Live your own way.

Live the life you dream of

No matter what the cost

Take the decisions you have to

No matter other people’s opinions

And while you’re at it

Remember that you cannot please everybody

And you don’t have to.

Break stereotypes

Push boundaries

Discover, learn, unlearn and relearn

Know that much as happiness is derived from relationships

Relationships are not the definition of happiness

And you’re in this world to experience it, your own way

So, live. Your own way.

– Pius Miti


My experience with cancer (Part One)

After writing my last post about Children living with cancer, I got amazing feedback about real life cancer situations and how they changed the lives of the affected and the infected. Some feed back is here on this blog post while the other is in my Twitter and WhatsApp inbox.

The feedback was so touching. So much so that I was prompted to consider sharing my experience with cancer here.

It had been long since I had seen my aunty Jane Francis. It had come close to two and a half years now. I always asked mum to let me go and see her but she always postponed my visit saying I should wait for the next holiday. That my aunty lived far from Kampala so I couldn’t just visit her for one day and come back, for someone that far I had to spend a night or two. “Mityana is way out of Kampala,” she said. That I had to wait for when my two sisters had had their holidays so that we go together.

I knew this was my mum’s way of saying no. But somehow, I kept trusting that may be next holiday she would let me go and visit. She didn’t. She seemed to notice how much I missed my aunty from the way I nagged her about the visits so to reduce the nagging, she bought Airtel airtime for UGX1500 loaded pakalast and let me talk to aunty until the minutes got done. After that I forgot all about nagging her about the visits until towards the end of the holidays.

Mum said I grew so close to aunty because they look alike. That when I was still in lower primary boarding school, she was sick during my visitation day so instead, aunty came to visit me. I was so happy thinking it was mum. Aunty noticed it, but she didn’t want to disappoint me by telling me the truth. She let me be.

At home, I had told mum that in the event that God forbid she dies, I would always remember her through aunty. I noticed that her eyes became watery whenever I mentioned this. She quickly looked down, as if she had seen a snake. I knew it was to hide her teary face. “Nze sijja kufa,” she joked.

It had come towards the end of the first term holidays of senior four and I had hardly heard from aunty. Mum said Aunty’s phone was stolen from Kikuubo when she had gone to buy merchandise for her shop. She was saving up money to buy another phone while processing papers to replace her simcards. It was a lengthy process which required her to keep coming to Kampala.

But mum told me not to worry. That aunty was doing fine. She knew this because they used to talk once a week using her neighbor’s phone. I missed aunty! “May be I would see her next holiday as mum said,” I thought.


I saw aunty at the beginning of my first term holidays, only I didn’t visit her, she visited us.

That Saturday afternoon as I came from the shop to buy airtime, I noticed unusual shoes at the front door of the house. We never used the front door unless we had a visitor. We always used the back door or the garage to access the house. And if you were a regular visitor, no one would go through the trouble of opening for you the front door, you used the back door like the rest of us. I wondered who this visitor could be. I flung open the curtain and there I saw aunty Jane Francis sitting in the living room with mum.

My face lit up when I saw her. Mum said I looked like Umeme had shocked my face. Aunty got up from the chair to hug me. But this time she did not give me those brief Kinyarwanda hugs where the cheeks touch. She clasped me in her arms and held me tightly against her soft body. I could tell that she missed me too. Even though her body was hot and sweaty from all the travelling under the sun, I did not mind. Her Kitenji dress smelled exactly like mum’s.

I sat down and we talked. She exclaimed about how I had grown so tall. She told me stories of how she had baby sat me and how I had become a man in no time. And she went on and on.

But while we talked I noticed something about her wasn’t okay. The color of her eyes. Brownish yellow. It looked like the color of urine from a dehydrated person. I had last seen such eyes with the head prefect at school. Students rumored that he used to use drugs. But he could not be expelled because he was a prefect. How over rated prefects were!

But clearly, my aunty wasn’t using drugs. Something was wrong. I asked her and she said it was because of too much sun’s heat as she travelled to Kampala. She then asked that she takes a nap in mum’s bedroom because she felt a bit of migraine. She would get up in an hours time and we would pick up from were we had stopped. She said she had to get back to Mityana the following day to attend to her shop.


