A Day in the Life

A rattling door stirs me.

“I am off to work,” Margaret’s voice broke through the thick haze of my deep sleep.

“Okay,” I hear myself yelling back, pulling up my bed net and stumbling towards the door. I am sleepy slow; Mummy's already left. I lock the door to the house behind her. I look up at the clock; it is nine. Good. I am finally able to sleep in again. A Ugandan doctor who received his medical education in the U.S., and whose judgment and wisdom I therefore actually trusted, had suggested a new malaria prophylactic, which since I had started two weeks prior, had been disrupting my sleep, leaving me with just a few hours of fitful rest.

I reenter my bedroom, the bright morning outside waiting behind the floating orange curtains. The morning ritual: think: so much to be grateful for: my family, my Ugandan family, my friends, my house, food, my health, another beautiful day outside waiting to be experienced. I am vibrant and positive. I am ready for the day.

I let the light into my room and go for breakfast. On the table in the main room is a flask of African tea, a boiled egg and a piece of stale brown bread. This is more than most mornings. Sometimes there is just hot water in the flask, sometimes there is no bread and eggs are altogether a rarity.

I pull out my computer to do some work while I eat. I notice my fan isn’t on; no power again. I might get twenty minutes of work done on my laptop’s battery. I play around with a logo I am creating for the poultry business I am developing for my children, but it’s slow going working with an unfamiliar application.

Time to finish washing the clothes I had left to soak the previous night. I go into the shower room and pour out water in the basin and replace it with fresh water from the tap; at least the water is on. You learn here, yes, water is life.

I take a quick bath with cold water; no electricity means no working stove and no hot water. I throw my towel into the basin to wash – it’s been too many days since I can remember cleaning it. I pack up and head to town.

“Hi Mommy Ester,” I say to my Ugandan sister as she plaits a customer’s hair. Her shop is just behind our house on the outskirts of town.

“Hi,” she smiles back.

“How are you?”

“I am fine.”

“Good. The power is out again. I am going to town. I’ll be back around one. If there’s no power then, we’ll just buy the kids a plate.” The two youngest get out of school around midday. Usually lunch is taken at jah jah’s, but lack of electricity for the past few days has been complicating our usual eating patterns.

“Okay.”

“Also, can you hang up my towel later? It needs to soak a bit.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

I dodge bodas, taxis and lorries and cross the busy street towards the Youth Outreach Mission (YOM) office. YOM is a local group of young Ugandans dedicated to assisting their community, particularly vulnerable children. I met them through a group of Americans who were working with them this summer. In the previous weeks stress was building within me; how can I create an income generating project for my kids? Who would manage it when I leave? YOM is my answer.

“Good morning James. How are you?” I ask the young man sitting behind one of two small wooden desks in the relatively small, but bright room overlooking the busy street below, and the sugarcane on the far hills beyond.

“Fine.”

“How’s the business plan coming along?”

“It’s almost done.”

“Good.”

“I am almost done with the logo. I also need to go see the woman today and show them the earrings I got in Rwanda.”

I set up my laptop in their office and fiddle more with my logo; I am spending way too much energy on it; not a good allocation on my time, but I’ve become a little fixated on the task.

Just before midday I walk with other YOM members down the road to a small shack with a half a dozen women crowded inside talking lightly, moving their hands quickly around twine, beads, and paper; they are a part of a beading co-op established by the Americans and YOM. The co-op is comprised of widows and single women who have little or no other source of income and have children they are struggling to look after.

Usually I pop in to say hello and take some snaps, but today I am delivering some of the beautiful hand-made earrings I had purchased at the Women for Women International office in Kigali, which has a comparable co-op with a similar mission.

Ohhhhh. These ones are good.

The women are all impressed by the well-made woven jewelry, the bright colors and smart designs are eye-catching. I had bought several pieces in Kigali as gifts for friends in America. Sandra, one of the YOM members supervising the woman examines the earrings closely; all of the beaders watch admiringly.

“Can we have two?” Sandra asks me. I look at her quizzically. “I want to see how they are made, so I will need to take them a part.”

“Oh. Sure.” I am a little disappointed that two of my friends at home wouldn’t have the unique art dangling from their ears, but this group of woman new to jewelry-making could learn much from the high-quality product; it is an investment for the poor African woman, while a frivolity for my American girlfriends. I smile at the woman looking at me.

The woman continue to chat in Luganda, eyeing their work, that of their friends’, lounging in the shade of the thatch roof, beyond a brutally hot day begging for an explosion of rain.

There is sudden loudness outside; harsh tones, a flash of a stern expression and sinewy arms stretching out of a bright yellow tank top; the man I had seen abusing a couple of three year old girls a few days before is there. Our shack rests against the back of a concrete home and faces another residence, a small block of rooms, one of which I assume the bitter man rents for his family.

“Who is he?” I say aloud to the group as he struts through his yard glaring at me and I back at him, he looks forever on the verge of starting a fight.

“He lives there and owns that shop,” Sandra said pointing to a stand across the small dirt road.

“He is really nasty with those kids.”

“He is very rude,” Sandra confirms matter-of-factly, in typical, non-aggressive, almost polite Ugandan fashion. Ugandans don’t elaborate; nor do they call people names; nor do they curse. A Ugandan calling a person rude is like an American calling someone a fucking asshole. I agree with her.

“You tell me what a girl that small could do to make you beat her and yell at her like that?”

