Pride and Progress

“I saw your kids the other day. They are very jolly,” the woman at the internet café had told me.

“You’re kids. They just passed before you came. They were running and laughing,” my friend in town had said.

“These ones, they are so happy,” the woman at the pharmacy had offered with a smile, eyeing my children.

“This one falls all the time because she is so playful,” the man at the stationary shop observed as Rachel, with a huge bandage on her chin, skipped and danced and bounced at the end of my hand.

“I know,” I told him watching her with amusement. “It’s no wonder she walks into gates and falls all the time and has a busted chin. Even for a four year old, she is very careless… but at least she’s happy,” I had replied.

My kids brim with joy. Evident when they greet you: big hugs and shrieks from the little ones, bouncing genuflections from Beatrice, shy smiles and sparkling eyes from the oldest two. Evident in their gaits: heads high, steps light, hand-holding, laughter. Evident in their tenderness to one another.

As baba, Aggie is the eldest sister serving as a caretaker. She does most of the cooking, most of the cleaning, and when Ester isn’t around, she makes sure medication is taken, that tired heads lay down to rest. She looks after younger siblings as if they were her children. Yesterday I was walking through the taxi park with her four younger sisters (counting Peanut) and brother. When they spotted their baba walking towards them not having seen her since morning, they cheered and ran, hugging her and grabbing at her arms; Aggie’s face danced with delight.

Aggie playing behind B2


The kids usually greet each other with this enthusiastic exaltation. Richard and Beatrice are out of school around four, coming through the slim wrought iron and glass door of the TYOM office in the late afternoon. Without fail the two youngest run to them exclaiming Richard! Beatrice! When Peanut arrives soon thereafter, it’s the same thing: Peanut! Peanut! Jumping. Giggling.

My children are always together; studying at school, moving through town, shopping at market, fooling around the office, playing in the house. When I visit their school to talk to their teachers, I pass through the yard with a thousand children; I always see mine standing near each other. Friends are important in Africa, but family is supreme.

They are always together and always helping one another. Beatrice works with Sylvia on her homework most evenings. Once I saw B2 writing in the younger girl’s short exercise book.

“No B2. This is Sylvia’s homework. Not yours. I know you can do this. I want Sylvia to learn it,” I told her. B2 smiled bashfully. Before I had opened Sylvia’s book to a series of correct English words written in perfect letters, Girl, Pot, Boy, Cat, Book, Box.

“Sylvia. Did you do this?” She looked at me funny. “I don’t think you did this. I think B2 did it.”Since my instruction on how to appropriately instruct, I had see Beatrice leaning over Sylvia’s work guiding her, but not writing it.

“Good B2. Yes. You show her how to do it, but don’t do it for her,” I said. Beatrice returned my stare with pride; she likes being a helpful big sister, she likes her younger sister learning.

Sylvia doing her homework


With some help, but mostly her own discipline, Sylvia has made remarkable progress. Ester told me a few nights ago the girl woke up at eleven worried.

“What’s wrong, Sylvia?” Ester had asked.

“I forgot to do my homework!”

“Did she do it then? Did she do it at eleven?” I asked Ester surprised.

“Yes!” She did it then went back to bed,” Ester told me smiling.

I smiled back.

Sylvia’s term folder a couple of months ago was essentially an exercise in wrong answers. The girl was terribly behind, not knowing her letters and numbers, not even grasping how to learn, not working sequentially, not getting the methodology of the lessons.

But now she understands how to complete the daily work she is given by her teacher, she knows how to match, how to write orderly down the page, how to add and subtract.

“She has really improved. Good work with her!” Sylvia’s teacher had told me when the term started several weeks ago.

“She had private lessons with her sister and brother everyday at the primary school over break,” I told the woman. “The kids were there all day for three weeks. I think it made a big difference.”

“Yes. She will definitely go to P1 next year,” the teacher said merrily.

I was terrifically pleased. Sylvia didn’t know anything when we took her four months ago. During her entrance exam at another nursery school, the woman asked her to count to ten. Sylvia contorted her face in confusion. The woman continued to press her rudely, making the girl feel uncomfortable; Sylvia’s face knotted tighter, she was embarrassed, on the verge of tears.

“Obviously she doesn’t know it,” I shot to the woman, cutting her off. “It’s okay Sylvia. You go sit back down.”

That incident was telling; Sylvia showed to be in need of much assistance and the nursery school proved to not be for my children.

Sylvia’s not the only one making inspiring development strides; all of the children’s work has improved. Agnes sauntered into the Balaza’s house earlier this week and riffled through her bag.

“Mommy,” she said trying to stifle immense pleasure. “Look.”

She stuck a crumpled test under my nose. I opened it up: 81%

“Very good Aggie! I am very happy. Are you happy?”

“Yes,” she said face beaming and red.

She then pulled out three more tests. They weren’t as strong.

“Well. You are doing good in mathematics, but your English, social studies and science still need some work. It’s okay though. As long as you are trying hard. I will go talk to your teacher.”

She looked down nodding, still filled with self-content. Despite her continuing to struggle in school, I was very pleased with her. Her effort was unrelenting. And I was proud that she was proud of herself. It is difficult to imagine the self-image and confidence of a girl who was run out by her parents and forced to marry at fifteen.

Richard too has shown much growth in self-assurance, personal responsibility and understanding of English. He laughs more now, appears at greater ease. He walks each day during their late-morning porridge break to the hospital a few blocks away to get the dressing changed on his leg. I smile seeing his shin wrapped in clean gauze and tape, thinking back to the mass of puss oozing from dirty skin when we found him in the village; he is now getting much needed care, and he is caring for himself.

“Good job Richard!” I said to him the first week he completed his daily journey to the clinic. “I am glad you are listening to me and Ester. Well done!”

His face stretched into a wide grin. He rarely responds to me or anyone else, but he understands nearly perfectly. The kids’ comprehension of American English has improved remarkably over the months, but Richard seems to get it the best. B2 will turn and look to him when she doesn’t understand me. He’ll mutter his translation in Luganda. Thank you, Richard, I always say.

Rachel’s English has improved the most, as to be expected with a little brain wired for language acquisition. She surprises me every few days with another word she’s picked-up, a new phrase she knows, maybe a grammatically perfect sentence.

“Mommy. Sylvia is sleeping,” she said to me last week.

“Yes! Rachel, very good! Sylvia is sleeping,” I said beaming. “Now. Why don’t you go to sleep?”

She shook her head and blurted out, “No.”

I laughed. She didn’t look tired.

“Okay. You don't have to sleep. You’re English is getting good though,” I said encouraging her.

She grinned her big Taka grin and just went back to playing.

Taka Rachel being her usual silly self