“The regeneration of the inferior or degenerate races, by the superior races is part of the providential order of things for humanity; Regere imperio populous is our vocation. Pour forth this all-consuming activity onto countries, which, like China, are crying aloud for foreign conquest. Turn the adventurers who disturb European society into a ver sacrum, a horde like those of the Franks, the Lombards, or the Normans, and every man will be in his right role. Nature has made a race of workers, the Chinese race, who have wonderful manual dexterity, and almost no sense of humor; govern them with justice. Levying from them. In return for the blessing of such a government, an ample allowance for the conquering race, and they will be satisfied; a race and they will be satisfied; a race of tillers of the soil, the Negro; treat him with kindness and humanity, and all will be as it should; a race of masters and soldiers, the European race…. Let each do what he is made for, and all will be well.”
La Reforme intellectuelle et morale (1871)
JOSEPH ERNEST RENAN
The next day, I set out to die. I had never been so excited. If it was to live, I would die again and again.
I was so energized from the findings within myself of the previous night, that I saw them in everything outside myself. I had slept peacefully and I woke up refreshed, my soul’s cistern replenished with the waters of conviction and an eternal identity. With every stride and step I took, as I run around my green and purple room getting ready for the day, I was surging with a life energy. It buzzed and hummed like a current that knew it didn’t buzz and hum alone. It was an energy that was alive, and one that had its own mind. I drew life from its life and joy from its joy, purpose, from its resolve. It seemed I had found so much in the decision to give my life away, such that with every struggle and every hardship, however big and however little, I would, again and again.
Dressed and set for the day, I stepped out of the house, and into the world, drawing confidence from within myself, and finding that it gleamed in my appearance and apparel, as well. There I was in my favorite dress top, turquoise and stripped white, pleated just a bit after the shoulder line, but easing up beautifully into a loose flair that made me feel all young, hardy and free. The wind, and some dust along with it, blew and moved it over my black stretchy leggings which fit so comfortably, wrapped around my legs and waist, and as well keenly contrasting with my brown ankle boots, in a way that pleased my creative senses. I fixed my flat and wide brimmed hat over my curly black hair. As I prepared to pull the gate and let myself out, I tugged at the curls in front of my face, from under my hat and evened them out.
The purpose and determination in myself, resounded in a wave so strongly felt, I sighed in great awe of the strength I felt within. From this day forward and henceforth, my soul would never forget; even in dying there was life. There I was craving life and death in equal measure because some philosophical life secret had revealed itself to me, and like a child hearing music and melody for the first time, the child in me danced in happiness. I was full of hope and it reeled and reeled deep inside me, causing such a healthy excitement such that, if I dwelt on it longer than necessary, I would have tears in my eyes.
I needed to walk to the main road to catch a taxi into town, and get busy with all that I needed to, concerning my death. As I walked on my street and towards the main road, I passed a couple of builders seated and probably having their breakfast or a mid-morning snack, after a really early morning of work. For their equipment, lay down by the benches they sat on, already bearing the marks of usefulness to their owners and users, and for the rest of the world that included myself, to see. As I passed, they looked at me in a way that made me feel uneasy. Embarrassed? Guilty perhaps? Did I feel ashamed? Maybe I should say good morning, I thought to myself; but the thought had come a few steps too late. The corner of my eye caught their gazes that followed me with an air of astonishment, or even bewilderment; like what they saw they could not understand; like what they saw, they did not know and were not accustomed to; like what they saw did not belong.
I continued and came up to Mama Bonnie’s house. She was seated outside on her white chair, as she usually did in the mornings. In a sense and search for inward relief from the preceding situation that continued to make me feel uneasy, I said good morning with a wide smile, in order that this arriving situation may be clade with ease. She said good morning in reply, but as though the words and voice she used to say and breathe them, were not hers; for they escaped her mouth just as soon as she seemed ready to say them in her mind. She then proceeded to enter her house. It seemed I was something people were not ready to receive, and in fact did not understand; something connected to another thing deep inside them all that they feared so much, they either longed for its likeness or detested its every representation.
