Photo: Lakefront colours, Toronto, Ontario, Monday November 3, 2025

© Muniini K. Mulera

The leaves in these parts have changed colour. Golden yellows, royal purples, fiery reds, and unhappy browns, have taken pride of place alongside resilient greens. The eyes are pleased, the smiles do speak, and the soul is uplifted. The beauty of Autumn is a spectacular anti-dote to the dark and depressing news of human folly.

This is the forty-fourth Autumn since I set foot on this continent for my short learning stay that I had expected to last five years. Each Autumn has been so beautiful that the mind has perceived it to be unique. Each so evanescent that it has gone in the proverbial blink of an eye, a mere herald of the misery of Winter that has unfailingly brought extreme cold, and snow, and slush, and slippery roads, and ugly skies that have appeared to be angry at the minions below.

The beautiful Autumn soothes the soul and calms the mind. Winter brings a madness that manifests as a skewed interpretation of the temperatures. When the mercury reads 0°C, after a spell of extremely cold weather in the minus range, we smile and tell each other that it is a lovely day. 

The stranger in the land rightly considers such declarations to be crazy ramblings of self-delusional victims of prolonged suffering. We, on the other hand, know that 0°C after a torturesome spell of extreme cold, invites us to take a stroll in our neighbourhoods. There, we meet fellow inmates equally freed from their nests, and we reinforce each other’s fantasy about the “lovely weather”.

The conversations are usually superficial, very brief, and ritualistic in a society that treasures politeness but discourages sharing of one’s true feelings. That is if there is a conversation at all. In most cases, I find myself lonely in a crowd. Strangely, I think I am fine with that, until I land in Kenya or Uganda and discover that it is not okay to spend weeks, even months, without much heart-to-heart social interaction outside my nuclear family unit. 

Such reprieves from the cold are short-lived. The temperatures drop with annoying predictability. January and February are particularly nasty in these parts, with temperatures in the minus ten to minus twenty-degree zone. When the mercury dropped to minus 25.1°C in Toronto on February 15, 2015, it felt like minus 40°C because of something called the windchill factor, a reference to how the blowing wind creates a skin sensation that is worse than the actual measured temperature. 

At such temperatures, only a fool takes a walk to enjoy the crunching sound of snow beneath the feet. One such fool was me, four decades ago, when my wife and I attempted to walk to Church on a Christmas morning before we learned the hard way. Never again shall I voluntarily venture into the danger that some celebrate on things called skis, and skates, and snowshoes that they don to test God’s capacity for protecting His stubborn creatures. 

My African friends in the colder parts of Canada probably chuckle at my whining about Toronto winters. This city is one of the warmer places in this enormous country. We have Ugandans in the Yukon, the Northwest Territories, Nunavut, Newfoundland, and the Prairies, all of them places that take their Winter very seriously. 

While it is still Autumn and the temperature in Toronto is a lovely 10°C as I write, out west in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, it is 1°C, which is not bad considering what lies ahead. Up in Iqaluit, Nunavut, home of a brother from Mbale in Bugisu, they are enjoying a modest 

-7°C (minus seven). They will soon experience steady temperatures in the minus 20°C to minus 30°C range in January and February. 

So, you will understand why my mind is in Kenya and Uganda, two of the most blessed lands with perfect weather all year round. Yes, I hear the complaints of my friends and relatives who consider 18°C in Nairobi to be a freezing temperature that mandates refuge in Mombasa. I understand the distress of my friend in Kabaare who wraps herself in blankets when the mercury drops to 16°C at night. Why, even people in perennially lovely Kampala sometimes report that it is cold, a complete puzzle to one who spent a decade of one’s life in that city without ever owning a sweater. 

My wife and I cannot wait for the next opportunity to be home. We always enjoy the hospitality of many whenever we are home. The warm welcome, the sumptuous meals, with freshly squeezed natural juices, and the lovely conversations, invariably remind us why few places come close to Uganda and Kenya in our ranking of social wellbeing. 

Then there is the perfect weather – regardless of the season. Rainy days and nights bring with them the sound of water hitting the roof and cascading down the slopes that captured my fancy in my childhood. I loved that sound on an iron-roof, interrupted by the rumbling thunder that spoke with power and confidence that reminded me about my insignificance. I still do, and it still does. 

Sunny days soothe the skin and induce a strong desire to stroll up the hills and down the valleys, where strangers greet me like old friends; where memories of my youthful explorations come alive, complete with distant voices of long deceased friends, and a longing for the better civilization that once defined my country.  

We often wonder why many of our urban friends and relatives in Uganda spend more time indoors than they do outside. Beautiful sunshine wasted. Gorgeous terrains unenjoyed. Magnificent trees and other plants begging to be enjoyed, their flowers emitting glorious aromas that the gentle breeze delivers free of charge, are given the cold shoulder by people who would jump at an opportunity to visit Dubai, Doha and similar concrete villages. 

Beautiful birds singing and dancing for a disinterested audience that prefers to spend hours watching British soccer after a day of hard work. Orange sunsets pass unnoticed, and our freshwater lakes unvisited except by, mostly, foreigners who appreciate our beautiful region. 

I generalize, of course. I do not know the lifestyles of most Ugandans. I only know that many of my friends and relatives are perfect examples of the great saying of the Bakiga: “Abataine maino nibo batunga enyama.” It is those without teeth who get the meat.

© Muniini K. Mulera