You are a slave. And you don't know it.

“We keep you on this boat to row,” said the Roman soldier. “Row and you will live.” He did not have to tell them the repercussions for not rowing. They saw the results in fellow slaves being beaten and thrown overboard to drown in the turbulent seas.

That happened over a century ago. In our modern society we would rise up and riot in anger if we ever heard of anyone being treated as a slave. What we fail to understand is that slavery still lives on, and modern-day slavery is worse than ancient slavery because it is self-inflicted.

But before we go any further, let’s first look at how slavery looked like long ago. A powerful man would get people to work for him just because he was more powerful than them. Most times it was because he had conquered them in battle. Sometimes it would be because they owed him money they couldn’t repay. Other times it was because they were unlucky to be born of slave parents.

To be a slave meant that your master owned you. And because you were his property, you were not entitled to a wage. However, your master was responsible for your livelihood. He provided you with accommodation, food, clothing, medical care and entertainment. You were his asset, so he had to take care of you in order to get the highest level of productivity from you.

Fast-forward to the twenty-first century. Obama speaks of freedom for all. But the majority of us are still slaves at heart. Our employers are our slave masters. The only difference is that now instead of providing for us, they give us a wage so we could provide for our needs to be able to survive long enough to get to work the next day, and the next day, until the next pay cheque.

We may not want to admit it, but we are slaves by virtue of the fact that our incomes get spent on accommodation, food, clothing, medical care and entertainment. In fact, there is no boss who would like to pay you more than enough for those five necessities.

While being interviewed for my former job, my employer asked me where I stayed when we were negotiating for a salary. You see, she wasn’t looking at my worth, and how much I was going to produce for the company. She was looking at the least amount of money she had to spend on my transport to keep me coming to work every day. She even argued that she would provide me with lunch at work!

This slavery does not know class. It does not know academic qualifications. Whether you earn millions per month or a few hundred thousand shillings, you are, and will always be a slave if all you spend your salary on are accommodation, food, clothing, medical care and entertainment.

Your employer is not interested in making you rich. He wants you comfortable enough to keep coming to work every day. In fact, the day you stop being productive is the day you will be thrown overboard.

So how do you get out of this slavery? It’s very simple.

Stop spending all that you earn!

Not all the money that you earn is yours, my friend. It is only the money that you save that is yours. However much you earn, if all gets spent, then none of that money was yours. To steal some wisdom from ancient Babylon, from the book, The Richest Man in Babylon, “A tenth of all that you earn is yours to keep.”

When you spend money on rent, that money is not yours. It’s your landlord’s. Money you take to the market to buy food is not yours. It’s for the market vendor.

I happen to work in an industry with some of the least paid workers in Uganda. No, it’s not the academia. It is the hotel industry. According to a Kenyan chef who trained me during my internship, Uganda’s hotel workers are paid the least, compared to other hotel workers in all of East Africa. He is an old man who has worked in many hotels in the whole of East Africa, but cannot retire because he is a slave. The day he stops producing food is the day he will be thrown overboard.

I met this old chef at a very beautiful hotel. He is the one who opened my eyes to the fact that there are still slaves even in this twenty-first century. I decided to listen to this guy and learn from him as much as I could because, firstly, he is a seasoned chef, and secondly, I’ve always dreamt of being a chef. But the more I listened to him, the more I came to the conclusion that I didn’t want to be like him.

One day I told him so. He was surprised that I wouldn’t want to be like him. He knew how much I loved cooking. He had seen a lot of potential in me, and had spoken to management about the possibility of retaining me in his kitchen after my internship. But he could not understand why I wouldn’t want to join slavery, like him, till I was old.

He was so blinded by his passion for cooking that he didn’t realise that he was a slave.

I didn’t want to be like him, so I turned down the job offer at that place.

I went back to that hotel last weekend to relax and have some beer. I met the old chef. He had hired a friend of mine to work with him. My friend told me of how he was working his back off but hadn’t gotten a salary in over three months.

“Why don’t you quit?” I asked him.

“But then what will I do? I need this job. And if I quit now, I won’t be paid the money they owe me.”

He was getting used to being a slave.

As I sipped my beer, I promised myself never to settle for being a slave. Although my mind is wired with a slave mentality, I purposed to fight it.

