Kabale is not the “Switzerland” of Africa; Switzerland is the “Kabale” of Europe

I have not been to Switzerland, so I am possibly not the best person to make pronouncements on this matter. Besides I am a Ugandan and Kabale is a town in Uganda. As a patriotic citizen of the Pearl of Africa, I will not apologize for my biases, after all I am supposed to love my country more than anything else, right? Okay, I understand that in this web-connected generation it is awful for me to speak like I cannot even do something as simple as Google up a few writings on the European nation. But even after reading all that and seeing those nice pictures of the panoramic view of the Alps and mountains, I refuse to accede to the notion that Kabale is like Switzerland. I am rather of the view that Switzerland is like Kabale. Now, one will argue that for me to say that Switzerland is like Kabale and neglect the reverse as a manifest fallacy is but a silly play with semantics. Though, the point such a person misses is that when you liken Kabale to Switzerland you subtly give the scenic beauty of Switzerland prominence over Kabale's exquisite scenery but to liken Switzerland to Kabale is to lay across the truth as it is, put Kabale's majesty over and above Switzerland's nice looks. If you want to disprove me on this matter, just get me a visitor’s ticket to Switzerland and perhaps when I go to Switzerland, I will reconsider my assertions. But until then, Kabale is the real thing.

Kabale is strewn with undulating hills, arguably the prettiest town I have been to in this country. Kabale sparkles and entices. And then it engages as it keeps you craning and rolling your neck in a bid to behold the grandeur of the hills that have always been the trade mark of the district that is in South Western Uganda thrown as far as over 260 miles (430 kms) from Uganda’s capital, Kampala. It is only six kilometers from Katuna, the border between Uganda and Rwanda. The neat folds of manicured terraces and the lush vegetable farms form a pattern of appealing greenery that looks down from the hills upon the numerous homesteads in the valleys.

Or even then, you cannot from Kampala get to Bwindi Impenetrable Forest or Mgahinga National Park that are famed for Gorilla tracking except you go through Kabale. May be if you are prancing in from Rwanda. So you see, how fundamental Kabale is, you will never Gorilla track except you have beheld of the glory that there is in Kabale’s splendor. Honestly.

Besides, there are waters of Lake Bunyoyi, on which to take a boat ride to a nearby Island. While on the ride to the Island of your choice, your eyes are fed on a nutritious optical menu or should we call it the “boat view” of the hills that enclose the waters.

I would kindly ask that when you chose to go to that side of the world you pay a visit to the unassuming Bushara Island like I did. There, you will have a great experience watching various species of birds. But even then, the serenity and tranquility that hangs around the Island is more than what you will ever ask for. It has the ability to tame the wildest of spirits to the point of deep reflection and meditation.

On the downside, Kabale is still a municipality but with the unique expectation that the hilly town exudes, you cannot rule out the possibility of Kabale becoming a city at one point in time. I look forward to that time for I know Kabale will be akin to the proverbial city that is built on hill and which cannot be hidden.

Perhaps I am getting too sentimental here but forgive me darling. I got such a deep attachment to the place when I visited. The fact that the girl on whom I have had the most serious of crushes is a daughter of the cute town does not make things any better. Now I know why she boasts of such fine looks. I perceive why she has those dimples, those two little valleys that bring me down to my knees when she smiles. And those dark gums? That complement her chocolate complexion? God! I love them and the gyratory of her curves. A hopeless romantic from Europe will possibly claim they were chiseled in Italy but I am persuaded that her kind is only manufactured in South Western Uganda.

Now, I also understand why she soared above the cheap deceptions of my petty advances. Today when I look at her swaying her hips from left to right and from right to left and back, my heart skips and I am taken around the sanctuary; probably the reason why my prayers are never answered, for I know I will never get her, and she knows it too. So, she sways them from left to right and right to left and back and she knows I am hypnotized but she won’t give me a chance. Sometimes I think she is proud but why mustn’t she be when she comes from a place as wonderful? So, I am left with no option every time we cross paths. I have to drool as she sways on and on for I can only look on and say “behold the beauty of Kabale!”  “There goes the beauty of Kabale,” I usually mutter to myself in the alternative. I am then left in my wild hallucinations seeing my hands taking a tour around the waist and the curves that she has all in the right places. My iniquitous hands take their slow caresses through the waist as though measuring the circumference of the curves in remembrance of the soothing turns that we took while we rounded through the numerous hills when we were approaching Kabale after Seven hours of waiting.

At the end of it all, my mind with its gullibility gets drawn into wicked entreaties, to evil charms it swoons and it is bound therein before the realities of her rejections set in to bring me back to this life. And that is when I remember how I was freezing under the cool temperatures of Kabale for the two nights that I spent in the town. “Surely, it was unfair that I spent such cold nights in loneliness.” I complain to myself.  

The difference between singing and wailing in the bathroom

Girls, it is okay to sing in the bathroom but it is really horrible when in the name of singing you decide to cry. Not that your so-called singing which in actual sense sounds like weeping really bothers us, nonetheless we are definitely saddened. So, before you begin singing tomorrow while taking your morning bath; I would rather that you consider reading this. It will help you revise your ways just in case you are one of those people who can only sing by sounding like they are crying.  

The story of my neighbor. We have been neighbors with this girl for the last one month. She is the typical melancholy, one with whom you can barely strike a conversation with, that girl that glories in staying in the confinement of her solicitude. Apart from the habitual greetings in the morning and evenings nothing ever goes on between us. Every one minds their business except on those days when I have to take my breakfast at home and I have to borrow her electric kettle. But of all the sorrow that comes which having such a girl as a neighbor, the mornings are the most torturous. Every morning she weeps in the name of singing ‘omutima bwegulwalala okwagala ngaguluma, gwo tonyige nti oba oguwe kudagala guwune. Ogwange mulinga omujudde ebituli yi yi yi oooo wuwiiiii wuwiii. (When the heart gets sick of love, it hurts so much. For you cannot treat it or give it medication that it may be well. My heart is like one that has been pierced with wounds so deep yi yi yi oooo wuwiii wuwiii).’ Another time she will be like Omukwano gunyuma bweguba gutandika, naye bwegukula gumanyi okubowamu, ate bwegutama buba bugumikiriza, omukwano lubanga luyimba ahhh ahhh ehhhh wuwii wuwii. (Love is great when it has just kicked off but when it grow it starts to bore and when you get fed up of love, it is only patience that can keep you in there, love is like a song ohhh ahhh ehhe wuwiii wuwiii). She goes and on crying out Samalie Matovu’s chorus.

My part as the caring neighbor. Being the caring neighbor and attentive listener that I am, I suspected that this girl’s heart must have been pierced so deep in her past relationships that it was literally bleeding. Otherwise, there was no reason why a sane daughter of the man could wail so much about love every other morning. So, I asked her out for a date and luckily enough she accepted to tag along. The date was strictly (I swear) for the purpose of making this girl feel good about who she is and may be get to understand that she is also capable of being loved because honestly, from the way she always cried, there was definitely a lot of love that she needed to get from guys like me. As usual, that day, to get the tit-a-tee rolling, I asked for her hobby and she was like- singing. I love singing so much. I guess you have heard me sing in the bathroom. What! Singing in the bathroom! You must be kidding me, I thought to myself. Singing or crying in the bathroom? I almost asked. I was beaten.

The moral of the story. To cut the long story short the moral in the story is that before you imagine that what you do in your bathroom every morning is singing, find out from your neighbor whether it really is what you think. Otherwise, stop wailing.