#AmateurNight: Red & Green Wraps | Daphine Arinda (Part 3)

Read Part One and Part Two

When Phirimoni and Noweri got home, they ate Irish potatoes and a groundnuts paste mixed with pumpkin leaves that Maama had prepared before heading out to Nyakabungo market. Kyabihambe forest was on the hill next to their home. The two brothers started their journey to the forest to collect firewood. Phirimoni led the way and Noweri followed at his heel. The younger boy sometimes raced ahead of the older boy but he would pause and wait until Phirimoni was in the lead again.

Abu got to Kyabihambe Forest first. He was delighted to see his mountain of wood still standing high and mighty. Using the panga he had carried with him, he cut branches from the nearby weak trees – the ones he had not cut down because they were too small to make good charcoal. Some branches he reached by jumping high up in the air with the panga raised above his head. To reach more, he had to climb up the weak trees and swing slightly along with the stem, struggling to thrust his arm to a high leafy branch. With each thrust, his black sturdy upper arm contracted into a mould of hard muscle.

When he had collected enough leafy branches, he assembled them near the wood-mountain and left to look for clumps of thick bladed wild grass. There was not much grass in the clearing he had chosen to build his wood-mountain and so he had to walk a distance away to the next fold of the hill.

Phirimoni had carried a small household knife to use for chopping stubborn twigs and branches that he could not break with his hands. As he walked he aimlessly chopped flowers on the pathways and any short shrubbery along the way. Noweri was beginning to get tired and had ceased to run ahead of Phirimoni. The walk to the forest had turned out to be boring. He wished he had stayed at the neighbours’ driving a metallic hoop from the tyre of a bicycle. Topher recently acquired a kipanka. Everyone has driven that kipanka downhill. If I had not come with Phiri, today would have been my chance to drive it, Noweri thought.

The sky was a beautiful clear blue with a few white clouds here and there and the sun shone so brightly that December afternoon. Abu run across Kyabihambe Hill, crossing from one fold to the next, jumping over ridges, arriving at a lash green expanse that had the thickest and heavy grass he needed. With his panga, he dug into the soil, and with his strong hands he uprooted clumps of grass with soil still attached to the roots and he begun to fill the sac he had carried with him.

As Phirimoni walked through Kyabihambe Hill, he picked out the trees with low hanging branches that he could reach. He had to be selective of the trees because all he had with him was a kitchen knife that could not chop into thick branches. It had not been a fruitful harvest so far. They had been walking a while and Phirimoni had only collected a handful of firewood.

He paused in his step as he stared at a heap of branches assembled on the ground, metres ahead of him.  This was unbelievable. Of course it belonged to a charcoal burner: he could tell from the high stacked stems standing in front of him and the heap of soil – and – the green branches, but he saw no charcoal burner around. If I am going to do anything, I have to do it now, he thought. Quickly he turned to Noweri who was trudging on from a distance.

“Stay here and look out for anyone coming. I have found firewood,” he said pointing at the branches on the ground.

Phirimoni continued to the branches and started taking off leaves on the ones he thought would make good firewood if put out to dry in the sun for a few days. He worked fast and alert. He knew that most charcoal burners were older people with many responsibilities who often left their stacks of stems unattended to in the afternoons. The actual burning of the wood into charcoal was done in the evening when the sun had set, the heat not being conducive for slow baking of the wood.

Abu was walking back to his wood-mountain, panga dangling in one hand, sac of grass dragging in the other when he noticed a person de-leafing the branches he had gathered earlier. He was immediately displeased with what he saw and he ran down the hill toward his wood-mountain, abandoning the sack of grass because it was heavy.

Phirimoni heard footsteps descending towards him in quick movement. He saw Abu. He knew Abu, the deaf-mute from Kigarama Hill. He went back to de-leafing the branches, not suspecting that the deaf-mute may be the owner of the branches.

Abu reached deep within for the loudest voice he could imagine and said to the skinny brown boy he was seeing at his wood-mountain, “Stop doing that, I need the leaves on those branches, you thief, stop taking my branches.” He attempted to talk but all Phirimoni heard were very comic utterances from Ekiragi.

“Noweri, come and see Ekiragi,” Phirimoni called out to his brother.

Noweri ran to where his brother was to get a good view of Ekiragi. Abu felt a rage rise in him when he read Phirimoni’s lips and recognised the insulting name, Ekiragi. Two veins stood out at his temples and the grip on the panga in his hand tightened. He pointed to the branches and then pointed back to himself, informing Phirimoni that the branches were his. His face wore anger and impatience and intensity almost simultaneously.

“Ma muh uh uhuma ah, keeeee, uh ma,” Phirimoni imitated the sounds Abu made each time he tried to say something.

Noweri laughed even harder and made similar sounds. Phirimoni begun to gather the branches he had de-leafed.

Abu drew closer and asked them to stop. He said that they should stop stealing his branches. He said that the land they were standing on was owned by his father. He said that the wood was his, the soil was his, the branches were his and the leaves on the branches too. He spoke but Phirimoni and Noweri laughed and pointed and laughed and teased the deaf-mute.

Abu leaned forward and with one hand, wrestled the branches out of Phirimoni’s hands, the sharp bladed panga held firm in the other hand. The two boys struggled for a while, Phirimoni claiming ownership of the branches, Abu defending what was rightfully his.

“You daft boy, give me my firewood. It is mine” Phirimoni said to Abu. “Noweri, the mad boy is stealing from your brother,” he called to his little brother.  The bundle of wood fell to the ground between the scuffling boys.

Noweri picked a pebble and threw it at the deaf-mute wrestling with his elder brother. Abu said to the little boy, stop throwing stones, and stop it right now. Noweri only laughed and continued throwing pebbles. He knew that people who could not talk or hear were mad and you threw stones at mad people. He threw two pebbles, three pebbles, and then Abu turned to Phrimoni and said to him, “Stop your little brother, tell him to stop throwing stones at me.”

Phirimoni was bent over, binding the sticks of firewood with fibre when Abu pushed him causing him to topple over, face first to the ground. Noweri stopped throwing pebbles.

Abu said to Phirimoni, “This is my father’s forest, why are you disrespecting me in my father’s forest? Who do you think you are taking my branches without asking, throwing stones at me, calling me names, who do you think you are?”

The skinny brown boy got to his feet. The silver blade in the deaf-mute’s hand was angrily flashing at him. Phirimoni picked his kitchen knife from the ground.  He begun to run. Noweri ran ahead of him.  Then Phirimoni stopped, walked back and threatened to go at the deaf -mute if he came any closer. Although Phirimoni could see that the boy in front of him had a stronger body than his, he was not in the least intimidated because he expected very little from Ekiragi.

Noweri stood still and watched, excited that he was going to see two boys fight. He picked one last stone and threw it at Abu, hitting his forehead. Abu switched his intense gaze towards Noweri, terror in his red teary eyes. Phirimoni laughed when the deaf-mute shouted very unintelligible words to Noweri, nearly biting his tongue in the process.

Abu stepped forward.

Phirimoni said to his brother, “run away and do not get hurt.”

Noweri ran and stood away at a distance where he could still be able to watch the fight.

Abu moved forward.

Phirimoni threw his knife at Abu.

The knife flew at Abu unexpectedly and he did not duck to avoid the hit. It missed Abu’s left eye slightly and bruised his cheek.

Realising that he had actually thrown a knife at someone, realising that he had thrown the knife at someone with a panga, Phirimoni started to run but he tripped when a creeper noosed round his leg. He tried to pull the noose apart. He tried to break through the green tendrils but his grip was not strong enough to set his leg free. He saw the boy standing over him. He saw a silver blade flash like a streak of lightning. He curled on the ground, head shielded between his thighs. Before he could look again, a sharp heavy metal landed on his shoulder. Phirimoni screamed, Noweri heard the scream, saw the blood.

Noweri could not stop the fight. The little boy ran away as fast as he could. He hoped his mother was back from the market. He ran and did not look back. The forest whispered ‘shhhhhh, shhhhh’ as Noweri galloped through the trees, his little legs cutting through the air and squishing scurrying insects on the ground, crushing dried leaves.  He ran to get help. He ran to escape.

Phirimoni remained alone, with flagged limps that could not lift him off the ground and a suddenly numb shoulder. Abu did not stop raising his hand; he did not stop bringing down the sharp panga. He continued to cut and bruise and chop. Phirimoni – who remained in the same spot, helpless, unable to scream as loudly as he wanted, at once more aware of how dense the forest was, how far he was from home, how unlikely it was that Noweri would make it home and back with their mother to save him – was surprised at how strong the deaf-mute was.

Abu continued to raise and bring down his panga. He was chopping trees to burn for charcoal, he was cutting down branches to use as a flame regulator, he was cutting and cutting and the liquid gashing out at him was only sap from the trees. He raised his panga one last time, and before he brought it down again, he saw a boy laying in a pool of blood, helpless and limp.

