Freedom is of the Mind

He refuses to get out of bed. Something to do with the late night that we had. And the fact that he was a might, a little bit, over the top.

I do remember meeting the police roadblock, it was after midnight. Cant close nearer than that. Old Kampala Police station, near the Mosque. Usual traffic jam site, but a jam at that time?

No, police.

Making sure that they were arresting those who drunk and drove.

My heart sunk. Contemplated a night in the police cell. That is the routine, whenever they decide to do these middle of the night arrests. Suprisingly, we passed the initial screening test, and drove away carefully. I am with all Kampala drivers. Breathalyzers, that is technology meant to encroach on our freedom to drink and drive, and kill of course.

Beautiful morning. Very beautiful.

Golden sunlight. Green leaves, shadowed and sprinkled with the sunlight. A breeze making them dance and wave. Shadow and light beneath the trees. Cool, calm. The heat will be in a couple of hours. Throw off shirt and sweat freely.

Thinking of Mugabe this morning, I wondered, would a Mugabe imprison my soul?

He has done quite a bit, apart from bringing to ruin a good economy.

He has beaten and killed opponents, abused and laughed at challenge, inside and outside the country. He has made Zimbabweans the laughing stock of the continent. Reminds me of Life President, Dr. Al Hajj General Idi Amin Dada, VC, DSO, MC, Conqueror of the British Empire (damn, have left out some of the titles, like Ssalongo etc). He also killed and raped and destroyed a country. Yet humanity is resilient.

Burma will come out of the ashes when the strangle hold of the generals is broken. So will North Korea. China is a bulging, burgeoning, feasthood of humanity.

Can a Mugabe imprison my soul?

That is important for me, because in as much as I would love political and other freedoms, I have realized that freedom is of the mind. Of the soul.

A person, a gay person in the Scandinavian countries would think of my life as a horror. Closeted for life, suffering indignities which their countries left in the distant past of the 18^th Century.

Yet, despite the physical lack, the economic needs, the real life problems that are undeniable, I am free. Free in the mind. I have challenged life as it was given to me, and dared to break out of the mold. I have found love and happiness. I have found a man to love, who loves me back. The world may not acknowledge us, my community and society may be hostile and condemning, but I have found my life and love and happiness.

Yes, I have passed through a lot in life. I will most likely pass through more. My life is on an uncharted sea, easily able to founder and sink without a trace. I have many battles to fight, in future. Some I may lose. A few I may win. Many I may never get the chance to see through. But I am happy that I have opened my eyes to the freedom of the mind, the freedom of thought.

Freedom is of the mind, and I am deeply thankful that I have found that freedom.

I will use what weapons I have to teach others, to free others. I will understand that some will willfully stay slaves and prisoners. But, and I have to respect that, that is their will, their journey, their life.

Can a Mugabe imprison my soul? My physical body, definitely. Pain to my body, my heart, torture, the indignity of poverty, stupidity and physical need and confinement. But freedom is of the mind, and I find that today, this morning, with my love resting late in bed, and my world full of sunlight and sunshine, I know that freedom is of the mind. And that it is mine to lose. Mine to keep.

Have a great day.

GayUganda

Evening

The sun is westering.

Bright orb of brilliant light too bright to look at. I see it, but soon, very soon, it will be over the horizon. Hidden by the hills of Kampala.

Downtown I am, at the moment. So the hills round town will shade the orb for a time, before darkness closes in fully.

Friday evening. Freedom out there, to party and relax, wind up the week. Will I join in? Will we join in? Maybe.

But for the moment, bars of steel shield me from the freedom of the open air.

Mugabe.

Did he win? Unlikely, as finding ice in the Sahara.

Did he lose? Most likely. But now a runoff is mandated, even before the Electoral Commission declares what the results are in Zimbabwe. African democracies can be truly interesting. Apparently, borrowing a leaf from one of my friends, they (ruling party) has already started the campaign. Endorsing its front-man. Taking hostage the media, and reminding all and sundry who ‘brought’ the gift of independence. And that the opposition is ‘homosexual’ and pro-west. Apparently, those two things are synonymous. DeTamble should be able to say something about that, in very colourful language.

For a few minutes, I will be here, then I will be off. Seems like time is coursing faster, with the sun westering. But it is a beautiful time of day, dusk approach, night not far off, the sun an orb, crown jewel over Namirembe hill.

Have a good evening.

