ISSUE 71SEPTEMBER 2015

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In THIS ISSUE EDITOR's WORD

Earlier this week, the nation woke up to the sad news of the demise of Gen. Aronda Nyakairima, who had trav-elled to South Korea in his capacity as minister of inter-nal affairs. Immediately, speculation as to the cause of his death started spreading on the social media platforms with all sorts of elements crawling out of the woodwork. We await the official report. Our prayers are with the family of the deceased may his soul rest in peace.

This month’s issue features a music lover’s opinion on why one of the continent’s best music festivals, Sauti Za Busara, is worth saving following the cancellation of next year’s edition due to lack of funds. An advertising expert has plenty of advice for novices on how not to make it in the industry. Clemantine Wamariya’s powerful story on escaping the Rwandan genocide with her sister and the subsequent years spent as refugees across sub Saharan Af-rica is a must read; we’ve only published the first chapter but a link to the full story online is included.

Music and cultural arts enthusiasts should not miss out on the Bayimba Festival happening this weekend at the National Theatre; and mid next month, all roads lead to Jinja for the Nyege Nyege international music festival.

As you know, or may not know, this free e-magazine is put together for you plying your trade in this global econ-omy and we know many things affect your working lives like the soaring exchange rate and the price of oil. We welcome submissions so please send your thoughts, analy-ses and anecdotes to editor@theworkzine.com.

Uganda’s high entrepreneurial spir-it is borne out of the population’s

innate understanding that no mat-ter where you are in the country,

wealth here isn’t distributed, it has to be generated.

“”

Sauti Za Busara is worth Saving

The Efficient Hopeless

Silhouette in Red

Agenda

How to Take Kickbacks

Hangover From Hell

Everything is Yours

The Resurrection

Kampire Bahana

Raymond Mujuni Qatahar

The Streetsider

The Rising Page

Colin Asiimwe

Flavia Bileni

Clemantine Wamariya

Daniel Nuwamanya

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This month I am among those mourning the cancellation of Sauti za Busara 2016. Despite being in its twelfth successful year and having generated over $70 mil-lion for the island of Zanzibar, the much-loved music festival will not take place next year.

I attended the 2015 edition of Sauti za Busara (SzB). A weekend of great food, sandy white beaches meeting cerulean seas, and the best live music the continent and the Diaspora have to offer; I would recommend the ex-perience to anyone. My friend and I ran around the island, getting lost in the labyrinthine streets of Stone Town, buying fresh sugarcane juice and gelato on the street, exclaiming over Syrian shwarmas at Forodhani gar-dens, devouring the freshest calamari with our toes in the Indian Ocean. In the evening we made our way to the historic Old Fort to appreciate expert soukous guitar played by Madagascan bands, athletic Zulu dances by a fam-ily band that encompassed 3 generations, traditional Zan-zibari taraab music kept alive by young women, and the inimitable Blitz the Ambassador and his full piece band playing live arrangements of his manifesto music. At SzB there are no backing tracks, all of the performers must use live instrumentation, leading to truly unique performances, even from hip hop acts like Kenya’s Octopizzo. All this happens against the beguil-ing Indian Ocean coast, a backdrop of Swahili culture both ancient and modern.

SzB alumni include musical luminar-ies like Salif Keita (Mali), Nneka (Nigeria), Ochestre Poly-Rythmo (Benin), The Broth-er Moves On (South Africa), Djimawi Africa (Algeria), and Bi Kidude (Zanzi-bar). The festival connects African mu-

sic professionals with their counterparts from across the continent, a valu-able experience where pursuing a career in the arts is still sneered upon by the larger society. Skills development is a key goal, and the festival offers a range of workshops to East African professionals.It is for these reasons that SzB was named one of “Africa’s best and most respected music events” by the BBC World Service, one of CNN’s “7 African music festivals you really have to see” and “Africa’s Best Music Festival” ac-cording to Afrotourism.

February, the month in which the festival falls, in 2014 recorded the high-est number of visitors to the island. That is more than traditional holiday months like August, July and December. This is due in no small part to Sauti za Busara. During the fest, hotels are fully booked, popular local restaurants like Loukman’s have long lines; taxi drivers, Spice tour guides, scuba diving professionals and those who sail the iconic Zanzibari dhow all ply a good living during the festival. The mainland, Dar Es Salaam benefits too. For budget travellers like myself, full use is made of Air BnB and CouchSurfing, connecting us to a network of independent operators and gracious hosts.

My favourite part of the festival, be-sides the truly intoxicating musical performances I got to witness, was counting myself among a community of music lovers. In the thick sweat of the front row I looked around me at an audience of people from all over the world, here to have a good time, to be a part of invigorating live perfor-mances by the best African acts. Ticket sales are as popular as ever, but they only account for 30% of the festival costs according to Busara Promotions CEO Yusuf Mahmood. So when this year they failed to raise half of the $200,000 necessary, the 2016 edition was reluctantly cancelled.

