Category Archives: Uncategorized

choose wisely – ugali or posho?

This is one of the ripe investments for people in saving groups.


Ugali A plate of Ugali (Photo from

LAST year, in two different WhatsApp groups I belong to that have nothing in common save for myself, two very disparate people sent two messages a couple of weeks apart saying exactly the same thing.

The first is an old-time friend who runs a family-owned Ugandan road construction firm that has grown consistently in leaps and bounds over the last twenty years. During the course of his work he has traversed Uganda while building roads, prospecting for more business, and playing golf.

The second is my cousin and friend, who turned his childhood passion into a line of employment and has spent his life listening to, playing and producing music for the rest of us. Again, in the process he has visited many parts of Uganda and made a wide variety of contacts who relish his company – especially on Friday nights in Guvnor…

View original post 845 more words


Women, Money and Politics


The Fasi Fasi panel in conversation on Money in Politics

I once walked into the main reception at Bank of Uganda. As I waited for my turn to be served, my restless wandering eyes looked out around the waiting lounge as a way to familiarize myself with the place. Behind the seats of the ladies at the front desk, up on the wall hung a framed portrait of members of the board of Bank of Uganda. It was a team of very smart senior people. One thing stood out though. There was only one lady on a team of about eight.

In my head, the projector was switched on and slides of capable senior lady citizens of this beautiful country who would make it played one after another. But then I didn’t know the criteria followed in appointing members of the board. I let go.

This particular incident reminded me of a time when Tereza Mbire addressed us as students at Makerere University in 2015. She shared a story of how she was once appointed to the board of one of the leading banks in the country. Like the case with the Bank of Uganda picture, she was the only lady on the team.

When tea break came, she served herself a cup of tea which left other board members uncomfortable. They expected her to make tea for all of them (because she was the only woman in the room).

She had to remind them that with her presence with them as another board member, she was their equal and not a servant. To those who were present, it made a point.

In our society today, men are more privileged to assume and hold given placements in society. Much as this is true, to some extent, it can be contested.

It is only in very rare cases that power is handed down to one on a silver spoon. And even if it were, one has a role of protecting it. The dictates of society to have women waiting for their portion to be handed down from men is the reason for the male privilege.

While at university, I was on two campaigning teams for two different ladies in two different years. They were both competing for the guild. Being on the team exposed me to something I had not thought of. Expectations.

The voting body had the same expectations from these candidates as it did for the male counter parts. The voters did not look at candidates as per their gender rather by who was willing to identify with them and front their demands as a students body. There was no sympathy vote instead there was need for strategy to garner for more support and have the students vote for the various candidates.

However, for every step that a woman makes especially in terms of joining politics, she must be ready to stand her ground and defend her interests and demands just like any man. Like Nicholas Opiyo says, “Women should stop playing victims,  …they have to retool and engage their society.”

Politics, like any other aspect of life, requires one to stand their ground. Often times, this comes at a cost. In a situation like the one we have in Uganda where politics is monetized, it increasingly calls for the woman’s sternness to establish her footing, financially.

In Runyankore, there is a saying; “Omushaija obushaija abwetera.” Loosely translated
(A man chooses when to man up). For women to emerge and take center stage in politics, it will take their own efforts. They do not need to seek permission from anyone. In this country, we are not short of women who have made a significant mark in politics and i believe many others can make it too.

Fasi Fasi is a TV show brought together by UN Women, KAS Uganda and ACFODE with the aim of helping young Ugandan women to take up positions of leadership in business, community and politics. It airs on NBS TV every Thursday at 8:30pm. You can watch this particular episode here

Beginning 2018 with a blogging challenge

blog two

Time to write that blog

The new year comes with a lot of excitement. A lot of resolutions and reflections are made. And to some, they take up new tasks.  My friends took up a challenge and they have proved out perform themselves. Any one who has taken up a blogging challenge knows how uphill of a task it can be keeping to it. Often times, it is easy to start but also very easy to call it quits.

Words have a way with which they tend to play in the mind before you decide to put them down. They are usually many and can make a complete story until you start writing, piecing the story together word by word, letter by letter.

This challenge, however, comes in a very simplified manner to help the writer easily cope with the writing. The one month challenge comes with guiding themes on how to go  about the exercise.

On day two, Judith shared under the day’s theme; I will never forget, she writes about how passion of talking to people but more so on the need to pass on knowledge. As she speaks to people, other people have also spoken into her life leading to a new dimension in her life. Here is her story.

the challenge has now crossed into half the month and the efforts to execute the challenges still carry on.

Day 16. Jayne left a sweet reminisce of Something that I miss  exploring through the wealth of great moments that were lived during her university days. She writes;

“Sometimes it takes an old song, a familiar face, to trigger sweet old memories – that feeling of nostalgia.  Memories of the care-free days, when our only worry was handing in that course work in time. Or having a date to take you out on the 14th of February.”

