Introducing: The Dancing Doctor: Why Dance?

One of my current hobbies is Afro-Latin dancing, which I have been doing on and off for about ten years now. Initially, I was too up and down with my work to give it much time but when I finally got a more settled job a couple of years ago, I was able to sign up for private classes and this has taken my dancing game to a whole other level. I have a couple of other hobbies and each of them has its place but Afro-Latin dancing is a class apart.

So why do I dance? And why Afro-latin dancing in particular?

For starters, there’s something about the Afro-Latin music that just hits the right spot. Currently trending in the Ugandan Afro-Latin community are Salsa, Bachata, Kizomba, and to a lesser extent Cha-Cha and Merengue. Latino-sounding music has always been one of my favourite music genres, and so has reggae. Latino music and its mash-up with the latter (reggaeton) takes me to a special kind of happy place. Kizomba sounds a lot like the Zouk and Semba of my childhood, thus suffusing me with warm feelings each time I hear it. I find bachata closest to "mainstream" music; it is more intuitive and easy to execute than its cousins and it is my favourite. It also has the best remixes of "regular" songs. 

To me dancing is the most logical response to music I like. It is one thing to listen to and appreciate a tune, a progression, lyrics and instrumental compositions but it’s a whole other thing to respond to what you are hearing with one’s whole being. Swaying with the strings, stepping with the drums, bouncing with the bass, rolling with the groove… That’s what dancing is about to me.

Being able to do so in a way that makes others watching want to jump in and join makes the dancing even more fun. Knowing that in my personalized response to what I am hearing is another’s enjoyment is very rewarding in and of itself.

Dancing lifts my mood. Many a time I have showed up for a social dance feeling blue but after a few minutes of spins and dips, I am on cloud nine. I find it to be great way to unwind after a long day/week or to prep my mood ahead of a stressing week. Some might say it is because of the “feel good” hormones released by the physical activity but I don’t get the same kick out of working out (not that I work out much – LOL).

Speaking of physical activity, Afro-latin dancing especially Salsa, is great on that front. It is a fun way to get in some cardio and core work outs. There’s a lot of movement and quite a bit of leg work. In order to get the posture, spins, jumps and dips right, a lot of attention to the core is required. It is said that core strengthening exercises make one a better dancer – I am yet to explore that. The arms, waist, neck, head all play a role in dancing so it is full body work out that leaves me sweaty, breathless and happy.

I also find social dancing to be a good, non-threatening way to socialize, like an ice-breaker. On the floor, if I’m dancing with someone I do not know, we’ll probably exchange names and a few basics that can set the foundation for later conversation. If I’m dancing with a friend, it is a time to catch up on each other’s lives. The global coverage of this kind of dancing means that I have common ground on which to interact with someone from a different country or even someone who speaks a different language, as long as they are a fellow Afro-Latin dancer.

These are some of my reasons why Afro-Latin dancing is currently such a big thing in my life. What are your reasons for engaging in the hobby that you do? Let me know in the comments.

 

Introducing: The Dreaded Doctor – Why dreadlocks?

I have dreadlocks. I first installed dreadlocks – dreads, locks, locs – sometime in mid-2011.

Why?

Loads of people have some significance attached to their decision to lock their hair; I have heard/read people talk about going back to their roots, or embracing who they are or discovering self, or … something. To be honest, I chose locs that time the same way I chose other hairstyles. It just happened to be an option, and at the time I did not have that many. Read on to understand my hair journey prior to, and how I eventually decided on installing locs.

Locs down on Washday 27Dec2021

                                                           

Growing up in Kampala, Uganda in the 1990’s, I attended a primary school where all children were required to keep their hair short, save the non-blacks. I didn’t think too much of this back then but in recent years I have heard parents raise questions around this, citing racism. I have to admit I have not given that much thought. But then I digress.

Come high school, I attended one of the prestigious Church-founded traditional girls’ schools. Here we were allowed to grow our hair out, within acceptable limits: simple styles plaited with the girl’s own hair during the week; hair out (afro or puff/ponytail) on Fridays and when going out of school premises; black or brown puffholders and hairbands. For plaits we had tuts (read as "toots") – bitutwa (simple 3 strand plait); jegs – bijegere (tuts joined into each other to make a row), thread and swas – biswahili (cornrows). Tuts were considered a style not fit for public viewing, so were usually plaited at night before bed to keep the hair from shrinking. However, one was allowed to wear tuts to class if the hair was long enough to fit in 3 only (or was it 4?). Another category that got away with wearing tuts to class was those with very long hair that would plait small tuts and could hold these back in a puff for class (this hairstyle was called devils for some reason). Outside class they would let their devils loose, giving the appearance of braids ... oh, the envy!!