Sauti za Busara receives zero support from the governments of Tanzania and Zanzibar. Yup, despite being among the island’s biggest draws, the government will not invest in its ensured and con-tinued success. In fact one can argue that the Zanzibari government gets in the way of the festival’s growth by de-manding larger and larger taxes each year. This is symptomatic of a problem that can be seen in many East African governments across almost all indus-tries; lacking the infrastructure to col-lect taxation from a largely informal base, it compensates by overtaxing the structures it can collect from. In Tan-zania a visiting artist’s visa costs more

than $1000. How is the proverbial starving artist supposed to afford this?

“In fact, we have to pay the National Arts Council every year for registration, event licenses and permits from the Board of Censors, artists’ work permits and visa, assorted taxes, media and film permits, permission to put posters on streets, not to mention costs for venue hire, policing and security, electricity, water and sanitation, technical facilities and so on,” Mahmoud says.“For many years we’ve had meetings with ministers, directors, permanent sec-retaries, even the President and Vice President, to beg for at least some of these expenses to be waived, but we’re not holding our breath to get financial

support from our governments in the foreseeable future.It’s only fair to say the best we hope for is minimal interference.”

If $70 million is not enough for gov-ernments to recognize the social and commercial value of the arts sector, what hope is there for those of us who attempt to scratch out an indi-vidual living in this industry?Sure, in Africa, the basic needs of a majority of the population are still waiting to be met, but our creative and cultural aspirations are equally valid and will not wait for food on the table in order to be heard. Art is not just about expression. Innovation and creativity do not just lead to tan-gible value in the tourism industry, they lead to solutions to problems of poverty and poor governance. We have seen this with Ushahidi, with M-Pesa, with IHub, with floating schools that reach slum kids, with Sheng dictionaries and Matatu maps on Google, with apps that address maternal mortality in hard to reach areas.

The poverty that is endemic to our continent is in fact what allows cre-ativity to thrive, because African people must get around shoddy in-frastructure, debilitating bureaucra-cy, pervasive corruption, an incon-

sequential middle class, an ill-fitting education system, and a total absence of supportive government policy. To flourish on this continent, nay to func-tion, you must by definition be re-sourceful, flexible and innovate – cre-ative.

We are seeing portents of change, in Kenya there is development of a Na-tional Arts and Culture Bill, but we need more and we need it faster. Sau-ti za Busara is but one example of East African opportunity that is being throttled instead of allowed to thrive.

This piece owes a lot to:>> Sauti za Busara Facebook page>> The British Council’s study: “Scop-ing the Creative Economy of East Afri-ca (pdf)>> The Poor State of the Creative Economy East Africa, The Daily Nation>> Sauti za Busara, Why Yusuf Mahmoud is not ready to watch it self-destruct, UP Nairobi>> Photos by Darlyne Komukama

Kampire is a fundraising and communi-cations consultant in addition to being a travel and music lover. She’s affectionately known as ‘The High Priestess’ to her con-fidants, and is generally fun and quirky. You can find her on the internet at vuga.wordpress.com and on twitter @Vugafri-ca.

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how to take

and ruin your marketing

KFollowing Nada’s scath-ing tirade against the rot in the market-ing industry here I felt it important to follow on with a quick guide on how to not be those people she talked about. You know the ones ruining every-one’s bad name. If you are a decision maker you want to read this in case your marketing people are on the take too. If you aren’t on the take the methods below are not how to do it. This quick survival guide is to prepare marketing and brand managers who are very soon go-ing to come into the harsh light of the public’s eye.

career

By Colin Asiimwe

Firing your agency is the fastest way of either squeezing a fat cheqeue out of the directors to make you reverse you decision. It is normally based on some nonsensical excuse about an inconse-quential brief which had no addition to your company bottom line. Firing your agency also lets people know that you have balls and if they aren’t care-ful you will take theirs. (Not to be con-fused with not renewing their contract)

A pitch is the fastest way to get some quick dough in your pockets. The dif-ferent agencies will try to wine and dine you ahead of the pitch in the guise of “trying to understand the brand bet-ter”. Those who don’t even try shouldn’t even proceed past the credentials stage. That should take care of a few din-ners at least and some money for your pig project in Busabala. Don’t discuss cash, just the promise of payment.

When you finally settle on the last 2 agencies in the pitch process go and vis-it them. At their premises. The truth is most agency owners treat their staff like dogs and they don’t want you to know how their staff live and work to affect

their chances of winning. This tactic helps to instill the threat that in case they didn’t get the hint at the start they can still improve their chances of com-ing out ahead by doing “the needful”.

