Balance, they say, is a myth told by clocks with two hands. I’m bad at math but good at metaphors: today’s equation = (1 sunrise stolen by Zoom grids)
(3 stolen kisses from my daughter’s hair)
(7 urgent emails left to rot in drafts) = a sum that almost tastes like living…
The improvement was never the point.
The unfolding was.
The bruise becoming blossom.
The scream becoming song.
The life, insisting…
They say a mother should be a still pond,
but she is the ocean.
Watch her:
waves of fury when the world tries to shrink her daughter,
tides of tenderness when her son whispers “I’m scared,”
hurricanes of hope when the night feels infinite.
She sheds the imitation designer armor,
lets her stretch marks ripple like topography maps,
her wrinkles etching sonnets of survival.
In her chaos, there’s a cosmos—
a galaxy of mismatched Legos,
half-drunk coffee cups,
and “I love yous” yelled over math homework.
Her freedom roars, not in spite of the mess,
but because of it…
Listen! Listen, you who navigate potholes deeper than your pockets! You who sweat under the sun while the fat cats sip champagne in air-conditioned SUVs! Kampala, our city of seven hills, where the Nile’s whispers are drowned out by the clatter of empty promises. Here, the soil is rich, but the hands that till it are calloused and cracked. Here, skyscrapers pierce the heavens while children sleep in the shadows of their greed…
Narrator: (laughs, nearly choking on a cookie crumb) Career? Oh, you’ve mistaken me for someone with a five-year plan pinned to a vision board. Let’s be real, it’s not a career. It’s not even a “job.” It’s a glorified piggy bank. A paycheck with health benefits. My actual career? That happens between 2 a.m. and existential dread…
The joy of parenthood, I realized, wasn’t a singular event but a continuous journey woven with threads of laughter, frustration, tenderness, and unwavering commitment. And while I wouldn’t trade my own path, that single day offered a profound appreciation for those who navigate this beautiful, challenging, and utterly irreplaceable journey every single day…
Let us speak of love. Not the mortal, fleeting kind—no, the *real* romance: the torrid affairs we have with logos that wink at us from billboards, the siren songs of jingles that nestle into our brains like earworms with a PhD in manipulation. These are the paramours that stalk us through grocery aisles, seduce us in airports, and whisper sweet nothings like *“Buy One, Get One Free”* in the dead of night. Gather ‘round, fellow consumers, as I serenade the brands that have branded my soul—not with a hot iron, but with a loyalty program and a vaguely dystopian algorithm…
DMT 