Mint Memories of Pleasant View
Every home she’s ever lived in, she finds her spot — one window, preferably facing the road. That becomes her special place. She leans there, prays there, and chases away demons she didn’t invite. She talks to her sisters there too. Endless hearty conversations until they laugh and cry at the same time.From the laughter, I can tell if she is talking to Auntie Joy, Margaret or Molly. She laughs most with the former.
Back then, I didn’t understand how anyone could find joy in that but these past few days, I’ve found my own window on the 34th floor.
I sat in gray couch snuggled a mustard yellow cushion eagerly waiting for Chicago to rise. And rise it did — at 5:00 a.m., with shy reluctance of someone wearing overnight makeup. The veil of fog lifted slowly, revealing skyscrapers like sleepy giants.
And then came the train — Chicago’s long, metallic snake — slithering past in synchronized hisses, sometimes two trains sliding past each other without ever touching. It reminded me of Namumira, my childhood home, where we sang our hearts out to the train until it wiggled its belly out of sight.
The roads here crisscross like spider webs.The cars keep turning right, and every time they do, my heart skips. I’m used to driving on the “left” side — right hand steering. Here, it’s the other way round. The cars like many things in America are big Limousines are not for weddings they are for business as usual, Lincoln, Ford, huge beasts.
The neighborhood is… virgin. Nobody sneaking into anyone’s house. Not that I’d know which house belongs to whom, but a window can tell you things even walls won’t admit.
The streets are smiling in colour. Flowers singing songs I am too busy to hear; petunias, hydrangeas, and some stubborn purple ones whose names still escape me. On the contrary, evenings are chilly, we have been needing to wear light sweaters.
The streets are neat and permissive.
A lot has changed. A lot hasn’t.
The tattoo baths are still on vogue. I’ve spotted tattoos of lions, birds, full quotes, and abstract maps. My favorite so far: “It is what it is.” a resigning statement, something you say when you have no control— like when your husband sires a child with his mistress, and your in-laws invite you to the naming ceremony. You bite your tongue and smile through your teeth: “It is what it is.” I wonder what might have inspired her to write that on her body forever.
Tattoos are like secrets hiding in plain sight. Some sneak out like shy gossip. Others sprawl all over bodies like rebellious spaghetti.
The streets are louder at night sirens and bikers announcing an already visible night. The sun is celebrated with some men walking bare chested. Their brown curly chest hair needing to be warmed by a gentle sun. My eyes want to mind their business but I do not stop them from seeing what they should not. Even if it’s summer time, a season of wildness, the sun remains muted in Chicago. The women wear their shorts with confidence — some denim, most “bam-bam” — their butt cheeks daring the breeze. Nobody tells them to dress properly because properly is defined by the owner of the body not mwe ba stakeholder. To each their own. This is the land of freedom expressed how each one sees fit.
I shall wear mine too — my shorts, not my cheeks. Maybe throw in a few holes for flair. But I’ll spare the sons of Adam the full gospel.
There are as many restaurants as there are streets. We went to one that asked for a reservation something I am yet to get used to because hunger makes no reservations. It just shows up.
Leaving my wallet and phone on tables felt very liberating something I would never do in Kampala. I have been out with friends eating stake. Cows do not walk as much as their citizens. The meat is tender you’d think the cows here go to yoga instead of walking. Red, the colour of fresh blood layers meat like lightly worn lipstick. Even when I asked for well done, the meat was still raw, raw cow.
I have been eating things my ancestors may not be happy with. Sandwiches, sea food and salad with fancy names Cous Cous ( Kus Kus). Americans have baptised their food fancy names panini, bagels, mimosa and my favourite so far cous cous. I have been eating much slower, savoring tastes, eating fancy names more than the actual food. My palate is slowly betraying my people.
The best part of eating are people. Listening to people share what I would call TMI (Too much information) for a first time conversation. Deep family history, names of pets and the reason they nolonger get along with siblings. I liked the exactness of places being described to me as if I have been there before.
Like the food, I have also been baptised a new name K a t a n a somebody removed the letter O and replaced it with the letter A. Katana, (Katono) Rass (Ross), Gela (Gala.) Flowwwrence rolled nicely off many tongues. I like to hear it a little more. My father said he named me after a famous athlete Flowwwwrence. My tongue has been curling too. You should hear me say Thurrrrsday, warrra, meing, keyoric. My tongue feels a little lighter. It is carrying me safely through conversations like a willing donkey.
I’ve found my window here too — a place to pray loudly, journal quietly, and call home.
Chicago, I’ve inhaled you.
I’ve walked your fog and tasted your steak.
I’ve watched you rise and heard your sirens sing.
Bye bye, Chicago. Until next time.
#travelwriting
#Chicago
Words are my precious gift to you.
Thank you for being part of my story.
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