Meet Bwogi Byron!

It’s 01:02 am and I’m still wide awake. I should be snoring- as you should if you are reading this at such an odd hour- but as you are probably feeling; my mind too can’t shush- it is dancing from one thought to the next like a wild roller coaster- I can’t stop it- so I let it roam.

Finally my mind pauses at “Father’s Day”- I chuckle…those are very empty words for me. I try to form them out with my lips in the dark. Maybe they will make more sense. Nope… none at all- I can’t remember my father…all I know about him is his energy and oratory power…everyone at home says I took after him- and the Local council chairperson of Mugosu (my village) lauds him for his persuasive and very charismatic orations. Of course I only hear of all this- I know nothing of it really. So- ya the term father remains pretty alien to me

Then I scroll down memory lane again-maybe a new found sense of celebration for this day will be discovered there

I chuckle again- in this small dark room, I realize that for the longest time- the word father only formed from the lips of rich very loved kids; (at least that is what I thought then). You know what- I actually feared the sound of it because for the most part of my childhood my playmates said it to threaten me when I won too many times during our very rough wrestling games. Which, meant I was hitting them more than they were hitting me ( which was not the agreement at the start of the games) so they needed their father’s protection.

So especially if we are referring to biological fathers- I have nothing much to say- oh don’t get me wrong I have loads of imaginations- mostly because that’s how my mind suppresses painful regretful memories. But that is not what the celebration of Father’s Day is about! Right?

So for me Father’s Day ( in the spirit of celebration) brings to mind my mischievous step-grandfather. His handsome 50 year old face glowed with all the love I needed. Everything else, he made irrelevant.

Tata Bwogi Byron as we called him- loved me as much as he loved his liquor bottle. Whenever he was not in the company of the other men…it was my company he wanted- I was like his second bottle. Everywhere he sat- I sat and leaned into his feet- and he let me! He even sometimes let go of his waragi glass and embraced me.

Tata Bwogi Byron loved me- I know this because in all his shortcomings he never forgot me. You see when the spirit would hit his head- He’d go under his thin mattress- draw out his coin collection and allow me to ask for whatever I wanted- sometimes I would ask for sweets, chicken, soda and other times after my sisters whispered in my ears I’d ask for a dress- the next market day he would go out and come back with a polythene bag loaded with second hand dresses of all sizes and shapes and colors- at my age of 5 he’d even get me bras and tell me I’d grow into them🤣😂🤣😂

My tata Bwogi Byron loved me- he taught me his passions. For instance when he was really sober- he’d let me into his tiny carpentry shop. Right on my grandmother’s verander. Oh he was sooo proud of his art- an art that frustrated my grandma as it didn’t bring much food in- but that didn’t wear his pride down. And so on those bright sober days my grandpa would let me in- teach me how to hold a hammer and hit down stubborn nails. He also introduced me to WWE- hahahahaha my grandma and I sat and watched the action as he mistranslated the words for us- but we never knew, he spoke more English than my grandma and the 5 year old me combined – hehehehe….did I also mention that he made watching Power rangers compulsory for my big brother and I? Hahahahaha to- date that is probably the best rule ever!

I think that when we speak of celebrating Father’s Day- too many of us jump to looking for perfect score daddies- but is there any?

My daddy ( tata Bwogi Byron) as you have met him was so imperfect but so perfect too- so perfect in loving me even in and through his imperfections-

so the winning score here isn’t perfect “A” s but rather it is imperfect “A” s meaning you are still able to teach, love and grow your children even with the saddling hurdle of your human-ness! Our imperfections should never be an excuse for being less than our children deserve!

So this is how my tata Bwogi story ends.

In September 2008 he passed on due to a chronic cough he contracted from his drinking friends. The night of his death- I was tucked away in my bed ( in boarding school) I saw him walk into my room, to my bed, and he bid me farewell. Some say it was a dream- I don’t know but the very next day my big sister came to school and told me that tata Bwogi Byron had taken his last breath the previous night.

