The Green Slum Project

I wore all black, with a cap, even though the sun was blazing hot. Well, the sun has never been cooler. The weather was roasting hot and as dusty as could be in Nansana, a municipality of Wakiso district. I was looking for Kabumbi, also known as the Green Slum as it’s a one of a kind slum surrounded with a lot of green; mostly trees. I was going to meet a young man called “Woria”, the proprietor of Nansana Stop The Violence Movement. He goes by the name of Tente Joseph. Woria is a stage name that he picked up as a hip hop (Bboy) dancer. I walked with him to the project area, sat on a bench in a shade and we had a long chat.

As i might have earlier mentioned, the project at the Green Slum is called the “Nansana Stop The Violence Movement”. It is a small non-profit project under the hip-hop community in Uganda which is fast growing in the background.
There are quite a number of hip-hop projects budding in different communities and this is just one out of many. The element of hip-hop is being used to spread peace, unity and love and hope in various communities and at the same time equipping young people with life skills to lead productive lives. That children in disadvantaged (or otherwise) situations will find an alternative for violence, theft and other conditions, where they meet up with other kids to learn hip-hop, dance, music and emceeing. This is so that they’re able to express themselves in the things they believe in and those that have affected them.

The children and teenagers are taught above all, to share knowledge. The projects thus come up in a way that a young person learns the elements of hip-hop and life skills and on seeing the need in his/her community, they then move back to set up their own where they host children and teenagers in one place to teach and impart the skills learnt, that their issues might somehow be addressed.
This is also how Woria started the Nansana Stop The Violence Project.

It begun on the 23rd November 2015. Although it is a hip-hop founded project, it mainly focuses on stopping violence in the area of Nansana where the children come from. Woria said he drew inspiration from an incident that saw his friend killed after he had been beaten for stealing a few things; he admits that his friend was quite the gangster.

He believed that his friend could have turned out differently had he been under the right influences. He hoped that he could do his part in nurturing the children in his community to avoid any kind of risky behavior in the near future and for them to grow up to be responsible citizens through music, dance and life skills.

Woria passionately stressed the issues affecting the children in Kabumbi saying that on top of the environment being chaotic, children as young as 10 years old would become thieves as others would lose interest in going to school but instead look for scrap to sell, whilst their parents hardly cared for their wellbeing.

He said that the project helps to bring up these children better, they find clothes for them, with encouragement, while putting their minds off the troubles in their homes. He meets the children every evening at 4pm. But above all things hip-hop, he says the children learn discipline, respect for elders, art and craft, English, to believe in themselves and most of all to love God.

So far, parents are happy with Woria and even though the project has close to 100 kids coming in, he says 27 of them are sent directly by their parents who have registered a positive change in their children.

So being the passionate volunteer of my knowledge on leadership, life skills and project management, I was wondering what I’d do with it come 2017 besides taking it to an office or field every morning with a possible salary at the end of the month; I decided I’d find a project I could be part of in my free time (thankfully being a hip-hop dancer too, I’d blend in with the kids.)

I pledged to Woria that I’d visit once a week or twice every month for a couple of hours to share with the children as much as I can as they’re dangerously limited on knowledge. I’d also help to think about and build an Income Generating Activity of their own so they can educate a couple of kids at a time as most are challenged by school fees; so in the end, his project would be self sustainable as opposed to his current situation of looking for funding.

Woria is doing a great job as are so many others that have put up these dance projects in their communities to provide a safe space for the less fortunate.
I toast to them!

Image: pinterest.com

PS: I’ll do better next time, and post pictures 🙂

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Day Of The Girl.

“They should get informal education, where they stay home.”

girl-child-day

“Girls are not supposed to learn.”
I turned around to see who it is that was speaking. It was one of the students at the school a couple of friends and i had gone to carry out some reach out sessions.
The young man who must have been about 17, had been standing outside the classroom just like I was with all the others, preparing to go out for a street march while also looking at the “LET GIRLS LEARN” banners that had been put up.

You see, there are days when you could go on and on about the things that are important, that matter to you, and then there are days when those same things just put a gape on your face, getting you dumbstruck. At a loss for words because at that point, you look at what is around you and you know in that instant that you have to think hard for what to tell this young mind, putting across your point in the shortest time possible.

“Why do you say that?” I asked, rather composed with an encouraging smile on my face.

“Aaah that’s what I think.”

“But what makes you think so? Are the girls not contributing in class?”

“Girls should stay home.”

“And you have no reason why…?”

