The World Cup has ended. In Uganda, along with a lot of lives. Young lives, mostly. It’s hard to even remember that hours before the blasts, we were rejoicing wherever we were. That the only sadness we felt was a light one, a ‘good’ one that the World Cup was coming to an end, but no big deal. And then the phone calls started coming in.
I was fortunately far away from both Kabalagala and Kyadondo. We were rendered broke partying the night before (my sister’s birthday) and settled for watching the final match at home with friends and beers.
Having neither heard the blast nor seen the sites, except in the papers and on TV, it was hard to even register that such a senseless brutal attack had happened here. In my hometown. And then friends started calling and texting with horrific stories of what they’d seen and survived.
I am grateful to God that my family and friends are alive and relatively well (some minor fractures only). I am immeasurably sad that so many loved ones – young people especially – have been lost. If you are Ugandan, wherever you are, please join in the national week of mourning (we are wearing black wrist/arm bands in solidarity).