As the agency fights with finance/ pro-curement to negotiate their retainer fees you should also be negotiating your own retainer with the agency. Never do this with junior level people because those little peasants talk too much and they don’t know what it costs to pow-er your active social life. Go straight to the agency Top Dog and say “Look here, this is what I want and we will be good”. In cases where the agency head isn’t really the agency head (like if the real owner is in another country study-ing his MBA go to him and don’t waste time with underlings as they will sim-ply frustrate you. He might still say no.

Kickbacks are all about the right job. The people in corporate comms never have any money, those poor little sods. Sure they get crumbs from organizing press conferences, printing annual re-ports, stakeholder breakfasts and a few other scraps. The real job you need to get is sponsorships, events, marketing and branding. Then everyone knows

1. FIRE YOUR AGENCY

2. CALL FOR A PITCH

3. INITIATE THE ALPHA PROTOCOL

4. NEGOTIAITE YOUR RETAINER

5. GET THE RIGHT JOB

6. BEFRIEND YOUR AGENCY MEDIA MANAGER

and owes you. How? If you own the largest sponsorship property in town, your kickback is even in dollars. After buying all those running kits and those water bottles. If you are in charge of all of branding, you decide which suppliers and site holders get contracts for your “countrywide campaign” where some campaigns are as countrywide as Nsan-gi and Mabira forest. You also decide who prints the flyers, posters, tee shirts, pull up banners, basically anything! Fi-nally if you convince your company to have annual big do’s/ concerts/ parties/ then you have started living. Don’t wor-ry. Simply tell all your suppliers that you have the budget and they have your 10%. Each of them. Sound, lights, en-tertainment, catering, invitations, give aways,etc and they will sort you out.

But that’s for the block of apartments and your newest set of rentals. Let’s talk about the stuff that pays for groceries and fuel and new car tyres every 6 months.

This nifty trick allows you to influence who gets on the media schedules you sign off. There is an industry story of a character who moved status meet-ings from their brewery offices to a mutually “convenient” location where they could meet all their agencies. What was really happening was they were dictating which suppliers were late with their monthly remittances.

It is a precaution to deter against back and forth work that clients are some-times called to studio to oversee radio spot recordings. Use this as an opportu-nity to ensure the radio producer knows who the boss is and doesn’t end up giving your “cut” to the copywriter as is often the case. Another common industry sto-ry is of a copywriter who was recording 4 ads in 8 languages totaling to 36 ads. He walked to the studio and demand-ed UGX 7 Million of the 14 Million that was the total recording cost or he would take the job elsewhere. I guess it had always been part of him from the start.

A company that does ushering and events, and experiential marketing. Then award it all the contracts from your company. Deny your agency any opportunity to intervene in terms of ideas, input, contributions, and super-

7. KNOW WHO DOES YOUR RADIO ADS

8. START A COMPANY WITH YOUR SPOUSE

vision lest they criticize your “supplier’s” work. That should keep her shopping budget out of your side dish budget.

People think the president is the one who made brown envelopes famous? Ppsshshhh please!! Some PR person probably told him he needed to learn how to give money in brown envelopes. It was the cool practice. Always have the envelope picked up by an assistant, or a relative or someone who has no relation to the deal in case it’s a trap. Then give them “transport”. If you are in the oil/ mining sector you just give them the keys to your car and make sure on the way home you don’t pass by the weighbridge!

I don’t even want to get into this one since really, we all honestly know there aren’t many marketing people in this town who have actually shot TVCs (Tele-vision Commercials). If you haven’t yet, be strong God is still grooming you for bigger things. Just never “eat” 1/3 of the TVC budget and expect kicks a** work.

Indeed why take money when you can take a pound of flesh? In some cases people just owned their account man-

agers and executives and banged them on the side to keep the accounts. This one agency long ago kept a lucrative ac-count because the accounts lead was banging the commercial dude. The day she dumped the dude, termina-tions were issued, payments frozen, fire and brimstone rained on earth.

This being the most tired trick in the book. Some clients just keep rejecting the work. From copy lines, to headlines, to colour gradients to image layouts. Reject it all! Like a petulant child until the agency gives you what you want – which is seldom what you are asking for.

This article is a quick guide to help the uninitiated marketer, brand manager, account executive navigate these murky waters. There will be others with more practical advice on how to work in mar-keting, be an a**hole client, record radio ads, buy billboards and print flyers. Then finally how to shoot a TVC (the Holy Grail).

Buckle up school is in session.

9. NEVER RECEIVE MONEY DIRECTLY

10. SHOOT A TVC

11. IT’S NOT ALWAYS ABOUT THE CASH

12. KEEP REJECTING THE WORK

Colin is a business unit manager at one of Uganda’s top advertising agencies. He blogs in #BeastMode at www.spartakuss.ug and you can follow him on twitter @spartakussug.

