Juliet Lubega


Behind S3

‘Find me behind the S3 block after classes’. The words stared back at him. The black ink dazzled on the white back ground of the black sheet of paper. His hands trembled a little and the pen shook. He wasn’t sure if he was making the right move, but he couldn’t bare it anymore. The night had been sleepless, he had no idea if he had slept at all. Through the darkness of his closed eye lids, he could see her dimples dig deep into her cheeks when she smiled. The long braids hang loosely on her shoulders. Her tiny waist cut through her skirt. He imagined what it would be like to get his hands behind those soft buttocks and whisper into her ear.
He looked at the classroom clock, they had 10 minutes to the end of the lesson. Miss Acan had just handed out the Maths home work but he hadn’t written anything down. It didn’t matter now because, he would ask her what it was and then slot the note under her book while she explained.
Miss Acan had a habit of standing in the door way to see all the students exit the room, he had to be quick. Stella sat two rows in-front of him. He drew a picture in his head of the action he would take to reach her as soon as the lesson was over. The right leg first, stretched as far as possible and by the time he added the left leg to the stride he would be there.
She had hardly noticed him since morning. He was already at his desk sorting his books when she came in. He stared at her, but her face was expressionless towards him. He tried to shout, ‘good morning’ but shut his mouth as soon as he opened it. Every step she took towards her desk, he took a deep breath.
He looked through the window, it had stopped raining and the sun had come out. The grass in the football pitch looked like a dark green blanket, its wetness shimmering below the rays. The goal posts looked like two white squares held together by the earth at either side end of the field. He often wondered why they had no nets and who ever played cricket in the middle murram patch. This was no ordinary pitch, it was a multi sports ground with full blown athletics on sports days.100 and 200 metre lanes were drawn in it during the season as well as high jump and long jump sandy pitches at adjacent corners.
They were both in yellow school teams and he wondered whether Stella ever watched him play football.
Behind S3 there was a quiet corner. Lukwago in S4 had told him, he had kissed Anna there two weeks ago.
‘End of lesson’ Miss Acan announced. The class erupted into noise and the silence seemed like a lid being lifted off a boiling saucepan enabling the steam to escape. as the girls and boys packed away their books. Miss Acan walked towards the door and stood there silent. Her eyes bright white against her velvet dark northern complexion.
He put away his books inside his desk as quickly as possible. He held the note in grip in his left hand, and in swift motion, he stretched his right leg. Soon he was standing at Stella’s desk who was putting pencils and pens in her geometry set. ‘What?’ Stella asked, surprised to see him. His tall frame towering over her head. ‘You have nice hands’ he said sliding the note under the open book in-front of her.
Stella raised her head slowly and their eyes met.


© Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2018)



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She couldn’t sleep

The night seemed long, very long and tiring. She turned and faced the wall, pulled the covers over her head and her middle finger on the right hand got stuck in a hole. She had noticed the hole when she washed her bedsheets last week. It hadn’t bothered her that much, but tonight her mind was wide awake, more than usual “I need to ask Mama for new bedsheets” she said out loud.
A tiny ray of light pierced through the window curtains and she stretched her arm to read her watch. The time was 2 am, three hours since Rosa got in bed. She had lost count of how many times she had turned in bed looking for sleep. At one point she sat up staring at the ceiling to tire her body, the cloudy white pearl bulb hanging in the middle looked down on her, it had no light and had tired for the night. She longed to be switched off as well, so that she doesn’t have to endure the agonising wait.
She laid on the pillow and pulled the covers over her head, her legs curled together, and her knees raised in a squatting position below. The hole in the sheets reminded her that she hadn’t seen Mama Kokwenda since the war ended. She sold second hand clothes and Mama had bought these floral cotton sheets from her.
Mama Koku as they called her, was a tall, big woman and wore ankle length skirts. She always had a multi coloured kanga scarf tied over her head like an upright haystack and her big lips covered in bright red lipstick. She lived a short distance away from them, near the coffee processing plant, and went around houses with a big red bag full of second hand shoes, dresses, shirts, trousers and bed sheets acquired from whole sellers in Masaka town. They were discarded or donated clothing from far away countries like England, America, Italy and France and arrived in big bales ‘endiboota’ which were then retailed to people like Mama Koku and market traders. It was big business.
Rosa closed her eyes and through the darkness of the eye lids and imagined Mama Koku, with her bag sat on the kanga, balancing on her head talking to her mother in a Tanzanian accent, and struggling to construct Luganda sentences;
“Mama Rosa, I have first class bed sheets, America”
“I don’t have money today” Mama would reply
“You will pay me when you get”
“I don’t know if the children need any bedsheets”
“I have other things”
“Rosa, Kintu” Mama would call us
Kintu, Rosa’s 18year old brother was only interested in anything Nike or Adidas from Mama Koku’s bag.
“I don’t have anything for Kintu today”
Mama Koku would get into the kitchen where her mother would be cooking or washing up or in the lounge if she was sewing her table clothes. She didn’t ever want to break what she was doing when Mama Koku came around because she never stopped talking. She would empty her bag, showing Mama each item, one by one.