He immediately dropped the blood dripping panga and looked around. He was terrified. What had he done? He looked at the boy laying at his feet and looked around again. He ran away from the blood and the limp body on the ground. Seconds later he ran back. He looked at the boy on the ground again, saw the swollen cuts his panga had left on the boy’s back, shoulder, arms, skull, legs,- what had he done?

He reached out with his hand to awaken the boy on the ground. He knelt beside him and shook him hard but the boy did not budge. The boy’s face was pressed flat against the ground. Abu lifted the face and saw that that the boy’s eyes were closed and his mouth was wide open. He pulled his hands away and the boy’s head fell back to the ground as lifeless as a log.

Abu looked around, he did not see the younger boy who had thrown stones at him. He had blood on his shirt. His shorts had dump patches but being black, it was not obvious that the wet patches were in fact blood. He took off his shirt and threw it at the lifeless boy on the ground.

He thought of digging a grave but remembered he had no hoe. All he had was a panga and soil, and branches and tree stems. He could not dig a grave. Abu dragged Phirimoni’s body for ten metres towards a narrow gorge along the west slope of Kyabihambe Hill.

Abu stood, arms shaking, legs cold, left eye twitching, , his hands bruised and tired, his conscience deeply disappointed at how he had mismanaged his rage.  A dark cloud stood over Kyabihambe hill and Phirimoni lay in a ravine, his body wrapped in red swollen cuts, blood oozing from the panga inflicted wounds, his breath, still.

He went back to the place he had abandoned the sack of grass and dragged it towards the ravine. Abu poured the green clumps of grass on top of Phirimoni’s body. He dragged the branches he had cut earlier to the ravine and threw these over Phirimoni’s body.

Abu cried warm salty rivers and prayed for the skies to wash him clean of all the blood. His red-pepper eyes looked at the ground where the panga had risen and fallen upon a young boy and he wished for the rain to fall heavily and wash clean the clearing in front of his wood-mountain. He looked at the wood-mountain, saw how it stared back with condemnation, felt the wailing of all the trees he had cut down, all the leaves he had shed, all the blood he had shed.

The sky bellowed and sparks of lightning lit up the dark cloud in streaks of silver. Clear drops of water started to fall from the sky. Abu run and his bare chest rose and fell with each breath he took. The drops increased and red rivers run down his legs as the rain drenched his black shorts.

Two boys waited to be found that December the 11th; one buried in a ravine on Kyabihambe Hill, in red and green wraps, the other running as far away from Kyabihambe Hill wrapped in rain and regret.

Daphine Arinda is a writer and lawyer. Three tenets guide her writing; strip off any inhibitions and write as nakedly as you can, do not sacrifice intricacy for readability, write from a point of knowledge. Arinda writes because it is fulfilling to capture LIFE in words and translate it to art so that posterity may behold authentic Ugandan literature. Her Blog Evabella is a manifestation of the art, thoughts and experiences of a Fearless, Dynamic and Revolutionary writer. She is also a Member of the Advisory Committee of Network of Public Interest Lawyers (NETPIL), a member of the Youth for Policy Think Tank and a social justice blogger at KWEETA Uganda.

#AmateurNight stories  were submitted by writers during our previous #MEiREAD Amateur Nights. During Amateur Night, writers share unpublished work and receive feedback from member of the book club. Tell us what your thoughts are in the comments section.

#MoreThanABlog: Owaahh & Too Early For Birds (2/2)

Continuing our #MoreThanABlog series is the duo behind Too Early For Birds, a play based on different Kenyan history stories. This is the second part of a two-part feature, the first featuring Owaahh, the mind behind the blog that inspired the play.

Ngartia and Abu Sense, the minds behind Too Early For Birds

While we were in Nairobi a few weeks ago for the StoryMoja Festival, we watched a play called Too Early For Birds. To say we were blown away is an understatement. Stellar cast, amazing production, excellent soundtrack, hilarious dialougue, which given the kind of play it was, was extremely innovative. Generally. 5 stars and then some.

Too Early For Birds is a play based off Owaahh.com, a popular history blog in Kenya. The play, the brain child of Owaahh, the blogger and Ngartia and Abu Sense, the playwrights, basically picks Kenyan history stories on  the blog and brings them to life on stage. The StoryMoja edition we watched was their third edition and a two-hour merging of the first two performances. It included the stories of Paul Ngei, Otenyo Nyamaterere, Timothy Njoya and the infamous torture chambers at Nyayo House.

Clockwise: The infamous Nyayo House, Rev. Timothy Njoya and the bad-ass Paul Ngei

After reading this, you can imagine my excitement at the opportunity to sit down with some of the cast and delve into the idea behind the play and it’s plans for the future. I was able to chat with Abu Sense, Ngartia and Laura Ekumbo, all part of the Too Early For Birds cast. Abu and Ngartia are also the creators and script writers behind the production.

Ngartia and Abu show up first after a hearty meal and we dive right in. The two have known each other for a while, “60 years,”Abu says cheekily. Westlands, Nairobi is where they met, around 2011, “The time when everyone felt they needed to be holding a mic to be heard,” says Abu. They both dabbled in performance in primary and secondary school but did not begin to take it seriously until after secondary school.

Our conversation at this point is interrupted. A worthy interruption, I must say. Dr. Reverend Timothy Njoya, one of the main characters in the Too Early For Birds StoryMoja edition, and an essential part of Kenya’s political activism history, walks into the Artist’s Lounge where we are conducting the interview. It takes me a second to get with the programme as I can only identify Rev. Njoya from the play I watched two days ago. By the time I realise who he is, my interviewees are across the room excitedly shaking hands. It is such a beautiful thing to witness. They talk for a while and I learn that Ngartia is actually blocked by Rev. Njoya (an avid tweep incidentally! He’s just released a book entitled Divinity of the Clitoris. Need I say more? Go follow Timothy Njoya.) Rev. Njoya is surprised to learn about the blocking it seems and asks if perhaps he blocked Ngartia for posting too many ‘moving pictures’ (GIF’s) which he finds incredibly irrelevant. Everything is sorted though and after the two take photos with the icon, Ngartia is unblocked. They escort him out and return after a few minutes with Laura Ekumbo in tow. They are on a high! “This must be what it feels like to meet Jay-Z,” Ngartia remarks. “Ebu look at my hands,” Abu’s says in reference to his quaking hands. They have met an idol, and I am so glad I am here to witness it.

Abu & Ngartia with the renowned Rev. Timothy Njoya. (L-R)

As they settle down once again, we begin to speak a bit about the importance of these stories in the millennial generation especially given the current political climate in both Uganda and Kenya. Laura talks about having grown up in a bubble, like a lot of us, and knowing little to nothing about Kenya and it’s history. “The first time I read the script I asked how much of it was actually fact. It all just seemed farfetched! This type of work is important because it cancels out all the white-focused history we learned in school. We begin to learn the truth about where we’re from and what our heritage is,” she says.
Ngartia highlights the fact that a lot of these stories are about people who didn’t shut up, and have afforded us the better, albeit imperfect, countries we live in today. People like Njoya, Wangari Mathai and others that were called mad, are still called mad, are who we owe a lot of the greatness of these nations to. He adds, “I think there is a shortage of those kinds of people. People that will stand up against corruption and impunity. And by telling these stories to people of our generation whose heroes growing up were Superman and Cinderella, we bring the idea of heroes closer to home. We give them real life people to look up to and show them that its possible for us to be those people.”
Abu talks about a point of reference. The history beyond politics, beyond independence, beyond ‘this is the day we got colonised’. “Too Early For Birds is inspired by Owaahh’s blog, but it took Ngartia’s reminding me constantly for three months to get me to actually read his blog. This is the blog that inspired all this but I couldn’t sit down to read it! And it highlighted our bad reading culture. So we thought, what other ways can we get the millennials interested in history? That’s one of the ways the idea for the play came up. We made it factual as well as relevant in order to appeal to this generation.” The pop culture references scattered throughout the performance are evidence of this. The way they dance, the music they use – guys we had Rev. Njoya perform Unbwogable. And there was Adele’s Hello somewhere in that mix – appeals across the board.

