Kanyindo's Random Ramblings

I’ve been suffering from a serious bout of writer’s block lately.  But don’t worry, this is not one of those articles where I try to explain away my lack of anything interesting to write.  Oh no.  This is simply a thinly veiled attack on a fellow columnist of mine. Ernest Bazanye and I have a small competition every week to see who can be the first to submit their article to our editor Lucy and earn a pat on the head or a chocolate bar.  The fact that I have submitted my article before Baz many times and received neither a pat on the head or a chocolate bar is neither here nor there, because Lucy is just so nice and always thanks you if you send your article in on time, even if she has been breathing heavily down your neck for the past few emails or so.  All’s well that ends well. So, there I was at my desk earlier this week, lamenting the fact that I couldn’t think of anything remotely interesting and only having 45 minutes before my deadline, especial...

I was having a conversation with a colleague the other day.  We were discussing siblings and I was shocked at how she talked about hers.  In short, she hates them.  Never speaks to them if she can help it, and can’t remember the last time they were all together apart from at her mother’s funeral.  And even THEN, she claims, they stayed as far away from each other as was physically possible. Now, I know you can’t choose your family.  Fortunately or unfortunately, we have to deal with the cards we have been dealt.  I’ve had my fair share of strange and annoying family members, my own siblings included.  Much as I love them to pieces. I remember there was a time in my childhood when my older sister had hidden some of my toys just to piss me off and I wished that I could exchange her for another, nicer sister.  Or the time my brother was born and promptly stole my position on the throne as baby of the family.   Or the time I ‘ran aw...

I attended a friend’s wedding in Zambia early this month.  It was a fabulous trip- the weather was perfect (hot during the day, crisp at night), everyone was so friendly and welcoming (I was crushed into many an aunt’s ample bosom) and our surroundings were so beautiful it was impossible not to have a good time Luckily I was able to attend some of the pre-wedding festivities, namely the hen night.  Now, I’ve attended a hen night or two here in Uganda, but they didn’t really seem that much different from an ordinary night out with the girls.  This one was a whole different experience, mainly because of what I learned about the things women are told before they get married. After arriving at the venue and having a few drinks, we were introduced to a young doctor who had come to address the group and the bride in particular.  Being a urologist, she deals with trouser snakes on the regular, so she knows a thing or two about a man’s plumbing system. Anyway, aft...

I’ve been having a difficult time writing recently- putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, more accurately) has just seemed impossible since my Dad died. I don’t know why, especially since he enjoyed my writing and always encouraged my active imagination right from when I was a little girl trying to write in the style of my heroine Enid Blyton. (Flying chairs and talking animals just really appealed to me when I was a kid).  For the past few weeks I’ve heard his voice in my head, asking why my article wasn’t published AGAIN.  My writing cogs started turning again after an insightful conversation with a friend’s three year old daughter recently.  I asked her if her goldfish was lonely- he just looked so sad swimming around that bowl all alone.  She explained that his friend had died- he simply started coughing one day, and died.  Floated belly-up to that great goldfish heaven in the sky.  (Ok, she didn’t actually say that, but I thought it sounde...

I am allergic to meetings. The nature of my job means that I sit in various meetings during the week.  Which is all well and good if the following things happen: There is an agenda Members arrive on time Agenda is actually followed But this is Uganda. Which means that more often than not, the reality is as follows: Agenda?  What agenda? People saunter in when the spirit moves them see Item 1 above. Seeing as meetings are a necessary evil that cannot be avoided unless you are ill or close to death (leave alone the fact that meetings tend to leave me feeling that way), I have devised a survival kit of sorts.  I am sharing this with you, dear reader, because I refuse to believe that I am the only person who has walked out of a meeting feeling brain-dead, lamenting the last three hours of my life that I will never get back. Please note that this survival kit applies to board meetings, staff meetings, wedding meetings. ...

One of the greatest things about my job, apart from the fact that I get to listen to music all day every day, is that I am paid to talk. Granted, I wake up at ungodly hours and have no social life to speak of, but still.  I am paid to yap, chat, prattle, babble, bang my gums, shoot the breeze, chew the fat.  Call it what you will. Now, this is all well and good seeing as most of the time I am quite a chatterbox.  Which explains the general alarm when Siima is (gasp) QUIET. It doesn’t happen often. But sometimes, I just don’t feel like talking.  I just want to be still, be silent, and keep my thoughts to myself. And there is nothing more annoying at times like these than everyone asking you what’s wrong and why you’re so quiet. I go quiet for various reasons.  Maybe I’m not feeling too well.  Or I’m tired, or sad.  Or maybe, there’s someone in the room that I really, REALLY don’t want to talk to, but I don’t want to make it so o...

I have often been tasked with explaining why I ‘do not have a Christian name’, a question that continues to infuriate me to this day.  I beg to differ.  I do actually have a VERY Christian name, as do all of my siblings.  What I do NOT have, is an ENGLISH name. Not for me, my two sisters and younger brother the Rachels, Charlottes and James’ of this world.  I won’t go into my siblings’ names, because I simply do not have enough space or time right now. You see, my parents were rather poetic (and long-winded) when it came to naming their offspring.  Take my full name, for example: Siima Kyakuhaire Kyomuhendo.  25 characters.  I’ll let that sink in a bit. A veritable sentence, my name is.  And that’s excluding my surname, Tooro pet name AND Kigisu name.  In another post, perhaps. The story goes (mbu), my mother thought she was expecting a boy when I was swimming around in ignorant bliss.  She already had two girls- how...