Prefecture

Public speaker

Regrettably, I still remember the students I disliked in my childhood. Even now, as I recall my bittersweet youth in Kampala, indignation rises within me at the injustice I endured at school. 

During those long days in the city, I followed my father and mother like a helpless child, trailing in their tracks. On the days when I didn’t walk to school, I understood the entire world through my parents. I’ll never forget those days in the summer heat, the outpouring of heavy rain, the wet and soiled murram roads. I can still taste the brown dust in the air that poisoned my lungs. Feel the treachery of the blood-red soils that dirtied my brilliant shoes and my spotless green and white uniform as I shuffled hurriedly to Mirembe Primary School early in the morning. Yet, despite the rich memories, their bright faces remain—those fellow students whose unkind words and gestures in public debate broke my confidence, leaving behind a deep malaise of fear and resentment.

“Peoples”...

As I stood in front of a large audience at Mirembe Primary School, “Peoples” was the wrong word that broke the students into loud and boisterous laughter. To this day, I despair as my heart descends into its deepest corners of darkness at the injustice of ignorance. I had boldly uttered a grammatical impossibility, an English error.

I remember all those students who sat in that hall and believed in the certainty of their knowledge. But it’s no use to think deeply and state all of their names. I was the Academic Prefect after all, and I had to respect my role as a model student. What does it mean to be a teacher, anyway? 

So…, I still remember those students. But I couldn’t have done better.

Windblown

A windblown tree

I

Ungu lay within a hammock grinning. It was a striped blue and orange hammock borrowed for hanging in the middle of tall palm trees on the beach. A cool breeze roused the blinding white sand under the hammock and wafted into his gaping mouth.

Whoosh…Whoosh…Whoosh…

The soft lowly winds echoed, circulating between his parted lips ceaselessly.

Ungu began to shift in the hammock, unable to balance his tanned body and rocking dangerously in the still air. He muttered mumbo jumbo joyfully to himself and immediately regretted it when he had to take off his dark shades that guarded his strained eyes. He had pushed up his shades to the top of his braided hair, but now the hard plastic was pressed up against the tight hammock and pinching his head. He flung the shades carelessly into the hot sand without looking. 

Noting his shadow below, he wondered what time it was and checked the watch on his wrist to see. But as his eyes were tired from gazing at the sand, he only noticed the message from his girlfriend, Maria. It read:

“Meet at the hill. Poetry and windmills!”

Ungu began to lower his hand when suddenly, a familiar sound panicked him:

“You have a jet of air in your ears.”

Sitting upright, Ungu studied Sifa, the generous lady who had procured the hammock. She had been absorbing The Alchemist—her favorite book—in her Adirondack chair nearby. Now, however, she had decided to rest her sweaty almond eyes.

“You can stir up the air like a bird!”

“Did you know that?”

Ungu listened in hushed silence: Could he really bend the air? He lowered himself into the sand cautiously. On the one hand, he had fantasized about bending the air in front of his girlfriend, Maria. He believed in supernatural powers, but Maria thought him a fraud because he rarely practiced.

But on the other hand, what did Sifa know? He had only met her today and had dismissed all her contributions to conversation. Ungu sensed her cheerful openness, though he disagreed with her personal criticism. He wondered how he had channeled his powers, and he hesitated.

“There’s a stream of air running through your ears,” Sifa went on.

“What do you mean?” Ungu could not hear her voice as he scanned the beach impatiently.

It was a breathtaking view. On his right stood a lovely cove, which was cool and rocky. “What a beauty!” Ungu thought admiringly. Beyond the water, a small hill jutted into the empty air overlooking the beach. He began to scan the hill and the pine tree that sat on top, and he noticed Maria’s white beach umbrella. He was eager to discuss air bending amidst her open curiosity.

II

When Ungu finally reached the top of the hill, his body was exhausted and drenched in sweat. He did not want Maria to see him like this. But here he was. 

“Hello!” Ungu greeted her sheepishly.

Startled, Maria stood up and rushed to Ungu. But before she greeted him back, she asked:

“What happened? You’re quite late!”

Ungu stared at her in silence.

“Look, no problem,” Maria explained before insisting:

“I crocheted a blanket for both of us and my books. Sit down by the pine tree if you wish.” 

“It looks pretty,” Ungu said admiringly.

Just then, Maria held up a stack of papers and a pen in her right hand and said:

“Sit down, Ungu. I want to read you a poem.”

Ungu cheered as he sat down under a shady umbrella next to her. But he could not explain his strange feelings. Something special hung in the air, but he did not know what it was. Was it that he’d never seen Maria sitting alone outside? Had she become unbothered and carefree? He glimpsed her bright eyes and sensed determination.

