The real celebration.

 

Every great and challenging upheaval that upsets the apple cart of humanity will beget an individual who will not only challenge the status quo, but will be willing to lay down his life for the sake of the greater good.

Nelson Mandela dared the apartheid regime to do it's worst. It did. Apart from hiding him away from all that makes life worth living, it killed, massacred, maimed, tortured and generally engaged in behaviour  which in my view should be a subject of the International Criminal Court.

Be that as it may, Mandela persevered and went on to live an exemplary life and sojourned to the land of his ancestors. There are those who have walked by him and are therefore better qualified to examine and comment on the life and legacy of this illustrious son of Africa.

The human mind is the most prized engine of the human body. The apartheid system sought and managed to control the African mind through education. The basis of the African education was based on the following words:

 "There is no place for [the Bantu] in the European community above the level of certain forms of labour…what is the use of teaching the Bantu child mathematics when it can not use it in practice?"

When you look at these words that were uttered by Dr. H.F. Verwoerd, with malice aforethought, you cannot help but understand why the majority of Africans in that rainbow nation continue to behave like fish out of water, when it comes to handling the challenges that independence brought and continues to bring.

When, with a magnifying glass, you study those words, you will come to the stark realization that the African, across colonial Africa, was subjected to the same mind sapping ideology. Consequently, the African has grown up with the sole purpose of pleasing the former colonial master. To this day, Africa is at the mercy of its colonial master.

In spite of all the 'freedom' fighters whose names will bring a shudder in any European and American capital; in spite of all the blood that the African shed in the name of 'freedom'; in spite of all those chains that shackled the calloused feet of the African; in spite of all the whip marks on the broken back of Africa, Africa still remains a continent that is at the beck and call of the same colonial masters that looted, plundered, and generally had their way.

It is not surprising that many Africans will sell their birth right to face the harshest conditions that nature has to offer, in order to 'find' life in the streets that are supposedly paved with gold; gold that was looted from their very backyards. 

It is not disappointing that the best and brightest of Africa either live or were educated under an education structure whose sole purpose is to promote the vices and virtues of the colonial master at the expense of the obvious values of Africa.

It is regretful that I write in English. I was brought up to understand that the language of my motherland could not and cannot compare to a language with international appeal. It was drummed into my mind that my mother tongue did not, does not and cannot have the vocabulary that permits me to effectively relay my thoughts to all and sundry.

There is not a single soul in the world that can gainsay that Mandela lived true to the dictates of his very words; There is no passion to be found playing small-in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living; there are few people who can contradict the fact that South Africa, like the rest of Africa is and will continue to be a grand project of the colonial masters then and the colonial masters now.

Africa needs to re-invent herself. She has undergone many revolutions that have further tightened the noose of servitude. Africa needs an evolution. That evolution must occur in the African mind. For that is where the battle for Africa continues to be fought.

I will be the last to stake my name that the mind of Africa will somehow manage to originate a thought that best serves Africa. Now that the Chinese are knocking at every black door, one can only shudder at the consequences of this new marriage.

If that mental tree is not uprooted, and this is not impossible if, Africa will continue to celebrate the passing of her best, brightest and most courageous, but the real celebration will be at the tables of the master puppeteers.

 

 

 

Cry, the bleeding nation!!!

There is something lopsided occurring at the very foundation of Africa. The roots are reeking of immorality that will surely spread to the veins of this giant tree and then this tree will collapse. Or will it?

In 1948, Allan Paton penned a book that spoke of the treacherous and gruesome nature of Apartheid. This system so ensnared the African that he was made prisoner in the land of his birth to this day.

It dehumanised the native physically, mentally and most significantly, morally. To the extent that, visiting pain and torment on the weaker sex has become a matter of course in this part of earth that was baptised the rainbow nation.

Just last week, the world sat up to the news that a question in the national leavers' drama exam asked students to direct a rape scene. They were asked to describe how they would get an actor to maximise the horror of the rape of a baby, using a broomstick and a loaf of bread as props.

