La Réfugiée

Mood: Holding-my-own-hand-for-nobody-else-will mood.
[Toot!] Index: 1.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course

First, to get some issues out of the way. Conscience issues and the like.

1. I find it easier not to give the blind beggar money, since he can't see me ...
2. To all those who doubted the Comrade's resolve: I'm bringing a shot at this crap we call democracy, next week. Hopefully.
3. I'm reading a nice novel of my favourite genre. The genre I write, even though I'm yet to get full-winged in it. Still too scared of outright magic realism.

Now, a true story. Dedicated to the Priest behind the veil of the confessional. I spent a while at the Priest's parish residence, and I swear heaven is just some metres off that road. I'm not supposed to be mystical—I'm not even Catholic—but ... The Priest must be spiking the eucharist wine with some ...
And to that nun, Sister Theodora. :o)

A puppy barked at me today. Puppies rarely bark at me, because I like them, and they know it. It had a pure white furry coat and a pitch black nose and ears. The kind of thing you find at Cute Overload.

Three weeks ago, I went to my favourite shop in the slums. The Splash there is nearly ice-cold. The lady who sells there is Rwandese, and she puts on French radio. She escaped to Uganda in '94, running away from the genocide. I think she was like 18 at the time. She says she had a younger sister, but I've never seen her. Probably one of the many other faces of survival on Kampala's harsh, harsh sidewalks. Her kids in the slums show no signs of Rwandese heritage.
She named her daughter after herself. The name means `dear' in French, and is even used by some Ugandan blogger.
Anyway, so I found her, three weeks ago, cleaning out the shop. So much crap to throw out, she wasn't even selling that day. Just cleaning. I asked what the big deal was, asking `Did you drop a fifty-shilling coin?'
`Hehehe. No ... I'm cleaning up ... preparing.' She speaks Luganda. But when the Luganda word hides, she won't look for it—she just breaks into French without apology. I translate the Luganda to English for you. `I'm going to see Rwanda tomorrow.'

She told me her family was killed in the genocide, so she and her sister saw no sense in going back to swim in the sadness. It was already sad living away from home. How much sadder to find no home when they go back? So they stayed.
Now she was talking of going back `to see Rwanda'. She had heard a lot on the radio, and she wanted to see for herself. And she also wanted to make sure, once and for all, that she was certain there were no survivors, so she may uproot her thoughts from Rwanda. `I will even stop listening to this French radio,' she said, grinning. She has a rich sense of humour.
`And if you find survivors? Your parents sent you away with a plan for the other people, isn't it?'
`I'll see what to do. I'll keep in touch. I think there are some survivors. There must be survivors.'
Her good humour made her add `Even if it means the dog being the survivor. Hehehe.'

By today, I had cemented a new pattern that didn't have her in the picture. I passed her shop to go buy elsewhere, and she shouted `Eh!' I turned. Some ice-cold Splash. So you're back. How's Rwanda. Kagame is an idiot. We'll colonise you. Oh, a bus! No, you lie. Blah-blah-blah. Much small talk. Then she sobered up. We had to get to that question, anyway, so I don't see why I took the long route.
`No. I didn't see any. Even the house was removed.'
`Merde. Maybe they exist elsewhere. In Uganda. Or Congo. Tanzania.'
`Our former neighbour said they all died.'
`He can't be sure—those were chaotic days, you know. People running.'
And she explained how the old man, the neighbour, confessed to having killed them himself. That he is old and worn and with a burdened conscience. She said the neighbour, burdened by guilt, had attempted suicide. And that he had kept the family dog, which gave birth even before the murder frenzy was over. And that the dog's family line survived. The old man had named all puppies after her family, recycling names as the need arose. And that he went to the confessional every Sunday.

She fought her tears with amazing bravery. `I got a puppy to bring back. We weren't all killed. There was a survivor.' Now her tears won and pushed her over in big, sudden shudders.
`Where's the puppy?' And she whistled it over. It bounced happily, ears bobbing, towards her.
`Celle-ci. Belle comme le jour.' Sniffing back the sadness.
`Oui. Très belle.' I reached out to stroke the dark nose, and it barked at me. The trust for humans is gone, I think. It even shared her name: Cherie.

