KaberaWrites

  In the words of a great poet, “my country is a badly taken selfie”. The angle isn’t right and neither is the lighting, the corrupt officials and street kids in the background distract the viewer from the beauty of the pearl which makes  the selfie not worth more than ten likes on Instagram. To make things worse, we have been hit by the second wave of the corona virus and news is circulating of an emergence of a mutation of the virus. Our socio-economic and political structures weren’t built to accommodate crises and the minds of our leaders do not have the capacity to adapt to the rapid changes effectively. At this point in time no amount of filters and photoshop could help fix this badly taken selfie of a country. “Man’s mind is his greatest literature.” I will confess that I have this short phrase tattooed on my heart right next to the quote from the book of Isaiah 1: 18. The ability to delight in the library of the mind is an underrated and unexplored phenomenon especial...

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 ...