This young lady is the niece of my tight. Which makes me her tight auntie, I suppose. She has recently taken on a new and lifelong interest – conserving the environment. You can never start too soon. It has all been brought on by a visit by Dr. Jane Goodall to this lovely Pearl of Africa.

Asante fuelling up before taking on the world

Asante spoke to the Program Director of the Jane Goodall Institute Uganda about what it means to be a young person taking an interest in the environment. And other things.

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Interview with Dr. Peter Apell

On Monday 30th of April, I got to interview the Country Director of The Jane Goodall Institute Uganda – Dr. Peter Apell. Read on to find out all sorts of cool facts about one of Uganda’s wildlife veterinarians.

Peter Apell is personal doctor to wild lions, and other such things…

That morning, I picked out my favourite blouse and jeans and jumped into the car with my Mama Kubwa. When we arrived at the Jane Goodall Institute Uganda, I was a bundle of nerves and extremely scared.

Four lovely caramel coloured dogs bounced around the compound, as did a few happy chickens. I thought it was a bit odd to see animals at an office, but I was happy to see them. When I went inside, they were many nice people we greeted, and a variety of environmental education posters on the walls that I read as I went up the stairs.

Upstairs, I met one of the managers, Mr. Osman who offered me and my mama a place to sit. Dr. Peter walked in and said hello. I was still shaking, however, he was nice and friendly to me.

Dr. Peter pronounced me to be a member of the Roots and Shoots club, and challenged me to make a Roots and Shoots club at school so my friends could join as well.

Shortly after, people came in for a meeting. They were representatives of 40/40 Foundation and Sooo Many Stories – two organizations that are encouraging young people to read more and challenge the illiteracy levels in Uganda. They were at JGI to receive some generous book donations.

The books contain information about chimpanzees, wildlife and protecting our beautiful Uganda. At the press conference, the Ugandan Roots and Shoots leader Ms. Jemima told everyone about the work Roots and Shoots was doing. She’s quite an interesting woman, who’s advocating for an even more interesting topic! Later in the day, I sat down with Dr. Peter Apell, who told me a bit about himself.

Are you an environment and conservation activist?

Yes, I am. I care for, rescue animals and treat them. All types of stray dogs and cats and such. I also plant trees and try to educate adults and young people alike about the environment, conservation and threats towards our environment.

I know that you are a veterinary doctor, but what inspired you to do so?

My passion for all animals and my childhood. When I was young and any animal, any bird, any dog, any cat went missing they all knew that it would be under my bed. I like animals a lot and I kept bringing them home. So, when I became an adult, I decided to care and look after them. What is your role at the Jane Goodall Institute? I am the country director but I am also a vet, and I treat sick chimpanzees when I go out to the field.

What do you think young people my age can do to help the environment?

Everything! Our entire future is in your hands. You are what makes adults want to do better and leave a good legacy behind for the coming generation. Stand up and ask for your future from adults!

What is your favourite animal?

Hyenas. They are very beautiful and laugh all the time. They are also very important to the environment as they eat bones. If hyenas didn’t exist, there would be bones everywhere! Also, marabou storks because they do the same thing, and clean the environment. Experts often laugh at them and say that they are dirty, but I think they are always smart. Marabou storks always have a nice black suit and white vest on!

Experts say that Budongo Forest shall be gone in the next 20 years, do you believe this?

That’s right, it really will disappear if we do not educate people so that we change our actions. We have to learn and accommodate environmental issues in our life. It’s our role to protect these animals and forests.

Any last words?

Yes, I would like to say to the young people perhaps seek a career in veterinary wildlife. I am one of less than 10 wildlife veterinary doctors, and I’m getting old quickly! And as for chimpanzees we have less than five vets. We need more and more children considering working as vets.

#JaneGoodallinUg

The people that gave me birth

They saw me, they loved me

They call me

By a foreign name they gave

The man that married me

He saw me, he loved me

He calls me

By the ancestral name we share

My father who made me

He sees me, he loves me

He knows me

And my true name

*****

“He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says…To him who overcomes, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give him a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it.” Revelation 2:17

Just sitting here fascinated by the idea that after this temporary life, God will reveal to me my true name. The name he breathed life into my soul with.