What was the poet looking to be?Peering into the future sketching hurriedly,

What were the scenes he hopes to see?Before the Master Architect and Grand Engineer could interfere

Because he is the type to insist on taking his time…The type to deny Fear its rights.

While he is – as he types, aware that he is the very same insane, half scientist-half artist who brought

Fear to life the day he acceptedBegrudgingly or otherwise

To be earthborn in mortal form for a whileFrom the second of his descent fast forward 7 months and 20 days to his first cry

fast forward to deathbed rattles and last sighsLet me tell you something

No one wants to be nothingOnce they’ve come alive.

So what was the poet looking to be before the Master Architect and the Grand Engi-neer could interfere

And snatch the breath from his body and declare his soul deadAnd let the music of his heartbeat and his memories cascade into the ether and with-

er away

I am looking to be;Something that a younger ME might possibly have considered cool

Something that serves as an exception to the unjust ruleSomething to touch the heart and linger in the memory

Something to engage your wallet and add hope to your inventorySomething to leverage against the bullshit when it spreads

Something to add faces to the voices in your headSomething like the edges of a song

Something you just can’t put your finger on.Something like a memory you once thought you’d forgotten

Coming to your rescue in an afflicted momentSomething like the omen

Something that both the hands of prayer and hell frozen over have in common

Silhouette in Red

Something secretSomething out in the open

Something localSomething foreign

Something with a bit of the old –A bit of the new

Something with the heat of the sun –And a touch of the moon.

Something breathing with an African rhythm,Something blue black in its color, red blooded in its incision.

Something like a walking contradictionSomething that makes sense only in the eloquence of its diction

Something like a son of the soil finding self in a concept of foreign fictionSomething on a mission

Something like a torch passed on in the secret places where decisions are madeSomething like a story given legs,

Something where you understand first then ask questions afterOr else be cut out in the pages of the final chapter…

Something to catch you off guard like a well turned phraseAnd then let you down easy like an invisible friend.

Something of an abrupt end.Something…

Like a Silhouette in Red.

This was what I sawPeering into the future here are sketches of the scenes that I’ll draw

Deep from places that leave no traces except the knowledge of -A blueprint that is both underhand and above board.

A skeleton key that opens all doors.An ace of spades to dig myself out of each and every grave -

And a footpath that leads both to the beginning and the end.Standing on the streetside catching for an eternity of a clean split second the hidden

eyesOf a hooded form stepping off the pavement across the road

I realized am blessed more than I understand or will ever knowI am beloved. I am not alone.

My silhouette against a sea of red is juxtaposed.

The day we taped the Oprah show, in 2006, I met my sister Claire at her run-down, three-bedroom apartment in Rogers Park, where she lived with the three kids she had before age 21, thanks to her ex-husband, an aid worker who’d picked her up at a refugee

camp. A black car arrived and drove us to downtown Chicago. I was a jun-ior at New Trier High School, living Monday to Friday with the Thomas family in Kenilworth, a fancy suburb. Claire, unlike me, was not a kid when we got asylum in the United States, so nobody sent her to school or took her in. Instead, she worked as a maid, cleaning 200 hotel rooms a week. All I knew about The Oprah Winfrey Show we were taping was that it was a two-part series: the first, a segment of Oprah and Elie Wiesel visiting Auschwitz, God help us; the second, the 50 winners of Oprah’s high school essay contest, of which I was one. All

Clemantine Wamariya and Elizabeth WeilPortraits by Andrew White

At age six, I ran away with my sister to escape the Rwandan massacre. We spent seven years as refugees. What do you want me to do about it? Cry?

of us winners had written about why Wiesel’s book Night, his gutting story of surviving the Holocaust, is still relevant today. I dictated my essay to Mrs. Thomas, my American mother, who packed my lunch and drove me to school. I said that maybe if Rwandans had read Night, they wouldn’t have decided to kill each other.

Oprah sat on stage on a white love seat, next to tired, old Elie Wiesel, who sat in a white overstuffed chair. Oprah said glowing things about all the winners except me, which I told myself was fine. I hadn’t really gone to school until age 13, and when I was seven, I’d celebrated Christmas with a shoebox of pencils that I’d buried under our tent so that nobody would steal it. But then Oprah leaned forward and said, “So, Clemantine, before you left Africa, did you ever find your parents?”

I had a mic cord tucked under my black TV blazer and a battery pack clipped to my black TV pants, so I should have known something like this was coming. “No,” I said.

“So when was the last time you saw them?” Oprah asked.

“It was 1994,” I said, “when I had no idea what was going on.”

“Well, I have a letter from your parents,” Oprah said, like we’d won a game show. “Clemantine and Claire, come on up here!”

