It rained in Kampala this past weekend. The sound of raindrops on the roof and windows was a pleasant return to my childhood. Few things brought me as much pleasure in my childhood as hearing the rain on the corrugated iron roofs of my parents’ houses in Mparo and Kahondo ka Byamarembo while I lay on my bed. I loved to keep the window ajar, to hear the rain dancing with the banana leaves and the grass. The flashes of lightning, followed by roaring thunder in the distance, invariably added to the joy of the unsurpassed symphony that nature offered us during the rainy seasons of Kahingo, Katumba, and Museenene. The feeling has not been altered by time. 

The rain in Kampala, in this twelfth month that my people call Muzimbezi, was welcome relief after several nights of ugly noise in the neighbourhood where I am staying. This beautiful part of the city, which once stood out because of its tastefully designed homes and leafy landscape, was assaulted by very loud dance music that, I was told, was part of some end of year celebrations. The music itself was very good, mostly your usual beautiful and rhythmic offering that likely kept the attendees on their feet. However, it was so loud that I heard some of the lyrics clearly. This notwithstanding the long distance between my bedroom and the purported source of the noise pollution.

The folks in Nakasero, Wandegeya, Mulago, Kitante, and the west-side of Kololo were assaulted by this merrymaking on at least three nights in the last week. As though this was not enough torture, they had to continue to endure what has now become part of Kampala’s environment – noise from the city’s exponential growth of engines. The number of cars, trucks, vans and bodabodas that ferry people and goods around this great city seems to be more each time I come home. They serve a great purpose, of course, but they add to environmental pollution, not only with their gaseous emissions, but their noise that is demonstrably harmful to humans and animals.

This environmental assault is not limited to Kampala. I have endured noisy nights in other Ugandan towns and cities, where folks seem to think that their music and merrymaking must be inflicted on the rest of us who are not in attendance. How people in attendance survive the assault on their eardrums and their brains is hard to understand. But that is their right and choice. I only take issue with the disc jockeys who crank up the volume as though music without unbearable noise is incompatible with joyful dancing. 

I do not recall hearing such noise coming from White Nile, New Life Club, Silver Springs Hotel, Suzana Club, or Makerere Main Hall – these being some of the dance places of my youth. One would literally have to enter the dance hall to appreciate the music on offer. The amplification systems were modest affairs those days, but the music was quite pleasant to my ears. And it seems to me that people had a good time dancing to the pleasant sounds of our venerable musicians like Kawumba and Swissman at Mengo’s New Life Club. 

Many countries and urban centres have laws that regulate noise levels. The challenge is the lax enforcement of the laws, if any attempt is made at all. Do we have such laws in Kampala and other Ugandan towns and cities? If we do, who is responsible for their enforcement? Are my concerns the rumblings of a senior citizen who is disconnected from the joy of youthful living, or are there others who share my view on this important matter? 

It seems to me that we need a citizens’ anti-noise movement, to launch a non-partisan campaign against this preventable cause of physical and mental health disorders. Much as I love Kampala, I cannot wait to escape from this city of my youth, and seek refuge in the pleasant countryside where I can hear the rain drops caressing the leaves, the sparrows and crested cranes singing their melodies, and the drunken brother belting his blues as he struggles with his unsteady legs towards his home across the valley. The beautiful silence of the dark night in Kigyezi is only surpassed by the sweet dreams of a past that I refuse to let go.

© Muniini K. Mulera