In a strange way, I have never been particularly attached to my name. It’s pretty basic, as far as names go – functional. I like that it is short and to the point. I have never been able to fill up the NAME space in any form. The Husband is always telling me my name is also a brand. That amuses me. What does not amuse me, however, is when my name is misspelt. But that has more to do with the rules of grammar, common sense and good manners than it has to do with any personal attachment to the name.

I remember school and how we all had ‘hip’ nicknames. Some people even changed their names permanently because they decided the classification given by their parents was too botanical. I’ve always been the sort of person who is great at coining nicknames, but for some reason, no one could give me a good nickname that sticks.

So I am Daughter, Sister, Wife, Mother. Angie, Mama, Sis…

I have also realised that when God speaks to me, I cannot recall ever hearing him address me by my name. He just sort of speaks like we are having a never-ending conversation – which we are anyway. And so I have become curious what He will call me when we do meet. What will it feel like to be reconnected to my real name? Will it be all cliche-like? Like coming home? Hand in glove? Cinderella slipper?

I guess I will just have to wait and see.

Isaiah 43:1

Isaiah 49:1-2

Jeremiah 1:5

John 10:3

So I went postal on Kirabo’s things and I was politely encouraged to write my own. The theme of the Blog Week is ‘Schools Made Me No Better‘. It is a long and touchy subject for me because I have progressed from being a victim of schooling to being a parent making the same school choices for my children. I have many varied and possibly contradictory ideas regarding school so I am just going to lay out what comes to mind. Good luck making sense of it.

First of all, although I may have quite a few negative things to say about school, it most definitely made me better. Right now, a few pieces of paper are the difference between me and a whole lot of people. They are the difference between my quality of life and that of the bulk of Uganda. They are the reason many MPs (I still cannot believe the Pirra Sematsimba debacle) are not MPs any more. Evidence of schooling is important, ergo, schooling is important. You cannot completely eliminate it.

Nursery school was a blur of biscuits. I loved to eat the serrated edges off the Nice biscuits or scrape the cream off the cream biscuits. I remember that. Somehow I came out of that level with the ability to read. And that, for me, was the most valuable contribution of school to my life. THE ABILITY TO READ. The subsequent seven years were also a blur. Class time mostly interfered with the time I wished to set aside to read story books.

During the next seven years I learnt the following:

1. That child mobs can be just as cruel, if not more so, than adult ones. Being ridiculed for my accent taught me to become a silent observer of life and human nature from quite an early age.
2. That one did not correct or contradict one’s teacher. EVER. In primary school you were the ignorant worms and the teacher was the infallible instructor pouring golden knowledge down your unworthy throat. And very often through your burning buttocks.  This knowledge served to kill what should have been a university experience during the three years I wasted at Makerere. By the time Ugandans get to that level, the ability to question anything has been completely erased from their repertoire of skills. Therefore what I thought would be an illuminating period turned out to be more notes-copying (or photocopying) and faux adoration of instructors I secretly believed to be incapable of moulding my mind.
3. That the grading system Uganda generally employs in school does not encourage healthy competition. It only sets the winners up to be hated by those who erroneously perceive themselves as losers. I recall girls sidling up to see what end of term prizes I had been awarded for being among the top 3 in class. They were my ‘best friends’, and the same girls who mocked me viciously the one term I came 4th. I see the same behaviour carried on into Ugandan adulthood. People admire your success and when they fail to figure it out they plot your downfall. The local terminology for it is “abantu tebagaliza banaabwe”. Translate at will. It all starts in primary school.
4. The art of being what the prevailing authority figure wanted me to be at that material time. To the insecure teacher, I was an unquestioning parrot, even when she said woo-mbrella instead of umbrella. To the teacher who valued spies, I was a snitch. To the one who was obviously soliciting extra ‘coaching’ money from parents, I was a child in need of holiday help with subjects I had long conquered. It borders on psychotic, I know, but look back and see that so many of you were doing that dance all the time. Twisting yourself into knots for approval, or just to avoid punishment. It taught you how to pretend to your parents that you wanted to be doctors and engineers and lawyers when you still have no idea who you are to this day. This chameleonising also births the habit of telling white lies, and it is only when you feel truly loved that you can shake that particular habit.
5. That the brain is a wonderful thing. There were three streams of kids per class. I knew all of them at the time, now I remember only a handful. Similarly, my brain has wiped clean so much of the wolokoso I was taught in class. I shudder to think how I’d be malfunctioning if I was still holding onto the Ruhr region, Sundiata Keita and a pair of Vernier Callipers. Go and watch Inside Out and then allow your brain to do its erasing work in peace.
6. That calling, desire and training must be a part of whatever you choose to do with your life. 99.99% of Ugandan teachers have no business moulding young minds. I know this because in all my many years of schooling, I only met ONE teacher who was called to teach. And I had the pleasure of shaking his hand and telling him so a few weeks ago. Mr. Ouma, my P.5 Science teacher was a blazing beacon of light in my world. He was the only teacher who not only did not display impatience with questions, but encouraged and even answered them. Having once been beaten in my underpants in the staff room because the English teacher decided that I had copied my original composition from a storybook, it is no wonder that I idolise the one teacher who called me aside after class to ask why I had a different answer in my test to the rest of the class. And then proceeded to explain to me why my answer would have been correct at a higher level, but not for P5. If you are not doing what God gifted you to do, you are a weapon in the hands of the devil, plain and simple. And so many teachers are weapons aimed right at your children.
7. That God works all things together for our good. Even shitty things like a Ugandan education. My gorgeous husband for instance was in the same primary school. No, we’re not long-time-ago sweethearts, but our shared experiences of that hellhole and the subsequent ‘good’ schools we went to form a very solid foundation for our marriage. My ability to observe people and communicate those observations has put food on my table for years. I met my maid of honour in school. The job advert that launched my career was posted on a notice board at Makerere. It has not been all bad – not by the longest stretch of the imagination.