Listen to the Fool Talk (RT 1.9)

Mood: Fiery
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course

Yet another wild, frothing, un-informed rant in the Glorious Rantdom Thurogitts Series, coming in at 1.9, the 27th Comrade presents:

Mbu the colours we wear affect our general moods. Hard to be sad in blindingly-bright lime green. And I'm in deep blood-red, right now. I'm feeling fiery. :o) Could be the t-shirt.
But I'd have no choice. After recycling the Clean Heap twice, I surrendered my clothes for the laundry do. You know that thing where you wake up on Tuesday and grope about for a t-shirt and find nothing? Then, after fifteen minutes of standing over the Dirty Heap, you overthrow your conscience in what will go down as the bloodiest coup d'état since Haile Mariam Mengistu's, and you kick the clothes back to where the Clean Heap is supposed to be.
And the imp on the left shoulder goes like `Ah. See? Did you die? You are the king, here. You decide what's clean and what isn't. Now, the neighbours puppy. Just go kick it about the ribs. You see ...' Shut up, Jude.

I hate to discuss marriage, since a rabbit shouldn't be telling a lion how to hunt (as in, I am totally clueless about this love shit), but I'll give my take—'tis I and I blog! Sparked by some discussion peeps have been having within earshot.
Marriage is not made of two people in love. Only love affairs are. Marriage is made of people (maybe more than two) who love one another. The ones beyond two will usually be children. One can love just about anybody. You can meet a complete stranger and be trapped in a similar situation, and you grow close, and a love grows. That can be translated into a marriage. The reason many marriages end up disappointing is that people go in them thinking it's a love affair. It isn't. It's a lot—actually, just—like a friendship. If your marriage is founded on a friendship, it will survive the Other Woman, because the Other Woman may have the things you have and more (yes, she could be a freak with two of those), but she isn't his bosom buddy, and that matters to guys. Be very, very afraid, woman, if you've never had to tell your guy `Okay, it's alright, baby. Don't cry, don't cry. Cummon, it's gonna be fine.' Someone else is doing it. You aren't his friend enough for him to run to you crying? You aren't his friend enough for him to have gone past the Mating Dance stage with you. Sure, he won't cry when you're just lovin'. But when it becomes a friendship, a working relationship—the kind that will stay around long after he is used to your wrinkles and your quirks and your tempers and your sad truths—he will run to his gentle friend (hopefully you) when he needs a chest to cry on.
Shoulders don't have boobs, silly one.
In short: marriages are friendships first then love affairs next. Maybe never even love affairs. Truth be told, for people who stick together (friends or spouses), it is a long ride of forgiving, compromising, hoping, ignoring the bad, exalting the good, and a near-manic dedication to just trudging on. Life is hard, and marriages are part of life. Idealists are idiots. They have friendships that last decades, and marriages that last months. Don't you think they'd have better marriages if they turned them into friendships? Actually, they just turn friendships into love affairs—and love affairs simply don't last beyond the hormonal rush. You have the mic.^*

The BHH Report:
Wwhhoott! Peeps have already written out the reports. Mine is late. But some things that were skipped:

1. I've not yet learnt to differentiate America and Americans. Sad. JF was giving me a crash course...


2. Lady was there. Too quiet, though ... We're investigating. ;o)


3. Dee, Carlo, JF, JF's friend, Lady, um ... (girls are finished?) ... and some guys. Ivan, Colin, me ... the guys don't matter much, do they? ;o)

Don't shake. Or it will take longer.
Reading through, I notice some crude insinuations in the second paragraph. Lemme drop this now so you rip me once and leave me alone: a couple is married long before they walk down the aisle. So, when you say `No Sex Before Marriage', when exactly do you start laying? I mean, are you married just because you've borrowed enough to throw a fat party? Does an event make a marriage? Little wonder so many marriages are crap—how can we tie a marriage to a simple pretentious event? Marriage happens long before the invitations are sent out. That's the truth. It's why Mary, Mother of Jesus, was not yet married to Joseph, just betrothed (as in, girlfriend planning the party), yet their separation would be akin to a divorce. They were already literally married, even before the event. Marriage happens long before the party. And, no, the beer party doesn't mark the beginning of the marriage.

* I used `love affair' wrongly (intentionally) to separate the state of rushing hormones and wild lovin' (like river rapids) from the state of settled, understanding co-existence (where I used `loving one another'—a lot like a tranquil lake). The difference is there, and you know what I'm talking about.

Throw the Feminists Down the Well

Mood: Unwinding
[Toot!] Index: 1.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course

The basic belief of feminists is that women are being cheated of their rightful place, which is to be on same grounding with men. That is a shitty mound of slimy hogwash, to be mild.

For starters, there are not that many men who look down on women. (I'd say they are few, but they are fewer than that.) Only a man who has no mother can think women are inferior to men. It takes being crazy to be a male chauvinist. How can the feminists have built up a whole movement to fight crazy people?

