Two Years Later

Talk about procrastination; haven't written here in two years. So what do I write about now? Do I even attempt to summarize the time between ages 19-21. Ahhhahahahaahhahahahahaahell no.
I'm back in Uganda. Take three. I've been thinking about death recently. When you ride a boda-boda (motorcycle taxi) around the third world... this is inevitable. Traffic in Kampala is ridiculous! Poor infrastructure + lack of traffic laws + boda-bodas = potential death everywhere. They whip and zip without a care. They swarm like flies, except more annoying because you know they have the capacity for reason and logical thinking. You hit them and they'll scream at you, especially if you are a muzungu ("white person" or "foreigner").

So why was I riding a boda-boda? Well I met David - aka "De Alien" - at a party a couple of weeks ago. We discussed many things. I learned he was a local Ugandan artist. A rapper who spits about the political situation he and his fellow citizens are forced to endure. A day later he calls me:

De Alien: Hello Bryan? Hi this is De Alien.
Bryan: Excuse me? De what? Who is this?
De Alien: De Alien, from tha partee.
Bryan: ... David?
David: Yes! How are you?
Bryan: Oh! I'm good man. Just chillin' what's up?
David: I want you to rap.
Bryan: Ahahahahahhahahahahahahahahhahahahahahaha.

So the following week I met David at the studio; a mental container with a lock located in the maze of Kampala's back roads. I couldn't help but doubt myself. What the fuck are you doing here Bryan? I had no idea where I was; I was tired & hungry; the lyrics I wrote only hours before were - obviously - terrible.

I met Cesar, David's friend and co-rapper, in the waiting lounge; a smaller metal container next to the studio. Both guys were incredibly passionate about singing. I respect both of them greatly; this is their dream and they're pursuing it despite the lack of facilities. They also made me understand how hard it is to pursue such a career here in Uganda.

We walk into the studio. Another group is finishing up. Three hours later they are still finishing up. A man, however, pops in the door and eyes the hunger-stricken muzungu. He asked me if I wanted samosas. A godsend, thank Horus! I bought six. Ate two and shared the rest. Cold and stale they were the best damn samosas I've ever eaten. Then the power went out and I was forced to ride a boda-boda home. As they say, T.I.A. (This Is Africa).

Bobbing on the back, angry at something I had absolutely no control over, I eased my grip. I realized if we got in an accident holding on wasn't gonna save me. So I sunk back into a deep contemplation. Fuck it, if I die I die - I'll just hope I don't. Death, afterall, lives in my shadow. Inseparable from myself, I could not have life now without death later. So on the last stretch of road home, I spread my arms and closed my eyes. I let all my anger fly away as the wind blew under my wings. I remember thinking:

I will fly 'till I die.