I knew something was wrong when there were no flies

A very good and close friend of mine is coming back home to Uganda for a couple of weeks. He told me I would be his first stop when he arrives and immediately I started thinking: what is the most Ugandan meal I can cook for someone who has been away for a while?

Fish. Yes! Fresh tilapia from Lake Victoria. Nothing beats that for sure.

So I went to the fish market to buy a nice big fresh fish. Many of us know what it is like at a fish market - the smell, the water on the ground with fish scales, smoke, women shouting prices and calling you auntie, mummy, mukwano (friend). And flies. Thousands of flies. Big fat blue and green flies buzzing everywhere.

I hate those flies so much. I dread them. The way they cover the fish and then land on your nose with their cold legs. Fish sellers sit there with small branches chasing them away. It is impossible to buy fish in peace at the fish market.

But this time something felt different. This was not the usual fish market... 

Then it finally hit me - there were no flies.

None. Not even one fly. The fish looked too clean. 

I was happy that I could finally buy fish in peace. Wow!

But hold on! Something felt wrong. Hold on! Why would there be no flies on the fish?

Huh! I then remembered those stories from years ago about formalin being put on beef to preserve it. Yes, there are outdoor butcheries where you ask how can meat fail to attract flies in this heat?

So I asked Goretti, the woman I buy fish from. "Have you put 'eddagala' on the fish?"

She immediately knew what medicine I meant. "Yes," she said casually.

I just stood there. Formalin. The same chemical used in mortuaries to embalm dead bodies. 

I asked her where they get it from. "The pharmacy," she said. I asked her if it is easy to get and she said it is readily available at the hospitals too. 

The pharmacy. The hospital. Hmmm.... Then she explained how they spray a little on the fish and it stays fresh longer. I asked her whether everyone does it. She shrugged and said many people do. 

At that point I was just disappointed because all I wanted was fresh fish for my friend returning home. So I asked her whether it is possible to get fish without formalin. She said yes. "Just call me before you come. I can keep some aside for you before they put the medicine." 

Before they put the medicine! Now formalin-free fish has a limited time window.  I mulled over that statement the whole morning, because what does it mean now?

It was then that I realised something strange. The flies that I used to hate were actually reassuring me. A fly has no reason to lie to you. If even a fly does not land on meat in Owino at midday, then perhaps we should investigate. The flies are an indicator that the food is fresh and without chemicals. The more I thought about it, the more disturbing it became. We have reached a point where decay itself has become artificial. Things no longer rot naturally.

My mind went to what we eat today... a lot now is preserved, enhanced, or modified. Milk takes forever to go bad. Tomatoes look beautiful and last months, chicken matures in six minutes, apples shine like they've been polished, watermelons glow in the dark.

The scary thing is how normal these conversations have become. We discuss chemicals in food casually in markets, laugh a little, buy the food anyway, and continue home because life has to continue. People have to eat. What exactly are the alternatives?

Now, I will probably be relieved when I see a few flies hovering over fish or meat because now I understand what flies mean. Imagine that is the point I have reached from where my feet are. 

In the end, I abandoned the fish idea completely and will take my friend for pork kikalayi instead because it does not get more Ugandan than that.

How to run in Kigali

I travel to Kigali quite often and of course, because I run almost every day, that means I also have to run in Kigali. Over time, I have realised that Kigali is one of the best cities to run in East Africa with clean roads, fresh air, pavements that actually belong to pedestrians, zebra crossings that work, etc. But Kigali also has its own character, small problems and ways of humbling you.

So here is a practical guide to running in Kigali.

1. What goes down must come up

Kigali is called the Land of a Thousand Hills, which sounds poetic until you are not even halfway through a run and your lungs are screaming. The important thing to understand is this: in Kigali, there is no such thing as a "flat route." That is propaganda. You can start your run feeling very strong because the first kilometer is downhill. You are flying, excellent pace. You are feeling good and athletic, almost judging other runners.

Relax! That hill you are enjoying now will come back for you later, because in Kigali, every downhill has an equal and opposite uphill waiting somewhere ahead. Some of those hills are so serious that they make you stop and look around with regret.

To be fair, the hills are excellent for endurance. If you can run comfortably in Kigali, you can probably run almost anywhere.

2. Kigali pavements were designed by people who love pedestrians

One of the greatest shocks for a Ugandan runner is discovering that pedestrians in Kigali are treated respectfully. There are pavements everywhere. Wide, clean, continuous, where you can run for kilometers without suddenly finding yourself squeezed between a drainage trench and the tyres of a taxi/boda boda.

In Kigali, the pedestrian has rights. As a Ugandan, this thing can almost make you emotional. You actually feel planned for. And because drivers respect rules, you can cross roads safely, which brings me to the zebra crossing.

3. A zebra crossing in Rwanda is sacred

In Rwanda, when you step onto a zebra crossing, cars stop immediately. I do not mean they will eventually stop. No. They stop immediately. The first time this happened to me, I was suspicious. In fact, I thought the car had broken down. But no. The driver was simply obeying the law.

