They say you should never return to places or people you once loved.
I go back to Kampala, with Craig and Roscoe, to where we all began. This exploration of rootedness is also a celebration; we are here, together, twenty years on. Still talking, still breathing, still loving each other. These small miracles acknowledged and noted. What seems simple, is not.
We fly Uganda Airlines, cramped together in an airless cabin, in seats so close together you could kiss your neighbour by a simple turn of your head. Unfurling ourselves in Entebbe, we walk through the sanitised airlink sealing us away from the welcoming smells of rich red murrum earth. However, the stench of progress is quickly wiped by the familiar chaos of immigration. One day a country will design an immigration service that reflects the warmth of the people within. This is not that day.
The vast emptiness of the Chinese built airport building, is in contrast to the melee of humanness which swarms outside. I’d forgotten the propensity for noise and nearness. These are a people who can create a noise level unmatched outside of a premier league football ground on a Saturday afternoon and an ability to stand so close that they can see the freckles on my nose.
We spend 30 minutes in the car going nowhere; embroiled in a queue of traffic inching towards the two barriers which offer a tantalizing escape from the airport confines. The argy-bargy of cars, trucks and Matatu’s bursts onto the Chinese owned highway where every toll shilling goes ‘Kerching‘ into the coffers of the Chinese government. This is a prime example of the Belt and Road initiative, binding Africa to the future of the Far East; an active choice of the current political elite who ignore the vision of their new colonial masters.
I still marvel at this highway; 20 years ago a drive to Entebbe could take 1 hour or several, if you made it at all. From 1998 to 2000 it was so dangerous and the kidnappings and shootings so frequent, you had to be escorted by armed guard. Given I travelled across Africa so frequently, I was incredibly blasé about a truck full of loaded AK 47’s ahead and behind my regular airport convoy. I look back at my old-self life and wonder what happened to that woman; the one full of ignorant bravado.
Now we are in Kampala in 50 minutes. The city has grown four-fold in the twenty years since our first departure. It’s a grown up city with high rises vying with traffic lights and the hive of boda-bodas swarming every inch of tarmac and murrum road. It’s interesting to see a rise of middle class affluent Ugandans unabashedly flaunting their wealth and good fortune, this alongside the obvious increase of international populations from the Middle and Far East, lends a curious distinction between the haves and the have-nots.
We stay with friends in Kololo, the same familiar suburb where we used to live. That word familiar is an oxymoron- what remains is the names of the streets, what exists today is an capricious mix of office blocks, and high rise apartments crammed together next to restaurants, clubs and bars. These compete with each other to be heard in a cacophony of thumping baseline beats lasting until 4am. Ear plugs are essential for a good nights sleep.
I drag the boys to Owino market. I want Roscoe to see and experience real life for ordinary Ugandans. It’s hugely entertaining to hear the calls of “Big Man, Hey, Big Man” and “Mzungo, Big Man” as I trail in his wake, letting him take the heat in the hope of a white-man sale. We eventually reappear into the light of the day not having spent a dime but rich in the assault of all senses.
After the clamour of noise and hustle of Owino, we jump in the car and crank it up the hill towards a new attraction; the mosque which was completed in 2006, two years after our departure. Funded and opened by Gadaffi, it is the fourth largest mosque in the world and the largest in sub-Saharan Africa. It is well organised and dressed appropriately we embark on our tour which culminates in a circular climb of 272 steps to the top of the minaret where we are rewarded by a 360 view of Kampala. It is comforting to see a few green spaces in about the morass and jumble of concrete and brick. From up here there is an obvious haze lying over town, created by over industrialization, belching black smoke from old cars and trucks, the burning of charcoal and anything else from the city slums and a general lack of regulation. The plethora of shisha pipes in every bar adds to the already poor air quality and my pretend tongue fizzes warning signals leading me to wonder about the longer term health of Kampala residents.
Back on the ground we head off to the place of our betrothal; the Baha’i temple. Even here, the pace of industrial development is ever present- the steam roller and digger are both noisily busy creating a new murrum road up to the temple itself. The building itself is reassuringly familiar and we hide on the other side of its sunshine yellow decagon walls, enjoying the setting while reminiscing and concurrently boring Roscoe who indulges us with feigned interest.