“Yes, we are trying to help those girls. That’s why they are always here. They really hate him too.” Now I recognize the children. I had seen them a couple of weeks before inside the concrete house the little beading shack rests against. The woman had been forced into the home to bead that day by a heavy downpour; the little girls ran in and out of the room giggling at me, shrieking at the pale face.

I look through the gaps in the shack at the two children playing with each other in their front yard and frown, thinking of them living in fear of the menacing presence that is their father. I turn my gaze back inside to the faces of the woman around me, many abandoned by their husbands, left to care for themselves and their children with little or no money, with few skills to earn a living. The muscular African man that I just witnessed tear through his front yard screaming at his children was not an aberration, it was an all too common display of African masculine arrogance and domination; and he is at least, unlike many, supporting his children. I shake my head; I didn’t envy African woman.

I wish the woman a good day and make my way back to Ester’s salon. My two little angels sit on the rickety wooden bench at the shop’s threshold; apparently the power isn’t back on at jah jah’s.

“Hello! How are you Sylvia? How are you Taka?”

“I’m fine,” my two youngest greet me giggling, playful; they are always delighted, almost speechless to see me.

“Okay. Let’s get you some lunch.” I walk past a few shops to the one with the lady who can really cook good Ugandan food.

“Give me two plates please.”

I make sure little hands are washed, remember with soap, washing with just amaazi is not good. The girls tilt the jerrycan filled with water and pour it over their hands into the dirt, push blue soap over their fingers and palms and rinse. The cook, Florence, brings us our food; the girls share a plate and I took one for myself. I pay the woman $1.50. Mama Ester only wants a soda. I give the shop keeper $0.35 for the bubbling purple drink in the sweating glass bottle.

A ragged little girl with a homely face and beat up cleats is loitering near my children, trying to talk to them and touch them awkwardly, and the girl keeps eyeing me, looking at me funny. She wears a royal blue uniform from the same nursery school as my children, but it appears to not have been cleaned recently; my children are shying away from her, they look uncomfortable and slightly annoyed.

“Do you know this one?” I ask them.

“No.”

I study the girl. I think of Deborah. I think of how Alice, Ester’s boss, doesn’t let unknown kids around her shop since they do funny things. I think about all the stories I hear of the town kids breaking into people’s homes, stealing scrap metal, lying, being mischievous. I can’t help every kid. I can’t take chances.

“Okay. Bye-bye.” I say to the girl waiving. She stares at me. “Bye-bye. Gen-da.” She doesn’t move.

“Gen-da!” Ester exclaims to her. The girl finally slowly moves away. We start to eat.

We are a few bite into our meal then Florence walks towards us excitedly, leading the homely girl by the arm. She speaks to Ester in wild Luganda. She flings the girl off. I think I know what happened, but I ask anyway.

“What happened?”

“The girl went to Florence and said that the muzungu told her to give her a plate.”

My assumption was right. The girl lied to get a meal.

Many of the kids around town see me with my kids and think they can get in on the fun; get the food my kids are eating, get the attention they are receiving, get the books they are reading. I can imagine what the town kids are thinking. They’ve probably never even seen a white person before and they see one with black kids and think, hmmm, why can’t that be me? Why can’t I hang with this muzungu and get good food and love and schooling? I can’t blame them since many go without these things.

Rachel pushes the last of her food into her mouth, most of her meal looking like it ended up on her dress.

“Okay. Let’s go see your uncles at the office!” I exclaim. Rachel and Sylvia grin. They love their uncles.

We walk back to the YOM office, a child holding each of my hands. Rachel sometimes singing Mommy! Mommy! and I look down and she does something to impress me; throw her leg high in the air, shuffle her feet, skip; sometimes she will say my name and I will look down and she’ll just smile at me.

“Ah! Rachel! You hold my hand. You hold my hand when we walk - especially when we are in the street. Look! See the big motor cars. They could come and hit you.”

Rachel blankly looks up. She doesn't care, all the girl thinks of is play.

I carry her up the steep, uneven concrete steps two flights walking behind a slow Sylvia to the YOM office; their office situated in one of only a few three story buildings in the flat town.

The girls joyfully greet their uncles: James, Godfrey, Robert and Paul. These YOM members are the ones we usually see in the office, although the organization has a few dozen members. I get out my laptop and continue developing the Mama Mzungu Poultry Farm logo while three of the young men sit behind their computer working on the business proposal and my girls play, half-heartedly listening to Robert as he tries to teach them some English. Bad American pop and R&B spills from the YOM computer. I ask them if I can put on my music when J-Lo drifts through the room. The skies open up and water pours from grey heavens. Rachel tells us she has to susu.

I walk her and Sylvia back down the steps through the dirt and uneven concrete courtyard behind the office building trying to dodge the huge drops of rain. I get the key to the latrine padlock from the abnormally short woman with glassy eyes that works in the lab below; I know her; she has done some malaria tests for me.

I unlock the latrine with Rachel dancing and giggling at my side; she is sometimes absurdly, inexplicably happy. She rushes through the wooden door that is falling off the hinges to the concrete pit and squats; no toilet paper. I go back to the woman at the lab.

“Do you have paper?” She looks around as if I've asked of her a huge inconvenience. “Never mind. I’ll go buy toilet paper.”