All things have worked together and I’m not one to whine about the broken road that led me here. I’m not Christianly allowed to whine anyway (in ALL things give thanks…). Are there better ways to get children from point A to B? Heck yes! Are we ever going to perfect them? Probably not. But we’d be fools if we didn’t try to do better for them than what we went through. There is nothing I can do about my schooling but ask the Holy Spirit to help me let go of the things and people that scarred me the most, and to forgive me for the negative impact I had on other children who were trying to muddle through school. The goal is to change things for our kids.

For instance, there will be no 5:30am to 8:00pm schooling days for my offspring. No matter how much the idea of them falling behind other students scares me as a parent. I know I enjoyed play time and sports time and music time and just reading a book, and if I am the one paying the bills I will try and get the best possible education for them. Do the structured education alongside the soft skills. Take responsibility for the upbringing of your children. Be flexible about education. Be informed about your options.

As a child I often wondered why my parents had chosen to pluck me out of oblivion and shove me into this confusing, painful existence. I’ve often wondered what school was for and why I had to learn all the useless shit I did. If we can keep our offspring from those ruminations, we will have put our education to good use.

Guard well within yourself that treasure, kindness. Know how to give without hesitation, how to lose without regret, how to acquire without meanness.

Amantine Aurore Lucile Dupin, novelist (1804-1876)  

So, thoughts on Kindness, because it will never become irrelevant or go out of fashion.

Sadly, I’ve caught myself being kinder to a lost puppy than to my own son sometimes. Are you kinder to your OGs than you are to the woman you married? Who you gat time and love for, huh? Who? Axe yourself.

Kindness is a do and a don’t. Do give. Don’t get a big head about it. Do give. Don’t make people feel like shit with your manner of giving. Do give. Don’t expect something from the givee. Do give. Don’t whine or boast about it. Do give. Don’t give your worst and useless bits only.

Be kind with your time, your stuff, your love. Be kind to yourself. Kwegamba, eat and breathe KINDNESS just.

Because I was tagged by Miz Page kangezeko.

I’m supposed to do a whole lot of things in this 3 day quote challenge, but then, I’m also supposed to stop eating bacon. And that ain’t gonna happen, is it?

So, here’s to a week of random quotes randomly selected by myself. 🙂

“Do not be quickly provoked in your spirit, for anger resides in the lap of fools.”

Ecclesiastes 7:9

I’m gonna do like primary school and add: Discuss.

We loved in Mbarara, on an icy cold night. Our first road trip in Big Blue, marked by miracles. Flat tyres galore and mysterious angels coming to our rescue. We loved in a motel overlooking the taxi park, watching from the balcony as people said their hellos and goodbyes. We said hello and the echo stayed on our lips. It’s been hello ever since, every morning from across the pillow. In 1,890 days, I have only ever not woken up to your face seven times. We loved with our clothes on, and your socks on my feet for extra warmth. On the coldest, most warm night ever, it was a small step and a giant leap on the greatest road trip of all.

