I don’t want to see like you do.

Childish, I know.

I don’t think I see like you do. Your perception, it is different. It is yours.

It is not mine, neither is mine yours. But what is yours, is yours.

When I say I am stubborn, I mean, I don’t want to see like you do, and do not hope to have sight that is similar to yours. Because we are different, you and I. Different we have grown up, different we have had our experiences. And different we have had our births. Simply put, I am me, and you are you, and we are different. I don’t want to see like you do.

What do I see?

Different things.

It is a rainy day. Dull, you would say. Cloud cover close, skies grey, or a silverish grey tone. And there is water dripping with them. Not particularly fast, and not slow.

Yet, is this day dull?

In the swamps of Kampala, the valleys, floods have already entered the houses. Those who slept in them have had to leave, and seek for higher ground. I am on higher ground, but the house leaks. A persistent leak that I have failed to get the landlord to repair.

The house is not small by many standards. Yet it is small. And we live in a small compound. My neighbour just a few houses away lives with two teenaged sisters, and a younger brother in two rooms whose total area is about the size of my living room. And, the play area for the child is smaller than my bedroom.

Ok, I do live in a big house, but I see it is small.

The grass is green, and wet, and turgid. The fence, hedge is green and florid. In need of a trim, which I am too lazy to give. The rains have made every green thing to flower, and every flower to blaze in bloom. Rain and sunshine. This is god’s own country of Eden.

I see the rain, and the wind. I see the clouds, and the grey. I see the skies, and the brown bleeding earth, red where it has been newly torn.

All that I see, with my sight, and eyes. And I do not want to corrupt my sight with yours. I know. You see better, of course. You see further, faster, keener. But that is you, and not me. I do not want to see like you do.

Me, and my love, we are different as day and night.

Not oil and water, which do not mix, but day and night, which mix and are in harmony at certain times. Dawn, dusk, twilight. Moonscape, a reflection of the day’s light in the night. When we were newer, he railed and shouted at me, demanding that I see like he does.

I am stubborn. I told him I am not him. I do not demand that he sees like I do. I appreciate the beauty that he brings, and see my faults glaring. But I would rather be me, than try to be him.

So we have lived, for years, in a jungle and through flash floods and droughts. Different, but in harmony.

Maybe that is the key that we have had.

I don’t know, neither would I affirm that it is so. I will not be so foolhardy as to have a firm opinion on something that I know enough to know that I do not know completely. But I will not be lured by your higher knowledge, or greater knowledge, or your passion, or your insistence.

I do not want to be you. I don’t want to see as you do.

If you would guide, guide. Do not demand that I follow, because I will not.

Point out that path, and let me go off stumbling into the bush. Yes, I may stumble back, higher up, or lower, or even go on, lost to the path. Thanks for your care, but I don’t want you to lead me. Show me, and I will be proud to make my mistakes. But I do not want to see as you do.

GayUganda

To Princess I dedicate this. It is a strange post, but, hell, hope you understand. A partial answer to a question that you asked me long ago, and I declined to answer.