I walk through the courtyard to a shop and wait a few minutes for the woman to move a several feet and reach up for toilet paper, hand it to me and take my coins. I go back to the latrine. The girls are already gone.

Back in the office the two of them are dancing and leaning on their uncles.

“Rachel. You come here and Mommy will wipe you.” She runs to me, pulls down her red underwear and squats her butt towards me. The two youngest aren’t very good at cleaning themselves after they use the toilet. The day before Sandra returned from the latrine with Rachel and confirmed that the girl's bottom was dirty after I had warned her of the child's poor self-cleaning habits.

"I think she already used the toilet at school today," Sandra had said with a knowing look.

One day last week Mama Ester told me to ask Sylvia her new name.

Sylvia very seriously said, "Stinky." I laughed. Why?

“I came to the house and she made the whole place smell. So I said she was Stinky,” Mama Ester told me laughing.

"Stinky! Stinky!" I exclaimed to Sylvia. She was a little confused as to what the word meant, but relished in the attention, laughing with me.

“Here. You use some of the magic muzungu soap,” I say to the two little ones, pouring a few drops of antibacterial gel into their hands, a small bottle of which is always in my purse. The girls gleefully rub their hands together. This usually prompts Rachel to say ten minutes later, Mommy! Mommy! and rub her hands for more.

“No Rachel. You don’t need to wash your hands now, but I like your enthusiasm,” I say to her knowing it’s not cleanliness that interests her so much as mommy's special concoction.

We pass time in the office, talking, playing with the kids, working on our computers. It’s after five in the afternoon, time to get going. We walk past the small shops. Do the kids need more food? Do they have enough soap? What about sugar and salt? I had bought the children several food stuffs a couple of days before, they would be okay for at least a couple of more days. I hope Richard is taking his medicine and remembered to go the hospital today during their mid-morning porridge break. I'll have to remember to ask him and remind Ester.

I walk with the little ones to Mama Ester’s salon. She looks at me with a vague sense of excitement and concern. She tells me that Agnes and Richard did go to see their father yesterday in the village.

I am mad.

The afternoon before I had arrived in Namengo to see the four young children sitting on their stoop locked out of the house, they had been there since morning and had not taken anything to eat or drink all day. Agnes and Richard had disappeared early without telling anyone where they were going while Beatrice was out fetching water and Sylvia and Peanut were at Mass; they had left Rachel alone outside.

“And Richard. He and Beatrice were fighting today over the school sweaters and he threw his in the grass. A man saw it and came and told me, so I told Richard to go get his sweater from the field and he wouldn’t . He just stood there looking at me. The man went to go get the sweater for me,” Ester says.

“What? He threw his sweater in the grass and when you told him to get it he wouldn’t?” I ask in disbelief. Ester raises her eyebrows in confirmation.

Now I am really mad. The kids had been begging me for school sweaters. I had just purchased each of them one last week and now Richard was being stubborn and throwing his away and not minding his African mommy. Ugandan children are expected to listen and be disciplined, this type of behavior is absolutely unacceptable and not typical of my usually well-behaved Buganda children. This was bad.

"Okay. Let's go talk to them now," I say to Ester and motion for a boda. We make our way almost a mile down the road to the children's home.

"Jan gu!" I say sternly to the children as Ester and I walk past them on the dirt clearing outside their home. They follow us into their tiny front room. "Sit!" I direct them motioning to the ground. The four youngest sit on the concrete floor, Richard in a dilapidated folding chair to my side, Agnes leaning against the wall sucking on raw sugar cane.

"You two! You left for the village yesterday and didn't tell anyone,"I say shaking my finger at Richard and Agnes. "And you. Agnes. You did this before and we told you not to do it again, but youdid it anyway. You can go to the village, but you must tell us in advance. You can't just run off and not tell people where you are. And you left these ones outside without any food or water," I say pointing to the girls on the ground. "You must be more responsible!"

I look over at Agnes. I can never discern her reaction to reprimands; if she is really listening and trying to learn a lesson, or if she is being obstinate. She continues to look at the sugar cane, busily chewing on it.

“Agnes, you want to be a nurse, but nurses are responsible. A nurse wouldn’t do something like this. And Richard, you are thirteen. You are old enough to know better too.” I pause. “There are no school trips for one year for you two. Ester, you translate.” I look at Ester. She is sitting at the table sorting yellow beans.

“They know that one,” she says not looking up.

“And if you do this again, you can stay in the village,” I say emphatically.

“Oh. Oh. If you do this again…” Ester says shaking her head. The threat of them again living in the village is useful for Ester and I; a proven deterrent against bad behavior. The threat, of course never to be realized, is the only serious punishment option by default. There are no T.V., phones, movies, outings, etc. to take away. No way to ground them. Most Africans simply beat misbehaving children, but Ester and I abhor that cultural norm.

“And Richard,” I say turning to the boy at my left. “What is this about you throwing the sweater away and not minding your Mama Ester? I gave that sweater to you as a gift. How would you like it if you gave me a gift and I just threw it away?”

Peanut starts laughing below.

“Eh! Peanut this is not funny! This is serious! I don’t want any more of this funny business! All of you must behave better and mind your mommies! It is not easy for us to be taking care of you. Mama Ester is working hard to look after you here in Namengo and Mama Muzungu is not made of money. You need to show your gratitude by minding us and taking care of the things that we give you.”

I look around the room, all solemn faces except for Aggie’s; she is unreadable.