We loved on the phone, talking till late. Bundles expired, texts wearing out fingers. Breathing, not hanging up, falling asleep on the line. We loved on air, like giddy teenagers, always with one final thing to say, one final argument to make, one more minute to make the days last longer and the time grow shorter. We loved on every network but one, from promo to promo, looking for the best rates. Our ears burning and our fingers fiddling. Waiting for the phone to ring like a gunslinger counting down to the draw.

We loved in Kireka, at my cousin’s house. You came to visit her, but you brought me flowers. I told you it was corny, but my heart sang. You told me you liked my calves, I said you could carve them up and eat them. We loved in Munyonyo, on our first date, watching the Diwali fireworks explode in the sky. We ate too much, you made me laugh till soda went the wrong way up my nose. You told me you would marry me. I laughed some more and propped my calves up on the car dashboard. In the silence on the drive home, fireworks exploded on the wall where our fate was written.

We loved in the mailbox – you sending me letters from your upcountry assignments. Love in your beautiful handwriting, from all the towns on your route; from all the residents of your beautiful mind. Love from the church boy, the mummy’s boy, the Jesus boy. Love from the tattooed boy. The naughty boy, the freak. Love from the poet, the father, the son, the brother. Love that made me want to be your lover. Love entwined with prayers entwined with hopes, entwined with plans and dreams. Love in words from letters that my great great great grandchildren will find some day, hidden in a box, tied with the purple ribbon from that perfume you gave me for my birthday.

We loved in Wandegeya, in the place that does not sleep. Looking for a late night rolex after that Oliver Mtukudzi concert. Not the classy ending to the glorious night of being serenaded by the raspy tones of Tuku’s voice. But we’d wiped out our bank accounts to go. So rolex it was. With a piece of TV chicken I knew you could not afford. If you don’t have bread, eat cake… you have always been irrational like that where I am concerned. I am your Queen of Katwe on whatever budget, and so we loved in Wandegeya, holding hands to cross the road at the lights, to jump on the late night taxi to Najeera. High on Tuku, high on life, high on a bottle of overpriced  hotel water. High on love.

We loved in Najeera, in the house by the jambula tree. The tree filled the view out of my kitchen window, where many a sandwich was spiced with love. Love and mayonnaise. I always wonder how we ate so well with only pennies to our name. It was the love, weaving in and out of that katogo, in and out of the occasional pizza on the half-price Wednesdays, weaving in and out of that shared strawberry Fanta. The one you carried to my father’s house when you told the world we were doing it. In and out, in and out, this love. It carried you in and out and back and forth across the Nile.

You loved on the highway, on numerous taxi rides between Jinja and Kampala. Late rides, after work, willing the traffic to part like the Red Sea as you made your way to me after a long week. Early rides, at dawn, with half-damp shirt ironed hastily to dry so you could be back at your desk in time. Shirt smelling of fabric softener and tie stained with traces of Indian food from Leoz. Shirt smelling of me and you and a picnic by the lakeside. Taking pictures of our entwined feet with your phone. Feet that reluctantly pointed different ways – you to Kampala, me to the Source of the Nile. Source of our love, source of our youth.

We loved in Jinja, in the town of our birth. We loved on every street we ever lived on, travelled, laughed on. We loved on the lawn of the house where you were born, promising to buy it, one day, and make it our own. We loved on many a bodaboda ride, daytime and in the middle of the night. You stuck between the boda guy and me, telling me to stop nibbling your ear because you couldn’t afford to get excited into the back of the unsuspecting boda. Boda rides and piggy back rides. Ice cream on the back of a pickup truck while counting the stars as they appear in the sky.

We still love here, amongst the echoes of our childhood and the laughter of our children. Where your parents loved. Where my parents loved. Where, someday perhaps, our grandchildren will love. We love in Jinja, coming full circle. At the Source, in the Source, of the Source. We love because He first loved us and chose us before the beginning of time. And so here, where He plants us and keeps us, I choose you. Again and again. In and out of every place and time we have loved. Here, there and everywhere. In season and out of season, Boss, I choose you.

*Inspired by the Muwado love letter peeps, Valentine’s Day and the anniversary of my wedding.

Some idiots people say cheating is good for a relationship.

Those of us who are actually in meaningful long term relationships know otherwise.

