All my Life I’ve Tried to Fit In

 

All my Life I’ve Tried to Fit In

 

All My Life I’ve

tried to Fit In

I cut off my feet for you

to match your height

and even when I couldn’t walk

I trusted you’d carry me

but you left me to walk on my own

 

all my life I’ve

tried to fit in

I removed my vagina for you

but instead of taking care of it

you took it to your church fellowship

for un-sexing and de-feminizing

 

all my life I’ve

tried to fit in

I removed my eyes for you

because my vision was too big

but instead of giving me sight

you kept me blindfolded

and blind, foul and dead.

 

all my life I’ve

tied to fit in

I removed my hands for you

to hinder their beauty

hoping that ordinary people like you

would finally love me.

you used my hands as gloves

when you felt cold and inhumane,

which was often.

 

all my life

I’ve tried to fit in.

I removed my brain for you

because you said I think too much

and yet there was no room for me in your smallness

and you squeezed me out.

 

I became born again today

in this life

I don’t need to fit in

I was born to stand out

born again

to shine again

to feel again

to love and be loved again

 

Poem by Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva, 2021

 

The Best Non-Crier on 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 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

We Need New Names: Book Review by Bev

I bought the novel, 'We Need New Names,' in 2013 at Waterstones in London, the very year it was published by Chatto and Windus.

NoViolet Bulawayo is such an avid storyteller. With the opening chapter, 'Hitting Budapest,' which doubles as her award-winning Caine prize story of 2011, we are drawn into the narrator's journey in troubled Zimbabwe. 

Darling, the narrator, the ten-year-old is ambitious, curious and like many of the children around her, always hungry and looking for ways to stave her hunger. The places she narrates depict the vastly picturesque affluent neighbourhoods contrasted against the impoverished areas that have been demolished, rendering thousands homeless.

Darling and her friends are amongst the homeless. And yet, like children will, they keep up their adventure and curiosity, dreaming of  big houses, better lives, running into mischief and surviving.

After a few years, she makes it to Michigan and there while the infrastucture and culture vary widely from Zimbabwe, Darling remains the honest narrator giving the reader glimpses into her life across hundreds of thousands of miles.

We begin to feel for her as she grapples with belonging. Because of her colonial English, it takes a while before she is accepted by her American peers. The coldness of her cousin TK, the weirdness of her aunt and uncle and the strangeness of the shifting identity.

Paradise, which is the shanty town she lived in in Zimbabwe, drifts further apart and while she tries to cling to the memories, she also needs to adapt to Michigan.

With the opening chapter where Darling and her friends Bastard, Chipo and the rest are going to Budapest, one of the affluent neighbourhoods in Zimbabwe, to steal guavas because they are extremely hungry, one wonders if she found a new Budapest in Michigan. If anything, Darling is able to unravel the complexities of belonging and survival.

She assimilates in shocking yet understandable ways, and gets into all sorts of scrapes while scoring a few conquests against small time bullies. While she is no longer hungry all the time, she misses the camaraderie of her childhood friends. 

Survival is difficult in the U.S for people like her who have not yet found their professional footing. Within this, she still finds her tribe and regains certain amounts of boldness. And as she looks toward advanced education, there is hope for her in her new home.

The honest and raw observation, captured in startling dialogue, and unexpected interactions, makes this novel such a worthwhile read.

Copies of We Need New Names are available on Amazon.

Reveiwed by Beverley N Nsengiyunva

We Are Meant To Swim (Ezekiel 47:5)

 “Again he measured one thousand, and it was a river that I could not cross; for the water was too deep, water in which one must swim, a river that could not be crossed” (Ezekiel 47:5). 

There Is a 'Madness' Called Swimming

 There Is a 'Madness' called Swimming and it is the only madness you'll ever need.

Nobody goes with a laptop to the pool.

There are no zoom meetings.

You are safe.

There is no rush to prove you are worthy. 

