Shining the Light

That’s why I keep a journal of light bulbs even when it is outside my field recalling Mother Teresa, “I can do things you cannot, you can do things I cannot; together we can do great things.” So if I have that bulb, I’ll light someone else’s path.

The Writing Journey

I think of the work I put out there as dandelion seeds floating around, unafraid of being read wrong or being mistaken for something else. This is because when work is out of your hands it is out of your hands, and all you can do is trust it, trust that the process was worth it and that in the end, it will speak for itself.

Is Music the Voice of God?

I have a theory that everyone is born a poet. You either grow up to express it in words, images, or tunes; or you grow up to forget it. Whichever way you wind up, music will always be that thing that takes you back to the place where the poet in you begins.

Of Music, Institutional Apathy, and the Church

Unlike the other arts that are relatively exclusive, music offers a cozy space for almost everyone who might find it: where I go to music for its message; there are those that seek it for its accomplishment in technical and architectural construction, and there is that one guy who will dance— music to him is served for the purpose of getting people onto their feet.

Be Wary of Fraudulence, My Son

Art is a reflection of society, it is the soul of society. When society mourns, the music that accompanies their grieving reveals the community’s sadness. At that moment, it immortalizes the hero who leaves those he has served. It’s by the music that he is forever etched onto the pulse of their heartbeats.

The Imagination

The wonderful and beautiful power of imagination is that you can imagine yourself into new spaces. Whether it’s reading a new book and letting your mind create up the scenes how it wants or trying to imagine solutions for everyday problems, you won’t ever feel down while using your mind for this.

The Joy of Kampala

But I have been in a city. And in my own way, I have been with a city. A city so small one could be forgiven for calling it a village. A city whose elusive beauty traps the breath escaping from a wet soil on a sunny morning, and I have seen the dimples in the smiles of her street children, who parade along the dusty city roads begging for a kikumi kikumi.

Kampala, Land of her Own.

These two-wheeled taxis are your favourite part of life in this dusty town. They are legend. There’s even an entire tourist movement around them, up there with the savoury, dust-topped rolex, and fresh-food markets. You beam with pride.

A “Rolex” for my Valentine!

Valentine’s Day caught me with a longing of your rolex, Sir. A deep longing, akin to that of a pauper’s child hearing that unmistakable music from the ice-cream bicycle and pining for that contraption of food-colored frozen water supposed to pass for ice cream.