The day is grey. Really grey.
I mean, the sun is not to be seen. A haze has settled over the valleys of Kampala, and even the hills seem to be wrapped in it. I am downtown, looking out towards Old Kampala hill. Cant see the green of the trees. It is a dark, shadow that sits where-ever the trees should be.
Grey Kampala. But bustling all the same.
It is supposed to be a national holiday. The ruling party. Odd. The party in power does have its own National day.
But there are quite a number of vehicles on the streets. And people. And movement, and- Kampala is its usual bustly self. I came with an umbrella because it was drizzling when I left home. Noticed that most people did not have them, and rightly so. My weather sense was telling me, despite the heavy overcast, the mist, and the drizzle, that it should be a hot and bright day. Yet to see whether I can still read that right.
Does not reflect what is in my mind. But there is a friend who seems to be having a grey time.
Iwaya. A cyber acquaintance. Met him here, and have been visiting his blog. Following his posts.
These posts, they reveal so much and so little of us. He was working in Southern Sudan, Juba. Seems both to love and hate the place. It is a tough posting. Rough place with minimal government. And we seem to have problems, as Ugandans working in Sudan. Horror stories.
Followed his posts through a return to Uganda for holidays, an apparent break up, returning to Sudan, and then the horror of a house fire where 9 Ugandans were burnt to death. 2 of them were his friends.
He writes beautifully. Lyrical. Kind of hard sometimes to know whether the emotions expressed are his. Yet they are too intense, too heartfelt to be someone else’s. In prose and poetry, he has told a story of his life. And he is in pain.
I feel it, too. Through his writing. Hope you’ll be okay, Iwaya. My prayers for you. May the problems be solved.