set of twins and since I was no twin and neither did I follow twins, it’s safe to presume my mother named me after her. My mother followed a set of twins though one passed away before I was even born (RIP) that explains her pet name.

So why I chose this unique aspect in our culture is because; Fort Portal is not only known for being the cleanest city in Uganda but also for its enormous hospitality which label is an outcome of the fact that whenever a person visits Fort, they are gifted with this Rutooro praise name to make them feel at home, loved and respected. Well whenever I say my name is Livia Koburungi I always feel this unsatisfied desire to add my Empaako and if you haven’t guessed it yet, well Abbooki is my pet name. I have come to be referred to as Livia Abbooki for a while now that my Koburungi name gets to only appear on my documents. See my elementary school teacher taught me that; “A name is the greatest gift a parent can ever give to a child. By then I greatly admired other names and me being the only Livia on the playground didn’t help but only increased the hate I had for my name so as I struggled with mummy to have my name changed (which didn’t happen), until I gradually learnt the culture behind these pet names and truly then the saying made much more sense to me.  Also here’s what all my names mean;

Koburungi -beautiful.

Livia –from the olive tree meaning life.

Lina -a ray of sunlight or the holder of light.

Abbooki – It originates from  a Luo word “Aboko” which means I have narrated to you. However in Tooro it simply means someone who cherishes the roles of parents, teachers, elders, mentors, counsellors and leaders.

Anyway I am actually glad the legal process of changing a name is too long and I got lazy along the way (hahahha kidding). Back to pet names shall we, let’s start with the king’s pet name which is Okaali and he is greeted as “Zoona Okaali” unlike the greeting of other pet names that is “taa Abbooki or anyother Empaako” This name is not given to anyone else outside royalty which has to be the king. And the other pet names are eleven, to the best of my knowledge; now imagine the togetherness in such a community where more than 50+ people share one pet name. Anyone you meet can be Apuuli, Acaali, Araali, Adyeri, Abbooki, Abwoli, Amooti, Ateenyi, Atwoki, Akiiki, or Bbala. All have they own unique meanings and the bearer of any can share what their pet names mean. It is such a beautiful feeling to know in such a small town this rooted culture has existed since the kingdom was so young. The culture has been passed from generation to generation at birth and even western civilisation has not diluted what it means or its effect on the people from Tooro, Bunyoro, Butuku, Kamwenge or Kasese.

Fort portal is a cultural town forget the fact that it has an English name, when you start to learn their culture it becomes an endless quest into where it all started. And just like that everyother  community has that custom that dates way back such that the reasons for its existence are stories from our grandparents some funny and overly exaggerated. That only leave us the effect the custom has on people to explain why it is still upheld. Maybe tomorrow I will tell you more about the famous “Omusajja Tayangwa” phrase from Fort Portal which translates into a man can never be rejected.

I love these friends who call me up and the first thing you hear is “Hello Abbooki,” also here’s a small tip, whenever you want a favour to be done by your mutooro or munyoro friend try referring to them by their Empaako. This on so many occasions is an enticing moment for they feel respected and loved so they will surely do it.

Cheerios’ my dears.

#WinterABC Day 13; She’s African and She’s Notable in my Lens.

Hello there,

My African Noble Personality prize goes to … (drum roll please,) but wait just one minute. So today I clawed my thoughts about all the Africans I’ve heard of in wondrous and admirable lifestyles and also others that have groomed a path from scratch for themselves to making a name in the tabloids. And with so much character in this continent, I found it so very hard to just make one pick. So consulting Mr Google Sir helped stir the process into a hurricane, it only worsened my newly thinking-migraine. Say if you typed Noble African personalities it will bring you the A’ List of Africa’s most wealthy men and women of the continent but that’s not what I want, dear Mr Google Sir! I agree they are very distinguished fellows and one day I will put Mr Dangote on my list since Google suggests that he is Africa’s number one notable personality and just maybe by then I wil finally know what to say to him…. Anyway my journal helped and I landed on Princess Bagaya Edith Elizabeth Nyabongo Akiiki, she has a whole page of unanswered questions that I hope to get answered when I finally meet her. I only hope on that day clumsy me doesn’t forget my journal and the lucky pen under my pillow.

Princess Bagaya is an actual African Princess from the royal family of Tooro Kingdom. Her father the (king) so much believed in education and also had a reasoning that he saw best for his daughter, Bagaya got educated both at home in Uganda (Kyebambe Girls) and also proceeded to Sherborne School for Girls in England where she was the only black student. After a year, she was accepted into the University of Cambridge (specifically Girton College) where she graduated with a Bachelor in laws 1962 and qualified as a barrister-at-law, making her the first Female Ugandan Lawyer in 1965.

Bagaaya Akiiki is the kind of woman who was born in a generation that saw less women go outside the kitchen or garden but her luck of being born a royal set pace and she didn’t sit around wasting away days because she was important but she walked and made her name. If there is anyting about her that should amaze you is that she was a first this and that at many things but she quit all those strings to venture into Charity.

