Picture The Boy – no older than 20- rolling a blunt on a wooden coffee table. He’s in a bedsit in Roysambu; small windows, cheap curtains, wooden door. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans,
I am involved in a project where I interview artists – singers, sculptors, painters, dancers, virtuosos in the form of children who play the hell out of a violin, animators – a project commissioned by the Godown Arts Center.
“He’s rich and old,” I tell my friend Gina.
“You mean rich but old?” She asks from the carpet where she’s seated between my knees. I’m helping her undo her braids. She’s in this team natural group where they occasionally meet in a garden to drink rosé and talk about children and men,
What does human flesh taste like?
Everybody I tell this story thinks I should have asked her this question. At some point I began to think that maybe I should have asked her.
I lived in a little shanty-like neighbourhood called Kiwafu while in uni in Kampala, with a roommate, Gasirigwa, who was from Tanzania. A room. One window. A mango tree outside the window.
Up the aisle, a bony man struggles to shove his luggage into the compartment above. His elbows look like a branch off a yellow-bark acacia. If you walked into his elbow by accident you would die from excessive haemorrhage.