There are a lot of personal reflections that are yet to be done and realized through this writing challenge. Writing is a therapy that clears a clogged up mind. It is a lane that aligns and tames wandering thoughts that could easily turn lethal. Writing is a roof that shelters the unvoiced conversations of the heart. As the blogging goes on, challenge yourself to write like you have not written before just like how Ann did here  to overcome her fear.

“I want to live, to laugh, to learn every day and for me to do that – I have to overcome the fear of breaking out and just start being,” says Ann.

Here are the links to the various blogs;


These spaces have become our place

We fear to talk about ourselves in public. The public judges and at times we are not ready for the sentence. We hang in there waiting and hoping that things will be fine but maybe they take a bit longer. We wait. We wait in silence as the war wages on, on the inside of us. The hardest point comes when you cannot explain what is happening to you and yet you feel someone could just slide into your DM. This is the shocker. You read the letter of your mind wrangling to someone only for them to judge you in addition to spreading the word. In a patriarchal world, it saves to be silent. You don’t cry in public. You stay in there. You stay the course. These words we have learnt from the people around us and yet no one tells you of how to stay the course. No one says that. They call that consolation.

Now that I will none of the consolation. Permit me to disappear. I will go to the safe confines of my space where I am allowed to be. To liberate my mind to wander. To search for self. To go places unseen.

FullSizeRender (7)

I do not need to first subscribe to a clique for me to be happy. Neither do I need to belong for me to be able to establish myself. It comes as a hard thing to achieve but I will hold. The images, worry and fear of losing myself in the piteous self often come knocking hard on my door. But I refuse to sink in the boat of depression. I stand to shawl self in the resilient hope that things will be better. That once the sun is done with its rounds around the earth, it will soon be my turn to shine. And shine will I when my turn comes. Forget about wounds that never heal or scars that itch at every remembrance of pain. I refuse to subscribe to these newsletters of sadness that society keeps updating me with.

Going to church soon turns out like going to the bar or any other crowd where even among the many, you are alone. At the end of that church service, congregants divide into small groups of hugging fellows and should you not belong to any of them, you are all alone. The bar does not help either. People are always in groups and making the loudest noises as they rinse, all soberness, off of their heads.

I have learnt to be alone. To be happy even in the absence of company. This is the new me; finding peace within myself. The public may have its opinion. I have mine. I will hold on to it.

Someone teach me to be a Tanzanian.

This blogpost was first published in 2015 on the Chicamod site. 

Someone teach me to be a Tanzanian. I am not that far away. I am just a neighbor from the north, here in Uganda. And yes I belong to the great East African Community. But there are things I failed to learn at a distance.


Tanzanian National Flag. Internet Photo

It seems Tanzania is not an African country. Look at the way they do their things. They don’t fight. They don’t talk a lot. And it seems they were all fathered by that Julius Nyerere man who they all adorably call, Mwalimu.

Every 2nd June is the day Julius Nyerere is remembered in the realm of the saints during the celebration of the Uganda Martyrs at Namugongo. On that day, the whole of Namugongo is thronged by the people of Tanzania who come at their cost in large numbers led by their leaders. For years they have been praying that Julius Nyerere is added on the list of the Namugongo martyrs.

When I begin learning how to be a Tanzanian, I will learn to speak Kiswahili, the original language. Then I will be an extra ordinary East African unaffiliated to the adage that Kiswahili was born in Tanzania, grew up in Kenya, fell sick in Congo, died in Uganda and was buried in Rwanda. I no longer want to be in that category. The Kiswahili spoken in Uganda is like that glass with a whitish content which you can see through and they say it is milk. That language is next to Kiswahili though it is different, I spoke it in Kenya and no one could understand what I was saying. Our Ugandan Swa (as we call it) is a stunted child. It is only the combatants that speak it fluently. Our army, the famous Uganda People’s Defense Force (UPDF) even sings songs in Swa. I love the songs but I don’t know what they mean. We dropped the language at school because they said the language was used by robbers and indiscipline soldiers during the previous regimes. So every time our elders hear Swa, they are reminded of the dark past. So we hated the language on their behalf.

I want my president to speak a language we all understand not because one went to school and the other was just about when the opportunity withered.

You see our president said we have the most well trained army in East Africa and that is why we quickly restore peace in other countries whenever uproar breaks out. And I would wish our army to go to Tanzania but there are no wars there. I wonder whether they even know the meaning of that word war. Do they even have a “UPDF”? What for?

I want to be a Tanzanian to see a peaceful transition of power from one president to another without any threat but when people are hugging each other. There has never been one in Uganda since independence.  I want to know what it feels like having former presidents attend national celebrations when their seats have been reserved in a VIP tent. I want also to see my president join the queue to go and vote along with the wanachi without minding of his security.