I am reminded of the 2012 movie, Django Unchained. Django was a slave who refused to remain a slave. In a society that treated all black people as slaves, where even the black people were comfortable being nothing more than slaves, Django refused to settle.

Be like Django. Be like me. Don’t be a slave.

On Deserving What I Get in Life

I was late for a meeting this afternoon. This is so unlike me. I'm not good at driving. I'm not even good at lying. But I'm good at keeping time. So being 15 minutes late was not excusable.

Then while coming back home, I read a post by my friend, Ian, from his blog. He was talking about whether we deserve getting all the good stuff in life that we desire. For example, do I deserve to be rich? Do my habits show that I deserve to be a good writer?

Now that got me thinking, especially when he talked about how he's good at keeping time. The person that he used in his story about keeping time is the same person I was meeting this afternoon. And this person made it abundantly clear that, though I was forgiven for not keeping time today since it was the first time we were meeting, he wouldn't forgive me another time. If I could, I'd have written out my oath in blood.

So this evening I wondered, do I deserve all the good things that life has given me? Do I deserve all the opportunities that have come my way, the ones I've accepted and the ones I've turned down?

I realise that the answer is no.

Even when I try to think of myself as a smart guy, I wasn't the smartest in my class. The retakes I got are my testimony. The numerous failures I've encountered in life and in business have been jarring reminders that I don't possess any superhuman abilities.

But the amazing opportunities keep showing up, and I keep taking them up.

Like the other day when a client proposed a change in my payment. I'd suggested that I should get paid half of the money before the start of the project so I could use it to fund the work, and then receive the other half after I finished the work.

He said, "This money you've quoted is all yours. I don't want you to use any of it for the project. Contact my office whenever you need money to run the project and we'll provide it."

Now what's that called? Favour?

Well, whatever it is, I'm learning that I don't deserve what I get. And if I ever become a millionaire or a very successful writer, I'd like to remember that I never deserved any of this. There has been too much grace in my life for me to be blind to it.

Wordy Cakes: The Story So Far

Late last year, I started Wordy Cakes. These are cakes with words. I started Wordy Cakes because I had experienced the power of words, and wanted to share my experience with the world. It has been a great journey so far. I have experienced some incredible moments, like when a love-struck boy sent Wordy Cakes to his girlfriend with a poem he'd written. Like when my aunt said, "These are the words I needed for the situation I'm going through right now."

But you see, Wordy Cakes is a business. In the beginning, when I gave out a lot of free Wordy Cakes, there was a lot of excitement. It felt good to be able to share something that's so much a part of me: Words and Cake. It was only when it got to the tiny little details that run a business that Wordy Cakes failed miserably. For example, there was the dilemma of pricing. The people who appreciated the words that came with the cake thought that they were priced too low, given the value of the words. But the people who only wanted cake for cake's sake, and these were the majority, thought I was cheating them.

Then there was the issue of partnerships. I never knew partnerships were that hard. It looks like passion is a very expensive commodity. Early on, I realised that however good I was at coming up with some great ideas for product development and marketing, I was terrible at selling. So I needed someone to help me sell. Then I realised that I was so bad at selling that I even failed to sell the vision of Wordy Cakes to the two partners I'd gotten. I learnt that partnerships can be like a romantic relationship. If you want to get serious, get the paperwork done and don't date for too long. Otherwise you'll be dumped like a rotten egg because all along, your partner wanted you fresh, and now he can't eat a rotten egg.

I've learnt that people know how to smile and shake your hand and say all the nice cow dung when they are facing you, but when push comes to shove, only your family and close friends will be there. They are the only ones that know that cow dung can be used as manure for new dreams. In the end, you realise that you needed the hardships to show you who your real friends are.

I've learnt that true love doesn't come to everyone. Not every guy gets lucky enough to have a girl love them for who they are, whether they are broke or not. I've experienced that love (Patience, whenever I think of you, my mind freezes and I don't know what to say). And it has given me the strength to wake up in the morning when I'd almost drowned in depression the previous night. And speaking of depression, how come no one told me how ugly it can get? How come no one said it was possible to get so low emotionally that you're immobilised?

Lately, I'm learning to count all the 24 hours in a day. I'm learning to enjoy every single second of them. Sometimes life sucks, but when you look around you, you realise that you've got a lot of good stuff going well for you: like all the job offers that come around, most of which you have to say no to.