Claire kept on her toughest, most skeptical face, be-cause she knows more about the world than I do. I leapt up onto the set smiling, because I learned some really useful skills as a refugee — like, I always could read what people

wanted me to do.

“This is from your family, in Rwanda,” Op-rah said, handing me a tan envelope. “From your father and your mother and your sisters and your brother.” Claire and I did know that our parents were alive, but we’d barely talked to them because — how do you start? Why didn’t you look harder for us? How are you? I’m fine, thanks, now working at Gap, and I’ve found it’s much easier to learn to read English if you also listen to audio books? I opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of blue paper. Then Oprah, thank God, put her hand on mine. She stopped me from unfolding it, a huge relief. I didn’t want to have a breakdown on TV.

“You don’t have to read it right now, in front of all these people,” Oprah said, mercifully. “You don’t have to read it in front of all these peo-ple….” She paused, grandmaster of stagecraft that she is. “Because… because… your fami-ly…. IS HERE!”

I started walking backward. Claire’s jaw un-hinged, a caricature of shock. Then a door, that weirdly had images of barbed wire on it, opened stage right and out ran an eight year old boy, who was apparently my brother. He was fol-lowed by my father, in a dark suit, salmon shirt, and tie; a shiny new five-year-old sister; my mother in a long blue dress; and my sister, Clau-dine, now taller than me, who I’d last seen her when she was two and I still believed my moth-

er picked her from a banana tree. I’d fantasized and prayed about this moment so many times. I used to write my name in dust on buses, hoping my mother would see my loopy cursive “Clemantine” and real-ize that I was alive. I saved coins, so I could buy my parents presents.

Claire remained frozen. But I, in my new-ly-purchased TV clothes and blown-out hair, ran toward my family, arms outstretched. I hugged my brother. I hugged my father. I hugged my tiny little sister. I tried to hug my mother but my knees gave out — I guess I was a cartoon, too — and my moth-er had to pick me up. Then I hugged her. I hugged Claudette. I walked across the stage and hugged Op-rah and the lovely, weathered Eli Wiesel. The cameras were so far away that I forgot I was participating in a million-viewer spectacle, though I was aware enough to realize that everybody in the audience was crying, including the one other Rwandan essay contest win-ner. I wiped my eyes, put my hand on her shoulder, and said, “My mother is your mother, too,” which probably offended the hell out of her.

Then we were ejected onto the sidewalk outside Har-po Studios and my whole new family took a black car north to my sister’s apartment. Nobody knew what to do. My mother kept sitting down and standing

up, and touching everything, and singing about how God had protected us and now we must serve and love him. My father kept smiling, like someone he mistrusted was taking pictures of him. Claire re-mained catatonic; I thought she’d finally gone crazy, for real. I sat on Claire’s couch, looking at my strange new siblings, the ones that had replaced me and Claire. I fell asleep crying and woke still wearing my Oprah shoes.

The next day was Friday. Of course, I didn’t go to school. I couldn’t look at my parents — they were ghosts. I felt gratitude, sure, but I also felt kicked in the stomach, like my life was some sicko psycholo-gist’s perverse experiment: Let’s see how far can we take a person down, and then how far can her raise her up, and then let’s see what happens! My mother loved to garden in my early childhood home, so Sat-urday we went to the Chicago Botanical Garden. We did Navy Pier — Ferris wheel, cotton candy, all the tourist stuff. My father kept smiling his fake, pained smile. Claire never said a word. Then, Monday morn-ing, my parents and new siblings left on the flight back to Rwanda that Oprah’s people had booked for them. I caught a Red Line and then the Purple Line train back up to Kenilworth. Mrs. Thomas picked me up at the station and dropped me at school.

You can read Clemantine’s full story on Medium.com (https://medium.com/matter/everything-is-yours-everything-is-not-yours-d6f66bd9c6f9)

ON Saturday, while attending the social media day, a renowned Marketer, Colin Asiimwe, raised a strong point in his 6 minute presentation, that I believe, many people who were in attendance paid little attention to.

Colin, dressed in a red tie and tight hugging blue shirt said that our young innovators (and young peo-ple at large really) were not thinking so much about the future. To defend his point, he stated that young people walk into institutions with less experience but have the ability to offer new ways of using knowledge (within and outside the institu-tions) to change how these institutions work, but they don’t. I want to agree with him, and indeed from a differ-ent point of view.

The one place that young people have not ven-tured and innovated in, is politics.Our country’s politics is still ori-ented on the old anal-ogies of war, insecurity and pet- ty gimmick- ing. Many of our political actors are, for the lack of a worse word, pass-time comedians awaiting their chance at the grand stage. They pay alle-giance to the highest bidder and think the least about the future of the country. Political lenses in this country are adjusted to petty ideas and suggestive gimmicking.

