I’m four doors down, memories of the sweet things we did in this house now taste so beautifully sweet and sour, so many memories haunting the glass walls of my already failing memory bank.

Three doors down, three hours later. Midnight looming. I’m as blank as I can ever get. There is nothing in here. Not the ghosts of us. Not so much as a thought of your smile. We’re stuck somewhere between a Friend and Foe. Where did all I want to say run away to? 

Two doors down, I’ve never seen you cry. Old friend, in your sweet time, I’d thought we’d share a good good bye or maybe never have to say good bye. Can I wipe your eyes? Which marathon track confused my words, will they be enough to cover up the wounds?

One door down and all I’d ask is why you’d only want to give me faith when all I want is you. I came all the way down the path of this journey, the path of your daring heart, not for faith. I just want truth. Proof. You.

My heart’s here, plastered all over the walls of this beautiful brick makeshift. It won’t stop three doors down there, not four doors down. It isn’t there to begin with.

Feet, oh my feet, don’t fail me. Hands, oh my hands, don’t fail me. This heart of mine, who shall collect it and place it back into this now empty and freezing vacuum? 

I’m here. Bleeding hands. Raining eyes. Stormy and flighty feet. Heavy laden with the silence. The cold cold stares, I can’t afford them. I’m broken, can’t you see? Collect me. Warm me. Break me maybe, maybe some other day. Today though. Collect me, my bloody pieces, littered all over the rosy garden of your beautiful mind, mend this heart with the bright glimmer in your eye.

I heard the song on the tip of your soul’s tongue, it’s all I want to hear. Sing me to sleep. Lend me a little bit of your trust. Only for tonight. Only for tonight.


​Books and pages

Sweat in trenches

Tears in ledges 

Words and voices

Loud silences 
Fire on furballs
Dreaded ‘morrows

Of dew drenched sorrows

Hot summer meadows

Blazed furrows

We’re unsung heroes
I flow

Fast and hard

Light is no match

Only to impress


Deep and Slow






Souls from darkness

The light is on

It burns

(We made 3 on 3rd October 😍😍😍. I want to thank all of my very awesome readers. Because of you, we made it here. Cheers)

The Unsheathing Of THE SWORD

09. 01. 2016  (Eclipse day)

We’ve all watched adventure movies and series, from Hercules to Pompeii to Narnia to, lately, Game of thrones. And the sound effects in these movies, especially the oh, so, gore-ish sword fight scenes. My goodness, forgive my language in this article. Excitement got the best of me.

I find them intriguing because there is nothing that gets my attention quite like the sound of the gnashing of swords, teeth and mostly the unsheathing of these life ending devices. 

In any fight, the sound of this glorious ceremony, the unsheathing of swords, and the very last sound, that which the sword makes against the body as it lands it’s last blow, are the most life changing experiences for any a fighter.

And as always, two swords in a duel are unsheathed and drawn, but one is sheathed after the fight. The job is always done, and as always, that one sheath tastes the blood of the defeated.

As the month began, there was no other talk but that of the Eclipse,  and while that was being discussed everywhere, the heavenly host – angels, in a nick of time unsheathed all their swords, at once. The sound reverberated all over the heavenlies, too deafening to bear, again, add the fierceness of the glory of God that is upon them.

The trembling that happened in that time, will last an eternity. It was worse than the fiercest earthquake. I was filled with a fear, that I stopped praying for myself or for the things I thought I needed. I prayed instead for all my enemies and all those that have actively attacked the church in the past or the future. It felt like, whatever they had done against any child of God or against the church, actively or not, would never measure up to what they had coming. 

Like that was not enough, the arch angel, angel Michael intentionally unsheathed his sword, filling the sudden silence, in all of the earth and the heavenlies with this crisp, clear and eerie sound of his sword. To the church, this was the sound of jubilation, rejoicing, now that the King has Risen up against His bride’s enemies. Tougher than before. The same can’t be said for the rest of the world that abhors the gospel.

And He said, “For as long as you, My people, My beloved children, are in the earth, you who worship Me in spirit and in truth, My sword will always be drawn against anyone or anything that will choose to come against you. (Even when you set yourself up in hell), you’re Mine to defend and to provide for, I’ll be there”

In this season, he has risen so that we may arise in power together with Him. Starting 1st September some things won’t make sense – logically and that’s the way He loves to work.

