The moon hangs high and bright across the dark clouded sky. The night is young is common say among the youths whose party hormones alight at dusk. I hear the sound of crickets in the bush close by and thousands of toads hoarsely croaking—it must be the mating season for like boda men would to a customer, the noise cannot be differentiated. The bats; oh how they swing across the sky with their webbed wings jollying in their night sight, making twirls, hoops and loops. The night is truly young for a proposal, a wind massage, a sip at wine or ice dipped champagne; with these sunny days—anything can happen and yet at the feet of our elders shall we prefer to bundle. Expectant to hinge our audible and imaginary senses to the words, yes Words that should roll off their long-lived tongues. I shall pass the telenovella or constant beeps of this evolved gadget for this experience: I wonder if you ask my opinion for should you, Verily, I think you should come along.. Yes undivided attention is the only requisite for the elder has a story to tell or is it rather remind us?.
First with the tales; “tell me your best tale child” they ask.. with disbelief you wonder, ppss i do too for this is less of the expectation burning deep in the pits of expectancy. I came to listen to the good old tales and not interrupt at all. They could be mythologies, fables even but none the less, tell me of origin, talk of strength and the hunting, children of age before and ancestors, talk of spears and not the guns, talk about why they have lived longer thus the mystery they carry. Talk about why they are such treasures the museum is but a door with a two inch padlock and yet with a smile they hold onto their shawls, lessos, back cloth and mushana and narrate of goodwill and famine and work that bonded them in the community.
See then under the shadow of the moonlight, is when I met Kintu and his Nambi, such young love, friendship and sacrifice in the face of jealousy and death. Does this make Buganda very lucky to have had a hero?. I don’t know for probably it is just another legend to have the children not playing in the mud at the neighbors but it is such a worthy tell (tale) for no child is left without mouth agape and mind on trip—you wish to remind yourself of how your Social Studies teacher narrated or is it that in just a twinkle you teleported back to where you first listened to the story from?!! Me too, me too.
To that, while I was asleep, I was woken up by the stamp of large masculine feet for yes one of the brothers between Gipiir and Labong loved to chase down prey for a meal all through the day he fashioned a spear for himself (much like the story about Cain and Abel only that it happened in Northern Uganda. I must want to travel, you must want it too; Don’t you? For the people before donned backcloth, hides and skins and sang out loud at millet grinders with plenty of kids a different kind of “Sonko”, they dated in forests while shirtless men on the rocks deflowered girls– all this emphasized adventure what we now like to call “old age o is it stone age?” . We jolly in the new developments; yes me too!!.
In all this, each single day I wake up to a painful query of whether “School made me no better” It possibly may have not but one thing for sure is it gave me stories; stories that were an account of school fees, stories that made my country and yours much more vivid, stories that make sense only now, stories that gave a warmth…. stories… On this last day, i will not curse school... I will appreciate school for it made me better—God bless the missionaries that came to Uganda and exchanged education for was it ivory oba??