My Africa
A city built on seven hills was my birth place and it is still called, Kampala. Kampala, the gorgeous capital city of Uganda, East Africa. A city scented by lavender flowers of the jacaranda trees and quenched by the mighty Lake Victoria.
Growing up in this small city was just like growing up in any other city in the world. We were kids with the same interests as other kids in the world. We wore bell-bottoms and afro wigs at the age of 16 and we frequented night clubs without our parents' permission just like any other teenagers anywhere in the world.
We were very protected by our parents as any other parent would and we were unconditionally loved. We were children of our villages.
We played all day like there would be no tomorrow. We dodged helping out at home and would rely on the abundance of fresh fruit that we would pick almost anywhere in the bushes and neighbor's gardens. We would eventually return home to our angry parents who would scold us but then feed us nicely.
We were very happy children.
That was my Africa.
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