Too Early For Birds isn’t the first time the three have performed together. They collaborated with Jalada to perform one of Ngugu Wa Thiong’o’s fables; The Upright Revolution: Or Why Humans Walk Upright that has been translated into over 30 languages. They performed this in seven different languages and won the Best Play in a Local Language at the Saanaa Theatre Awards 2016. Incidentally their other performance together featured here in Uganda and was entitled We Won’t Forget. It highlighted recent acts of terrorism in Kenya and their effects. They first performed it in Nairobi at the Kenya Cultural Center and then again at the Kampala International Theatre Festival in 2016. As a whole, they seem to lean towards political performances. Individually however, they do ‘those lovey dovey things’ as Abu puts it. “Each of us writes from what we feel. I lean mostly towards nostalgia. I like remembering the good times. I’ve also seen Ngartia perform more romantic work.”
Laura describes the first time she worked with Ngartia. “It was a spoken word show called Losing Grip,” she smiles at Ngartia as his cue to step in.
“We did a 90 minutes performance, 10 pieces of spoken word with music interweaving them. But all 10 were chapters in one story. It was a story about an extrajudicial killing. We explored a character led into a life of crime by circumstance and within it there is love, a baby at some point…a lot. So I think that was the one complete project that I’ve done so far that’s not overtly political. At the end of the day though we are all-round artists, we tell a lot of stories.” They reminisce a little on how a lot of their poetry writing started from heartbreaks. Turns out the first time Ngartia saw Abu perform it was a piece describing a girl’s clothes using traffic lights. (Here’s the link, thank me later). He wrote the piece out of jealousy, when his Form Three girl began writing letters to this Form Four guy. “Did he have an Oxford set?” Ngartia quips. Abu doesn’t remember but he does remember listening to guys like K’naan, Lupe Fiasco, Common and Kanye West and finally penning the piece. Sadly she never got to hear it. Oh well, she’s probably somewhere regretting.

In terms of what inspired these three to take on Too Early For Birds, Laura is quick to call the boys out, “I was threatened,” she says without hesitation. “I was just told COME and I did.” Believe me, after watching her perform? You will understand completely why that was a necessary decision. Ngartia says the idea is one that had marinated for a while. “Owaahh and I had been having discussions about getting the stories off his blog and forming something else. It wasn’t just me actually, there’s been filmmakers interested in the stories. Abu has been talking to him about starting a podcast for a while.” Both Abu and Ngartia were working at the same advertising company (these two as 9 – 5 corporates? I’d never have imagined it) and after enduring the anxiety that comes with a marketing job for a while, they began to discuss an ‘exit strategy’ over lunch, over breaks, even on their way to work. Part of this strategy involved a spoken word idea and a film idea. As they continued to discuss, the ideas just married and with Owaahh’s blog as a basis, the birthing of Too Early For Birds began. “We just got obsessed with it,” Ngartia says. “The moment we got the idea, we started calling people and threatening others (laughs as he side-eyes Laura). We got the date for the show, we wrote, we skipped paying rent and booked the space. Abu quit and I quit a week after him. We did the show on a Wednesday – May 17th and the Friday just before was my last day at work.”
They got this idea they were so crazy about and they risked everything for it. They are both are incredibly relieved its working out, because as Laura points out they would probably be homeless if it wasn’t. Abu in fact, has just announced to his Dad that he quit his job 5 months ago! These two will clearly be Laura’s go-to examples of people that have made it outside the corporate circle, should her family question her decision to steer clear of a 9-5. All three are currently full-time performers with Abu and Ngartia the only ones that are full-time Too Early For Birds. And it’s an actual full-time job! Because when they are not rehearsing, they are researching and if not that they are writing for the next show. “Yeah, I don’t envy their jobs,” says Laura. “I just show up and learn lines. So you want me to say what? Okay I’ll say it.”
“With accents! In five days!”, retorts Abu. “She’s being modest about it.”

Get this guys. Preparation time for the first show? Two months. The writing, booking of space, researching, editing, casting and rehearsing. All in two months. And it was a first-time sold out show! “The crazy thing we did was booking dates for theatre space before even writing the script,” says Abu. “We kind of set ourselves up, so there was no turning back,” Ngartia adds.
A big part of preparation obviously is picking the story collections. Given the amount of content on Owaahh’s blog, they knew there was no way they were going to tell all the stories at once. So they broke it down and decided that for the first show they would do unknown heroes and for the second more of political heroes. The upcoming show line-ups is privileged information guys. We’re in the in circle now though, so watch this space. And be excited! Because they have a plan up till 2018.
“When we started working on the first show, we got overwhelmed,” says Ngartia. “We thought we would have three or four stories but we got 16. So we had to cut down and start balancing out. Do we do it according to gender? To years? To ethnic groups? In the long run it was about the most interesting stories, so those are the ones we picked all while trying to maintain a political balance.” Abu adds, “It’s actually not the most interesting because all of them are, it’s just the ones that are most sellable, especially for the first show.”

I ask which performed story is their favourite so far and Ngartia turns and says “Do you really need to ask after what happened?!” It’s hands down Njoya! Abu’s it turns out is Wangari Mathai, even though so far they haven’t done her whole story. “I guess you love a story when you’re researching about it, and Ngartia dug so much into the Timothy Njoya story. I did the same for Wangari Mathai and that’s what made me fall in love with her work and everything that she stood for.” Laura has three favourites. “I really loved the Wangari Mathai story, first because it was beautifully written, and second because I was playing her I had to do so much research about her and I feel in love with her just as Abu did. I also really like the Paul Ngei intermission stories, because they are ridiculous! They are so ridiculous and yet true. The third is the story about Mũthoni Nyanjirũ rescuing Harry Thuku.”

Abu and Ngartia

In terms of the feedback, so far people love the show. The sold-out theatres and standing ovations speak for themselves. They have however also received what Abu calls ‘constructive criticism’. “We love the fact that people are vocal about criticizing the production. It helps us improve,” he says. “For the first show the biggest criticism we got was why aren’t there enough stories for women. So we tried to improve that for the second show. The only reason we can’t have more of those is because the stories we research on do not really have the role that a woman in her entirety is deserving of. Most of them are supportive roles; the girlfriend, the wife and we don’t want to paint women as just that. So we tell stories like Wangari Mathai, Mekatilili Wa Menza, Mũthoni Nyanjirũ, such heroines, who did so much, such that you cannot see a disparity between their efforts and the efforts of the men.”
“There’s a story on the War of Intermissions, it was called the Chetambe and Lumboka Fort wars. For that they created a female character, from just little snippets of research. So there’s room for it, it’s just that the female stories weren’t as well documented historically.” Laura adds.
Ngartia talks about the fact that women have been doing awesome stuff, but the way history has been recorded so far has been very male-centric. One of the biggest stories they’ve done, Mũthoni Nyanjirũ, they encountered for the first time as a side note on a bigger piece on a male politician called Harry Thuku. So it is their curiosity that led to the uncovering of this gem of a story that a lot of people probably would never know about. “We really want to tell stories about female heroes. We just don’t want to tell stories that look forced.” The team is always open to suggestions! Continue till the end to see their social media handles so you can tag them in incredible female history stories that they can re-enact.

Ngartia and Laura

Because Owaahh’s blog is filled with stories from not just Kenya, but all over Africa, I am wondering whether the team is thinking of including other African stories in their line-up. Abu points out that there are thousands of Kenyan stories to get through, and perhaps once they are done with those will they explore the idea of branching into other territories. Ngartia adds, “Our main focus right now is telling Kenyan stories, for primarily a Kenyan audience because that is necessary. What we hope though is when you come and watch the show, you are inspired to tell your own stories with different artists wherever you are.”

In the play, for example, the stories sometimes include a Ugandan character mentioned in passing due to how we were colonised structurally. The Chitambe and Lumboka wars for instance mention Semei Kakungulu as one of the Baganda mercenaries that fought the war. The stories however still remain Kenyan. Abu and Ngartia would love to see the Ugandan side to a story like that one, fleshing out on characters like Semei Kakungulu, a hero or a mercenary? “We cannot tell all the stories,” says Ngartia. “We need more people to stand up.”

I pitted the blog and the play in a bit of a popularity contest and asked the team which they thought was being more positively received. The blog seemed to take the cup hands down, one of the obvious reasons being, as Ngartia pointed out, it’s free and it doesn’t have dates, so you can wake up at midnight and read it. “When we began, we tapped into Owaahh’s audience. But then Too Early For Birds in itself became quite popular, and now we have people who come for the shows and are surprised that there is a blog behind it. It’s become more of a symbiotic relationship. If we are looking at numbers though, we’ve sold about 1500 -1600 tickets, about 600 being repeat audience members meaning about 1000 authentic audience members. That’s like Owaahh’s traffic for a day.”

The name Too Early For Birds had me thinking. After finding out it was based on the history blog I had some theories on how the name came to be and it turns out I was right, according to Abu. You know how the early bird catches the worm right? Basically, the stories go waaaay back in time; a time that was too early even for the early birds. I know, right? Even I felt quite smart. It’s a double entendre though as the title is also a play on Owaahh’s old blog title Too Late For Worms. Basically the ancestors were here even before the white man came. So if the ancestors were the bird, and the white man the worm, the birds were here even before the worm came hence the worms being ‘too late’ so to speak.

The cast of Too Early For Birds, StoryMoja edition.

