Perpetual Panic

"Some old men who know little Baganda will wake from their sleep, laughing, saying: This thing this boy of ours is carrying is a witch. How can it carry the song of Museveni, the one Museveni, who says a word and we hide ourselves inside the caves of Mt. Kadam? Our son, if you have learnt the trick of stealing Museveni’s song into that thing then what we wait for is for you to bring him here so that we sing with him and praise our bulls..."

To avoid the scorching sun of the land behind the hills, I usually opt to sit under a tree shade probably that of a Tamarind tree. People behind the hills call the tree Oron. This big oron tree has the capacity of accommodating more than 50 people. Old men will perch their heads on their traditional stools and comfortably catch an afternoon nap. Others will prop their heads on a walking stick delicately balanced between two traditional stools. Lorot Son of the Hills™ would comfortably lie somewhere, half-asleep half-awake, listening to the folklore of old men and gleaning their well-knitted arguments.

Today I will not talk about what they discuss under that tree. I will focus on some stray thought that has gripped my mind. It is nothing big really.

In my self-induced sleepy state, I saw this young man with a broken chip of glass smoothening a walking stick we call lökûp. He was never in a hurry, never in any self-inflicted haste. He could blow off the stick-dusts. He appeared never to be worried about the flying time. I asked myself: Lorot Son of the Hills™, does this man have deadlines? Is this man a slave of time? When the sun sets in the evening, does he look back and scream: So much to do, so little time to accomplish them? Does he worry about diplomas, degrees, masters and PHDs? 

He never appeared so. In his state, he had reached his “self-actualization”. He had found his inner peace. Under that Oron tree, I looked inwardly into myself, of my academic papers, of my race with time, of my jittery nature, of my state of “perpetual panic”. What will be my self-actualization? Where will I find inner peace? Hadn’t I been told in Form Four that I will come to realize that the more I read the more I will discover that I don’t know? Hadn’t I sadly surmised that the race will always be of “perpetual panic”? 

Looking at the contentment of that man under the tree (as against my feeling of “I need to do one more thing”), feeling the relaxed mode he had assumed of life (as against mine of “haste, waste no time”), I envied the man smoothening the walking stick. But then again, I thought to myself: True, the man is contented. True, the man appears to have inner peace. But, what would be the thrill to this man upon discovering the hidden knowledge between book covers, of Google, of his-story, of explanations to many questions that remain unanswered in his mind? How would he feel seated there with grizzly old men peeling off one gem of knowledge after another before his audience? How would this man be like when he finally receives the revelation that the world is more than smoothening lökûp?

With such knowledge, perhaps the man will read Daily Nation over the internet, or most probably The Daily Monitor. Under that oron tree, he might say: Kinsmen, in akanta (for that’s how the people behind the hills call Uganda), Museveni has decided to sing to get more votes ( in reference to Do You Want Another Rap?). To thrill them, he might go to YouTube and play them the song from his laptop. Some old man who knows little Baganda will wake from his sleep, laughing, saying: 

This thing this boy of ours is carrying is a witch. How can it carry the song of Museveni, the one Museveni, who says a word and we hide ourselves inside the caves of Mt. Kadam? Our son, if you have learnt the trick of stealing Museveni’s song into that thing then what we wait for is for you to bring him here so that we sing with him and praise our bulls. When I had strength, my son, I could stand like a bull with crossed horns, placing my palms on my temple and praise my bull with all the adjectives a warrior could use. Then I could leap into the air as if my feet had wings. I swear by this snuff bottle, my agemates still say I used to sing as if I had been possessed by the spirit of my bull.