The water is not a respecter of persons.

...This is part of the performance piece that I delivered at the National Identification and Registration Authority (NIRA) offices, during their corporate wellness retreat organised by Gem Zavanna.

Swimming is a sport where there is no judgement, because it is not about strength, body size, social status or family name. The water does not care about any of that. You need to identify what you need and then be honest with yourself as you get into the water.

With swimming, every dream is possible. Whatever you want to achieve, is achieveable. There is always space to learn a new stroke, master it, overcome fear and improve. Always.

And in Uganda, many 25 m pools (half the Olympic length) are vacant during off peak hours. It's just you and the life guard. You can spend a lovely 2 hours without interruption. Imagine how much you can do with 2 hours to yourself in the swimming pool, several times a week.

It's a templace for success.

You can also swim at any age. I plan on swimming up to the age of 104, because if I'm swimming like this, then why not?

Bless!

Bev

...

Esteri Tebandeke

 In 2021, I moderated the panel discussion for the 'Tropical Fish' play, based on the award-winning short story by Doreen Baingana. This story transformed into a play and was directed by Sarah Nansubuga and the lead role was played alternately by Esteri Tebandeke and Lulu Jemimah.

Still observing Covid protocol, in a small theatre room hosted at Ndere Centre, the play, coordinated under Tebere Arts, unfolded. As the moderator, I watched Esteri in the advance moments before she took to the stage. 

The protagonist, Christine Mugisha, depicts the life of a city girl who relies on the perceived power of foreign men to lead her out of her current dismal situation, and yet it is not as simple as that. There are complexities of identity woes, family troubles, patriarchal strongholds, betrayal and friendship. Situations are never based on just one thing.

In this role, Esteri expertly unraveled the mindset and relentless of a young aspiring woman who not only wanted to survive but like any ambitious person, desired to make a mark and along the way, she met individuals and encounters situations that were beyond her scope of understanding. 

Esteri, during the panel discussion, explained that after her roles, she retreats quietly away so that she can remove the alter persona she has been taking on, to return to her self. Before any set, she also removes herself from crowds, she explained to us, to fully embody the role.

Lasy year 2025, Esteri launched the Binti women's film festival, which I could not attend because I was away. I was impressed by the way she immersed herself in the preparations. If I was in charge of Arts funds distributions, I would have given towards that inaugural women's film festival, which I am sure  shall continue in her honour.

Dear Esteri, you lived large. You kept going.

Dear Sam Tebandeke, this is a huge loss. I met you as a dancer and I hope that you will find strength to continue dancing.

Much love, people.

Beverley.

Diving Chess Players

One of the most brilliant things I have seen in my entire life. Diving chess players.

Diving chess players  

It's ingenious. Not only do you have to b masterful at chess, you also have to control your breathing and have good swimming ability and high level of confidence. I love it. You also need to trust one another and be quite  quick witted.

Today, as I swam, I was searching for something more riveting and exciting in the water, something that would require a high level of intellect, global companionship and more. And then I come across videos of diving chess players.

For everyone looking for inspiration to swim, surely this is it.

Swimming is Who I am

For the first time, I spoke to a live audience and performed a poem about swimming. I have written about swimming before and this time, celebrating women's day, I spoke about it.

In a room brightened by poets, writers, business men and business women, I spoke. It was the evening of Thursday 5 March, during a session organised by Ladu Poetry Slam at the cosy coffee shop called Ishaazi, in Bukoto Kampala.

Swimming.

I needed to recognise two women in my life who changed my swimming story. Pamela Namutebi, my classmate at Makerere University who amped my swimming until I became competent in every stroke. From a below average swimmer, I started to compete for Mary Stuart Hall at Makerere.

I also recognised Coach Bridget, who in January of 2026, taught me how to blow bubbles. When you learn to blow bubbles in the water, you are able to swim beyond your wildest dreams. You will no longer look for inspiration elsewhere. You are covered.