You can even stand in the middle of a zebra crossing for long and experience a level of respect that may confuse you as an East African pedestrian. Nobody hoots at you, nor do they accelerate or behave like you are an inconvenience. The zebra crossing is law. It is culture. It is religion. 

Frankly, I almost wanted to cross back again just to experience the feeling twice.

4. The pavements are excellent. My knees, however, have concerns

Now because no city is allowed to be perfect, I had to find one complaint, and I found it.

The pavers.

Yes, the pavements are beautiful. Yes, they are organised. Yes, they are pedestrian-friendly. But those pavers are hard!! At some point during longer runs, my knees start complaining, especially those of us approaching that age where the body starts sending reminders that things have changed. 

Still, I would rather have hard pavements and safe running (I can always wear knee braces) than soft shoulders and immediate death by traffic. 

So we move.

5. Beware the spitting

Now we must discuss something uncomfortable, which is also Kigali’s greatest running hazard.

Spitting.

Rwandans spit a lot. My goodness, the people spit.

The problem is not even the spitting itself. Granted, people are strange creatures everywhere (for example Ugandans pee by the roadside). The problem is the timing of the spitting. You will be running peacefully behind someone when suddenly the ancestors whisper, "slow down." Then just as you reduce speed slightly, the person ahead launches a spit missile without warning or checking behind them.

Many times, I have survived by instinct alone, sometimes by inches and other times by divine intervention (and grace). It is particularly shocking because Kigali is such a clean city, beautiful roads, with order everywhere. Then randomly, a someone turns into a leaking water pipe.

I do not understand it. I concluded that this is Rwanda’s way of ensuring runners remain alert.

6. Truly, Kigali is a runner’s city

Jokes aside, Kigali is wonderful for running. The air is clean. The city is beautiful. The roads are orderly. Drivers respect pedestrians. There is space to move. If you prefer tracks, there's the Kigali running track and my favourite, the Kimihurura Circle. There is a sense of calm that allows you to run without constantly fearing for your life.

In many cities, running is defensive. Hahaha. In Kigali, it feels possible.

Except for the hills.

And the spit.

But mostly the hills.

Loving someone you no longer fully trust

This afternoon a friend asked me, "what do you do when you suspect someone is cheating on you, but you have no evidence." There are no screenshots, there is no lipstick on collars or unfamiliar scents, no hidden gifts, but just a feeling... some sort of shift, be it a silence that was not there before, or guilt-driven attention. 

What is the correct attitude in such a situation? Do you ignore it and enjoy the moments are together? Do you investigate? Do you become "cool" and detached? Do you ask directly? Do you pretend not to notice because technically nothing has happened?

The hard part in this situation is that when there is suspicion without proof, it changes how you approach life. Your mind starts working like a small private intelligence agency, and you start noticing things like response times, tone changes, sudden busyness, ignored calls late at night or early in the morning, hushed conversations or declining calls in your presence. Your brain starts looking for meaning in every corner.

I think the healthiest attitude should not be to obsessed nor to live in denial. It is to observe and by this I do not becoming a detective, but also not becoming a relationship martyr either.

Why? Because there is a temptation to play the "overly calm" card telling yourself, "let me just enjoy the moments we are together." But if inside you are slowly becoming anxious, emotionally tired, exhaustipated, then that is not peace, but some sort of self-abandonment, so to speak. At the same time, constantly searching for evidence can also destroy you. Once you start decoding WhatsApp blue ticks it can become a downward spiral. 

For me, a response could be to stay grounded. To separate what you feel, what you fear, and what you actually know. This could mean watching patterns instead of isolated incidents, and speaking honestly before resentment grows and hardens into something worse.

I have learnt that just as peace is not the absence of war, trust is not the absence of fear. Trust is a decision and sometimes it is a difficult one. The moment you become suspicious in a relationship, your instinct is to protect yourself emotionally. You usually do this by reducing your investment in the relationship and becoming "half-present" so that if pain comes, it finds less of you there. But I do not think that is love. We can call it emotional evacuation before the fire has even started.

And yes, I agree, trust is risky. I mean people disappoint each other every day in Kampala, Kigali, Nairobi, everywhere, but I also think there is also something lonely about approaching every relationship like a crime waiting to happen.

So I guess the healthier thing would be to trust fully enough to remain soft, while also remaining honest with yourself about what you are experiencing. And if that trust is broken, then grieve and learn from it, but if the fear was wrong, then trust itself becomes the reward. There is that trust that brings the peace that comes from being able to love somebody without constantly standing guard at the gate of your own heart.

My friend, ask yourself, even if there is no cheating, does this relationship still give me peace?

Sometimes the issue is not infidelity itself but it is things like inconsistency, distance, poor communication, feeling half-loved, feeling like somebody’s option instead of their choice, etc.

I do not think the goal should be to catch people. I think the goal should be to remain emotionally intact while the truth is revealed. People leak, so the truth usually reveals itself eventually. Our patterns repeat and our energy shifts. What is hidden rarely stays hidden forever. The challenge is making sure you do not lose yourself while waiting for clarity. 