I came up to teacher Anna’s shop to buy some airtime, and found her daughter attending to the customers. She greeted me, and I her. I asked for airtime, she proceeded to get it. As she moved across to the other side of the shop to reach for it, in the local language, she commented on my outfit for the day, complimenting me and saying, I looked smart. “You look like those people we see on the TV!” she added in excitement and glee. All I could manage was a feigned courteous laughter in reply, and a flat “huh” as I begun to comprehend what she said behind her words, and in her voice. She handed me my airtime and I was on my way. People dress like this all the time, I thought to myself as I shrugged.
As I sat in the taxi, the people already inside gave me the same look; like I was some caged thing on display teaching a big fat lesson that loomed in our subconscious. As I sat, I felt like all I could do was look back at them, through the bars of the cage I had been fit in, by the looks on their faces. In some faces, I saw pity. In others, intrigue. In a few, anger. But in most, curiosity. The most interesting faces were those that were apathetic to it all. They were such a welcome contrast to all I had had encountered since my day had begun; that is, since I stepped into the world. I figured it was just that fascination and attention you give to every person that enters a taxi, because it is the obvious occurrence one naturally or even subconsciously gives attention to.
I was just beginning to settle in my seat, when I felt my phone vibrate in my purse. I reached in for it and took the phone call. A friend of mine was asking where on the work computer I had saved some work for a project we were handling. After sorting everything out, I put my phone back into the bag and held it to myself, it being Kampala and all, even if it was only 11am. More stares. More curiosity. More intrigue. Some anger. I shrugged and looked out the window, appreciating the scenery as the journey went on.
I finally got to work and there was already a lot to do. There was client needing to see me. At front desk, I was told she had been waiting a few minutes. I rushed to the board room where she was waiting and apologized, as I got in and become acquainted with her. She asked me what I did and I explained to her that I was a creative director. She laughed and cynically let out, “There so many other things to be? Why that?” she said, as she rearranged herself in her seat. I closed my eyes momentarily and smiled a smile of amusement, mustering all the patience in the world, and finally deciding to let it slide, because that question got to me more than it should have. When I asked how I could help her, she told me she was an artist interested in releasing a musical project in the next month, just so she could have some work to her name, that would help her get some work in the music industry. I figured first step would be coming up with some material to work with. I asked her what she would be interested in singing or performing, to which she replied, “Anything that made money.” I moved her into the studio space and started asking her some questions that would help with that direction. Who are some of your favorite artists? She mentioned a few names I recognized on the local scene. I then asked what she like about their art. She couldn’t really say, but it’s the music that she heard on radio and that’s all she wanted too. After a few more questions, I asked her finally why she wanted to do music.
Vexed by the fact that I had already asked her so many questions, she frustratedly pointed out what seemed to her overtly obvious; she wanted to get money and be famous like all these other artists. “You do music if you want to be famous. You don’t look like someone who can fail to figure that out, so I wonder why you do.”, she added. Another moment inward contemplation, and the subsequent decision to let that slide as well, because I was most affected by what I understood her, to mean. I knew where what she said came from. I wanted to tell her, “Become who you are. It happens once in a lifetime.” Something in me said the same thing to me, because what she said came from the very same place, in me.
After such a somewhat stressing and demanding session, all I wanted to eat was something simple. When it came to time to order, I asked for their typical Caesar salad with extra dressing. As soon as the waitress left, everyone turned to teasing and making fun. The most intriguing subject seemed to be that I had ordered a salad. “You are a Mukiga. Bakiga like meat, not leaves,” one of them joked. I joked back with some of my own comments and the laughter kept us going till our meals arrived. While I laughed along and saw their subtle points and opinions about my diet, something suddenly started weighing on my mind and in my heart with everything that had been going on throughout the day. In the strangest way, it felt like it had been weighing for such a while. My whole life probably. I knew then how I would die, but I wasn’t as excited about it, anymore. Something in me said to me, within that thought, “Death and dying is serious. What did you think?”