I told them that even though I learned how to swim as a child, because it was compulsory in my school, I never really understood the purpose. I shared another revelation which even I still cannot comprehend.

It's this.

"I have more strength and energy for swimming, than I did in my twenties. I do not understand it, except that swimming must be a spiritual experience."

A few days ago, I prayed with a small group of friends. As we shared, I told them that my swimming has to mean something more than feeling refreshed and vitalised. It has to mean more than receiving compliments from coaches. 

I have received all those things before. I have been recognised. I have been awarded. I have stood before audiences that clapped. That is not the goal. There's always something higher.

I have seen other brilliant and celebrated people steal creative ideas from others, because their insecurities outweigh their self worth. Their brilliance is not enough for them. They are searching for something higher.

My swimming has to be for a higher purpose. I asked the women in my prayer group to pray that God would show me His purpose. May my swimming be to his glory. I want to swim and help people in mental distress. I want to swim and let people recognise how important their physical health is. I want to swim and show people how to let go of the temporary glory, for something richer.

As I recited my poem and speech that night, there must have been something impactful.

Several participants told me that the only reason they didn't swim was because they were conscious of their bodies and that now they would start it again.

Someone else came for counselling, because she wanted to know how I was able to do it all.

"How do you do it? I am confused about my life. I am facing emotional abuse at home. I need help."

truthfully, there is nothing like doing it all. 

When things seem effortless for me, it is because I am doing less and not more. If I appear to be confident, enriched and secure, it is because I am doing less and not more. It is because I prioritise purpose over power. I prioritise victory over validation. I prioritise glowing over shining. Shining with glitter is temporary but glowing is eternal. 

I used to be that person. The one who wanted the glitter and shine, and I got it. It was never enough. I always wanted more.

When I let go of the excess and purpose preceded my journey, so much shifted. 

I see people who will claw at their own guts, at their own people and at their own shadow, if they felt threatened by them. They serve on committees and remove certain people from opportunities. It is futile.

They bleed internally when the very people they thwarted are popping up like daffodils in spring. These people are evergreen like spruce trees in winter and they sway in every storm, swaying, smiling and soaring.

I want to swim and change lives. I want to swim and make sure that God's name resounds in the darkest chamber of someone's heart. I want those who are lost, at what ever age, to find new meaning in their lives.

If I'm going to swim the way I do, then it must be for a higher purpose and not just for myself.

I am not reinventing myself. This is whom I've always been.

Bless!

Beverley N Nsengiyunva

'Memories of Love Returned,' film by Ugandan Ntare Mwine

I first saw him in the series, 'The Lincoln Lawyer,' and then I met him on that chilly Kampala Friday evening at the premiere of his film, 'Memories of Love Returned.'

I asked him, 'What do you need?'

'More support,' he said.

Ntare Mwine, Ugandan award-winning film maker, producer and actor based in the US has struck a deep chord running across two millennia. 

Captured in his film, 'Memories of Love Returned,' photographs, stories, and memories from the second half of the 20th century to the 21st century, Ntare has rekindled more than a journey. 

     Ntare Mwine with Beverley, at the Kampala premiere of 'Memories of Love Returned.'

Kibaate, the protagonist, is a photographer who had a chance encounter with Ntare in 2002, when the latter's car broke down in Mbirizi, a small town in Western Uganda.

This chance encounter led to Mwine discovering a treasure trove through Kibaate, a local photographer, who had captured decades of  photographs of couples in the most memorable, bizarre, romantic and noteworthy poses. All the photos in black and white had women in mini skirts and afros, men in flared trousers and tight shirts, women with naturally glowing skin looking adorably towards the camera and men posing in protection mode over their partners.

Other photos depicted deep friendships amongst girls and amongst boys, and even more of weddings taken through various fashions over the decades.