“I don’t understand, Maria. Why didn’t you ask me to come sooner?”

“Why…? Because I’ve been here all alone?” She retorted with hesitation.

Ungu did not like where the conversation was heading. He sensed that Maria could snap in front of him like she tended to do. Her eyes were beginning to lose their bright glow. He had to broach another topic.

“It’s fine, Maria. Did you carry all your stuff in this?” Ungu inquired as he pointed his right index finger at the treasure chest lying on the grass.

“Yes! Look at all the books I have…,” she said, releasing the two straps that held the treasure chest closed. She pulled out The Alchemist and explained:

“I read this. It’s quiet up here.”

“It’s OK. You don’t need to explain,” Ungu maintained in his calm and collected tone.

He had remembered Maria’s text message. What did she really mean by poetry and windmills? He had to know.

“What did you mean by poetry and windmills?”

“Have you had a chance to settle yet?” Maria answered with a question, and added:

“Just look straight ahead.”

Ungu was indeed tense and unrelaxed. It was because of his awkward position next to Maria. He’d been sitting across from her on the pine tree, but he faced away from her. His head pointed straight down into the slope of the hill. His mind absorbed the vegetation there. 

On the foot of that side of the hill, a lush forest spread into the horizon. That is what Ungu looked at. He did not have a reason for that because he did not pay attention to anything. But as he opened his eyes fully, he noticed the faint outline of a windmill on the horizon. He was surprised that he had noticed the sight.

“I can see it now!” Ungu exclaimed. “What a beautiful sight!”

“I knew you’d love to see that,” Maria spoke with a proud grin on her face.

Ungu loved the windmill. As he examined the gentle movement of the blades, he recalled his desire to float in the air, and his failure before at air bending. 

III

Many nights in his sleep, Ungu had dreamt flying in the air like a bird. He believed that he could achieve his dreams, but he wasn’t sure if he could do it himself.

“Do you want to hear the poem?” Maria persisted, sensing his inner beatdown.

“Yes, please!”

“I wrote the poem here and it’s titled Original,” Maria clarified, as if she were afraid of Ungu’s judgment.

“That’s perfectly fine!” Ungu assured her.

Maria opened her treasure chest and retrieved a sheet of paper with her right hand. She began to utter these lines:

“You can name, label, and describe space.
You can say space has pretty brown eyes, or
A je ne sais quoi. But once you define space,
How did you know that you know space?
”

As Ungu listened, he felt a deep connection to Maria. What moved him was Maria's hypnotic voice which soothed his eardrum. He shut his eyes, but Maria paused her poem.

“Ungu!” She yelped.

He opened his eyes without moving his head. He expected to hear Maria’s poem soon.

“Don’t turn your head! Only look on the side.”

Ungu turned his eyes, and a strange sight greeted him. Maria’s long hair danced playfully on her round face. He still could not believe his eyes:

“Gosh! You look windblown!”

“Yes! The air is coming from your right ear. There’s a jet of air passing through it!”

“I see and feel nothing,” Ungu said impatiently.

“Hold there!” Maria instructed as she stood off her blanket. She then held his right hand and placed it over his ear.

“And now?” 

“Nothing,” Ungu answered with disappointment.

“Hold your hand over the ear and don’t move. We’ll try again with the poem,” Maria improvised quickly.

She picked up her poem and continued to read as naturally as she was reading before:

“You can name, label, and describe thinking.
You can say thinking is an original essay, painting,
Or idea. But once you know thinking,
What is original thinking?

You can name, label, and describe a movie or a book-
”

Suddenly, Ungu’s mouth gaped open. He’d sensed something. He was certain that he felt a jet of air push against his palm. His head was so calm and peaceful, as if the external world had vanished, leaving only a reflection of his inner thoughts. He turned his eyes toward Maria, and he saw a clear line of air extending from his head to hers. Her hair danced and rustled freely in the cool breeze.

A moment later, he was up in the air.

“I’m floating!” Ungu chanted in utter surprise, his eyes tearing up and his body feeling almost weightless in the turbulent air—as if he were completely born anew.

“Yes, indeed, Ungu! You are!” Maria remarked, frankly.

Ungu was now floating three feet in the air above his girlfriend, Maria.

He had learned to soar into the air. Up in the air, he could feel the smallest particle of air. Though he had the weight of a feather, he was nimble like a bird reaching for the clouds.

Ungu saw that afternoon for what it was. He did not need to dismiss the moment as a miracle, as he only could not anticipate it. Instead, he obsessed over the events that led up to that moment. What was different? Had he not been attentive to space? That was his reason for loving the hammock and the cool feeling of levitating in air.

***