Funny. It is the little things in life that really matter.
Reading Christian Rossetti’s ‘A Birthday’, my heart went singing along with her. The sense of joy, sense of happiness in the words flowed over me, ‘my love is come to me.’ Such a simple thing love is. Two hearts, two minds that find themselves in synch, together. And one thinks of the other, and smiles. And one dreams of the other, and even in sleep, dreams come alive with happiness. Stress bleeds away.
Not the huge, big things. Not the tight, right things. Not the earth moving, goal breaking that can and does happen. But the small things in life that make it really worth the while. The thought of my lovers smile, his laugh. The simple joy in life that a kiss on the mouth is, holding a warm body close to one, hearing, listening to his heart beat, in the silence of the night. Or the simple joy of having him lie close to me, skin to skin, length to length, bathing face in his sweet breath. Such a simple thing, so full of contentment, such a sweet beginning to a day. It sets my mind at rest. Kind of sets in motion the energies I will have to fire up in the rest of the day.
Reminds me of Whitman, ‘when I heard at the close of the day…’ Indeed, love, what we call love is nothing simple. It is complex. But one of those sweet complexities that a man, a woman is blessed when in this world they share.
I love a man. So? My love is a man and am a man. I will not shy away from that. I will celebrate it, as and when I can. I will hide, I will lie, I will dissemble before a hostile world. But in the darkness of our bedroom, in the warmth of our bed, I will hold him, whisper sweet nothings into his ear, feel him flood me with his self and mutual happiness.
It is these small, sweet things in life that matter. They matter because I make them matter. And I mind because they matter.
Deep thoughts, for a lovely morning. Hope you are ok.
Have a good day.
And to the man who inspires me to write this, love, my heart is singing, because my love is come to me.
Yes, Bolton. Already I feel the rebuke on your mind. But how can I put this? Softer words do nothing but hide the bitter truth. And it is bitter. The church, or sections of it (official sections) spew venom at every turn of day.
I woke up very late.
Sleeping late Friday, and Saturday, had a lot to do with that.
Was out last night just having fun with lots of other kuchus. Went into a bar, in Kabalagala. Was boring, not many people there. Moved to another, nearby. Kabalagala is the suburb of Kampala that never sleeps. Or, more accurately, it sleeps in the early afternoon, and wakes in the evening for the night long party. Every day.
In the second bar, I immediately felt home. Why? A couple of familiar faces. Guys that I knew as Kuchu. After a couple of beers, we relocated to another place. More central, more gay people, and fun.
I sat in a corner and reveled in the familiarity of the usual. I am confortable amongst people who accept me for what I am, who have no problem understanding me. And, when I stand in the middle of them, just one of all the other, the fact that I am in a huge closet matters that much less.
First forward to the morning.
He was in my arms, my lover. A nice feeling waking up to that. His warm body curled into mine, his breath and mine bathing our faces. Yesterday I had some insight. We do not talk much, but we communicate. And there is no better communication of love and appreciation than waking up in ones arms. Feeling cocooned in the embrace of love.
We made love, and I drifted off into sleep.
Much later, the windows of the house are open, and as we pass in the corridor, I feel the need to grab him and hug him. He is my lover, he is my partner. He is my companion, and I felt a fierce joy just holding him in my arms, crushing his slight body against mine, nuzzling into his neck.
Careful, he cautioned. The windows are open.
That is when I knew the title of this post. I had just read in the Sunday Vision the article of Orombi, Archbishop and Primate of the Church of Uganda, Anglican, assailing Barack Obama for not following ‘African’ traditions. The traditions of denying gay Africans rights, he meant.
The church, the official sections at least, do spout venom.
At the beginning of Gafcon, Orombi was pressed on the violence that is meted out in Africa against gay Africans. He failed to condemn it. Oh yes, this Prince of the Church failed to condemn violence against homosexuals, because they are homosexuals. Another person, the primate of Sydney, I think, saw the trap. Or at least understood the logical meaning of the venom from Orombi. He was espousing a position of hate to the homosexual Ugandan. Simply because he is homosexual.
