I’m sure pictures will make more sense than any attempt at a description on my part, but I live in a middle class home in Kyebando (one small step up from a slum), right outside of Kampala, the capital and largest city in Uganda. There are some things I expected about my home and more things I didn’t. For instance, I expected pit latrines and outdoor coal stoves, which they use; however, I didn’t expect my own room, a shower with hot water, and a washing machine. Not to mention, American television stations, a large wall surrounding the compound, a grove of matooke trees (plantains), three cars, and two servants. Uganda is one of the forty least developed countries in the world, so keep in mind that everything is relative. I have six siblings that are eighteen and above, and three siblings under five. My twenty-five year old brother, Bonnie, five year old sister, Nyla, and three year old sister, Hanna, are the only ones still living at home. The rest of the kids are off at boarding school or working abroad, but some of them come home on the weekends and just pop in. Since, in Ugandan culture, the concept of immediate family doesn’t really exist, all the women around the house are my moms and all the children are my brothers and sisters; when in reality, my exact relation is unclear. In no particular order, my host mother is a Muslim, a widow of thirteen years, a wholesale car parts dealer, a girlfriend to the equivalent of my host dad, and the head of the household. I first met her when my brother Bonnie brought me home from my first day of school. My mom and aunts were sitting in the cooking area on mats preparing dinner. They had just returned from the village where my mom had just finished forty days of mourning for the son she lost in December. For the first day or two, I felt like I was being inspected for impurities. In moments of silence, she would ask random questions like “how much does your mother weigh?” and “what religion do you practice?” I knew the latter would come up eventually because we were warned that Ugandans are very religious, so I calmly stuck to the truth and told her I am a spiritual person, but I don’t practice a religion because my parents chose to allow me to choose a path for myself when I felt ready. She thought that was fairly ludicrous, so she then informed me that I’m old enough now to decide, so I should probably get baptized while I am here in Uganda. It may seem ironic because she is a Muslim, but all of her children are protestant due to their father. So I told her that if I were to make that decision, I would have to do some serious reflecting. Her response was that I should get baptized first, and then I could have all the time in the world to read up on the Bible. She also informed me that there are a lot of things I can’t do in Uganda without a Baptism card. Of course I was interested so I asked, “Like what?” She responded with, “Like what? Well… getting married and receiving the Holy Communion.” At that point, I was shaking in my boots because those were two things on the top of my “Uganda To Do List.” Though these are valid points, plus, she would throw me a party, and there isn’t any place I’d rather give myself to Jesus, I’ve decided to pass on the baptism (at least for a couple months or so).
Once I really turned on the charm and I became more aware of her dry sense of humor, we began to build the mother son connection that I’ve been fortunate enough to create with my past three home-stay mothers (but, it’s pretty easy when you have twenty-one years of practice with my real mom).
My favorite times at home so far are during the electricity blackouts, when everyone in the family sits under the stars around the cooking area until dinner at eleven. My mom will give me tea, fresh mangos, and/or a plate of sugar cane. They all think it is hilarious when I come home from school and practice the Lugandan I’ve learned, “Mussibye mutyanno bannyabo ne bassebo, ensanyuse okukulaba” (Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, it’s nice to see you). On Saturday, my mom taught me how African women wash clothes. She was so sure that my hands were going to bleed that, afterwards, she put hydrogen peroxide on my fingers even though they weren’t bleeding. Most nights we eat the same thing (matooke, groundnut sauce, greens, and meat), but last night my host mom made me a special dinner of homemade fries, rice, cabbage, noodles, and curry with goat (lots of starches in this culture because weight reflects social status, so the more the better). Being that I was eating from a platter and not a plate, by the time I was half way done I said, “I think I’ve lost the war.” Fortunately, they didn’t look surprised and my mom even looked pleased. But by far the best bonding moment with my mom was when she gave me my African name. Being her son, I come from the Ndiga (Sheep) clan, the Baganda Kingdom, and my name is Kibuka (Chibuka). Kibuka is a strong warrior god whose weakness is love. She said that in her village, there is a huge tree that marks the spot where his soul still rests. The Sunday after next, we are driving thirty kilometers out of Kampala to her village, where all of her clan (nine siblings with a hundred plus children) still lives. I’m having a wonderful time, I’m learning a lot, my group is great, my directors are inspiring women, and I have many more stories still to post. I think the description of my family, mostly my mom, is good enough for now.
Until next time, don’t think it hasn’t been charming.
Tunaalabagana,
Kibuka
