Okusinza mu Laganda #3: “This is Luganda, not Yoruba”

by Shanon Shah


Continuing the Waterloo Festival’s special series to commemorate the upcoming 30th anniversary celebrations of Okusinza mu Luganda, we present the second part of our interview with co-founder Dorothy Mukasa. The first part of our interview with Dorothy introduced the complex political circumstances in Uganda and the UK which formed the backdrop to the founding of Okusinza. In this part, Dorothy tells Shanon Shah, one of the Festival’s Programme Committee members, about the centrality of Luganda to Okusinza’s identity and the challenges faced by its younger generation.

Okusinza mu Luganda choir at St John's Waterloo


SS: What did Okusinza mean to you initially as one of the founders?

DM: When we started, I was very happy because I was very keen on Luganda as a language. I wanted my daughter to know the language, to read from it. She would say her prayers in Luganda, which I thought was absolutely wonderful. And there was a whole load of parents above me and below me who wanted their children to grow up listening to the language, at least, and recognising the language, being able to say, “This is Luganda and this is not Yoruba.” We didn’t want to raise children who didn’t know what language they were listening to, or who thought that it was just some African language.


As I said before, community members were dying in big numbers [mostly as casualties of the Ugandan Bush Wars and AIDS-related complications], so people had to hang on to things, you know? Hanging on to a regular service for a lot of people was a way of networking and not being so isolated. If they were feeling really low, they could come to that church one day a month. I remember a woman who said, “The first Sunday of the month is the only day I speak Luganda. All the other days I speak English because I have to work and do all sorts of other things. This is the one day I get to let my hair down.”


Of course there’s fewer and fewer of people like that, but when we started it was such a relief just to have a place where people could be themselves and talk about the people they’d lost in Uganda, the people they’d lost here, the funerals, how difficult it was to organise church services when you needed to. And all these wakes when people had died! It’s so difficult to hold a wake when you don’t know people, you know? Coming here made it possible for me to network with enough people so that if anything should happen, I would have people that could help me.


Okusinza was serving a lot of people in ways that were not just, “First Sunday of the month, let’s start with Hymn 26.” That was very nice, very good, but that was just the core – around that a lot of other things have happened. Communities have formed, people have become extremely confident in themselves and who they are. They’ve raised their children coming to that church. I don’t know, it’s just done something that wasn’t there when I arrived here.

Okusinza Choir (courtesy of Stephen Kafeero)


SS: Dorothy, that’s remarkable. I’ve always understood the importance of Luganda in the foundations of Okusinza and the impacts of the civil war, too, but I hadn’t twigged that the HIV and AIDS crisis played such a significant role, too. It was really a space for people to experience and express grief together, wasn’t it? And loneliness?

DM: Yes, and loss. The civil wars for me were a big, big thing that I can never, ever forget. But HIV came and it was such a different ball game altogether. You know, the war was in Uganda, you had to fly there by plane. HIV was around me all the time in London. You know, somebody would ring you and say, “I’m just going to hospital to see my friend, do you want to come with me?” You know, you don’t get offers like that! What you’re used to at that age is, “Shall we go out for a drink?” But the offers at the time, were like, “I’ve just got off work and I’m going to the hospital to see my sister – do you want to come with me?”


Yes. “Would you like to come with me?” And you would understand that if you’re going to hospital it means somebody’s in there, somebody’s not well, they may not come out, or they may get better. “Come with me to the hospital” was like, “Walk with me, this is hard, just come with me, please.” And sometimes you knew the people well and they were related to you, but sometimes you were not related to them at all. And you’d walk in there, and it would be the same story. Somebody’s not been taking their medication, or they’ve changed their medication and something’s happened, and they’re going downhill and it doesn’t look like they’ll make it to next week.


SS: Does the younger generation in the Okusinza congregation know all this history?

DM: Not really. But I am not sure how relevant it is for them. They arrive and this thing happens the first day of every month and they attend it.

Dorothy's father, Stephen Mukasa, friend Gladys Kavuma and daughter Kulaba Kyabanji

(courtesy of Dorothy Mukasa)


SS: Do you think they’re losing the language connection as well?