The Black And White Roads of Ivory


To them they are merely black and white shapes,

employed to bring sparkle to the beautiful words

which help them reminisce.

For them to feel,

words ought to escort melody

or else music is simply neat rows of sound.

Yet I find that, for me to feel,

words are irrelevant to this melody

for my profoundest feelings are encased in each key

in every note, is a perfect expression of my passion.

They are my keys, to the secret doors

which open into gardens where my emotions grow.


Here in this octave, the first,

lie the low haunting calm sounds,

that twist my insides into giant Gordian knots.

The kind that only the incurable pain of your absence

with the bitter-sweet memory of you brings.

Yet it is also in these deep gentle notes that I hear you

the sensual voice which made my guard disintegrate

every time into a pile of fine sand.


Those silvery tinkly notes of the last octave,

whose sound is reminiscent of water drops falling onto a pool,

clear and distinct,

are a musical drizzle that

falls onto my thirsty soul.

Soaking it causing the feelings,

buried deep within to germinate.


I find you in the harmony of notes combined,

an intoxicating emotional cocktail

of dizzying nostalgia and nauseating regret.

Of love lost and passion unspent.

I find you, like the grand transpose,

taking me your audience by surprise.

Bringing a fresh wave of goose bumps each time

and yet unlike the transpose of music that has to cease,

you do not.


To them they are simply black and white keys,

beneath my fingers, they are secret chords

that unlock the memories in my hearts diary.

Unlike them, I do not need the words of love songs,

to reminisce.

I only need to walk down,

these black and white roads of ivory

and I will be led to you.

piano art

Namuddu Ann Lindah-2012



I wrote a thing!

The Lantern Meet of Poets

“Read!” say the snobbish literati. Their noses see saw between musty books and the air as they raise their nostrils in disdain whenever they contemplate or chance upon people who do not wish to wile their hours away doing what they do. They lick index fingers and flip pages as they indulge in tall tales or cogitations of people who have made a vocation of day dreaming.

They are not hard to spot, these literati. First sign is usually an indication of poor sight in form of visual aids like thick rimmed spectacles. Their eye capillaries are bursting, a trend that begun from high school where they read after lights out by the aid of a Tiger head powered torch. By their twentieth year, these voracious readers have hit a certain number of books. Their craniums, now heavy,  reel with the knowledge of the human condition, which world literature overwhelmingly…

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The Lantern Meet of Poets

At the start of last month, Uganda’s women were at it: waving placards, marching, singing, and then finally hurling obscenities at the posse of constables ringed about the National Police Headquarters in Naguru. Their cause: the blood-dimmed tide of rampant kidnaps and unsolved murders that’s gripped the country’s capital these past few months.

In the end, both the day’s oppressive sun and government paid them little mind.

But the march didn’t fail to leave itsmark; and least of all because Dr. Stella Nyanzi was the procession’s defacto leader. With the volatile, and in equal parts, infamously famous feminist activist in the recipe, a lasting ‘impression’was no doubt in the offing.

To that effect, tactics were changed, so that instead of merely shouting themselves hoarse against a wall of intransigent, uniformed masculinity, the protesters drew from their holsters plus-sized dildos.

The eye-catching artifacts were subsequently held against the protesters’ gyrating crotches…

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Of weddings and kidnaps, and the return to the past!

The Lantern Meet of Poets

My friends and I agreed to write about the royal wedding, and kidnaps of mostly women in Uganda that have proved too complex a puzzle for our government to solve. Never mind that peace is the NRM government’s flagship propaganda tool. According to President Museveni and other apologists of his military dictatorship that sprinkles a few rain drops of democratic trappings in a desert of political diversity, they should rule for life because Uganda discovered peace under his reign. The past is terrible and past leaders are swine because people were being killed day and night without effective government response, they postulate.

A recent visitor to Uganda who has tasted the tasty NRM government propaganda may get the impression they are living in the past. A past condemned, convicted, and demonized, a past in which nothing good ever happened.

For our present pain is real. Rent? We pay in dollars!…

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THE ZEN MIND PROJECT: Conversations on mental health with Ugandan teenagers.

I can tell the confusion among my readers on what is going on with their beloved headless chicken. I know that ever since the advent of the headless chicken, the posts on this blog have been the chronicles of a decapitated chicken scurrying hither and thither through her twenties.

What is happening at the headquarters of the headless chicken, has a long juicy story behind it, as my stories often are, and I promise to sit down with you over some chicken bran and talk about it sometime. However, for now, I ask you to follow me on this noble two months project that the chicken and another human have taken on.

So dear reader I would like to tell you about some thrilling work that I will be doing in the month of May and June. A young lady called, Racheal and I, are going to hold conversations on mental health in schools under a project called the Zen Mind project.

“Zen Mind?” Why that name?

When I hear the word Zen, my mind quickly throws together  facets of western pop culture’s interpretation of Buddhism. I instantly hear a flute played in a musical style that is particular to the Orient. Enveloped in the haunting sonorous sounds of the flute, I see a plump clean shaven man of Mongolian extract wearing long robes and sitting in holy stillness in the midst of a cyclone.



While the term Zen in Buddhism is a more complex concept, in popular culture it has come to mean a state of being peaceful and relaxed regardless of the chaos around you.