GayUganda

Work in Progress

Life’s a work in progress, that will never end.

I tore myself out of bed. Was morning, and the dawn called. But so did my love’s warm body, as he clung to me, wanting to make love, and to hold me as if the night long hug was not enough. I felt regret to exchange his body’s warmth, for the chill of the morning.

Chill of the morning? The cool of the morning, the song of bird, the time of day when the sun peeps out, first a shy girl’s smile, a teenage boy’s hesitant beauty, before the full blaze of day. That time of day when night gives way to light, and the cool of the night for the blazing heat of day.

It will be a hot day. That I felt in my bones, as I listened to the birds sing, watched them court and play. That song it is so beautiful, the different fervent tones, the sharp and light, the swift and slow, the loud and not.

It is a brief time of day, which is why I do not want to miss it, and daily debate between my lover’s warm embrace, and the dawn of beauty. Temptation. Life a work in progress that will never end.

Yesterday, reading a poem, Rupert Brooke, Soldier.

Was struck by a strange thought. Would Eshuneutics understand that poem?

Why Eshuneutics? Words to him have concrete meanings, set in stone, immutable. Words to me are plastic. Not my mother tongue, I claim, but I’ve never been fluent in any language. Not even the English that I read. Yet there seems to be a deeper sense in the poem. Not the surface, a soldier proud of country. But deeper, a man longing for home, home that he may not see, feel, touch, where he may not be buried, denied that final peace.

Life’s a work in progress, and I am a butterfly, flirting with all the beauty that I see. I was walking Namirembe Road, through the dust of the construction. It was a terrible stretch, now it is being repaired. I walked the pavement, in the stream of people on foot, like me, oblivious to the dust and sound. The begging children, denied school, begging for family and life and being. Not for them the discipline of school, but the harsher demands of survival. Odd’s life, but it is too easy to pity them, and forget that they do survive, even at the toughest of odds.

There is an odd pulse to life. We see it, in the bright lights, the concrete buildings, the huge edifices of the city. But that is not all life, and our sight is perverted. Life is the small person on the street, the child begging so that the family survives, the young man ready to risk lynching to grab a gold necklace, the flood of men and women not able to afford a fare home, needing to walk to work and back, anxiously hoarding the small salary for food, clothing and shelter in the city. A concrete jungle it is, yet that story is not true without the salute to the small man, the little lady, who through it all strings one day after the other, providing for self and family.

There are so many things that I would be, more things that I cannot be. Yet one thing I know, if I miss the beauty of this day- the bright sun in a cloudless sky, the whisper of cool breeze on my skin, the blazing heat of day, the eye hurting brightness of the sun’s halo; if I miss them and not see the flow of life, a child, children growing, nothing else that I see will be worth it.

Enjoy the day, because, wherever you are, it is a beautiful day. Don’t sweat the small things, just soothe the small things, and hear the sweetness in a bird’s call.

Have a great day.

GayUganda

The Positive Journey

Tuesday, we had a meeting.

SMUG organized it, but there was a difference in this one. We were to hear someone talk about her HIV positive journey.

A lady, a Dane. Infected by her Ugandan boyfriend. She talked about their relationship over the years, the times that she tested for HIV, and was negative. And the day that they both tested, and the news was given to them that they were both positive.

It has been a long journey for her. A white woman, positive in a country where the HIV positive were gay men. And even then, very few. A disease which by then was highly stigmatized, and with no cure.

She talked about the depression, and denial. The closet, hiding it from friends and family. The guy died, he was too advanced for the coming of treatment. She was luckier. The drugs arrived, she started treatment, and is alive some 20 years from the diagnosis.

She is now an HIV activist. Strong, articulated, and directed. She talked about what a life changing experience it has been for her, a life strengthening experience. From the despair of courting death on a daily basis, to the fire and strength of knowing that she is alive, celebrating that, and living it. And going out of her way to make sure that the erstwhile death sentence, for many others infected, is turned around.

Yet the day was not hers. Not by a long shot.

We do have a club for the positives. Kuchus living with HIV/AIDS. KULHAS, they call it.

It is secretive, and of them, only one person, a guy, a kuchu, is out and talks about the fact that he is positive.

I have known this guy for some time. I knew that he was positive, and the fact that he is Chairman of the club. Emboldened by the testimony, he also talked about being a kuchu, and living with HIV.

I was fascinated.

