My 40-40 Story

My first 40/40 event was the bazaar held at the UMA show grounds. It was not one of the most attended 40/40 events ever (as I've come to discover from attending the subsequent ones). It was a very cold day; one of those days when it rains, stops, then resumes with a vengeance. So the plans of joining kids on the bouncing castle were thrown out the window. The girls in leggings bought jeans from the vendors and covered it all up. Some people who had promised to show up got stuck and couldn't make it. I got a glimpse of members of the team huddled behind the tent, praying. I was having a good time (because 40-40 attracts these wonderful people), but I could tell things were not going according to plan.

9th November 2013. A day I'll never forget. Despite the rocky start, the awesome team kept the ball rolling. The #9thNovKatale hashtag never died out. Sugarless never stopped making jokes. Bernard (the Talkative Rocker) and a couple of other "celebs" got showered to the bone when we played a game involving throwing a balloon full of water at them. The conversation was great, the board games were fun, and the food was delicious. I remember standing aside, watching it all, and being so proud to be associated with this group of selfless people. They had chosen to be here, to do something to make a difference. Many people had spent this day in their beds watching TV, or cuddled up with a good book. These people didn't have to be here. They could have used their resources for something different. I was also wowed by their innovativeness. It's difficult to make people contribute their money to charity everyday. Yet, here I was, paying for every game of Matatu I played, without any complaints whatsoever. I saw people playing scrabble, buying sandwiches, and I even bought myself a cute mirror (still have her btw). It was easy and fun, and it made me feel good to give back, when I was having such a blast. It was a memorable event.

At this point, #Iam4040 was just a hashtag that looked good on my bio and helped me sleep easier. It was the #BreakfastWithTheKids that actually got my heart immersed. Seeing those children at Agape Children’s Home and then at Akiba changed my life forever. Listening to the Agape children's misconceptions about sex during the Guidance session that sounded like stuff straight out of Straight Talk, I was grateful for the sex education I had received from my mother, free of charge and constantly. Giving advice, I was grateful for 40/40, for a chance to be a mother to one of the kids. At Akiba, I fell in love with Cherotich, a happy baby who shared his small banana (ndiizi) with me. His father, smiling despite the pain he had to be suffering, teased me, offering to come back and bring cows so I could marry his son when he grows up. The boy was blissfully unaware that he had a cancer demon to fight, and that was probably because of the love he felt living in that home. I was honoured to bring Cherotich and the other kids a few laughs on their journey and fight against cancer. I remember holding back tears when on the next visit, Brian told me that my 'boyfriend' had undergone surgery, healed fully, and gone back home. I pray he's happy and healthy.

Now #Iam4040. I understand the value of spending time with the kids, of giving more than my few shillings. I retweet everything related to them, because I hope that someone will join us because of me. I invite as many people as I can to the events, because I know that the 3k entrance fee they pay will make a difference somewhere. I am proud to be associated with 40-40. I am honoured even that Esther and her teammates smile when they see me and we talk for days. They are amazing people doing an amazing job. Or rather, we are amazing people. God's blessings will surely follow 40/40 always. Join us at the next event, will you? We’ll be all over your social media pages as always.

PAIN

She closed her eyes and gripped the sides of the bed tighter. The pain

shot from her centre to every part of her body, making her numb and

yet aware of every sensation. Her head hurt from the crying, her

raised legs were starting to cramp, and she could feel her nails

digging into the bed, hurting herself just so she could distract her

body and her brain from the pain in her belly. The nurse continued to

work efficiently, saying mundane things that sounded like they had

been meant to be soothing. The nurse pushed the metal again, and the

suction resumed.

“Just once mukwano. After this, it’s over.”

She steeled herself but once again, the pain knocked the breath out of

her lungs. She felt like her insides were being ripped out of her,

sucked into the large white syringe. She mumbled prayers under her

breath, prayers that came out along with curses and promises. In that

moment, she loathed him. She loathed herself. She loathed him. The

bile rose to her throat and threatened to choke the life out of her.

