Holy Matrimony!

This just in..........

More bad news for the Lizard Lovin' Pastor Kakande! His third wife, a bummy beauty named Emily from the Congo, has gone mad upon learning that he married a 5th wife from the Phillipines.

Girlfriend totally lost it. She kicked everthing in the house, bit her hair, screamed on the top of her voice and rolled on the carpet. Sources revealed that Emily is "so possessed with the sweetness of Kakande's whopper, she is on a rampage crying for it."

Don't you hate when that happens????

You KNOW What You Know

I feel kinda foolish admitting that, after 6 years of leading journalism workshops for African reporters, I was actually nervous about coming to Kampala this past week!

Part of the reason is I've been focusing on newspaper journalism this past year in Nairobi. But my fellow Knight Health Fellow in Uganda, a veteran journalist named Chris Conte, wanted me to come over and do a training for radio journalists, because of my NPR background.

Even though it's only been a couple of years, it feels like I'd been away from radio reporting for AGES, and what the heck was I gonna tell those reporters??? Granted, my time in Gulu was spent doing radio training, so it wasn't such a far-fetched proposition. But while I gathered handouts and decided on stories to play during the workshop, I felt a twinge of self-doubt.

And then came Saturday morning, and it was "Show Time," jazz-hands and all. Since I don't get to do workshops in Nairobi (yet), it took a minute to relax and get into the flow of standing in front of a hot, airless conference room where a half dozen or so journalists are regarding you with a mixture of bored skepticism and hopeful expectation.

But you know what you know. It doesn't just disappear. I wasn't the greatest radio reporter who ever lived, but I grasped the most important concepts. And they made a lot of sense; radio reporting is like print reporting--in 3-D. Instead of just writing about the noisy crowd of people, you get to let listeners hear it. Instead of decribing a woman trudging across a gravel road, you get to let listeners hear her crunching footsteps. Instead of reading a woman's quotes about how horrified she was to learn her HIV positive status, listeners get to hear the tremble in her voice.

So for the past few days I've been "beating the drum" so to speak, about how SOUND, STORY AND SCRIPT are the three most important words in radio newsfeatures reporting. And I had a wonderful co-trainer today, a young man named Pius Sawa. I met him at the very first Internews Reporting workshop in Gulu, and I was struck by his deep booming voice, and how earnest his demeanor was. He had never done radio newsfeatures reporting before, but he took everything so seriously.

Well, two years later, Pius has won numerous awards for his features, and is making a comfortable living for himself as a journalist. In the picture above, I'm watching him use Adobe sound editing software on a laptop he was able to buy from his freelance earnings. Yesterday, he finished up a project with the BBC on the fishing industry in Lake Victoria. He's done trainings in Kenya and Tanzania, and he's just a delight to work with. I could tell the reporters were captivated by his stories about how he reported and produced his features.

And when he said he owed it all to Internews...well, actually, he said he owed it all to me and the way I taught him....I wanted to cry. Or maybe it was because I was so hot in that stuffy training room, I was about to pass out. Yeah, that's the reason.

Freedom of Information

Don't tell ME there's no hope for the future of journalism! Yesterday, I finally got around to picking up a copy of the Red Pepper newspaper in Kampala and learned that the lascivious, lunatic columnist Hyena, who kept me paralyzed in a state between hilarity and apoplexy during my time in Gulu, has changed his tune and now offers sex advice instead of outlandish (largely fictional) tales of own his satanic sexual appetite!

What a selfless humanitarian!

And today's edition offered stories of the woman who gave birth to a snake, how one pastor survived the unwanted attentions of a "sodomite," and the gruelling saga of the ex-wife of another pastor who endured his rapacious sexual advances (even if they only lasted for a minute), at which point lizards used to crawl into their bed and and start having their way with her, too!!!

It's funny and it's not funny. After all, if nobody was buying the Red Pepper it would have stopped publishing a long time ago. And I won't go off on an elitist, imperialist tangent about "Third World yellow journalism," because there are plenty of tabloids like this in the US.

But reading the Pepper helps deepen my commitment to my journalism training and mentoring work in Africa. Sadly, the quality of the writing in the Red Pepper is about the same as in other "mainstream" publications. And I know there are a lot of sincere, talented young men and women who want to improve their writing and reporting, and to produce stories about issues that make a difference in people's lives.