And yes, from where my feet are, I am asking for a friend. 

In Matookestan, the Kisanja of No Sleep Started Years Ago

The President of the Democratic People's Republic of Matookestan declared in her swearing in speech that "This is a Term of No Sleep."

Actually many citizens almost stood up to thank her for finally acknowledging the real situation because, respectfully, when exactly were people sleeping?! The truth is, the citizens of Matookestan stopped sleeping a long time ago. 

A boda boda rider has not slept properly since he sold his father’s land in the village to come and hustle in the city. Every evening he calculates the day’s earnings and decides to call it “negative profit” instead of a loss, hoping that the more positive-oriented words will help him sleep better. It does not.

A parent with three children in school has not slept since school fees became a like church collections. The child brings a circular saying "120k only for development." Then another circular says "60k per subject for extra classes." Then "150k exam fees." How can they sleep?

A man in Kansanga has not slept properly since his landlord keeps increasing the rent "according to the economy" saying ebintu sibyangu - things are not easy out there. 

University graduates lie awake refreshing email inboxes
"Dear applicant…"
"Unfortunately…"
"Due to the high number…"

Eish! Even the HR Officer writing the rejection letters lies awake at night feeling some type of way.

The youth have not slept because every job advertisement now requires "six and a half years experience" for a position paying peanuts.

Look! The thieves are no longer sleeping comfortably because everybody is broke. A burglar can risk his life climbing through a window only to find one saucepan, an empty Blue Band container, and a Yaka meter blinking 00.30kwh.

Could it be that the President meant that this is an economic season of no sleep because you know there is no way hunger can allow someone to sleep. Some Matookestans go to bed after "eating" black tea.

Others are sleeping on debt itself. People now survive through some kind financial choreography: borrow from Airtel Money to pay MTN MoMo, borrow from a friend to pay Airtel, avoid the friend for two weeks, repeat until Jesus returns or salary, whichever comes first.

And then there is the PDM money.

Whenever government commissions a programme for development, citizens celebrate, but the MPs do not sleep because they are devising means of reallocation. Somewhere in Matookestan, a man who was supposed to buy seedlings with government support is still waiting under a mango tree while his MP is opening a hardware shop. By the time investigations begin, somebody has already built rentals, bought a Prado, and his children are speaking english through the nose. Meanwhile the villager for whom the money was intended is still holding a hoe and waiting for "empowerment."

But honestly, even corruption aside, the country itself does not encourage sleep.

You finally lie down peacefully and as the rain begins the roads and some houses disappear under water. How can those people sleep? Then a government official appears on television explaining why the drainage system designed in 1962 will not be upgraded because of its historical significance. 

Meanwhile everybody is stuck in traffic. People do not sleep because they have to be up at 4am to be on the road by 5am due to traffic. It is worse in the evening, because people leave office at 5pm to arrive home at 10:30 pm. Including school kids. 

The boda boda riders are awake. Taxi drivers are awake. Police officers are awake. 

Hospitals also participate actively in the national anti-sleep campaign.

You enter sick and while there you develop secondary stress. The doctor is exhausted from working in both the hospital and his small clinic. The nurse cannot be bothered. The medicine is "currently unavailable." They ask you to buy gloves, syringes, cotton wool, and perhaps the hospital building itself from a pharmacy across the road. How can you sleep?

The President was  being honest for once. Citizens of Matookestan are awake for various reasons, because how can they sleep?

So when Her Excellency mentioned in her Inaugural speech that this is the Kisanja where citizens shall not sleep, many people clapped and said, "Finally. The government has caught up with the programme."

He did not want to die. He just wanted the pain to stop

At 1:48 p.m. on Wednesday afternoon, a man picked up a gun and ended his life.

This happened in the middle of a normal day while life continued around him. People having lunch, sending emails, selling things in the market, crossing roads, attending meetings, digging in their gardens, making phone calls. Inside all that ordinary life, someone decided they could not carry their pain anymore.What kind of pain leads a human being to the point where death is less frightening than facing tomorrow?

I keep finding myself thinking not even about the act itself, but the hours before it. What was he feeling? What does hopelessness sound like inside someone’s mind? Did he wake up already exhausted by life, or did something happen that day? Had he been struggling quietly for months? Did anyone notice? Did he try to ask for help without directly asking for help? Did he become withdrawn? Irritable? Quieter? Did he joke more than usual? Did he suddenly look calmer after a long period of distress? Was there a moment, even a small one, where somebody could have interrupted his darkness?

Could it maybe be that frightening thing about emotional pain that hides inside functioning people who still report to work, greet others, laugh a little here are there, and say, "I am fine."

Usually after incidences like this happen, we become detectives of warning signs.

"He had changed."
"He became quiet."
"He seemed stressed."
"He looked fine."

But what does "fine" even mean anymore these days?

People are tired. They are emotionally tired, financially tired and mentally tired. There is the pressure to survive, perform, to keep going, stay functional, remain reachable, responsive, productive, and many people have become experts at looking okay while quietly falling apart.