Now, Orombi is assailing Obama for equating the rights of homosexuals to Civil Rights.
Look, is the underlying statement. Homosexuals do not deserve rights. They should be treated just as they are treated in Africa. Closeted. When they are known to be so, prosecuted. As Akinola, another African Prince of the Church put it in the press conference at Gafcon, they should not think they can avoid the consequences of going against culture.
So, I rejected the teaching of the church. I will not lie to myself that it was not partly in reaction to their rabid madness against my sexuality. They simply do not know what I am. They do not want to know me. They condemn me, want prison for me, HIV for my lover, the continuation of my demonisation. And they justify this piously by pointing to their holy book.
It is true that I was very relieved to understand on my part, that I did not need to believe.
Yet, with my lover struggling with his spirituality by my side, and others of my friends failing to reconcile their spirituality and their sexuality, I become mad again.
The church is pouring out venom, and my people are hurting.
To me it matters, because, though I may not believe, I do not see any reason why we are all denied the right to believe, because we are what we are.
I have a friend whose struggle has led him to near suicide. He cannot reconcile being gay and being a Christian. Another, an Anglican, was forced to get married, and now he runs away from home, because he cannot continue to live the lie.
And on the other side stand the hypocritical Archbishops, condemnation and venom pouring out of their mouths. Nothing but condemnation. And other Christians have to remind them of their duty to love.
And, even when they remember to give lip service to that duty, they do it outside the country. They do not do it in the country. In country, they continue convincing the homosexual Christian that he or she is the very devil. And he has no recourse, except to rejecting himself or herself.
They define themselves my enemies. Yes, enemies.
Because they are not friends who would have me die in my ignorance.
It is an uphill struggle. I have to first understand myself. Then I have to weigh in on my self confidence against the weight of church and society’s homophobia. The perpetual condemnation of what I am.
I may survive.
Or I may fall. Fact is, it is my life on line.
So, they define themselves my enemies, and I have to be serious and understand them. Ironic it is that the most potent weapon I have is the truth. Ironic indeed, and very fitting.
They have all in their favour, except the truth. And I have nothing in my favor, except the truth as I see it. And in this assymetrical war, I predict victory for me. At a cost.
Clear blue skies. The heavens high and open, blue, strips of white wool scattered. Except on the horizon. And elsewhere.
Beautiful Kampala!
I would say it is the best of seasons. The sun is not too hot, and there is not that much threat of rain. This morning, woke early. Had to break out of our bedroom. Something hilarious, which I just hope to have the courage to write about here!
Life is very full of her small surprises.
Prepping for work, was a bit late. Traffic jams are back in town, with school term started. And I was not surprised. Had to complete the last km of my journey on foot. Late. Not comfortably seated in a car.
But that is Kampala.
All through the walk, I was remembering leaving my lover in bed.
Loverman. Great how a smile, a sleepy goodbye can be such a memory to carry one through a busy day.
But now, between me and the bright sun outside is the burglar proofing; steel mesh on the window. Prison? No, I am not in a cell. Just that it feels like so.
I would love to be out in the sunshine, to walk on the busy streets of Kampala. I would love to sample all that lovely freedom of being. I would love to walk up the hills, feel the breeze from the lake in on my face, watch the leaves dance on the trees, and wave my hands in tune with the branches.
Yesterday, at the beach, or what is taken for one here. A short strip of sand, blue green water, calm, stretching in the distance. A few islands near the horizon.
I was there. So was my lover, and a few hundred other people.
Eye candy.
I do like looking at people. Fun to watch the different faces.
I am gay. I look at men. They are the more interesting half of the species; so unaware of my gaze. When I watch women here, they are soon aware that I am looking. But men…
And Uganda has some beautiful men, I must confess.
