Juliet Lubega


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The man in the story

His eyes were red shot through my eye lids. My hand stretched out to touch him and I felt my fingers tremble as I reached his hairy beard. It was black, as the dark in-front of my eyes. I could feel it touching my eye brows with gentleness, like a light breeze through the trees. Those palm trees that stood tall and majestic over- looking the lake. I loved the little bench where I often sat reading my books and frequently tilted my head upwards to look at the dark green long palm leaves. They spread out like protective arms obstructing the heat from the scorching sun.
Yesterday afternoon, I was reading about this young girl from a far- away land, one I can never imagine myself living in. It is very cold many months of the year and can get dark as early as 3 pm or as late as 11 pm sometimes. Her father bought her lots of Christmas presents.
‘Mama can you tell me about my father?’ I asked over dinner that night.
‘She looked at me, a little frown on her fore head and her eyes distant.
‘What do you want to know?
Everything like; what he looked like, the food he loved, where his family came from?
‘Where his family came?’
‘Yes’
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘My hair is very curly, and I am not black. I know I am mixed race’
‘Can we talk about that tomorrow’ her tone dismissive.
I realised I couldn’t push the conversation any further. We ate the rest of the food in silence.
‘Remind me to tell you about your father when you get back from school’ she said as we cleared the table.
As I drifted to sleep, my thought turned to the book I had been reading. The described pale pink face staring at me. Dark brown eyes open wide and a large forehead. The hair was black and curly and long falling over the shoulders.
Could my father be like this man? I sighed and turned to look at my picture in reception class on the wall. My smile with missing teeth, shinning against the brown face and curly black hair tied into pony tails with two red ribbons. I wondered whether my father could look like the man in the story.
Here he was in my dream, my father.

 

©Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2019)

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Sezibwa Falls, Uganda -The hidden treasure

Juliet Lubega

From an unassuming right turn off Jinja Road, we drove into an earth (murram) road flanked by sugar cane spread out like a thick green blanket. Behind the sugar plantation we took a left down a steep hill onto a dead end. In the right hand corner is this spread of beauty.

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We arrived to a peaceful and quiet and relaxing atmosphere with beautiful gardens. The still atmosphere interrupted by the sound of the falling waters.

 Water particles filled the air adding freshness to the surrounding ancient trees.

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  Surrounded in mystery and bound by tradition Sezibwa Falls is Uganda’s hidden treasure. This breathtaking water spectacle falls over 7 meters over steep sharp rocks forming a small lake below.

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 River Sezibwa continues its journey to Lake Kyoga in central Uganda; it is merely a trickle of stream with a visible river bed at this point

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 This…

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The Return

19th December 2012.The tall and big rectangular white billboard among numerous small ones, zoomed in front of us as we approached the muram (earth) feeder road off the Kampala-Masaka highway; ’King’s College Budo, Budo Junior School-Gakyali Mabaga’ the red letters stood bold and firm against the white background like an older brother protecting a young one.
I smiled at the same old address P.O. Box 1712 Kampala. An address that was at the fore front of my memory as I wrote letters to my parents complaining of hunger, the bad school food of the 1970’s and reminding them of the visiting days. I turned to my mother, who was sitting behind me in the car and said, “I think you remember the address well”. She smiled and nodded in agreement.
My daughter asked her “Jajja how did you send Mum to a school so far from Masaka?”
“It is one of the best schools” she answered.
“Didn’t you miss her?” she continued.
“Off course I did but it was what was best for her”
“Mum, would you have wanted to send me to boarding school in England?” she asked me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t for two reasons. First, I can’t afford it; boarding schools in England are very expensive. It is not the sums of money we are talking about here in Uganda. Most important; and one of the main reasons I am taking you to see my school is: in the time I have lived in England I have had to be defensive about attending a boarding school so young. I learnt quite early on that I shouldn’t talk about it. If I am being honest, I feel cheated that I should be made to feel ashamed of that part of my upbringing, a background I should be incredibly proud of and what made me the person I am today. The place of boarding schools in Ugandan society is very different from England. Jajja did not take me to boarding because she ‘didn’t want responsibility’ and I don’t feel ‘unloved’ or ‘neglected’ as a child.”
There was absolute silence while I poured out my explanation. My voice croaking and breaking as my impaired speech struggled to contain the emotion. I recalled the struggles and sacrifices my parents had made to bring me here in their quest for my education: no holidays, no days out or luxuries, my mother only bought a new dress probably once a year, she saved her teachers’ salary to pay my fees.
”What?” Isa, our driver asked, shaking his head in disbelief.
” Apparently so” I replied.