“We love you very much, but are disappointed in some of the things that you have been doing. We want more from you. Okay?” I start to make my way to the door. “I am going now. You think about what we’ve said and how you’ve been acting. Sula burungi.”

I walk out the door into the glowing evening light. I run back to sugar plantation considering the children's behavior and how best to guide it as my feet pound against the dirt and I wind my way through the lush plantation gardens.

I return to the Balaza's. Thankfully there is power. I heat water on the stove, pour it into the basin and bathe, sponging and throwing warm water on me. I emerge from my room clean and refreshed and Ester and Margaret are sitting in the main room watch a fuzzy TV. I ask Ester if the children said anything after I left.

"They said they were sorry and that they wouldn’t do it again." I am grateful for the response, but unsure of myself trying to encourage and discipline little ones that aren't really mine, who are a part of a culture with different expectations of children, and living in a land with foreign parenting tactics. I turn to Margaret sitting on the couch to my left.

“Mummy. Is there something else that Ester and I should do?”

She shakes her head. “No. The two older ones have been very disappointing, but we just keep coaching them and hope they mind.”

“That stupid father. I think this is mostly his fault. You know those kids were acting fine until he came to visit them two days ago. He probably told Aggie and Richard to come see him and to not tell us.”

“Yes. That man is very bad.”

“And he even lied to us too. I asked the father yesterday if he had been with the kids that afternoon and he said ‘No’. He lied to my face, and to Stephen’s and to Robert’s.”

The father had come to visit the kids on Saturday and then came the following afternoon to the Balaza’s to speak with us about the children's land. He had traveled to Lugazi with Agnes and Richard after they came to visit him earlier in the day, but the father denied seeing them.

I go back to my room, irritated and surprised by their behavior. I seek to raise respectful, honest, hard-working children.

I sigh. I know it would be okay though.

The kids are good. I can see it. And their teachers’ and neighbors say so. Agnes and Richard’s poor judgment and selfishness was out of character and seemed to be mostly instigated by their father’s recent interaction with them.

What can I learn from this? I consider it over and again, buzzing through my mind as I try and wind down to sleep. We will just have to more tightly control the father’s interaction with them. And the Balazas, Ester, the YOM team and I will have to be united front working together to ensure not only the children’s best interest, but to see their proper development; we will have to serve as good role models to counter the negative example set by their father; a man whose only good deed in life appears to have been bringing five wonderful children into the world.

I hit the light to my room and cast it in darkness. I climb back under my bed net very quickly, mosquitoes easily follow me under if I am not fast. I close my eyes and think of the kids, how happy they are, how happy they make me. I drift to sleep content, peaceful; resting to arise for another day of excitement, challenges, laughter and love.

Scenes From a Village

Large families in rural areas will sometimes build a compound like the one below with several extensions and generations of relatives living within. Below are some pictures of this clan and their land.



Child passing the time


Common sight - woman doing wash


Girl under her thatch roof


Village Graveyard - the dead are buried on their ancestral land next to the family's home


Common sight - woman working in a field


Child eating sugar cane in front of her home

The Mzungu Answers Your Questions

Rachel’s fall from the top bed cracked the first bottoms molars on either side of her mouth, the one on the right was starting to pain and bleed, the crack seeming to deepen; it was time for extraction. I walked to her nursery just down the road from my house and entered the small compound filled with smiling three, four and five year olds all wearing royal blue uniforms waiving at me, laughing, pointing, Mzunugu! Mzungu!, coming up to touch me.

“You are welcome,” Rachel’s elderly teacher rose and greeted me as I entered the classroom.
The woman with shorn hair donning an African tie-dyed dress seemed destined to teach preschool, so kind and gentle.

“How are you nyabo?”

“I am fine, nyabo. How are you?”

“I am fine. I need to take Taka to the hospital.”

We both looked up at Rachel standing a few meters before us, staring at me grinning, her chest pushed out almost boastful, like, yes, that mzungu is my mama; face smeared from ear to ear with a white substance, a cup in her hand, her uniform soiled stitch to stitch.

“She is just finishing taking porridge.”

“Yes, I can tell,” I said beaming at her. “Rachel how do you get yourself so dirty?” I asked mockingly as I examined the pattern of different substances covering her dress.

She put her hand in mine and we started down the road towards the local hospital. Rachel’s face darkened, I think she knew right away where she was headed. I was tired, but nervously energetic, thinking, thinking, thinking: how long will we be at the hospital? Will I have enough time to take Richard to the other charity hospital in Buikwe this afternoon? We must go today, he needs new medicine. Will the doctors there be able to do his second surgery? If not, where am I going to get the money to do it elsewhere? What is going to be the sustainable project for the kids? I can’t seem to find anyone trustworthy to supervise it. Can Ester look after six kids alone, and if so, how many years can I expect her to care for them? Is building them a house even economically feasible or profitable? Where will the kids, especially the older ones, even be in five years? Can Stephen really get the local counsel to ensure that their father starts bringing them food? How much will that offset their current expenses? How much more money can I realistically raise? Should I have put on mosquito repelant before I left? Did I rub in the sunscreen well enough along my neck? Are the teachers giving the kids enough extra homework?

“Hello Mzungu.”

I looked behind me. Two boys, about nine and eleven, dressed in fresh checkered, white and periwinkle uniforms were a few feet behind me.

“Hello. How are you?”