I watched them. Some playing beach football, all the glory of their nakedness scantily hid, more to emphasize the present bits, than to hide them. Others, naked, but for briefs and bikinis, splashing around in the water. Men and women, but my gay eye unashamedly followed the glistening males, dark skins rippling and full of abundant, unashamed life.
My eye was drawn to my lover.
He is one beautiful specimen.
Ok, I love the guy, so, I am biased. I know that I am.
But still, with his glowing brown black skin, huge brown eyes, prominent nose, face that is so characteristic of tribal group that it nails him down at sight, he is still a beautiful specimen.
He was looking at all the glorious eye candy around us, and I looked at him. He may not have been the most beautiful, but, I mused, he was the guy that I shared myself with. My lover. My love.
He is extremely jealousy of me showing attention to another man. But, he does not mind looking himself. Something I find hilarious, most of the time. He looks, trying to seem as if he is not, hiding it from me. I look and hide it better, (I think!), but still look.
My eyes were riveted on him. And he caught me looking.
[I cant keep my hands off him. Always touching him. Public and private. And there was something in my eye which made him flash a smile. Love that smile.]
I wrote a couple of lines. Circled them, showed them to him.
Is true.
He is a poem that I cannot, I strangely cannot stop reading.
In school I was known for my reading speed. Trash, I used to read. But useful trash sometimes. It taught me a fluency of the written word that beat most of my mates. But, I could never read something for long. Got distracted, bored, too quickly. I could pick the essence out of a page in a quick scan, and would soon be bored if I had to read it again.
Very different with poetry.
There are some poems that I read, day in, day out, for hours, meditating, thinking, walking. Don’t want to cram them. Don’t want to know them off by heart. I want to touch them, on and on, all the time, to read and think about them, like a gum that I chew on all the time, even when I am doing something else. That’s how much my reading has changed, reading a poem for days, when the first seconds of scan give me the basics.
Mooning. I should be working, but, the white page is very inviting. No, the thoughts are not so easily formed. Not easily translated onto the page. The words. They will not say what the thoughts say.
I am missing my baby.
Should be with him, but aint. He is at home, and I am not with him.
Wonder what he is doing? Probably in the kitchen, cooking. Thin body in a cotton shirt. Sleeveless, stirring and playing with the fire. Does he like cooking, or does he cook for me? His sense of duty is tremendous, and I am the one person that he believes is the centre of his care. I don’t cook. Not much. So, I am always charged with washing the dishes. Like when I was a kid and the adults cooked. Except that we are both adults.
I love him.
Strange thing to say. We have been together, what, seven years. And I can still say that I love him. It is a comfortable love. I do not fear that he will get to see another of the thorns in my body and run away. He knows me all. Inside out. But he still stays with me.
Why does he love me?
I do not know. I am not very sure that I am that lovable. Selfish, a dreamer, self involved. Yet he does love me.
We are so different from one another, light and its absence, that it is incredible that we love one another. Sometimes I wonder, does he love me? But not when, like this morning, I wake up with him lying across from me. And I pull him close, and we move and nudge each other, trying to fit more comfortably into the other’s naked body. We are two individuals, but at that time, moment, we are one. Together. The bed cannot be too big, or too small. The world is nothing but him and I, together, in each others’ arms.
I hope he is not angry when I go back home.
Sometimes, he is angry at me. Refuses to say why. I stopped playing the guessing game, trying to figure out what was angering him. Can’t read his mind. Too hard, and we do not think alike. What angers me, makes him laugh. What I think minor, he thinks major.
And he still loves me.
I look forward to seeing him. When I get home, and I hold out my arms. He will come to me. He will hold me in his arms, I will hold him in my arms. I will drink in his scent, nuzzle in his nape. He seems to like it when I rub my rough chin on his, feeling his very special warmth and scent, his welcoming breath.
Yes, I look forward to seeing him, hold him in my arms, my love.