It had been three weeks since aunty had visited. She did not go back to Mityana as she had expected. The migraines had intensified. They had weakened her whole body so much so that she could not get out of bed by herself. Her brownish yellow eyes could barely open. I could see that she forced them to open. She didn’t want to look weak. She didn’t want to be pitied. “Nja kuba bulungi,” she said.

“How fast life can change!” I thought.

Sitting in mum’s bedroom beside aunty, I let my mind drift away. I thought about how much pain aunty was enduring and how much strength she lost trying to hide the pain from us. About the things she had planned to do when she went back to Mityana after the visit. Her shop had been closed. A woman who earned her own money had been incapacitated by a stupid migraine.

One morning as I was in my bedroom, I had a loud noise coming from the bathroom. It was a noise of something that had fallen. It sounded a humongous ripe jackfruit falling from the tree. I ran to see what it was but I found that mum had reached before me.

It was aunty. She had gained some strength to walk to the bathroom. She had supported herself by holding on to the walls but the strength had betrayed her when she reached the bathroom. She fell down heavily and hurt her right ankle. She was sitting there on the bathroom floor, groaning in excruciating pain.


At Nsambya hospital, the doctors said that aunty was not supposed to exert pressure on her legs, which when translated meant she was not supposed to walk. Mum asked when she would be able to walk again and the doctor said,”Until further notice.” My heart skipped a bit. When would that be?

We had to buy a wheel chair for aunty when she was discharged but before that, the doctors had to do a few more tests and scans to make sure there was no other injuries. I thought about the Muslim beggar on a wheel chair who was pushed by a boy through cars at the traffic lights at clock tower every evening. I wondered how it felt, pushing around someone in a wheel chair. And here I was about to experience it with aunty, only I did not want to.

We would leave hospital the following day. I prayed that we left soon because the smell of a mixture of medicines was making me sick.

Mum and I slept on a mat on the ground while we watched aunty on the bed all night, lest she wakes up and tries to walk. The ground was so hard. There was a second bed in the ward but the nurse had said that it was hospital policy not to let care takers sleep on the beds. After all, she was doing us a favour to let us spend the night because again, it was hospital policy not to let caretakers spend a night in the hospital. The way she said it was so annoying but I did not react for fear of her mistreating aunty. I would be responsible.

When mum felt sleepy I suggested that we take turns. She would sleep for one hour while I watched aunty and I would sleep for the next one while she watched. I dosed off on my turn.

The doctor returned the test results in the morning, he sat down and asked us about how the patient behaved. He went on and on about how she would be fine. He seemed to be delaying the announcement of the test results. Something in his eyes spelled fear. I started to fear.

As if he had sensed my impatience, the doctor called us away from aunty, opened his file and looking up, he pushed his oval spectacles up the bridge of his nose and said,”Aunty has a foreign body in the brain” “What does that mean?” mum asked. He said it meant aunty had a brain tumor. The room went dead silent.

After what seemed like an hour of mum pacing all over the room, with me muttering words trying to calm her down without being able to calm myself down, mum asked the doctor who was calmly watching us from the chair he was seated on, “What is a brain tumor?” I knew kum understood exactly what a brain tumor was but may be she hoped that the doctors might have made some kind of mistake.

The doctor walked out of the ward and returned with what looked like a tin of lotion almost as if he had kept them at the door way. “Here, let me show you what a tumor looks like,” he said. He dropped a small grain of sand into the run of lotion and told us to imagine the lotion as the brain matter and the grain of sand as the tumor. He added that this kind of tumor was cancerous, and that with in a short time it would multiply into the brain.

I turned to look at mum and caught her gazing at me. But her gaze seemed so distant, like she wasn’t really looking at me, almost as if her soul had wandered off to a different universe. The doctor walked out and shut the door behind him. Mum held my hands in silence, with the distant gaze still in her eyes. I felt that our lives were not going to be the same again.

What you need to know about Childhood cancer.

Did you know that over 80% of children diagnosed with cancer will be cured, joining the growing population of long-term childhood cancer survivors?

In sub-Saharan Africa, cancer is emerging as a major cause of childhood death on the African continent.

Currently, more than 450 million children live on the African continent. Yet there are only four specialist children’s hospitals – compared to about 20 in the UK.