The beauty of this season was the grooming to take care of natural hair in a resource-limited setting … LOL. Did I mention this was a boarding school, in the late 90s/early 2000s? There weren’t that many products on the market to make natural hair manageable and even if they had been available, access would have been an issue. So with Blue Magic, Amla, TCB, Morgan's Pomade, and a few others, we made it work. And we were known for having the best hair among all secondary school girls in the country – always neat, not a hair out of place – Sharp! A number of the school’s alumni continued to rock their natural crowns into their latter years, long before wearing one's hair natural was a thing.

Finish high school, off to university, and freedom! The world of extensions opened up to us. Braids, wigs, weaves… And chemical treatments. A lot of the ladies went on to chemically treat their hair as soon as they were done with their last exam paper in Senior 6. Some viewed it as a marker of something different – phew, finally done with high school!! Others were just relieved to finally get their thick manes into a manageable state. Again, all these detanglers, conditioners, etc to make natural hair manageable were not yet very common on the market.

Cue Mary’s hair. I have 4C hair – kaweke – that is quite fine. The individual strands are thin, and the number of strands per area of scalp is low. It was hard to keep it neat when I used to wear it short in primary. I would comb/brush it as I left home in the morning and within the 30minutes it took me to get to school, it would have rolled itself up into individual tiny millet-like balls all over my scalp.  Some, understandably, thought it was not a nice hair type but it had its advantages. When I grew it out, yes it was fine but not alarmingly so. It could hold a plaited hairstyle for ages. In high school, I would have my hair neat from when it is plaited over the weekend to when I had to let it out for Friday. I do not recall whether we used scarfs and bonnets back then while sleeping but I do not think we did regularly. During the school holidays and at uni, the extensions installed would stay neat longer than most people’s. And extensions were much easier to install in my hair than for people with thicker hair. When not plaited, my fine hair was also very manageable, easy to pass a comb through once detangled, easy to lay flat and hold a puff and easy to style. Its shrinkage though was for world cup, and so was the breakage. Rainy or humid days were almost guaranteed bad hair days and washday would see me regress from full puff to twa (teeny weeny afro) in the blink of an eye.

So I was not in a rush to chemically treat my hair; it was manageable enough and besides, I was afraid I would look like a drowned rat if I applied chemicals. I vividly remember an awkward conversation with a former classmate shortly before I installed the locs. She was berating me for still having natural hair even though we were now in the working world. She essentially said to me – grow up, we are no longer in high school, you look like a high school child – and gave examples of other classmates who had been asked to treat their hair while seeking employment.

Her barrage did not convince me to treat my hair but it got me thinking. I was struggling to maintain my natural hair, frequently installing new extensions shortly after removing the old, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with shrinkage amidst work and other life demands. The breakage of course was an additional concern with the frequent extensions.

I looked at available options and that was when I considered dreadlocks as a viable compromise. The hair would be “plaited” to some extent, so I wouldn’t have to deal with shrinkage. I wouldn’t be unplaiting and changing styles frequently sorting the breakage concern and the fine hair was unlikely to suffer from being loc’d. Coincidentally I had started attending a church that just happened to have a number of loc’d congregants, including the pastor’s wife. 

All of these helped concretise my decision to install loc’s way back then. At the time it wasn’t a momentous life-defining decision which is probably why I don’t recall the exact date that I got them done, but here I am, over a decade later, still rocking my locs. Who knew? Why I have persisted with locs for this long will be addressed in subsequent posts.  

For now, is there anyone loc’d reading this? What was your reason for getting loc’d? Do let me know in the comments, and be sure to check back for further updates in this series of the Dreaded Doctor. 

My 2022 Blogging Resolution

Happy New Year … WooHoo!

I am managing to get my first blog post up within the first week of the year… THAT is an achievement! LOL! 

But seriously, although this is not really a post about resolutions and all, this year some things need to change. I have been blogging on and off for more than a decade, going quiet for months or even years, then bursting out in a flurry of activity, usually fueled by a course or challenge … Not good at all. I could say the main reason for this inconsistency is the absence of a central focus for my blog. I write on anything that holds my attention and sits in my brain long enough to make me want to put it into writing. Not to mention the struggle of finding the motivation to actually write out my thoughts, or the time to do so. Very haphazard. Very unreliable. 

This year I plan to be more consistent. I have scheduled specific times to blog and post (Thursday evenings and Friday mornings for now).

I have downloaded a speech-to-text app to help me record my thoughts on the go. 