That the Department of basic Education facilitated a system that permitted that particular mandatory question to see the light of day is in itself a pregnant statement. It gives birth to very alarming statistics

Over 60,000 people are raped in South Africa every year; 1 in 4 men admit to having raped; South Africa has the highest incidence of rape in the world; in most instances, the rapist and the victim are known to each other; rape occurs in mainly poor communities that are dotted all over this nation.

There is a large body of work on the subject of rape. Almost all of it speaks of rape as a weapon of war; a weapon used to subjugate a people; a weapon used to demoralise and dehumanise men; a weapon used to spit in the face of all that is right. A weapon so fierce that it silently wreaks the very fabric of any society.

The last time I checked, South Africa was at peace, or so it seems.

Poverty, in the land of gold, has brought forth a society that fears its own shadows. The gated communities serve to wall in the rich from cardboard homes that encircle them. 

These cardboard homes are the breeding ground for violent, hungry and angry boys and men who are preying on the week and defenceless. Their favourite weapon of choice is rape.

The temptation is to blame poverty or their history that is steeped in mindless violence or the continental gap between the rich and the poor or peer pressure or some twisted notion of a rite of passage.

There is something inherently wrong in a society where every minute of every day is a witness to someone, somewhere being raped: where a nine month old child is raped by her mother's boyfriend: where a 17 year old girl is raped and disemboweled: where two and three year old girls are plucked from the security of their doorsteps, raped, murdered and dumped in a public toilet. There is something wrong.

The truth of the matter lies in the words of James Allen:  Circumstances do not make the man, they reveal him. Take any of those men and boys and land them in Delhi  Saudi Arabia, New York, Kampala or even on the moon; once the opportunity presents itself, these men will let lose that which is ingrained in them and that part of the world will bear witness to the most horrendous form of rape known to man.

To paraphrase that lawyer in the book made famous by Allan Paton, all that is wrong must be placed at the soul steps of all those men and boys.

Until that time when the perpetrators of this violence sit down, reflect and rein in the devil in their veins, the rainbow nation will continue to bleed.

Allan Paton titled his book, Cry, the beloved country. From that place where we are all destined, he must be holding his head in shame as he pens his next book, Cry, the bleeding nation!!!

 

 

Your gift; your life

There is this high flying, prosperity preaching pastor, who the other day, docked his plane at Entebbe, proceeded to Kampala and spoke to the movers and shakers of this city that is surrounded by seven unromantic hills.

Myles Munroe uttered words that sent shivers to the powers that be. He spoke to the helpless and hopeless in that crowd of be- suited men and women. His words echoed in the hearts of those whose direction seemed blunt. His rhythmical, Baptist style of preaching energized those whose hearts were long dead to the beat of music. He even had the temerity to look into the future and declare that a human being of the fairer sex will, one day rule this country.

Knowing my country- men and women, his words have long sunk into the recess of the Ugandan mind. The stark realities of daily living have taken over. Most of those in his audience, that day, have gone back to answering that monotonous call to work. On the other hand, Myles Munroe is feeding minds around the world and raking in both dollars and souls.

Like any curious soul, my heart danced to the beat of his words. He painted a picture of a world where success means sprinkling skill in the water of talent to create a ground swell of persistence, discipline, grit and panache. A universe that is peopled by individuals who seek to be true to that seed of ability that God planted in every heart.

Of all the string of words that Myles Munroe has strung together, none has set my heart ablaze like these ones; "The bible does not say that a man's education makes room for him, but that his gifts does. Education is not the key to success, it doesn't guarantee anything; it is your gift that is key to success"

I have looked between, under and above these words. I have torn each word to shreds. I have consulted numerous sources for the origins of each word. In sum, each word has touched the cords of my heart and I have come to the simple conclusion that the words are as plain as English words can be; together the meaning is plain to anyone who can read.

The basis of an educational system that assumes that theoretical education is the be-all and end-all of life is one that is doomed to prepare individuals who are no different from workers in the hive of life:  condemned to use their energy and will power to sustain, protect and fatten the queen bee. If you look critically at the Commonwealth structure, you will appreciate what I am yapping about.

