Rugby, Fallen Stars and Great Advertising!

I remember when I first saw this billboard of Allan Musoke. The Ugandan team had just stormed the Dubai Sevens and the picture was taken when Allan Musoke was racing to Ugandan glory. It brought the idea of Ugandan heroes very close to mind. It is possible for Ugandans excel, to shine and to truly live an unforgettable experience!

Uganda won this game to become the CAF African Champions; the best rugby playing nation outside of South Africa - well those guys don't really count.

some of the highlights from that wonderful game

















This chap is probably the best kicker we have in the country.

Some of these guys went to the sidelines and never came back! hey became part of the furniture. Same spot every weekend. Time after time. Etuket, Chonga, Tinka, Kasana.

Champions!!

what network are you on?

Two years ago I met up with Jesse "Tuks" as his friends know him and we shared ideas on how the youth and the future were the key to changing Uganda and its direction. he introduced me to the most debate and conversational conundrum i had faced to date. I still use this discussion in my talks with young people and as mind nibbler.

Jesse's passion about a righteous nation did not stem entirely from a religious stand point, but also from a deeply human place. He argued that a society's leaders were elected because they were the best that society had to offer; they were its torch bearers, they were the society's benchmark of morality, goodness, kindness, honesty, generousity, hospitality, diligence and passion! He was riled by the stories that were in the papers everyday where politicians, leaders, teachers, parents and icons just got caught up morally compromising situations. It angered him. Not because it prevented him from progressing but because he felt that with role models like this, the future was not protected - our children were not safe, and hence the nation stood on a precipice.A dangerous place where if we were not careful we would plunge into the abyss!

His friend Moses on the other hand believed that leaders were a reflection of what a society was. They had no moral right, or authority or right to be better than the people they led; they were after-all a selection from among the people. Hence in his arguement, leaders were society's moral compass, telling of the society's decadence or its depravities. 

However both these gentlemen agreed that something had to be done to heal a broken nation.they believed that today's generation had to do something to heal the divide otherwise it was only;y a matter of time until something catastrophic happened.Until the "Have-nots" rose up against the "Haves"and forced them to "return" what was theirs. It is a scenario that has played out across the world for millenia.

Enter Character.Inc, an organization formed to encourage young people to do the right thing, despite all the competing communication around them; don't litter, be honest, work diligently, never cheat, have integrity, have Character - because its "Worth the Price" 

This is how they express their call to all Ugandans, if you get this forward it on to someone, maybe we can build our community, one choice at a time.

And so when they went to Bududa district to take relief to the landslide victims this is what they had to show: Check out the BUDUDA.PDF REPORT.

Enough said.

GO UGANDA!!!

Sometimes I Wonder...

1. Whether deep down all heroes are jerks looking for a chance to shock us




2. Whether, when we ask for some of these proggressive and liberal pleasures we actually are asking too much, eventually causing the genetic mutation of parts belonging to other members of ours species.




3. whether I ever thought those damn things ever came off! Now I really want to be Batman! I don't even want some from that wicked woman.



4. DJ Benny D cant possible be hiding from the smell that the weasel is emitting, can he?




5. If I would scratch when it itches in public view.

The Pearl’s Unsung Heroes.

Recently, following first the death of General Kazini, Cadet Brian Bukenya, Dr. Gray Turyakira, I was talking to a friend and as we talked about the carnage and how the nation was in mourning at the loss of some would-be great talent the nation had lost. My mind was transported to a project I have been working on for a while now. An investigative project that looks at some rather unusual things happening right under our noses. It started as a pet project when in college I decided that the shortest route to stardom was to find my own “Watergate”, an investigative piece to end them all:

Mujaasi Rosemary graduated with a Diploma and was, in a year, married to the love of her life. She was pregnant within a year and her first son was born a year after. He didn’t have much but he was a deft and adept worker. Operating a small shop in a peri-urban area, Martin was a man with a big dream. Over the years, Rosemary helped out in the shop while he started small side businesses and watched as they consequently collapsed. The lessons hurt but he always came back to the shop. Always back to where it all begun.

Two sons later, and a home built out of the proceeds from the small shop, Martin had secured a future for his sons. He had built his bride a house and had a small car to do some business for him. He often went out of town to Nairobi where he bought stock for his shop.