Especially men. Many men are taught how to endure pressure, not how to emotionally fall apart safely. So the pain goes somewhere else like into silence, alcohol, anger, isolation, etc, and sometimes, unbearably, into tragedy.

I do not think everyone who ends their life necessarily wants to die. Sometimes maybe they just want the pain to stop. And maybe the truly heartbreaking thing is that they can no longer imagine another way for it to stop.

How many people around us are quietly drowning while still functioning normally? Have we created spaces where people can honestly say, "I am not okay"? Do we really listen when people speak, or do we rush to advise, dismiss, spiritualise, or move on? Have we become too busy to notice suffering unless it becomes catastrophic.

What does it mean for a person to reach the point of pain that leads them to the edge? I do not know. I do not have answers here, mostly questions.

So from where my feet are, let this Mental Health Month serve as a reminder to be gentler with ourselves and with each other. Let us check in properly and take people seriously when they say they are tired. This is a reminder to speak out when the weight becomes too heavy, and to listen when others are trying, however imperfectly, to tell us they are struggling. Not everybody carrying pain looks broken. Some people are still laughing, working, showing up, and silently fighting battles the rest of us cannot see.

Mother's Day Series Part 5: Mother's Day for people with complicated mothers.

Mother’s Day is beautiful for many people. For others, it is complicated,because not everybody grew up inside soft love.

Some people grew up around constant and unexplained anger, shouting, and fear. They grew up around mothers who were overwhelmed, wounded, exhausted, absent, unpredictable, or living with pain that they passed down to their children.

I once spoke to someone who told me they feared going home as a child, not because home lacked food, but because it lacked peace. Their mother beat them really harshly. Small mistakes were frightening, and the atmosphere was tense all the time. They even had to tiptoe as they walked down corridors to the bathroom or bedroom. 

This is confusing because difficult mothers are still mothers. They are still mothers who sometimes, sacrificed enormously, sometimes suffered, and sometimes they loved sincerely but expressed it badly. That complexity is difficult to discuss publicly because our society prefers success stories.

Some mothers were raising children while battling disappointments nobody ever asked about, like financial pressure, marriage problems, loneliness, depression, unhealed trauma from their own childhoods.

None of this excuses harm, but it explains some of the heaviness in many mothers and homes.

Mother’s Day can therefore feel different for some people. While one person posts flowers, there is another who will avoid the internet for the entire day.

Some people are healing, some are forgiving, some are grieving mothers who were physically present but emotionally unreachable, while some are trying to love their mothers from a safe distance.

All those feelings are real.

From where my feet are, motherhood is sacred, but mothers are also human beings. Human beings sometimes break while raising other human beings. 

Mother's Day Series part 4: The day I reaslised my mother was a human being.

For most of childhood, mothers are permanent infrastructure like electricity poles, boda boda stages, or the lady selling ground nuts and hard corn by the roadside every morning. You assume that the primary reason they exist is to support life.

Then one day something changes. You notice your mother is tired, but she is tired in such a way that seems like she cannot rest because life and the world still requires them to function. 

I remember seeing my mother sitting alone once after visitors had left, and for the first time, I realised she had worries unrelated to being a mother. She had dreams maybe, disappointments weighing her down, things she wanted to do or wanted to have but could not because of school fees or school shoes.

Children rarely imagine their parents as full human beings. We see sacrifice so constantly that we forget somebody is doing the sacrificing. As teenagers, we think our mothers exist mainly to interrupt happiness, to ask where we are going, or to say no to things that clearly deserved yes.

Then as adults the picture starts to change in that you begin noticing things like how tired she looked, how carefully she made little money work, how often she went without things, how much emotional weight she held inside.

You realise your mother may have also been figuring life out in real time. That realisation changes something within you. Her anger begins looking different and so does her softness too. Even the meaning of her silence changes.

From where my feet are, adulthood begins the day you stop seeing your mother only as "mother" and start seeing the human being inside the title.

Inaugural Speech of the President of Matookestan

My fellow citizens of Matookestan,

Today marks the beginning of a new era. An era of transparency, accountability, transformation, and other important words.

For too long, corruption in our country has suffered from poor coordination, unnecessary delays, and unequal distribution. Citizens have been forced to move from office to office carrying brown envelopes without clear direction or consistency. This must end.

Under my leadership, corruption will no longer be random. It will be modernised. We have a Plan for the Modernisation of Corruption (PMC). 

My government is committed to building a more efficient, inclusive, and technology-driven corruption sector that works for all Matookestans. To achieve this, under the PMC, we shall launch the National Strategic Framework for Transparent Facilitation and Administrative Appreciation, Phase One.  (NSFTFAA - I)

Under this program, bribery services will now be digitised. Citizens of Matookestan will no longer waste valuable time asking, "Boss, how much is your lunch?" Standardised rates shall be introduced across ministries to eliminate confusion and promote fairness.