As we wrap up the conversation we speak a little about touring for the team and good news, the rest of the world can get excited! There are plans to take Too Early For Birds to places outside Kenya. No definitive ones yet, but we keep the hope! The team is hoping to be accepted to a few festivals in the upcoming year and will hopefully get to show the world the awesome that is Too Early for Birds. Even with the rest of the world in mind, Abu brings to the forefront the fact that they are not yet done with Kenya, infact they’ve barely scratched the surface. Next would be to take it outside Nairobi, to places that might actually need it more like Nakuru and Kisumu. “Charity begins at home. So first Nairobi, then expansion to other cities and towns in the country and then take it outside.” Ngartia brings out the petty in us all by throwing in London as a possible destination for the play. As a play that cites all that was wrong with the colonisation system and sings the praises of a lot of people that fought it, it would be a big middle finger to the system in general to perform the play and sell out in London.

It was lovely meeting you all in Nairobi! We are hoping to see you again very soon. Continue to shine!

Facebook: Too Early For Birds

Twitter: #TooEarly4Birds

Instagram: Too Early For Birds

#MoreThanABlog is a series we are running, highlighting all the incredible people in our blogging community that are going the extra mile and doing more than blogging. ‘The extra mile’ could be in direct line with their blog and that content or within a completly different sector. We are just looking to celebrate all the bloggers doing more and inspire every writer out there to find ways in which they can do more than blog. If you think you fit the bill or know anyone that would, get in touch at esther@somanystories.ug.

#MoreThanABlog: Owaahh & Too Early For Birds (1/2)

Morris K, who prefers to go by Owaahh, is the mind behind the popular history blog, Owaahh.com. Despite his partiality to the shadows, Owaahh is an out-going, incredibly intelligent person. The rest of the Sooo Many Stories team can testify with me to this after attending his masterclass at the recently concluded StoryMoja festival. The masterclass revolved around mostly writing history and ways in which we can make it engaging. I, for one, am not particularly interested in writing history, but as someone keen on writing as whole I learnt a lot about letting the story lead you and making sure to set the scene in your mind even before you begin to pen. His approach to non-fiction is what makes his blog Owaahh.com particularly gripping. 

The blog stories inspired two young actors/writers (Ngartia and Abu Sense) to create the play Too Early For Birds. The production concluded its third edition at the StoryMoja festival, which blew us away during our time in Nairobi. I caught up with Ngartia and Abu, but first I talked to Owaahh a little about the idea and process behind the blog.

What inspired you to start Owaahh.com?
By 2010, I had tried three other blog concepts but didn’t find them interesting, or even befitting for the kind of content I felt was missing from the Kenyan scene. I needed to build a platform that redefined how Kenyan history is written, and how current affairs are contextualised. I also needed a space where I could curse in my work, as I told great stories about people doing mostly bad things. I also wanted to create a space that would inspire stories in other art forms, as has been clear with Too Early for Birds.

Forensic science. I remember you mentioning this as your qualification during your Storymoja Masterclass. Is it still a big part of your career?
In a way, yes. Forensics honed most of my research skills by showing me the need to get credible sources, and to ensure a story is as accurate as humanly possible. Forensics is incessant on details, which is a recurring theme in the format of my work. Although I might not work in crime scenes or morgues today, my stories work on the same principles forensic science uses in its work. I approach each as an investigation, one where threads need to make sense and the audience is looking for answers.

How did it feel to see the stories come to life at the first production of Too Early for Birds?
I am not sure the exact feeling can be described, but it was validated on May 17th when the cast performed to a full-sold out show at the Kenya National Theatre. The feedback was great, and there were even requests for different formats. To see people my age and younger take such interest in Kenyan history with all its controversies was not just a thrill, it was a revelation that there is space for this concept, and others.

Did you participate in any way? Direction, production et al.
Other than helping in research and content creation, my participation was mainly limited to advertising and the communication parts of it. There is an entire team behind the series, with a director, producer, communications and ticketing teams and even costume directors.

Do you have a team that helps in your story compilation for the blog? Is there any monetary compensation?
I get help when I need it, but I am also trying to increase the number of guest posts. Each research project differs from the last, but so far most of the assistance I get is pro bono/quid pro quo (such as syndicating).

Is it taxing to do all the work by yourself?
I am a researcher so no, this falls right in my alley. I get assistance as and when needed and have been reaching out for collaborations and guests posts in the last several years. Some stories are more draining than others, and require extensive collaboration, but part of this is the fun part of writing. Still, I feel the need to inspire and help others use research in their work, because one of my initial goals was to inspire the use of history in its unadulterated form in other art forms such as poetry and music.

What inspires a new story?
Everything actually. Sometimes it is a line in another story, or an incomplete line of research. Sometimes it is prompts from readers, or areas of interest from everyday news. Sometimes it is an annoying tweet preaching a misconception, or a fallacy that needs to be cut down. Other times it is research I encounter in the course of reading other things such as books and articles. Sometimes it is sheer curiosity.

Is it sometimes hard to start another story?
I tend to separate research and writing because they are different to me. I need to research, then write, then research again, and then write again to make sure I have my facts right but I also have a fantastic story. This sometimes takes months, although I am glad my readers are patient enough.

Any future plans for the blog? Plans to do a book compilation maybe?
Haha, who sent you? I have been having this book compilation conversation for a while now but I am already on it, or rather a version of it. I want to build the blog into a modern media site, one where there are multiple contributors and people come to learn things, but it is also self-sustaining and credible. Seven years in, I know I should be doing more, but the future is promising. Onward.

Is the blog it for you, or there is a 9-5 too?
This is the 9-5. Writing. The blog is one half of it. I freelance for magazines and other clients the other times.

Any particular reason for the anonymity?
Anonymity helps me melt into crowds and talk to sources. It was initially for security, but this has since changed because my work is public and it’s ramifications even more so. I do it now partially because it means I can breathe in crowds and experiment with other things and forms of art. It also adds to the mystery, and partially shows that even if the audience doesn’t know how the author looks, a brand can still be considered credible enough.

Thank you so much for your time Owaahh! And for making magic out of what many consider a pretty drab area of study. 

#MoreThanABlog is a series we are running, highlighting all the incredible people in our blogging community that are going the extra mile and doing more than blogging. ‘The extra mile’ could be in direct line with their blog and that content or within a completly different sector. We are celebrating bloggers doing more and inspiring every writer out there to find ways in which they can do more. If you think you fit the bill or  know anyone that would, get in touch at esther@somanystories.ug

[UN]SPOKEN: A Review in Pictures

While in Nairobi recently, we had the pleasure of debuting our authors first joint performance. [Un]Spoken was a dramatic reading and poetry performance by Philippa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa and Peter Kagayi exploring the elements of fear and anger in relation to Ugandan politics and what role these emotions played back in the days of Idi Amin and Obote, when Philippa grew up, and in the current regime, the only regime that Kagayi knows. You can read a prelude to the performance here.

Their peformance was, as expected, absolutely brilliant! The audience was captivated by their diverse performing styles and at the end of the show we engaged in a thirty minute discussion on the issues highlighted, moderated by James Murua. We’ve put together a few of the photos we took so that our entire Sooo Many Stories family can experince a little of the magic with us.

“Writers are serving words for supper; Fishermen are fishing dirt and rubble…” – Saagala Agalamidde by Peter Kagayi (Pictured in White)
“Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is hide. Run away. Remain unseen. Because it is all you have strength for…But the time will come when you can nolonger be brave in that way, when the silence nolonger gives you peace.” Unnamed by Philippa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa
“I go to celebrate coming of age with sisters turning 40. It has been a long time.” -Echoes of a Journey by Philippa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa
“I wish we were a community that respected the voice of art. I wish our people were adept to understanding the depth and importance that performance arts or creative expression brings.” – Peter Kagayi
“As Africans (who write) we do not need to apologize for our own languages in books, our ways of looking at the world. We need to trust our own stories, and we need to trust that if people really want to know, they will.” -Philippa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa
Absolutely Captivated. Our Ugandan family that showed up to support,
“At breaktime, we sat together in a corner, whispering and laughing and keeping quiet.” – The Great Escape by Philippa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa
“…the audience will break the silence and speak the things we speak. Then and only then, will society have found a reason to find us, poets, role-models.” -The Audience Must Say Amen by Peter Kagayi
“Return to old watering holes for more than water; friends and dreams are there to meet you.” – African Proverb
Philippa autographing one of her books after the performance.
Having a strong posse of girlfriends always contributes wonderfully to our #BlackGirlMagic. Here is Philippa with her’s.
“Keep the faith. The vision is always for the appointed time. Be patient, prayerful and wait for the fulfillment of your visions.” – Lailah Gifty Akita (Boss lady, Nyana Kakoma and her author’s Philippa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa and Peter Kagayi.)

 

Yes we do! The Sooo Many Stories Team, ladies and gentlemen.

A huge thank you to all the Ugandans that came out and showed us love, Philippa’s friends that brought a joy you could physically feel and all the artists and appreciators of art in the audience. This wouldn’t have been possible without the talent that is Philippa and Peter and for them we could not be more grateful. Welcome to the family, our new Nairobi Storylovers! Until next time.

