Teso Originals

08/07/2026

Celebrating my 2nd year on Facebook. Thank you for your continuing support. I could never have made it without you..shop 🙏🤗🎉

08/07/2026

Celebrating my 2nd year on Facebook. Thank you for your continuing support. I could never have made it without you. 🙏🤗🎉

02/06/2026

Fashion rooted to culture

23/05/2026

THE BOY WHO HATED HIS ACCENT

episode 2

Two weeks passed.
Okolimong slowly started changing.
At campus, he forced himself to speak English even when talking to fellow Iteso students. He stopped wearing his traditional bracelet completely and avoided conversations about home.
Whenever people asked where he came from, he simply answered: “Eastern Uganda.”
Nothing more.
One afternoon, colorful banners appeared around Makerere main campus.

CULTURAL GALA WEEK.

Students moved everywhere excitedly preparing performances, traditional food, music, and dances from different tribes across Uganda.
Okolimong barely cared.
To him, it all felt childish.
On the evening of the gala, the university grounds were full of excitement. Different cultural groups performed proudly before cheering crowds.
The Baganda danced to energetic traditional rhythms. The Banyankole sang folk songs. The Acholi performed Bwola dances as students recorded videos on their phones.
Okolimong stood quietly at the back of the crowd with his hands inside his hoodie pockets.
Then suddenly…
Ting…
Tong…
Ting… Ting…
A soft metallic sound floated across the field.
Okolimong slowly lifted his head.
Akogo.
The sound hit him instantly like a forgotten memory.
Then came the smooth deep strings of the adungu.
The Iteso group entered the stage proudly.
Young men dressed in traditional skins and wrappers moved carefully to the rhythm while girls in brown beads danced gracefully beside them.
The crowd cheered loudly.
One young man played the akogo skillfully while another sat behind him plucking the adungu with calm confidence.
For a moment, Kampala disappeared from Okolimong’s mind.
He saw Kaguwara village again.
Moonlight around the fireplace.
Women pounding millet in the distance.
Children laughing outside the compound.
His grandfather Eregu Peterson sitting proudly beside the fire.
Then one female performer raised her hand and shouted:
“Eyalama noi Iteso!”
The crowd responded with excitement.
But beside Okolimong, a student laughed quietly.
“These village performances are funny,” he whispered to his friend.
Okolimong tried to smile.
But this time, something inside him refused.
Because while others saw entertainment…
He saw memories.
He saw home.
And for the first time since arriving in Kampala…
Okolimong missed being Iteso.

23/05/2026

THE BOY WHO HATED HIS ACCENT

episode 1

The bus from Serere reached Kampala before dawn.

Okolimong had barely slept the entire journey.

Outside the window, the city lights stretched endlessly like another world far away from Kaguwara village — the dusty home where he had grown up chasing cattle, digging with his mother, and listening to old stories under moonlight with his grandfather Eregu Peterson.

Everything in Kampala moved too fast.

Too loud.

Too cold.

At the hostel near makerere university, students spoke polished English mixed with Luganda slang. Some dressed like musicians from America. Others laughed loudly while recording TikTok videos.

Okolimong stayed quiet.

The next day during class introductions, the lecturer asked everyone to stand and introduce themselves.

When it reached his turn, he slowly stood up.

“My names are Okolimong Eregu… am from Serere District.”

A few students smiled immediately.

One whispered loudly:
“You can hear the Teso accent immediately.”

Another laughed:
“Eh, these village boys are serious.”

The room filled with soft laughter.

Okolimong forced a smile and sat down quietly, but inside him something broke.

That evening, while everyone else went out, he remained alone in the hostel room staring at the small blue bag his mother had packed for him.

Inside it were:
two shirts,
a Bible,
groundnuts wrapped in newspaper,
and an old black-and-white photograph of his grandfather standing beside cattle in Kaguwara village.

His phone suddenly rang.

“Mama Calling.”

Okolimong quickly answered.

“yoga noi, Okolimong?” his mother asked warmly in Ateso.

He looked around nervously.

His roommates were nearby.

“Mama… can you speak English when you call?” he said softly.

The line went silent.

Very silent.

Back in Kaguwara village, his grandfather Eregu Peterson slowly lowered the small torch he had been holding outside the house.

The old man stared into the darkness for a long moment before speaking quietly to himself.

“A child who runs from his roots eventually loses his name.”

That same night in Kampala, rain began falling heavily outside the hostel window.

Okolimong could not sleep.

For the first time in his life, he felt ashamed of where he came from.

But deep in the silence of the night, somewhere far away in his memory, he could still hear the distant sound of traditional Iteso songs from Kaguwara village.

And somehow… the sound refused to leave his heart.

21/05/2026