However, the theme for this UgBlogWeek is Love and Elections, and since I am already a day late I will cheat.

I am re-posting something that was elsewhere, with the permission of its author. Without further ado, presenting thoughts on the presidential debate written on Valentine’s Day and recycled today:

************************************

But you social media elites you have bad manners. She may be a few eggs short of a full tray but Mother Maureen actually held her own last night. I daresay, more than JPAM even! He scored mostly in the department of looking presidential and sounding melodious. I still hope you have some last minute trick up your sleeve kubanga nedda. You’ve over fizzled.

Mabreezy blew through like an open balloon losing air – this way and that. You know it’s gonna come to a flat collisive end on the floor but you still try to keep your eyes on it as it farts its way around the room.

Shaka Ssali, why didn’t you just do this one from your studios via Skype? The moderators excelled at being moderate. It was like being called to the headmasters office expecting fire, only to find your mum has dropped in to check on you. With biscuits.

Abed, sweetheart, our hearts and minds are with you kabisa. Come 2021, please komawo tulabe.

A good show from Prof Venansius but oba no charisma? You’re kind of like our current Veep, very qualified but no one knows when he’s in the room.

General Biraaro, osso you we appreciate. After Abed you’re the most emotionally stable. No anger, no direspect, no kupapa, no uncertainty. You’ve seen war, but you understand that battles are won by fasting and prayer. You are the candidate I’d most like to meet. Plus, your graying sideburns are fascinatingly even!

Besigye, you were understandably tired from Namboole. You were at 70% but your stand was clear. You and the Mrs rocked the African garb, by the way. If she had squeezed a tear at your closing statement – she looked quite emotional when you said you were an eternal optimist – if she had let us in, you would have swept the day. I did not quite trust you, but I appreciate that if this contest was to be measured in love, you have the hearts, minds and wallets of the largest cross-section of Ugandans. For all that you have been through and inhaled to set up a viable opposition over the past decade or so, surely you should earn first dibs on a post-Movement presidency!

Mzee, ssebo, there’s a reason you took power all those years ago. There’s intelligence and charisma in there, but there’s also entitlement, arrogance and disrespect. We appreciate and respect you, but it’s not enough to cover up your lack of a plan. You were definitely in class, but I didn’t hear what you would change to make the next term count. I think that you are still in love with the idea of the Uganda you liberated – no love for actual Ugandans in the here and now. You lied, disregarded facts and backtracked on your own statements. In the end, 5 years cannot correct the errors and corruption of 30.

If the debate doesn’t prove conclusively that there are other Ugandans quite capable of having a valid vision for this country, then I don’t know what will. Don’t vote out of fear of chaos or gratitude for amenities which are yours by right as a tax paying citizen of Uganda. Don’t turn us into an absurd laughingstock a la Zimbabwe. Be a wonderful part of this country’s history as we have the first ever peaceful hand over of power.

I commit my country to God.

The End.

As an afterthought, I respect everyone’s right to vote whosoever floats their boat. What I will not tolerate is talk of war and spreading of fear. I was not given a spirit of fear, but of Power and of Love and of SOUND MIND* (some versions have self-discipline – byonna binkolera). No inane comments, suggestions of civil unrest or fear-mongering will be welcome here.

*2nd Timothy 1:7

So in case you haven’t noticed, silly season is upon Ugandans again. We are meant to be deciding who we’d like to vote to be president of this little slice of heaven for the next few years. And it is heaven, believe me. It is just the natives who never understand the goldmine they are sitting on until they have bartered it all for mirrors, beads and alcohol. A rant for another day.

There are a lot of people who are plainly in support of one presidential candidate or another, but there are just as many who believe in their right to keep their choices private. Mbu we vote in secret and all that.

Me, I like simple things. I like the idea of lining up behind your candidate and facing the consequences of your choice head on! These things of voting in a basin while covering your paper as if the kid who sits next to you on the bench (also known as a ‘form’ in Ugandan for some reason) is copy-ring your exam answers, I don’t understand them.

The things of which P4 nightmares are made. Trying staying awake and upright post-lunch

It is like people who hide pregnancies. I say hide, but is it even possible to hide a pregnancy? We all know you had the coitus in secret if you are a good citizen and you heed the advice of the fountain of honour when he says mouths are not meant for sex and you should be in the dark a la missionary. But the good Lord in His infinite sense of humour ordained that no matter how secret-like the sex was, the pregnancy is a big, unabashed bump, ever growing outward, ever seeking the sun like some insatiable bean sprout. A shameless, glorious bump, which when ignored will even kick you. If you still pretend not to hear it, it will crave nsenene in July and you will wander the streets looking for the scent of rain on anthill soil just because… try keeping that drama under wraps and see.

