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Gentle breezes rock the waiting boats. Each man sits in the rear slumped over the hand built motors. Taken from the inside of a lawnmower or car, the dead give-away is the â€˜Victaâ€™ or â€˜Toyotaâ€™ written on the side. The boys, usually their eldest sons run up and down the front of the boat and onto the beach, reaching for your hand….
She woke humming a tune, it must have been blues for there were tears in her eyes and few things moved her to tears like the songs her mother used to sing without category. No. It wasnâ€™t quite soul, for how could she truthfully sing soul, when her own had escaped long ago….
Itâ€™s Christmas 1997, Iâ€™m hitching a lift in the back of a truck, up the steep sides of Mt Elgon. My first day in Uganda and Iâ€™m wrapped like a mummy up to the eyeballs, the thin red dust filters through every pore- I imagine as I blink, tiny pockets of it are storing themselves behind my eye sockets and soon I will have the bulged eye look of the black bodies compressed against me. Ah, Uganda…