When I started Wordy Cakes on 18th October, 2014, I never knew I'd be seated at my desk, on a new laptop that I'm still infatuated with, typing out this blog post that reads like a eulogy. But one thing I'm certain of now, is that Wordy Cakes still lives on. In my heart where it was created, Wordy Cakes doesn't really care what the world thinks or says. I'll still get those orders, and now because it's no longer about the money, or pleasing some partner who doesn't care how cakes are baked, I'll say yes to the ones that pass the Wordy Cakes test, and no to the ones that don't.

What's life after all, if we don't enjoy the little things we do to change the world?

Death Kissed Me Last Night

Death kissed me last night

She came swiftly and softly

While I was walking down the street

And swept me off my feet

Carried me on fluffy clouds

And said

Welcome home, my son

I’ve looked forward to this day, she said

But you looked so good today

I couldn’t let you go

See, I have a soft spot

For young men like you

Who’ve just discovered pleasure

But don’t know what to do with it.

Sometimes I wait till they’re ripe

Old age makes them easy prey

I creep into them slowly

Taking one inch of flesh at a time

By the time I snatch up their soul

They are mad at me

For being too slow

I don’t discriminate, my son

I also love them young

When they are pea-sized

And haven’t taken their first breath

I like to imagine them

Not taking their first step

Removing their first tooth

Or losing their virginity

I love the Acts of God
The kind they accuse God of
The plagues and floods and quakes
The sound when a neck breaks
Like dry twigs in a wild fire
Such music to my ear
When blood flows like a stream
And there's no one to dream

I take pleasure in wet cheeks 
I take pleasure in cracked hearts

When men’s hearts simmer with hate

When they go ahead, do my bidding.

On such days I get so busy

So many souls to welcome home

Yet so little time to prepare a banquet

Death kissed me last night

And through many words, taught

That I should get used to my state

I only die once, just like everyone else

Maybe I should look for some friends here

Because it will take me eternity

To learn how to undie. 

Myself

If I met myself

Walking down a dark street,

I wonder:

Would I tremble in fear,

Or run for dear life?

If I met myself

Eating at the corner cafe,

I wonder:

Would I sit in the farthest corner,

Or skip lunch that day?

If I met myself

Cowering in a dark corner,

I wonder:

Would I suck my thumb,

Or grow bumps on my skin?

Would I ever stop running

from myself, from myself?

Would I ever stop fearing

what I’ve become?

Or will I keep hiding

from myself?

I AM THROWING AWAY MY SMART PHONE

For the longest time, my friends wanted me to get a smart phone so I could join Whatsapp. Last year, around this time I got myself my first smart phone. I love being able to text with one hand, so I got a small phone, the LGE405. It has served me well until last week.

I've decided to spend less time staring at the tiny little screen. This is because I realised that I was looking at life, at least most of life, through a four-inch window.

Instead of seeing the blue of the skies, I was seeing the blue of Facebook and Twitter. And there was more green in my Whatsapp than in the trees outside my window. Human beings were starting to become smaller and smaller. Flesh and blood was turning to avatars and status updates.

My need for human connection led me to social media, but I ended up hugging my phone at night, under the covers, typing away, sending words to some disembodied human who was also most probably somewhere in their bed, under the covers.

I am tired. I am bored. And I am unplugging.

It’s only after going offline for a few days (of course I’ve had a few minutes every now and then of checking out Facebook and replying Whatsapp messages) that I’ve realised how addicted I’d become to my phone. It felt like there was an IV line running from my phone to my arm, supplying vital fluids to my body, without which I’d die.

I know I won’t die. And the world won’t stop spinning if I go offline for a few days. So while I won’t swear by the Almighty God that I’m completely going offline, I am going to try to check my phone less times. I am going to resist the urge to reply all incoming messages immediately.

And I am going to breathe slower, take the world less seriously, take up a new hobby (farming?), write a little more, and see more people.

And it won’t be through the tiny window through which I’d decided to watch the world. I’m going outdoors!

I love concerts. But it’s incredible how some people watch a full concert through the small screen of their smart phone or tab. It’s interesting how people go out to the beach and instead of taking in all the beauty, decide to capture small pieces of it on their phones. I can’t imagine how much life passes us by while we’re looking at tiny, little windows.

Maybe you would also like to put away your tiny windows through which you view the world? You’ll be amazed at the beauty around you.