And … I have come up with a couple of “series” that hopefully will see me post at least twice each month. I will write around two things that are pretty dominant in my life at the moment: dreadlocks and dance. I plan to title the series as follows, with one post under each series each month: 

The Dreaded Doctor: I’ve been loc’d for a decade now. I first installed dreadlocks in my hair in 2011 and when one blogger wrote about their dreadlocks journeys last year, I thought … Hmm, now that’s an idea. But 10 years is a long time. I figured a single post wouldn’t cut it and so decided to do a series of dreadlocks-related posts. Procrastination and all, I figured the beginning of the year was a good enough place to start, so here we are.

The Dancing Doctor: I love music. I love to sing. And … I love to dance. I am not a professional dancer or into the performing arts in any way, actually quite the opposite. But there is a way in which dance keeps sneaking up on me, forcing me to acknowledge it’s as much a part of me as my doctoring. I have been involved in Afro-Latin dancing for about a decade now, again quite on-and-off but I have been quite consistent in the past couple of years. There’s more to this dancing than just music and moving the body and in this series, I will try to open the reader’s eyes to all this.

I will probably do a few posts on other topics of interest, and participate in a challenge or two, but I’ve chosen those two topics to be the running themes to keep me writing consistently this year.  That way I should have at least 24 posts come 31 Dec 2022.

I welcome you on this journey. Read on, comment, share, ask questions, and together let’s make 2022 a blogging year to remember. 

Of Late Nights and Good Music

There's a poem I have in my drafts, that I started to write a few months ago and failed to finish. Truth is, I started to write it years ago and never did finish it. Today I went searching in my archives to see if I could find a more complete version, as no current inspiration is forthcoming. I did find it in an email trail seven and a half years old, but even there it is incomplete. 

That email trail...the feels therein!! 

But I did stumble upon something else in that trail, a fatigued mind's moment of inspiration quickly penned. I was surprised to find that I never did post it to the blog. Well, they say "Better late than never"so here goes...

The office building is finally quiet; everyone save for myself has left for the evening. The night falls softly without, to the sound of crickets and little else. It is the first night in many that doesn’t feel like a steam bathroom. I stare at my laptop screen, my tired mind struggling to perfectly formulate the phrases that have kept me here this late. 

Procrastination is many things, none of them positive.  

The sultry tones of Lauryn Hill accompanied by an acoustic guitar do little to stimulate my foggy brain. I close my eyes and the music washes over me. For just a moment, all else falls away and I am carried on wings of gossamer to that place, the place beyond dreams. 

But just for a moment. All too soon, the night office sounds - the ticking clock, the creaking furniture, the buzzing mosquitoes - drag me back to the here and now, to unedited documents and the beginnings of a fatigue headache. Goosebumps on my arms - whether from the cool night air or the music, I can’t decide - I grudgingly refocus my mind on the task at hand.

Impromptu poetry

On the Afrobloggers WhatsApp group, Lutgard Musiime Akiiki gave a one-liner - "I am burning in my own skin" - and asked poets to do their thing, so I gave it a shot ... 

  

I am burning in my own skin

 I can’t possibly hold this in - 

 Much longer! 

 It gets stronger -

 With each passing moment.

It threatens to rip me apart

But I don’t know how to start

Letting the world know. 

How do I show

What could possibly be?

I’ll feed  the passion quietly

Let it burn on internally.

Soon it will be

Greater than me

And then, the world will burn!

How to build your plant collection

 

 

One of my hobbies is growing ornamental plants. I cannot say how or where my love for these plants started but I do think I got some of it from my Dad. Saying I love ornamental plants is not to say I am living in an indoor jungle or I think of myself as a “plant parent” but I have over the past few months acquired a few plants that make me smile and are a point of interesting discussion. There should be about 20 different species in my collection at the time of this writing. 

I get asked quite a bit where I get my plants from, so do read on to learn about the different ways in which I have, and you too can build your plant collection. I will start with the ways of acquiring plants without spending money, as I believe that a hobby should be something that brings you joy without adding stress, financial or otherwise. 

1 – Receive Gifts: Two or three of my plants were gifts from friends. This is a memorable gift and one that keeps on giving. A well-cared-for plant can be enjoyed for a number of years and its offspring can be shared innumerable times, bringing joy to countless others.   

 2 – Ask from family and friends: a number of ornamental plants can be propagated quite simply by way of leaves or stem cuttings. A leaf or two, or a cutting acquired from a friend’s established collection can help you start your own little garden. A quarter of the plants I have were acquired this way.

 

3 – Pluck from existing plants: This I say with a bit of caution given that plucking without permission could be viewed as stealing if the plants are in a controlled environment. But a wildly growing plant with some offshoots can provide a good starting point. I got a few plants this way.