Such a system is responsible for the mental genocide that has fashioned the African mind and so twisted it that all we can do is sit by like zombies and drunkenly watch our gifts being used against us. The educational system that we were herded into, has imprisoned our minds. Lawino, that African mind of old, lamented that the books have destroyed the very essence of her man.

There will come time when some mad and deranged African will sit at the root of the educational fountain whose waters spring from the gift of every African. Such an African will unwrap the African gift and the world will be astonished.

In every sphere of life, there will be an African who will be known, not for the number of paper qualifications that he tags to his name, but for the work of his hands, feet and heart.

Africa will be fishing for European and Asian talent and paying them ridiculous amounts of money in the name of entertainment. The world will witness a major shift of power when Africa is the sole veto power at the United Nations. Africa will spread its skill set across the world and have military outposts all over the world to protect African interests.

Walter Rodney wrote a book entitled ' How Europe underdeveloped Africa.' The Africa teeming with individuals whose gifts will marvel the world, will study a book entitled 'How Africa underdeveloped Europe.'

In this time, Africa will send her missionaries to every nook and cranny in Europe to sedate them. The explorers will walk in to pinpoint the location of Europe's mineral wealth. Then we shall send in the military to annihilate the natives and set up an educational structure that will permit Africa to exploit Europe in perpetuity.

I know, you must be urging me to wake up from my cantankerous dream. You must, like Ocol, think that all Africa is made of is deep unfathomable darkness.

Well, you are wrong!!!

There will come a time when a high flying pastor from Africa will dock his planes at Heathrow airport and with prosperity dripping from every pore of his black shinny skin, utter to all and sundry: "The bible does not say that a man's education makes room for him, but that his gifts does. Education is not the key to success, it doesn't guarantee anything; it is your gift that is key to success"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Husband your anger!!!

 

 

Anger in any culture is said to be an emotion that should be hidden under the kitchen pot.  In fact it is blamed for many things that go wrong. In a fit of anger, many people permit themselves to be prisoner to its vile ways; thereby committing acts that would make their parents tremble with rage.

 Is anger really that bad? Is it an emotion that we can all do without? Gather it by its belt and toss it into the lake? Hang it on a tomato tree and speak evil of its children? Is anger that vile?

I am going to bet my last Ugandan shilling and say that this world would be purposeless without anger. In my view, anger provides that stomach churning excitement that drives men to their very best. It is the sculptor's chisel that fashions character from the rock of life.

I am not talking about that blood curdling anger or that reason sapping anger or that mindless, temper tantrum anger or that which turns a reasonable man into an incorrigible lunatic or that anger that reduced Okonkwo into a suicidal fool.

I am not talking about that Othello anger that coagulates into a jealous fit and melts into a murderous rage or that ambitious anger that caused Lady Macbeth to sow seeds of tyranny into her husband's gullible mind.

I am talking about that anger that boils into a calculated rage; that which crystallizes a murky situation; that which causes you to fashion an idea and husband all your energy into the production of a better existence.

The anger that causes a single man of age to rethink and retool his life is one that must be applauded. If it causes him to find, keep and love the lady of his dreams, it must be embraced. Such an anger should be ingrained in the instructional system of any society for it is the only way that the society will ensure that it is made up of loving families.

In this day and age, somebody should come up with an evolutionary application that enables the living to speak to those who have travelled to the other side. I would love to engage with Steve Jobs, Walt Disney, Henry Ford, the Wright Brothers, The Beatles, and Albert Einstein et al.

I would love to know how they handled rejection from a society that was not used to ideas that run contrary to its thinking. I would love to appreciate how they channeled all that negative energy: how they marshalled that river of negativity into a dam of creativity that continues to amaze and astound the world.

 I am yet to find an omelet made without destroying the egg. So is it with a life changing process. In order to build, one must destroy. If one is to jump out of complacency, one must be ready, willing and able to say that enough is enough!!!