  1. Princess Bagaaya was the first Ugandan to be filmed in a Hollywood movie. “Bullfrog in the sun” which is based on Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart.
  2. She was also the first African/Ugandan to model for a London Charity based Brand in 1967.
  3. This Princess was the first African/Ugandan to be admitted to the English Bar.
  4. She was also the first Black to be featured on the cover of a top Fashion Magazine (Harper’s Bazaar)
  5. When H.E Museveni came to power, Bagaaya was appointed as the Ugandan ambassador to the US.
  6. She is a writer and the author of “The Odyssey of an African Princess

Although the picture was merry during the early years of her career and profession, Bagaaya at one time was forced out of the country for fear of being harmed by Iddi Amin following rumours that she intended to over throw him. She was placed under house arrest and only her local and international demand saved her life. The Ugandan dictator had also advanced a marriage proposal to the Princess which was met with closed ears and knowing Amin it didn’t play well on his ego. She took up political Asylum in Britain after Amin dismissed her on claims that she was having an affair with an European man.

Even with the passing of her late husband which had her leave public service, Elizabeth today remains a voice for Africa through several television showings and her writings. So ask me one African that has retained their roots overtime, I will say her. The reason I would want to me her is that she stood the test of having a career, got married, and still retained her cultural identity during a time when women were not given a chance to actually prove themselves.

And dear reader is my Afrobloggers Day 13 in summary. Cheerios’ my dear it was a lovely sharing moment.

My Poetry Peep Window.

Hello my dears,

Today I am trying something diferent; a poetry review!! Hope you will love the experience. So every day I discover very interesting and intriguing poems but this piece for today spoke volumes to me as we are still marred with the dirty hands of racism. My first poetry peep window brings to you:-

Poem: Ten Things you Sound Like When You Say AllLivesMatter in response to BlackLivesMatter.

Writer: Natasha T. Miller.

Natasha T.Miller is such a wonderful spoken word poet that now travels the world with her words and her stage airs her beliefs and what she advocates for. And so on those rainy days, I am always wrapped in socks and warmers, for her voice in poetry is a whole mood with a coffee mug to sip from. I can repeat word for word of some of her poems and to be honest, she is like therapy to wounds I have to nurse from reading endless racism and police brutality headlines in the world. So today we are Hosting her poem from 2017, I find it so amusing that back then she wrote about something we forget so very often but it doesn’t us. For many a time it stealthily rises its hideous head disrupting other important life jargon or so we think to remind us that more unsolved dead bodies will be buried. And without an army salute or a half risen flag sign, they will be soon forgotten because they lived on foreign soil where every black person looks like the other and their reputation  is only a sum of being black.         

So recently on twitter following the George Floyd’s murder, this one TV station in Uganda was shamed for misunderstanding the reasons behind the #BlackLivesMatter hash tag. They chose to wear and stand for another Hash Tag #AllLivesMatter on a purely black-African National Television, wow! And quote me on this, whatever the production manager read in his newsletter that day must have misled him for he forgets that, as he sits at his job peacefully, drives on these government roads and breathes in untaxed air, another Black in diaspora doesn’t get such luxury or even get to wear a hoodie in the night on the streets or carry his wallet in his pants for when asked to identify himself. His procession to draw his wallet is suspicion enough to alert the officer that he is reaching for a gun. Between you and I the aftermath is not just one bullet. For it is said these blacks have thick skin maybe two three shots will subdue him not to shoot at me with his “imaginary” gun first.

Ten things you sound like when you say AllLivesMatter in response to BlackLivesMatter.

One; your family pet goes missing.

You post pictures of it all around your neighbourhood,

I come and post pictures of other people’s missing pets from around the world on top of

The picture of your missing pet.

Well ‘cause you aren’t the only one missing a pet

Two; I show up at your grandmother’s funeral and hands out my own grandmother’s obituary

You asks why, ‘cause nigger you ain’t the only one missing a grandma’

Three; I go to the hospital and change all the Intensive Care Unit signs to ‘Care Unit Signs’

Because every life in the hospital should be cared for just the same,

What makes the intensive care unit patient think that their lives matter more than Jenny

On the first floor fighting a cold,’ a cold can kill you too!

 Four; your fiancée stands you up at the altar and as you are crying I get up and,

Yell millions of people get broken up with every day, stop whining about it

Five; I show up to the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting to get help for my cotton candy addiction,

An addict is an addict: we all deserve help!

Six; you say Kelly Anthony, I say what about her, we still don’t know who killed little Johnny but they’re in Ramsey.

Seven; I say Black Lives Matter’ you say you don’t see colour

Eight; I say Dallas, you say ‘Blue lives Matter,’ I say I thought you don’t see colour.’

Nine; it sounds like when I say Black Lives Matter and you say All Lives Matter

Ten; it sounds like when I say Black Lives Matter and you say All Lives Matter

Ten; it sounds like when we say Black Lives Matter and you say All Lives Matter,

It sounds racist, it sounds inhumane, it sounds like you trying to choke us with our own grief

It sounds like All Lives Matter but when we say Ray Hill, Alton Sterling, Tamir Rice, Fernando Castillo, Corey Lamar Jones, Jessica Hernandez, Rickey Walker, Kendrick Johnson the people in fling, you say

You say nothing.