In addition, we shall establish one-stop corruption service centres in every district so that citizens can experience faster service delivery, reduced movement, and improved extortion near their homes.

This government is also deeply committed to equity.

Corruption has remained concentrated among a few elites in the capital for far too long. Rural communities have been left behind. This imbalance cannot continue in a modern democracy.

We are therefore decentralising corruption. Every Province deserves access to missing funds. Every sub-county deserves an opportunity to launch a project that will never be completed. No region should feel excluded from national disappointment. This is what we mean by service delivery. 

Under the Province Development Mechanism (PDM), local leaders will receive capacity building workshops on advanced techniques in accountability avoidance, receipt misplacement, and strategic disappearance immediately after groundbreaking ceremonies.

My fellow citizens of Matookestan, some critics have accused this government of failing to fight corruption. This is false and malicious propaganda. We have fought corruption tirelessly by transferring corrupt officials from one ministry to another where they can continue serving the nation with fresh energy and renewed appetite. This government believes in rehabilitation. No citizen should lose a career simply because of several billion shillings. 

Because we are forward-thinking, we shall soon launch the e-Bribe mobile application to improve citizen experience. Through this innovation, facilitation payments can now be made quickly, safely, and conveniently without involving unnecessary witnesses. Matookestan must embrace digital transformation like our neigbours.

My government is aware of concerns regarding congestion in prisons and delays in the justice system. After careful consultation and several expensive benchmarking trips abroad, we have resolved not to rush justice unnecessarily. Matookestans must understand that justice, like wine, improves with age. Some suspects entered prison as youths and are now respected uncles. This is continuity.

Our courts will therefore continue operating at a thoughtful and reflective pace to ensure suspects fully experience the criminal justice journey before discovering whether they are innocent. 

In addition, prison overcrowding should not always be viewed negatively. It reflects strong national unity and social networking. To address congestion, government will construct multi-storey prison facilities where inmates can continue awaiting trial. No Matookestan will be denied the constitutional right to prolonged uncertainty.

My fellow citizens of Matookestan, every rainy season, opportunistic elements exaggerate the issue of flooding. This government rejects negativity. Floods are not a crisis. Floods are a tourism opportunity. In fact, the city is slowly becoming like Venice. Rather than wasting resources solving drainage problems permanently, government has chosen a more innovative and sustainable approach.

I am pleased to announce the City Inland Water Transport Master Plan.

Under this transformative initiative, selected roads in the city will officially become seasonal waterways. Government has already signed a highly confidential and unnecessarily expensive contract with a Xingnese company to import modern flood-navigation boats. Some people have complained that the boats cost too much. But Matookestans must appreciate quality. You cannot put a price on national drowning preparedness.

In future, citizens going downtown during heavy rain will require a life jacket. This is modernisation. Tubasaba mutambule n’obwegendereza. Government cannot replace every citizen.

Fellow Matookestans, our country has been blessed with the mineral Rolexium. I want to assure you that this oil, I mean Rolexium belongs to all Matookestans equally, especially my cousins because family is the backbone of African prosperity. We must safeguard our achievements. 

For too long, citizens on Matookestan have asked difficult questions like:
"Where will the Rolexium money go?"
"How will local communities benefit?"
"What measures exist for accountability?"

My government believes these questions create unnecessary tension. The oil, I mean Rolexium sector must remain peaceful, private, and family-oriented. However, I wish to assure the nation that some benefits shall eventually trickle down through workshops, branded t-shirts, strategic dialogues, and pull-up banners. No citizen will be left behind symbolically.

My government also remains committed to infrastructure development. We pledge to continue launching roads, recommissioning roads, inspecting roads, and promising roads. Actual completion of roads will be handled carefully to avoid shocking citizens too suddenly with development. Development must come slowly, otherwise Matookestans will panic and think we are like the land in our south west.

Fellow Matookestans, as I take this solemn oath today, I would like to thank several people who made this democratic occasion possible.

I thank the Electoral Commission for their creativity and powerful imagination.

I thank the internet shutdown team for their tireless efforts in protecting national peace from dangerous opinions.

I thank all government spokespersons who wake up every morning to explain why things are both improving and collapsing at the same time.

Most importantly, I thank the citizens of Matookestan. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for your taxes. Thank you for those who complained silently. Those who complained loudly have already been visited.

And thank you for continuing to believe that next year will somehow be different despite overwhelming historical evidence.

May you be blessed

May our beautiful country be blessed.

And may all ongoing investigations whose reports shall never be released be blessed.

I thank you.

Mother's Day Series Part 3: Before Google, there was Mother

Before search engines, there were mothers. Before YouTube tutorials, there was somebody shouting instructions from the kitchen.

"How do you remove cooking oil from clothes?" Ask your mother.

"Which herb helps stomach pain?" Ask your mother.

"Which taxi should you not enter at night?" Ask your mother.

African mothers held so much information like libraries carrying books. The knowledge was frighteningly specific. They knew which road floods when it rains, which neighbour should never borrow money, which shop dilutes milk, which cough requires Mulago immediately, which teacher enjoys beating children too much, and which relatives only appear during food time at Christmas.