She didn’t even realise that the nurse had finished and was gently

urging her to some off the stoic hospital bed. It took another 2

minutes for her to accept that it was really over, and only then did

the close her legs and come down from the bed slowly. She remained

hunched over in pain as she received the clinic-issue sanitary towel,

and put it on with her white panties. The nurse led her gently from

the stark room that smelt of disinfectant to a new room, painted a

cheerful pink with low soft beds for her to rest.

The cramping refused to subside, even when she stopped crying and just

let it. Nothing worked: not the tea her friend had brought in,

sugarless with tones of ginger; not the coital position that she now

felt she would be in forever.

She closed her eyes and the pain washed over her like rain. It took

over, condemned her for the little girl…. or boy that was now no more

because they had been careless.

On Reading

I have been reading books again (thankfully). 

In high school, my friends and I would read novel after novel. I always had a novel at assembly, hidden somewhere in my books during prep, on my bed, and sometimes I would sneak glances at my novel during classes. I read just about everything I could get my hands on, a habit I picked up from my mother. She made us read the newspapers from cover to cover, bought us books, and read with us sometimes. One of my most vivid childhood memories is of me curled up with her in her bed, reading Elechi Amadi’s “The Concubine” under very poor light because load shedding was part of life and we couldn’t very well put the book down. 

So when I joined a secondary school with a large diverse library that went beyond the Sweet Valley High and Nancy Drew I had had to endure in primary school, I was ecstatic. I read the Perry Mason books and wished to be a lawyer (funny how life turns out – at the time, I thought by now I would be in medical school well on my way to being a paedetrician). I read the simple books with cautionary tales about sex, drugs and alcohol from the Ugandan writers. I read the classics by Austen, Hardy, Bronte, Ludlum, Grisham, Archer, Cornwell, Baldacci, Patterson, etc. I read little known authors. I read historical romances and the little Harlequin and Silhouette books that gave us a version of sex education that was not “Don’t have sex: you’ll get pregnant, get AIDS, and die.” Somewhere along the way, I ran out of books to read and ended up reading the Reader’s Digests because someone had scared me off Stephen King (I’m now playing catch up). It was a lovely time of my life. 

I think that is how I learned not to take things so seriously. I always had a novel character’s worries on my mind to distract me. I couldn’t worry too much about my Chemistry marks when I had to pray that Todd Belknap (The Bancroft Strategy) make it out of whichever position he had gotten himself into. I couldn’t be heart broken when I had Norah Roberts’ wonderful leading men to love at night. Books kept me sane, drove me a little insane, and made me laugh and cry, made me stronger and better. 

Social media has been coming between us of late. Every time I would open a book in the last few years, I would remember a Facebook message I haven’t responded to. Then there was Twitter and Instagram beckoning to me, to make fun of people and or share new ideas. And of course there’s almost always a Whatsapp message asking for attention. It’s only today as I read Chimamanda Adieche’s Purple Hibiscus, with Stephen King’s Wizard and Glass in my bag to aid my taxi journeys, having finished George R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones yesterday, that it finally hit me. 

I understood (again) why I love to read. It’s not only the fact that I enjoy the build up…the way an author creates these people who feel so real that you can almost touch them. It’s not even the little battles you conquer with these characters, the love you finally gain and the hurdles you skip. It’s the way an author shows us everyone’s soul. It’s that comforting thought that everybody is doing the best they can, the best they know how to do. It’s that pardon that almost every author grants their characters: that they are only human. I don’t have that grace in real life of course; but I do think I’m forgiving easier for it. The happy endings also help a lot since I keep looking forward to my happy ending. To me, every bad situation is just that middle part of the book where the bad stuff happens and the only reason I still pick up the book is to find that ending. The ending, whether happy or not, always gives some amount of closure. I believe that is what we are all looking for at the end of a long long hard day.