 

©Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2018)

 


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The Invisible Web

She was chatting to Maggie as they appeared through the door way. I couldn’t hear what she said but Maggie nodded in reply. I knew straight away she was the new girl joining the team. Her tall figure towered up to the ceiling, I looked up and for the first time realised how low the ceiling was. Various fans hanging off its white paint, rotated in swift motion pumping cold air for the staff busy at their desks below. The temperatures were soaring outside, the sky clear blue and cloudless.
As they approached my desk, her dark velvet skin shimmered. Behind her forehead was a scarlet band that held her long braids firmly behind her neck and they dangled onto her back with patience. She was wearing a red sleeveless blouse with a white petal collar that sat on top on the waist band of her long pencil skirt.
I turned back to my computer screen pretending I hadn’t seen them. I laid my right hand on the cursor and then realised that my thumb was trembling. I opened Microsoft Word and started typing ‘To whom it May Concern’ but I could hear their voices and footsteps as they approached me.
Before I could think of another word Maggie said;
‘Can I introduce you to Amooti?’ Graham.
‘Amooti this is Graham, he will show you everything?’
I looked up at Amooti’s face, she had a glint in her eyes.
‘Nice to meet you and welcome to the team’ I said.
‘Nice to meet you too’ she replied, breaking into a large smile revealing her dark gums.
I had been volunteering for a small charity UK based Charity, Grace, for Old People in Western Uganda during my gap year before going to University some years ago and knew about the name ‘Amooti’. A unisex pet name among the Batoro and Banyoro tribes. My colleagues in the Charity had given me a pet name ‘Akiki’ and now that I was back in UK I had never used it again.
Amooti sat down on a desk next to mine clutching her handbag on her lap. I had helped Maggie put up her desk top and wire it to our joint printer.
Her hands looked delicate with red nail polish on her finger nails. I looked at her long legs stretched below the desk.
‘Do you want a cup of coffee? I was about to make one.’ I asked
‘Yes please, thank you’ she replied’
I was starting to gasp for breath talking to her and began to panic at what was happening to me. I felt a loud voice in my head saying ‘no’. No to what? I couldn’t it figure out.
I stood up and started walking towards the pantry and as I took my first step, I turned my head and said.
‘Empako yawe’
She looked at me, eyes lit with excitement and shock. I had taken her to a place she didn’t expect.
‘You speak my language’? she asked.
‘Just a little bit’ I said. Patting my left palm on my chest to signal ‘me’. ‘This muzungu lived in Fort Portal’
‘Amooti, kandi eyaawe?’ she asked
‘Akiki’ I replied
She started shaking her head in amusement and before she could find her words. I turned my back on her and walked towards the pantry, smiling from ear to ear.
I felt like I was being woven in an invisible web of inexplicable emotions.

 

© Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2018)


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Moving on my son?

‘Look after Tom and the home’ those were the last words, she closed her eyes and took the last breath. I took a step forward, towards the hospital bed and placed my sweaty palm over her fore head. I felt a one part cold an another warm as my emotions got mixed up too; hot and cold. She was gone, lifeless and breathless. I looked at the meaningless tubes inserted in her arm. The oxygen mask hanging upside down on the wall, but I knew nothing could have saved her
That was 10 years ago now and nothing seemed different. Every year on this day I heard those same words in my ears, see her face and remember when we met as giggling teenagers at a school disco. I had been staring at her across the hall for about half an hour before I picked up the courage to go and ask her to dance with me. She had felt light and tender in my arms as we swayed from left to right to the gentle sounds of Michael Jackson’s ‘Human Nature’. The aroma from her perfume filled my nostrils and I felt my stomach turning as her body pressed against mine.
When Tom was born, my life became complete. I had married my dream girl and we had the perfect baby. It fell apart on that dreaded Thursday afternoon March 19th.I was left to raise Tom alone.
‘Dad dinner is ready’ he stood in the door way of my bedroom. I raised my head and attempted a smile
‘Okay, I am coming’.
‘Are you alright’
‘Yes, I am son’
I always tried to hide my sadness from Tom since his mother died but he could read me like a book. The 8-old boy who wept in my arms at his mother’s funeral was now towering above my head. Tall and elegant, cultured beyond his years. As time went by, he wanted to make it more of a celebration and had offered to make the dinner that night, we would have a quiet reflection and look at the family albums later. I listened as he told me the day’s plan.
‘Dad’
‘Yes’
‘Have you thought….’ His voice trailed off like a train wagon in the distance.
There was silence. The knives and forks talked as I cut my chicken quarter leg in half.
‘Thought about what?’
‘Maybe you could…’ he stopped again mid- sentence.
I looked at him, his dark velvet skin shimmered under the light, and that questioning look in his eyes, just like his mother stared at me at the school disco when I asked her to dance all those years ago.
‘Go on tell me’
‘I was just saying’
‘I am listening’
‘About you trying to find another wife’ he paused. ‘I am sure Mum would want you to be happy’
I broke into a smile. He smiled back.

©Juliet.Lubega (unpublished 2018)


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Mutuba tree, you make me proud

Juliet Lubega

Mutuba tree, you make me proud to be a Ugandan

Your elegant silver stem protects the

Ancient history of a nation

The traditional harvesting of your inner bark makes

The sacred fabric, bark cloth, that

Defines  the spirit of the Buganda Kingdom.

No  machines and no weaving

Just simple beating with wooden mallets

Stretching and sun drying

The practice has been around for centuries.

And still defies the modern process of cloth making

In all shades of brown, light and dark

The bark cloth unites us

From Royal attire to street fashion

Normal garments, burial sheets and precious works of art

It defines  the identity of  the  kindred

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Mutuba tree, the  mother of the bark cloth

You make me proud to be Ugandan

Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2013)

**This is dedicated to my late grandfather who was a bark cloth maker by trade.He planted these trees at our ancestral ground,Bubango Village,Rakai…

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