I needed to make it to a rehearsal for some creative directing I had been hired to help out with. I was already late and the fastest way to the venue was going to be by Boda Boda. I stopped one riding outside the restaurant and asked him how much it was to where I was going, only for him to state the most absurd of prices. When I defended myself, and accused him of extortion in the common local language, he seemed surprised I had it in me. Caught in his plan and trapped by it, he capitulated into taking me for the regular price. As I paid him when we arrived at our destination, I jokingly remarked that extorting his customers would land him in trouble one day. He laughed and remarked that the extortion he only applied to the “Bazungu.” I sternly and almost too seriously reminded him I was a Ugandan, like him. He laughed again, much louder this time, and went on his way. I was angry. I wanted to grab him by his jacket and pin him to the ground, that he may realize it wasn’t funny. He would admit the truth! Off I watched him ride as I loosed my fingers that I had only then realized, had been curled up into fists. My death had become. I was dying.
After doing what I needed to do at the rehearsal, I wrapped it up and prepared in my mind to head home. I would probably but a few movies to relax my mind. One of singers in the musical production approached me and thanked me for helping out. I told him I was glad to. I then remarked that his singing made me as giddy as Tiger in Winnie the Pooh. He laughed and with a smirk on his face, patted my shoulder and told me I was weird. Yeah I probably shouldn’t have said Tiger; the way Tiger usually says it. That’s probably why everyone in the hundred-acre wood felt the way they did about Tiger. He was weird like me. Huh.
Last stop was the movie library. When I handed the movies, I had picked to Connie the owner of the library, he shook his head and said as he laughed, “You never disappoint.” I laughed back, but only to ask what he meant. He just shook his head and handed me the movies. I got my boda boda all the way home. Must have been those weird Tiger vibes. Great.
When I got home, I fell onto my bed exhausted.
I was exhausted once again with how different I felt from everyone else, and how whether intentionally or not, they always pointed it out. I was too “western” to be truly “Ugandan.” I listened to, watched and read all the “weirdest” stuff. All that made me Ugandan was my name and nationality as indicated on my passport. But inside I felt like someone else and everyone else saw it. Everyone seemed to point fingers and call names. But they didn’t really. I was the one that accused myself. I held the gun to my face, and I waited to receive the bullet.
“Die”, something in me said.
And so, I did.
I let the bullet of accusation hit is mark; its target- my identity, and I waited for the aftermath.
There I lay, life and purpose oozing out of the bullet wound. The feeling of some part of me ebbing away. The realization of who I was crystal clear; A post-colonial millennial artist affected by the opinions and decisions of men and nations, formed and made hundreds of years ago. I closed my eyes in pain. I could feel the pain everywhere demanding to be announced and noticed; demanding to be felt. It selfishness and arrogance made me angry.
In a determination to spite it, I decided if I was to die, it would be with some shred of dignity and pride.
I resolved to die resolved.
I stopped pining in speculation over who I could have been had we retained our culture in its purity. I stopped being angry, because all the people to be angry at were dead and gone and whether I wanted it to be or not, the world was something else now. I resolved to make what was thrust upon me mine, because it is. The identity I may recognize in myself, may be one based on cultural interactions between different cultural, national and ethnic as well as gender and class based identities, assigned varying degrees of social power by a colonial society that once imposed directly, and now indirectly through globalization, upon my culture- but I accept it. I do. The Ugandan in me is in there somewhere, and so is the artist. Maybe in accepting it, I can find who I really am.
And with that I breathed my last.
I was content to wander, content to suffer, content to die; because not all those who wander are lost, not all those who suffer, suffer for nothing but most importantly, all those who die, find freedom and release in death. They understand by contrast what life truly is. They live and they know life and are blessed to live better, by dying every day.
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