All I wish to see is that moment when elections end and everyone is waiting for the swear-in ceremony. I don’t want to see the things I have always seen where while one is going to the national stadium; the other is going to court or worse still to the bush. Our president talks a lot about the bush that at times I wonder what will happen of our country in case he is away and all bushes are tarmac grounds.

I want to be a Tanzanian so that the international media has no option but report what they see in our country other than what they always want to see.

Do you remember in 2011, when the reporters of those media houses staged camp here because there was news to report about Uganda every day? I want to be one of those people who don’t know that tear gas has different colors or that it even exists. I also want to be told stories. It is not a pleasant thing when you’re sharing some bits of your story. I want to learn how to play politics like a game not a battle of two warring factions atop the peaks of twin hills each warning how they are going to take on the other.

I want to be that citizen who has confidence in elections not the one I am today.  A presidential candidate said the elections are not going to be free and fair much as we have not yet voted.

There is no war in my country and neither do I wish to see it but I want things to be better. I want to see my president driving around town, talking to people freely without having to move in company of an endless tail of the military. I want to see my president comfortable in his country, glad to be serving in that position.

I want to be the blogger who has to write about their country from a coffee house along the street not somewhere in Washington where the news of my country is third hand information.

The child in me would wish to study, work and gracefully age in my country with my parents not somewhere in a UN white tent where I have to be enclosed in a camp because I am a refugee.

Someone teach me to be a Tanzanian so I learn to be happy and content in my country without having to think of the attention-seeking politicians of my country.


Let’s tell the story properly is the title of Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi’s 2014 Commonwealth Award Winning Short Story.

The story is written with a Ugandan conversation touch paying maximum attention to the details of interjections and sighs. That is how I would rather we tell the story of sachets in Uganda today.

When you take a walk around the nearest trading centre regardless of the time of day, you will not fail to see a young man or a group of them cuddling small sachets in their fists. They carry them as they execute their duties (for those who have). Unfortunately, this situation is not only among the youth on the streets but also at the work place. The sachets come at a very friendly and affordable price of UGX 500 for a 100ml sachet. And they come with a “kill me quick” element. This leaves you in company of drunk workmates should they be consumers.

The consumption of sachet alcohol began more than five years ago with Uganda Waragi. Then, the price was more than UGX 3000 and that made it hard for the youth to afford. Today, with numerous players on the market, there are so many available brands at a very low price. Whether they are all regulated, UNBS is yet to tell us. These mainly target the youth. Rogers Kasirye writes thus in his blog;

Research by Professor Swahn and UYDEL in 2014 shows that only 17% of youth in the slums, ages 12 to 18, find it difficult to purchase alcohol despite the minimum legal age of 18 years. The research also shows that nearly half of the youth report seeing alcohol adverts often (44%) and that they see ads in the city, on television, on radio and in newspapers and/ or magazines. More importantly, as many as 18% report getting free alcohol as part of promotional activities and as many as 20% report having items with an alcohol brand logo on it. Also, despite the mandated alcohol warning on the advertisements, our inventory of alcohol marketing in the slums of Kampala shows that as many as 25% of the marketing materials do not have any health warning. Continue reading

Dear Philomena

Two months ago, I came across Mugabi Byenkya’s novel, Dear Philomena. It did not strike me to read it then. The book was unusual!

On first look, I thought the layout was so unique for a novel and I wondered the kind of description we could accord it in my literature class. I did not read the book.

Then I picked book again over the weekend. The cover image of the novel was so inviting. I turned to the blurb and that drew my attention. I now want everyone to know about this awesome book.

photo (7)

Dear Philomena

Dear Philomena is an interesting read; a write up of modern conversation traits strewn from the recent communication channels. The novel is written on a phone exchange using different phone aided communication tools mainly social media.

The most captivating attraction about Dear Philomena is the mental setting from where the conversations stem.
Mugabi, Philomena and Gabster are such a close knit circle of friends who can only be associated to a closed Facebook group. And for Philomena and Mugabi, theirs is not even a whatsapp chat group, it’s something a little more closed up, compare it to twitter’s direct message.

A book built not on chapters but the months of the  fateful year 2015.
I was mainly intrigued by the outstanding reference of the personal pronoun “my”. Its consistence application reveals a lot on the protagonist’s struggles in dealing with the after effects of the various strokes.

Gabster’s role as an anonymous reliable voice to/of Mugabi plays such a critical detail in building hope for him(Mugabi) to carry on with life.

The ending of this book drives one to ask questions, no wonder the author found themselves asking questions as well.
“Depression is not an answer, It’s a question”
At the time we live when there is a lot of denial in the state of livelihood, this story comes in handy and calls for a conversation.

I am glad, Mugabi voices out his struggles on paper. This story is going to help many people; as a highlight of the effects of stroke and that depression lives among us.