I HAVE DIED SO MANY TIMES

The other day, I almost suffocated in a taxi—a pregnant woman next to me had farted. Life has stiffened many of us—at least, we all have stories about something weird we did and just didn’t give a fuck.

It is good to keep a diary because you will always keep your memories there—the memories of good and bad things; the day someone rubbed your nipples with their hungry tongue, or when they undressed you with one hand while the other smoothly caressed your inner thighs; when their tongue rolled down your throat, or when your lover invited you over to a dinner date only to break up with you; and when you watched a bold police officer on the Kampala streets kick an old woman for selling fruits by the roadside.

But guess what, I don’t have a diary. My mouth is so loose that I will always want to share whatever is in the diary with people, or I am only a villager who knows nothing about keeping secrets in tiny books. But I will take the latter. I don’t believe I should be walking around with a special book for documenting my special moments—a piece of deep-fried chicken a woman bought me only to tell her friends she had been taking care of me or the beautiful woman I met and couldn’t tell her anything.

I keep all these things in my head—and I can explain why—people say keeping a diary is a habit that one should learn right from childhood. They say one should surround oneself with books and should love to write down at least everything they encounter in the encyclopaedia or the huge old book about the ghosts with four heads on their father’s bookshelf.

But I was not that kind of child—with books around. So, I did not read anything or write in small books. All I did was draw girls with big buttocks in the dust with the tip of my finger. But this was never my fault. There were no books for me except for my late father’s Bibles and books on religion—it was good I didn’t read these many books because I would be a priest or a man of Gad by the roadside, always talking about the tithe.

I was not like any other child, happy and verbal and always playing with toys—I was always mute, lonely, and grieving; I was that child whose feet knew the hot soil and whose toes couldn’t miss stones. I was that child who learned at about 7 years old that having a single meal a day was a privilege and that when someone slapped your cheek, you had to turn around.

At 8, as the only old man in my mother’s house, I had learned that one would sculpt their pain and suffering into hope and love; I had learned that love was sacrifice and that vulnerability and kindness made us human; I had learned to hug a grieving woman and tell her things would be right; and I had learned to smile and joke with a sad child. People said I was special, but they didn’t know life had taught me that there‘s always room for the broken.

Of course, sometimes I would break down and cry when the load was too heavy for me to carry on; when it rained at night and my mother had to tap the rainwater throughout; when my two older sisters bled and no one could afford to buy them sanitary pads—I learned at an early age that women were not like men, they bled every month and in pain.

My mother couldn’t teach me how to keep diaries, but I still have memories—memories of playing soccer with my peers in the rain; memories of men reminding me of my poverty and my mother’s stupidity; memories of going to bed on an empty stomach but still thanking God for the gift of life; I have memories of laughter when I rode our bicycle to the market with my friend in the neighbourhood.

And today I feel insulted when someone tells me I am too young to understand the world—I want to whisper to them that I have died so many times. I want to tell them that because of suffering, I became a poet and philosopher of life; I want to tell them that grief taught me to love without expectations, and with an open heart.

This is not about keeping a diary; it is about losing direction and eventually surrendering yourself to the past. It is 01:06 a.m., and you might think it is my muse—to be awake and write—but pain runs through my veins. I have been thinking of my little sister, who was once kidnapped and now has been sick for the past 5 years; I have been crying about everything; about my sobbing mother, whose body has ached for close to 10 years; about the nights we all sat together and hoped for a healthy and bright future—life has happened.

And now the country, all stumbling and falling apart—a few people eating what is meant for us all, and the hopelessness striking—all this reminds me of the many times I have died. But my little brother has just called, and we have laughed about petty things and for a moment forgot almost everything: about Miracle, who couldn’t love me back; about that stranger who disappeared without saying goodbye; about that beautiful nurse Miana, who would rather settle for a lawyer or engineer but not a storyteller—many things to say, for sure!

But for how long should we hide the pain in smiles and love? For how long should we run from what we are—the miserable idiots?

So, it is not about diaries, but dying before I die; dying from grief, loneliness and pain; dying from disappointment from Doreen, who couldn’t love me at all and from incurable sicknesses that continue to eat up my people’s lives, at the same time dying from Museveni’s political nonentity; so many things have killed me before I die and made me a poet and philosopher.

Now that I have died so many times before, could you love me a little more? Could you not wake me up from sleep? Could you not tell me the truth about the children dying from hunger in Karamoja because a certain minister stole the money that was meant to help them out of their situation?

As I wait to die, could you not tell me about the labouring mothers who die every day because there is nothing in hospitals to save their lives? Please, don’t tell me about the many jobless youths on trial in court because they are against corruption.

I have been dead for so long, so all I want is to forget everything and live before I die. Don’t tell me about the old president who doesn’t care about the nation anymore; tell me about women and friends and vacations and laughter; not the things that have killed me too many times.