All photos by Sharon Nansikombi 

#AmateurNight: Red & Green Wraps | Daphine Arinda (Part 2)

Read Part 1: Red & Green Wraps | Daphine Arinda (Part 1)

That day, Abu did not go to school, just like all the days since he was of school-going age. Abu stayed on Kigarama Hill with his grandmother, Kaaka and his Taata, Mr. Brayuhanga. Before Abu’s father left home that morning, Kaaka had asked him for money to buy pineapples for Abu but the man had declined saying that those who do not work have no idea how hard it is to get money for luxuries like pineapples. Why did Abu need pineapples, he had asked, thinking that the old woman was only using Abu as bait to trick him into buying her pineapples. There were passion fruits in the family garden and if the boy wanted fruits, he could pick those. Mr. Byaruhanga had added before leaving for work at the Pentecostal Churches headquarters in Rugyeyo Sub-county.

Those who do not work! Kaka recalled her son’s words and sucked air between clenched teeth in a long jeer. Now that he was a man, Byaruhanga thought he could talk to her disrespectfully, forgetting that she had raised him and bought him all the sweet nothings he desired as a child. She hated that now she had to beg for  money from him because she was too old to be selling surplus food harvests at the market like she had done before, in her more useful youthfulness.

When Abu woke up and did not see a motorcycle parked in the corridor between his bedroom and his father’s, he knew that Taata had already left home. He exited the house through the backdoor to find his grandmother seated outside, slumped on a mat woven in patterns of pink and green.

“Eh, Aburaahamu, come and sit with me,” Kaaka said while patting a spot on the mat signaling for Abu to join her.

There was a heap of bean pods to her left and a saucepan containing a few red beans to her right. Abu sat to the right of Kaaka and carried the saucepan on his laps.  He sat with his Kaaka taking out beans from pods until there was enough in the saucepan for a meal.

“Abu, bring me matooke from the store and a knife to peel, then make the fire quickly,” the old woman said to Abu.

In the kitchen, Abu inserted dry leaves and twigs beneath the wood and set them on fire using a matchstick. He blew into the wood to augment the flames.  As the fire spread from the leaves and twigs to the wood, Abu’s dark face lit up above the golden flames. His jaw line formed assertively as he puffed air from his cheeks.

The firewood cackled and outside, Kaaka hummed a hymn in her elderly shaky voice that sounded melodic nonetheless. She was peeling matooke that would be cooked together with the beans to make katogo.

Observing how hurriedly he ate his food, Kaaka knew that after the meal Abu wouldn’t be staying long at home.

“Abu, bring me obushera ,” she said to him.

The boy ran to the house and in a flash he was back with a pink plastic mug filled with a brown millet and sorghum drink.

“I know you can’t wait to go to the forest and that is why you are swallowing the food like if you chewed it first, it might escape and fly out of your mouth,” she said between pauses as she drank from her cup.

Abu laughed and shook his head. He gestured to Kaaka that if the matooke flew out of his mouth, he would fly after it with his tongue sticking out and like a lizard; he would pull the food back into his mouth in one tongue swirl.

Kaaka wore a bright smile as she listened to her grandson and watched him flail about his arms to demonstrate what he was communicating. She had small black fragments of sorghum husks stuck to her gum and teeth. Kaaka could not make out the exact words he said, but she smiled, grateful that Abu had understood her joke about flying food.

She loved Abu so dearly and although everyone else referred to him as ekiragi, that he was daft, she knew he was much more brilliant than most children older than him. He had started making charcoal for sale in the family forest on Kyabihambe. How many 15 year olds could work as hard as he did? How many village children were as quick and fast her Abu?

Abu left home immediately after the meal and he took with him a panga wrapped in green banana leaves and bound by brown strings of banana fibre. He also carried a sac, neatly folded into a compact roll. He had been felling trees since the first week of December that he intended to burn into charcoal. He had dug out a trough and layered it with small dry twigs and dry grass that he would torch to ignite a fire. He had heaped heavy stems, one over the other while they were fresh and moist and erected a mountain of wood. All he had to do that afternoon was collect green branches and fresh grass whose roots were still heavy with soil to put over the heap of stems. Today, I will cover the wood-mountain in red soil, green grass and green branches until the only crevices left uncovered are the outlets for smoke, Abu thought.

On his way to the Kyabihambe forest, he met one of his friends, a tall boy with very wide nostrils carrying a blue paper file returning from school. They shook hands and the tall boy asked if Abu had witnessed Kigarama Hill boys being whooped by Gwibaare boys at the previous day’s match.

Abu smiled. A wide dimple on his right cheek stood out. He lowered his head a little ashamed and shook it vehemently because he was a Kigarama Hill boy and although he had not played with the team, their failure was his failure too.

“Are you going to burn charcoal today?” the tall boy with wide nostrils asked, noticing the panga and sack in Abu’s hand.

Abu nodded and pointed towards the north indicating that he was headed to Kyabihambe Hill. The boys waved farewell to each other and parted ways.

He saw lips move and fingers point to him from little children peering at him as he walked past. He would know when they were insulting him by the way they moved their mouths, the way the  upper jaw met with the lower jaw, the way the tongue rose and fell and curled when they mouthed ekitetta or ekiragi. Sometimes  these sayings made him want to retreat back home to his grandmother where no one pointed fingers at him, or mouthed words that he could not hear but whose mockery he could feel weighing down his patience. When older children pointed him out to their siblings, he knew they said such things as, look, there goes the village fool who cannot talk or hear – his parents knew better not to send him to school- he is so stupid  – that he can’t even be allowed to take sheep grazing.

Abu knew sheep were silly, he saw how the ones at home behaved, sometimes walking into walls yet they had eyes to see, other times walking in the opposite direction yet the herdsman was directing them in another direction with heavy lashes. Abu would not compare himself with silly sheep and he thought that given a chance to attend school, he would be the best in class. Kaaka had taught him how to count and his father had taught him how to write his name. Of course he was smarter than the miserable kids in his neighbourhood; them that sat scratching like mad boys because jiggers had found a home in their toes- laying eggs and producing pus- causing an infuriating itch. Did they not have the sense to take a shower or to pour paraffin over their toes just like his Kaaka had taught him?

Abu was going to make money this Christmas season.  If the wood burned well, if the fire was regulated by constantly adding soil and greenery on top of the heap, if the fire only baked the stems from greens and browns to coal black, he would be able to collect at least two sacks of charcoal. Abu hopped to sell the charcoal to rich families that stayed in Kampala and only returned to the village for Christmas. They were the few people who could afford charcoal. He thought that if he sold each sac at 10,000 shillings, he would make good money to buy his Kaaka a new busuti to wear to church on Christmas day.

As he went past the last little town at the foothills of  Gwibaare, three naughty children of about four or three years came up to him and moved their mouths in funny ways that he had to stop himself from bursting out in laughter. They pulled their ugly and elastic lips into a pout and slapped them heavily against each other. They looked like little monkeys.  He knew they were making fun of how he talks but Abu was in a good mood that afternoon and not likely to take offence from the little children.

Read Part 3

Daphine Arinda is a writer and lawyer. Three tenets guide her writing; strip off any inhibitions and write as nakedly as you can, do not sacrifice intricacy for readability, write from a point of knowledge. Arinda writes because it is fulfilling to capture LIFE in words and translate it to art so that posterity may behold authentic Ugandan literature. Her Blog Evabella is a manifestation of the art, thoughts and experiences of a Fearless, Dynamic and Revolutionary writer. She is also a Member of the Advisory Committee of Network of Public Interest Lawyers (NETPIL), a member of the Youth for Policy Think Tank and a social justice blogger at KWEETA Uganda.

#AmateurNight stories were submitted by writers during our previous #MEiREAD Amateur Nights. During Amateur Night, writers share unpublished work and receive feedback from member of the book club. Tell us what your thoughts are in the comments section.

#AmateurNight: Red & Green Wraps | Daphine Arinda (Part 1)

In two weeks’ time, Phirimoni Mwesigwa’s dad would be returning from The Congo for the Christmas holiday. For three months his sons, Phirimoni and Noweri, had missed the excitement of having a father in a home. They missed waking up in the night to dance whenever he returned with happy glazed eyes and fermented breath. They missed eating meat, a delicacy for special holidays like Christmas.

It was the last day of school at Bukunga Universal Primary Education Centre where Phirimoni was a Primary Three pupil. That morning he’d woken up earlier than he usually did. His mother was still sleeping and the cock had only crowed twice; first time at three o’clock and then at five o’clock.

He anticipated a good report from school and it was one of the things he hoped to tell his father about as soon as he returned home. The boy had worked hard during the term and he hoped to be among the few pupils in Division Two. Mr. Mugume, the headmaster, had promised a rabbit to any child who would make it to Division One but since Phirimoni joined the school, no child had claimed the prize. Phirimoni knew he could not make it to Division One because he had never met any child with such brains. Who was he to imagine that he could reach such heights?