It was on one of these fateful trips that he met the man who would change his life. The army man told him of the glory and promise of being in the army and the super powers of working with intelligence. Like most men, he was drawn. He flirted with the idea. Once, he ran it by Rosemary who sat up in bed and told him that she had worked alongside him all this while and wouldn’t watch him leave her so wantonly for his “James Bond” fantasies. A short spell of illness of one of his sons seemed to remind him of his priorities. And he discarded the idea.

The phone calls with the new family friend would continue; discussions of business, possibilities, and opportunities.

As I listened to this woman tell me her story my heart froze and thawed at every turn in the tale. Her eyes are frozen over with a film of moisture. She has cried all her tears, she will cry no more. Her body is turned away from me but her eyes and face are turned to me; she looks at my hair constantly, almost like it reminds her of something. She often stops in the middle of her tale to sob, or to just be quiet. As a journalism student, you are told to be still and watch; to observe and never interfere with the story. I stoically hold my pen, and with an iron clad will hold my eyes firmly glued to the notebook on my lap. I notice how clean my pants are. They are out of place in her humble, dirt –ingrained sitting room. She sighs again.

One night at about 11:30PM Martin got a call. He asked why the caller had taken so long to inform him. He cursed as he left the house but made sure to tell Rosemary that his friend had called and that he was going out to meet him but would be back soon.

Martin never came back. His body was found decapitated and dumped in a swamp and his little car was discovered burnt beyond recognition. The money he had gone to collect was never found. The friend he had gone to see never ever called the family. He purchased his first piece of land after that.

As Rosemary relates this tale, the film across her eyes which fills in a wink breaks its banks and two long solitary tears roll down her face. They roll. And roll. Her body is wracked by sobs which she doesn’t bother to stop. She doesn’t touch her face at all. Looking at this woman who has lost her soul mate is bad enough but what about her two sons? And who will ensure her uncertain times are calmed? My own eyes fill with fear and horror at the thought that we are surrounded by such hideous monsters living amongst us.

His body was never found. The car was found in a swamp a few miles out of town, disserted and run down. In the minds of close family members there is no doubt

She has raised her boys as God – fearing, respectful, and sportsmen-like boys. When they are back from school, she can barely feed them. One is a Rugby player and the other likes to play Cricket. Energetic, tall and handsome with their father’s features, they are the light of her life. She lives for them, and they for her.

As I move out of the reverie I have an answer to this person, it doesn’t matter how many soldiers are killed, Martin, is a granite – solid reminder of the many, many fallen citizens whose stories are not being told because they are not army men.

This post is a salutation to all the women and families in this pearl of Africa that have been left without husbands, brothers, fathers because of a greedy, arrogant, pseudo-despotic leadership that tolerates the cold – blooded murder of its own citizens. Feeding on it’s own young. But Beware, there shall soon be a time of reckoning.

I did find out the army man’s name. Another post for another time.

Growing Into The Heroes We Dreamt We'd Become...

As a child growing up I was always in love with heroes. But I was a Ugandan kid going to Buganda Road Primary School. I don't remember much from Mr. Mpenje and Miss Asio Stella or Mr. Mpagi or what they taught me at the time because it was amorphously assimilated into my greater knowledge of the world and life.

But i do remember my heroes back then. Very boldly. Very clearly. Recently I met someone who reminded me so much of who I wanted to become when I was growing up. Talking with her, I realised how far I had come; so many detours, so many many roads. What surprised me though was how easily me and this person got into this conversation, you know? One moment she was playing cagey and hard to get and then the next, the dynamic had shifted and we were like age old buddies. As we talked, I realised how special this person was.
You know the way the brain is triggered by the very slightest of things. How a sound, a smell, a flash of something can unlock a whole era of memories? Yeah she did. She said something about childhood heroes and father Abraham. and I...
.....
just spaced out.
....
It was too much. My mind delved into how, when I was younger, I used to want to return to school just to talk about e-works, and the Mutant League and Punky Brewster. But none of these was more interesting, educative and obsession-compelling as the green haired, smiley, deep-voiced Captain Planet!

I would have given my world to be him; I think i actually might have. He was cool, non-violent, a new metaphoric champion for the environment and the wave of environmental consciousness that that stood for.

