Many years ago, a small bouncing baby boy was born in a small nameless village that soon became known as Mfashumwana. As fate had it, both the baby and the village shared the same name. Now, in the computer age, I have also joined the face-book. There is this guy known as Michael (a Mfashumwana citizen) now living in the land of Obama, he has taken it upon him to remind me of my birthday and sent me a Birthday wish on my Face-Book wall!
Many years ago, a small bouncing baby boy was born in a small nameless village that soon became known as Mfashumwana.
As fate had it, both the baby and the village shared the same name. Now, in the computer age, I have also joined the face-book. There is this guy known as Michael (a
Mfashumwana citizen) now living in the land of Obama, he has taken it upon him to remind me of my birthday and sent me a Birthday wish on my Face-Book wall!
This guy mockingly is inviting me for birthdays treat of Kwete at Poroti (main town in Kijura) How I long for that Kwete.
Some of you may be wondering what I am talking about, this Kwete stuff is more less like "ikigaji” but made out of maize! It is believed to be a traditional drink for the guys in northern Uganda.
It is made out of maize flour and germinated millet. There is this gentleman commonly known as Kipampali a.k.a. Kabarebe.
He used to brew one of the SWEETEST Kwete in Poroti, we as young men in the neighbourhood used to move from bar to bar "kurozaring” (sampling) but this gentleman would not allow us to sample any of his Kwete before a one Karwemere had sampled.
Of course it was the owner’s belief that, once Karwemera had sampled, then the Kwete would sell out like a hot cake.
I received an email from a perplexed reader who wanted to know why I happen to have the same name as that of the village in which I was born!
My friend, if you happen to be an African then, there is a likelihood that, you will either inherit a name from your ancestors or it will be a circumstantial name (named after an event or a situation), in my case, it was the later.
I love telling that story over and over, I don’t know how many times I have told it! The truth may seem bitter but it is inevitable. I know so many people who would not like others to know of the "skeletons in their lockers”, that’s not me!
In those olden days when there were bars and those bars had no DSTV but the "JOGO BOX” (read juke box).
Somewhere in the Tooro Kingdom’s highlands of Kijura, that is about 30km north of the town of Kabarole (not the one near Gabiro though), there was this nameless village; I
call it nameless because it did not have a name until I was born; if I hadn’t been born, it would never had the name it had.
Am I sounding so philosophical? Never mind, the truth is that, one evening, as the Jogo Box was busy doing its thing, a young lady (who happened to by my own mom) decided to go out and shake to the sounds of the gigantic Jogo Box.
In the process, she left me in the care of a neighbour’s wife with the words, "mfasha n’umwana” (assist me and look after the baby).
Some overzealous or jealous neighbours spilled the beans and that is how I was "baptised” (not by the Padre) the name Mfashumwana, as if that was not enough, they even decided to call the village the same name.
The sad news is that, some overzealous Batooro trying to gun for votes decided to rename the village citing that, the name Mfashumwana was not from their language and that, it was counterproductive, blah, blah, blah!
The new name of that village is now Kyererezi (light), how much light that name brings them, I don’t know! How could they rename my village in my absence?