To fight is to inflict pain.
To do nothing is to invite pain. Doing nothing has delayed pain, And multiplied the sorrow.
Lives are not always thrown away
By a careless action
But more often than not,
By thoughtful inaction.
Untitled – 2009
HOW I WRITE
We can’t do it.
You always say that.
And I’m always right.
No you’re not.
Yes, I am.
Give me a good example.
The journal article…
We finished that one.
After lots of crying and heartache.
LORD! The hyperbole never ends. Do we always have to do this?
Do what?
Go back and forth with the self-doubt and whining about how ‘We can’t do it?’ ‘We’re not good enough’, ‘What if they hate it?’
BUT THAT’S HOW I FEEL! And what if it’s true?
But it’s never been true.
That’s what you think
It’s what I know. How about for once we skip the part where we sit and cry and call everyone telling them we can’t do it? And just write I don’t know if we can do that.
Why?
Why? You know why!
Actually, I don’t. We do this every single time and sometimes we write but many times lately we can’t get us to do anything. You come up with our best ideas…
Ideas! Are not complete written essays. WHY do we ever say yes to this stuff. We have to tell Edgar we’re out!
NO!
We have to. We’re too busy. LOOK AT US, hurtling across the Ugandan roads! What time will we ever get to write?
We could record ourselves.
Ha! And have Semakula report that his boss has gone crazy
It’s not like he doesn’t already think that.
Well, we don’t have to give him evidence of it. How are we surely supposed to write about how we write when we barely know how we write! I mean look at everything we’ve written.
Yeah, look at everything we’ve written It’s more real life than fiction.
Isn’t that the best fiction.
Look whose hyperbole takes over. I don’t want my inside self up for scrutiny and criticism.
But your best work has been when we exposed us.
Nope!
‘am I losing my marbles’,
That was just for laughs
‘888 hotel’
No exposure there just a simple observation the ‘Can Themba draft’
Doesn’t count! Edgar’s editing was brilliant.
Okay! How about we write our simple observations just for laughs that Edgar can edit… I feel tricked! Where would we start anyway?
Unhhh… ….
This is hopeless…we’re late already. Why bother?
We said we’d finish a story and we’re going to finish the story.
I’m tired.
Tell me something new.
It’s too hard. We just can’t.
Look outside. Look! What do you see?
Open space. Lots of dry grass.
Look harder. What do you see?
‘It isn’t that I don’t care about these people. They are simply not ever-present in my mind. These women fitting the stereotype of the African woman; child on the back, luggage or jerrycan on her head, walking almost barefoot, stepping aside as the vehicle I am in hurtles past her in a cloud of dust. That is the only picture I have of her, frown on her face and hand over mouth fighting the dust.
So much dust. It coats everything. You taste it in the air, feel its smear on your skin. How do people survive in this aridity? The trees stand bare, isolated in the expanse of the brown shrub. Reaching for the sun, unbending in the dust swirls around them. Is this how they survive? Mimicking nature in its ability to strip and do away with the superfluous. Bare. Do I know how to do bare?’
This is not what we’re supposed to be writing about.
I know! But we have to start somewhere, right?
Nope. Starting 10,000 miles away from your designated spot only makes the journey longer and harder.
Work with me. Please. Just work with me. I want to write. It’s all we’ve ever done. Don’t you want to look at a story complete? Even once! Please.
I’m just so tired. No one ever talks about how hard it is. How every single time you’re working against yourself; the passing of time, hunger, 30 pages excel sheets with nothing but numbers, cuddle time with your child, exercise time, cuddle time with the husband, fatigue, cramps! How is one to find time to think let alone write in all this life? How?
Okay Okay. Let us breathe. No need for tears. Get off the floor. That’s a good girl. Now, just give me one sentence. No story. Just one sentence and we’ll back off, Abwooli. Just one sentence.