4 – Buy: There are a number of places from which one can purchase ornamental plants – roadside stalls, shops in malls, online shops. Your choice depends on your pocket. I find the roadside stalls to be the cheaper option, although the mall or online shops are more likely to have fancier and more exotic plants, with a higher price to match. Less than half my plants are store-bought, and mainly from the roadside stalls.

5 – Propagate: As your plants grow, you can take leaves, cuttings, or plantlets and start new plants to spread in other areas of your home or office, or spread some plant love through gifts to other people.

 

Well, there you have the five ways in which I have grown my plant collection to date. Do let me know which you have employed before or are planning to employ, and happy acquiring. 

Creating to Survive

It is Day 4 of the #WinterABC2021, still in the spirit of Creatives. For the past couple of days I have been thinking about whether Creatives are born or made, and something someone posted today concretised those thoughts. It has been said that necessity is the mother of invention, and usually, on hearing this I think of the “bigger” inventions like the light bulb, the aeroplane or the telephone, but how about the day-to-day seemingly small “inventions” people are forced to make in order to ease their lives?

I am reminded of my childhood years. Born in a Uganda emerging from years of civil war to parents who had lived through the crazy times, creativity and minor inventions were a way of life. Everyday items were frequently repurposed to serve a need. Nail-holes punched through the bottom of a tin can made a functional grater, plastic holders of medicine ampoules nailed to a wooden board was a perfect holder for the family’s toothbrushes, using the cardboard hearts of toilet rolls as pan holders or to keep curtains in place  And loads of other things.

My siblings and I learnt from and applied our parents’ frugal ways. One thing that really stuck for my sister and I was repurposing clothes. In the true spirit of “omwana akula” (the child is still growing), the clothes purchased for us were usually a couple of sizes bigger. Mum would stitch and tuck to make them fit and they would be let out as you grow as opposed to buying new clothes every few months. Of course, that was quite a bit of stitching and tucking for a household of 5 children, so mum taught us how to do a lot of it ourselves. She showed us how to hem and tuck, make buttonholes and add little decorations here and there to turn a basic outfit into something fancy.

As we got older, my sister and I still made modifications to clothes. A few memorable ones for me were turning a maxi, overly tight skirt into a freer knee-length one, turning trousers into skirts, or ordinary trousers into fancy bell-bottoms with some jean detail. We were usually complimented on our good wardrobe *wink* There was the one time I almost burnt a black trouser-leg while ironing and to cover up I stitched a flower pattern over the almost-burnt area. No one could tell. To date, I still make modifications on my skirts and trousers to counter that waistband gap, and hide small rips in clothes with pretty patches, flowers or strategically placed button detail.

There is the application of creativity in other areas besides clothing and dressing. I recently rented a studio apartment for nearly a year. I was not at liberty to make serious permanent modifications to the space though I really wanted to separate the living and sleeping spaces. Enter creativity. I opened out the box of a fridge and used that not only as a partition for the space, but also as a board for hanging verses and décor on the living side, and jewellery and hair accessories on the sleeping side.

Then there are the things I do with my dreadlocks, but that is a discussion for another day. I might not be one of those Creatives out there, posting or releasing content for the world to consume but my side-hustle creativity does keep my life interesting and saves me a few coins here and there. Creativity today might be viewed as a way to earn a living for some but for others, it is a way to survive. 

#Day4

#WinterABC2021

#CreatingToSurvive

What’s Hindering the Creative in Me?

This is Day 2 of #WinterABC2021 and still in the Creatives Week. For my Day 1 post, I questioned whether I really am a Creative. True, I have a keen interest and moderate proficiency in music, art, and writing, but is that all it takes to be called a Creative? 

Surely not. I am reminded of a wise man who said “If you do not have a market, you do not have a business.” You might have a product like bananas on a farm but until they are in a market stall for purchase, you cannot say you are in business. 

I guess in the same way, however much I am appreciating lyrics, melodies, and harmonies, well-decorated spaces or well-written stories, until I am creating actual content and putting it out there for consumption, I probably am not a Creative. 

But I have a published book *cue smug-faced emoji*.

I guess I am a Creative after all, a side-hustle Creative, but a Creative nonetheless… Hooray!!

But beyond the book, what else have I created and put out there? Why am I not creating, despite my self-proclaimed proficiency in the arts? 

Let’s skip right to it and say FEAR. Whichever reason I come up with, it can be boiled down to that four-letter word. 

I wouldn’t exactly say I am afraid of the unknown. It is known that living as a Creative is not for the faint-hearted. It takes courage to break boundaries, seek out new horizons, or dance to the tune that only you can hear while others call you crazy. So I guess I am afraid of being brave, of being the different one. Following the beaten path is safe, predictable, and acceptable. Being accepted is nice. 

