Writing from the heart

She is a soft-spoken lady with a warm and radiant smile. She finds fulfilment in the way she is as a writer, and is happily married. Her greeting is authentically African: "How are your parents, how are the chicken, the goats, the beans?"

Born 42 years ago, she began to write in early nineties. What motivated her in depth was the International Writing Scholarship she received from Iowa University in the US. She speaks fondly of her second book, 'Secrets No More', published in 1999. The book details the story of Marina, a girl of about twelve years in the then genocide-strewn Rwanda. The girl experiences the nightmare of the strife in which her parents are slain. She becomes a victim of rape by a drunkard.

The inspiration to pen down this moving narrative grew after her encounter with a Journalist and his writings on the genocide. More than five hundred people had been slain in the church. The story touched her passionately. Though, more than a hundred books on the same subject of the 1994 Rwanda genocide had been authored, she couldn't resist the urge to write a story of her own on the same tragedy.

Why did she use a young girl for her protagonist? She argues it was spontaneous. The girl character came naturally and readily to her mind. In fact, she professes to identify readily with females. Herself being a woman cannot be ruled out. Being thus, she wanted to project the brutality and violence women face in the hands of men, just as it was commonplace during the Rwanda genocide in 1994.

What inspired her to write? The many stories that were the essence of life were her inspiration. Having been raised in rural Uganda by her grandmother, she was told many stories, especially in the evening. This was a fundamental knot, which instilled the writing spirit in her during her formative years.

At about the age of twelve, she had an irresistible urge to read. Unfortunately, there were no books in school. However, there is a time her elder sister came home with a copy of Chinua Achebe's 'Things Fall Apart.' She laid her hands on the book and began to read. The more she read the book, the more she felt an urge to write a story of her own. She says of one Nigerian scholar that a story that must be told respects no silence. It will strangle you in the night if you don't tell it.

How were her stories received? Her other novel 'The First daughter', published in 1996, was to her, a slow but interesting story. It was well received, especially by schools in the West Nile region in Uganda. "Schools, mostly in the West Nile bought a thousand copies," she says. This was a gateway to the numerous letters she began to receive from schoolgirls. They had many questions and problems, which they wanted her to address. One particular teenage girl wrote, "Auntie, I am pregnant." The girl was fifteen years old. The impact her writing had on the girls was very positive to her. She was not just a writer, but also a counsellor, auntie and a teacher to them.

After the publication of 'Whispers From Vera’ in 2002, she received a phone call from a gentleman, who wanted to meet Vera. Reason? "He wanted to take her to bed", because of the sexually arousing mood the story on Vera had been designed.

The author is not disappointed, though. The fact that her message got home is her joy. The juice of her inspiration is to write a good story. "I want to tell a good story," is her greatest pre-occupation. She wants to appeal to readers to catch the fever of her story. Her main concern is, "Why men had undue privileges over women?"

Nonetheless, many queries have been put across on "Secrets No More" Why does she picture sex vividly? For instance, there are two explicit rape scenes in the novel. The first occurs when Marina’s mother, Mukundane is being raped. She is later murdered. The second incident happens when Marina, her daughter is also raped. Although, she is married to George, she always feels she is being raped when they make love. Later, after she falls in love with Dee, George’s companion, who seduces her with a lascivious panorama, she realises that good sex happens outside marriage. The author portrays rape as a violent act. It stirs outrage and censure. In no other way could she present it as she presents it. It was brutal and it merited being told the way it happened.

How has she overcome some of the hurdles to make it such far? Personal empowerment has been of great vitality. She aims at telling the story from her heart. Though, limited time is challenge to one who has a husband, children, in-laws et al to attend to, she keeps a journal within reach at whatever point she feels an urge to write. For one who writes all the time, it is inevitable to jot down every bit of the necessary imagination that strikes her psyche.

Mrs. Goretti Kyomuhendo is the coordinator of FEMRITE (Uganda Women Writers' Association). This is a gender-defined publishing counterfeit establishing eleven years ago. Working with FEMRITE has made her what she wanted to be: a champion of the cause of women. She is a feminist and looks to the day when men would regard women as their mothers, sisters and daughters. "The world would change," she points out.

After establishing FEMRITE, eleven years now, fourteen titles, all by Uganda women writers have so far been published. It is a milestone considering that men had dominated the writing sphere. She feels that women are natural storytellers. "We should tell our stories."

Though, FEMRITE has made it such far, it still has no branches in the rural areas because of insufficient capacity. Goretti believes that come light of day, they will spread the tentacles in order to reach as many women as possible. There is very rich talent within their hearts and minds, but with a few miners to tap such talent.

Appeared in Daily Monitor, 8th April 2007
Joshua Masinde.

Such laziness in building the nation!

Joseph, the foster father of Jesus was a carpenter. Jesus was his ‘part-time assistant.’ It was a business strategy for which Joseph struck an honest living for his household.

Ok. I am talking about carpentry and some of these biting bugs-carpenters. Joseph must surely suffer from humiliation courtesy of some of today’s ‘efficient and lazy-less’ carpenters!

A friend of mine had just placed an order for a table and a chair from this little known carpenter. It was on a Sunday afternoon. The bargain progressed well and was fair. He paid eighty percent of the money required for both the chair and the table.

“Come tomorrow at three,” the carpenter said. A big smile ate his mouth as the appetite for swallowing the money bit him like a bug.

“You will get your things tomorrow,” the carpenter said again and again.

I recalled the little story of a carpenter in our village. He admitted that one can never beat a carpenter at his own game. In any case, you should never take his promises and assurances very seriously. You must surely have the positive disease of patience in order to get your furniture in two or three weeks’ time when you had been asked to come in two or three days to do it.

