“I got my things and left. The sun was coming up. I could not think where to go..”- Dambudzo Marechera
I have wandered on like a gypsy, i got lost and i found myself. Found myself heaving up a hill to perch on a small town and overlook the Congo across the blue hills. The smokey blue hills of North Kivu province i used to hear about on BBC shortwave frequency back in the 90’s when life was far much simpler and the river birds sang..what happened to the river bird? and the chatterring colombus? I digress. See, i live the life of a feral fern, undomesticated and guided by the star of impulse, it leads me through tough times, rabbit holes and sometimes small towns with beautiful memories overlooking the richness of Africa where half my soul will always live. I wandered chasing the ghosts of my dreams and too often fell down and as many times picked myself up from the debris. I sank into a four year writers block, this blog lay comatose unattended to. Dust has gathered here at the banter my pen lay there and i have fought for strength to pick it up again. I lived life on the edge, i found new friends that became family, forged new alliances, forgot old foes and went to war with new ones. I lived the life of a gypsy on a backpack, got into a heaving Scania, crossed the border to conquer new demons, fight the ones in my head and feed my dreams. I have always been a dreamer and this one night past the hills of Tororo i sat there quietly, bent my neck past Bustema and listened to the sound of the turbo below deck. I love the sound of bus engines breaking the silence of the night, so i sat there, staring out of the window. There i gazed and held a shawl over my torso, got lost in the sound of the night, listened to the turbo spool, the whirl of fans and belts, the cranking of shafts and the rumbling of rubber on asphalt past Jinja burning through the night. Where the fuck am i going good lord! See sometimes i get a back pack and like a sailor, head where the winds take me without a solid plan, just sketchy blueprints, dreams in my head and fire in my belly. I would later on wander through the streets of Kampala, the most chaos i have ever waded through. People have things to do and places to be and in downtown Kampala they meet with the most aphazard combinations of motorised and human traffic. I sat at a street cafe, ate groundnut sauce and wondered where Moses could be in this crowd. Him and his classmates from Mukibi’s educational institute for the sons of African gentlemen. You remember Moses dont you? Because i do. I passed by Makerere earlier and i thought of Barbara Kimenye’s books i read as a child. My father brought me the series of story books i loved so much to read growing up and in my infant thoughts i lived inside those books. I fantasized Barbara Kimenye’s weaved words and lines laced with humour and poetry. I almost knew Moses personally when i was eight years old and in love with reading. So here i am possibly staring at people whom these stories were fashioned around. I finished my coffee, the worst cup of coffee i had ever tasted and got up. Found my way to a crowded bus. Struggled to get a grasp of currency convertion as i paid for my seat. I am perched on seat number 58, people are talking to me in a bantu dialect i cannot fathom. They are eating fried bananas with boiled meat and the air quality is going south, my head is full of anxiety and excitement in the worst portions. The bus will soon head west through winding hills and a sea of banana fields, the cold night, the fatigue, the endless chatter, the bantu dialect and the consoling sound of turbo… Where the fuck am am i headed good Lord!!?
Welcome back to the banter…. I will have stories to write.
KALASHNIKOV 