In addition, statistics have shown that more than 40% of South African children with cancer never reach a specialist treatment centre, with this figure rising to 80% in other parts of the continent.

Because today is International Childhood Cancer day, I share with you a poem from a dad to his child who suffers from cancer.(

For Lorrae, from Dad.

I dreamt of your hair like ripened corn,

I saw your eyes of wonderful blue,

a smile so sweet, a heart so true,

a daughter I wanted, a proud father for you,

all that I wanted and my wish did come true,

To bath you or feed you was never a chore,

to read you a story, never a bore,
to walk with you, talk with you,

these things we would do,

my love and protection I gave gladly to you

I give them now and forever more,

I’ve watched you grow, learn wrong from right

watched as you slept on many a night,

these are not a duty but a true fathers’ right,

born under the sign that has threatened your life,

these past months have been pain, sorrow and strife,

but right here beside you is where I have been,

that is what being a father really should mean,

To stand by you through thick or through thin,

to keep open my heart to shelter you in,

no matter how difficult, painful or bad,

stressful, depressing or sad,

things always seem brighter when you call me Dad,

I’ve watched as you battled, suffered and fought,

and screamed with frustration for I could do naught,

to ease you, help you or even take it away,

I sat there helpless day after day
with strength and with courage you found the answer,

to defeat this cruel enemy, this insipid thing called Cancer.

~Tony Williams – Broken Hill NSW

Learn more about cancer in children by reading about the Five facts about childhood cancer

Photo from Google.

For some, Valentine’s day is Book Giving Day

Did you know that 14th February is not only Valentines day but also Book giving day?

Devoted to instilling a lifelong love of reading in children and providing access to books for children in need, Book Giving Day calls on volunteers to share their favourite book with a young reader.

Although the holiday originated in the UK, book lovers around the world now join in the celebrations every year. (

Recently, the tradition of book giving does not only apply for children but also adults, that being said, when did you last give or receive a book?

Or are you one of those that let dust accumulate on the books in their shelves from decades ago?

Any avid book reader knows the power of a good piece of literature. Whether it’s a fictional adventure to imaginary lands, a biographical piece with lessons from history, or something entirely different, a book has the power to spark curiosity, introduce innovation, and open opportunity.

One day as I was browsing through an African books shelf in a bookshop in Kampala, I found this amazing book full of African proverbs and sayings. Unfortunately at the time, I could not afford it. I wished I could have it without having to buy it. Of course, I was not about to steal it. Not that I didn’t think of it.

As if the universe had heard my prayers, a week later, as I was at a friend’s work place in downtown, Kampala, a client walked into his shop holding the same book I had wished to have.

My eyes narrowed to slits as I stared at the book. I’ve got to have this book, I said to myself. And again, no, I wasn’t about to steal it. For some reason I was hopping that this complete stranger would just give me the book. And that is exactly what he did.

I guess he watched how my face lit up when I glared at the book and he imagined how grateful I would be if it belonged to me. We never got time to introduce ourselves to each other as I was caught up in the excitement of my new bride of a book.

It is at that moment that I realised the joy that comes with receiving a good book for free.

And on this day, I wish to experience the joy that comes with the contentment of giving one. I wish the same for you too.

Which book would you like to give and/or receive this #BookGivingDay?

Photos: Google & Pinterest

Night to shine: The royalty night of Children With Disability

Photo by Pius Miti

Did you know that over a billion people in the world live with some form of disability?

That’s 15% of the world’s population.

The Person with disabilities Act 2006 defines disability as “a substantial functional limitation of daily life activities caused by physical, mental or sensory impairment and environmental barriers resulting in limited participation.”

People with disabilities have generally poorer health, lower education achievements, fewer economic opportunities and higher rates of poverty than people without disabilities. This is largely due to the lack of services available to them and the many obstacles they face in their everyday lives.(World report on disability)

Bridging the gap between PWDs and the able-bodied is without a doubt a challenge, yet both parties desire to be accepted equally in society. The people at night to shine thought it important to take of one day in a year to celebrate and recognise PWDs.

Night to Shine is an unforgettable prom night experience, centered on God’s love, for people with special needs ages 14 and older. On one night, February 9, 2018, more than 540 churches from around the world came together to host Night to Shine for approximately 90,000 honored guests through the support of 175,000 volunteers!