The Art of Drifting

While enjoying my bus ride to Gulu, I kept looking out the window at the passing terrain. Something stood out for me: the farms. Every few kilometres, I saw men, women and children hard at work in different farms. Some were growing maize, others cabbages, and some other plants I don’t know.

Then there were these farms that weren’t being tended to. They had weeds growing in them. Some of these farms overgrown with weeds were next to well-kept farms.

One word kept coming to my mind.

Drifting.

Whenever someone stops proactively doing something, drifting sets in. Usually, the consequences are not desirable. When a farmer drifts, weeds grow. When two people in love drift, the love dies. When an employee drifts, production plummets. When I drifted, nobody visited this blog.

If there’s anything I’ve learnt from my travel to Gulu, it is this concept of drifting. Looking back on my life, I have realised that it is very easy to drift. As soon as life starts getting comfortable, money starts coming in, and I drift.

I have realised that I’ve done a lot of drifting this year. I have taken the path of least resistance and it has choked my creativity. I’ve learnt that whenever I don’t deliberately choose to think, my mind will wander. If I don’t deliberately choose to write, I get worse at it. I’m now starting to write again, and it is no longer as easy as it was before I drifted.

I used to jog everyday at the beginning of the year. Then I got so busy. I tried jogging after two months of not jogging, and I realised I had drifted. My body told me.

I am now evaluating my life. And I’m shocked at how much I’d drifted. I’d gotten used to swimming downstream with all the dead leaves and chaff instead of upstream.

You should also evaluate your life. Are you drifting in your career, relationships or hobbies? Do you need to get more deliberate about doing something? Remember, change rarely comes without action.

I Think I'm a Human Tourist

When the thought of getting out of the city for a day or two crossed my mind, I had the option of going anywhere I wanted to go to in Uganda. I decided to go to a place I’d never been to: Gulu.

“There’s nothing to see in Gulu,” a friend told me.

And that’s exactly why I chose the place. I’ve never really been into sightseeing. I don’t really know how to stare wide-eyed, open-mouthed at waterfalls and wild animals. They don’t really get my blood running.

What gives me a rush is watching people.

I love seeing two people, completely in love, who can’t get their hands off of each other. I love watching an irritated bus driver, or a beautiful hotel receptionist who doesn’t know how to smile.

That’s why I’m in Gulu.

This guy with a cart loaded with pineapples spoke impeccable English and had a contagious smile. I had to buy a pineapple from him. The lady at the hotel I’m staying at is so nice and courteous. Even after trying out other places to see if I could get a less expensive room, I ended up coming back to her.

An old Indian woman rode a motorcycle around town. She passed by me a couple of times.

Then the huts. I don’t remember seeing so many huts like the ones I saw today on the 6-hour bus ride. We passed by people who didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get anywhere. They definitely didn’t look like they badly needed the new iPhone coming out next year.

Four barefooted kids in school uniforms waved oranges at us. I guess they wanted us to buy the oranges. But the bus driver didn’t stop.

I lost count of the number of churches I saw on the way. What was interesting was that more than once, I saw a brick church surrounded by mud and wattle huts. At least the gods get revered in this part of the world. I wondered whether the priests can afford bicycles.

And oh! The Gulu Archdiocese has a very beautiful cathedral.

Now I’m in my hotel room, the sun is setting, and it still feels like I’m in Uganda. Northern Uganda doesn’t feel any different from Central Uganda. I can’t wait for tomorrow when I’ll go tour some more.

Human beings are really beautiful.

This Part of my Life is Called Facing Reality

This part of my life is called facing reality. I asked for a month’s leave from work. Well, given the fact that my performance wasn’t that good and my boss wouldn’t really miss me, I got it immediately. It’s been a week into my leave now.

For the first time since I left school, I have completely nothing to do. I could decide to go on a road trip. I’ve actually thought about it, though I haven’t yet figured out where to go and where to get the money to take me there.

For the first time in my life, life feels uncertain. Well, partly because I may not go back to my job after this leave.

I am told that a lot of grown up people feel like this. So I am not alone. The best way I can describe this feeling is that it is bittersweet. I love the freedom, not having to answer to anyone for once. But I’m scared about how I will be able to pay the rent.

That’s why I started a bakery. I haven’t made a single sale yet. But I’ve got the equipment, the space, and the skills. I also have a partner who believes in my dream and is helping to finance it. Soon—very soon—I’ll have to get out of my reverie and start working.