It is one thing knowing that someone has HIV. It is something else hearing it from his mouth. And as a kuchu, we related. He talked about his life before, discovering that he was gay, and the kuchu world out there. He talked of the days of partying, sex and high life. Drinking and dancing away life. He is young, I guess less than 25, but he had partyed.

He told of testing positive. Testing because he knew he had lived the life, and finding that he was positive. And the journey since.

The despair. The depression. Coming out (about the diagnosis) to his family. His mother cried, which made him cry too. The fear of telling other kuchus. The fear, stigma and despair associated with HIV in Uganda, but worse in the Kuchu community.

Yet he had turned it around.

Attacking, as a weapon. Embracing his HIV status, going ahead to disclose it. The reaction of friends, some drawing away, and the backbiting. And some drawing close.

He talked about the activism, and the turning around of his life. From hedonist to the person who strengthened others, positive and non positive.

It was an inspiring testimony.

Yet I realized that in this case, we were confronting a nemesis of ourselves, kuchus discriminating against other kuchus. Of the other members of the club, he is the only one who dare say that he is HIV positive. The others are too scared.

They are gay, and in the gay community. Kuchus. But they dare not disclose their status to the rest of us kuchus.

A sobering thought. We may be victims, but we are also oppressors, of those who are of our own kind, and weaker, because of illness. Living a double stigma, a closet inside a closet.

I was impressed. So were the others who were there.

It is early days, and I wonder what the impact will be on the rest of the community. But it is undeniable that we can also be as cruel as our homophobic friends. Even more cruel, because we can relate and understand with what they are passing through.

GayUganda

Playing the Victim

Do LGBTI in Uganda play the victim too much?

27th thinks that we do. We are victims. True, but we play it too much. (Now, he is going to ask where exactly he said that.)

But it is something that has been said before, even on this blog.

Kind of a fine line there. The fact that we are victims is acknowledged, with the immediate rejoinder that we play it up.

Do we?

I am not sure that we do.

Is it better for us not to cry? Or to cry back in our closets, alone and frightened, without anyone knowing what is happening? Alone, being gay and alone in a mass of heterosexuals can feel very lonely. Coming out of that closet does feel liberating. In a country like Uganda, one cannot be completely out. Today, I have just had another brush with the risks we take. In office, had taken a peep at the blog. I get out of the room, and a colleague comes in.

He definitely saw what was on the screen.

About 3 years ago, a gay friend of mine made a pass at this colleague, and we ended up at a police station. My friend stayed in police cell for 3 nights, as we arranged for suitable bribes. Fact.

So, this colleague comes into my ‘office’, he saw what was on my screen. He did not mention it. But I have been so ‘out’ that he may know. Or suspect, since that incident. And last year of course. I was not too shy.

Such a thing happens, routinely. And we don’t talk about it.

There is a kuchu friend that was mentioned in the red rug as always in and out of the police cells. He seems to be attracted to straight men only!!!! So he has made friends with some of the officers so that he comes out sooner rather than later. These are things that do not make the newspapers. We do pay off reporters who threaten to expose us. Again, clear eyed fact of life. Risks of being a kuchu in Uganda.

The HIV programme for Kuchus which we have never had, because Ssempa believes that the law should be implemented? That is, the police should arrest us for having sex so that HIV is not spread by gay sex. Again, we shouldn’t cry about that. We should get HIV, and go ahead and get the drugs. After all, they are supposed to be free in Uganda.

Now, I am wondering whether we do cry out enough?

I mean, it seems as if we have suffered too many indignities silently, and when we cry out our detractors say that we are being babies!

Ok.

No more pandering to those.

And I will continue relying on the allies that I can get, where they are, who can aid me. I will not be ashamed to cry out, because I will no longer cry silently. Rather than crying too little, I would rather cry too much. The excess will be accounted for by the times that I did not cry out, and I did suffer indignities in silence.


GayUganda

Rough Night

Rough night it was.

Quite a bit of it spent awake. He is sick, and he was running a fever, and I am not a good nurse. And he keeps reminding me that I gave him the flu.

Sigh…

He was ill and couldn’t sleep most of the night. And I was not able to sleep with him hacking and hacking on besides me. And though I know it is only temporary, that he will recover, I could not sleep. Till I remembered that I did have something which could help.

No, I did not remember. I went searching for something, anything. And I got something.

He was able to sleep, after reminding me of how bad a nurse I am. He was contrite, and running a fever, and wrapped himself around me. Slept.

