When words crumble under life’s challenges

Some people suffer rough patches and bounce back with renewed energy. You’d never know they’d experienced a challenge except for visible scars.

I was thinking about my Literature teacher. She lost her speech but not her spirit.

Mrs. Mubiru taught us how to identify and argue character strengths and weaknesses. Our A-level Literature, from The Poor Christ of Bomba to The River Between was music to her ears.

In her red cotton dress, she’d stand before the class and reel in our attention with her soft firm voice.

She scanned the class like a mother pleased with her offspring. Her eyes settled gently on astute youth, bubbling with promise. She was molding lawyers, teachers, writers, responsible citizens who would go on to impact Uganda. Even the naughty students had a special place in her heart.

After class, she’d walk down the flight of stairs with gaiety.

One day, Mrs. Mubiru didn’t show up to teach. The day turned into a week, then a month, then we didn’t see her again. Our substitute teacher became permanent.

News trickled to us every few weeks – little drips of information on her health thickened as time wore on.

Mrs. Mubiru caught malaria; Mrs. Mubiru was admitted to hospital. Mrs. Mubiru was in intensive care. Mrs. Mubiru was unconscious. Mrs. Mubiru had cerebral malaria - there was a chance of serious organ failure.

Mrs. Mubiru improved and was discharged, but she would not return to teach her literature class. Mrs. Mubiru would have to learn to speak again.

Mrs. Mubiru visited the class, a sign of committed to her vocation, her students. Her smile was bright and illuminating but the words? The precious syllables that drew her to her profession? The words she once sounded out and played with? Those words were out of reach. They would not roll off her tongue.

How does one comprehend the reality that the one thing that gives purpose - your vocation - the reason you wake up each day - your source of livelihood, has been snatched by a disease?

I’ve experienced my own crisis. In the depth of that hole, I assume creation has paused to contemplate my case. It is sobering to realize no beat is missed. The world keeps turning. The players keep skipping and I must count myself in - “one, two, three, enter” – or leave the game.

I struggle.

But Mrs. Mubiru showed no sign of being hampered. The spark that glowed the next time I saw her, lightsup in my mind. I wonder how she did it.

Once, while attending a choir recital at Namirembe cathedral, Mrs. Mubiru and I met.

The emotions that flooded her face sprayed like sun rays after the rain. Messages formed clearly in her mind, letters lined up to form words in her mind, but when she attempted to speak, they tumbled out in a mess. I didn’t attempt to rearrange them, I listened to her heart.

She pulled out a pen and paper, and wrote she was happy to see me. Her illness deprived her of speech. She lost hearing in one ear, but she was getting better and learning new ways to communicate.

Because of her sons love for music, she’d brought him to listen to the choir.

Her little boy hardly 8 years old, sat on the front row.

Even with the uncertainty of words we connected.

These pebbles continue to wash onto the shore of my mind. I pick them up and run my thumb over the smooth surface. I marvel. What a beautiful woman! What strong resolve and fighting will.

Challenges build strength inside. Challenges mold us into different people. Where peace is broken it is smoothed out like the pebbles.

We evolve. Empathy becomes a close companion and hopefully we are better for it.