“I am fine,” they repeated in unison. I kept walking.

“Mzungu,” the bigger one called me again.

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you a question?” I was preparing to reject a request for money or sweeties.

“Yes.”

“What does the word revolt-shun mean?”

"What?"

“What does the word revo-lu-shun mean?”

“Ohhhh. Revolution. Well, it means an uprising. A big one. When a bunch of people want some kind of big change. For example, America, you know the United States, was once a British colony like Uganda was. Then a few hundred years ago the people in America decided they didn’t want to be a British colony anymore, that they wanted to be their own country. So they rose up against the British and fought them. That is a revolution.”

“Okay. I get it. Thank you,” the big one replied a couple feet behind me to the right; the smaller boy quietly behind to my left. We continued walking in silence. Then.

“Mzungu. Can I ask you another question?”

“Yes.”

“Why do people smoke opium?” I masked amusement.

“Why do people smoke opium? Well, I don’t know. I don’t do it. But I think they smoke it because they like what it does to their minds. It makes them think and feel different, like when people get drunk. But it’s very, very bad for you. You become addicted to it. You know addicted?

“Yes,” they both said.

“Yes, you become addicted and then you become careless about other things in life; you don’t do your job, you don’t look after your family, you get sick. It’s a drug and drugs are very bad. You shouldn’t do any drugs, except ones given to you by the doctor.” These last words swelling up from inside me, I didn’t even feel like I was saying them, like somebody else was, like the 1989 D.A.R.E. curriculum had been programmed, laying dormant inside of me all these years, and had suddenly been switched on.

We continued to walk under the rising temperature, the sun about to peak in the sky. We were almost at the end of the sugar company property.

“Mzungu.” He paused. “What does it mean to call a girl a slut?”

“What does it mean to call a girl a slut?” I repeated laughing. Well, it means a girl who goes from boy to boy. You know. Maybe she kisses one boy, then has sex with another, then runs off with another. Like that. It is not a nice word. It’s a mean thing to say about somebody.”

“Oh. Okay,” the older boy replied pensively, his brow furrowed. “Thank you.”

We passed through the plantain gate and onto the town’s main road. I started to turn to the left towards the hospital. The boys lingered to the side.

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“No school fees. We are just walking around.”

“Then why are you wearing new uniforms?”

They didn’t answer. They were probably lying about the fees and dodging.

“Okay. Bye-bye,” I said waiving to them.

They smiled and waved back, presumably forever remembering how they learned the definition of the word revolution, the negative consequences of opium smoking, and what it means to call a girl a slut.

The Children’s Shelter

Many of the pictures I have posted of the children have been taken at their jah jah’s home, the home in which I am staying. This house would be considered extremely simple, and candidly, undesirable by American standards, but does have modern conveniences such as covered couches and chairs, a small television that broadcasts one channel, a tiny kitchen with a stove, and most of the time we are blessed with electricity and running water. The children's home is much different.

Theirs is a two room, all concrete shelter. It is a part of a block that contains a total of several such living quarters, all inhabited by women and their little girls. I can only guess that my children’s neighbors are the girlfriends or second or third wives of men who don’t stay with them, or maybe the women and kids have been abandoned altogether. If these women are lucky, maybe the men send some cash for their and their daughters’ living expenses; since Richard is the only boy in sight, it seems the sons have all gone to live with their fathers. Unfortunately, these women’s conditions are not unusual here in Uganda where monogamy is more of an exception than a rule and many men do not own up to their child rearing obligations.

Aunt Vinnie and cousins visiting kids at their house

I hope my pictures haven’t been deceiving. Yes, my children are extremely happy. Delighted to have another chance at life, to have their basic needs met: access to a nearby water source, eating all the food their bodies need, backs covered in clothes, bodies laying in real beds and, probably the most cherished aspect of their new livelihood, attending school. Before they lived in squalor, in mind-bending destitution; I’ve said it many times to Balazas of my children’s father, he would treat a pig better than he treated his children.

Their lives are much improved, but are still filled with challenges and what I would perceive to be discomfort, which they don't seem to notice. They are squished together at night; seven of them, all five of my children, plus their new Ugandan Mummy, Ester, and Ester’s daughter, Peanut, sleep in a ten by ten room. I have erected two triple decker beds to accommodate them, ensuring they each have mattresses, except for the two youngest, Sylvia and Rachel, who share a bed since they are small and still susu while they sleep.

Aunt Vinnie looking at Sylvia posing for me in her bed

Their front room is an even smaller space than the bedroom, about eight by ten feet. Between the naked, dirty walls stands a coffee table, benches and stools, which I just recently had made for them; the only other items are stored food, water, cutlery and plastic plates and cups.

Aunt Vinnie and Emma making over Sylvia's schoolwork in the kids' front room

Peanut sitting in their main room

Electricity spurts through the house occasionally, but their one outlet does not work and the wiring in the back room seems amiss, so the errant electricity only supplies a single light hanging in the front room. They do not have plumbing, so water must be bought at a local tap where the children fill jerrycans and carry the heavy items back to the house to do their washing, bathing and cooking. Sometimes the tap doesn’t work, forcing them to walk about a half a mile to the local well, and then of course a half a mile back lugging what must be at least fifty pounds of water in each container on their heads.

