The Best Non-Crier on 50 Purley Avenue

 

I know what I’m going to do this half- term break. I’m going to prove to everyone on Purley Avenue that I’m still the best non-crier on the street. I first have to deal with Dolores. She made fun of me when I showed the rest of the kids on the street my Tina Turner show. Everyone else said I was great. I hate Dolores. She has so many freckles. Her face looks like a slice of ham with many tomato seeds. I don’t have breasts yet but I have a great BMX bike that I call Tiger.

“You’re just a stupid Cabbage Patch kid,” I yell at her from across the street. It’s the first Saturday of the half-term break, 27th October.

Southall Park London, 2013

“And our gang will always be better than yours.”

With that, I run to the green bush where the rest of my gang is waiting. We call ourselves The Stars. Every holiday, me, my brothers, The Ugandans on 46 Purley Avenue, the Nigerians on 48 Purley Avenue, Paree and a bunch of other kids hang out. It’s still warm for October and I’m glad since my birthday is next Saturday. Ihuoma’s gone off to Manchester so I’ll just hang out with the Purley kids.

“What’s the plan for today? Where’s Happy Sam? And where are Punch and Judy?”

Happy Sam is my neighbor from Nigeria, five years old. He lives on 48 Purley Avenue next to the Ugandans on 46 Purley Avenue. He was born in 1981 and is younger than all of us. But we all like Happy Sam because he is just so happy. Punch and Judy, the nick name for the Kenyan twins, are my best friends on Purley Avenue. Ihuoma is still my best friend in the world. Actually, Gemma is also my best friend in the world. Punch and Judy are the fastest runners on the street but I’m better than them at marbles.

Justin tells us that Happy Sam went to pick up his brothers and sisters from the airport with his parents. His family comes to London every year from Nigeria. Justin is Julie and Jackson’s brother. They are Ugandan like me and they are called The Musokes. When our white friends read their name, they call them Moo-Soaks.

“Well, we have to go and get them. Come on: if our gang is going to be strong, then all the members have to be here. We are going to rumble, and we will win.”

“Listen guys, I think we have to go over to their house and tell them that if they don’t come today, we can lose the rumble,” I declare.

“Elgona’s right,” Julie says.

I know she only does so because she thinks that Masaba will like her better. Julie even allows Masaba to touch her breasts. I don’t have breasts yet.

“Ok then, let’s go,” says Masaba.

“Good.”

When we get to Punch and Judy’s house, we see a big moving van outside.

“What’s going on?” Justin asks.

“Are they leaving?” says Masaba.

Their Mum, Mrs. Why-Nigh-Nah, which is actually spelt Wainaina, comes rushing out with about a dozen pillows in front of her and bumps into us.

“Where are you guys going? Are you leaving?” I blurt out, leaving Julie to help her with the pillows that have fallen on the ground.

“Oh, you’re all here,” says Mrs. Why-Nigh-Nah.

I hate it when adults play dumb.

...

Part of my story published in 2013, Postcolonial Text.

Title: The Best Non-Crier on 50 Purley Avenue

Dear Jeanne

 Dear Jeanne,

You left this earth on 22 May 2026, and yet you still unite us. There are some members of Rhema that  I had not seen in 20 years whom I met at your vigil. I also joined the WhatsApp group for Rhema ladies and your contact is still there.

When I met you in 2005, you were working at Rhema and managing the day to day administrative tasks. I remember when, during my research for gender work, you lent me 500/- to buy fruit salad. And then you would carry digestive biscuits and Nido powdered milk for me to take tea.

That small Rhema office was cold from the air conditioner and yet warm from the conversations. You were consistent and charming. Your dimples bobbed in and out effortlessly. You carried yourself with grace.

The poignant moments I recall were when you visited me a few times, when I was in dire stress. You were my SoS. You saw the signal and came rushing. Listening to my cries for help, because of the increasing stress I faced from unfulfilled dreams, shattered friendships and poverty woes, you patiently responded. Without judgement you listened, and that is what I needed. I needed someone who would patiently listen.