“Expect postponed decisions from the carpenter in order to get your furniture,” is what I told Steve.

The following day, Steve armed himself with anger and headed to the carpenter’s enterprise. It was some minutes before three. The carpenter was nowhere to be seen. For the next four days, the situation was the same. The fellow emerged four days later.

“You will get your things tomorrow,” were the very words that came out of his smile-deficient mouth. Steve was fuming. He was very impatient with the fellow

I don't think Joseph was such a short changer. I have never read anywhere where his inefficiency or laziness is pointed out. But, such bug of inefficiency and indolence bit our carpenters long ago and are lazily dragging themselves in building the nation.

It is not unusual to find most of them in their merchandise waiting to play cards with you. Ironically, most of them can do a very wonderful job for you.

There's even some other client who sat in the hot sun, awaiting some final touches to be made on his bed. He had waited for three weeks but his patience was not bearing any fruits. He had been assured it would be finished in three days' time.

"The only time these guys were efficient and did first rate work is when they made Jesus' cross. It never even took them time to nail Him on the cross," the impatient fellow claimed. "It was some painful experience, but they did it quick."

Why does it take some of them two or more days to make a stool or chair that should be done in two days or less?

While building for the nation, such laziness and inefficiency should be condemned. The rate of personal development side tracks the rate of one's (in)efficiency at work or in business. This bug of inefficiency should be shoved somewhere in a corner where it can't get the guts to bite us once in a while.

Joshua Masinde

When I was 'mothered' from every angle

A peek into my childhood days unveils a nostalgic fondness that strikes my heart with lasting affection. I love every memory of it.

At the time, all my siblings were boys. I was very close to the first with whom I manoeuvred into every notorious adventure that popped up in our minds. We had a clique of peers whom we spent all the happy and sad days in the fantasy of adventure. We were the real celebs of the village since we were known for all manner of notoriety. I was terribly shy when it came to an encounter with my sisters of the world, not of blood. Though, I was always under admiration by a horde of lasses, I could not manage a kind look in reception to their genuine admiration. I was ever shy, though a smile always hang on my face.

At one time, a girl who was a year older than me, came and told me that she needed me to be her childhood spouse. She had a very strong urge to take care of me. I remember we used to erect safe havens in the bushes where we could hide away and take care of each other mutually. Some hidden thicket that looked like a cave was the best den for our adventure. We would busy ourselves making a good haven out of it and decorate within like a real hut. Then, some girl would sneak in a mat and some niceties from her home to grace the occasion of our solicitude more affectionately. Then, we would spend some time on the mat, expressing mutual affection to each other.

On another occasion, another girl I knew as Lilly waylaid me on the way from the river and tapped me on the back. Since my elder peers and brother had left me far behind, she used the opportunity to express her care and concern for poor me. She crouched down and beckoned me to climb on her back. She even offered to carry my five litre jerry can of water on her head as we would head back home. I would seem relieved at the not so weird offer, but my eyes would wet with tears at her invaluable care.

Right back home, she would ask for permission from my mum to allow us to go play hide and seek. That would go up to late in the night. Sometimes, mum would bump into us trying to advance further our affection by going physical.

The same affection would take another dimension while at school. I was in primary three then. My head was so thick that I could not absorb anything academic. Naturally, some two lasses in my class offered to do most of my assignments so that I would escape the wrath of the teachers. There is a time they protested in class when our English madam wanted to cane me for being absent the previous day without permission. They pleaded with her to spare the rod against me. I later learnt that she was their aunt.

A few years later, I badly hurt my foot on the floor of our class. A certain lass who had always considered me as her favourite boy used the opportunity to show-case her affection towards me in the face of the whole class. She shed some tears to express her sympathy for the pain I felt. She then took out her white hanky, carefully wiped out the blood and wrapped the wound to stop it from further bleeding. She then wiped the floor to rid it from the blood marks and sat me down for consolation. She shared the pain with me and I was so touched by such priceless show of solicitude.

"I would nurse the wound until it heals," she told me. Sometimes, as we headed back home after school hours, she would ask if it sounded right for me to climb on her back since she wanted me to reach home safely.

My elder brother was always keen on exploiting the chances which seemed to be my prerogative. He vowed to be a real conquest if the chance came his way. After some consultations with some of his peers, I saw him go into a bush to dig up hibiscus roots, which he dried and burnt to ashes. He then blended the ashes with smearing oil and made a concoction out of it.

"This will work magic," he assured me. He divided them into two portions and hid one in the grass-thatched roof of our hut.

We had a popular notion that wherever a boy applied this concoction on his palms and greeted a girl, the magic would compel her follow him to wherever he went. The phenomenon would only stop after he had a share of the sacred fruit.

The fact that I was very humble, quiet, reserved and naïve was the magic he failed to adopt. He was a hero of fantasy and couldn’t think of clinging on my ideals. I saw him greet a girl in the neighbourhood, after which they vanished into maize plantations. I tracked them a few minutes later and bumped into them expressing their naive romance to each other. I vowed to report him to dad but he begged me not to. He even promised to bribe me with a slice of bread whenever we would have bread at breakfast. He became very humble, though his permissive adventure was not so much in my mind.

A void of loneliness lies in my head over the death of those affectionate childhood days. Those are the days when girls understood the true essence of affection and who was best suited such affection: the humblest of all human creatures. Many years up the memory lane, I still long for those nostalgic days we shared in our rural home.

Now that I have not opened my heart yet for love siege, I am deeply contemplating the idea. But before that, I am awaiting a recurrence of the magic of love and affection that was owed to me by my lovely childhood ‘mothers.’

Joshua Masinde