I generally consider myself a simple person, not fussy and fairly well grounded. But now and again I like to sit atop my mountain and survey my ‘achievements’. The circulation of the paper in which I peddle myself is about 36,000 on a good day. That means an average of 36,000 people in this country know I exist. I tend to get a big head about that sometimes. I like to give myself a pat on the back, smoke an imaginary Cuban cigar and sip from a glass of the finest Islay Malt whisky.

Of course, real life intrudes very quickly. In real life I am a teetotaler and an asthmatic who can handle neither smoke nor the mere vapours from hard liquor. In real life, I am just a mushroom growing in a compost heap on the speck on the side mirror on the car in the slow lane on the road to the greater scheme of things.

And every so often the universe will send me a humbling moment to remind me to put my feet on the ground. Once in a while, someone in my home town will see me and recognise me, and I will begin to internally practice my smug self-deprecating ‘celebrity’ smile. I know they will say they read my last article, and my foolish heart swells with pride.

“Hey, I know you, they begin…”

Yes, yes, I think to myself. Now get to the good stuff about my last article…

“You’re Dr. Kintu’s daughter.”

And that, my friends, is a humbling moment right there.

Even in my really tiny home town, where I imagine people see me walking down the street and whisper and point at this wonderful celebrity who lives in their midst – even here, I am just hot air. The real substance that anchors me to this community is that I am the daughter of my parents.

Where I am not Dr. Kintu’s daughter, I am my mother’s baby – in the market and the shops, the vendors remember her. People from church are always asking after her. When I last had a busuuti made, I got such preferential treatment I imagined it must be because I am so famous. They helped me choose a fine material, got me all the accoutrements, gave me a discount and measured me up for a fine busuuti. Then as I left, they bade me farewell and to give all their best wishes to that nice lady, my mother.

Of course part of me wants to throw a tantrum because these illustrious parents of mine keep stealing my thunder, but I need to have my imaginary wings clipped. I need humility. I would not be Angela Kintu without the Dr. and Mrs. and I am immensely proud to come from them.

Published on Sunday November 29, 2009