Thanks for the friendship. Thanks for naming our first daughter. Thanks for introducing Ariel to us. Thanks fo renabling us to recinnect with Alex.

Thanks, Jeanne.

Lamu; Africa’s Little Giant Wonder

 

Lamu far exceeds them all. A visit to this part of Kenya’s east coast is incalculable. Historically unfamiliar to me before I disembark from the Fly540 carrier from Nairobi’s Wilson Airport, I step onto the stony sandy soils of what I call, Africa’s Little Giant Wonder. 

The transition from the potholed clouds to the disturbingly hushed welcome at the mini landing site jolts us into an unnecessary panic. What happened to the endless oceans and beaches that the brochures talked about? Waiting in unbudgeted for anticipation, we hear a rusty voice yelling, Jambo!

 

“Jambo Bwana,” someone from our pack responds.

 

“The boat is ready to take you. My boys are coming to carry your luggage.”

 

Trudging along, we line up our luggage on the gaping rickety dock. The boat tilts as we all clamber on board. At the tip of the dock, the Indian Ocean is a tiny rivulet searching for an outlet to its magnificence. The boat steadies on the waters while gaining the trust of the wide ocean. The boat shakes in excitement of carrying twenty or more writers to a festival on Lamu Island. The secrets of Lamu’s realities are concealed from the naïveté of our pens. Each of us looks ahead at the island not so far off, scratching our minds for an opening paragraph to describe the ugly beauty of the unknown.

 

Interestingly, Lamu does not spread out its vanity with white sands, blue oceans and setting suns-no. It deceptively creeps up on you and hypnotises you with its intoxicating simplicity and selflessness. There are not placards to welcome us for our week long writing festival. There are no minivans guided by manipulating tour guide companies to drive us around the block to our lodges. The boat stops near the water’s edge and springing out of nowhere, hundreds of beach boys jump on and start heaving our luggage onto their bronze (not proud of the word bronze) backs. Lamu’s community must have like 30% beach boys. This is yet to be statistically proven. I look on as the sturdy young men whose orange dreadlocks dance about over their sweaty backs carry our luggage calling out the different names of lodges and hotels.

 

“Petley’s!”

 

“Peponi!”

 

“Lamu Palace!”

 

“Manyalenge!” (Definitely wrong spelling).

 

“Jannat!”

 

All twenty of us have been scattered in the various slots of accommodation. I join the boy yelling Manyalenge with two other friends. He hoists the luggage on his back which is our cue to follow him. We follow him through the narrow corridors between the closely packed peeled off buildings. He waves at the children riding on donkeys. We follow him. He manages to avoid the generous cakes of donkey droppings that are everywhere. We still follow. Someone pours a bucket of dirty water which lands on my now tired feet.

“Pole sana.”

 

Finally we get to a large wooden door which can easily fit into the tale of Ali Baba and the forty thieves. It has an ominous looking brass knocker. Opposite us is a video stall. The boys manning it smile at the three of us ladies. I wonder if they will be our inspiration to write. The ominous looking door opens. There is space. There is sparse and yet exquisite furniture. High ceilings. Fans. Lots of space. Gold and silver lined cushions. Craft. The housekeeper ushers us in. The coolness from the fans and fresh banana juice are our first real treat on the island. We realize then that Lamu does not adjust its taste to suit its guests; we have to fit into its gentle stride. Our beds are protected by mosquito nets but not from the heat as we realize later that night.

 

I reckon that I will need at least five baths a day as I take my first one soon after arrival. The heat settles on my inside like a big sleeping baby. Unlike my usual travels where I am restless to sightsee, the slow pace of Lamu diminishes my touristic anxiety and I sleep the afternoon off.

 

It is difficult to distinguish the evening from day in Lamu. Promptness and urgency are but luxuries. At 2am, people stroll to the nearest bar and pack themselves on a boat as they set off to another island. The giggly girls who throughout the day are hidden under veils allow the men to tease their hair. At night, spectacularly and inconceivably, luminous bugs cruise alongside our boats. They illuminate the dark coloured ocean and marvellously appear as if out of nowhere. In the day time, the invisible bugs elude us and at night, tease our imagination and come to life in this amazing way like tiny fish the size of mustard seeds. Simply incredible.