The kids gratefully attend school during the day. Sylvia and Rachel come to their jah jah’s for me to look after them in the early afternoon with Beatrice and Richard arriving later around four, and Agnes not getting out of school until at least five. As the sun dives towards the horizon and the townspeople make their way to market, my children walk along the dirt road to their home in Namengo where they cook their food on a small charcoal stove in the front room or under the awning just outside. They wash the dishes, clean their uniforms, play and do some homework.

Charcoal stove and jerrycan of water in main room

Before bed they bathe, which is done in a basin behind their block in the communal area where the wash is hung to dry; the older kids will go behind the pit latrines to a cramped, smelly space for more privacy.

Communal area for bathing and washing, latrines behind the wall

Latrine

Then the kids go to bed, Ester usually not arriving to look after them until they are falling asleep; I think they drift off easily, assuredly, happily. Their room isn't filled with much to see, there are no expensive clothes, nice beds, cute toys, or pretty pictures, but they have what they need, they have each other, and for that they are inspiringly thankful.

Richard, Beatrice, Rachel, Peanut and Sylvia laughing in front of their home with Mama Ester

Stitching and Growing

As an American Mzungu Princess, I have been given my own room in my Ugandan house. I have yet to go to another African home where one person solely occupies a room; yet another example of the Balazas’ embodiment of African hospitality.

My room is a wonderful escape from the chaos and challenges that engulf my African world: the dirt, the grime, the germs, the smells, the hagglers, the miscommunication, the culture differences. The Balazas are incredibly respectful of the sacred space they have created for me; my room has a lock on it, the key to which I am the sole keeper. My door is never entered by others unless to help me spray for mosquitoes or soak up water from a small flood, and when I am in my room with the door closed, the door is never opened unless an invitation is granted, and the visitor will only stand at the threshold.

So it was odd last week when Ester rapped on my door loudly and thrust it open before I had a chance to do so myself. Ester stood framed in the door way, usually the epitome of calm, her face was wide and excitable.

“We have another problem,” she said with Rachel in her arms. I had just enough time to search over Rachel’s drooping expression, red gaze and soggy check, Was she comatose? Ester lifted back her head. “She fell.”

The child had an inch long gash beneath her chin, deep red flesh and fat over a centimeter wide. I grabbed 50,000 shillings from my bag and slapped it in Ester’s free hand; African hospitals operate on cash only basis and will actually ignore dying patients laying at their steps without the necessary funds.

“Okay. Go to the hospital. She needs stitches. Do you have airtime?”

“No.”

“Okay. Here’s some extra money in case you need to call me.”

(Africans don’t have credit cards; the vast majority doesn’t have bank accounts. As such, airtime is purchased at stores in the form of a scratch card, the cover of which is peeled off like a lotto ticket revealing a code beneath, the code is then entered into the phone.)

Several minutes after Ester rushed out the door I realized Rachel may have a concussion. I called Ester.

“Hey. Find out if she was knocked unconscious. And make sure the doctor checks to see if she has a concussion.”

An hour passed and Ester walked through the door with a still wide-eyed Beatrice and Richard in tow and a dazed Rachel in arms, a huge bandage covered the little one’s chin to her mid jaw line.

“She got three stitches,” Ester said as I reached for Rachel to hold her in my lap. Her clothes were still stained with blood splatters. Having had stitches placed twice in my own head, three seemed too few for the size of the wound. Not surprising, this was Africa.

“Was she ever unconscious?”

“No.”

“Did the doctor check if she had a concussion? Did he check her eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” I said as I sat leaned back on the couch relieved. “What happened?”

It seemed that Agnes had put Rachel on the top of their triple bunk beds, something Ester constantly warned her against. The little kids go on the bottom bed! The top bed is high and the ground beneath pure concrete.

Ester relayed what she gathered from the children. The girl fell at six in the evening, although Beatrice and Richard didn’t show up at our house with Rachel until almost nine. Beatrice had been out during Rachel’s accident and found her crying next to the bed, Agnes had been ignoring her. Blood was everywhere.

I was angry and disappointed with Agnes, but perplexed by her complete disregard; it wasn’t like her. Did she really put Rachel on the top bunk? Did she really then ignore the child's incessant shrieking? Did she really wait hours to send a hurt Rachel to us?

“What do we do?” I asked Stephen who sat across from us listening, unsure of how to address Agnes and sort of deferring to the African man of the house as generally customary out of respect.

“This one knows what to do. She will reprimand her,” Stephen said nodding his head at Ester.

“I am going to slap her when I get back,” Ester said. And she stood to leave with the kids.

The next morning it was my turn to talk to Agnes. I went for Ester first at the shop.

“I want you to come with me when I go to talk with her. I want to make sure she understands me and that we are very serious.”

We arrived in Namengo, about a ten minute walk from the Balaza’s house and Ester’s shop. The story had changed by then as clearer facts emerged. Rachel had fallen around eight, not six. Okay. This was one less reason to be mad at Agnes.

“Rachel, did someone put you on the top bed?” I asked her with the other children and Ester in their small room.

“Agnes,” she mumbled looking straight ahead avoiding eye contact. I turned to Agnes and asked her if it was true. She denied it.

We spoke more about the incident, reminding the children again to not let the little ones ever on top, and to run to us once someone is hurt or sick. I asked Ester if she reprimanded the children the night before. She had talked to them about it.