“This dress will fit Rosa, it is from Italy. These are my last Hawaii shirts; the boys will like them”

Before Rosa arrived, a pile of dresses and shoes would be waiting for her from all the exotic countries she had studied in Geography lessons at school. She knew where France, America and all the others were on the map and that all these clothes and shoes were worn in the Summer months as Uganda is very hot throughout the year.

Next time she only needed bed sheets from Mama Koku. She was most interested in American sheets for their colourful patterns, they were durable, flat and large, not boxed to fit a mattress. The Vitafoam mattresses did not size up the bed sheets from England.

Her holed pair had lasted nearly 4years.She used them at home in the holidays and never took them to school as she was afraid of gossip behind her back that she had second hand market bed sheets. She was happy with her Jinja material sheets, new and locally made, even school uniform was made of Jinja.
Now in first year at university she had upgraded to the less durable but cheap cotton bed sheets from China which had flooded Kampala shops with the return of the Ugandan Asians on the high street since they had been expelled by Amin in 1972.
Gun fire sounded in the far distance, Rosa jerked, and realised she had drifted off to sleep. Her thoughts turned to the soldier she met earlier in the bar. She remembered the day the National Resistance Army (NRA) came into the town nearly three weeks ago. The single file of soldiers, matching with their guns strapped to their backs and singing. The first time she saw a woman soldier, how new and exciting that was to Uganda and she was speaking her language, Luganda.
“Where are you from?” Rosa asked
“Luwero” she replied
Most of these NRA were from Luwero, where the war had started five years ago; ‘The Luwero Triangle’.
The site of child soldiers (Kadogos) was heart breaking, and their stories of joining the NRA, as abandoned unaccompanied orphans after their villages had been burned down by government forces in the Triangle were chilling.
She felt cold as she recalled her first encounter with a child soldier who wasn’t forthcoming with information about himself. She had not bothered to ask his name because he seemed extremely angry, his face pale and eyes bloodshot. Instead she had offered him a sugar cane, Mama had just bought from Siragye, the hawker as life was beginning to get back to normal
Then there was this soldier she met earlier that day. There was something about him, he said he was not from Luwero. He was not like the others she had met before and didn’t want to see her tomorrow.
“Did he answer my last question?” Rosa spoke out loud and her words echoed through the silent night.
“No, he didn’t” she replied herself.
Her emotions were running high and she felt a headache and her forehead was sweaty.
She closed her eyes to try and get some sleep, but she couldn’t shake him off. She mulled over the events of the evening and could see his face, his smile and that pistol stuck under his belt through the darkness.
What was his name? She didn’t ask him and didn’t know why.
The soldier she served had called him Afande but that is a tittle. She still didn’t know his name.
The cock’s crow outside hit her ears, followed by the birds twittering. It was 6 am and she hadn’t slept


© Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2017)



The Meal

“The guests are arriving in just under two hours”
Rose chops the red peppers on top of the pine board.
Her sharp blade slices through the cover, and swings with ease through the hollow middle.
The sliced red pieces look like flower petals fallen apart.

Birabwa drops the pan covers on the tiled floor
They sound like Church bells on a Sunday morning.
Music echoes in the air, and cuts through the busy atmosphere
Abana ba Afrigo batuuse.

Tom stirs through the beef stew with a wooden spoon
His waist swaying to the beat

Nambi wraps the matooke into foil paper and
Puts it in the heated oven.
She goes to assist Helen stuff the minced meat into the samosa covers.
Its aroma of fresh onion and coriander tickles her nostrils.

Rose puts three big spoons of coconut oil in the pan.
The furious flame under the pan melts it in a few seconds.
She adds onions, tomatoes, and rose coco beans before salt, curry and chilli powder.

The rice simmers in the rice cooker, the yellow sweet potatoes can be seen through the glass as steam permeates their peeled bodies.

While the oil on the frying pan continues to bubble next to him,
Mutebi rolls over the dough into a flat chapatti.

The clock above his head ticks to 1 pm.

Balungi and Rachel are laying the table, the noise from the plates and cutlery gets to Matt’s ears, he is preparing hot water in the pan to make the Ugali.

“Fifteen more minutes” Rose informs everyone. “Start on the Ugali Matt”.


©Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2017)




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I just said, listen

Okay then

Are you listening?

Go on

I need to tell you

Tell me what?

Look at me

I am looking

You have beautiful eyes

Okay, thank you

Are you really listening?

Of course I am

Can we order another drink?

Yes we can

I need you to listen to this

Can you just say it?

