Each jubilating hand had the potential to vivisect, each hailing mouth had the power to condemn someone to death. - Moses Isegawa

The lukewarm fingers of nostalgia stroked the hearts of the old, garnishing the smells and the sounds and the fires with old truths turned to dull uncertainties in today’s environment.

Uganda was in a state of siege, writhing like a dying moth on the floor. The bugles of defeat were poised, waiting to blow the walls down. The inside of the country was like a grenade whose pin had already been drawn.

Every migrant soul was now a compact little ghost captured in words, invoked from the lacuna by the oracle of Grandma and Grandpa and made to inject doses of old life into our present truncated existence.