KaberaWrites

At the beginning of this whole pandemic; and I mean the Covid-19 pandemic, I was under the impression that perhaps the world was coming to an end. This was the only logical explanation for the tragedy that the year 2020 had brought along with it. It had never occurred to me that anything could be worse than a global health crisis. A few days ago, I grasped that there’re much worse pandemics that have been going on in the world for many years. Recently, a viral video shed light on one pandemic that has been terrorizing “black” people and other people of varying ethnic backgrounds all over the world for centuries; racism. George Floyd has become a household name for all the wrong reasons; he was a black man murdered by a white police officer all in the name of carrying out an “arrest”; and yes, it is vital that I note the color of both the oppressor’s and the victim’s skin color. Many have described racism as a new pandemic of its own but I do beg to differ because there is nothing new...

Justice comes in many forms, sometimes it can be a court hearing, a well deserved arrest of a criminal or merely your story being heard and written by a struggling freelance writer. Growing up in a world where justice is too expensive and unattainable by the minority groups, I realize  that it’s my mandate as a young writer to offer it in its cheapest and most pure form; poetic justice. What every victim longs for in the tiresome and pathetic strife for justice is to simply be heard by someone. Oppressive crime takes many forms but my pen, notebook, and ears have of recent got a particular inkling for domestic violence. In my world of literature and diction, I have assumed the position of a lawyer and the story I am about to tell to you; the jury, is my client’s. NOWHERE TO RUN Car rides on late Sunday nights in Kampala were once a beautiful experience we shared as family. Now, the good old days are long gone. One unforgettable Sunday night the atmosphere was tense and ...

ELIYA   The apartments I live in are maintained by an old man who we refer to as 'Mzee' to mean 'elder'. No one knows his real name or where he comes from. What we do know is that Mzee comes very early in the morning to weed the compound, sweep the dried leaves and occasionally  trim the grass.  Mzee has a young son of about five years named Elias but the locals around call him 'Eliya'. Eliya's mother is a mad woman named Rita who lives under the staircase and talks to herself all day. The gossips say Mzee bewitched her. This trio is no stranger to poverty and the harsh word economy that has no time to think about them. During the few years I have lived here, I have grown fond of  Eliya. Eliya having been raised in a in very different family is by all means a different child. Eliya wears a tattered red t-shirt under his dirty orange jumper and a pair of greenish-brown shorts. Sometimes he has shoes on and other times he doesn't. Eliya plays with t...