Quiet. But I am far from the hustle bustle of the city. Am in the garden valley that I call home. And the sun is out, though softly, the clouds are low, though not heavy. And it is a quiet morning. So quiet that I can hear the song of birds now and again.
Music in the background, one of the FM stations. A vendor crying his wares. That is all the noise assaulting my ears. Apart from the sussulation of tree leaves in the wind.
Of the news, the red rug reports that Inzikuru, Uganda’s champion runner is divorcing her husband. Haven’t read the full story, (you guessed,) because it is in the red rug. I don’t know whether to trust or not.
Love is a beautiful thing. Its all roses and blooms, but roses have thorns. I try to remind myself of that all the time. I trust my partner, I do! But when the green dragon rears its head, well, sometimes I do show that I am jealousy. Like yesterday, and everyday!
Inzikuru. From the papers, I think she put on hold her running career last year to give birth. But now, seems the hubby was not very faithful. Typical African male. Correction. Typical male of the species.
Yesterday was talking to a friend. Gay friend. Told him that people expect me to play match maker. People I do not know send me texts asking that I match them up with someone else. I don’t see the logic. I am in a relationship, I don’t know so many who are not, and my blessing…Let me admit that it puts me in an uncomfortable position. How did I make it work? That is the question. How do I make it work?
I have not sat down to analyze it.
I love him. He loves me. Somehow, we have solved the problems that we have had in the last few years. And we have stuck together. Doesn’t mean that it is till death us do part. Yes, that is what he thinks. No, I am more realistic.
My friend told me to step back and think. People know me, know us, and they admire the fact that we are sort of ‘out’ and about as a couple. So, when they do want a relationship, they think I may know the magic behind it.
In the government, the Head of the executive has decided that the judiciary has learnt its lesson. After more than a year (could be two or three), he has decided that there are Ugandans to feel the vacancies on the judicial courts. Imperial presidency. Constitutionally they are not supposed to listen to him. So, he finds a way of making them listen.
Of the madman Kony in the north? Cannot believe it that the guy may go scot-free, after the misery of 20 years. But yes he might. Though the International Criminal Court may not agree.
It is a really beautiful morning. Inching to midday of now.
I have been following the American reality show of an election. Interesting reading. Will Hillary tear apart the Democratic party to secure the nomination? Die trying, the phrase is. Fascinating.
Reminds me of a ruling party MP in Uganda who was threatening to kill one of the Electoral Commission secretaries in Kalangala because she was not ‘following ruling party orders’. A little matter of an election which was rigged, annulled, and has to be redone.
I understand the fervent desire for change. When there is so much bare faced corruption which is winked on officially, reported and one hears of never ending ‘commissions of inquiry’, one wants change. Especially the youth. Enter a messiah who promises change. Obamania. But the ‘No Change’ slogan and forces are considerable and have to be reckoned with.
Change, evolutionary change, is a matter of necessity. How it happens is a problem. It is very interesting to draw a parallel between what is happening in the US, and in Uganda.
One thing I don’t want to change, the beauty of this garden city I call home. I want it to be as green, as mild, as wonderful and fascinating to my eyes as it is now.
But ‘every fair from fair sometimes declines’.
Like Obama, I will leave you believing that is original…
We are lying down, side by side lazy and content, sleepy; our blanket is love's duvet- heavy light all around, and the thread joining us fine as light, true as steel- is love round us.
He is lying in my arms; I am lying in his arms close, one to the other wrapped in love, the blanket that a shield is for us against a purulent, hostile world.
Love that is so soft a comfort; yet a shield of steel, that my world and people condemn but me and him sustains. I love him, he loves me and there's all in those words the world to challenge, our right to love.
The alarm, it rang at the usual time. I was in bed, curled up against him.
He pulled me closer, I did not resist. Felt his length warm against me. Felt content, at peace, calm.