The next day we leave Kampala just after sunrise, the city is already bustling with busy people and tired revellers returning home from the jangle of 24/7 bar fun. We are heading towards Jinja and the promise of a Grade 5 white water rafting experience. This drive is not for the faint hearted and we pass several lorries and sugar cane trucks upended on both sides of the road. Years ago, as we drove through Mabira forest, we would see local folks walking with big stones in their hands, to throw at the marauding baboons who fight each other harder than rival supporters at an ‘auld firm’ game. This trip there are no baboons but the road sellers are still peddling their well-cooked ‘chicken on a stick’ proving the longevity of old favourites. Arriving at Nile Explorer River Lodge, it’s fascinating to see the wide age range of dwindling tourists still seeking Ugandan thrills. I’m not daft enough to go anywhere near the raft- I left my need for that kind of excitement somewhere on the birthing table- so I spend the day watching the backpacking youngsters chasing adrenaline kicks offered by bungee jumping, white water rafting, kayaking and the catapult slide into the Bilharzia infested waters of the Nile. I know we will need to attend the Doctors surgery the following day as the boys will need the necessary medication as payment for their day of fun.
There follows a lovely day catching up with old friends in new haunts and a final meal in Aurous, the fine dining bar and restaurant which has been created in our old house and garden at plot 11 Roscoe Road. It’s surreal to be drinking cocktails in that garden, with our boy. A plot beyond imagining when we locked up the house for the final time all those years ago.
Being here with Roscoe has been all I had hoped for. He understands our passion for Africa much better by stepping onto Ugandan soil. But there are other African nations waiting to be explored.
So as we say our farewells, I think this truly will be my farewell. I love the Ugandan people who are, without doubt, one of the warmest, most hard working and diligent African people on earth. But I cannot support the values of the political elite and some of their recent draconian laws, challenge my personal values to their core.
Uganda won’t miss me or my tourist dollar. It’s thriving, attracting alternative continents of nationalities to its borders. But understandably its lack of tolerance to difference has negatively impacted its attraction to Western tourists and the knock on effect on local businesses and the economy, alongside reducing the exposure of Ugandans to the rich myriad of cultures, attitudes and beliefs, will be sadly felt for years to come.
So we head northwards to Scotland, to my own kind, and I spend 4 months eating all the chocolates and sweeties, baked goods, pies, bread, black puddings, haggis and meats of my childhood. Despite all the walking, I gain yet more weight but the tasty morsels are doing more than satisfying my appetite, they are feeding my soul. And this isn’t talked about in the academic books – the coping mechanisms of dealing with reverse culture shock. Familiar food, re-purchasing familiar knick-knacks, drinking childhood drinks ( hello ‘Cremola Foam’), listening to traditional music, going to places you would avoid if you lived in country. Chasing nostalgia and connection as if it’s a drug. It’s all normal.
These articles bring to mind a charming animated Disney Pixar movie which I watched on a plane last year.
So it’s interesting to move forward 40 years to find Roscoe’s generation being inspired by Bowie and wondering who the old geezer wearing the Granddad jumper is in the video.
On British Royalty, we agree that Queen Elizabeth and Princess Diana are likely to be remembered for their actions and enacting change. Our jury is out on Prince Charles. Driving past the still half-mast American flag (we presume due to the recent death of 41, President Bush) we talk about those American Presidents still living and dead and mull on those who are memorable or not. We deduce that those who were firsts or created long-lasting change are remembered, those who served and chartered a steady course, less so. This is equally true of British Prime Ministers; Blair, Cameron, May will disappear into a historical timeline, Churchill, Pitt, George, possibly Thatcher, Atlee and even Chamberlain stand out. Of business leaders, I think Gates will be remembered for his philanthropy and determination to rid the world of polio, malaria and other curable diseases, much more than him co-founding Microsoft. Will future generations remember Buffett, Zuckerberg, Branson, Dyson or Jobs? Or the GE titan, Jack Welsh?