At the third ko-ko-li-lo-ko of the cock accompanied with the varied clucking of the hens, Phirimoni sprung to his feet. Noweri, his little brother, was still asleep. It was finally six o’clock and the fear of being outdoors during the hours of the night dancers was gone. The Bachechezi were spiritual vessels through whom evil could travel. They would dance naked around your house at night and put a curse upon you if you saw them. A 12-year-old would not dare be outdoors before six in the morning. The cocks’ chorus meant that the Bachechezi were gone.

Phirimoni skipped across the room to the red-brick wall on the other side and went for the window. He snapped the latch and a fresh breeze with soft dashes of mist flooded the room. Little Noweri pulled the covers over his head.

“Close the window Phiri,” the four-year-old said, his voice muffled under the thin covers. He was sleeping on a thin mattress placed above a papyrus-reed mat that was their bed.

“So that you urinate on the mattress? Get up and susu outside!” As Phirimoni spoke, he pulled the covers off Noweri.

Noweri dragged himself along the brick wall and with eyes closed, made his way to the back door and stood ready to hold out his little willy to pee. Phirimoni, who was following behind, unlocked the metallic bolts and the loud squeak of the door forced Noweri to open his big, round eyes.

Noweri took three drunken steps forward and peed onto red earth while Phirimoni ran out to the kitchen across the yard with all the energy he could master. He was ready to start his day although his brother was probably ready to go back to bed.

First, the hens and cocks had to be set free. If the early worms went back into hiding within the soil, the birds would scratch, and scratch, and scratch the ground until they found one or two buried beneath then Phirimoni would have too much work to do while sweeping the compound.

He opened the wooden door to the kitchen and the birds that had been waiting eagerly scurried out. One mother hen remained nested in one of the papyrus reed baskets filled with dry banana leaves, brooding over her eggs in the corner.

Phirimoni saw that one of the birds had left behind stinking grey-black droppings on the surface of orubingo (grinding stone for millet grains, sorghum grains and cassava) in the other corner. He scooped the droppings using some of the dried banana leaves and tossed the mess toward the three cooking stones which were in the middle of the room.

Phirimoni had to sweep the compound and fetch water before going to school. As he run down the hill to the spring, through the banana plantation below their house, he heard the roaring of a plane up in the sky. He remembered how, as a little boy, he would join the other children to chant loudly, ‘bye Museveni, bye Museveni’, whenever a plane flew above their hills.

On Gwibaare Hill you were more likely to hear planes than see cars. Phirimoni always thought he would board a plane first before boarding a car. He had never been inside a car except the one time he accompanied his father to fell trees and helped to load timber on a parked Fuso Truck which had not even moved. He decided to race ahead of the plane, scampering past banana trunks like a swift wind, sure of where the ditches were and the spots with creeping plants that might trip him. When he got to the end of the plantation, he was out of breath and he had been outcompeted by the aircraft which was now a tiny insect in the blue sky.

He cleaned his mud laden feet in the wet grass and resumed his run downhill. At the spring, fresh water gushed out of a silver pipe sticking out of a cemented wall and children waited in line for their turn to fill their jerrycans. Phirimoni saw Boyi at the front of the line and went over to say hello. The two boys talked about the previous day’s football match and how the Gwibaare Hill boys had beaten the Kigarama Hill boys. They laughed and the line for water moved forward. Phirimoni fetched before Boyi and all the others he had found waiting at the spring.

Phirimoni covered the top of the twenty litre jerrycan using a green banana and placed the flat side of the jerrycan on his head. When he got home his shorts were covered with spiky seeds of the Black Jack plant that grew in the banana plantation.  He changed into his black shorts and a yellow shirt that had faded to a subtle cream colour. The school was lenient and allowed its students to come dressed in Black shorts and white or cream shirts if they did not own a school uniform.

“Iwe Phirimoni, I want you to collect more firewood before you come home after school,” his mother said, screaming her instructions from her bedroom where she was dressing up.

Mrs. Turyahikayo was a skinny woman of about thirty and her face had red patches at the cheek bones below her eyes. Her Carrot facial Crème had slowly bleached the melanin out of her black skin. She wore a long floral skirt with dull blue and green patterns. Instead of a blouse she had on a white silk petticoat which was pulled over her breasts and held there by its elastic waist band.

“Okay, maama,” Phirimoni replied. “Kandi Noweri? What work is he going to do today?” the boy asked about his younger brother.

“You want him to come with you? You would have helped me keep an eye on him. I want to go to Nyakabungo market to buy us clothes for Christmas before everything becomes expensive.”

The two brothers smiled at the news that they would be getting new clothes for Christmas.

Their mother continued, “Whenever I leave him with the neighbours, they complain that he is troublesome.”

“I will drop him at your school on my way to the market and you can collect firewood together,” she said while pouring brown porridge onto green plastic plates.

“Do you hear, Noweri? You get to go to school today,” Mrs Turyahikayo said, poking the four-year-old playfully.

Noweri beamed eagerly and his eyes lit up when he heard his mother say that he would not be left at the neighbours’. Noweri and Phirimoni then sat down to eat their millet porridge accompanied with steamed sweet potatoes that were left over from the previous night’s supper.

Not much happened at school on 11th December, 2012. The pupils had returned to school after a week of not studying to collect their end-of-year academic reports. Phirimoni usually got to school before his classmates but that day he found Sharoni, Reyimondi and Kadogo seated quietly on a bench on the front row of the class.

“Eh Kadogo! We beat your Kigarama Hill boys yesterday. Where were you?” Phirimoni asked as he squeezed in next to Kadogo.

“Shsss! Master is around,” replied Kadogo in a hushed voice. “He has gone to the staffroom to get a pen for signing our reports,” he whispered.

The morning passed in whispered conversations and no pupil in Phirimoni’s class suffered the wrath of a teacher’s canes for making noise. The children were extraordinarily disciplined that day, tamed by the anxiety of discovering whether they had been promoted to the next class or not.

Phirimoni stared at the pink and blue charts pinned to the brick walls of the classroom. Under his breath, he recited the lifecycle of a cockroach drawn on a pink chart from the egg stage to the nymph to the adult stage. He remembered that he had failed the question in the science paper because he could not remember the second stage.

Nymph. N. Y. M. P.H. He went over the letters and shook his head in surrender. He would never get that spelling correct. Why wasn’t it spelled N.I.N.F? That made more sense than N.Y.M.P.H.

When the class was dismissed, Phirimoni walked out with his academic report folded into a small square he could cramp in his palm. Noweri, who was already waiting under a guava tree, ran towards Phirimoni when he saw his older brother approaching.

“Did mother cook lunch?” Phirimoni asked his brother.

“Come. Come. We are going to collect firewood,” Noweri responded excitedly.

“Urgh! I want to eat first.”

“Niwe Phiri, maama said we should collect firewood.”

Phirimoni shook his head in disapproval. Noweri pulled his lower lip in a scowl and ran back to the spot he had been seated at under the tree.

Phirimoni walked on ahead, sure that Noweri would catch up eventually. He was deeply disappointed with his report. With 24 aggregates, he had missed the second grade by just one point. If only he had scored 23 points. It must be that nymph word, he thought.

“Taata is coming back tomorrow,” Noweri said when he caught up with Phirimoni.

“Kyo! Konka Noweri! I know you miss him but he is coming back next week.”

“Taata said he is going to bring me bread like this…” Noweri raised his left hand above his head to demonstrate how tall the loaf of bread would be.

Phirimoni laughed and said, “Oh yes. It is going to be too much bread that we will not be able to finish it all.”

Noweri was looking at his elder brother with dreamy large eyes, believing all words that flowed out of Phiri’s mouth like they were a prayer. He imagined walking around in a stupour, tall bread in his hands, staggering left and right as the other village kids drooled at him saying, “Noweri, Noweri, give us some bread.”

Read Part 2: Red & Green Wraps | Daphine Arinda (Part 2)

Daphine Arinda is a writer and lawyer. Three tenets guide her writing; strip off any inhibitions and write as nakedly as you can, do not sacrifice intricacy for readability, write from a point of knowledge. Arinda writes because it is fulfilling to capture LIFE in words and translate it to art so that posterity may behold authentic Ugandan literature. Her Blog Evabella is a manifestation of the art, thoughts and experiences of a Fearless, Dynamic and Revolutionary writer. She is also a Member of the Advisory Committee of Network of Public Interest Lawyers (NETPIL), a member of the Youth for Policy Think Tank and a social justice blogger at KWEETA Uganda.

#AmateurNight stories  were submitted by writers during our previous #MEiREAD Amateur Nights. During Amateur Night, writers share unpublished work and receive feedback from member of the book club. Tell us what your thoughts are in the comments section.

Kemiyondo Coutinho: Kawuna…You’re It!