“I didn’t slap Agnes,” she said slightly smiling. I wasn’t surprised. Based on her disposition and previous comments about beating children, Ester seemed incapable of corporal punishment, which was just as well with me. I turned again to Rachel.

“Rachel, who put you on the top bed?”

This time she said it was Beatrice. Her inconsistency suggested deception. But was it even possible for her to climb up there by herself? The mystery remained, but it was clear that Agnes, at the very least, wasn’t being as responsible as she should. A few evenings prior Ester caught her putting the child on top and even if Rachel had climbed up on her own the night of the accident, Agnes should have been checking on her.

“Agnes, you need to be more responsible, especially in watching after Rachel. Rachel could have been hurt very badly. She could have even died.” Agnes looked down and away, not responding, fidgeting. It was difficult to read her. Was she being obstinate or was this a typical reaction from a Ugandan child?

“Agnes. Agnes.” I repeated her name until she looked up at me. “I am thinking of going to the school and asking for my money back for your trip to Entebbe.”

She looked down again, crestfallen. The child, as well as her siblings, had probably never been anywhere outside her former village and Lugazi, not even to Kampala. Her class trip to the Entebbe airport and zoo was no doubt going to be a highlight of her childhood.

“Agnes, if you show to me you’re responsible though, between then and now, you can go, but I am very disappointed in the way you looked after Rachel. Something like this can’t happen again.”

She didn’t seem to hear my last words; they fell on deaf, pained ears. With worrisome expression and movement, she took up the chores that I had found her performing when I arrived: cleaning, cooking, sorting.

I continued sitting in the chair in the small room processing what happened, a scared Rachel resting in my lap. Their current living situation of two claustrophobic rooms and not enough adult supervision was temporary, but still bothersome. A few minutes later Agnes emerged through the door with a large jerrycan of water fetched from the local tap. She squatted down perpendicular to me and lifted the heavy item from her head to the ground. She froze, staring at the wall in front of her; she softly choked out something in Luganda.

“What? Ester, what is she saying?” I called to Ester in the room behind us. Agnes heaved and repeated herself.

“She says she’s sorry.”

Agnes continued squatting in the tiny room in which she is constantly cleaning, constantly cooking, constantly studying, constantly minding her younger siblings; Ester usually gone herself at work until late evening leaving the eldest girl to much of the household work. Agnes’ frame shook and she sobbed into her arm. I didn’t sense the emotion came from my threat. It felt like sincere remorse. She no doubt was scared seeing her little sister covered in blood. She no doubt felt guilty having not been a better eldest sister, a responsible baba.

I rose and put my arm around her and kissed the side of her check. She was stiff, not accustomed to physical affection.

“It’s okay Aggie. I still love you. Rachel will be okay. We just need to be sure to learn from our mistakes.”

After gathering herself, she arose and went back outside to continue her chores, I believe a bit wiser than when she entered the room just moments ago.

Five Lucky Winners of New Wardrobes!

The skies here can change quickly; searing heat makes midday walks a test of endurance under a merciless sun, clouds rest far along the horizon; and then suddenly the puffy mist moves in like an advancing army offering reprieve from the blaze, the brightness only seeping through in spots. Then maybe, a shower, or possibly a total downpour. And finally coolness.

It’s never exactly cold here, but for Ugandans the chill after a rain can usher in discomfort. I was caught in such a rainfall, stuck in the kids’ small two room house in Namengo. Richard sat outside under the overhang staring at the shower with nothing better to do in their furniture-less, TV-less, radio-less, oftentimes electricity-less, essentially barren concrete room. He was shivering.

“Richard.”

His big eyes gazed at me.

“Do you have a jacket?”

“No.”

“Do you have a sweater?”

“No.”

I felt terrible. It was the closest to cold I had experienced in Uganda.

“Okay. We are going to buy you a jacket.”

He smiled and I frowned, thinking of the long sleeved shirt I had given him when we first took him a few months ago. It was probably dirty and the only item of clothing he had that covered his arms. I was unhappy with his unease, but knew how quickly the skies would change.

Wednesday is market day in Lugazi. Between the dilapidated huts with falling, gapping slabs of wood that comprise the usual trading center, countless vendors set up shop and offer their wares spread for blocks; piles of second hand garments, racks of new more expensive clothes, black faux leather school shoes, plastic shower slippers, bags, skin care items, school supplies, cooking supplies, all of Ugandan soil’s offerings: cassava, maize, yams, beans, tomatoes, onions, greens, sweet potatoes, avocadoes.

I lead Richard through the endless stretch of vendors squashed together sitting in the dirt or standing next to their goods calling out Mzungu! Mzungu! You come! You want trousers? You need shoes? You like this?

I refrain from telling them, “No, I don’t need two dollar shoes or recycled clothes from American closets, but thank you.”

Sometimes the bolder vendors will just watch me pass and say, “Give me money.”

“Richard, look through these jackets,” I said pointing to a pile of a few dozen jackets before us. He flipped through them; the usual discarded items from overseas; nothing fashionable. Salvation Army rejects – I swear I saw a Members Only label.

“Okay. Let’s try here.” I pointed to another pile across the way with more of the same. He picked up a pink and purple raincoat looking like it belonged to an American woman a dozen years ago. I didn’t say anything. If he wants to wear pink and purple, it didn’t matter to me. He set it back down.

I led him around the corner to a larger pile. Jackpot. Richard picked up a navy blue coat with white trim. He held it up then pulled it towards him indicating in his shy way that he liked it.

