Kintu

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

When historians trained in Europe tell the story of Uganda, it’s all about endings and beginnings, how Europe came and everything fell apart, or how independence came and colonialism fell apart; it’s always the story of how the past recedes into the background as we race irrevocably forward. From that perspective, African history looks like a fast-moving train. “Tribalism” fades as modernity looms on the horizon. But on the ground, history looks nothing like this clash of nations and empires and states, however true and valid such stories may be on their terms; on the ground, history is the accumulated prejudices, hopes, and superstitions that we carry even if we don’t understand how we acquired them, everything we don’t know that makes us who we are. History is a fabric of memories and fear and forgetting, of longing and nostalgia, of invention and re-creation. History is bunk, and sometimes it’s a good thing it is.

You found yourself on earth without design on your part and there was no option but to grow up.