He kept a shy smile the whole time, which puzzled me.

“They should get informal education, where they stay home.”

“So you’re saying this education is not helpful to them?”

He smiles.

“Do you have sisters?”

He nodded.

“And they go to school. Right? ”

“Yes. But they are not supposed to.”

“Would you ever let your girl children go to school?”

“No.”

girl-day

At this point, I was getting nowhere with that conversation. I got down to business and told him about education for everyone and why he should not think such thoughts because of what he might have witnessed in his youth.

I started to think about the danger we are still in if even a young man in the outskirts of Kampala still believes that educating girls is a waste of time and money.
These thoughts stem from the communities these young people come from. Communities where girls’ youth is cut short when she is married off, or when the living conditions and cultural norms have pushed her into the arms of a deceitful older man.

In that case, we have and are doing our best to support their education materially or with skills that give them a hope that they will get through their youth unhindered, whether their parents  can afford school or not.

An agitated headmaster in Moroto once complained, when my team visited, that nothing changes even when we keep coming to talk and talk. The girls stop studying in P7. And there’s not much they can do, he said.
Sometimes an older man comes and points out a girl he would like to marry soon. And he says he can only do as much… because the parents have no problem with it either.

He left us thinking that even as we continue talking to the girls, let’s also groom these young men to understand that everyone has a right to education, and that marriage or getting a girl pregnant because he gave her some nice things, will alter her education and a chance to a beautiful future full of hopes and dreams.

Maybe they can grow to outlive their societal and cultural norms.

#LetGirlsLearn
#DayOfTheGirl16
#InternationalDayOfTheGirl.
#11Oct.

Of Sad Stories II

So I have been reading. In the post about book tags, one question asked which of the two kinds I preferred; sad books or happy books (I forget how exactly the question was phrased, but y’all get the idea). Of course I said I love reading books that make me cry. Books that could even make me cry so hard even if that was what I was doing all day… crying so hard, in this case, just means when tears roll down my face with not so much of an effort to  stop or hide them. My point here is I am not wailing, weeping, or even sobbing…my face is just leaking.

Mable of the sweet growing pains heard my plea and emailed different collections of over 30 books, it was extreme excitement, thanks Mable.

Growing up, I was, and still is, a happy person. In some conversations (normally with new people) I’d be smiling all through uncontrollably. To laugh is not a hard job for me; just throw in the slightest joke and I’d be laughing so hard. Real life jokes…not comedy shows or TV whatever(s). They’re funny, but it’s not too real except for the few times when I can’t really help it, hehe… I have a big laugh, and it can be really loud sometimes; I basically laugh with everything I’ve got, it’s infectious.

The only people I ever hang around, are happy people and it’s not that they don’t have problems… they do, a closet full. But it seems to me that they like to each deal with them in their own way inspite of your probing. So I thought I would go on a quest, to find out how other people dealt with sadness because the truth of the matter is that I didn’t know how, given that I had a baggage of damage on my shoulders. It was instead translating into anger over a period of time. I feel like I am telling you too much of myself already.

Anyway since I loved to read, I soon realised that between the funny and sad books, the latter seemed to dig into me more. I need you to remember they’re not entirely sad, some of them have endings that are too good to be true, and you only realise what’s going on after you discover your wet face. I find out that crying was to me some kind of anti-depressant, a stress reliever.  I often felt a lot better after I let a few tears roll out between deep breaths; although I am aware that this can be very much the opposite for a lot of other people.

its-okay-to-cry-the-sky-does-it-too-quote-1

I found the realness of life, in the sense that I no longer had to brush things off because I wanted to stay cheered up. I could actually give myself a minute to tear up and acknowledge my thorns. So I fell in love with sad stories, movies too sometimes because they taught me how to cry. And when someone has pissed me the heck off, the anger seeps out all my energy I can hardly speak; at that point, I learnt that all I have to do is let some tears fall while the anger rafts along them.

Of Sad Stories 1 – Prologue.

….that was real sweet Nicholas Sparks, real sweet.

Date check: Sunday 26th June 2016. I am under house arrest for a few days in an unknown location; not as if secret, but well, i haven’t mentioned where i am yet otherwise I could easily be found if one wanted to. Don’t ask me for details but just so you know, if I were discovered by a certain group of people, my near future would come crumbling down in uncollectable debris or like the murderous mudslides of Bududa. Not like a joke.
Like most people my age, this is the most critical time of my life when I am most concerned about what happens tomorrow at my desk, while on duty, etcetera because it basically makes me who i will be “tomorrow”.

