Stella.

…the tale of a community. This story is about architecture, I promise!

Stella.

That must be her name. I’m sure of it. She’s sitting at the edge of a pew four rows ahead. Sure feels further than it really is. This church is really huge; brand new, totally influenced by Goth. St Charles Lwanga Chapel Ntinda.

I remember the old chapel. It was way smaller. Shaped like a box. We were all squashed together and ordinary back then. Everyone in here looks brand new and sparkly except the ones who don’t. Hmm…I wonder who those are, I haven’t seen them around before.

And Stella, she’s gotten real pretty, nothing at all like the scrawny, squeamish five year old who used to sneak into our compound through the gap between the trees that made the fence between our houses.  I remember the mud cakes and how she used to chase my brothers around.

Then there was her grandmother, the creepy old woman! Okay in hindsight I’m not so sure if she really was creepy. I saw her once in a while on community day, not what it was called per say, but sure felt like it. That day when we’d collectively clean around our houses and the street. I remember pulling at the tiny green weeds between the cracked tarmac, and going mad when they broke at the stem instead of coming out full and glorious at the roots.

Everyone in the neighborhood participated.it was one big party. Even Aunt Kyali and her daughters showed up. They lived right across the street. Her daughters liked me, they bought me gifts often. I called them aunt too. Well we weren’t really related, but it’s hard not to feel attached to the faces you saw every morning as you’re leaving for school. The first people you got to show off your new backpacks and shoes to other than your family.

There was this one backpack that had me all excited. The type with wheels, Uncle Alex a few houses along the street bought it for me. He was my dad’s friend. They grew up together in that very neighborhood, they always said, reminiscing. He was so light skinned and always bald. I remember pondering over that as a child. Oh, and how the veins in his temple would pop as he shooed us away when we played in the road. But come on, all the kids played there; Connor Gregory, Mario and Alex…people rarely drove through our street. Muteesa II road, Ntinda.

But that was ages ago. Time went by, stoic walls crowned with spikes came up, every plot had its own fancy gate. The tiny identical houses that lined the street were broken down. Storeyed buildings, hotels and restaurants came up. Community day, or whatever it was called and its people faded away.

Mass is ending. Maybe if I stare long and hard into the back of Stella’s head she’ll turn around.  She does. We look straight at each other. Her eyes are blank. Not a flicker of recognition. She looks away. It seems we’ve both changed.

I guess that when walls come up you’re affected in more ways than one.

Rest in Peace my little loving community.

First published in 2017, Ta'ndi Magazine