Directions from mothers were impossible but weirdly accurate. "Turn near the mango tree that used to belong to the man whose wife ran away. His dog ate the neighbour's chicken." And you arrived safely.

Before Google Maps, African mothers operated entirely on memory, landmarks, and community gossip. The internet gave us information, but mothers gave us survival wisdom. And unlike Google, mothers added emotional commentary. "You can go there, but be careful with those people." That sentence alone was years of intelligence gathering.

Even today, many people still call their mothers before making ordinary decisions. This is not only because mothers tend to know everything, but also because mothers often know people. And in Africa, understanding people is half of surviving life.

From where my feet are, Google may answer questions faster, but it still cannot replace the sentence, "Omwana wangye, my child, listen carefully…"

Mother's Day Series Part 2: African Mothers and their Classified Intelligence

African mothers always issue warnings left, right and center.

As a child, I genuinely believed my mother worked closely with intelligence services, because how else do you explain the things they know?

"Do not sit on cold cement." Why? "You will see." See WHAT exactly?

African mothers don't even bother to explain. They simply spell out the warning and leave you in the room of confusion.

"Do not laugh too much with people." "Why?" "You will know them." Again, know WHAT?

The warnings were endless.

"Stop whistling at night." 

"Do not point at graves."

"Do not sleep immediately after eating."

"Do not make your face like that, it will remain." Remain HOW? Is my face wet cement?

Some warnings sounded scientifically impossible. "If you swallow chewing gum, your stomach will stick." To what exactly? 

Others sounded just too dramatic. "Those friends of yours…" Not even a complete sentence, just vibes and suspicion.

As children, we dismissed these warnings constantly, then in adulthood, we pay the price.

The "good friend" she distrusted immediately? Disaster. The shortcut she warned you against? Theft. The relationship she squinted at for three seconds and rejected? Character development.

At this point, I believe African mothers not only predict the future, but also have extensive experience with human nonsense. What is worse is that their methods are frightening. 

An African mother could identify bad behavior from footsteps alone. You enter the compound slightly differently and immediately, "What have you done?" Nothing yet, but now you feel guilty.

The funny thing is that as children, we thought our mothers were overreacting. As adults, we slowly become them. Now I even find myself distrusting certain people based entirely on vibes and hairstyles.

From where my feet are, African mothers did not just raise children. It was long-term survival training.

Mother's Day Series: 1.The Economics of African Mothers

African mothers can feed people in ways that economists should surely investigate, and pastors should envy. 

A visitor arrives unexpectedly at 7:17pm. Then another arrives "briefly" mbu dropping a wedding invitation card. Then two distant cousins appear from nowhere with phone chargers, mbu "there's no Uneme at ours." Uncle passes by "just greeting" and somehow remains long enough to eat. Three neighborhood children then come in, laughing with their playmate. Just like that, there are fourteen human beings in the sitting room and one saucepan of beans that already looked too little for even four people.

An ordinary person would panic. An African mother simply adjusts the mathematics. The tomato is made to work really hard, while the one onion does it's magic. Royco saves the day and the rice expands beyond its constitutional limit. Tea and Marie biscuits appear despite earlier announcements to you that "there is nothing in this house."

Then the famous sentence is mentioned while the kaveera of posho is emptied: "We shall all eat and get full."

And somehow… nobody leaves hungry. To this day, I do not understand it.

I am convinced African mothers are operating illegal food multiplication schemes from their kitchens. The World Food Programme should study them and FAO should consult them during food crises. If an African mother can feed twelve unexpected guests using one cabbage, half a cup of rice, and faith in God, she can probably balance the national budget. 

The confidence is what intrigues me most. "Mummy, this food is not enough." Mum responds, "It is enough."

Surprisingly, the food obeys her.

African mothers can stretch stew and you wonder. One chicken becomes wings for children, gizzards for respected visitors, pieces for everybody else, soup for all and leftovers for tomorrow morning.

Have you seen a mother performing miracles in African homes with bread? Like the parable of feeding 5,000 men in the Bible, four slices become breakfast for six people through techniques unavailable to modern science.

Visitors arrive unexpectedly and suddenly sugar appears from hidden reserves. Blue Band is scraped from corners using the tip of the knife and it spreads evenly on the bread.

Meanwhile the mother herself may not even sit down to eat properly. That is the painful part hidden inside the comedy.

African motherhood is not just cooking. It is crisis management, resource allocation, emotional labor, hunger prevention, diplomacy, infrastructure, logistics, all performed without applause.

From where my feet are, African mothers are among the greatest economists and strategists this continent has ever produced.

The rats have become landlords

Every town has rats. Some towns hide their rats better than others. Mine have become tenants with surprisingly sophisticated taste in toiletries.

For the past few weeks, I have been going to bed with the sound of tiny criminal activity in form of scratching in the ceiling. They run in the ceiling, the same we we run when we are late for meetings, then there is a pause, and then another sprint, sometimes at 2 a.m. and other times at 4 a.m. These rats operate with such confidence they think they own the place. 