His warm breath bathed my face, slow and sure, warm and comforting. His bed warm hands touched my skin, smooth- tingly, calm. I was a seed in warm earth, a life begun anew, this very morning.
I wanted to leave. He held me closer, tighter, skin to skin, not a word saying. I was calm, content, in his arms, holding him in my arms. My warmth was his warmth, his warmth was my warmth, and thus we slept on, through the alarm.
Later waking, he was still asleep, holding me close, closer. As close as possible.
Light was streaming, night was gone, the windows light though the curtains were closed.
I was late, but content, in his arms. Those warms arms, fragile strong with love, a heart that we share, a mind that may differ but entangled.
Now, I have left the bed, and greeted the morning. Cold it is, overcast today, grey, the sun hidden and a drizzle dusting. Those early to work hold umbrellas out, to greet the light drizzle. It is morning, and time to work.
May hope flow like a river, tendril of fire through the day. Love an anchor to hold on, peace a calm from the heart. Hold this day special, for it is special. You are alive, I am alive. I am in love, he is in love, with me.
I cannot say that I know all about it. Or that I am an expert. Or that I will ever be.
When did I fall in love with him- my partner?
I do not know. I figure myself in love too quickly. We met, a blind date, and were soon in bed. Was that the moment?
I took him to my home, and we slept together the next night, again. We were together, always in the next two weeks. Long phone calls when apart, longing one for the other.
The weeks became months, and the months years. Sometimes I have felt more in love, and other times less. Yet there is little to deny it that we are in love.
Seven years.
They seem to have been very little.
Why do I love him? Maybe because he loves me.
Yesterday, we were in a bar where we are comfortable holding hands. Lots of other kuchus around us. Dark, warm kind of night. I did not feel like being frolicky, talking a lot. Just sat down and listened to the blasting music.
He came and sat near me. We were silent in the forest of music.
We held hands over the table, taking our beers.
One gal came and whispered in his ear about our naked display of affection. Lovebirds that do not seem to notice it any longer. Our nearness to one of the loudspeakers became intolerable. We moved away, to some chairs. Sat and listened to the music and miming and shouting and laughter. Holding hands under the chairs. There were lots of other people, non kuchus around. Needed to be less noticeable.
Despite the noise, the hilarity, the movement all around, I felt calm. Peaceful, just holding his hand. Warm, understood, no need to speak, or say what was in my mind. Communicating constantly through the pressure of our hands, our love, and connection.
He is gone to work, and I find myself thinking about him. About what I share with him which I do not with anyone else.
Love, love, however we define it.
I doubt I will ever be able to define that feeling of warmth and knowledge, one of another. It is there, tangible, diamonds in gold.
Indeed we do not bear rings on our fingers to tell the world of our love. But those rings are, round our hearts.
He’s one half of the whole- I hold the vision and the dream; He holds the fire and the will. We are a whole, walking in synch, though the rhythm sometimes fails, and out of step we fall.
We are one whole, working on the rhythm, sometimes it takes a blink, to synch; or longer years un-understood, yet we still gel, long years now; alike as unlike, still in synch. Together, where it matters, forever, if it matters.
Yesterday I was in a bar. We were in this bar. And we were so into each other, it was embarrassing.
He says that I usually cannot keep my hands off him when we are together. At first I thought it was not true. Later, I did notice that I tend to touch him; small, unobtrusive touches, now and again, when we are together. May out us in the wrong place, I guess.
At that time, I felt so much in love I started writing. It was dark. Not enough light to go around, certainly too little to see by. I was feeling so in love that I felt it could just pour out onto the page and smother it. Just wrote without reading what I was writing. Told him I wanted to kiss him there and then. He laughed, ducked away.
I had seen the post by Cindy, but I did not think it was supposed to be a criticism or something! Sasha thinks otherwise. I looked at it again this morning, and I thought, why not come up with my definition of love? Not the one that Sasha and Cindy seem to be labouring about, but mine, you know!