We still can’t, as a country; run an efficient health system, a functional democracy, a productive edu-cation system, construct a full network of roads, fix potholes, define and strengthen an economy. Even getting people to do the jobs we pay them millions to do; that too, we have failed to do.The reason for this is quite simple. Politics defines our culture, it determines where we shall spend our

money and how much of it we shall spend. Politics fixes economies, gets food on people’s tables and constructs homes for people. Politics, despite being riddled with inefficiencies, determines how much you buy your beer, how much you pay your landlord, where and how your rolex guy will operate and what price he will sell his next rolex. Politics, sim- ply put, is the father of the social,

eco- nomic and ba- sic tenets of

a society, and we ignore it.

The young people today would rath-

er in hushed tones at bar counters talk about

how rotten the country has become and offer ideas on

how to make it better but leave that at the bar counter for liquor

stores to keep.

We would rather eat rolex and mini coca-cola for dinner when in fact we know our day’s work

is worth four dinners at a fancy res-taurant but we can’t be paid so because the economy is crap! We would rather flex muscles with the land-lord at the month’s end when in fact we know we’d be in our own houses but the political system hovering over us doesn’t think enough for the 21st century problems. We’d rather apply for scholarships at Ivy league universities when in fact we know deep down that we can, with effort transform our education into an Ivy league status.

We are comfortable quoting the dismal figures on how many Ugandans have access to an education or health facility in our innovative pitches for ap-plications and we are happy noting that now many of them can access smartphones but we’ll make our apps reach them either way. We are masters at skirting around the inefficiency that government presents and solve everything, except the problem itself.

The E

fficient H

opeless

Raymond Mujuni Q

atahar

https://qataharray.wordpress.com

So the other day I was in a taxi from work minding my business, a friend calls and says she is a at party and asked if I wanted to join. I didn’t really want to but I said to myself “just a few minutes”(and that is how my two days of pain started)

When I walked into the venue my first thought was “so many westerners in one place!” anyway I found my friend and she immediately shoved a glass of whiskey in my face. I don’t remember how many other glass-es were shoved in my face. I remember dancing and everyone that knows me knows I don’t like to dance. I am a terrible dancer so I’d rather not embarrass myself by trying.The next morning I woke up in my bed. I smiled and thought oh it wasn’t so bad because I noted that I had plugged in my phone to charge, I had undressed, the doors and windows were shut. It wasn’t so bad after all, I told my-self. Oh how wrong I was

I got out of bed and into the shower, dressed up and called my boda guy. I was halfway to work when I realized I was still drunk! I called up my friend and asked what time I had left the party. She said 4am! So that meant I had only slept for one hour! No wonder I was still drunk.Again, I lied to myself that I will be fine (I heard a laugh in my head)

When I got to work I was in an unusual good mood at 8am! That should have rung a bell but it didn’t because well, I was still drunk. Around midday I felt a headache coming on(now this is when the high was wearing off and the handover was setting in) I have failed to come up with a word to de-scribe how the rest of the day went. I kept rushing off my desk(with a straight face by the way) to the ladies to throw up. Do you know how painful it is to throw up? I felt my soul leave my body.

At 6pm I headed home got into bed fully clothed but before I closed my eyes, I deleted my “friend’s” number. It is still painful to type the word whiskey.

In the morning I opened one eye and quickly shut it again. the headache was now raging. There was too much light in the room and I could hear a radio blaring(okay it wasn’t blaring but it was loud!) I cursed my neighbor and covered my head with a pillow. I was hungry but I could not get up. I started to pray. I asked God to take away the pain and I will give this month’s salary to the church. I promised to go to church every day for 2 years. God did not listen! I stayed in bed the whole day. I didn’t eat I didn’t even breathe. I know for a fact that my relationship with whiskey is over( okay for now it is)

By Flavia BileniFlavia narrates the occa-sional shenanigan on her facebook page at https://

www.facebook.com/fbileniHangover

HELLfrom

The meeting just ended and everyone has left. I am seated in an empty room surround-ed by silence. My mind, in contrast to the environment seems to be trying to attain silence.It seems that everyone has an agenda for my life but God. No. Seriously. I am all but being ordered about by friends, circumstance, myself.

Actually, it feels dumb to involve God. The words people are saying make so much sense but my spirit is just restless. Ahh! That is the word I was looking for. Restless. Not burdened. Not confused but restless.How can we, a people, who call God our own – believe so little in His direction? “Just do”, “use your circumstances to guide you”… When I look at the Israelites I see clearly that God desperatly wanted to be involved in their lives. But this is in direct opposition to my life and the advice solicited from friends and that that is offered anyway.