Anger at ones current existence, provides that much needed bridge to better circumstances. Satisfaction, at any stage in life, causes human beings to stagnate, regress and rot. Anger, on the other hand, brings that much needed freshness that rejuvenates as it reinvigorates.

 It is Howard Thurman who said, " Don't ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive"  

You cannot come alive when you are simply dancing to the dictates of life. At best you will be dull, uninspiring and unattractive. At worst you will live a forgetful existence.

Anger is the ingredient to an exciting, adventurous, creative and a life well lived. It is the spark of fire that ignites and sets society aflame with wonder. It harnesses the molehill of skill in every living human being and turns it into a mountain of awe.

 

In every seed of anger

Lies a tree of greatness

Harness it

Nourish it

Husband it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Dare the rain.

 

I

t has always been said that the pouring rain should find you on your way home. That way you are assured of a warm cup of hot chocolate, a cold bath and hot food. Life however, is not that predictable.

The pouring rain suddenly gushed out of the sky when I was 16 km into my 100km cycling ride to Zirobwe. For the next 6km I was in the eye of a ferocious down pour.

Let it be known that I had a choice. I could have taken shelter by the numerous shops that flew past me. I could have turned back and headed home. I could have simply hailed any of those empty public vehicles that kept slowing down. I chose to brave the rain and dare her to do her worst.

The rain pelted me. She lashed me.  She tore me to watery shreds. At some point I really felt that I had insulted her grandmother. Each drop of rain felt like a nail being hammered into my Acoli skin. There was this particular one that found its way through my helmet. It slammed onto my skull and reverberated through my body. In that cold, I felt a warm sensation that only spelled of doom and gloom.

It was windy; I now know what it means to ride a paperweight bicycle in the middle of the Ugandan version of a tropical storm. I was in danger of being blown away into the lush green vegetation that seemed to have been painted from Busuukuma, Namulonge to Bugema. I held onto my bicycle for dear life.

When rain is pouring like she was pouring that Thursday noon, the tarmac road ceases to be a friend. Sudden application of the brakes can bring upon you the kind of accident that would cause your mother to shudder in wonderment. I could not ride fast. With each slow stroke of the pedal came a torrent of rain. My shades were misty and all I could do was force my eyes to focus on the tiny pebbles that make up the pedestrian paths of the Zirobwe road.

Ridding down hill was as painful as it was pleasurable. The rush of air was like furious unending slaps on my face. My shoes soaked so much water that they too become a burden. In spite of all that, I smiled through the downhill torture; the steady pace at the valleys was as welcome as welcome can be: until I had to cycle uphill.

On any given day, cycling uphill is a test of endurance. On this particular day, that uphill ride was a test of a word that is yet to be invented. My lungs will tell you that they were forced to dance to unique beats of air. My thigh and my feet will swear that the generation of propulsion power is not kids play. My shoulder will just shrug and say this is what I was built for.

My heart beat so furiously that at one point I feared it would burst. My fingers were screaming in protest, as they had to grip the handlebars with all the mojo that they had. Once I got to the top of the hill, there was no sigh of relief to enjoy. There was another downhill to endure.

After that unforgettable 6km, the sun shone with all her glory.  I peddled with village greed; I gathered all my strength and channeled it to my reluctant legs; I needed to soak in all the heat from her, before she shied away into the clouds.

I did get to a Zirobwe that was as dry as dry can be. In my excitement I elected to ride 5km into the village that is Zirobwe. The pure innocence that flows from each homestead along the path was a joy to behold. There was this child swinging from a goat rope tied to a Jackfruit tree. The smile on her face was priceless. She swung like she owned the wind through which she sliced.

 As I rode back home, I was smiling from ear to ear as I thought about the grass thatched huts; the long abounded homes; the mosque next to a church; the happy go lucky children playing by the roadside; I did thank my lucky stars that I dared the rain to do her worst.

 Oh yes! I did get my warm cup of hot chocolate.