Then there are the expected hardships that Creatives supposedly go through. The uncertainty about where the next meal is coming from, the writer’s/creator’s block, being looked at as a failure or being asked to “get a real job” until the big break comes…. I know this is probably too cliché and Creative or not, one faces all sorts of hardships in whatever field but there’s a certain narrative around being a struggling Creative that seems accepted as the norm. I am afraid of having to find out that this narrative is true. 

There are a couple more reasons that I will probably explore over the next few weeks, but let me stop here for now. As I work to overcome my fears, I will continue to be a side-hustle Creative. 

#Day2 #WinterABC2021 

#SideHustleCreative

Am I A Creative? #WinterABC2021 #Day1

This is a word that has been going around a lot lately.

Creative. With a Capital “C”. 

Not the adjective definition of “relating to or involving the use of the imagination or original ideas to create something.” 

But an actual noun. A person who makes a job of creating stuff.

Whenever I hear the word used in that sense, the mental picture I get is of this amazing person who is changing the world through brilliant innovative solutions to humanity’s oldest problems. And the solutions are usually breathtakingly beautiful, extremely simple and perfectly functional. 

Said person is also a radical go-getter, afraid of nothing and no-one, content to forego comfort and luxury in pursuit of the joy of creating, unable to be tied down by the security of such mundane things as a regular job. And this person is not only raking in loads of cash but also at perfect peace with themselves as they are doing that for which they were created.

Then I look at me.

Me with my bachelor’s degree in a profession as mainstream as they come, working a 9 to 5 job, Monday to Friday. Me with a well set-up professional profile on LinkedIn and academic publications to my name. 

I do have my occasional dabblings in music, fine art and writing (I have published a book and have a rather inactive blog) but does that qualify me as a Creative? My List on Netflix is full of reality competitions in art, music, creativity generally, and my YouTube subscriptions are to organisational, interior decorating and DIY craft channels but does that earn me the name?

Maybe I am a Creative in disguise or denial, still boxed in by societal expectations and comfortable in the "security" of the 9-5? Maybe I am like that hero in the movies living the ordinary life until some traveling mage lets them know they are the Hope that their world has been waiting for? 

Am I A Creative?

#Day1

#WinterABC2021

#WhoAmI?

#FindingMe

PS: I have not blogged in over a year and hope to use this #WinterABC2021 to revive this site :)

Why I write

I’m just getting on board with the #UgBlogMonth thingie, so I am have some work to do work catching up on missed days even as I keep up with each new day’s post.

So Day 1 we were to answer the question: Why do you write?

Hmm? I wonder… I penned my thoughts on whether I should write or not many years ago, and to date I can’t say I have a concrete answer to that question. Here are a few of my reasons, though this list is not exhaustive. 

I have read some very good writing and want to contribute to that pool. Hopefully the more I write, the better I will get, and in due time my writing will inspire others to follow suite.

I write as an outlet for my thoughts. Vocalising at times is hard, and once words leave my lips there is no way to retrieve them. Writing down what is on my mind helps me sort through my thoughts and often times clean them up before presenting them to the intended recipient. Better outcomes all round.

Last year I wrote because I had a target to meet. As part of a course I was doing, I had to write at least one blog every two weeks. A lot of them have been read by only me. 

Someone I read last year said writing is one way of influencing people you might never get to meet. That is a worthwhile reason to write. Of course it goes with the added responsibility of having influence-worthy content. So even as I seek to write more, I must seek to know more so that all my readers are positively influenced.

For now, I will continue to write and maybe along the way I will find out the why.

Caring for Me

I’m a bit late to this #UgBlogMonth party, but better late than never, right? Well, that (late or never) is a discussion for another day.

Today I am writing, as instructed, about what I do for self-care.

To be honest, that’s a hard one. For the simple reason that I do not intentionally care for self. Not consciously at least. Or at least I did not in the past.  Of late, I am making halfhearted attempts at self-care, since it is a thing, right? I mean, self-care, self-love – whatever you call it - feels like one of those social media trends that might not last beyond the next device upgrade. Looks like I am allowing myself to be swept up in this trend.

I, like so many others I believe, was brought up with the notion that it is noble to look out for others with next to no emphasis on looking after oneself. Jesus first, yourself last, others in between … spells J.O.Y, right?

Not always.

Self-care, as described by the first (and only) site that I have looked up is defined as “any activity that we do deliberately in order to take care of our mental, emotional, and physical health.” - Its purpose: improved mood, reduced anxiety and a good relationship with oneself and others. 