Anyway, we can't pretend women are fairly-represented in all issues of life. But is it necessary that they be?
So, women are blocked out of politics. (By the way, Uganda has the highest rate of women in active democratic politics in the whole world. But when the BBC wants to report about women in Africa, they start by `Women in the America are lucky that they take part in politics. But in Africa, that is a distant hope ...', before they close up on a woman carrying a baby and a sack on her head and fruit under her armpits. Meanwhile, the IGG is rounding up politicians for arrest. The IGG is a chic.)
Women are not in the army. Women are not in the presidential palaces. Women are not driving as much as guys. Girls are not in school as much or as long as boys. Some things are seen as pardonable when done by men, but not by women.
Et cetera, et cetera. But there is a basic reason for all this.

Under the surface, men know they are inferior to women. Men are more animal-like than women. It is men who think fighting is cool. Men lead genocides. Men are violent to their lovers. (And the chics seem to think, wrongly, that dogs shall be dogs, so they pardon violent behaviour among men.)
If you see a field in life that is male-dominated, don't be a stupid, dizzy feminist and say `we wanna be in there, too!', because it is not meant for women!
Women give birth, cook, mother their kids, sing to their babies, restore peace after an asshole that passes for a `strict dad' has frightened the child, bring order to the house, and so on. The things that only elevated beings, elevated minds, will do well.
When women are not equally-represented in a field, it means that field is still too low-level to have women in it. Now, democracy made politics something women—the elevated minds—can take part in. And there is no woman more-woman than a Ugandan woman. So they rule us. Before, it was a study in back-stabbing, lying, cheating, murder, sex, drugs, alcohol, and suicides. Male stuff. Road rage messes the smile, so women leave it to guys, who manage to look ugly without fail, so the road rage can't make them worse. Schooling that encourages `an answer' rather than `a beautiful, well-written, clear, sweet-smelling answer' is going to favour boys over girls.
When our education system improved, girls rose to the top. With a female president around the corner^*, more pro-female reforms will happen that will make these male-dominated fields cleaner and more-accommodating of elevated minds, encouraging female participation, rather than doing what those shit-bag feminists are doing—turning our women into men!
Kill all feminists! Throw them down the well! Why? Because I love boobs, lush, sultry voices, smiles that blind me—and I'm following some picture right now—gaits that dance while walking, warnings in concerned tones, and perfumes I just can't stop dreaming of. And those things don't occur on women who are just back from killing people in DR Congo, picking up tools to go kick-start the factory turbines. For the love of Jah, please, let our women be women; just elevate the ways of life (by valuing fairness, gentleness, life, elegance, glamour and beauty, for example), and the women will join.

^*Of course I must agree with her before I give her my vote, but just being a chic gives her a very big head-start in my head.

Dreams of Men I Have Killed

Mood: Dreaming, Healed, Apologising
[Toot!] Index: 0.0
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course

First off, a solemn apology.
I have been going on some blogs by Americans (and, generally, people from the West) and saying some very unkind shit. I should make it clear that when I say stuff like `Kill all Americans and Brits', and making grotesque generalisations, I am saying that (usually) for the propaganda effect. Sheer rhetoric. I have not met an American I don't like. They are nice people. It's why I don't want to meet Bush—he may turn out to be like them, and then I'll have nobody to call mean names. So, I don't really mean to be unkind. Of course, I can't say such harsh stuff if there is no hate lurking beneath. But it is not as extreme as I express. I'm not Anti-American—aren't they the ones who invented the t-shirt-and-jeans combo?
This, for all I have caused discomfort (the calls get very graphic, sometimes), is to say I am very, very sorry. I can't promise I won't say them again, but I will try to be more-reasonable henceforth.
(If you don't tell me you've forgiven me, I'll think you haven't, and yet I really hope you do.)

Back to our regular programming.
I keep having this very weird dream. I can't tell when it started. Could be like three years ago. Whenever it occurs, it is very similar. Almost identical. I think there are some little differences, but I never manage to remember it beyond just one (particularly-powerful) scene. And that scene is always there. Too many gaps, but here it is. I'll fill in with fiction where the memory slips, but I'll keep it honest.

I'm in some place, some trees in the distance, grass is very long and thin. A field of sorts. Wind is blowing, silence, birds, blue skies, clouds are very white and very still. As though I'm on high ground. So I am walking through the long grass (or flowers?), and I see some chic seated there on something like an ant-hill or a boulder. Dress is thin, I think with flower prints. [Hold on while I recall the next part.]
She turns around. Looks like she's been crying. Weak smile. Weak but direct from the heart. She reaches out and removes something (like grass) from my hair, draws a breath.
She says: `Now that the War has been lost ... [pause] ... will you be coming back home? Please?'
I go like: `The War has not been lost.'
`But we heard what happened that side. Many men were killed, caught... This is over. Come back home.'
`We started out with less men than we have. The War has not been lost.'
`Come back home.'
`No.'