As the film progresses, Kibaate's extended family, including his 3 wives, close to 50 children and dozens of nephews, nieces and grandchildren are portrayed in this must-watch documenary film.

Ntare Mwine takes over 20 years through Kibaate's journey, visiting family, important sites and developing over 5,000 analog photos into contemporary visuals.

It takes copious amounts of time, dedication and perseverance.

From 2002, this journey began. 24 years later, the world is treated to this instrinsic journey of Kibaate, to the mind-boggling space of Mbirizi's culture, the socio-politics of extended families and the warmth of friendship and romance.

The film shows again on Saturday 14 March, due to popular demand.

Ronnie Mayanja, who runs the Uganda Diaspora Network and other major players have been instrumental in bringing this to life.

If you haven't yet and are in Kampala, reserve your ticket now.

Bless.

Bev

35 years later and we are still in touch

35 years later and we're still in touch. When you're a young teenager, 30 seems old and far away. Even 20 seems old and far away. The next year seems far away.

That is how we each felt on 18 February, 1991, when we joined senior one at Gayaza High School, which by that time was considered one of the best secondary schools for girls in Uganda. Many believe that it still is. It is revered. It is adored. The girls who graduate from there are held in the highest esteem.

When I was completing my primary seven and filling in choices for secondary school, because of my excellent grades, there were only two options for me, Mt. St. Mary's Namagunga and Gayaza High School. Deep down, I wanted to join Namagunga, as did my father. 

Photography by Dennis Mikolo

Because of my religion at the time, I went to Gayaza High School. I remember that day, 18 February 1991. I was in a long red skirt and striped crop top. Having served as the headgirl in my previous school, Kampala Parents, it felt odd being treated like a young child. 

I made new friends, by compulsion, by osmosis, by natural selection.

Over a decade ago, a WhatsApp group was formed. It kept us in touch with one another. After giving birth to my third born, a good number came to visit me. They brought so many gifts and even though I studied at Makerere College School for my A level, I felt good in a tingling sort of way. It felt like the friendship with Gayaza was a worthwhile one.

I began connecting the dots with man of them. Some I have encountered in work spaces, others at social events and some in other mutually shared spaces.

On of my favourite Gayaza moments was the 1994 World Cup final match between Brazil and Italy. We were allowed to watch it in the dining room. As a huge supporter of everthing South America at the time, I was rooting for Brazil.

That night was wild. We screamed ourselves hoarse, held onto each other like our lives depended on it and it really took the edge off as we prepared for our final O level examinations.

All the great moments were outside the classroom. On the sports' field, dancing during entertainment time and kiromo feasting.

You canimagine how it felt for many of us when a core committee began organising our reunion, celebrating 35 years from the time we met. And they scheduled it around the exact date, mid-February. Gayaza girls are truly exceptional.

My Sherborne housemates.

The event was nothing short of  astounding. The colour code, green, was the best choice, blending in with the perfect natural backdrop at the home of one of our very own, Sophie Kibirige Kajubi. The elegance of the ladies exceeded expectations and so many of them could actually fit into their secondary school uniforms.

It was a blessing, nothing but a huge blessing. The abundance of memories, hugs, genuine catch-ups and enthusiasm as gasps of surprise, glee, and astonishment rolled into one. It was the perfect cacophony. It was the perfect moment. It was monumental. It was wrapped in charm.

Every single service provider put their best foot forward. The food was such a treat. The dancing, testing our fitness. The dessert and most of all.

Barbara Nyanzi Wakholi's cake. One of us bakes the most delicious cakes this side of the world. What a cake it was. It softly landed on our tongues, teasing its way like fine sweet wine intoour tummies. Barbara has extremely gifted hands.

Ending the spectacular evening with story time, muchomo and karaoke, this is a day that will never leave us. This is an occasion that will form how we recognise and define friendship. This is a day that will refine our years ahead.

May you find the people you want to celebrate long lasting friendships with.

Bless.

Bev.