Anyhow, I can’t sleep in, or I’d feel like a lazy bum. So i reach over my bed to find my phone that spent all night plugged into the socket to recharge. I winced at the thought of the pain it must have felt; being force-fed beyond what it could take. I knew deep down that one day it would completely resent me, stop feeding, and eventually leave me for 6 feet under. I wouldn’t weep, but take a deep breath and start the long holiday from the noisy pop-up notifications.
I digress.

When I find my phone, i pick up from where I left off the last time I read. Now, i am reading books using my phone; i will tell you how I got them in the story next, they’re over 30. I haven’t got into the habit of buying books yet, (but my children gon get served books for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Granted) and having my temporarily-owned computer crashed, phone’s in handy. So don’t be thinking i am addicted to social media when I’m looking down at my phone all day. And away from people…ambivert alert.

I begin to read for a while, and the book prematurely comes to its end. Yes. It actually leaves me hanging but i am thinking that maybe there was nothing more left to do. Landon loved with all his heart, Jamie lived with all that she was and there was nothing Hegbert or I, could do if not further the already sad situation. Although, i must say that was real sweet Nicholas Sparks, real sweet.

The hunger pangs have kicked in. This is the worst possible moment of being under house arrest, i tell you. I finally find breakfast, a very awkward breakfast… Even spinsters live better than I do sometimes.
Between the weird breakfast, i was writing this post, about what kind of book(s) i have just read and why i love reading them…

Arid.

But it flew with the wind 🍃

Are you gone?
You’re here but you’re not.
I thought I caught your smile,
Far off in the mirage.
But it flew with the wind.
The only promise of dew;
I stay parched.
I am arid,
If you’re gone.

THIS OR THAT BOOK TAG.

The beautiful Subtle royalty, (i have never seen or met her) nominated me for this tag some granaries ago. Haha…but not too long ago. She’s awesome because her blog is “for those people up there” and i immensely enjoy reading it. Thank you, for giving me another reason to blog. Gwe asinga. Please, i present to you, That Writer Chick!

The rules are as follows;

1. Thank and link the person who tagged you.
2. Answer the questions asked.
3. Tag other 10 bloggers to do same .

READING ON THE COUCH OR THE BED?

Bed all day!! I mean… reading on the couch? What do i call myself… I don’t take life that serious sometimes.

MAIN MALE CHARACTER OR FEMALE MAIN CHARACTER?

Female main character it is. I love to read other women’s train of thought. To feel myself in the position they are in, and how i would have handled the same situation being that I’m female. It’s fun. I think.

SWEET SNACKS OR SALTY SNACKS?

On that note, i am a very balanced person. Every time i go out to get a snack, half my purchases will be sweet and the other half will be salty. I can’t tell u which i prefer.

TRILOGIES OR QUARTETS?

Trilogies. When a story gets too long, I’d abandon the book. I love reading, but not the same book for months. Yeah, it takes months for me to finish a book; not that I’m too slow, but i take a couple of pages at a time.

FIRST PERSON POINT OF VIEW OR THIRD PERSON POINT OF VIEW?

Oh goodness… First person!! Uh, i love how it can be so deep, it starts to cut through you. I want a whole library of those!

READING AT NIGHT OR IN THE MORNING?

If you read a book in the morning, i don’t know what planet you might come from because I’d like to visit so I can see how you do it.
I read at night. Way into the night. When the noises are down and i can only hear the mosquitoes above my head. Same for writing. It is 23:06 as I type this answer.

LIBRARIES OR BOOKSTORES?

You people, first chill bookstores. I LOVE libraries! There’s something about them. It is in a library that you find some book that gathered dust, which happens to be in your to-read list. Or a book by an unpopular writer, which could have made best-seller.
The books in a library have that priceless book smell that you just can’t trade for nothin’!

BOOKS THAT MAKE YOU CRY OR LAUGH?

I’m emotional kabisa. I like sad stories. Or sweet stories that will make me cry eventually. I basically hunt for those kinds of things; books and movies. So someone out there reading this, if u have a book that makes people like me cry, please allow me read it.

BLACK BOOK COVERS OR WHITE BOOK COVERS?

What is that… Haha, but i know how the colour of the cover attracts my attention.
Black book covers for me.

CHARACTER DRIVEN STORY OR PLOT DRIVEN STORY?

Plot driven stories. Plot driven stories. Plot driven stories.

