I think it is my thoughts.
See, I didnt want to get out of bed this morning. For the last couple of days to be precise. No joy in the daybreak, no link to the birds singing. No magic where it should be.
So it was today, but I did get up. Late.
The day ugly outside, I sought solace in the computer. Cyber world.
Went on a long journey. Googled, surfed, shivered in cyber world.
Little joy in it. The news was there, interesting, but the interest was transitory.
Then it started raining.
It rained much of the morning. A constant drizzle and wetness which took hold of the day.
Looking out, my spirits lifted.
There is something in the rain that acts other than to dampen them. When it rains, especially when I am in Kampala, I love it. Truth to say, I have loved it for long, even when I was a child in boarding schools, in the wide 'dormitories' which were only shelters from the rain, but not the sun's heat, nor the wind from the lake.
I looked out over the valley I call home, looking at the trees wreathed in the spirits of mists. My spirits soared.
I decided to go for a long walk. A real long walk.
Took me past Makerere, the university. By then it was no longer drizzling, though the day was overcast. And warm. A warm wet hugging closeness that was more conforting than oppressive.
Through Wandegeya. A detour through the Katanga slum.
Ok, I admit, I like watching people when I walk. And to look at people, one just needs to walk the streets of Kampala. I looked. I ogled. I watched.
And I noted the run off waters, the rain scrubbed tarmac, the hustle and bustle. Invigorating, in a way that is wholy, deeply Ugandan. I have not traveled that much to have lost my awe of home. But it is something that makes my heart sing. With pleasure.
Even the Katanga slum does not pull me down. Though I am thankful I do not live there.
I was looking for beauty, and I decided that the road past the golf course would do.
I cannot realy, truthfully describe my feelings as I walked that couple of miles or so. Kitante Road, or Yusuf Lule Road. Dont know where the one stops and the other starts.
Its tarmac, dual carriage, on one side of Nakasero Hill.
Green, as green can be. A tamed beauty, though the wildness seems to want to escape the taming. The grass is a very deep green, going wild wherever it can. The trees are whole and tall and broad. Some are in the golf course proper, where the grass looks too tamed. But most are on the sides. Unencumbered by too much trimming.
I walked that length slowly, carefully. Thankful that there were so few people around. Just taking in the cool, humid air, and appreciating the expanse of green, and hills, and blue above, and, yes. The sun by then was out. And the clouds had vacated the skies.
Took me some time. Sometimes stopping to pen something down. Always looking up and down and across, feeling the weight of weeks disapear.
Didnt know that I was that stressed. The body knew it, and it reacted. And when I walked into downtown, I felt that my head was clear, like I had just taken a breath, a very long and cool breath of fresh air.
A late lunch, and well, here I am. Fresh in the evening like I should have been in the morning.
During my walk, a curious thing happened.
My mom phoned me, tells me to send my lover home- where mom lives, to collect some avocado.
I am as out as I dare be, without telling mom anything. She has never asked me about him, though she knows I usually go visit her with him in tow. And most of the family knows (though it seems they are 'keeping the bad news from mummy')
Anyway, I grew up in Kampala, and of course was introduced very early to the joys of avocado in season and out of season. This is a garden city, and avocado is a weed that grows where and when it wants. A tree sized weed, that is. And we harvest it. By the bushel.
It does not awe me, not at all.
But my lover, he loves it. A lot. And he has always been telling mom to send him some fruits when it is in season. Beats buying it from the market.
Well, she rung, and she was asking for him. Must say that small fact makes me happy. The fact that she remembered, and that, well, she accepts him.
Oh gosh, on such small things is our happiness anchored. The love of family, its acceptance, and loving us, not as they would want us to be, but as we are.