One of them has developed a troubling addiction to my soap. It specifically comes down into the bathroom to chew soap like it is enjoying a gourmet meal at a fancy restaurant. I found teeth marks on it and just stood there wondering if the rat prefers lemon fresness to exotic lavender.

The strange thing is that I own a cat. Her name is Caitlyn Brush. She is elegant beautiful and emotionally unavailable, just like my boyfriend. Unfortunately, the rats do not respect her authority, nor do they, at the very least acknowledge her presence. 

I grew up believing cats and rats were sworn enemies. Tom and Jerry built an entire media empire on this idea. Yet here I am living through a failed war mission. The rats are thriving, while the cat is licking herself, unbothered. The rats continue their operations with confidence and I suspect the security team concluded she is mostly decorative.

This somehow that took me back to the Pied Piper of Hamelin. You remember the story. A town overrun by rats. Then a mysterious man arrives carrying a flute, plays music, and the rats follow him out of town. Honestly, if such a man appeared in Entebbe today, I would not even ask questions. In fact I would escort him personally.

The Pied Piper story became famous partly because rats have terrified human beings for centuries. Entire towns feared them. Ships carried them from port to port. Maybe the explorers brought them here. One rat could become fifty before you finished complaining about the first one.

And human beings, in typical human fashion, somehow made things worse. At one point in medieval Europe, people became suspicious of cats and started associating them with witchcraft. So naturally, they killed the cats, a decision humans made that led to the plague that killed millions.

The rats, meanwhile, must have looked around at the disappearing cats and thought, “Excellent. Expansion.” And expand they did.

That is the thing about rats. They survive everything. Wars, floods, cities, governments, bad plumbing. They move through history like tiny furry economists studying new markets.

Even now, cruise ships still battle outbreaks linked to rodents and sanitation problems.

Humanity has invented smartphones, artificial intelligence, electric cars, and online dating, yet somewhere in the world a rat is still defeating billion-dollar infrastructure with its tiny little hands. Now that is humbling.

For me, the true horror of rats is not even seeing them. It is hearing them. That scratching in the darkness. My imagination immediately starts producing horror films. Every sound is suspicious and threatening. You lie there trying to calculate whether a rat can chew through a ceiling and land directly on your chest.

Then comes the guilt because I bought rat traps that worked. The first time I caught one, I felt victorious for about eight seconds. Then I looked at it properly, its small body, tiny heartbeat, little terrified eyes. Suddenly the great enemy of the household looked like Stuart Little. I still disposed of it, obviously. Let us not become sentimental beyond reason. But I did feel bad.

I suppose that is why rats kinda unsettle me. They are disgusting, destructive, frightening... but also alive in a very determined way, tiny stubborn reminders of survival of the fittest.

Tonight, as I try to sleep, I can already hear them again above the ceiling, scratching. One of them is probably thinking about my soap, meanwhile Caitlyn Brush my cat sleeps peacefully.

Somewhere in the distance, I continue waiting for a flute.

Arid does not mean empty. In the dry and barren land, there was life.

They had not seen a drop of rain for two years.

Then it started raining for about four days, a week or so before I arrived.

By the time I got there, it had already stopped. But you could still see the rain had passed through. Small puddles in the road, streams along the empty river beds, patches of soil still holding on to moisture. But beyond that… it was dry.

Dry, dry, dry.

And people live there. They have a life, families and communities there. You move through small towns and life is happening. People are talking, laughing, children running around. You find yourself a little confused by it because in your mind, you have already decided what this place means and have already labeled it as harsh, dry, barren, a desert lacking, and something to feel sorry for.

But no one there is feeling sorry for themselves.

Northern Kenya is a hard place to explain. It just is.

It is wide, open, dry. Very dry and bare. The few trees have learnt how to survive with very little, and the people have learned too. They are pastoralists, keeping camels, goats, and sheep. Not cows. You don’t see cows there. The land does not allow it.

One of the things that struck me is the agreement between people and the land. The people do not try to fight the land not try to turn it into something else. They are just… living within it.

Water is not an after thought there, like it is here. It is the main character. You think about water before you think about anything else. Before meals, before moving, before comfort, before anything. Water is not just life in theory, but is life in daily, practical, sometimes exhausting reality.

And as I moved through small towns, something unsettled me. People were smiling. Happy genuine smiles. Children waved, adults greeted. Life, despite everything I had quietly labeled as "lack," seemed full.

I caught myself thinking, how can they live like this?

Then another thought followed....

How can they not?

This is their land, their  history and inheritance. Generations before them figured out how to live here, and generations after them will continue to do so.

And then the question turned on me.

If one of them came to the green, wet, restless abundance of somewhere like south western Uganda, would they look around and ask, how can you live like this?

Too much rain. Too much green. Too much uncertainty in a different form. Roads disappearing into mud instead of dust. Different struggles in greener clothes.