See, it’s close to impossible to give to others what you do not have yourself. While it is noble to instill in little humans a heart for others, and to nip the evil of selfishness in its bud, we need to acknowledge that it is next to impossible to care for others without first caring for yourself. Actually it’s impossible. One might keep up the façade for a bit but it soon comes crumbling down.

Operative word in the definition up there is deliberately. Admittedly I used to occasionally do things I enjoyed but these were usually relegated to "free time" which was a rarity. 

So over the past few months I have intentionally added me-time to my schedule, as opposed to filling it with work, service and social responsibility. In this me-time, I do things that rejuvenate and refuel me, making me stronger for the journey of life.

I started doing a movie or two in cinema every Monday, usually on my own, usually action or animation, preferably 3D. It was discounted so did not feel too indulgent (See the reluctance to spend on self). That partially takes care of the mind side of things, as for the most part I am not too mentally invested in what is happening on the screen, but can push aside other cares of the day and just get lost in the story. For lock-down, I have subscribed to Netflix and looked up some of my favourite series, though that is a slippery slope. 

At other times, to clear my mind I will play Candy Crush or watch DIY videos on YouTube till the mental tangles straighten out and I am able to apply my mind more productively to the task at hand. 

I love to read novels, and the further from reality the story, the happier I am. I get lost in novels and will usually block out all else till I have completed a good story. In pursuit of discipline, I need to allocate a specific time to novels, probably the hour before bed.  

For physical well-being, I started dancing, and have written a couple of posts on that previously, here and here. Dancing was the extent of my physical activity for the week, and I enjoyed it until social distancing happened. For the past three weeks that I have been working from home, I have incorporated a 1 hour workout routine into my daily schedule, 5 days a week. I stare at my laptop screen and all day and this one hour is a chance to look at something else, be outside, and move about. I’m thinking of how I can maintain this post-covid as this time usually finds me in traffic or some other evening engagement. 

I find that the best way to effectively do this self-care thing is to first of all schedule, then secondly stick to the schedule. If that rejuvenating activity is not on schedule, chances are I will not find time for it. After it is on schedule, I need to remind myself that it is as important as everything else on the schedule so should not be pushed aside in favour of something else. Scheduling a fun activity is actually motivation to work harder at the other tasks in order to finish in time for it.  

Besides the DO’s of self-care there are also the DON’Ts. I try to control what I let into my life. Of course with social media, there’s all sorts of stuff flying at you from all directions all the time but there are ways to filter out what actually hits. Simple acts like blocking someone whose updates do not speak life or muting/leaving groups with more dampening than uplifting content can reduce the amount of negativity coming my way. I mean, it is my data, my time, my devices, my life. I also find people or content to follow that speaks of hope and greatness. This ranges from church material and leaders to music and art. 

The lock-down has allowed me the blessing of solitude in which I can do the much needed soul searching that everyday busy-ness did not allow. Spending time with God, searching out my purpose for being, understanding my shortcomings and harnessing my gifts, rethinking all my actions and decisions - meeting me. 

The more time I spend with me the better I understand how to take care of me in a way that will equip me to take better care of others. 

No fear

It is a beautiful day, sunny but not oppressively hot. A comfortable breeze keeps everything bearable.

Downtown is crowded. At first glance it looks like business as usual. Until one notices the array of face coverings almost everyone is sporting. They are meant to be masks. Some are real masks. An N95 here, a FF2 there, a smattering of disposable surgical masks. A number of the latter are in advanced states of degeneration making one wonder at the effectiveness of the same. But the true masks are few in comparison to the improvised ones – hankies, bandanas, random bits of cloth of questionable origin, fashion masks – anything really to give the wearer the assurance that there is a guard of sorts on what they inhale.

Then there are the guys at the street corners with backpack sprayers, usual pesticidal contents replaced by a soapy mix they offer to everyone within reach. And most passers-by accept, almost absent-mindedly holding out their hands to receive the soapy spray and rubbing their palms together vigorously as they hurry on their way.

The drugshop is busy. I sit and wait for my relatively massive order to be packed, trying to keep out of the way of the other customers in the small space. Every few minutes, a harried looking person stumbles in, asks at the counter for a mask, and stumbles out again on receiving a head shake from the pharmacy attendant. There is this one guy with a backpack and a nearly full spray bottle. He is trying to sell to the pharmacy. Presumably sanitizer. He succeeds and I see him smile as another man (presumably the owner) tells the cashier to pay him for some bottles of the stuff. The smile is triumphant but tight.

His expression is mirrored in almost everyone I see. The darting glances, the pursed lips and flared nostrils (if they are not hidden behind a mask), the hurried steps, the unconscious folding in of self and minimizing of movements to reduce the chances of brushing up against anyone or anything.

