See, me I do not know how to care for humans. My speciality is to care for things, for places. And I accept my failings. But my brother belongs to that tribe of Kampala’s renaissance men.
I have a hate and love-affair with eulogies. There is a part of eulogies that is over-compensatory. That part where you damn yourself for not having done much while this person was alive. For not having told them. Eulogies are enshrined in regret. I am slowly converting to the school of thought that says – shower people with the praises. Of course, there is a fear in this. What if these people then go off? What if the heroes of now become monsters? Who cares? What mattered was those moments when they were heroes. When they meant something to us, when they lived for something. And that my friends, is how my brother comes in. He is perhaps a quarter score older than me. But I belong to the school of constructivism. I construct everything. Thus, I do not accept that we belong to the same generation. He is a man who took on responsibility a little too early, for all of us, his revolutionary siblings.
Everyone in that family got a head of their own. But the man found his way to manage us. Or did he? Recently, when I went through this second season of flu (a disease that should not belong to chaste men like me), nga doesn’t brother prepare me broth.
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