Do I allow you to have the power and influence over me to direct my life because it makes common sense? The answer is yes. It doesnt sound right but it happens all the time. It’s happening right now as I right this. There are just some things that we think we shouldnt bother praying about because unanimously people have seen our struggle and have given up on God being able to change the situation. Enough. If it was meant to me there should be peace. The peace of God. No struggle. No strife. Is it because we really care, have askes God his opinion on someone else’s behalf or it is because we are tired of having to listen to their drama.

My mind wanders to the garden when Jesus was praying to the point of sweating blood. I wonder, was that in the peace of God as well? The assumption is the peace of God alludes to the will of God. It was the will of God that that whip slap across his back and that the repetitive whipping cause tearing of flesh – and that raw flesh be whipped some more until blood covered the bear skin. This was the will of God. So where is the so called peace of God? Or do you think Jesus did not scream out in pain? The very Jesus who sweated blood. Maybe the whipping is too graphic for you – How about the nails driven into him? The crown of thorns on his head.

45 minutes later, I am still seated in this empty room, paralyzed. Paralyzed by the entire notion of it.

On the one hand, I have the advice – in some cases, the demand. The human voices convinced that that is/wasnt God. On the other hand, the quiet.

The quiet. Without ‘peace’. Without supernatural blazing graphics or spectacular sound effects. With alot of questions.

Just quiet.

Agendahttps://theothersideofgod.wordpress.com/

Lazarus come out!These are the words that the Son of Man spoke when he stood knocking at Death’s door.Lazarus come out!These are the words that the dead man heard while he roamed in limbo this slumber was not simple.Lazarus come out!Feet dusty. Fingernails dirty. Chipped. Garments crawling with bed bugs. Fleas. Sandal straps worn down to bits. The Son of Man had walked many miles. Spoken even more words. But these three words were as yet unheard from his cracked dry lips.Lazarus come out!Lazarus come OUT?It is one thing to challenge Death. It is another to chal-lenge Death on another’s behalf. Who did he think he was?The Pharisees, the Sadducees. The Chief Priests. Waited by the temple steps. Eyes hungry. Bellies filled with fear and jealousy. Fingers crooked. Shriveled with leprosy. Money could not heal the touch of wickedness upon each of them.Ill at ease. Alliances made amongst each other’s enemies. Hypocrites.Their only cause for unity enmity toward the Son of Man who’d bring the people together under God.One people under God. The frightening light of Jehovah God.Who did he think he was?Crawl up and quietly stab him in the back.Untie the string, pull back the tent flaps. Creep in, and stab him in the back.Stab him while he slept. Bury him in the desert. In the desert where the hyenas laughed. Where the cold winds swept. Where the mad moon blazed. In the desert where Mother Moon of the One Evil Eye of ancient days held sway.Old Mother Moon of Baal-Haamun, Molech, Ashtoreth and thirty silver coins. One for each night spent in the belly of the earth but twice …The miracle of Old Mother’s sacrifice.Take his life then like thieves flee the scene of death. Cowards that hated how they secretly prayed the Son of Man would do the right thing, give them a righteous cause for killing him.They too craved Redemption.In a different sense.

Jesus wept.

Lazarus come out!His disciples still men at arms armed but their arms weighed down with doubt.Lazarus come out! Two loving sisters one a nagging soul the other a dreamer devout.Lazarus come out!There He stood. Master. Teacher. Saviour. First born of the line of David in Judea where the stoning of prophets had become contagious.Before the mouth of a mountain cave with a giant stone over the entrance.Four hot days already elapsed.Ready though the people were to rejoice, exult. They kept their distance. And did so unasked. Lazarus come out!The Son of Man had declared that for friendships sake and the glory of his Father’s name he’d wake a dead man up.

Lazarus Come Out!!Your life is not done with you yet.

Your people, your sisters and the future await -

The testimony of Love that will heal the broken hearted and seal my Fate.Lazarus come out.Stop and turn around.Walk into the light down through the dark passages of time. Follow the voice that you already

know, Come! Come! Out where the sun shines.

Be reborn, cast off your swaddling clothes.

No man has done it before.(Though the Son of Man shall do it again)

Three days in the belly of the grave raised up by the only words that rebuke DeathLord rise up to my Defense! LAZARUS COME OUT!!!…And the Son of Man’s eyes rolled and disappeared into his head.And the air thundered and the tombstones began to shake.And a shape with gray cloth flowing from its arms and neck. Slowly materialized out of the shade. The women screamed and hid.The men fled.The Son of Man triumphant soaked in sweat swayed and then exhausted, fell.The air trembled with the wings of unseen archangels.Lazarus had come into the Kingdom.And Death had no dominion.

