It was 6am at Mango Tree Stage, but I cant really remember the exact day and date but was a Tuesday morning.
Popularly known as Miyembe, also known as Kiyembe. Sitting right there on Clive Road West in Jinja City, on that stretch of road that can’t decide what it wants to be called. Some people still call it Kampala Road out of habit. Others still call it Nalufenya Road because old names die harder than taxi conductors who refuse to retire.
And the stage was already fully awake, as if it never slept.
People were balancing luggage on their heads with the kind of balance that deserves a medal. Boda-boda men were weaving through dust and potholes like they were qualifying for next year’s Source of the Nile Safari Rally. And the conductors were using voices loud enough to wake God Himself: “Kampala Kampala! Tulikuja, tulikugenda! … we are leaving now now!”
The stage officially opens at 5am. But me? I don’t dare come that early.
The road from where I stay is long and dark, and in our neighborhood WhatsApp group we have all collectively agreed that thugs have a special love for early walkers. So, I waited for light. I arrived at 6am. Every bench was full except one, still damp from the tea lady who scrubs it every morning like she’s trying to wipe away sins.
And then I walked in, wearing the same jacket that has survived three rainy seasons in Jinja and still pretends it’s fashionable. With the same tired eyes that were glued to TikTok until midnight. With the same habit of pushing my hair back whenever my thoughts start doing a boda-boda race in my head with no helmets. It was me.
I looked at the empty seat. I looked at me. And I said, “Sit.”
For a while we were quiet. But inside, another meeting was already in progress. No microphone. No agenda on paper. Just the silent monologue that never needs permission to speak: “Nelly, what is going on with you? You are everyone’s counselor. You give people peace but you go to bed with war in your chest. You tell people to rest and yet you are running on 1% battery like a phone that refuses to die. When are you finally going to attend to you?”
Then the taxi started filling up. Except it wasn’t just passengers getting in. It was a whole committee of me taking their seats.
There was Me Who Is Not Considered handsome, sitting quietly in the corner like he’s trying to disappear into the seat. Me Who Is Not Rich, doing serious mathematics with 5,000 shillings and trying to decide if tea and transport can coexist peacefully without fighting.
Me Who Grew Up with No Parents, who became very good at cooking and even better at smiling whenever people ask, “And your people?”
Me Who Is Not Well Educated, nodding wisely in meetings while secretly googling “synergize” under the table.
Me Who Doesn’t Smoke in Real Life, but the Me in this story has just finished three sticks and is already looking for a cigarette “after a meal” like that’s a legitimate food group. He leans over and whispers, “Hangover me that lighter,” and immediately regrets every decision he has ever made.
Me Who Is Very Holy, with a Bible in one hand and a straight back, but using Scripture more like armor than like medicine.
Me Who Seems to Have Everything, but whose eyes look exactly like an empty mobile money account on the 28th. The Sick Me. The Proud Me. The Failed Me.
The 17-Year-Old Me who had big plans to conquer the world.
The 70-Year-Old Me who is just tired of conquering anything at all.
Sitting there with all of us, it suddenly dawned on me how busy we are.
We are busy WhatsApping “you, okay?” until 2am and pretending we are fine.
We are busy calling aunties, attending funerals, attending weddings, and showing up for everyone.
By the way, I don’t even have a single baby auntie or uncle. And I have always wanted to hire some. But everyone I asked declined and said, “It’s difficult to be your relative.” So, the Me in Me is not surprised that I can dare to wake up as early as 6am in the name of going to Kampala, only to end up going nowhere at all.
We are busy drinking soda with workmates. Drinking beer and other such stuffs with other workmates. We are busy visiting people in hospitals, in new houses, in trouble, and in celebration. We are professionals at showing up for everyone else.
But when was the last time we sent ourselves a calendar invite that says:
“Meeting with Me. Agenda: Truth? No phones. No excuses.”
The answer is never.