Lately I’ve been taking lots of walks, with earphones in my ears, listening to audio books. I’m learning quite a lot. I’ve also found out that Kampala isn’t that big of a city. So, except if I’m late or tired, I’ll keep up with the walking. It’s healthy. And I’ll save lots of money, which money I don’t have.

I’ve read a lot about starting and running a business. I’ve gone to lots of seminars and conferences. But I’ve never put any of that knowledge into practice. I just hope all of that knowledge will help me somehow, or else I’ll be back to looking for a job.

I even did a written interview with a media house in town for the position of a sub-editor.

This morning I visited a bookstore. As always, there were lots of books I wished I could buy, but didn’t have the money. My eyes got wet. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because I was standing on holy ground. Bookstores are holy grounds. One day I’ll have my books in them.

So this evening, while waiting for a meeting to start, I decided to power up my computer and write this blog post.

This part of my life is called facing reality.

On Circumcision and Start-ups

I have had so many excuses for not writing, the most prominent being my day job. But all those excuses have gotten silenced by my heart, which can’t live without writing. I hope this will be the first article among many that I’ll write before the end of the year.

Now that’s no way to start a blog, but why wouldn’t everyone cut me some slack? I haven’t written in a gazillion months!

So, today I’d like to talk about circumcision. And start ups.

A few months ago, a guest came to the guesthouse where I work. She was on the team trying to popularise non-surgical male circumcision. And she had lots of dildos to show for it. So one evening we got talking and ended up talking about her work. She described to me the whole circumcision process, its pros and cons and even encouraged me to get circumcised.

It’s just yesterday that our conversation came back to me as I was thinking of what it takes to start a business. I realised that starting a business is like getting circumcised. At first, you don’t want to do it. It’s so painful and you could lose your pee-pee if the doctor doesn’t do it well. And it takes some time to heal and be able to function well again.

And even after the guest with a bag of dildos and a PhD convinces you to go get cut, even after you make up your mind that you really need to get cut, you decide to nurse some procrastination. You say you’ll do it next week, and when next week comes you push it to next week until the year ends and you still have your foreskin.

And then you get a girlfriend and she demands that you go have the simple procedure done or else... and for the first time you realise that it’s now a matter of life or death. So you go to the hospital. The procedure is over in just ten minutes and now you’re a certified entrepreneur!

And now the pain starts.

Water Under a Bridge

Water under a bridge

Flows slowly, quietly

Until a storm rages

And the rain falls.

Then the bridge floods

And the river cries

And the wind blows

And we’re all wet

Nothing stays the same

The storm doesn’t care

We’re blown off the bridge

And float downstream

When the rain stops

Water under the bridge

Flows slowly, quietly

But we’re no longer there

To All Young Women Who Break Our Hearts

Today I am going to share with you a post from a Facebook friend of mine, Adonia Waibale, that I would like all the ladies, especially the young ones that keep breaking our hearts, to read.

Forgetting Tracy Amazing

Did I just call a woman amazing? Oh yeah that's right, everything about her was amazing especially the way she dumped me without breaking my heart - i still have no clue how she managed that but when she left she took all the pieces with her. I still have nightmares of her chocolate skin, big twinkling eyes, lips that could act like cushions and her smile was more beautiful than the horizon where day fades into night. I'm haunted by these images. Her bosom, well crafted with surgically equivalent breasts and hips as wide as a six lane free way; her posterior was molded by Leonardo da Vinci himself. Her legs straight like eucalyptus trees; when she walked all her accolades flourished in chorus complimenting each other. And in that moment beauty made enough sense to last me a life time.

She was the perfect score for an SAT and she was my score long enough to know how it feels like to be an A student in a biology class. 

Tracy Mirembe was her name, her pleasure was my purpose, well, it was until it was useless to keep all the promises we had made in all coyness. 