So my nominees are;
I will not nominate 10 bloggers because… I’m just going to break that rule.

1. @Jay_Layado, don’t take too long on this one *runs and hides*

2. @mpozii , here’s to cool new friends. I look forward to reading your take on that above!

3. @proverbialfaith, i am curious. 🙂

4. @gloswaan,  there’s no nomination without you. Even if you might have already been nominated!

5. @omuwanguzi,  what i have said about @gloswaan.

6. @Callme_Massie, you have the highest number of comments on my blog. Thanks alot!

…Break a leg y’all.

Luka the Italian.

#Fact1: The biggest part of the year… Scratch that. I have spent the last 7 months living in guest houses.

#Fact1: The biggest part of the year… I have spent the last 7 months living in guest houses.

That right there was a thought I harboured in my mind but had no idea how to put it into words (a blog post). So I just went right ahead and tweeted it; after all, they call it micro-blogging, no? I am not sure I’m good at crafting stories out of simple experiences otherwise this blog should have had a whole years’ series on guesthouse-type-of-living. Clearly. I suck at this and I’m often disappointed in myself because I don’t wanna forget a thing! Believe me there’s so much I see out here and some of it almost made me cry amidst some children but I can’t find words to describe the depth on here! So this might be my longest blog post yet. Stay with me to the end.

Location: Hoima District, Somewhere in a certain guest house.

Anyhow, that worry came to an end just a few minutes after my hopeless tweet. I had got myself 500 ml of mountain dew during dinner, but by the time I got home and got texting, it was almost 10pm and the soda was warm. The room is THAT hot. In fact, every time we get back from a long, hectic, muscle-straining day, we open our rooms and there’s this strong wave of heat that hits you in the face in a welcome. The room has a ceiling, but is not properly ventilated! My soda became really warm.

It was getting late, so I thought quick for a solution because I was thirsty…and then I decided I will take it to the guesthouse bar so that they can refrigerate it for me as I take my shower and then I’d pick it up as soon as I was finished since they were about closing shop. That, I did. As I made my way back to my room tip-toeing bare-footed, I heard the familiar “hello!” somewhere in the dark behind me. Earlier I’d got new neighbours next door, a group of young men and they’d said that “hellooo” stuff again to me but I ignored them. The ladies are familiar with that hello-sound; the bi men say it so irritatingly, so you know what their intentions are and then you don’t have to respond, you just keep walking because mother earth does not, ever revolve around their needs.

That other hello though, I wasn’t quite sure I’d heard it well. So I continued to open my door and then came the voice again, this time, “hi!” I turned around, and sure enough, there he was in the dark. Luka. It was dark as his veranda did not have any light naye I did not have to look so hard to recognise him, as you will know why. But, first, rewind to Monday evening…

Easter Monday is when my team travelled back to Hoima after the Easter break to resume from where we left off before the long holiday. We got there at about 18:20 which was good enough, so we could have a much deserved rest until commencement of work the day next. While we sat there waiting to find rooms, there was this guy hanging outside his room bare-chested but I didn’t care much, until he seemed to have noticed some “new kids on the block”. He went back to get dressed up in a t-shirt and shorts then he came over, stood around, looked around, stepped back a bit to the side when he didn’t seem noticed by anyone, then the thought hit me that maybe he thought he’d finally seen some people he could try and chat up with but we were so engrossed in our own discussion about current affairs.

At one point I looked up in his direction, to find him staring at me with a smirk. That was weird, and alarms immediately went off in my head (the stay-away-from-that-man-as-long-as-he’s-still-here alarms). But after a few minutes, he walked around the small compound, and I thought, well, maybe if I were alone, I’d chat up the poor guy…I guessed he was trying to find new friends…and then he made his way out. His name is Luka, and he is Italian. (But I didn’t know that until later.)

Fast forward to Tuesday evening (yesterday) after work, I’d gone to a shop and on my way back he was seated at a carpenter’s probably enjoying the craft or the nice shade under the craft man’s tree and I thought, oh no…there’s the white guy with the mischievous stare. I was wishing that I’d been a jogger at that point so I could just jog past him while saying “Jambo!” to the kids playing with tyres, but wapi. In fact, as I got closer, he actually stood up probably to stop me for a conversation but I was having no small talk from a stranger with the questionable expressions; I’d seen him chat up some strange ladies at his door, and I was having none of that. I focussed on a child on the other side, but then he still called my attention with “hi!” I responded, exchanged pleasantries and quickly continued on my way. He was still smiling and looking, when I left. More alarms.

