I decided to write about my mother. I poured out all my emotions and wrote it out as simply as I could illustrating all the great things she did like cook for me awesome meals, hug me when I was lonely, offer me advice, watch over me when I was sick.
These compositions were then set through a rigorous marking process in which 5 students in the class were asked to come out and read their compositions. As it is on every panel , there was one teacher who persistently said every child's composition was pathetic while the other teachers gave them 7 or 8 out of 10.
It was very demoralizing and I came last to read out my composition. Trying to hide my fear and the shakiness that my hands were already experiencing I begun to speak and thought of my mother watching me say nice things about her gave me the courage to go on.
At the end of my reading I raised my eyes to look at what he had to say. His lips curled and out came the most shocking words I could have ever expected, "bravo!!!! the piece is excellent and he begun to clap. I almost forgot that the other judges on the panel still had to give their verdict. It was awesome , my composition had been the best.
Now a couple of years later, I had grown up and was now a teenager in my vacation after completing my O - level exams. Getting a job is rather difficult at this stage and I had tried all sorts of ways to make a buck but things just weren't working out. All I had left was the business card of a lady who worked at the National newspaper and had attended a career fair at the school.
I had rushed to the New Vision tent to see the people who wrote all the amazing and hilarious stories that had graced the Sunday magazine. I got a glimpse of Timothy Bukumunhe and had him talk then I I chatted with Keturah Kamugasa who handed over that business card that changed my life.
That evening as I sat idly wondering what I could do with my life I decided to write a couple of stories which I printed out, placed in an envelope and made a call scheduling an interview with the Sunday Vision editor.
The editor took one glance at me, asked if I had any experience and informed me that the freelance writers were people they knew and had some experience. I walked out shattered and only to meet the lady who had given me her business card. Keturah asked me what the problem was, took my envelope and came back a few minutes later and told me I could leave.
I had no clue what she had done but I was excited. One week later I saw the first story of my series appear in the newspaper and my heart raced like a little stallion. My dream had come true I was now writing for the newspapers.
Every holiday, I threw in a few articles and made some side cash but it was more than the money that drew me to the newspapers. It was that magical element of being able to transmit your thoughts to the public, to air your views to everyone and make your voice heard through a mere piece of paper.
Sadly I don't feel that way when I pick up the newspaper any more, its like a magic wand that lost its powers. These days by the time you get to the paper, you are probably twice more informed about an issue than it appears in the newspaper. That is because for instance you watched the video on whats app, your friend tweeted about the cause of the incident, the Facebook page confirmed it and you googled all the other angles to the issue.
I will miss the old newspaper but what can we do, times must change and so must we, no wonder am pouring these emotions out on a blog and not on a piece of paper.