Whenever we hung out i worried because she commanded attention like a top less bartender, I'm not the jealous type but you should have seen the way men ogled at her, sometimes i felt she was virtually undressed the minute we walked into a bar. In the genesis of what is now clearly a bad idea I enjoyed commendations from my peers who appreciated my taste in women, infact I believe many of them thought I had punched way above my weight. They called her deep waters and I was only a star fish marinating in her waters. Time and again i simply nodded my head also in total awe of her beauty. It was here that i started writing my vows- 'I will love you till all the oil in bunyoro is reclaimed, I will stay with you until bwaise gets her independence from poor drainage." Such was the magnitude of my commitment to her. I promised myself that i would spend all my bonus payments on pampering her and my actual income would be dedicated to things like her hair. All the fish in the sea disappeared, the few that remained were no match to her; now i only had eyes for her. But as it has become the play these days, she had her eyes on something else and it's now that I realize it wasn't me. Deep into her eyes there stood, erect a faint image of me and each time I held her close it felt like the last time. For months I attempted to marry her vanity with my imperfections and find good reason to fight for her. I know nothing is meant to last but i was hoping to prove Boolean wrong. I could have given her all my love, I could have been more than just a knight in shinning armor. I could have been her Mr amazing. But here I am writing stories in her memory, inking her memory away into a canister of 'has beens' and girls I hope get hit by a bus or something more heinous. 

So Tracy, if you are reading this, I hope you are not happy, i hope you have kids now and those curves of yours are no more, i hope those breasts sag all the way to your belly button. It's my humble prayer that you got married to boda boda guy and that his helmet is the only item of luxury. Please don't think I hate you, I only enjoy a good rant and you seemed like something I could rant about.

So, Ladies, the next time you think of breaking a guy's heart, please remember the Emotional Rape you subject us to.

How I Lost My Pentecostalism

I grew up in a church where Jesus’ words, “Unless you are born again, you shall not see the kingdom of God” meant “Unless you join this church you shall not go to heaven.” I felt privileged to be among the chosen few to go to heaven because even Jesus said, “Many are called but few are chosen.”

The road to hell was very wide and almost everyone was on it, enjoying the temporary pleasures of the earth. But my church taught me to keep on the straight and the narrow, because only a few lucky people like us found it.

There would be more souls lost in hell than those redeemed in heaven, I was taught.

And I believed it.

But that was before my brother, Alex passed away.

Alex was a devout Catholic. Many of us at home had turned Pentecostal, but however much we evangelized to him, he refused to convert. I was very worried about him and decided to delegate a good chunk of my prayer time to him.

The last time I saw him, we passed by a ramshackle Pentecostal church on our way to a restaurant for lunch. It was a Monday. And they were having “Lunch Hour,” their two-hour lunchtime prayers. The wooden structure had less than a dozen Pentecostals in it but the sound system was deafening.

I would have liked it if they had been playing music. Instead, the pastor, or whoever he was, was shouting incessantly into the microphone at God in a mixture of Luganda and tongues. He was telling God how good He was but by the volume and forcefulness of his voice, if you didn’t know Luganda, you would have thought he was having an argument with God and was winning it.

However, though I was a committed Pentecostal Christian, this was one part of Pentecostalism I never understood. I don’t know how to shout, and so I wondered why in the world one felt the need to shout while talking to God. It’s not like God is near-deaf. Or, if one was praying for the benefit of the others in the room with him, why amplify one’s voice with a sound system that cost more than the structure under which they are meeting.

“It’s Lunch Hour. Go and join them,” Alex said, rubbing in the fact that it was totally absurd, what these guys were doing.

“Nah! I’ll pray over my food,” I said, as we entered a restaurant.

That was the last day I saw Alex.

One and a half months later, I received the news that Alex had passed away. I’ve never felt so heartbroken and disappointed. I had spent half of my life praying that Alex would cross to my Pentecostalism so he wouldn’t go to hell, and God hadn’t answered my prayers.

I didn’t go for the funeral because I was in the middle of exams at school. But as I cried, I failed to picture my brother burning in the fires of hell, just because he had refused to believe that one had to pick a certain church over another one in order to go to heaven.

Then God started ministering love and comfort to my heart. He showed me how much he loved me and hated to see me so heartbroken. That was when I got a glimpse of God’s love for the first time—the light that had been hidden from me by Pentecostal dogma.

That was when I started to lose my Pentecostalism.

I am Coming Out of the Closet

A friend of mine came out of the closet a few months ago. It is now common knowledge that he is gay, at least among his close friends. Well, I am happy for him. In Uganda, it takes a lot of balls and guts to say you are gay. But he is very lucky. His mother did not throw him out of the house.

I would like to think that I might be as lucky as he was. So I am also coming out of the closet too. Finally.

I am straight.