That's why I spent 8 months in Gulu, and that's why I'm coming up on my 1 year anniversary in Nairobi. That's also why I'm spending this weekend damn near suffocating in a poorly-ventilated conference room in Kampala, leading a radio newsfeatures training workshop.

But hey, at least I'm not being chased by a "sodomite." Sigh.

Just Call Me Holly Go-Darkly

If I had as much sex as people thought I had, I would be a very happy woman. I have only been in Uganda 12 hours, and I've already been mistaken for a 'ho.

Get this: I'm down having breakfast on the hotel patio, minding my own business trying to pour myself a cup of coffee, when this Indian businessman walks up beside me. Being a polite, friendly sort of gal, I smiled and said, "Good morning." He smiled and said, "You, come and join me. Keep me company."

A split second analysis ensued. Maybe, just like last night, I KNEW this man, but forgot I knew him! Or maybe he was somebody connected to the journalism workshop I was leading. But no, the workshop is at a completely different venue.

Ultimately, his leering grin told the whole story. So I'm standing there thinking, "Yo, even if I WAS a 'ho, it is 8 AM, dude! I've probably been on my back all night, and I'm just trying to get me some breakfast, a few hours sleep, and maybe a massage later, so I can hit the bricks again in another 12 hours. Chillax, okay???"

Come to think of it, I don't get taken for a 'ho as much in Nairobi. There've been a couple of incidents in fancy upscale venues where the overzealous scrutiny and borderline harassing behavior led to that conclusion, but in general, it's not a problem. But the minute I'm back in Uganda, it's like I'm Holly Go-Darkly, or something.

So, to all the men in Uganda, for the next four days, I. AM. NOT. A. 'HO. I am 47 years old, and I have to get up every 3 hours in the middle of the night to pee, not to pleasure sweaty, disgusting strangers. And even if I WAS a 'ho, at least wait until I actually start advertising before approaching me.

Bottom line? Back up off me.

"Welcome Back, Welcome Back, Welcome BAAAAACCCKKK......"

First, I should apologize for the blurriness of this photo. It's just that whenever you're in any kind of government-regulated facility on the African continent, where stony-faced young men shouldering AK-47's stand as silent sentinels ready to waste your ass at a moment's notice, snapping pictures can be a life or death decision.

But I couldn't resist capturing this image at Entebbe Airport, just after arriving this evening for a 3-day journalism training workshop in Kampala. You know, I've always believed that nothing says "Welcome Back!" like medical personnel wearing face masks, as if they were characters in a trashy movie entitled "Baggage Claim of the Zombie Lepers," beckoning you off to the side when you've reached your "final destination." And before you ask, I have been following the Swine Flu (oops......sorry..... "H1N1") news, so I knew why we were being greeted like third class passengers from the Ebola Express.


But a coupla things sprang to mind while standing in this scrum. First, no matter where you go in the world these days, YOU ARE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE. You either can't afford to fly anywhere, or you have to worry about your plane breaking apart in mid-air, or if you do land safely, there's a good chance a pandemic virus is waiting for you. Absolutely nothing in this life is simple anymore.


Second, about halfway across Lake Victoria headed from Nairobi, I got hit with a powerful rush of memories...all incredibly sad. I've mentioned before that for the rest of my life, coming to Uganda for any reason will likely always be connected with my sister Julie's passing. That's where I was when I had to accept that she was really gonna die this time, and where I had to come afterwards to try and resume some semblance of normality. To date, it was the most difficult period of my life, and so the closer the plane got to landing this evening, the more I was gutted by painful flashbacks.


So it almost made sense that the damned Angel of Death was trying to fuck with my head once I got off the plane. Not standing there with a sickle and a black robe, but wearing a crisp white nurse's uniform and a face mask to remind me that all it really takes is one little cough or handshake and your ass is grass.


I had to wonder if this was yet one more sign from up above that Uganda and me just do NOT agree.


