On letters to Marcue.

It has been a long year, a busy year and quite eventful I must confess. From applying to MA and MFA programs, excelling at each individual interview to then realising that scholarships are not just handed over. From dreamily applying to the prestigious Rijksakademie residency to being invited to the interviews, acing them (still in dream mode) and now trying to get there. From creating ghosts of the man I once called my fiancé to getting married to him on two different occasions. It seems to be the Ugandan trend and not exclusive to the Late President Idi Amin Dada. It’s my third month being married though it seems like the festivities happened edges ago.

Now I’m writing, I guess having my art on a writer’s blog wasn’t a mistake after all. I find myself trying to unpack memory. Writing to a 5 to 12year old child (my younger self) about the 27year old being that I am. I hope she will comprehend that which I am making an attempt to comprehend. Telling her of events that I believe she is better placed to understand and that I only seem to pick inspiration from. Letters to my childhood is the most brilliant title I could concoct for this sort of madness. A madness that seeks to comb a mind and find the truth in fictions that memory can be. The findings of this madness may be further fiction but who knows may be the ink on paper will be kind enough to tell what the imagination is shy to. Daddy Can I Play?! and SAFE HERE have been fuelled into beautiful fictions that memory has inspired. There surely must be more that’s beneath these tales. More that I am convinced writing to my childhood will tell. It’s only a conviction … there’s not much I can do about it.letters

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