And I am sorry if I have disappointed you. It’s just that, I would like to know, why is it that the gays experience the pressure of having to come out of the closet yet us, the straight guys, have it easy? Everyone should reach a point in their life where they are expected to come out of the closet. And it should be ok whichever closet you come out of.

Late last year I wrote a story that I submitted for a competition called Writivism. I titled it Emotional Roller Coaster. Recently, my story has caused a lot of debate both online and offline. It is about a gay guy who has his first heterosexual encounter. I can’t really tell what I was thinking while writing this story, but I enjoyed writing it.

After all the debate it garnered, I started thinking about the issues the story raised, especially regarding homosexuality. My gay character enjoyed the sex he had with his female best friend. (Do gay people enjoy straight sex? Someone educate me!) The next morning, he wakes up confused. He had already come out of the closet as a gay guy. Would he now have to come out of the closet as a straight guy?

So while I’m advocating for us straight guys to also come out of the closet, I suggest that the closet should remain open, so that we can go back when we feel like we are threatened. I’ve heard of middle-aged men with wives and teenage kids who finally figure out that all along they’ve been gay. Now I don’t know how that happens, but as for anything to do with closets, I am open for dialogue.

And I will stop here, because I clearly don’t know what I am blabbering about. I just wanted to simply come out of the closet, but because I’m a writer, felt like I should write more than a few sentences.

As an afterthought, I think I should now join some straight club. Anybody know any straight club?

The Rat

Once upon a time, there was a rat. It lived in my house. I had never seen it, but I was almost sure that it was there. I was also almost sure that it might not be only one rat. Maybe there was a whole family of them—mother, father and baby rats!

I did not know whether it was as big as a shoe or as small as a large cockroach.

There was a rat trap behind the fridge. There was another one on top of the cabinet. There were two under the sink.

I had never seen this rat. The only evidence I had that it actually existed was the fact that the bread I kept putting on the rat traps as bait disappeared every night.

Then one day I decided that I was going to catch this rat. I borrowed webcams from my colleagues at work. In total, I had three webcams, one for each rat trap. And my iPhone’s camera was for the fourth rat trap, the one on top of the fridge. Today I wasn’t going to sleep.

I sat in front of my laptop in my living room watching the live feeds from all four cameras. Thirty minutes into my surveillance, I started dosing. I went to the kitchen and made myself some coffee and a sandwich. I chastised myself for going to the kitchen. I could have scared away the rat! I checked the traps again. The bread was still there. I got some more bread from the bread bin, broke it and distributed it to the traps. Some more bread for this crafty rat wouldn’t hurt. Today was the last day it would steal from me.

I went back to my couch and my laptop and watched the rat traps.

I thought I should play music. It was eerily quiet. But what if the music scared away the rat? I remained in the quietness.

Maybe I should switch off the lights. Rats love darkness. But then how would I see the rat on my live feed? I would have to try my luck today. I sat back in my couch. I watched.

I looked at the time. It was ten-thirty. I had been watching for only twenty minutes so far. It felt like an hour.

What if the rat came out at four in the morning? Well, then I guess I should have a full flask of coffee. Maybe even get a book to read. Have one eye on the book and another on the screen of my laptop. I surely wouldn’t miss a movement near the rat traps.

The couch was very comfortable. I felt too lazy to get up and make myself more coffee and pick a book. So I stayed and watched the rat traps.

I woke up to the glare of sunlight coming through the window. My laptop’s screen had blacked out. I didn’t bother to put it on but rushed to the kitchen to check the rat traps. The two rat traps under the sink were devoid of bread.

And I was sure the other rat traps also didn’t have bread on them. I gathered my surveillance gadgets. I’d need my iPhone for Facebook, Twitter and WatsApp. And my colleagues would need their webcams.

Peace

Breathe in

Breathe out

Close your eyes

Can you see me?

Be at peace

Don’t struggle

Patience, my child

Hold on

Be still

Be calm

Spread your wings

Can you fly

I’ll be wind

In your wings

Now fly

Soar high

If you think you cannot

I’ll be there to see you try

Emotional Rape

Rape is such a bad thing. Whenever I hear or read about rape, anger boils within me. For a man to stoop so low as to defile the most beautiful of all creatures ever created is beyond my comprehension. But it happens. The perpetrators get locked up and we feel that justice has been served, at least on the surface, where smiles can easily mask the pain that shatters the poor victim’s heart into a million and one pieces.

