It’s the filter on the land today. An orange-brownish hue was fallen on the land. The leaves aren’t rustling as they were yesterday, wind will not be interrupting them today. Not today.
There is a rhythm seeping through the land. If you are still enough you can hear it. Well, the African hear it. You can feel the slow pounding in your chest. The pounding the raises goosebumps on your arms and neck. Can you hear it.
The air is crisp. That type crisps that hurts your nose when you breathe in, but you do it anyway, because this what is what fresh smells like. For tonight, we are one. We stand as one. United by this land and our roots that grow deep with every generation.
68 years is a long time, a long time to live without acknowledgment on your own soil. To live in gratitude to our guests, for who allows someone into their home – only to them take charge of every aspect of their existence. Perhaps after tonight, we will have a chance.
A chance to escape a pre-determined destiny that had been awaiting many young adults. These adults had been piling onto buses and pickups headed to the city, many excited – their minds filled with wisps of the aforementioned chance, some of them indifferent and even some worried. Worried about the uncertainty that waited them at the dawn of this seemingly new era. But then again, was it really new, for before the start of the 68 years, we existed even though history might choose not to popularize it much.
The uncertainty that lays ahead can only be described as daunting; the idea of master would eventually have to fade and in it’s place, an awakening to hopes and dreams turned reality.
Evening is here and they’ve been dancing for what seems like eternity. Were his hands are sweating, I wonder. Does he know the significance of what he is about to? Does it press it’s weight on his shoulders?
They announce that the Bwola is up next. The Acholi are dancing with an energy that pulsates at that same rhythm. This is important. This night is important. There are kings in the stands… The Omugabe, The Omukamas, The Kabaka and The Kabazinga – The 5 kings are in the stands. They too watch as they wait for the hour. They are dancing the Nankasa now, waists moving to the same rhythm. Even the battalion of the Kings African Rifles can hear the rhythm.
Midnight is here… the rhythm is at it’s peak.
He is at the flag pole. The dreams of a nation on his shoulders. He lowers the Union Jack, as the nation watches in wonder. Could this really be happening? Are we once again our own?
He hoists for the first time, the black yellow red symbol of hope. dreams. freedom.
Our symbol of Independence.
This blog is part of the #55UgBlogs campaign by UgBlogging Community and Kafunda Kreative. 7 days where storytellers will come together under the hashtag 55UgBlogs and tell their stories of Uganda, what it means to be Ugandan.
On 9th October 1962, Uganda attained her Independence from her British colonial masters. This piece is not all fiction, I did a little digging around the interwebs before writing this. I’m ashamed to admit that despite always longing for this holiday to fall on a Weekday, I had little knowledge of what actually transpired on the day. Aside from the usual photo or two, the details were just never of particular interest to me. As usual, the Internet does not disappoint, I found an old 4-hour video of the day, that might be interesting.
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