Hands of Steel

My eight fingers are wounded from hand-washing my children's clothes on Boxing Day. Clusters of tiny skinless wounds are causing me immense pain. Much more than this, I am ashamed that doing laundry can actually wound me. I am thinking of the washing-woman who comes to my house twice a week and does heaps of laundry with such ease. I should increase her wages, now that I understand what she is saving me from.

Most of us in Uganda do not have washing-machines or laundry-driers. We hand-wash our dirty clothes. We also hang them out on metal lines or gauze wires or sisal-strings to dry in the sun. Before hanging them to sun-dry, we wring them with our hands to squeeze out as much water as we can.

I grew up hand-washing my clothes - mostly in boarding school. We all did this over the weekend, often spreading our clothes out in the green lawns to dry under the brilliant equatorial sun. And then I graduated from university and learnt about dobbies who washed clothes for a fee. I also learnt about dry cleaners who cost an arm and a leg to clean one coat or one skirt. And when I went overseas for graduate education, I learnt about washing-machines and driers. I returned home and itinerary washing-men or washing-women were the in thing. I have had a washing-woman do my family's laundry for the last donkey's years. And so my fingers are now too dainty to do the needful. Shame on me and other career-women who use our fingers to type on laptops but not for housework. Kudos for all washing-men and washing-women who save our hands from dirty laundry.

Stella Nyanzi

To all that are struggling with depression,

I don’t know you. I don’t know who you are or where you’re from. I don’t know your background, nor do I know your unique circumstances. I don’t know if your depression is the result of your genetic disposition, or if it is caused by something terrible that happened to you in your past. I don’t know if you’re going through a major change in your life or if you’re struggling to cope with the loss of a loved one.

There are a lot of things about your fight with depression that I simply don’t know.

But let me tell you a few things that I do know.

I know how it feels.

I know how it feels to have no one understand what you’re going through.

I know how it feels to feel alone in a crowded room; to feel like you’re putting on a “happy mask” in public, only to feel like you’re slipping further and further into an unsolvable despair.

I know how it feels to lose interest in things that once brought you joy and happiness; for foods to lose their taste, for nature to lose its beauty, and for the world to lose its color.

I know how it feels to want to be left alone while simultaneously (and desperately) yearn for someone to reach out and help you.

I know how it feels to do everything—absolutely everything—to try to fill the growing emptiness inside of you. I know how it feels to try to self-medicate and mute the pain with anything and everything: excessive sleep, television, foods, pain killers, or other addictions.

I know how it feels to fall to your knees and beg God to free you from the terrible loneliness of the darkness in your mind—only to feel like the ground has opened beneath you, plunging you into an even darker abyss.

I know how it feels because I’ve suffered from depression since I was a kid. In 2006, my depression culminated in a suicide attempt that very nearly claimed my life.

I know how depression feels and I’m intimately aware of the thoughts and feelings that lead to suicide.

But I also know a few other things. And this is why I’m writing to you.

I know there is hope.

Just as night is defeated by the dawn, or as the winter is conquered by the spring, or as the darkness is dominated by any degree of light, I know that you can make it through this.

And what’s more, I know that you can be a better person because of it.

Our lives are a journey on the earth. As we move forward, we will not only figuratively experience the geography of life: the exhilaration of high mountains, the tranquility of calm meadows, the isolation of treacherous canyons, but we also experience the seasons of life: the hope of spring, the abundance of summer, the harvest of autumn, and yes, the darkness and depression of winter.

Just as we continuously experience the change in seasons, we will also experience the contrast between canyons and mountains many times in our lives. Some winters and canyons last longer than others, it is true. But as someone who frequently struggles with depression, I can promise you that the springs do come and that there are paths out of the canyons and into the light.

I said that you are going to be a better person as a result of your depression. I meant it. Having dealt with depression for over twenty years, I can say with confidence that my depression has given me an incomparable appreciation for life.

If you move forward while holding onto the knowledge that the sun will rise in your soul, I assure you that one day, you will stand at the summit of a figurative mountain and look back on your life’s journey. You will see your canyons of depression for what they were and realize that they taught you things you otherwise couldn’t have learned. And, to your utter amazement, you will see how your experiences with depression, dark and painful as they were, only added to the overall beauty of your life.

For aren’t the most beautiful vistas the ones that are filled with mountains, valleys, canyons, and wondrous variety?

To all who are struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts: you are not alone. We are all on this journey together. I promise you that there is hope. Let us reach out to one another and walk together in the sunlight.

- Seth Adam

One More Night

Eve - which is also called 'kiro more', 'esigadde', 'penultimate night', etc etc - has always been my sort of thing. I love that one last full day before departing. I get high on the excitement that closure brings. And today I am in full 'kiro more' mode.

That oldie 'One more night' is playing over and over again through my laptop speakers. My suitcases and bags are spread all over the floor in different stages of packing. The book shelves are getting bare as I return books to different libraries and people. The wardrobe and drawers have been emptied of my what-nots. My last few contents in the shared fridge-freezer are defrosting for that last baking or giving away. My food cabinets were emptied this morning into heaps and bundles to give away. The shredder is working as I destroy written evidence of my presence, that is no longer wanted. End-term shredding reminds me of bonfire night in my primary school when fools burnt up their exercise books to mark the end of an academic year.

In previous years, I would climb up a chair firmly placed on a desk in order to scribble onto a corner of the ceiling 'Stella Nyanzi was here'. Right now I am rethinking this ritual of closure. I feel I am now too old to climb up another chair placed on the desk I have been working at all this while. I look at my children's pictures firmly pasted on the walls around me. These pictures have motivated me to keep working, stay the course, read longer, write more and be productive. I will bring the pictures down after all the other chores. I am looking forward to going back home to my people after three long months away. Tomorrow morning, I will be homebound. The excitement is killing me.

Stella Nyanzi