Today, I went to a suburb of
Embassyville. The houses well enclosed, protected, embassy residencies. The roads smooth, well tarmaced, with few cars. The fences high and isolating. Few people on the roads. Those walking (like me), more than likely to be labourers. I blend in. Nicely.
It is literally an enclave of isolation in the middle of the city. Affluent, and very, very beautiful.
Part of its beauty is the fact that the hill is high over the rest of the city. The city spreads out on all sides. It is like one is in the clouds just above
When almost at the top, I looked down. The slums of Kamwokya to one side. Individual houses minute, children’s blocks too close together, stretching across the valley. The hills that bound the horizon. Bahai temple in the distance.
The hills are clothed in green. The green of trees, the green of grass, the living green of a garden city.
What was most striking to me was the valley between Kololo hill and Nakasero hill. I think of
Not so that valley.
The buildings there are trendy, huge, few. The green is of trees that are house height. Mature trees. And they are many. This valley is clothed in green, from Kololo, through the Golf course in the valley, to Nakasero hill. A vibrant, deep, living green that reminds one of the tropical rainforest history of
A Garden City, is
For a while I looked out at this spectacle. I knew I had to write about it. To try and capture the sense of beauty, and awe that it touched in me. But I became uncomfortable. I may blend in into the neighbourhood as a kibarua, a day labourer, but not if I stood in quiet contemplation for long.
Reluctantly, I walked downhill, past Kiseminti. It was like I was crossing a bridge, from an island of quiet to the hustle and bustle of the city. I had to duck into the park near the British High Commission. Just to have a taste of the solitude which I had just been in.
To me, it is the Queen of Garden City, is