Just bursting with the secret-ness of it all!

Anyway, you get the point. Why hide who you support when the results will be out there for all to see? I submit that you’re part of the reason people can rig. You won’t commit and be counted before but you want to complain after.

Some of the ‘urban elite’ were sporting Obama car stickers eight years ago. In fact some specimens still have said stickers on to this day. I find it so sad that they have yet to find anything in the whole world worth being that passionate about ever since Obama said yes, they could. Here’s a thought: why not pronounce yourself on the affairs of state of THE State? Okay, you participate actively in the social media and pontificate about healthcare and potholes and who said they were retiring when, naye I am reminded of a very tired old saying: If you don’t stand for something, you will fall for anything. Just saying. Don’t be embarrassed to put your vote where your mouth is. If you’re not yellow, we know you’ve had other things near your mouth anyway.

I am most disappointed in those of us who call ourselves Christians. We’re supposed to be the change-makers, by our actions and by our prayers. According to the Good Book, you can hold back the rain for seven years, collapse a city wall with your voice or cause a King to swell up in festering boils, but we’re here also cowering in our churches, asking God every Sunday to please please please make sure there is peace next year. Pitiful!

Have I declared myself? Not yet. For a brief moment a fortnight ago, it seemed as though there’d be a power sharing agreement solid enough to blow all doubts out of the water. I’d have been all over that candidacy like sweat. However, when boys decide to compare pee-pees and both their wives are unavailable to pull their ears, what can mere man do? We will let the three-ring circus play out.

I’m old school, and as any good Musoga girl will tell you, Omwami kyakoba, nzena kyenkoba. When Petespapa pronounces himself on the issue of who our household is voting, I shall start trumpeting it from the rooftops. Until then, however, I am also trying to gauge the political temperature in our household by reading body language and any other hieroglyphics as the Man might choose to leave on the wall. Anyone who knows him knows he has a gift for parables which he exercises liberally, so he ain’t making it easy.

For instance when he says, “Honey, we have given this employee enough leeway. Going forward, I’d like us to be more firm.” I’m like, is he subconsciously saying we’re going the way of past Prime Ministers? When I present him with a household budget deficit and he shrugs off my concerns with “Twesige Mukama”, is he buying into the blue?

What I do know for sure is that I own only one yellow dress, and it is faded beyond it’s sell-by date. But The LORD and my lord may yet surprise me. Maaso ku lutimbe.

As soon as I know, y’all will be the second to see the pregnancy.

PS: If you’re wondering about the ‘pigs’, think of past leaders. Or you could think of how the Vegetarian Mafia is trying to take bacon off the world menu. I find both thoughts equally distressing!

If there is anything being a mother has taught me, it is to not take myself too seriously, even as I accept that being a parent is a COLOSSAL responsibility. Am I screwing up my son’s life by only playing music from the 80s and 90s, or am I saving him from the explicit nonsense of whoever that rapper is with the saggy pants, copious unintelligible tattoos and gold teeth? (What? Oh, that’s not a specific enough description? Sorry.)

Well, parenting is kind of like writing. You cannot take yourself too seriously or the mojo will dry up.

On the other hand, putting words out here in the open, on the internets no less, comes with a huge level of buvunanizibwa. Simply put, it’s a big deal. You can’t be like all journalists and have a big over sensitive over ripe ego. You have to expect that you will get criticised. And some of those criticisms will be valid. What you need to remember is that only a very tiny few (like .3%) of the criticism will actually be useful to your future writing. Of that .3%, about 99.9% will be the comments that tell you to fix your grammar and punctuation. I am warning you now, I am a grammar Nazi. Punctuation marks are important to me like a problem, but not for the reason everyone assumes. I’m not a snob (okay, maybe a little bit. I don’t do people who shake your hand and then run a suggestive finger down the middle of your palm with one over grown pinky fingernail! Or men with girly handshakes. That creeps me out!)

