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.