An organisation led by a leader who knows where they fit in the bigger picture, who they are, why they are there and why they want to achieve their goals is much more likely to succeed in the longer term than those solely looking for enhanced Total Shareholder Earnings and quarterly profit growth. The sustainable long-term health and viability of an organisation and the success of its Leader should never be measured on financial performance and metrics alone.
This time of year, encouraging change is good business for those of us in the business of change. You will find your inbox and social media accounts littered by offers of helping you shift your mindset, your waistline and some of your bank balance.
For example, “I can’t drive for a few weeks and Craig needs to go away for work, can you come and be my driver on these dates”? My lovely friend Karen, did not hesitate, despite living a busy life 200 miles away. It took mouth cancer surgery to not comment on her driving my car; if I’d had a tongue to bite, it would have been an even bigger mess than my new, surgically created, tongue.
Three years on, mine are visible but are now an essential part of who I am and frankly I don’t give an XXX what others may think. Three years ago, I never would have believed that I would be so comfortable in my own skin. My wise girlfriend Haydee, shared ” scars are tattoos with better stories”. These days I am an avid storyteller.
And never lie to a child about your diagnosis. I thought I was protecting him when I lied that people get better from this cancer and it was nothing to worry about. 15 months later I had to tell him that Charlie had died, leaving his mate, Tyler, without a Mummy. I will always remember his reaction and his face on hearing this news. Now he’s a teenager, I know I disappoint him on a more regular basis but unlike other parents, I know when disappointing my child began.
I went back to work, way, way, too early with a brain like a jellied eel and a memory bank of mush. I turned up to a meeting with my new Exec Director and found myself stuck in one of Dr Who’s time loops, repeating what I’d just said over and over again. I kept waiting for my synapses to fire up but they were away on extended holiday. This was neither good for my confidence, nor my soul. Give yourself time to heal; mentally, physically and emotionally. Otherwise you could end up back in another operating theatre 6 months later, like I did.
To be able to make people listen, to have them laugh and cry and feel and most importantly check their mouths, is an immense privilege. I have honed my speaking ability, my presentation skills, my writing platform and my ability to laugh at myself.
On my own was a much scarier, lonelier proposition, particularly the time when I had developed potentially serious symptoms many hundreds of miles away. The sense of distance and vulnerability created by leaving my support network in the UK has diminished over time, after all, I know what it takes to get back to Mr B if I need to.
Did anyone watch the 
The ugly truth is I’ve enabled this child to be solely focused on his pleasure and play. His contribution to the smooth running of the household is negligible. He is my adored little prince and up to this week I’ve been pressed into service running around picking up the dirty clothes, making the sleepover beds, changing the sleepover beds as different friends come and stay, making vat-sized quantities of pasta and crepes; washing, drying and putting away dishes only to do it all over again about 30 minutes later as teenage boys seem to have bottomless hungry stomachs. The Lesner article and Jo’s challenge conjure up a massive magnifying glass that makes me squirm. For although he is much-loved and adored, I am raising a lazy boy-man that no women in her right mind would ever want to become shackled to. A boy-man with latent but emerging social stereotypical thinking about the role of women. I have to take responsibility as a Mother to make sure my son goes out into the world as a fully functioning, contributing and supportive adult. A male able to positively contribute to society with little prejudice and judgement, who sees alternative genders as equal. A man who is sensitive to the needs of others and willing to co-partner, co-parent, co-create.
However, his burgeoning interest in girls means we need to step up our efforts to have him recognise that women are so much more than visual distractions in a day full of “boring” academia. It’s difficult in a place like Barbados where daily wear consists of few scraps of cloth and much shaking of booty. Here, local girls are queens of sexual suggestion and promise. Their role model, Rihanna, is much admired and adored.