I don’t know how a girl feels like when she is raped. But I surely know how a guy feels like. For I have been raped before. Now please don’t try explaining to me how it is physiologically impossible for a guy to be raped. I know the biology involved in copulation well enough. And I am not talking about physical rape.

I am talking about emotional rape.

When I was a teenager, I read a great book on dating titled, Dateable. It taught teenagers how to become dateable. I have forgotten most of what was in that book, but one thing I have never forgotten was the statement, “Girls give the physical to get the emotional. Guys give the emotional to get the physical.” If you don’t believe it, go have a serious chat with some teenagers. Ask them what they want in a mate.

The girl will say, “I want someone who cares about me, someone who will understand me and holds me.” She won’t talk about sex. Reason: girls don’t have sex. They make love. She wants a guy who will kiss her tenderly and give her warm, cuddly hugs. Very emotional.

But the guy will say, “I want someone who is great in bed.” Of course if he is shy he will first circle around this answer, giving you a long paragraph of nonsensical words before settling down to one thing: sex. For the guy, all other reasons come fourth, after sex, sex and more sex. Very physical.

Then they go to church and the pastor tells them that they cannot have sex until they are married. The pastor says that the Bible says so. No discussion expected.

The girl does a victory dance. At least she is sure the guy who will lay his hands on her will have to first commit to her by taking her to church for a church wedding, white satin gowns, flowers, jewelry and all.

The guy smiles. Isn’t it such a nice thing to first get married before having sex? Well, if God says so. But that is before he gets into a relationship with his dream girl.

A few months later, guy meets girl. The sparks fly, the butterflies fly and a full-blown romance starts. The guy is so caring. He understands her and even makes her laugh. He holds her and gives her warm, cuddly hugs. The girl couldn’t dream of a better relationship. She has got all she ever dreamed of.

Meanwhile, the guy has not yet realized what he has always dreamed of since the onset of puberty. They can’t have sex until they get married. The Bible says so.

That is when the emotional rape begins.

While the girl gets emotionally satisfied, the guy can’t get physically satisfied. He feels emotionally raped, the same way a girl would feel physically raped if the guy got physical satisfaction from her but never gave her emotional satisfaction.

Unfortunately, the guy doesn’t even realize that he’s being raped over and over again. There is no section in the penal code that describes emotional rape and provides legal action against it. Even if he realized that he was being raped, who would he report to? What evidence would he present? Unlike bruised vaginal walls, bruised hearts cannot be examined.

And when he asks for sex, he is labeled a jerk. He is called selfish. And the emotional rape continues while he suffers silently.


By the way, have you gotten yourself a copy of my new ebook? If not, get it here

The Hymn

About three years ago, I entered my dad’s car and rode with him to Jinja. To be a little more accurate, I was dragged to Jinja. And as I entered his car, I felt like my life as I knew it was about to end, like I had fallen off a cliff and was careening to a very certain death—the death of my dreams of writing.

My dreams of writing were being sacrificed at the altar of a more honourable vocation—Hotel Management—and I was being driven to the best hotel training institute (or so, I am told) in Uganda.

We had just driven a few metres away from home when the last verse of Amazing Grace hit me like a meteor falling from the sky.

When we’ve been there ten thousand years

Bright shining as the stars

We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise

Than when we first began.

Those four lines played over and over in my mind, each line warming my heart and filling me with an inexplicable joy as I sat next to my dad.

“Are you ok?”

My dad had seen the silly grin on my face.

I immediately wiped it off and nodded. Yes, I was ok. I was more than ok.

I was given a place at The Hotel and Tourism Training Institute. The course would take me three years. And though I didn’t know how I would study Hotel Management for three years, I knew that three years were just a molecule of time in comparison to eternity.

Dad called me every single day for the first month of school. He was worried that I might throw in the towel after a few weeks of school.

I didn’t throw in the towel. I completed my three years. My last paper was on Friday. And I entered my bed at 6am this morning after spending the night out with my friends.

***

This morning I went to church. For the first time, I was twenty minutes late. I was surprised that I didn’t doze through the sermon. But I guess it was because I was excited to be leaving Jinja after three years of school. I couldn’t wait for church to end so I could go and pack my bags. Dad is picking me up in the evening.

After the sermon ended, we stood up for the closing hymn: Amazing Grace.