Grammar matters to me because I want to enjoy what I read, and to do that, I want you, the writer, to give me your little hints on how I can best do that. If you say Damn! That bird was hot! I see the exclamation marks and I know which bird to look out for. I know which bird is going to be bringing the drama. If you say she was smh hot I am left at a crossroads. Which she? Where does this idea begin? Who am I looking for? It is like a car chase in which the criminals suddenly stop running. If you stop running, I stop chasing (Guys, you know what I mean). Sitting ducks are no fun to shoot. Lame grammar is no fun to read. Not for me, at least. I have a constant Morgan Freeman voice up in my head narrating everything I choose to read. Freeman don’t do no bad punctuation. Sometimes I have Dave Lamb, the guy who comments on Come Dine with Me, but I save him for really special occasions.

But, I digress. And it is okay, because I write what I want. I write what I feel. I write it how I please. And I have to keep doing that because there is a little thing called STYLE. You cannot develop your own style and your own voice if you’re too busy trying to be relevant like a Kenyan blogger. Maybe Ugandans don’t blog aggressive because we don’t live aggressive. You cannot write what you do not know. Some guys are passionate online because real life gets unbearable. That is what years of eating githeri with no supu and katunda does to your behind. It makes it a wee tighter than usual. And I can say that because I am a Kenyan too, born and bred.

First check out the Sahara on this plate. Now slap a steaming mound of posho in there and see…

But when I migrated back to glorious, pearly home base and ate a few bananas, I found a new pace of life. A VALID pace of life. No one gets to say whose pace, whose voice, whose words are more valid than others. Except of course The Word. But even Jesus Christ has a sense of humour. He is more concerned with where the words are coming from than public opinion. What is the state of the well from which your words flow?

The only way you make your writing better is to write and write again. I know because that is what I have been doing for as long as I can remember. That and a lot of reading. At one point I ran three blogs, three columns and a newspaper job. (And newspapers in Uganda is where grammar and coherence go to do drugs and die, so that life was hardcore. All you sissies who think your eyes are paining coz you read Ugandan blogs need to shut the hell up before I smack you).

For those who cannot get over how lacking the Ugandan blogsphere is, let me say this. If you have nothing useful to say, open a blog and find out that it isn’t a joke. Blogs are free books, free windows to people’s lives and souls, free fora for opinions. If you don’t like what you’re browsing, close it and put it gently back on the shelf. Don’t find the author and try to kill their spirit.

Unless, of course, like me you get paid to crush the souls of writers. If you want your work critically edited, pay me and I streamline the hell out of it. This kalango is for real, by the way. Muwagire ku business. Buy Ugandan and all that.

It’s great that people have important opinions on such lofty matters as the state of Ugandan blogging. But it’s even greater that God has gifted so many of us with a unique turn of written phrase. And He fully expects us to use our superpowers.

So write your wrongs with no baggage, no fear, no expectations and no regrets.

It’s Friday and I have spent a long (somewhat unproductive) few days imbibing Kericho tea and poring over blog posts. I can proudly say I have read every single one that has been curated by the wonderful PK and Nev. I have commented on a lot of them and liked almost all. What struck me was the overwhelming (99.9%) number of times I had to wait for my comment to be moderated.

I wanted to go all stupid diva on your blogs and ask: Do you know who I am?

And therein lies my dilemma. The Blogsphere has changed. It used to be that I knew everyone, got high-fived by all the cool kids. Heck, I was one of the cool kids. We were mostly anonymous, passionate, like minded weirdos, but I understood the rules and I played the game. And then social media happened and we grew apart. I finally met in person This Superstar and promptly married him. A few more bloggers of my time (hands up for roll call Edmo, Sybella, 27th Comrade, DeTamble, Dee, Iwaya…) became responsible voting adults and also sailed off into joyful non-blogging oblivion along with each other.

So I’ll just say it. Of course you do not know who I am because I am obsolete. I am like an app that has since been overtaken by leaps and bounds in programming. And the thought of that gave me PI, aka Performance Anxiety. And so I did what I do best when I wish to avoid writing: I ate and I stalked other people’s blogs.

Of course those masked and caped blogging pioneers will always take centre stage in my heart. However, these few days are clear evidence that the new apps work. I may not blog again, but I have certainly found a new bunch of blogren to stalk.

I pour one out for LissingMink, who left the Blogosphere for happier climes.

And I take a sip (of my tea, no less) for Ugandan Blogging.

You are literary fresh air.