That is usually all I remember. I didn't even have to pad any gaps. Usually, I wake up around there. I think I remember once going beyond there. She gave me mail, or food, or water, or something. Can't recall.
I dunno who that chic is, and I can't seem to place the face, even though it does come in with fuzzy clarity, sometimes. But whoever she is, this scene rings too loudly of two songs. The first is Dido's White Flag:

I will go down with this ship.
I'll not put up my hands and surrender.
There will be no white flag above my door.
I'm in love, and always will be.

Must be the chic saying it for the me. :o) Flattering, eh? Or me saying it for the Revolution. Or the Revolution saying it for the oppressed (who include the chic). Nice triangle, no?

The other song is a Bob Marley hymn. Keep on Moving.

I can't interpret the dream (can you?), and it's getting a bit scary, I must confess.

PS: Kill all Americans and Brits. Cut them down wherever you find them. Stab them, feed them to the vultures. Throw their babies down the well. All of them.
Kidding, kidding! Guys, you know I am kidding, don't you? You do. Good.

PPS: I'm hooked on Dido, by the way. This Land is Mine, is what I am knocking right now.

When It Rains Cycles of Sadness ...

Mood: Healing, Getting Sick, Very Sad
[Toot!] Index: 0.1
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course

On that painful Monday night, I was squirming in the emergency room, and the doctor was trying to get me to explain stuff. I couldn't. I could only breathe enough to keep alive. So he mouthed something to the nurse. Like an old secret passed down through generations, not open to outsiders. The nurse scooted out. She came back with a syringe. It had morphine in it. As she slid it into my vein, I asked how long it would take to work. She didn't answer. Before she was done, my back was buzzing, and my muscles letting go of the tight hold. (I'm playing Chaka Khan's Papillon—where did this Good Music go?) In about two minutes, I was high and free of pain. Now I know why morphine is very tightly addictive. But life is a continual pain, no?
They let me go the next day.

On Wednesday night, I was back in. Squirming, not breathing. Usually, I am a sturdy revolutionary. Just give me a war to fight, the rest is simple. But here I was, back at AAR. The nurse refused to add me morphine, even though I was pleading `it's what works'. No highs with diclofenac. They put me in an ambulance and shipped me over to Nsambya Hospital. And I beheld hell. That place, I warn you, is a repository of suffering. Where suffering goes to when it's waiting to be deployed.

You see, this was Nsambya. Not AAR, where I walk in, they recognise me as the guy who works at That Company, and treat me like an Arab prince. All-white beddings, silence, and an aquarium to `aid the healing process'. This was Nsambya. Night I entered, there had been a black-out, and the wards were poorly-lit. There was this guy who didn't believe in suffering in silence. Every breath hurt him, and yet he wasn't dying.
I stayed there until Friday. I rubbed shoulders with genuine sufferers—people who will benefit from our revolution. Some old woman kept a crying gaze on her son; he was wasting away under her eyes. She was otherwise a happy woman, hoping that when June 3rd came around, she will make a pilgrimage to Namugongo and pray for her son. It was a deep moment, as she expressed her hope in delicately-chosen words, thick with Catholic mysticism, her hands gripping her stained rosary. I nodded and said `... and also pray for the Bright Revolution.' `The Bright?' `The Bright ... Apparition. Of Our Lady of Grace.' `Indeed, indeed.'
That's Nsambya Hospital, where, with no brightly-coloured fish, you only get to see healthy life when you look out. There was a monkey out there prancing about (because, you see, the monkey was too smart to stand still on a tin roof on a sunny afternoon).

Then the very quiet man ("Gregory", I think) whose bed was closest to mine. On Friday morning, his bed was empty. I hope it isn't what you think it is, because if it is ... I imagine the nurses tossing a white sheet over the cooling form, skipping over the fainted wife, and wheeling him out to the mortuary. It's how the poverty cycle begins. The kids playing tug-of-war at home know nothing. They don't know Dad is never coming back. Three months later, they have to move out of the house. Three years later, they drop out of P3 and P6, respectively. Three years later, they have to move out and get jobs. They are 12 and 15. Three years later, one dies of AIDS, far away from Mum. Three years later, Ma is hoping her remaining boy will be accepted for professional soccer (in England!!!), and break the poverty cycle. Three years later, he is riding a boda-boda; everybody knows him—he was the mid-fielder who made hell for Nigeria that day. Three years later, her twenty-three year old wife is staring, confused, as his body is dragged out from between a truck and his boda-boda. Three years later, his baby is four years old. "Happy birthday, Gregory. You were named after your grandpa, I think."

I walked out on Friday. Glad that the guy behind me who was shouting a plea to God with every breath was neither me nor someone I had to take care of. I'm back, blogren, even though I can't claim 100% health yet. :o( Thanks for sticking with I and I.