Friends dayz outTo all my dia frdz we have

prepared a camping #2 night and 3 days of fun to pearl beach at kalangala island. couples: 150,000

UGx only single 100,000 UGx only

Activities: Boat riding, camel riding, swimming, wrestling, volley ball, and

many others.. To all interested contact

+256703614165

East and Central African Tennis Challenge :

All the tennis stars will align at Lugogo to participate in the East African Tennis Challenge. Mark

Your Calendar and Stay ready for the biggest Tennis Sports Event

the region has ever seen.#ECATC2015 on Mon Sep 21

2015 at 08:00 am

International ICT and BPO Conference 2015 on Wed Sep 30 2015 at Kampala Serena Hotel,

Kampala, Kampala, Uganda . You can get in touch with the registration team registration@

ubpoa.or.ug.Or call 0774132503 or 0706110000

EVENTS, ADS & EVERYTHING ELSE

25-Aug-15Emma NuelleGodfrey MawaJames Bakiza

Jonathan DikeMwami Samuel Tebandeke

26-Aug-15Charles Masanso

Estherlynn MwangiLeDear Ochie

27-Aug-15Diana Bwanika

Larry Brizzy

28-Aug-15Bakoyego Ambo Mando

Charity Kesiime BantarizaCindy Sanyu

Duke Roger MugumeFiona MusiimeMurungi Annet

Okello P K AdemsonReagan Thadeo Fadiga

29-Aug-15Birungi TwalibImane Ouardi

James Silver DamuliraNique Apollo

Raymond Kashoggie Ndyagambaki

11-Sep-15Auson Audax

Cyrus KawalyaJo MuganziOscar López

12-Sep-15Becca SchwartzEdwin MbabaziHenry Karoro

Luwi King LionPatrique OkotSanam Rathor

Saskia KyasTumwijukye Cathyrn

Walter Tinyefunza Awule

13-Sep-15David KamandeE-star Kalenzi

Ingrid NangumyaIzzy DoesIt

Mandela JoshPhillip Mukasa-Kintu

Valentine GobertYvonne Tee

14-Sep-15Alexander Kamberov

Ambre FugerayBruce Terry T Muganga

Cossie Tee KetrahDoreen Balaza

Fredrick-Albert MukunguJimmy Enach

Kwagala DerrickMichael Okumu-Ringa

Mulepo BenjaminMicheal Henry Owiny

15-Sep-15Atwooki Sejusa Clement

LemmyCedric AnilDavoe Kara

Kasujja Kisule RonaldoLorac Mutesi

Mugasa Evelyn

16-Sep-15Hijira A Sucre.Imani Kendi.

Malinga Arthur.Nicole Gatoni Nagimesi

17-Sep-15Othman Wangu KimweriRoy Festo Ndahura Karu-

gabaKisembo Solomon

18-Sep-15Anne Ostendorp

Arthur KmoBwana Bruce

Gilbert Kyama Chama Beyz

Humphrey LwangaIdTwins UgandaKaggwa Martin

Karungi K NamutsoNkanika Mark

Stephan Flamand

19-Sep-15Kwesiga Bennet Abeho.

Richard Sabwe.Ronnie Kagimu Hospi

Wilson Aß?gaß?Yvonne Janet Maberi

20-Sep-15Atwooki MutungiYoussef Karouani

Youssef Masswi.

21-Sep-15AL Rachel

Beyagira AmbroseChristopher MukidiGeorge Kyaboona

Khalid SimbwaPaul Akitwine

Alinaitwe Kellen

22-Sep-15Edjack EdauJuma Boghol

Masembe Philip O’wa Bayimba

Phenella PhilisSegawa Edward

23-Sep-15Bruno Ouma

Christine KobugabeGerald A Wall

Joshua Joseph Niyo

24-Sep-15Asiimwe MargretBahemuka Vicent

Bk MosesDa Leonardo

Martin BwengyeMulinya Mulinya

Paul Mwirigi

Sunshine Kabs

25-Sep-15Flora Alukam

Kenny KaturamuMuthakesya OdgenTonny Katongole

26-Sep-15Fiona Twino

Majiid MugenyiMarvyn Kansiime

Penininah Karungi BirungiSteve Ssaku

Twinamatsiko B Herbert

27-Sep-15Berna Ataitom

Mia KomNick NapokoliSarah Oduka

Simon Defpierro

28-Sep-15Andrew Wabwire

Jimmy Odoki AcellamMichael Atukunda

Renzioni Hill

29-Sep-15Andrew Odoch Umahtete

Brian LaraMatthew Rukundo

Peter BacilekSophie B Alal

30-Sep-15Abel Rwegokabengera

Asiimwe ColinBirungi WalterGözde Tekin

Kugonza Simon Peter

1-Oct-15Becky AkelloChris Tinka

Kansiime TheopistaKato Darlius

Leopold Mpairwe

Aronda Nyakairima

father. servant. friend

1959 - 2015