This poem was first published or recited on May 11th, 2017 via the monthly Button Poetry Event by Natasha T. Miller. However three years later, it’s still a song that we hope the perpetrators pick up for their next debut practice. The poem is a fuse ignited by typical acts of the nations we have allowed the luxury to preach us into accepting there’s better than Black but no equality. And with excuses like I thought he had a gun, he reached into his glove box for a gun but the investigations show that there wasn’t even a gun in there, many have died and are still dying. Blacks are the new face of violence, even the 16 year old honour student and athlete; Kendrick Johnson’s life might have been a cover story in the eyes of his murders!

If you haven’t watched her stage energy please do find this poem on You tube @ButtonPoetry. Cheerios’ my dears.

 

 

#WinterABC2020 Day 12: The African Child Day.

Hello world😍❤,

So today I had seriously tried to hide myself form this history class but finally as dawn descended on me, it actually occurred to me that today is the African Child Day! I bet y’all had forgotten about it, since schools are also attending to the lockdown issuance.  Anyway this to me is such a historical event I would have loved to be part of. So today’s prompt took me back to the days of reading this subject with half closed eyes in high school. Most of it made no sense that time, for I only used it to beef up my history papers and surely paid off with high scores. However today I say to the African Children, that Happy African Child Day! Also today’s write up is so much inspired by the famous French novel by Camara Laye “House Boy.” This book is so amazing, and should be in my pending list for review soon enough, for the naivety in Camara’s character (Toundi) compels me to say that, our Education system today leaves us in a similar state he was in. Say, today’s education is a long stretch of hope that at the end of the degree, masters or PHD, I will be the CEO or a Managing Partner somewhere but the real world offers you a slap on the wrist as a wakeup call. Even as many may land on both feet for various reasons others start afresh different from what they majored in for years behind a blackboard. However to avoid being misunderstood, I should say the right kind of education is such a great tool for everyone to own in their life bag which means for education to be better it needs stretching a little for the benefit of having stayed in a classroom for almost nineteen.

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       On the morning of June 16th, 1976 the clouds were looming and dancing above creating a dark sky and the morning was absolutely perfect for the jacket I admired the other day on a white girl’s back but couldn’t afford it. Having been raised in an extended homestead, grandmother’s cloud reading skills had with time rubbed on me and this excitement in the sky only meant our out-cry could wait one more day. But I didn’t know how long I could hold this secret for my teacher warned that if mother knew about it, we won’t carry on. See my teacher was the only African I knew that spoke the foreign language. She was very patient with us while we bit our tongues trying to speak like them but she preferred to teach in our local language, which aspect we considered to trust her with the plan to carry to the streets in protest of the segregation that now haunted our education too. As any excited child, the 2kilo-meter walk from home today was more of a run and to no surprise the crowded class didn’t have no more sits than yesterday’s three broken chairs or any windows. The whispers of my class were fragments of excited students like me to see today prosper, and in that moment of waiting we only anticipated shock and surprise and maybe improving the black students education.

The Soweto streets were green and hardly any black persons loitered for fear of being incarcerated and us being in protest, how it all started and backfired I don’t recall for it all happened so fast, the protest of young blacks was misunderstood and registered as a violent attack on the foreign man. To which imminent danger they responded to with a firing squad that threw us on bended knees begging on our mother soil not to be killed. The gun fire didn’t cease till thousands of bodies of young black students lined the streets. He the foreign man felt attached, for only being asked to adjust his servants’ education. This day I survived with broken arms and distorted vision, which injuries eluded me of working in the garden and my sight for a future was buried along with my friends. I survived maybe because I was the background student that had to tell this story. It was June 16th 1976, that brought tears in my eyes that being a strong African was a forgotten tale as I lay them to rest. We only wanted better schools and an appropriate syllabus alike to that awarded other races but we got served with more than what we bargained for and the stiches ran a silence, maybe the dancing clouds predicted doom not rain. I couldn’t tell for even the little education I got contradicts my grandmother’s old knowledge.

May their souls rest in Eternal Peace.

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Well hey there, welcome back from my history moment. So this day saw nearly ten thousand black students from Soweto, South Africa get killed for demanding for better education, I should be scared to venture down that road with my government but I believe in its reasoning and sure hope for consideration. Since 1991, this day has been widely celebrated as a sign that Black education has not been forgotten however even the much change needed in our Education system hasn’t been achieved. No haste steps from the “same shadow syllabus that the colonialists left behind(extracts from a famous poem by Peter Kagayi Ngobi: ‘In 2065,Nothing will Change Except I’ll be over 70years!’) been registered. Peter is such a seasoned poet and borrowing from his vast reasoning, I look back at this day in agony and a plight to our Ministry of Education and Sports that much needs to change. This historic event should be remembered as a land mark and not just a stone craved effigy to admire every once a year and we then move on.

In the spirit that history repeats itself, racism hasn’t ceased in the world and neither has African Education changed much so in honouring the memory of the brave students that died for a cause that still bites at us as if the first acts were erased or forgotten. My prayer is that we learn to embrace African needs without bias.

Cheerios’ my dears.