Flame and Song

Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa

Description

PKK�s soul-warming memoir tells of a life enriched by song, literature, food and spirituality at the heart of a loving family. Born into a newly independent Uganda, she grew up in a volatile political landscape but never lacked the inspiration and protection of generations of friends and relatives. Her story travels from her expansive childhood homes in Uganda, to the novelties of living in Addis Ababa, before settling in Cape Town, her current home. But no matter how far her journeys take her, it�s clear that home is not only about places but people.

Sujets

• Autobiography
• Biography

Informations

• Publié par: Modjaji Books
• Date de parution: 01 septembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781928215226
• Langue: English

Extrait

Flame and Song

Flame and Song
Philippa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa

Copyright
Flame and Song Text © Philippa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa
ISBN (Print): 9781928215219 ISBN (Digital download): 9781928215226
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying and recording, or any other information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.


Lighting the Ashes Today I picked up that instrument that I had strung and unstrung for so long, threw it into the fire, opened my mouth and sang. My voice rang out loud and clear. Becoming one with the fire. The flames of my belly-heart shaped the song that danced out on my voice rekindling the ashes. Today I sang the song I had come to sing. And my fire burns again.

Dedication
To my parents, Fayce and Henry Barlow, whose love, strength, courage, resilience and generosity shaped who I am in the world today. To my sister Fay and brother Chris, whose cerebral palsy was a blessing in disguise. Thank you for teaching me to listen with my heart, to see with my eyes and my body, for teaching me courage and wisdom, and for helping me understand from an early age that we are more than our bodies. To my sisters Maliza and Estella, who were there from the start.
To my husband Victor, who has travelled more than half my life with me, and who has lived in parts of this landscape, with his own story to tell.
To my children: Faye, who is my greatest supporter and critic, thank you for listening to my stories and for your inspiration and insight. Senteza, whose big heart and quick temper keep me grounded and on my toes. And Chris, who keeps me young. I hope this gives you some insight into the experiences that have shaped me.
To all Ugandans who have lived through the first 50 years of independence: those who have loved Uganda deeply, and are proud of being Ugandan, and those who, over the years, have felt anger, shame, fear and frustration at being called Ugandan. As a generation, we have a story to tell, about the impact of war, about starting over at home or in foreign lands, and about who and what has kept us alive and hoping.
The history books tell us about explorers, despotic leaders, economic war, HIV and foreign policy, but they omit the voices of the people who lived through it. We are the keepers of these stories; they are ours to tell.
It is my hope that my story will inspire others to tell theirs, too, so they will not be forgotten.

Contents Prologue 1. The hearth 2. Stoking the fire 3. Snuffing out the fire 4. Smouldering embers 5. New fires 6. And there are ashes 7. Rekindled Glossary Acknowledgements About the author

Prologue
We burn up with flames – of love, hope, fear, rage – and then burn out. And always an ember still glows.
My father always called us ‘Love’. There was something in the way he said it. Love. It was his special name for us. There were five of us children – Maliza, Estella, Fay, Chris and me. But his heart was big enough to love many, so many.
In a letter he wrote to me when I was at boarding school, he told me how he had looked outside that morning at the glistening grass and called Maama to show her the thousands of diamonds he would have bought her, had he had the money. My mother’s response was, ‘It’s only dew, Harry!’ She also loved and took care of many, but she was more pragmatic in her love.
In July of 2006 my father fell and broke his hip. The operation to replace it should have been easy, but he spent six weeks in Mulago Hospital in Kampala and died with his hip still untouched. My parents had always been like a solid dam wall, holding everything together, and now, as they aged, as they were reaching the point of passing on, who was going to do it? Would we be able to contain the waters? What would happen if we could not? I’d had a nagging feeling for months that a dam was about to burst and the flood would overwhelm us.
But as I reflected on that last week in the hospital, and all the years growing up, as I watched people come in and out of the hospital offering help and comfort, I realised that although I thought my parents did everything on their own, they didn’t. Not even my mother, who seemed so self-contained. When she trusted you to take care of things, and when she saw you could manage, she would let go. They were able to because they were part of a family and community that they loved and cared for. And they were cared for in return. I realised that if we held steady, we would be fine.
I spent that last week of my father’s life with him and my mother in the hospital, nursing him, together with Estella and our extended family and friends. Maliza, had who struggled with depression for most of her life, had checked herself in to another hospital a couple of weeks before Daddy’s fall and the family split up to care for them both. She came home the day before he died.
We had so much support and love it made his passing bittersweet. Ensconced in the community that I belonged to, I drew strength, I felt love, I found a sense of centredness. I was at home. We cared for my father, mother and sister, and when he died we mourned our loss together. When the time came for me to leave Kampala and come back to Cape Town it was numbing because there were few things here that reminded me of my father.