I abhor Kampala (and the areas of Wakiso proximal to it). I hate the dust and the filth and the mud and the disorder and the noise and the feeling that order will never really reign here, that in this mishmash of a city, chaos will forever be king.

But where Kampala is cranky downtown porters barking, “Fass!” at you, Kampala is also the random grinning boda guy who’s going to ask about your day and actually mean it when he says he hopes you’ll have a better day tomorrow. Kampala is life, full, bursting, rushing along at a frenetic pace. Kampala is blurry light-streaked nights with kidandali coursing through your veins. Kampala is sunny festivals and concerts with people dancing like they don’t have a care in the world. 

Kampala is a defiant scream in the face of all its failings. Hey, look at me, everything sucks. The people in charge can never get anything right. And yet, in spite of this, I dance. I laugh. I roar.

I dream of a day when all the things I love about Kampala exist, not against a background of inefficiency and kakistocracy, but in a city where everything works, for once. 

Until then, I despair for this city. I hope for this city. I hate this city. I love this city.

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Written by Acan Innocent Immaculate (3)

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