Nankwanga Eunice Kasirye

By Nankwanga Eunice Kasirye When Love Turns Violent: "The Night I Lost My Baby—and My Womb" Adriane “… He kicked me in the stomach. I remember the pain—sharp, tearing, immediate—before everything went silent. I crashed against the edge of the table, and then darkness swallowed me whole. The next thing I knew, I was on a hospital bed, a blood transfusion drip trailing from my arm. My head was pounding like thunder in a storm. I didn’t know where I was or what had happened. Then I heard my sister’s voice, trembling but soft, calling my name. She stroked my arm, her eyes red with tears. That’s when she told me: I had lost my baby... and my womb. The doctors had done everything to save me, but I had lost too much blood . ” she relays her pain Adriane is a survivor of violence against women. And one of the few brave enough to tell her story. Her pain didn’t begin with a punch. It started with words. Small ones. Repeated ones. Disguised as love. “It began with him complainin...

Mura Cried Until He Died (A reflection on stigma and silence in the fight against HIV/AIDS) By Nankwanga Eunice Kasirye Mura (pseudo name) was a young man from my village—almost an age-mate to my older brother, whom I follow. He was built like a wrestler, all muscle and motion, with a pouncing gait that made him look like he was always ready for a duel. Dark-skinned, barely 19, and bursting with life, Mura was known for his love of path-side fights, the kind that drew teenage boys together like moths to a flame. His peers respected him—not because he was feared, but because he was rarely beaten. He stood his ground. School was never his thing. He showed up now and then, more out of obligation than interest. But if you were looking for him, you were more likely to find him at the village water-well—an ever-bubbling hub of community chatter—or wandering the winding footpaths that sliced through the village greenery. The well stood on his mother’s land. I never saw his father, nor hear...