 

We forget our invitation to the writers’ festival and allow ourselves to be led by Lamu and its beach boys. Mornings begin with a 9am shower and for breakfast, we have what is arguably East Africa’s best brewed coffee. This is followed by pancakes and syrup, fruit, juice and then of course another nap. Our walks take us through different routes on the old town. The buildings are so close by and the narrow streets look the same to us. However, our curiosity takes us to other places. And we discover Aly King. Now, being December and a few days to Christmas, Aly King is someone everyone on the island needs to know. Aly King is a coastal who is a master at tailoring. He sits at his machine and within record time, has tailored outfits that Elle magazine would be jealous of. We stumble upon Aly King by accident. Drapes of airy print, tie and dye, baby suits and others hang outside his shop. Tantalised by the colours, we move in. Aly is like a wizard at the wheel. Customer after customer lines up. Aly sews clothes for families over Christmas; he weaves together outfits for tourists to boast of as they return home. Our job is just to watch and wear. Lamu is not Lamu without Aly King.

 

The donkeys attempt to pick up the pace at the otherwise unhurried Lamu Old Town. They trot past us dropping their leftovers to guide us to the next stop. The medieval 14^th Century settlement of Lamu has a canon that stands motionless hiding stories of conquests and war. The dhows remind me of my primary history. The Lamu Museum ,built in 1891, has wooden doors carved locally in the Omani and Indian styles with old Lamu kitchen utensils.

 

Each day the beach boys call out to us. With only one thought and that is to have fun, we allow them to take us to Shelah. Shelah is one of the more posh islands, about an hour’s walk away from Lamu Old Town. This crystal blue part of the ocean is inviting. Here, there are limited or no inhibitions about Islam tradition and so we feel free to walk in our costumes and while the time away, swimming while gazing at the equally leisurely Lamu sky.

 

The henna ladies come eagerly and shyly towards us. Speaking little English, they show us pages of patterns which they are willing to draw on our hands and bodies at a minimal fee. We marvel as they transform our palms into flowers and ship anchors until our fingers are soon singing the songs of henna.

 

Lamu has the knack of letting you let go. Chatting with the beach boys’ stories of instant happiness, chewing mira to let go of pain and taking part in the Swahili weddings. I learn that many have met their aspirations of getting married to an Australian, Norwegian and Dutch and so spend half of the year abroad and the other half on the island chewing mira and making sure everything is just as they left it on the island. Nothing to worry about. Time stands still in Lamu. Apart from the 4am alert of the Imam and the impatient donkeys, everything remains at the same dawdling stride.

 

I shudder to imagine if rumours of investment are true. There is no need for that in Lamu; it is an investment of history and pleasure in itself.

 

Note:

This was a 2006 visit that still captures my imagination, and the article was written over ten years ago.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Gorgeous Time With The Microphone In Hand

 I enjoy events so much when I have the microphone in my hand. I love to be part of the scenery, to be part of the picturesque affair.

I relish the planning, especially with respectful, committed and mindful people. That is why hosting this book launch was a highly cherished experience.

After reading this book, 'One Drop At A Time,' I wsa inspired by the complexities nd rewards of international service, especially that of the United Nations. 

Florence Ruzhwengyibwa Kiwana Lugolobi, mother to triplets, who endured 100 interviews before securing a dream job, built resilience and built a family empire together with her husband Sira Kiwana, narrates her story through this ghost written letter to the world.

It was beautiful to spend an evening with others who could relate with the narrative and indeed what a  rich experience. The book is available on Amazon.

Make your orders.

Bless.

Bev

My Speech in his Honour

When honour is restored, goodness accelerates.

On 23 April 2026, I delivered a resounding speech at the Prof. Senteza Kajubi Fulbright Memorial Lecture held at Makerere University in Kampala.