I celebrate him today- for he was so brave in loving me even when his weakness was so visible- he never hid- never ran- never heard the mockery- he just loved us as best as he knew how!

As you Rest In Peace tata Bwogi Byron- Know that we still celebrate you!!!!

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Sonnets to God (1)

My God is big,

He is greater than all pain

My God is big

He is sweeter than all gain

When I am broken

His touch makes me whole

As I am forgotten

From his mind and grace I still will never fall

My God is big

His word moves mountains

My God is big

His presence melts all stains

My God is bigger than love

In him all things I have.

The Glory Of Easter 🐣

He walked this earth’s soil.

In him:

wild passions and grand self ambitions did boil.

His body was a mixture of flesh and blood-

So with much sin he did toil.

And though the story of his gruesome treachery makes us coil,

Judas Iscariot is the spitting image of each one of us.

You see,

We seat and hear the words of the Christ,

We feast and see the wonders of His might,

We drop a tear,

Make confessions in fear,

But we remain burdened by the cross of our own greed,

Our supposed need.

You see,

Judas Iscariot is the spitting image of each one of us…

For we have all betrayed Christ for the sake of our own lot!

He walked this earth’s soil.

In him:

wild passions and grand self ambitions did boil.

His body was a mixture of flesh and blood-

So with much sin he did toil.

And though the story of his relentless denial makes us coil,

Simon peter is the spitting image of each one of us.

You see,

We boast in the firmness of our Zeal for the Christ,

But our hearts remain weak in the face of evil entice.

We are more confident in our love for Him than His love for us,

But our hearts remain weak in the face of evil entice.

We embrace more religion-

As we become blind to Christ’s vision-

A tapestry of Love and selfless devotion-

And so our hearts remain weak in the face of evil entice.

You see,

Simon Peter is the spitting image of each one of us…

For we have all denied Christ to save our own reputation.

She walked this earth’s soil.

In her:

wild passions and grand self ambitions did boil.

Her body was a mixture of flesh and blood-

So with much sin she did toil.

And though the story of her repulsive prostitution makes us coil,

Mary Magdalene is the spitting image of each one of us.

You see,

We sell ourselves to pleasures and many materialistic treasures.

We pervert the excellence of Christ-

To serve the darkness of immorality-

And so our loyalty to Christ

Is sacrificed to the worship of consumerism and emotional whims.

You see,

Mary Magdalene is the spitting image of each one of us…

For we have all given our hearts to other men!

But Oh!

The glory of His resurrection!

The glory of Easter is this,

That in the remorse of my Iscariotness

He dooms me not to death

But calls me to be loved

Oh!

The glory of His resurrection!

The glory of Easter is this,

That in the feebleness of my heart

He dooms me not to rejection

But call me to be His co-heir

Oh!

The glory of His resurrection!

The glory of Easter is this,

That He casts me not away

But calls me to be His FRIEND!!!

Oh Yes

Even in all that I am not

I am His Passion

So I rejoice that MY CHRIST IS RISEN!!!

#HeDiedForUsToo

#TheGloryShinesForTheTorn

#EasterIsNotForThePerfect

#EasterForIscariotMe

Unmonsterizing Me

#TameYourMonster #SilenceIsGolden #BlownFeelings #Anger #ChooseWhatDefinesYou

*In the Moment*

Stop!

Breath…

Sigh

But press your lips tightly together

Allow your heart to pound as fast as it needs to….

Let the fire out through your ears- now through your nose…

Swallow hard- Now swallow harder

But press your lips tightly together

Let your eyes squint- Let the tears well up in them

Stare into space

Let the tears flow-

But press your lips tightly together

Do you feel your mind racing- Go whereever it takes you-

Spoil yourself- with whatever you want

Whether its pity, encouragement or impossiblity

But press your lips tightly together

Has it helped?

Not yet?

When the fury is down-

When this- your vengeful monster is gone

When-once again you are sane

When you realise that you;

Have said no thoughless word

Expressed no regretable passion and hate

Then you will be fine.