It is not business as usual. There’s fear in every movement, action and expression. And the brightly beautiful day is a disturbing counterpoint to the mood. Dark clouds, billowing smoke, amoured vehicles on the streets would give them a tangible focal point for this blanket of terror. But all they have is stories of a deadly disease devastating outside countries and recently imported into our own. It’s nothing tangible, nothing visible that they can see and run from. So they fear.

I jump on a boda to get back to office with my purchases. The more uptown streets are not business as usual. The empty parking slots are many, the pedestrians few and moving cars fewer. The sun still shines, the breeze still blows. It is a beautiful day.   

I see him sleeping in the shade of some decorative shrubbery on the traffic island. You probably can picture him – his clothes no more than tattered rags that gave up their colour long ago in favour of beggar-brown, more dirt-caked skin than is decent visible through the multiple rips and holes, matted hair and beard – that kind. He is asleep in the middle of the day, snoring softly amidst the fear and panic. No mask adorns his face, and those blackened hands have definitely not seen any soap, much less sanitizer in eons. For him, no planning how to survive the pending lockdown, no worrying about lost jobs, economic crises or super bugs. For him, no fear.  

The Last Dance

It is a warm evening, deceptively calm. The evening traffic getting here is lighter than usual. The crowd at the bar is thin. A few familiar faces. I draw one of the instructor’s attention to the time – it’s past half seven and there’s no sign of the class starting. He seems shocked by the time. Like most people, he’s been caught up in a conversation about the global pandemic that seems to creep closer by the day.  It’s the reason for the reduced traffic at rush hour, the lower numbers at the bar, the hushed conversations. It’s the reason we all grab at the instructor’s little bottle of sanitizer as the class starts.

But the fear of a distant pandemic is soon washed away by the music and the dance. The effort expended on learning the new steps leaves little room for thoughts of much else. I get carried away in the beauty of the dance, the last of the work tension slipping away as the class progresses. I notice a familiar face among the spectators. I’ve seen him here a couple of times before, but I’ve seen him somewhere else as well. I have not seen him dance though. Is he good? I could use a good dance partner this evening, seeing as to how it might be my last for a while.

As the class ends, I walk over to where my bag is and grab my coupon for a drink. The familiar person I saw earlier is at the same table so we strike up a conversation. He reminds me of where I have probably seen him before and compliments me on my dancing. The social dance begins and he asks for a dance. We step onto the floor and off we go, swept into a world of music and movement. The conversation that began before the dance floor continues, but now in more than just words. Our hands, our eyes, our bodies convey messages beyond words. One dance becomes two, then three.

Is he good? Boy, is he good!

He leads and (for the most part) I follow. I laugh over my mistakes – and they are many. He graciously pauses to talk me through some of the more intricate steps. He frowns at me when I go off one way despite his signals to go the other. I smile sheepishly back and he laughs. I tell him he’s a good leader and it is not just an empty compliment. I want to follow his lead.

I joke about possibly dancing blind-folded so as to better focus on the signals his body is sending me through our joined hands. He suggests I close my eyes, and I laugh. That takes a truckload of trust, but as I think about it I realize that – in this moment – I do trust him. So I close my eyes.

It is one of the weirdest feelings ever, dancing with my eyes closed. Unable to see the dance floor, my feet, the other dancers (and they are quite a number by this time), his facial expressions. Fully relying on the signals I am receiving from his hands alone. Fully trusting him to lead me across the dance floor, around obstacles both moving and stationary. I can only maintain it for a short while and quickly open my eyes, much to his disappointment if the look on his face is anything to go by. We continue to dance anyway, him leading and me following. We swing, we sway, we spin, we laugh, we talk.

My usual departure time arrives and passes. I do not want to leave just yet. But eventually I have to go and he walks me to my car. We say our goodbyes, hoping to see each other again at the class the next week.

We do not, for the lock-down begins the next day. I am glad I got him for my last dance.

Learning To Follow

I think I first got introduced to afro-latino dancing around 2013, and have been doing it on and off over the years. Never taking it particularly seriously, I had not danced much in nearly 3 years. Then towards the end of 2019 and my Harvest Institute Leadership Course, I resumed informal dance classes, continuing with these into 2020 until the need for social distancing put a stop to that. While I was happy to get my weekly dose of exercise in such a fun way, it quickly became clear to me that I was not many people’s choice of dance partner. And with a head full of insight from nearly a year of leadership training, I was able to quickly figure out why.