A creation of Ted Turner [yes, the billionaire magnate] to find ways of merging education and Entertainment in the early '90s the show was a huge success in establishing environmental awareness clubs at high schools in the US. The idea seemed to be that if there was a way to teach children through entertaining them, then the world and the next generation of the planet would be a safer place.



I am much older now, more seasoned, perhaps even slightly jaded but for that instant in her presence I felt that it did not matter, whatever I'd had become; I had failed to be a planeteer.

But after I left her and as I contemplated this I realized that in many ways, I had become the hero I had always dreamt of becoming. In the more subtle features, in the finer points I still had the rough edges [its nearly impossible to be educated and not be crass. Learned is a whole different matter] but I had the bone structure down.

To be a gentle soul, be considerate, be giving of self in time and effort, to constantly adapt and be versatile in order to meet the challenges around us, to be able to accept defeat gracefully [still struggling]. But the true hallmark of any hero always has been and perhaps will always be; to be willing to do the right thing...at any cost.

Heroes and She-roes

“You have people who are exceptions,” said Stephen Francis, the coach of Bolt’s main Jamaican rival, Asafa Powell, the former 100 world-record holder. “You have Einstein. You have Isaac Newton. You have Beethoven. You have Usain Bolt. It’s not explainable how and what they do.”



… And when I checked into Cheri’s after a while, I figured there was something about the place that had changed and then I saw it. It was this huge poster of “The Bolt” in triumph!!
This morning as I rode to work, the guy who was commentating in Luganda, I don’t even know why I even listen, but yes, he said that Usain Bolt had dashed to glory to set a new world record for 100 metre dash and in one summer had also broken the 200 meter record.

Sitting there. Thinking. I remembered. And then he added something that told me he wasn’t too bright; a characteristic of most of Uganda’s radio presenters… anyway he said,
“ bwe yamaze okuwangula naziina endongo! Yakubye endongo ne ye kyanga!” [When he won he danced, so much! He danced and pranced all over the place.]
Now if a Russian had set a new world record and had cruised to a double Olympic victory and had done the kozak dance we’d all be like “ooh! How cute” but that fool had to go and spoil the moment.
It reminded me of a story my father told years ago about when a South African official in the era of apartheid went to England and in an interview on the BBC about why the whites were oppressing the blacks in south Africa, why they were making them miserable, raping their women, tear gassing them, segregating who they gave jobs, and so on…etcetera

WG *looks at the interviewer*: “you say we make them unhappy?”
Interviewer: “yes”
WG: *looks at TV screen across the room and sees a Zulu cultural troupe dancing and singing and looks back at interviewer with a puzzled look* “… but the fellows are always dancing and merry making. They cannot be unhappy!”

Anyway tangentially…

As I am in that taxi, my eyes start to water [yeah am a sentimental bastard. I cry at anything that strikes me the right way] I am thinking of all the black men and women in history who have stood for something. Every single one my small brain cluster can care to remember: Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, William Wilberforce, Sirleaf Ellen Johnson, Oliver Thambo, Dedan Kimathi, Patrice Lumumba, Kwame, Gamal Abdel Nasser, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Chinua, Milton, Wangare Mathaai, and dear old Nelson.
And then I thought about the sporting heroes and heroines who risk life and limb in the best years of their youth on the track; on the line; on the edge, for glory of country and home; people who had written the name of Africa indelibly in the hearts of the world, and set it in stone in the sands of time;
Mohammed Ali,
Haille Gebraselassie,
Michael Johnson,
Marion Jones,
Michael Jordan,
Chester Williams,
Moses Kiptanui,
Francis Nyangweso,
John Akii Bua,
Maria Muthola and [ am next to weeping as I write this]…
Dorcus Inzikuru.

Each of these in their won way provided a light; they held up a lamp when times were dim. They blazed a trail for generations to come. They should always be remembered, maybe not for all they were but for the period that they were.
They might not have been not the heroes we deserved but they were the heroes we needed. In the dark night when we despaired, there was someone holding a candle; bearing the torch, and people from all walks of life saw the light and did not give up.
And because we believed, South Africa was freed. Because we believed, Liberia will recover. Because we believed, the civil rights movement triumphed. Because we believed, THE SPRING BOKS RULE!!
How does “The Bolt” fit into all this? You ask me?!?

Seriously?

Go to hell!


................................................................Because I Believe