Mr.Google sir!!

It's been a long time coming but here we are my dear friend. Like so many other relationships, ours has not been an exception to the ups and downs. Initially it seemed like a one sided relationship with you offering me your services in exchange for just my consent. You availed yourself for me to search in whichever way I deemed fit as long as my pockets permitted so. 

You gave me a world without borders, a person without body, built my imagination beyond measure, turned my 4-walled room into a global village and before I could tell I was willingly offering you my world and turning my diary into a theater stage with pages turning like they were curtains rolling up for a fresh performance every single day just before crafting the darkest of my secrets into a museum.

Little did I know that every time I thought I was searching you, you were instead searching me. I thought I was signing on privacy policies but instead I was signing on surveillance policies. I thought I had the entire world to imagine and yet all you did was to tame my imagination, my conscience and my thoughts. You blindfolded me with a love bug I haven't been able to reciprocate and at the moment I fear I fell for all the traps you lured me into. 

You have walked after me faster than my shadow and in sync with my footprints.
You know all my friends and whatever they know about me more than I could ever imagine.
You know all my thoughts and also keep record of all the versions without any edit. It's painful to think of all the times you have watched me struggle to spell words like weird, entrepreneurship and you keep a record of such embarrassment I have caused my English teachers.

In my earlier wild google search, I found pictures I took a number of years ago, where i took them and with whom which left my gut demons unsettled. All my dirty linen was still intact from past relationships to all the memories I have struggled to forget overtime. Do you ever forget anything between us?

I beg to be forgotten however selective it maybe in this era where passwords, phone numbers, locations, health records, keys, personal data, etc are no longer for us to cram. I change my mind overtime yet not even auto-correct which seemed to help me turned out to work against my dynamics. Today I fear to hold conversations around you because I have realized that the walls you built between us have ears. They have eyes that don't just work like cameras but rather X-rays into my spirit. Worse still is that you have capitalized on this our relationship for so long and it's high time we revised the terms and conditions. Each time I look into your eyes hoping to find that love that first drew me in, all I see is surveillance. 

Am I just too paranoid?

I have been forced to wonder, where I would be if God kept records of all my shortcomings, waiting somewhere for that opportune moment to use it all against me, as well as going on to coerce people out there to side with him at my detriment whenever it is convenient for him. But God is love and love keeps no record of wrong.

Mr. Google Sir, I seek an opportunity for us to reconcile with each other.

I showed up, and showed off

At the speed of light I dashed into the washrooms, this time round for number 3. My Saturday classes start at exactly 9:00 am but we all must be in class by 8:50 am that even a minute later will cost you a 20,000ugx as fine. The problem here is that by Friday the previous day, all that my brain thinks about is parte after parte after parte. An interruption to this for a morning class is such a heavy weight. Since I stay miles away from the venue I often use a "SafeBoda" for safety and convenience. But this one Saturday, I missed the clock ticking for a light meal I intended for breakfast.

I intimated to the SafeBoda rider, Lutaaya, that my time was fast spent but as you know you can't have your cake and also eat it, he didn't give a damn. He is one of those guys devoted to all the traffic rules including speed limit. I hated that I was selfishly asking him to go against the values he signed up for. Anyway, his integrity drew me back to my senses. He took his time but I managed to arrive just in time, 3 minutes to 8:50.

With a pacing beat of heart, I feared I was evidence of all the morning rush and fury in my head. Aptly, I sneaked into the washrooms for a touch up and to my amusement I run into other ladies patching up their looks. I burst into laughter to calm my panic and one of them carrying the weight of mind like I did, whispered to me, "ekitooke kiffa nsalira". According to my judgement she could be in her 50s and the other in her 40s. Listening to them say that you should never do yourself a disservice by not looking your best at any given time spoke to my already whirling spirit.

"Why would they care about their look at their age?" I thought to myself. Then I remembered the wise words of a good friend on erotic capital, a 4th type of capital after economic, cultural and social which tickled my brain abit. Brought to life by Catherin Hakim, erotic capital is one of the kind that every individual is lucky to own naturally even when artificially it can be acquired. Ever passedby a guy and you clearly see effort in what he appears like regardless of the results, that's it, best emulated as a lawyer's capital; the dresscode, the language, the humor and charm all wrapped in cloak of wisdom.

In this feminist world of "bukowu" this beauty bias won't hurt anyone. It's such an adorable thing to find that some people still care about what they look like, smell like and it's sad we have alienated these by referring to them as slay queens/kings for an effort we are forfeiting. As we work on what our brains look like, our wallets, and social circles, let's not forget that image.

Next time I passby you looking like a snack and smelling like candy, remember I have attended my classes. Yes, I am coming for your attention. I'll leave this to the wishes though, that everyday I appear like I am trying to impressing that Prince charming, polish my accent like 24/7 is time for that interview to heaven. That when am gone, you'll remember that each time I had an opportunity, I showed up and showed off.

Arrival-ism in the Downtown.

I bought a pair of crimson red shoes (mu'china) from a street in Kampala's Downtown at only thirteen thousand Uganda shillings. I had been wearing one of my favorite Stilettos but shortly they became an inconvenience in this part of the city because of the many angry people down there pushing me left, right and center as it always is the norm. I only needed any shoes for comfort temporarily and these seemed to serve the purpose.

One month down the road, I was stunned by the fact that these shoes had not even amassed a slight amount of dust nor mad on these streets of ours in their unkempt nature. Only then did I notice just how much care I took while walking as though I was treading on eggshells. My "usual" shoes which I take time to select suggested strength and longevity by their pricing that's often higher which is why I walked so carelessly in them even when I kept a tidy soul. By comparison it seemed like my "mu'china" was stronger than my Aldos original shoe.

The magic may not be about the material of my shoes but rather my managerial techniques. I expected the former to be weak and temporary that I gave them my best behavior unlike the later where my expectations were high that I sluggishly cut their lifespan short.

For many Ugandans, we speak of "government etuyambe" where our expectations are so high that anything below it's belt calls for a state outcry. A couple of weeks ago, while having a chat with a colleague from Djibouti before the atmosphere was hijacked into a party, she mentioned that in her country there is a sizable number of refugees that were settled in one of their ruined towns from Yemen and within no time, this place had been developed into a great city. Then I remembered a conversation with one good Local Council leader from Amuru District, Northern Uganda who expressed his sentiments about refugees settled in a camp in his district who are seemingly developing at a higher rate than his locals in the area. Let's not forget the kind of atrocious acts being committed by South Africans against the many other Africans in this part of the country. (Xenophobia)

I understand refugees get a lot of external aid to better themselves as well as good guidance from the host community but why is it that they demonstrate higher commitment for their works than most locals. 

Should I imagine that locals suffer from an expectancy syndrome? That they expect things to be done for them, with a certain sense of entitlement than it is the case for refugees. Let's look at the so called legitimate children against the illegitimate ones or even street children against the "formally" raised ones. In a place where you have to fend for yourself without much expectation from your surrounding, you seek aid from within. And trust me I have seen God come through for such moments and such people.

Our expectations shouldn't corrupt our responsibility but rather, as the theory goes, they should keep us motivated with valence. Also, comfort zones should be temporary lest we suffer the arrival-ism syndrome and these birds will gladly grasp away the grain. The same manners we exhibit while visiting a Very Important Person should stick with us in our own homes just like my hard core shoes deserve the same kind of treatment as my mu'china.

Let's live on the edge, for when we become of age, our lives will be worth every breath.