Now I am up. Not feeling very rested after the night.

But the day is beautiful. Golden sunlight on the leaves, green, cool. The song of birds and the knowledge that I am alive. He is sleeping besides me. I know he will be better, but cant help knowing that he is not feeling so good now.

Half of the night I was worried about him. The other half I was furious at 27^th. Guess the diatribe did not do much to lift my anger! But when I got up I realized that others had got there before me.

Oh, he will reply, that is the fun of this. But, gloves off, I can do something about that!

GayUganda

Travel Documents

Hey, my fans want me to post.

Cannot disappoint them, can I? Yet I am wondering how to say what I do want to write.

Should be a rant, like the ones that 27^th is famed for. But I dislike shouting. Just makes me not to hear anything. Cold remorseless logic is better, gets to be heard, even when I am making little sense.

And yes, I am dedicating this to 27^th, who accuses me of a western bias, because I am gay.

Ugandans know a guy called Brenda. A gal, because Brenda is a trans person. Meaning that biologically the birth was to a male baby, but growing up Brenda was more confortable in the female role, and ultimately embraced the female gender.

Far as I know, she has not got surgery.

I expect Ugandans to know of her because she fascinated them, on our coming out in August 2008. She detailed the imprisonment that she had gotten, the beatings, the ridicule and physical abuse at the press conference. She took out her teeth to show that she was wearing dentures after one time that the police beat her up.

Why was she being beat up?

Well, I am gay. And we have met, 27^th and I. But he did not know that I am gay, because I do not ‘look’ gay. Trans people are different. They usually, visibly, cross the gender roles. And they pay the price heavily.

I can, and do hide the fact that I am gay. Brenda does not. She does not hide the fact that she is transgender.

Recently, Brenda needed travel documents. They were denied. Reason, they don’t give them to ‘people who have changed themselves’. Julie Victor Mukasa tells of the time that she had to prove that she was biologically female at the RDC’s office in Kampala, when she went to get passport forms filled. Use your imagination how she proved that.

Our constitution states that it is a citizens right to get a passport. Brenda is apparently not included in that definition of a citizen. But that is besides the point. Fact is, those of us who are in LGBTI activism, are suddenly finding problems getting travel documents.

I don’t doubt that Nsaba Buturo knows who gug is. He was crowing to the fact that he knew who we are. We appeared in the press conference in masks, and Ssempa had Victor’s picture on a website, and our names were read out on the church fm stations. And I cannot in truth hide from the state intelligence apparatus. Would be lying myself to think so.

I am ranting, very carefully, because it has made me mad to realize again that I am a second class citizen because I am gay. And that the likes of Nsaba Buturo think that they can deny me what is mine as a Ugandan, simply because I am also gay.

Very likely I may have problems traveling next time that I need to do so. My passport may light up or something. Happened in Rwanda last month. Apparently, LGBTI activists need permission to leave the country!

27^th, this is my beef with you.

You state, almost jokingly, that we are ‘collaborators’. You think it is so, simply because we do accept friendship from the west, from people who are like us, gay, and have passed through the same experiences. You demand the impossible, that if we do want to be ‘legitimate’ we have to follow your paths to emancipations. Paths which mean that we shall never have emancipation.

Bullshit, 27^th.

I do like your idealism, but not when you use it to step on my freedom.

That is exactly the reasoning that Nsaba Buturo and Ssempa are using to justify stepping on our civil rights. The fact that you have it so prettily zazzed up in speech and your ideology does not mean that you are correct.

Hell, you are welcome to your beliefs. So is Buturo, and Ssempa, as long as they do not mean that my freedom is curtailed. Sex workers are also human beings. They do have a constitutional right to meet. So do LGBT people, as we proved last year.

I will rail, again and again that just because we are different, that does not mean that we need to be more patriotic than you. To reject ourselves in the interest of being African enough for the likes of you. To have to listen to your bullshit about how we should live our lives, and what friends we should have, and whether they have the correct skin colour or the correct ideology.

Comrade, I am the oppressed here, and I will also take up the gun to defend myself. To hell with your self serving idealism and condemnation.

I am what I am, and I do not need to measure up to your ideals.

Tell Ssempa and Buturo that, and if deTamble cannot push it down your throat, well, believe in whatever the hell you believe in. But let me be me.

Uhhhhhhhhhhh!

That is what it means to take something off ones chest? Think I should do it more often.

GayUganda