At the Writivism Festival this year, we had the opportunity of watching Kemiyondo Coutinho’s phenomenal Kawuna…You’re it!, a one woman play exploring the theme of HIV and AIDS and some of its devastating effects. The play was chosen to be a part of a New York Global Spotlight Reading with Hybrid Works and was selected to be a part of the Main Programme at the National Arts Festival in South Africa.
It tells three stories; a child left behind because of HIV, an ex-rebel soldier who contracted HIV during war, and an elite woman who contracts HIV within her marriage. The play includes raw footage from interviews with women in Uganda affected by the disease, which gives a direct address from the women of Uganda to its audience. I recently had the chance to sit down and talk to Kemi about Kawuna…You’re it!, its general reception and Kemi’s future plans.

Kawuna was breathtaking. I was absolutely captivated by your performance. What inspired the topic and theme? 

Both my parents’ work revolves around HIV and AIDS. My dad is an HIV/AIDS specialist and my mother works with vulnerable children. So I guess I always grew up with the statistics. I remember statistics particularly because of Swaziland: one out three people have HIV. It always felt like numbers – so foreign. It felt like science; never personal. But growing up, I saw so many of my uncles and aunties pass away but of course they didn’t tell us what it was. I remember finding out and I was like, “there’s no way that’s what took her!”, even though I’d grown up knowing about it. I realised I had all these stereotypes – poor, woman, uneducated: these are the people that actually get HIV, because of broken systems and all. But there are so many other factors involved. So I realised I needed to get stories; personal experiences, because I feel like stories capture everything without you even knowing. Stories are a reflection of us, of our humanity.

Throughout the play there are scenes from interviews you said you had with some women living with HIV. How did you manage to get them to open up? Especially considering the stigma attached to the condition here in Uganda.

What I’ve noticed is not many people listen to people. People ask questions like, “‘What’s your viral load’, ‘How is the treatment going?’” I’d just go and ask, “How are you?” or “What are you currently working on?” I’d ask very personal questions. And you’ll be shocked, they would want to open up. And that’s something I’ve learnt; people actually want to tell their story, and often we think they won’t open up but once those women started talking, they started talking. Yes, some of course might start off with one word here and there, but there’s always a hook, and for a lot of them it was the children. And that’s why I figured with the Pastor’s wife it was the child that was going to break her.

How are you able to switch so quickly from one character to another? Especially when the emotions of the characters are wildly different?

I do a lot of chakra warm-ups. What Chakra does, is it opens you up to all sorts of emotions. It opens you up to anger, hurt, pain. So when I switch to say, Super Wendy, I can access joy instantly because I’m open. Or when I go to Adong, blowing the balloon which signifies rape, I can access pain instantly. So I don’t have to work so hard towards it on stage. Now that takes a lot of training, so for about three years I trained on how to be able to access these parts of me but I do think it’s a gift of mine in particular too. As a kid, just like Super Wendy, oh! I was really imaginative. And  for morbid situations? I’d imagine people’s funerals. I don’t know what was wrong with me (laughs). Or I’d imagine a guy I like liking me back – this one I still do sometimes (laughs). I just have a wild imagination. So I think in some ways I’m able to suspend disbelief very fast.
The thing is though, the mind understands this is theatre – that this isn’t really happening to you – but the body doesn’t, because the body actually cries, actually experiences joy. Those emotions I feel on the stage, despite the fact that I am acting, are not accessed from memory or whatever. They are real to the situation I am acting out, so by the end of the show my body feels like it has gone through so much, but the mind doesn’t. It’s a very disconnected feeling, and that’s why after Kawuna I always have a dip, and indeed, that Monday? I cried and cried and cried the whole day, because the body is telling the mind you’re sad, the mind is telling the body no you’re not, this didn’t really happen. So I dip until I find my balance again.

What inspired the little containers with props around the stage?

Medicine jars! And the idea that we associate HIV with taking medicine. It was actually my director’s idea. We got different types of jars and put the missing parts of the story in.

During the interview after the show you mentioned wanting to turn Kawuna into a TV series. Any actors/actresses you would see yourself working with?

So the thing about one-woman shows is you don’t have to fit the characters, in the sense that I don’t look like a rebel child-soldier for example, or a five-year-old child. So I wouldn’t cast me in any of those roles. But I want these stories to be experienced in that way. I want to write and possibly direct the series. I would love to cast someone like Ann Kansiime as the lady who married the pastor, because I think she’s so funny and I would love to see her do a serious role. But also, I think that character has a humorous take which she would fit perfectly. And then I’d love to see one of my students as Adong, the child-soldier. Her name is Gladys Oyimbot.

How does it feel having to trust other people and their interpretations with your play? Does that make you anxious?

No, I guess because I am an actor as well, I’m able to give things away because I know the importance of receiving them in their entirety. So I also believe, they can bring something to that character that I haven’t seen because of their own experiences and views. I think I’d be more excited than anxious. I think the characters can live beyond me.

What other forms of art are you curious about as an ARTrepreneur?

I act, I write, I direct, I produce, I just started editing. I’m interested in curating art events like AKaDope. I really want to put on a Ugandan musical and I don’t know where that came from. I think maybe mixing music and theatre. It would be very expensive, but it’s something I want to do when I’m rich and famous. I’m very interested in many things, but I’d say mostly it’s storytelling in whatever form it comes. Whether it’s through writing or acting or directing or music videos or a concert, I find beauty in telling a story. It’s evident even in the way AKaDope is structured. With seasons and episodes, it’s this idea that there’s a flow and you’re going to go through different seasons just like a television show.

You recently did a performance workshop for musicians will you be doing others for other kind of performers?

Yes! I used to teach a free acting class every week last year, but then finances…and then I’ve taught intensive acting workshops at Kampala International Theatre Festival (KITF) and then I taught a singing workshop at Doa Doa and then this was one I just did again with other artists. I’d love to do one with poets because I see poets performing poetry the way they think they are supposed to be performing poetry, like everyone’s shouting and I’m like why are you shouting, like that won’t make me hear your words better? So yes, I’d love to help improve that performance area as well.

Are you exploring other acting avenues here in Uganda, or are you solely focused on being an ARTreprenuer now?

I’m moving back to the States actually, in November. So this was my last show in Uganda, but I think I’ll come back and do something for World AIDS day. But AKaDope will continue! I’ve established an awesome team so the show must go on.

So will you going back to the US as an actress or ARTprenuer?

That’s actually something I’m very scared about because Uganda allows you to be an ARTrepreneur and that’s something that the US didn’t allow me to be, because the US demands you be just one thing. Even just to say I am an actress and writer they are like, ‘Oh, you can’t be both.’ And I’m like actually, ‘I can and I am and I’m good at both.’ So now to add other things like directing and producing, it’s like ‘typical L.A. girl’. So I think that’s something I’m actually very nervous about. Key to my identity is the fact that I just get bored, I need to be doing a lot of things. It worries me. So that’s going to be my challenge, staying true to that aspect of my identity. Also, my situation is different now, in terms of immigration, now I have my green card, so I am going to push!

Describe the creative climate in Kampala right now, given the recently concluded Writivism festival and Kawuna‘s general reception.

Unexpectedly supportive. I think the response from non-artistes was very supportive. From artistes, it was very sad. Very few came through. Very few actors, very few AKaDope artistes, and to me that was a little surprising, like, ‘Wait guys? You should support other art.’ But I think theatre has this boring reputation for some reason? Anyway, from the normal people and the writers it was a great reception but I’d hoped there would be more artists.
There is also a need for more professionalism. Like the fact that I had to perform while people were laughing on the other side of the balcony, that would never happen elsewhere. Someone would get up and tell them to keep quiet, but we accept it for some reason. And they know there’s a show, but they don’t care! That was a little interesting.
But all in all, I was very happy with the response. The audience I got was beautiful. I just wish artists from other sectors of art could have come.

The phenomenon that is Kemiyondo Coutinho, ladies and gentlemen!

This Sunday, A Ka Dope will be celebrating one year since they started. congratulations Kemi and the A Ka Dope team. More dopeness in the years to come!

akadope anniversary

A Prelude to The [UN]SPOKEN

 

(l-r) Nyana, Philippa, Kagayi hold rehearsals in Nairobi ahead of the Storymoja festival

Phillippa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa and Peter Kagayi are both formidable performers. They enthral audiences with their words; Philippa with her natural flair for storytelling turns even the most mundane conversation captivating and Kagayi with his flair for drama will have you spell-bound right from the beginning.

Now.

Imagine. Them. Together.

I am all the way ready to be mindblown!

I have the pleasure of sitting in on one of their rehearsals and I’m stoked. The session takes place in Nairobi. Philippa, arrives at about 9a.m. just as we are winding up with breakfast. In true African fashion, she sits down for breakfast number two of roasted binyebwa and tea.

Not wasting time on niceties, they dive right in .

Fear seems to be a term that has continuously come up in conversation between the two authors. Fear in the 70’s when Phillippa grew up, fear now in Kagayi’s generation and the role it plays in some of the problems East Africa is facing today.