We like to think comfort has a universal definition. That there is a correct version of life, and everything else is a compromise. But standing in that dry, harsh land, watching people who did not feel sorry for themselves, I started to doubt that idea.

Who decides what “better” means? Is it access to water on demand? Is it green landscapes and full rivers? Is it predictability? Is it ease? Or is it something else like belonging, familiarity, knowing how to live in the place that raised you, being at peace with the rules your environment has set.

The truth is I felt more sorry for them than they felt for themselves, and that says more about me than it does about them. We measure other people’s lives using our own rulers, then act surprised when the numbers don’t make sense. In fact, the problem is not the life, it is the ruler.

—

That rain will come again, or it won’t, but they will adjust either way. Camels will still walk. Goats will still search for shrubs. People will still wake up and live. And somewhere far away, in places where green is abundant and water is taken for granted, we will still be asking ourselves why we are restless.

So maybe the better question I should ask is not which life is better.

Maybe it is this: What does it mean to live well, where your feet are?

From where my feet are.

Road trips: Same script, different cast

So I am on this road trip, in another country, with a group of strangers. I have been thinking about how new this is. New people, new places, new everything. But as the trip went on, I found myself laughing on the inside because… it’s actually not new at all. The people are different, yes, but the types of people? No, exactly the same. Every road trip, every group trip, somehow gathers the same cast of characters. You just change the country, not the people. No matter where you are in the world, the characters always report for duty.

There is the Thermostat. This one is not at peace with temperature as a concept. “Please close the window, it’s too cold.” Two minutes later, “It’s too hot, open it.” Three minutes later, “Why is it windy inside?” At some point, you start to wonder whether this is only about weather or something personal. 

Then there is the Complainer. This is a deeply gifted individual who can locate discomfort in the most perfect conditions. The sun is too bright. The road is too straight. I don't like the sound of a Land Cruiser. They will complain about noise and about silence. If someone cracks a joke and every one laughs, they will question it.

Next, you have the Comedian. Usually quiet at the beginning, you underestimate them and that is your first mistake. Somewhere between kilometer 60 and 105, they start. One joke. Then another. Then suddenly the car is shaking with laughter and nobody knows when it began.

Close by, almost invisible, is the Archivist. This one enjoys the trip on their camera. They view the sights using their phone. They take good pictures of everyone, soft light, real smiles, portrait setting, etc. You will not see them in these photos. 

Then comes the Systems Engineer. Everything can be optimised. Everything. Routes, fuel stops, snack distribution, toilet breaks, seating arrangements, they have a plan, a backup plan, and a disappointment in all of you for not following either.

And of course, the Walking Encyclopedia. This one knows things, every bird, every tree, every hill has a backstory. “Ah, that’s actually a…” Nobody asked, but here we are, learning. You will leave the trip with knowledge you did not request but cannot un-know.

In the back seat, usually tuned to everyone, is the Mother. “Have you eaten?” “Are you comfortable?” “Take my jacket.” She carries snacks, carries extra everything and notices everything good and bad.

Then there is the Bottomless Pit. Hunger is part of the road trip for them. Snacks are a necessity. They are always chewing something, opening something, asking about the next stop. Their metabolism is an unexplained mystery. Are they even hungry?!

Right next to them sits the Bar on Wheels. Morning? Drink. Afternoon? Drink. Sunset? Celebrate with a drink. They are hydrated in ways the rest of you are not. Strangely, they remain functional. 

Somewhere in the mix, you will find The Timekeeper. “Are we there yet?” “How long now?” “Is it far?” You begin to wonder if they read the itinerary. They measure the journey not in enjoying the moment, but in how quickly the day ends.

Ha, there is the Prepared One. This one did not come to play. They came equipped. You need a penknife? Not just any penknife, a good one. A torch? Of course. Batteries? Spare ones, what size? AA or AAA? A wet wipe, a charger, a safety pin, a notebook, a rope… a rope for what? Nobody knows but it’s there. Ask for something ridiculous and watch them smile slowly, like a magician about to ruin your skepticism. “Oh, you mean this?” At some point, you stop asking for things. 

And just behind them, often consulted in moments of panic, is the Doctor. They are of course not a real doctor, but spiritually certified I think. Headache? They have something. Stomach issue? Covered. Car sickness? Already anticipated. They carry pills for everything including for radiation poisoning. You don’t even know what half of them are, but the confidence is convincing. “Take this” and you do without questions. 

Quietly judging all of you is the Silent Observer. They don’t talk much but they see everything. Who complained, who laughed too loudly, who ate whose snacks. They are collecting stories, you just don’t know it yet.

Sometimes, if you are lucky, there is the DJ. This is the one who understands that a road trip without the right music is just organised movement. They read the mood, switch genres at the right moment, revive dying energy, and occasionally cause a full car sing-along.

And then there is you. You are there somewhere in the car, you are also a type. Are you maybe a mix or are you evolving depending on the hour, the hunger, the playlist.

That’s the thing about road trips. You cross borders, change languages, change currencies… but from where my feet are, people remain familiar. Same characters as with every road trip.