Sorry for te typos — writing and posting in a flurry

You get it to, that feeling during the limbo hours in between leaving and having left–that nostalgic question part anticipation part reluctance part kangaroo.

You muse: should I have ordered the pilsner instead if the Nile beer? Did I even give the pilsner a chance.

You wonder: what were those sounds emoting from the woods. You’re convinced: no bird could have made those sounds.

You ponder? Did I do enough insane and reckless things? Do you want to give your poor mother a heart attack? Don’t tell your parents about the time your badoboda motorcycle taxi driver braved on coming traffick to save himself 15 meters of distance run.

Mostly you feel lucky just to be alive. What is more insane and reckless than a motorcycle taxi without a headlight veering into oncoming, ominous traffic, some of them driving like they are begging death to wink their way.

Why did you stay in Kampala, for a week?, You ask your self because everyone else is asking you; why’d you stay here a week? The answers are easy and varied: after you bought an enormous sheepskin harp lugging it around sounds as enjoyable as colon cancer.

Time to catch a van to a bus. No Boda-Boda, rolled the dice of chance enough to endeavor to get this harp the size of a calf out by that means.