A girl poses for a photo on the red carpet at the Night to shine event at Watoto church. Photo by Pius Miti

Night to shine collaborates with local churches around the world to mobilise PWDs in their communities for this annual celebration. In Uganda, they collaborate with Watoto church.

I was blessed to be one of the 175,000 volunteers who helped out at the event that happened at Watoto church, Kyengera.

I have always wanted to push my boundaries, to put on the shoes of not only someone other than myself, but also, someone who sees the world so differently from the majority. And on this day, I did.

Winnie, Solomon Hellen and I at Watoto church Kyengera during the Night to shine event. Photo by Pius Miti.

The children were welcomed to the venue in a royalty style, I’m talking massive sensational drums, percussion and astounding cultural dancers. Strolling their wheel chairs with the help of their caretakers, the children looked so happy. And indeed they were. The music painted a ray of sunshine upon their faces. Oh! The smiles on their faces! Even though some of them hadn’t the ability to talk, I could almost see their souls glowing with gratefulness through those smiles.

One of the volunteers does make-up on one of the children at Night to shine. Photo by Pius Miti.

You could tell it’s been a long time since they last had a genuine smile. We then proceeded them to the make-up tent where they were to receive facial make up, you know, like the one the Kings and Queens that they are would deserve, after which they walked over the red carpet, posed for photographs with each other then proceeded to the sitting area where the event was to go down.

The decorated sitting area at Watoto church Kyengera. Photo by Pius Miti

To say that the sitting area was amazing would be an understatement. From a distance, it looked to be made entirely of bits of gold, but when you were close enough, you could see that those were hundreds, probably thousands of glowing lights. It seemed to grow right out of the ceiling and spread out like a humongous chandelier. The decorations reflected the light like many shards of glass in the afternoon sun.

The host of ceremony took it away, through to the speeches from some of the children who represented their communities. Brilliant speeches, talking about his they experience life as PWDs; the good, the bad and the ugly that go through, their achievements and their aspirations.

It was an eye-opener to see software engineers and Information technology graduates who are PWDs. Did you know that Stephen Hawking, a PWD is one of the greatest academians in Britain?

So, the children were served a sumptuous meal followed by ice cream and later was the closing dance. What a day it was!

Special thanks to the people at Timtebow foundation and Watoto church who find it necessary and important to celebrate the lives of children with disabilities.

This is why I’m cynical


This is why I’m cynical
Because nothing really matters

You could live big or small

In high praises or low places

Be jolly or go through down bases

But no body gives a hoot about your life

No body cares about anything but their own lives

Because nothing really matters!

You always explain about your next life

So you can rationalise your present miserable life

But can’t explain about your past life

See all you are is a wishful thinker

Living your life for your tomentors

You’re setting yourself up for disaster

Caressing the seductive thighs of the imposter

You think I’m bitter

But I just know better

You think I have a cold heart

But your own is getting burnt

You think I’m skeptical

When I tell you to escape and go

You proudly preach the opressor’s agenda

Stealing from your own self

Filling the wise man’s shelf

See the wise man knows the truth

But lets you think you too know the truth

By authoring for you the truth, your truth

And so you think your truth is his truth

But let me tell you the truth

Nothing really matters

And no one really cares

And deep down we all are cynical

This is what perfect is


​Congratulations! You’re not perfect! It’s ridiculous to want to be perfect anyway. But then, everybody’s ridiculous sometimes, except perfect people. You know what perfect is? Perfect is not eating or drinking or talking or moving a muscle or making even the teensiest mistake. Perfect is never doing anything wrong – which means never doing anything at all. Perfect is boring! So you’re not perfect! Wonderful! Have fun! Eat things that give you bad breath! Trip over your own shoelaces! Laugh! Let somebody else laugh at you! Perfect people never do any of those things. All they do is sit around and sip weak tea and think about how perfect they are. But they’re really not one-hundred-percent perfect anyway. You should see them when they get the hiccups! Phooey! Who needs ’em? You can drink pickle juice and imitate gorillas and do silly dances and sing stupid songs and wear funny hats and be as imperfect as you please and still be a good person. Good people are hard to find nowadays. And they’re a lot more fun than perfect people any day of the week.