London Heathrow.

I arrived yesterday. Was supposed to board a plane, for home, but didn’t.

At the desk to board, after waiting and sleeping on the cold hard benches for 6 hours, right when the plane was boarding, and the flight was ready, I was told that I couldn’t. Not when my checked luggage was not on board. Not when it was the airline to make sure of that.

The flight in was an incredible 11 hours. I was high on alcohol when I got on, and it worked. I was only aware of the first couple of hours of the flight, when I was watching a movie, and later, when I was woken up for breakfast. We were an hour from Heathrow, and I had never had flying hours so wonderfully asleep.

I made up for lost time, sleeping, and writing in the airport waiting areas, and then went to the desk. And found that I could not get onto the plane!

I was devastated. Was looking forwards to seeing my love, and holding him in my hands. I was looking forwards to getting over a lot of sleep and jet lag. But I found that I was not to be on the plane. Duty manager of the airline, sorry. Cannot be.

Why do these things keep happening to me?

That, that was the first thought. But, I was calm, and, well, I turned and tried to make something of it. No sorry. And good luck sir. The English. They are so polite!

Err, he was not English, but well, he turned me down nicely. I did not ask for what I really could have asked… The airport is a great cruising area!

So, to another airline desk. And an explanation. Playing the bewildered foreigner, passport in hand, stranded, caught up in the grip of un-understandable officialdom and bureaucracy. Much better than the angry foreigner.

It may have worked. Or did it?

Must say this one was English, and he was helpful. Very, very, very helpful.

Spent the night off the airport, (originally had a Direct Transit Airside Visa), plush in the Hilton, with dinner, gave up breakfast for sleep.

And sleep I did. A soak in a bath, and out of the hotel at 2pm. Well, I had not a cent or pound in my pocket, and it was all courtesy of an airline.

I realized how rested I felt when, out of the hotel, I sat down on the roadside to write a poem. Of the English country side. Long since I felt so relaxed, and lazy, and ready to write. Even reading poetry has been a problem, high strung and a cloud on the mind.

A poem. Will post it for a friend. He is in England, does not know that I am in England. Sorry friend. I was trying my best not to add a single cent to my bill. Because I simply did not have that cent, and unfortunately, dare not think I can bargain my way out of that. An economy running on money as the oil. I do not have any, and I just have to squeak through on creaky joints.

Dinner in the Hilton? Fabulous. All that I could have. Chose buffet of course, and had added on some considerable weight by meal’s end. Sorry now that I slept through a free breakfast, but I will surely eat on the plane, err, hours from now.

Came early, to make sure my luggage is transferred onto the plane.

And then, all this time to burn off.

I have so much time on my hands, and nothing to do with it.

The shops, they are loaded. Beautiful goods. And the books, they are fantastic.

But I am missing my baby.

A poem to that effect does little, but I feel like crying. He does not know that I will be on the way. He will panic. Has of course, but, what will I sell to send a text to him?

Saw a woman talking on a phone. Nigerian, or at least, Western African English. Was tempted to beg for a text message to send home. Just to tell him I am fine, and will be arriving home in another 15 hours. And my dearest wish is to meet him at the airport and fall into his hands, to hug him and hold him and meld my body in his.

I am missing my baby. But I am going home.

The rain has stopped, and it is clear. I will watch the planes fly off, and some fly in.

I am going home. Tonight, I will be on the way home. Tomorrow, I will be in his arms, and he will be in mine.

I am going home.

GayUganda

Proof, the World is Round

It was an international conference, and a researcher was presenting findings.

The audience could not have been more international. And less liable to homophobia. And the findings were supposed to be scientific.

But there was a glitch.

The researcher was a Ugandan. With some western exposure.

One of the research questions addressed was the ‘foreign’ influence on Ugandan homosexuals.

I am Ugandan, and have lived in Uganda my life. I could actually understand where the researcher was coming from. Straight, and thinking homosexuality a ‘foreign’ entity, that this ‘view’ was something that should be disproved. And the researcher had set out to do exactly that.