#StupidWisdom #Wisdom #WordsofWisdom #WordaBeautifulWords

Oh Uganda!

I want to speak of our hope.

I want to boast of your beauty.

I want to dis-approve their negative stereotype.

I want to speak of our sun so bright-

Our soils so rich,

I want to defend our pearl of Africa’s crown.

 

But-

how can I sing such a sweet song in this sea of bitterness

How can I celebrate my mother Africa-

poor1

When Our children are neglected by parent and state.

When Our rural lands know nothing of a  liberty from extreme poverty.

When our women-

Bruised in the face,

Body aches so intense,

Bent back,

Bonny baby on her back-

hoe in hand-

She tilts,

she’s burns

as

she breaks

Yet still

she cannot secure enough-

for her child to eat,

or her man to be pleased,

for her child to be safe

or herself – to be a decent human being.

want to- once again  make the world jealous my African-ness

As I tell of my heritage and cultural belongingness

As I boast of my  grandmother’s kindness

As I sing of my joyous extended families

As I speak of my respectful- ordered but classless societies

I want to defend our pearl of Africa’s crown

How can I celebrate mother Africa-

ya

When our men no longer hold the pride of a hunter.

When they are no longer marked with the wit of the fox-

nor the tact and creativity of one that has cut a buffalo’s head.

How can I sing such a sweet song in this sea of bitterness

When our circumcised men are as coward as those that have never faced the knife!

HOW!???!

When our leaders cheat her people with big words, empty promises, big- nothing- acts as the crazy wide eyed, pale faced banished witch doctors did!

 

When Our children line up on the high end roads…

Only 5 years old

Scattered brown strands of hair

sad face

pot belly

bonny begging hand

But we turn the other side as we pleasure ourselves in a convenient a blame game.

hunt3

Our youths line the roads for prostitution-

We speak a little about it.

Yet in the other hand we nudge a cheap note into their hands-

And as we have done too often- we exploit the young, innocent and needy.

I want to show off our drumming,

our singing,

Our dancing,

Our resilience, efforts and progress

I want to show off our history as our story and not as an account of White imperialism

I want to converse about  

Our unique climate and  biodiversity

Our strong spirituality and unbreakable solidarity

Oh Uganda, I know we cannot be perfect

but I know we can be better

Better for our children

so they can sing the sweet songs of who we really are!

With love,

-Amanda From Uganda-

The Saintly and Un-Saintly

A saintly life is only for the sent,

Not for the me that cannot lent,

Not for the Me that can relent.

A saintly life is only for the bright,

Not for the Me that fate hasn’t deemed as part of that plight.

For a saint;

must march straight,

love and speak right…

He mustn’t stain a thing,

nor harbor any hate-

But-

As my body shrinks- as my heart expands, as I realize my place in this demonic world system of oppression- How can I be a saint?

How can I love You when You have what I want?

How, when You mercilessly and thoughtlessly take what is mine, what I need!

How, when my mind is marred with the pains of loss,

With the cross of rejection- and the charity of pity

See, I too want to live saintly

But I cannot get myself to forgive and feel less- when my whole being is stolen away by You!

I cannot pretend that all these…feelings aren’t there

I dread You as much as I hate You-

I’d kill- had You not over dosed me with this,

…your saintly pill…

Clearly You are a better person-

For in your treason-

You can forge a beautiful smile.

As You cast me in prison-

You can sooth me over with kind empty words.

In this portion of your poison-

there is an addictive sweetness-

Clearly You are a better person

For You are a saint

So unlike the rest of us You have mastered the art of wickedness, wretchedness and all forms of selfishness with a tint of righteousness-

Yes, Saintly man!

You are a better person- But underneath your egg shell careful walks and acts we all know that you are only a saint because you are exactly what the Devil is:

A hypocrite that is as bad as I

And I- I- I  am a fool,

For I saw it all too late!

#WordsBeautifulWords

via Daily Prompt: Saintly

( Previously posted on my old blog: Fanatic Seeker)