The things is, I love afro-latino music (Salsa, Bachata, Merenge, Kizomba, and their cousins Reggaeton and Zouk) for the simple fact that it is very dance-able to. For the most part I have no idea what is being sung, but those beats yank at my heart strings (and my body) in a way few other things do. However, there’s one aspect of afro-latino dancing that I find both great and frustrating in equal measure, and that’s the fact that it is a partner dance. This is all well and good, for the most part. You have someone to share the excitement of the dance with. Unless you don’t. But not having a partner is not the hardest part.

The frustrating bit is that it is a man-led dance. Which means the male partner leads the female

partner. He determines the steps, the intricacies, the style, everything. And I’m female, so I do not get to lead. Which is fine if I have a male partner who is higher up on the rank of dance-know-how and knows what he is doing. With subtle twists and tugs and prods, a good dance partner can lead even the most amateur learner who is willing to be led.

And THAT is the root of my frustrations. Being led. See all these courses we do (Harvest Institute Leadership Course inclusive  - LOL), TED talks we listen to, preachings, teachings etc talk about “How to be a better leader”. It’s all Lead, Lead, Lead. Hardly anyone talks about how to be a good follower. Okay, the church does talk about following Christ, but you get my drift. And in my day-to- day life, I am leading most of the time.

So you can imagine how hard it is to cast off the “Lead” command for an evening and take up the “follow” command. Letting someone else take the reins, be in control…WOW! How?! It requires a very real mental shift, and some days I just can’t find the energy to make the shift.

As I mentioned, a good dance partner will skillfully lead even the most amateur dancer and make them look like a star. So an intermediate dancer like me should shine with a good partner. I think John Maxwell’s Law of Respect kicks in here. It states: People naturally follow leaders stronger than themselves. I believe on a subconscious level, I assess my partner’s “strength” in terms of how good they are at the dance and decide whether to allow to be led and how much. Obviously things fall apart when I partner with someone who is not as skilled in dancing and I don’t fully allow myself to be led by them.

Needless to say, my most fulfilling dances are with more skilled partners. I have also noted that, when

I consciously allow myself to follow my partner’s lead, regardless of how skilled (or unskilled) they are, it is a win-win for both of us. So, the key to my getting the fullest joy out of afro-latino dancing – and to becoming most people’s choice of a dance partner – is in me learning to follow.

I am learning.

This is Legacy

In February this year, I had the opportunity to sing with the Worship Harvest choir at the Evening of Hymns. This was a fundraising event for a pool to be constructed at the Joy Centre in Wakiso that would contribute to the center’s self-sustainability. With the limited time available for preparation, rehearsals were squeezed in at the weirdest of hours - 7am on Saturday morning, 3pm on Sunday afternoon - with a lot of practice being done by the singers and instrumentalists on their own.  It took quite a bit of discipline and sacrifice.

Anyway, 16^th February eventually arrives. The final sound-check is done, we go to change into our stage clothes...make-up, drink water, prayers…and we’re on.

And it was beautiful! The stage lights shining on the white outfits made us look like angels and lent an otherworldly atmosphere to the whole space. The instruments sounded perfect. And the voices…wow. As the opening notes of the first hymn swelled to fill the room, my heart swelled with happiness. 

The evening unfolded beautifully. We sang, we laughed, we danced, we worshipped the Creator in music. I am sure tears flowed at some point.

Towards the end, Pastor Mosze invited Uncle Ben to the stage to give a few remarks. Rev Canon Ben Mugarura (popularly known as Uncle Ben) and his wife, Auntie Joy are behind the Joy Center in Wakiso. This is a youth leadership and development center that seeks to equip and develop young people for leadership. Uncle Ben and Auntie Joy have been in the business of developing young people for decades. Uncle Ben has held several youth chaplaincies across the country and was also chaplain at St Francis Chapel Makerere.

As a matter of fact, Uncle Ben is considered the grandfather of Worship Harvest Ministries. St Francis Chapel had a music outreach program called Come Alive that through a series of events, gave birth to what is now Worship Harvest Ministries.

Standing with the choir as Uncle Ben took the microphone, I could see what he saw: a recently opened 3000-seater auditorium in a massive half constructed building, nearly filled to capacity on a Sunday night. I also saw (and I would like to believe he did too): the hundreds of families represented, worshipping together, finding hope and a home through this ministry, not just this evening in this place but every day in a myriad of places. I saw lives transformed, businesses blessed, communities healed, excellence embodied, chains broken, limits discarded, dreams birthed and nurtured. And through it all, Christ glorified.

Uncle Ben spoke a few words, handed the microphone back and made his way back to his seat. And all I could think was: This is Legacy.

PS: All photos in this post are from the Worship Harvest Ministries Facebook and Instagram pages.