What is love?
He is so into me, I’m so into him; Is that love?
When I look into his eyes, they look huge, pools of love, that I can for life swim in.
Is that love? Is it love, when I forget myself and see him; is it love when I exist for him? is it love when I feel him drown in my eyes, when he tells me he loves me, And I feel the weight of a mountain of conviction In his words, is that love?
Is it love when I face the world, rather than lose his touch, his look? Is it love when I risk life, limb ‘n all Just to be next to him? Is it love?
If it ain’t love, pray tell, What is love? What is love?
We are so different in character, me and my love, that sometimes, many times, I wonder how we have managed to stick together for so long.
Yet we have, and we do love one the other.
I am with Samuel Taylor Coleridge singing with joy; ‘I love my love and my love loves me!’. I wonder how it is possible.
I have been ruminating on a trip, wondering whether it would suit him.
The mystery of love. That is one thing that I cannot be sorry blogging about. (To think that I could have missed it, to remember that, though we love one the other, our actions are abhorrent in the eyes of my society, and criminal in law. That in part is why we fight on, why we want a change, where our love will not be demonised just because we love each other.)
The guy hates my verse. Pathetic, he called it. So, maybe he will not consider it a compliment. But, one never knows.
Certainly my verse needs a lot to improve it. To me, it is just a means of communication. It amuses me. It entertains me, the way one can capture the essence of a thought in a few lines. Certainly I am no expert in languages. The opposite, I am afraid.
We were in the bar, a kuchu bar. He was talking to someone else. Somehow, I felt the green dragon stirring. I took out my notebook, and started writing.
Imagine, in a bar in Kampala, writing! Demented, yes I am. But I did.
Anyway, this was the result.
P.S. It is not meant to reflect our relationship. Maybe it does, judge it, but gently.
I must say that despite all my efforts, I have spent the day wallowing in self pity.
Ugh!
Ok, lets begin again. Self pity. From one of the guys who thought it was piteous of me to be gay, I was resolute in my presumed disdain. No pity, I thought. Yet, I have been guilty of the same. I have weakened myself with thought of the opportunities I seem to lose because of my sexuality. Or things that I can comfortably blame on my sexuality.
There, that is a better beginning.
The sun rises, and goes down. The rain falls, and clouds sweep across the skies. And the day is still beautiful, when there is rain and when there is sunshine. I never knew that I would ever get this mastery of the language that I use in writing. I mean, a secret. I stammer. Considerably!
And I thought that I had conquered the habit with my fluency of writing. Course not. My dad recently disabused me. I commented on one of my little nephew's stuttering, and my dad casually compared it to mine. I was devastated for a few minutes. I have always known that I do stammer. But I deceived myself that I do not. I have done much better since the days that I used to fear talking. But my love still teases me that, many a time, I get stuck in the same speechless rut. He knows me. He understands.
Anyway, back to the point. Somethings are, and some are not. And I may be able to compensate for some of my presumed failings. Or I may not.
But one of the worst things I could do would be to let myself dwell on the things that I am not able to do.
So, work place opportunities at my current position seemed to have dimmed. But I am still alive, and I do have a number of options. Have to lift up my eyes, have to look at the horizons. There is something beyond. There is something out there that I can explore.
Explore new horizons.
I was relaxing, thinking about this, while my lover groomed me. And it came to me what I can do. I now have the time to do it, and I can.
So, first thing was to note this down. That is, after planning out tomorrow.
I am still alive, and I only have to raise my eyes to see the new horizons. And I must say they look interesting. Thing is, I have to convince my lover to believe in me. It seems I have this habit of dreaming. He is more down to earth. Means he is less likely to believe in my dreams.
How frustrating!
But he has stuck with me this long, I think we shall pull through.
Great to be in love. Great to be able to love and be loved back. Great to be able to explore one's self in the eyes and heart of a lover.