Philippa talks about the palpable presence of fear. She reads a poem she had scribbled down in light of the discussion over the last few days. Not to give too much away as it will be performed at the show, but it revolves around the idea of braveness even in silence, but reaching a point and realising that the silence needs to break, and that you too need to get up and find your place in the fight.

Kagayi, blown away, talks about how the serenity of Phillipa’s poetry works side by side with her pain. He describes himself as angry and bitter, and rightfully so given all that has been going on. But he sees her sense of peace and wonders how she got there. And she responds saying, that it is her way. She cannot stay with rage. Rage drains her. But that is her way. His way is his. And it is important for him to own his way. To learn to process the rage and ensure that it becomes it is defined. Conscious.

‘In this madness, can I see you? Can I have compassion for your rage? Can I be the one who stands behind you so when you need to fall I’m there?’ -Philippa

As much as Philippa is not one to get enraged, she believes there is a place for it especially in Uganda, where we are often told to ‘guma’ or the popular chide, ‘tokikola mu bantu’. With such a suppressive culture, people that are expressive are often a breath of fresh air and will be the ones to effect useful change.

‘It is also useful as a performer to realise you are not just your rage. You are a sum of experiences . So you need to learn to let the positive and the negative merge. Like the meniscus we learnt about in physics, you learn to merge these energies, and reach a point of togetherness even separately.’ Philippa

Philippa gives a brief history lesson on the Liberian war. The story of Leymar Gbowee who together with Comfort Freeman, led thousands of women in peaceful protests to end the second Liberian Civil War. It began with them gathering and wearing white along the highway the president would pass in an effort to get him to see and talk to them. They needed him to sit down and start the process of peace talks with the rebels from Liberians United for Reconciliation and Democracy and Movement for Democracy in Liberia. It worked; he did. And then later, when the peace talks were proving uselessly endless, the women got on a bus and went and surrounded the room that the peace talks were happening in. They stood in a ring and anytime any of the men tried to leave they threatened to strip, which is considered a curse in Liberia. That worked too, the talks were finally finalised. These women refused to see themselves as only the oppressed. They channelled their rage, defined it and as a result there was change.

Kagayi and Philippa go on to discuss the rigorous circles we run in politically as a country. The dance between Museveni and Bwesigye for example that is a never-ending loop. Museveni says something, Bwesigye responds, he is locked up in his house, he escapes, he is arrested, people protest, he is released, only for Museveni to say something again. As a performer seeking to effect change there is a need to break these cycles. To change the dance. To start to behave in a way that is not predictable.

By the time Peter and Philippa launch into actual rehearsals, I feel empowered enough to start my own revolution! They then play around with various poems of theirs seeing which ones would best fit together. They study their tones, their paces, the meaning behind the words they choose to emphasise or not. Philippa recites a poem and Kagayi responds in a poem of his own.

Kagayi recites Nightmares, a poem about Uganda’s unsung hero, Ben Kiwanuka. Phillippa decides to try and experiment with a hum of Uganda’s national anthem. The amount of emotion evoked after that is phenomenal. It brings up the question of patriotism; how can we be proud of our country when situations similar to what happened in the 70s still occur? How do you sing ‘Oh Uganda’ with pride and not despair?

 

And so, The (Un)Spoken is a performance about Phillippa’s political experience as a child in the 70’s, Kagayi’s as a millennial and have the audience assess them in light of what is currently happening in Uganda. Given the current political situations in both Uganda and Kenya this performance is a necessary one. It speaks to the reality of these situations and if nothing, will inspire the audience to the hope of change. See you there, storylovers!

#StoryMojaTurns10: Why we’re EXCITED!

StoryMoja is this week and we all could not be more excited! We are here in Nairobi and gosh we are pumped.

As we get ready to kick off the week’s activities, here’s a little of what the SoooManyStories Team is particularly looking forward to;

Nyana Kakoma

I was last at Storymoja in 2014. I went with some of my writer friends and it was quite the adventure for us. The blog, Sooo Many Stories, had been launched some months earlier; I was reading more African Lit and I was very thirsty for knowledge on nearly everything. I blogged about it here: 2014 Storymoja Festival: Books with our names on them and random notes.
As writers/ artists, you spend a lot of time in the presence of people that do not consider what you do real work. And so festivals like Storymoja are great spaces to reaffirm you, and just celebrate the life you have chosen; your work, your talent.
I am excited to come back as a publisher. And like I had hoped in 2014, I am happy to come with Ugandan authors, with books with our names on them. I am happy to come back as a solution to something that unsettled me the last time I was here. I am excited that Sooo Many Stories’ book club for children, the Fireplace Tot Tales is being featured. We have been running these for a year and I can’t wait to share that with children in Nairobi. I am excited that people are going to experience the pure magic that is Kagayi and Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa performing. Those two are a force.
I am honestly just excited to be in a space that reminds me that what we do matters and a space that, by exposing you to other creatives, builds you.

Esther Nshakira

The Theatre Company Presents…, a Kenyan theatre company will have premier theatre events happening every evening throughout the festival. From the play Charles Dickens – The Master Storyteller performed by Kevin Hanssen to the stand up comedy session with Mike K from Zimbabwe, I really hope I get the chance to represent every evening!

Too Early for Birds, a storytelling production that derives its tales from owahh.com will be on the stage to take us on a journey through Kenyan History. This I absolutely can’t miss!

Our very own authors performing from their respective books is without a doubt going to be a highlight! I have seen Kagayi and Phillipa perform separately, and to see them together will no doubt be magic.

After the amount of fun we had at the Writivism Sex Panel, hosted by our very own Nyana Kakoma, I am pretty stoked for the Masterclass in ‘Kanga Mganga’ facilitated by Trust for Indigenous Culture and Health (TICAH). The class, encouraging conversation around topics such as Sexual Reproductive Health and Rights & assessing sexual feelings, attraction, intimacy, safety and pleasure, will no doubt be a steamy session.

Lastly, I am anticipating the discussion with Nigerian journalist and writer Abubakar Ibrahim Adam on his book Season of Crimson Blossoms. The book explores topics pertinent today such as cross-generational sex, female sexual repression and the scars of sectarian violence. The fact that it is set in a Nigeria where such topics remain taboo makes it that much more lucrative as a read. I can’t wait to delve into this one with him.

Belinda Katumba

This is going to be my first time going for StoryMoja and I am so excited!
I’m looking forward to the whole experience. As a reader of a lot of African literature, it’s going to be amazing being in such a space.
I am mainly excited for Kagayi & Philippa’s performance. They both perform poetry so beautifully! I also can’t wait to attend some masterclasses like the digital marketing class with BAKE.
Generally looking forward to a fun and growing experience!

Dushiime Kaguliro

This is my first time at StoryMoja and I am very excited to be going and to be taking The Fireplace: Tot Tales across borders!
I am looking forward to (hopefully) meeting Boniface Mwangi as I have read alot about him and read some of his work. I am intrigued to hear him speak.
I am also looking forward to Too Early for Birds because the idea of a play based on a History blog seems quite interesting. The idea of a history blog already seems a little hard to pull off but a play seems even more difficult. I think it will be really memorable.
So see you all there? Looking forward to meeting all you storylovers!!!

September2017: Save The Dates!

Hey StoryLovers!

So the month of September is here. This year is running by so fast! Isn’t it’s crazy that it’s three months to Christmas?

In the spirit of seizing the moment, here’s a rundown of what we have planned for this month. Mark your calendars and live every moment with us!

  1. The Fireplace: Tot Tales

This month’s Tot Tales has us exploring Ugandan children’s authors and experiencing more actively the writing side of storytelling. With amazing guests like Paul Kisakye, Solomon King and Bonita Arinaitwe, you don’t want your tots to miss out! If you didn’t attend the Ntinda Chapter come and catch us at Aida’s Place in Bugolobi.

2. The Fireplace:#MEiREAD

At our adult book club, we are looking to read and discuss YOUR work! You have until tomorrow to submit your short stories, poems and articles to kaboozi@somanystories.ug and be a part of our Amateur Night. See details on poster below.

3. The Library at The Nest

If you are looking for a place where your children can go and read some books, The Nest, in Ntinda is answering this question for you. The Nest Children’s Centre in Ntinda is opening a Children’s Library this holiday. If you are interested in becoming a member, email: the.nest.ug@gmail.com or call 0784903204.

4. Sooo Many Stories at StoryMoja

This month we are taking Sooo Many Stories to Kenya! We will be guests at the StoryMoja Festival scheduled between 27th of September to the 1st of October 2017. Storymoja, described as East Africa’s biggest book party, is celebrating 10 years and we couldn’t be more proud to celebrate with them. We will be hosting our book club for children, The Fireplace: Tot Tales and participating in various panel discussions. Peter Kagayi, author of The headline That Morning and Philippa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa of Flame and Song will all be there.  So excited to meet our Kenyan StoryLovers!

We can’t wait to connect with you this month! Follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram (@SoooManyStories) to keep in touch and catch any updates. See you soon?


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