How long will Ryan be you think?

Another five minutes maybe

I was just saying

Go ahead

I like the way you did your hair

Thank you

I don’t know how to say this

It must be serious then

Off course it is

Well, let me hear it

Is your drink finished?

Is that all


Then what else?

I like you


I said, I like you

He is walking in


Ryan,  your best mate.


©Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2017)


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‘To my Daddy’


She lifted up the mattress, her hand slid to tuck in bottom bed sheet and her fingers touched its edges. It felt foreign to be under the mattress as she couldn’t recall putting or seeing anything there before. She pushed her hand further beneath and it felt, smooth and straight. Her fingers quivered at the sharpness. The surface appeared small with a flap, so she pulled out the small blue envelope and it flipped open.

A lined paper was folded and a picture of a young girl inserted inside. She pulled out the picture. The girl looked about 5 years old, same as her own Maria. She was dark skinned, her hair was in single plaits with yellow, red and white beads scattered at the edges. The eyes were deep and large. Her white dress matched with her smile and sandals. She turned to the back, the words ‘Meme 5 years old’ were written in red ink. She felt her knees weaken below the skirt and sat down on the bed. Her hands trembled as she opened the paper.

She started reading, her eyes quickly skipped from word to word as the warm liquid filled their sockets. Soon tears were streaming down her face. It was to her Kaku, the husband of 15 years and 3 children.

The assignment to Uganda had been full of excitement. In the 5 years, Kaku was the Director of Operations in the East African region, they had lived in the up market Kololo suburb of Kampala. They had spent their holidays touring the National Parks and admiring the landscape from the savannah plains in the North to the cascading hills of Kabale, in the South West .The Rwenzori mountain range on the western boarder, to the Elgon mountains  on its boarder with Kenya.  They had a team of dedicated staff, from drivers to home helpers. Life was perfect.

She turned her eyes to the bottom of the page. It was signed by Birungi. There was no picture but recalled her as one of the 6 home helpers she had employed with special duties to look after the children. She had not stayed long, and terminated her contract after 6 months. To her surprise, Birungi hadn’t complained when she reduced her pay for breaching her terms of employment. She didn’t think any thing of it until now that she was holding a letter to her husband.

In the letter, Birungi said, she hadn’t heard from Kaku for 6 months, and her housing contract was coming to an end. She needed to pay the landlord and was struggling with the upkeep of his daughter after clearing all her school fees.

Tears continued to stream down her face as she realised that caring for children in her house gave home helpers access to most of the bedrooms. She stuck out her tongue and tasted the bitterness of the truth with the salty liquid. A picture of Kaku and Birungi lying naked in hers, or their children’s beds clouded her head. “No!”, she squealed at the betrayal and deceit.

A tear dropped on the smaller letter splattering on the words; ‘To my Daddy’


©Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2017




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This is a secret


I said it is a secret

What if she finds out?

She will not find out?

She may, you never know

Who will tell her?

She doesn’t need to be told

How will she find out then?

The way you act


Yes, I mean your actions

Like what?

Your eyes

What about my eyes?

They wander over my body

What is wrong with that?

It is suggestive?

Of what?

Of the way you see me

I just look

It is more than that.


It shows the way you feel

Don’t you know?


Actions speak louder than words.


©Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2016)


It is 7 pm in Uganda

Around 7pm it was getting dark and the temperatures plummeting. I was sitting outside trying to keep warm in front on the burning charcoal stove. My son sat next to me observing how my niece was cooking sauce in a pan over the hostile flames.
The chicken appeared from the corner of the house walking towards us. He jumped up from his stool.
“Sit down” I told him.
“The chicken is coming” he replied.
“It just needs to pass to go to bed” I said.
“Where is it its bed?” he asked
“In the indoor kitchen” I replied.
“Do they all have beds?” he asked.
“Yes, at 7 pm every day, they all stop running around and go home?” I replied.
I explained that every chicken is trained by its owner to know its home. When we brought this one from the village, it was tied using a banana fibre by one leg, to a post near the house for 3 days to enable it to learn its surroundings. Then it was let to run freely around the neighbourhood during the day, pecking for food.
“When you see the chicken coming home, then you know it is 7 pm” I told him.
He looked at me in astonishment.
“Do you mean all the chicken know their homes?” He asked
“Yes they do” I replied.
He remained standing looking at the chicken as it walked past us; its head straight ahead towards the door, gliding like a ship on water, it went through two entrances and passed all the shopping we had brought earlier and settled down in its corner in the kitchen for the night.
My son shortly went in the kitchen to see if it was there. He came back with a big smile on his face.
“It will wake up at dawn” I told him.
“How will it get out of the house?” he asked
I explained to him that it will walk up to this back door, where it will wait and may crow or make chuckling noises until someone wakes up to let it out of the house for

©Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2016)

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