Later that night, after dropping my soda in the fridge, there he was in the dark, on his veranda. Luka. And since he’s white, I saw him clearly; he was smiling. Smiling man + darkness + guesthouse = dangerous. No matter where you’re from. So I just wanted to respond to the hello, smile, and then get into my room and shut the door. But it didn’t seem fair because he came forward a little bit, as if to suggest, “phew! Maybe we can talk?” I thought it’d then be rude to go away because he asked the next question so quickly as if he knew I was running.

To be polite, I stepped back out and responded. He knew he’d finally landed my attention, so he sped off into various questions, sounding soft and stuff, all through so I decided I’ll keep his head straight by using a serious yet engaging tone so that he won’t get any creepy ideas in the dark of the night, and then I’d pick up a story from him at the end. As soon as I discovered who he really was, I ended up being an interviewer of sorts. That I’d get as much of his story as I could and come and tell you guys, then get liberated from my blogging silence as well.

My colleague at the end of the block came out her door to find me talking and listening. She must have thought…woah, did she finally land herself “connections” with the white man across the block? Even the manager came around at one point and then went off about her business. No wonder, later when she came over to inquire about something, I opened almost immediately as I was close to my door, and I noticed she looked inside just to see if Luka had somehow managed to get into my room. That perversion. But I can’t blame her. She sees that sort of thing every day all year. I then deliberately pushed wider my door as she spoke, so she could have a better look. Lol.

I was pleased at how well I handled the conversation with Luka and I almost felt sad when he said he was leaving the next day (today, which he did not). I thought I would gather more of his story, it was pretty impressive. We didn’t start off with introductions right away, as he was shooting questions trying to keep me from running. Haha. The many questions were about who I am and what I was doing, which I explained in the simplest detail, as he wasn’t fluent in English. It is at this point that I realised I could get a story out of him instead of freaking out, so I turned myself into an interviewer and off went the questions.

When I asked Luka what he was doing in Hoima, I expected to hear something else… but he said he was travelling. I asked if he was travelling to tour Uganda, but no, he was travelling around the world. Around the world!! Cool! So… anha…? How? Why? Of course I didn’t ask that way, I was trying to be careful not to sound too curious. Luka was travelling around the world ON A BIKE. Yes, bicycoloooo! Cycling from country to country. He said he started off with all through Europe, and now he had been cycling through Africa.

But Luka wasn’t just cycling. In Europe, yes. But in Africa, for every country that he went through, he stayed for a few days and he would single out a primary school in the villages in which he would build a swing for the kids to play. And he was on his way to Madagascar, which trip he said would take him a year to ride on a bicycle. A year to Madagascar from Uganda!

I asked why he took all this trouble, and he said he loved children, and also because growing up, he had every play stuff he needed. And going through these primary schools with a lot of free, empty space and nothing for the kids to play with other than run around the compound, he was moved to build a swing for one school in each country and he called his swing project “Sugarcane Smile”. He took out his iPhone and showed me quite a number of pictures.

Luka was building the swings all by himself all the way up, with no assistance whatsoever, whether physically or in monetary terms. In other words, he’s just a guy using up his savings to build swings in rural African schools. Impressed is an understatement, I was challenged! Not that I would build swings as well, but we can all do something for our little sisters and brothers out there. The swing he makes is simple, made with wood, a little metal somewhere, strong rope and tires for the swing seats. When he gets to the location, he finds the material, transports it himself, and gets to work. Alone. He paints numbers on the swing stands too, so that the children can keep their numbering in check.

I started to wonder that maybe he had planned this whole trip for a loooong time to also accommodate saving, but he said he didn’t have a plan whatsoever; he just started and went off on a trip. I asked what he’d be doing once he finished travelling around the world and he mentioned that he would probably write a book about his globe trot, and make a massive album out of the pictures he is taking. And that’s when I remembered that I have no idea where he comes from.

“Oh, so where do you come from?”
“Me? Italy.”
“Uhh I could tell from the accent… (as if I could. I just thought it was weird, he knew so little English) …and sorry I didn’t get your name the first time.”
“Luka!”
“Luka. It was nice meeting you, Luka.”

He is 30. He thought I was 18. He had a good laugh when I told him how old I was, like he was almost embarrassed but I told him it was okay, as no one ever tries to guess right. And we were saying our goodnights and heading our ways to sleep.

PS: If you ever read this Luka, it is all in good faith! Especially the beginning!