To Catch a Falling Sun

Disclaimer: This one’s for the romantics. (If you just rolled your eyes, stay away.) For this is the sappiest entry yet. 

As I was saying, this is for the romantics.  The ones who hug the moon. The ones who’ll forever weep at John Legend’s all of me and raise holy hands at MJ’s Speechless. Those who wave at butterflies and giggle with the flowers. To kill an ant is to break their hearts and they’d rather be stung by a bee, than shoosh it off their cup of tea.

Alright folks, let’s snap out of the lyrical wax and get on with the day’s noble task – vote for the best spot to drool all over the sunset.

Seen from Kampala Hilton Hotel @Nakasero Hill

One of the perks of living in Kampala, city of hills, is that you could perch atop the choicest peak and gorge on the most glorious sunsets. And tomorrow, repeat. At another lofty seat.

An ancient hymn behind you and an ageless sun before.      @Namirembe Cathedral

A story is told of a little prince who, one day, watched the sunset 44 times. His planet was as big as a fist so, one step forward and voila – a luminous ball on the horizon! But we aren’t that lucky, so once a day will have to do.

Step aside, Narcissus. @Kampala Hilton Hotel

As I was saying, this is for the hopeless romantics. The ones who, while mortals are transfixed to their earthly toils and toys, look up… and then bolt like, well… Bolt to grab the front row at the celestial concert of hues. Don’t you know? It’s staged on the converse of the sky, chaque soir.

If the hills start to get a bit old, head out to the plains of Karamoja.                   @Kidepo National Park with Bosco

So, what’s your favourite point of view?

My chart-topper: a private balcony in Kololo, the location of which I’m not at liberty to disclose.

 

 

Kampalan Heights

Every now and then, you stumble on a cool little nook, tucked up in the hills of Kampala and you’re torn – should I boast to the world about ‘discovering’ it first or should I keep my secret?

Holy Crêpe! Sometimes, it’s tough to kiss and not tell.

Up here, it’s a whole other brand of air. Pure. Distilled. Refined accents float lightly over the breeze, delicious aromas waft from beneathe. The staff rush to roll up the tarpaulin, so that I can be dazed some more by the panorama.

An eclectic mix of Navio’s njogereza, Maurice Kirya and what my ears would describe as British eccentria (there’s one such genre, right?) pump out of a carefully balanced woofer – just loud enough to lift the Sunday afternoon mood two & a half notches.

Parking lot starts to fill up. Girl on the table across gasps and giggles when Jonathan, the waiter, presents her sandwich. They’re generous here. Ladies behind me hunt and peck at the view for roofs they might recognise. They exchange notes on ice cream flavours. Is someone in the corner closing a 45M deal on the phone? The pair in shades shift to get more sun. It’s quite possible I’m the last to learn of this cosy hideout.

I pack up my notebook. It’s time to see more. There’s always more.

Party @The17 rooftop, anyone?