“Try it on.” It was too big, definitely for an adult, maybe belonging to an East Coast sea-lover in the nineties. He beamed.

“Okay. We get that one for you?”

He nodded. I gave the vendor 4,500 Ugandan shillings, or $2.25.

The week passed with more rain. The girls had sweaters to keep them warm, but did not have jackets to protect them from wetness. Agnes was outside their house in Namengo doing wash beneath the downpour.

“Aggie. We get you a jacket too.” She nodded and smiled typically bashful. I turned to the three younger girls. “You get some jackets too.”

The following Wednesday I left the house for the market just on the other side of our building with Agnes, Richard, Beatrice, Sylvia, Peanut and Beatrice’s friend, Ester, in tow. Rachel stayed behind in dire need of her afternoon kwebeca. The kids were excited; Mama Mzungu was taking them for the second time to market, an occasion like Disneyland, Christmas and birthdays combined.

dancing on the way to market

Sylvia’s jacket was the easiest find. It was lying on top of a small pile we passed. I looked at the dark blue raincoat and new it was the perfect size for her.

“You try this one on,” I said handing it to her. She put it on quickly and smiled. “You want it?”

She nodded.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded again, her eyes bright. I gave the vendor 3,000 shillings, $1.50.

We walked around the corner to another vendor, the one with the biggest pile of jackets, where we had luck finding one for Richard the previous week. Agnes picked out an unnecessarily thick, puffy, camel-colored monstrosity and B2 chose, with my encouragement, a navy blue, faux-fur-trimmed-hood, actually-pretty- cute, throw away from the Gap. I gave the vendor 4,000 and 7,000 shillings respectively, or $2.00 and $3.50.

I had bought Beatrice two shirts and two skirts at market the week before since she always wore the same deep maroon, crushed velvet dress, which was actually an American girl’s former nightie, the intended purpose of the clothing of course not worth explaining to my child who clearly liked it.

Beatrice wanted another skirt and top. Okay. I figured I could spare the two dollars. I bought a new skirt for Agnes as well as a new school bag since her old one had ripped under the weight of her books; the bag was a splurge, sturdy, actually sort of chic, black with a single strap; a slightly business-looking shoulder bag. A full five dollars. She swung it over her back and walked through market with her head high.

Beatrice had lost her shower slippers, which are the only shoes she and the others own outside their black school shoes, which are only worn to school making the foamy slippers a necessary item in their meager wardrobes.

shoeless B2 with others kids in slippers

“Don’t lose these,” I said to her, handing her the $1.25 green foam sandals she picked out. She genuflected and thanked me; feet protection only a recent part of her existence.

Richard picked out a new shirt, one with an actual tag on it. All the kids got their needed school supplies for the term that was starting the following week. Peanut asked me for a jacket.

“Peanut, you already have jackets. You have more than all of these kids combined,” I told her. She pouted mildly. Ester’s daughter, Peanut, stays with the children and her mother in Namengo and has bags full of clothes given and bought for her. I am helping out Ester and Peanut, but new clothes the girl did not need.

As we walked wove through the market little girl’s dresses were catching my eye, adorable matching denim skirts and tops; pale, frilly dresses; bright skirts and pattered shirts. I thought of the two dresses that Rachel owned with broken zippers, no doubt hand-me-downs. I wanted a new one for her. I touched a white polka dotted dress.

“Mzungu. You give me 18,000,” the vendor directed me.

“What? No way. Too much.” I was being offered inflated mzungu prices as always.

We walked to another vendor. Beatrice was helping me pick out a dress, excited to give one to her little sister.

“Mommy! Mommy! This one.” She tugged at a design of chinsy yellow chiffon with too many ruffles and bows.

“Maybe.” The vendor looked at me.

“You give me 15,000.”

“Too much.”

“Okay. You give me what you have.”

“I don’t know if I like.”

The vendor shook her head. I stood next to the dress for a while as I waited for Agnes to purchase new school shoes for Peanut and Richard from a few vendors down, I sent her to avoid the hassle of negotiating.

“Okay. You give me 4,000,” the vendor said holding the dress before me. I eyed it again. I still didn’t like it. Then I noticed the same polka dotted dress I saw earlier, but in red. This was actually better. I abhor white or pale fabrics for the kids since Ugandan red mud and dirt grimes into their clothes within minutes of donning. The kids are always dirty by degree, but I attempt for them to appear clean.

“What about this one?” I asked holding the cherry garment.

“It’s okay.”

“Four thousand?”

“No. You give me seven.”

“Why not four like the other?”

“This one is better than that one.”

I didn’t see the vendor’s point, but didn’t feel like arguing. It was hard finding a dress that looked Rachel’s size and not quienceanera tacky. I gave the guy the $3.50.

The kids and I moved back towards the house: smiles, dancing, laughter. We opened the door and Rachel was awake.

“Rachel.” She greeted me customarily ecstatic. “I have a surprise for you.” I set the bags down and Beatrice moved towards them starting to grab the dress. “B2 not yet. Don’t show her yet.” I wanted to get a picture of Rachel’s face when we gave it to her. Beatrice was muttering something excitedly in Luganda as I went into my room for my camera. Rachel must have known she was about to get something special. We pulled it out of the bag for her. Surprise!

Rachel seeing dress


Rachel wearing dress for first time


kids in their jackets