I recalled in 2011 when I visited his home to learn more about the Fulbright scholarship. It was in 1952 that he set off for Chicago to study for a Master;s in Geography. Imagine a young East African man in his twenties in Chicago during the Jim Crow laws.

There were experiences that he could never forget. At the same time, it was the esteem of the scholarship that built his resilience and led to his success as a scholar. 

Later on, Prof. Kajubi served as Vice Chancellor of Makerere University, twice, introduced the 1989 White paper education policy and influenced higher education in many ways.

Representing the family as the eldest grandchild, these are the stories I shared in my speech. Appreciation to the US Embassy of Uganda, Makerere University, friends and colleagues for their continued support.

Mt. Everest/The Equator

I remember a literary trip to Hebei Province in China and there was a guest from Nepal. 

How did it feel to come from a country like Nepal, that holds the world's highest peak, Mt. Everest? It must be one of the greatest feelings in the world.

I kept asking him about it.

"Have you been to Mt. Everest?"  I asked.

"Yes, I see it often and as a school, we would tour there.

"How does it feel?" I probed.

He must feel like a rock star. Imagine glimpsing at Mt. Everest everyday as you go to work. Nothing caps that.

And then I remembered that we too have the Equator. Beat that. We are at the centre of the world, at 0 degrees Latitude.

The Equator is a compulsory subject in geography. We are a significant world landmark. More people will hear and learn about The Equator than they will ever learn about Mt. Everest.

Why was it still so hard for me to convince myself that Uganda had something special and extraordinary too?

It happens a lot. Everyone else has it better than you do. You look at other people's marriages, at their newly built homes, at their well-behaved children, at their multiple degrees and their well-toned physique and then compare yourself and your thoughts turn ugly.

You even scroll their social media and their quotes are going viral,while everyone in your WhatsApp group ignores you.

You will search and search and always find something better on the outside, until you start searching in the right place.

The outside is inconsistent and beyond your control. It will agonise you and make you fret until the day you die.

Work on what is on the inside. I have observed people over the years and experienced the same thing. Someone's true completion comes when they are genuinely in Christ. 

The ones who genuinely seek him and are complete, have a different vibe. They are content. They do not covet or rush to outdo everyone at every turn. 

They do not negate others' good deeds by bragging about their own. They sit back when it's another person's turn to shine. 

They are the husbands who openly praise their wives in public instead of humiliating her out of scorn. They are the women who are Christians on Sundays and everyday, no matter how descpicable their workmates are. 

They are the people who do not always seek to have the last word at every conversation. They politely walk away when the atmosphere is tarnished and vile.

They are content to sit alone and read, write, or just think. It is not crucial to them that everybody likes them, because they have high self-worth and a community of friends who value peace and prayer.

These people love who they are and they do not wish to be like anybody else or to change their ways to fit in. It's exhausting.

They work on who they are, because depth is what is meaningful.

Bless!

Bev

2005

This photo was taken in 2005/6. 

I had just left my job at the radio station where I worked for two years. 2005 was also the first time I applied for a Master's scholarship to the U.K. I received another U.K scholarship after applying the second time around, a few years later.

I was a writer, a poet, unabashed and relentless. I wove words like the territotial and fearless honey badger. I preyed on muses and devoured them.

I also swam, wrote stories and loved to travel.

Twenty years later, I added a new name, finally got that Master's scholarship and bore four children. My writing rituals and muses remain unchanged. Still devouring literature and enjoying new scenery.

We do not change who we are. We adjust our behaviour and yet we ultimaely remain the same. Marriage, high income, wealthy status, new titles and more, do not change us. We are who we are. If you feel you are changing, then maybe you're in the wrong environment.

Just enhance who you are, harness your gifts that are already there and let your environment, enable you to blossom. 

Nobody was born a mistake. They may have made regrettable decisions and circumstances delayed their goals. 

Our souls were meant for fulfillment. 

It's a shame to waste the life we've been given.

Bless!

Bev