Painting by Jeff

Never Be. . .

The testament of love in him, strung on hope as her gentle sobs only served as quick reminders of hearts broken and tears running so loud. Tears he couldn’t catch (they were never his to catch.)

The ache in both hearts, as they straddled against each other in the dim of light, so heavy and burdening. The taste of it so bitter in both their mouths that kisses couldn’t soothe anymore but trim joy and crucify it all to peace lost.

His childlike delight she alone knew how to treasure now left to a stranger stranger to understand and maybe learn to love, the ache of it grew to parts they alone knew how to pleasure. Such sinful ways to say goodbye. Hurt’s lust was too strong for any of them to resist, even in the face of death. It hurt her more to know, she’d be gone and out of misery but he’d not try to find any other as good as she.

“…some part of him knew that would never be him.” – Cindy Cherie.

“I would have done anything to take it away from her – The pain. All of it. To hold her in my arms and let it soak beneath my skin. What is love? Love is looking someone’s agony in the eye, reaching out a wanting hand and saying, Give it to me, I’ll take it.” – Cindy Cherie 

The ache of losing someone irreplaceable. An excerpt from a book I’ll never write. ***R.I.P Mom :'(:'(:'(***

#UgBlogWeek: Call Me Out

​Tales of stranded children littered our school corridors. Stranded – young children leaving younger children in dark alleys on the way to school, so early in the morning.

Truth is, the meaning of life was already lost on us. In this translation from whatever grade you were in at the time, you lost the zeal to study. And if you didn’t hate your parents for the sacred torture, you hated younger siblings.

I was the younger sibling. My sister was responsible for EVERYTHING. Getting both our uniforms pressed and ready before dawn, packing grab and making sure all homework was done before 8 pm.

The walk to school with me always put her at odds with herself, our darling mother, the beautiful teachers and then me. She had three choices, and these all had ugly consequences. 

If she were to be nice to me, walk at my pace, we’d both be late.

If she chose to drag me along, I’d get to school screaming, crying and throwing all sorts of tantrums. The uniform would get dirty and badly creased. That would never sit well with my very OCD mother.

Leaving me for dead on the road meant she’d make it to school on time, get quizzed about where I was, and then be forced to come get me.

There was no scenario that didn’t get her beaten. She had no voice, nobody to defend her. I couldn’t defend her either because I got the usual threat, “If you ever tell, you’ll see what I’ll do to you.”

So, for the best part of early school. I got left alone in the dark. Stranded because I didn’t know where school was. I had one job, to make sure we got to school together. And as time went on, I found out that I was not the only one. Did school make any of us better? At all?

Hold up

This is probably going to be the shortest post I’ll write. Ugandan bloggers dedicated the last week to writing about a special means or mode of transportation that is so popular in Uganda. The use of Boda Bodas – motorcycles.

They are quick and very effective if you’re in a rush. But as that may be, they can be so fatal especially if a few factors are not held constant. To my dismay, no body wrote about my favorite Boda service. Boda – gaali  (Boda bicycle).

In certain scenarios, like the one in the image above, a motor cycle will probably not be of much help. Also, if we were to consider the current drainage situation in this city, we need all the help we can get. Don’t we?

This post is only a badge and vote of appreciation to Ugandans who go out of their way to make sure we don’t walk through our ugly mistakes. So we can get to our offices clean and pretend the world is at peace.

On this note, I send all my love to all our politicians. Thank you for the work well done. Mwe abasinga.

This blog was curated  on Ugbloc.com Curated UgBloc Badge


Dear Diary,

For the past few weeks, I’ve thought about nothing but her.

Her curls that were to grow into locks later. Her smile that brightened with every passing day until it lay lifeless and immobile.

I’ve thought about pain, grief, hurt and questions. Questions I know too well not to ask. But every time I see how a friend is handling the transition into a Julie-less world, I can’t stop myself.

I hate to see people grieve. It is painful to watch people tear at their hearts, trying to soothe aches they can never reach.

Maybe Job had it easy. It itched and hurt, yes. But he could reach it, he was able to scratch it, he could afford himself a bit of relief, faint as it may have been.

This feels like a one-hundred-year-old wound on the inside, embedded deep within, in parts I can’t reach.

Where do I go from here?

Today, I will myself to let go and live a little, mend my broken relationships and make them worth having.

Julie, Until we meet again, it was and still is so real!