The pursuit for this state of Zen-ness through our project is why my project partner Racheal and I, settled for this name for our mental health project. The term “mental health” in Uganda has been in circulation for a few years now, as discussions on the definition of mental health are held on various online and offline forums.

However while these discussions on mental health go on, the discussions on the subject remain mostly in medical and elite circles and as a result, reducing the term to a mere buzzword, used a lot but rarely unpacked to lay out what it entails.

The Zen Mind project, will for the next two months , hold conversations with young teenagers in school about Mental health. We hope that these conversations will unpack and de-medicalise mental health. We hope to help Ugandan teenagers understand what mental health means and why it is important to talk about it. We want to talk about what good mental health looks like, what deteriorating mental health looks like, and how to cope or respond in crises.


While this project will do most of its work in school outreaches, we will also engage with people online by writing about mental health.

The Zen Mind project is one of the 28 community initiatives started by young women who are  initiates of a Sisterhood called Circle of Love. These young women seek to change their communities by using their privilege of education and acquired skills set to deal with existing problems in their community and create the change they desire to see.

The Zen Mind project is run by Nabbanja Racheal and Namuddu Ann Lindah.



Racheal is the one in blue and I am the one in green.

This blog post is a first of the many online posts that we will publish on our project.

Engage with us on this blog and follow us on our private accounts.

Facebook: @Lone Pringle

Facebook: @Racheal Rampo


The headless chicken counts on your support, in form of blog shares, so that we can reach a wider audience, as it goes on with its world changing business. Thanks you in advance. 🙂

Stay Zen,


7th (2)








she rose 1


At this point, I don’t even know if you are still interested in what I have to say, let alone if there is still such a thing as Kuku-dom. But if there is a lone Kuku out there who still needs that explanation for purposes of closure before they burn bridges, I will not withhold an explanation from you.

First of all, I want you to know that it is I the headless chicken, writing to you. Every time I disappear for a while, rumors start flying all over the web talmbout how I was last seen next to a salad in Javas. None of that is true. I am still Kuku Baya(Bad Kuku), running free, in no particular direction, eluding hot ovens and open jaws. No body has gutted me and stuffed me  with rice and potatoes yet.



With that affirmation out of the way, let me get into the reasons for my absence.

Now that you are reading this sentence, I don’t know how to break it to you that there is no grand excuse for neglecting my blog for a year. There is no great tragedy or triumph that I can present to you as a justification for not writing and subsequently win your sympathy. This year more than ever I have wanted to write. More than ever my cup of inspiration has flowed. I have had electricity, wifi and times when I have had more free time on my hands than I needed. So what happened to me?

This is what; a desktop full of movies and series, Instagram, books you can’t put down, my ever wandering mind etcetera. All these distractions come charging at me, soon as I sit down to write. I end up watching the movie Juno which I have watched a million times, folding my laundry even though I hate folding laundry, pick a twitter fight with a stranger on another stranger’s wall or I decide that now would be the opportune moment to try out that Gordon Ramsey banana crepes recipe. Keep going like that, you find that you are 80years old with no passion in life except basking in the sun like a lizard.

I plan to get back to blogging on the regular and to this cause, I have made great sacrifices like deleting every movie and series on my desk top except the movie Juno. I have evacuated numerous tins of hair butter, jewellery, mugs and bowls from the only table I have in my room. Even though, now as we speak, I am writing from inside my bed, with my blankets to my chin, leaving only my arms sticking out because it was cold and I couldn’t feel my feet even after 4 cups of Dawa tea.


I plan to write from the table in my room. My jars of hair butter and body oils will go to the pink trolley where they are supposed to be. My mugs and bowls will go back to the green trolley that serves as my pantry and cupboard.

My laptop will graduate from the floor onto that table which from now on wards, will be its permanent place.  I had to be theatrical about starting over. I had to physically create a place for writing in my house, so that it can happen also in my mind and in my habits. I realized that the clutter on my laptop’s desktop, would lure me down the rabbit hole of checking out the contents of every folder on my computer. So I decided to also sweep it clean. Next I plan to work on my sleeping schedule so that it can permit me to write in the morning during the week.

I know you have had it with me and my endless scroll of excuses but I promise that you are dealing with a whole new Kuku with a contrite heart. There is one more thing that I have been mulling over for a while now and I would like to share it with you guys but because I have promised myself that I will be writing shorter blog posts, I will stop here.

If you are reading this sentence. You are the reason, I am writing again and I am grateful for you.

Till next time, stay out of ovens my beloved kukus.





 Once I said

You were fire

And I was water.

And you said

that is why we attract,

To which I laughed and said

No. We actually destruct.

Yes, destruction.


We cannot exist

In the same place,

without the annihilation

of one.

We can only fuse

in a death.

Where either I,

die to you

and resurrect as a flame;

A wild roaring flame.

Or you fade into me

only to rise again,

as a quiet ripple

or a gentle wave.

Death is a tunnel

under the ground,

cold and dark.

But I would brave it,

If I entered as you;

A flaming torch

blazing through.

And for you friend

the voyage should not be so dreary;

if you dove in as me;

the arm of a river

gushing through.

©  Namuddu Ann Lindah.