But then I got to the good old Speke Hotel in Kampala, where I'd spent many an evening swilling "sweet" red wine (versus the other choice..."not sweet"), and snarfing down pretty decent pizza and pasta and gelato whenever we were on a brief furlough from hard time in Gulu. And the funny thing is, everybody there remembered me from two years ago, and treated me like a flippin' ROCK STAR! It almost got to feeling slightly creepy; people I was certain I'd never seen before in my life were being outrageously gracious. And my favorite bellman in the entire world, a little Luo guy named Jonah with the widest, friendliest gap in his front teeth I've ever seen, came up and literally hugged my neck. Instead of being slightly skeeved out, I hugged him right back, I was so happy to see him!


So, I may need to reassess this whole Uganda-phobia. Sure, I've only been here 4 hours, so check with me tomorrow. If somebody brings me "not sweet" red wine, I might just blow a gasket.

On the Road Again...And Again....And Again....

Can somebody please help me understand why I am so always so gol-danged ready to forget that I am one of the luckiest women who ever lived on the face of God's Green Earth???

For example, why do I give in to brief yet epic bursts of whiny lamentation over something as benign as the story of 2 elderly widows getting married??? After all, just 6 months ago, I got all choked up over the adventure of 2 German kids, aged 5 and 6, who tried to elope to Africa. At the time, I even said the story warmed my heart, and made me hopeful about my own prospects.

But reading about Monica and Ebenezer yesterday cooled my jets, for a minute. I guess it's because it reminded me that I'm a lot closer to their stage of life than the German lovebirds. Those plucky children have a good 70 or 80 more years ahead of them to experience what real love and devotion are all about. Realistically, I'm looking at 30 or 40 years, max.

And then a day like today comes along to remind me that as a single, never-married African American woman who's almost 50, I have hit life's Adventure Jackpot! Get this: today, sitting at my desk in Nairobi, Kenya, I'm working on putting the final touches on a workshop I'm leading "next door," in my old Kampala, Uganda stomping grounds. Then I get an email asking me to participate in a Media panel in July...in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. And THEN, just five minutes ago, I got a call from somebody at the U.S. State Department.

They want me to lead a weeklong health reporting workshop in August, in....hold onto your skull...Kigali, Rwanda!!!!!!

Oh, and somehow or another, I gotta squeeze in a trip to Cape Town before September, when one of my colleagues who has graciously offered me lodging, has to leave for a fellowship in Ghana.

So, yeah, I might be single, but I feel thrice blessed. Mama Africa appears to want me, even if Mr. Right is dragging his feet. Later for you, dude!

Happily Never After

Okay, let me put down this tankard of haterade I'm swilling so I can admit having sunk to a new psychic low.

After reading an online news story about an 89-year-old woman who just married a 93-year-old man, I'm finding myself vaguely jealous of that connubial crone. First of all, you'd expect an 89- year-old woman to be named "Hester" or "Prudence," right? Well, this weathered wench is named "Monica." WTF?? I bet she was probably head cheerleader in high school or something--that is if they even had cheerleaders during the Paleolithic Age. And the heifer's already buried two husbands, and yet somehow managed to snag a 3rd.

Here I am half her age and have only had one proposal, and that came from the Hapless Haitian who bought my engagement ring from Sears. On layaway, probably. (But do NOT get me started on that!) Six days out of 7, being a "never married woman of a certain age" suits me just fine.

But what is the friggin' frequency when an 89-year-old woman can land her THIRD husband, and I'm lucky to have a few dates each year with guys possessing the minimally required level of chromosomes?? I mean, I am at the peak of my potency, in every sense of that word, but it's all just slowly drifting south, stalked by the twin spectres of Gravity and Dementia that do a brisk Australian crawl through the shallows of the Jones family gene pool. With all due respect, at 89 and 93, Mon and her betrothed could both drop dead attempting anything more amorous than holding hands. They got a year, tops, before one or both of 'em lapses into an irreversible coma.

What's the point???

Monica's new husband, Ebenezer Rose, summed it up best. (Now see???? OG got it right...a 93 year old man HAS to have a name like "Ebenezer," for Chrissakes! There are laws relating to this somewhere, I'm positive!!!) When he was asked that question, he replied,

"Each of us is living a lonely life. Why not get married?"

Somehow, from the depths of the Bile River coursing through my veins, buried deep in the folds of my bitter, Grinchified heart, that actually made sense. Just because a person is 93 doesn't mean they don't get lonely...OR that they don't have the right to do something about it. So maybe someday 40 years from now, I'll meet MY Prince Charming.

If the haterade doesn't pickle my liver first.