Always I am reminded that these are the experiences which will make my boy an empathetic, loving man. I know that these challenging times are what shapes him – not the surf lessons , the football or golf, the paddle boarding or sunset dog walking. It’s the tough stuff; finding your place and way at the new school; being open with your emotions and asking for help; dealing with name calling from insecure older boys; knowing who to trust and who to avoid; managing tricky situations. And through all of this, I see glimpses of the man he’s going to become and I am heartened. This boy-child is already dealing with transitions that many adults would struggle with and he’s doing so with openness and grace, with humility and patience, through tears and laughter. I know, even if he doesn’t yet, that he will be a well-balanced, fabulous human being. That each tricky situation builds his character and generates more inner resilience. These life skills cannot be taught in a classroom, they must be lived.
As mentors, parents, life coaches or guides, we best serve by acknowledging difficult experiences and talking about what can be learned for next time; by listening – not judging, shouting nor fixing. By standing by with the belay, ready to break the fall, not stop it from happening.
through the door barrier. To wear it requires a mindset of curiousity “how can I make this better today?” I am aware that my enthusiasm is not for all. In some ways I am lucky to have missed the steady slow demise of these past few months; lucky to have learned new coping techniques for dealing with change outside of my control; lucky to know what’s important, what’s transient and what’s downright trivial in comparison.
Whether its company takeovers, redundancies, ending relationships, reviewing education options or even the current interminable Brexit/Brexin debate in the UK, it all creates inevitable change. Our choice is how we choose to face this, how we move on, recognising that there are days when this is easier than others. Let’s face it, even the more perfect souls have down days too.
I avoid the phone. I don’t invite myself round for coffee or invite friends over for wine or gin and chat. I’m conscious of people having to ask me to repeat what I’ve said. The word ‘pardon’ or phrases like “excuse me”, “say again” or “I didn’t quite catch that” have taken on ridiculous proportions in my head. For someone who has much to say, it’s really frustrating that I can’t speak too long without jaw pain, tiredness and the inevitable slurring. On days where I’m being kind to myself and more mindful, I remember that I’m learning to improve my listening, to use my NLP to look at the structure of the conversation, not the content. But there are days where I beat myself hard, where I push to enunciate more, to exercise more, to say more, socialise more, be more ‘normal’. And the price is a lack of energy, increased levels of pain, a heightened sense of self-consciousness and greater irritability and tiredness.
My desire to take action, to get over this, to move on, burns fierce-bright. My good days tease my down days with possibilities that achingly remain just out of reach. I know I will get there, I just don’t know when.
While working for 
Fuelled by beyond-clever boffins used to being at the cutting edge of what was possible, the transformation potential was spine-tinglingly exciting. Tapping into our collective knowledge and skills and using our pioneer pride and sense of corporate history and culture, we embarked on a challenging business transformation campaign. 
Part of this was learning to adopt out of the box thinking to achieve non linear results. Results which would result in us jumping the normal trajectory of performance.
These are then modulated according to its software programme and played back to my tissues. Essentially, SCENAR uses my own internal body signals, scanning and re-transmitting these many times a second. It ‘evolves’ a new signal pattern for the disordered tissues, the machine literally entering into an information dialogue with my body. During the treatment, new frequencies and energy patterns are established, which in turn become fresh input signals, to be further modified. When it is combed over my skin the damaged tissue shows up as being sticky. So it rests on the sticky skin, beeping and communicating with me using frequencies beyond layman’s comprehension.
He decides to match my belief with his own. We agree I come off all meds and I rely solely on the SCENAR. A victory! Eastern belief over Western medicine.
I’m playing one of my sing-a-long playlists, everything from Joni Mitchell, Nick Drake, Gram Parsons, Emmylou Harris, Carly Simon, James, Taylor, Fleetwood Mac through to John Legend, Bruno Mars, Phil Phillips, Coldplay and even Johnny Cash singing the Old Rugged Cross – my Nana used to sing this as a soloist in church and I still remember sitting in a hard wooden pew listening to her voice soar while silently
as the pubs had closed, we would stand importantly at the front of the pulpit
and trill 
And without the ability to hold the notes, my ability to let go in the music is diminishing. It’s fine being the funny guy – Craig and Roscoe roll around laughing as I try to get the tune out- but inside it hurts.