A Kampala Afternoon in Chogm

This country is beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful.
One may argue that it is home to me, so I am biased. One may wonder how a place in Africa can be so beautiful that I sing its praises consistently. But it is.
I am looking out of my office window. I am lucky. I have a huge window space overlooking the road.
The road is empty of cars. Not empty, fine. There are cars, but not the usual bumper to bumper traffic. But it is the very emptiness, relative emptiness that is bringing tears of appreciation to my eyes.
Sometimes the multitude of trees in the forest distracts one from an appreciation of the beauty of a thing. So it is with Kampala. Emptied of people, it has taken on a new persona. Homely, clean, bright, flowering.
I know that the City Council patrols are out chasing people off the streets. If you are peddling anything, if you look untidy, if you look like you have nothing to do in Kampala (a very relative term), a City Council Law enforcer can decide that you are ‘idle and disorderly’. It is a perfect law. Vague enough to hold anyone. And it is British, ironic!
Anyway, the streets are empty, of cars and most of the multitude. The rainy season has just been, but now it is a tropical sun that bathes the place.
True, at the moment the sun is playing hide and seek with the clouds. But still it is beautiful. It is the Pearl of Africa, to me. It is home.
The sky is a beautiful blue, light of substance. The clouds are thin, and threatening, vaguely, as they shade the sun now and again. It is the afternoon, which may threaten an afternoon shower. But the clouds only shade, a mite, the brilliancy of the sun.
It is hot, has been hot, and a humid dry which I associate with Kampala. With Uganda.
Coming to work, I was feeling like I was taking a cool draught of wine. Heavenly, chilled, refreshing. I wanted to walk into town, just because it would have been so restive. I didn’t. Just grabbed one of the ‘taxis’ minibuses. But still, my eyes were on the outside. Looking at this almost un-comparable beauty. I drunk it in, and then I have been having fun just looking at it.
There is something divine in the strokes of the wings of a ladybird on one’s finger, in the cool stench of loam and earth and home, in the sight of a Kampala that is shining in all her natural beauty, only slightly dampened by the red laterite dirt in some places.
Kampala, the beautiful. Even the dirt speak of home, taste and touch of Uganda.
You are home, and I do love you.

GayUganda