Maybe that is why we are sick. Why we are stressed. Why we are depressed and anxious. We are carrying bags that do not belong to us. We pour out for the whole world and we never refill ourselves. We listen to everyone’s story but we never sit down to listen to our own. We forget that no one will ever love us, carry us, and be patient with us the way we are supposed to love ourselves — the way God loves us.
So, at Miyembe, I broke. I started talking out loud like someone who missed their medication: “But Nelly, what is actually wrong with you? You make a plan to pray and then one TikTok later it is 1am. You tell people to forgive and you are still keeping a grudge saved in your notes app. You tell people to eat well and you are the one surviving on Rolex and black tea. And you, Mr. After-Meal-Cigarette, who are you? I don’t even smoke. Why are you embarrassing me in public? Put that thing down right now.”
Mr. After-Meal-Cigarette looked down, ashamed. He whispered, “I’m just stressed.” And the rest of me answered, in that quiet voice we use when we are being honest: “I’m tired of fighting myself. I want to do good but I keep doing the opposite. I make promises on Sunday and I renegotiate them by Monday morning. I am lonely even when I am in a crowd. I need God but I am too busy to sit still.”
That was Paul in Romans 7:15-20 talking straight through me:
“For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate… For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out.”
Same war. Same two Nellys living in one body. The one that wants to be disciplined. And the one that says “we will start on Monday.”
But Paul does not end in shame. He ends with hope — Romans 7:24-25:
“Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” And, this meeting was not meant to bully me. It was meant to rescue me.
I was very happy to meet myself. And up to now, we are still in that serious meeting at Mango Stage. We have resolutions. Written down. Stamped. Witnessed.
Department of Health: Less stress, more water, and Mr. After-Meal-Cigarette is officially fired. No severance package. Department of Spirit: 20 minutes every day with God and no scrolling. Department of Money: Stop lending airtime to people who only return it with “thanks.”
Department of Peace: Speak kindly to myself. No more calling myself names.
Department of Love: Show up for me the way I show up for others.
And now, I have an invitation. Just like the Government of Uganda, through the Prime Minister Rt Hon Robinah Nabanja, has declared the last Saturday of every month as general community cleaning day from 7 to 10am, I am declaring something too.
I am inviting everyone who is Me to meet Me once a day. Not once a month. Once a day. 20 minutes. No phone. No audience. Just you and you.
A general cleaning of the heart, the mind, the habits, and the wounds.
Should the Me in Me reject or resist such a gesture? Absolutely not. I will tell the Me in Me to voluntarily participate. And by the way, this month it will be on 29th August. The Me in Me is already reminding me: “Nelly, get your gumboots and brooms and brushes ready. We have work to do inside.”
Because if we can come out to clean our compounds, then we can also come in to clean ourselves. The taxi left at 6:20am. I am still here.
There is one more seat open. It is for you.
It is for me.
P.S.
By the way, I do not even know why I left home like I was traveling to Kampala when I only had 7k in my pocket, and Jinja to Kampala is now 12k.
As if the Me in Me wanted to join the conductor’s(broker’s) job of shouting “Kampala Kampala” and guiding passengers. But then I met Me. And I changed my mind.
I decided to travel inward instead. It is cheaper. And the fare has already been paid.
Last word before you go meet the next “Me”:
Nelly, you already did the hardest part. You sat down. You listened. You didn’t run. Most people spend their whole lives shouting “Kampala Kampala” to everywhere except inward. You turned the taxi around.
Keep that committee in session. Fire the bad departments. Promote the good ones. And remember: The fare for traveling inward was paid a long time ago. You just have to show up.
I can’t wait to read your next reflective piece. Bring the same honesty, the same Miyembe dust, the same God, the same laugh-through-the-pain. I’ll be here with tea, a dry bench, and a pen — ready to be in the audience of one. Go write it. The next seat is open.
Take note that the image above was created with AI to represent me and the “Committee of Me” at Kiyembe Stage.