I think, to the audience, it was like trying to disprove the notion that the world is flat. Everyone knows the world is round. Except a dis-favoured few. Going through the proofs for the earth’s round shape.

Ugandans believe that homosexuality is a foreign import!

So, of the 200 or so Kampala homosexuals interviewed, only about 2 or 3 were foreigners. But that fact was highlighted. And, they were asked whether they had ever had homosexual sex with a foreigner. And the answer faithfully recorded and reported on.

The audience could not help it. They asked the researcher for more information, and it was given. In a way.

Different cultures, all of us with our own blind spots. But it was very clear that we were coming from different spots of the globe. And could not understand one another, at least on the question of whether, hum, my ‘gayness’ came from outside me. Which foreigner out there injected it into me like a medicine?

Yes, there were other questions addressed. But I was no longer listening, but laughing my head off. Chuckling into my fist. Sometimes it is so hilarious when people insist that we are not African, because we are gay.

Yes, I do take it personal. Very personal, though I understand them, having grown up in Uganda. Why should a foreigner be blamed for what I am? Why cant I be gay, and Ugandan; gay and African?

GayUganda

Journey

I am leaving the country, for a little while.

No, not running away. I will be coming back. Soon.

Coming to customs, I wondered whether my passport would hold me back. Is it tagged? Was the thought. Remembered some colleagues in Rwanda, (Kuchus) who were prevented from getting onto a flight to Mozambique. Reason, they were gay, and going to a gay conference. About the time that Brenda was refused travel documents.

But at the moment, I am through customs, and waiting for the plane, and hoping that nothing happens when I am still home.

Coming to Entebbe, my mind was on what Bolton asked me sometime ago. Why not give up? And my answer, it is home.

Home it is, even if I am having a few problems with the government doubting my patriotism because of the little matter of sexuality. It is so easy to use that excuse to go to some ‘greener’ pastures. Less restrictive environments.

But it does not appeal. I know I am no threat. The guys who believe I am a threat will learn that I am not, just because I am not interested in their machinations. At least that is what I hope. Then, they will be enlightened, and they will not chase after me so much. At least that is what I hope.

Homophobia is funny.

There is a guy, a kuchu who used to attend Pastor Ssempa’s church. He was outed, inadvertently. So, Pastor Ssempa was on his neck. A known gay, who has not repented and changed, through his (Ssempa’s) ministry. Guy changed churches, not able to deal with the pressure. Ssempa followed him to his place of work, and in his presence, demanded of the employer when they had started employing homosexuals.

The employer was an enlightened lady. Evidence? She asked Ssempa. And he was not able to produce any. The employer dismissed the good pastor. And the guy is still employed, though not exactly in the closet any longer.

That is the extent of homophobia. Imagine the good pastor getting to the point of pressuring for someone’s loss of job. On suspicion of his sexuality. And it is a fact that dear Ssempa, friend as he is, wanted me to out myself to him. Confessing an undying Christian love for me.

The Other Sheep, USA chapter were here in Uganda. That is when I first heard of this guy’s testimony about Ssempa. We were in a meeting. And the subject of religious persecution came up. Sad to say, no Kuchu in that place had a word of praise for all Ssempa’s manifested love of gay Ugandans. And when I heard this guy’s testimony, I went up to him and demanded that he confirms it. Story was long, and he confirmed it. Yes, I am always on the lookout for Ssempa. He is a darling who chose to hate me in the name of love.

Would Ssempa ever believe that I am not evil? Would he ever believe that me, a confessed, happy homosexual is not a threat to my dear country?

I don’t believe he would.

Happily, not every one is as phobic as he is. It was Otafiire who rubbished him on an FM station saying, shit, these guys are just not a security threat. And he was left apoplectic.

I am off for a little while. I am coming back. Because it is home, and there is nothing like home. And I hope by then, I will not be thought to be a ‘security threat’ and if I am. We shall deal with that!

GayUganda