Twenty Years, One Blog, Somewhere Between Here and Home

                                                      

Twenty years ago, I left Uganda with a two-year-old, followed my husband to America, and started a little blog to tell family back home what life was like. I had no idea I would still be writing here two decades later.

Twenty years ago, I landed in America for the first time. I took a KLM flight from Entebbe airport to New York’s JKF airport then taxied to Philadelphia. I was nervous about the unknown but excited to start a new chapter. I left my favorite white-collar T.M Lewis shirt. I left my gray leather handbag. I quit my job. Was I ready? One is never ready when wading into new territory, the conviction carries the day, and one can only look forward to new experiences. Sam was accepted to the Wharton Business School master’s program and where he went, I was sure to follow. With our two-year-old firecracker son by my side, we strapped in for the ride. America!

Missing Pancakes

I started 2024 with missing luggage after a flight home from Uganda.

Immigration officer: Where are you coming from?

Me: Uganda

IO: What was the reason for your travel?

Me: To see family

IO: How are they doing?

Me: They are well, thank you.

IO: How much money are you bringing into the country?

Me: (Thinking to myself—"dude is this a trick question?”) I said, “None really”.

IO: Welcome back!

With that I went off to pick my luggage.

I scanned the luggage conveyor belt for a while… nothing. Exhausted but chill and with hubby still way out, navigating the highways, I took my time. I watched the luggage spin round and round: green cases, black cases, pink cases, checkered cases, cases with bright colored strings (you know the pieces of cloth torn off dresses or belts—the ones used to tie sacks of cassava or millet? Ya! People real know how to mark their luggage, so it stands out).

My cases: one maroon-soft cover and one green-hard cover were nowhere in sight.

A muffled announcement came over the airwaves, I heard “…Mary Ong”, unless there was an East Asian with a similar name, I had a feeling it was meant for me. Not good.

I traced the voice to the counter. A little East Asian lady dressed in blue and white uniform hustled with disgruntled passengers concerned about their missing baggage.

I introduced myself, she begun to stutter “Yes please! Your bags… didn’t arrive. I don’t know…” She handed me a printed form—my name.

She continued, “We will deliver your suitcases in a day or two...” She looked worried as she handed me a pen—probably thought I was about to cause a scene. There’s a way one looks after a long flight—angry Black African woman vibes—those things. I had flown over 20 hours halfway around the world—Uganda to Rwanda, Rwanda to Doha, Doha to D.C. And now my chapati and kabalagala (Ugandan pancakes) were out there somewhere, alone and frightened. No, I wasn’t in the best mood.

I narrowed my eyes, looked down at the lady (nanti she was like 4 feet tall) and with gritted teeth said, “Look here Miss. my bags had better be found. No one messes with a Ugandan woman and her kabz.”

Ok, if you believe I said that to the lady, we need to talk. Hahaha.

I wrote a description of my suitcases, signed the form and went off to find my people.

The baggage arrived at my door two days later and all was intact. The cool temperatures outside helped preserve the chapati and kabalagala. I placed the valuables in the freezer and now, for the next two weeks or a month (depending on my self-control) I have some easy meals—chapati and chai garden tea.

The hustle of living away from home—bu simple pleasures naye!

Happy New Year!!

Bungee Jumping on the Nile

 

My Girl Goes Bungee Jumping

My girl is reserved. She speaks only when it is absolutely necessary. Her dad bends all sorts of which way to get her reaction but she is often impassive. She remains expressionless sometimes with a subtle smile pasted to the ends of her lips – that’s when you know you’ve really got her. Her diary is lethal – yo! I don’t know where she gets it but she’s a certified mystery. I’ll confess I’ve flipped through those pages a few times and each time I quietly place the diary down and slowly walk backwards out of the room. I gently close the door behind me, take a deep breath and watch the branches on my prayer list bud into new more complex items.

She’d give Sherlock Holmes sleepless nights.

Anyways here is the story. After soul nourishment in Teso with my parents, hubby dearest suggested we stop in Jinja for family time small-small. We were happy to sleep late, wakeup late and lounge around refreshment away from America’s rat race.

This is how it goes. Everyone heads off for some alone time, as in, we are together apart. Do you know this? Let me explain. Once you have teenagers, stress levels can as if peak. The young people don’t really want to hang out with the parents, just the parent’s money. When they begin to earn their own money, all bets are off – your relevance is held on a balance so help you God. If you have a boy and a girl then each one wants their own space because really, “What do you know about what I’m going through?” The parents are left looking at each other and they too are processing life from different angles.

A panoramic view shows the boy sprawled on his bed scanning his phone. The girl is in the living room watching a movie. The dad is on the porch reading news events in world. The mom? Now, where is the mom again? Oh yeah! She out somewhere marveling at nature, taking pictures, thinking about her kids, happy that she doesn’t have to cook the day’s meal.

Next morning dad has a brilliant idea to take his family for a thrill, an adventure in the jungles of Jinja. The teenagers are like, meh! But what can they do? Rules are dictated, they are in unfamiliar territory, so best stick close for safety. One likes to swim, the other is water averse. One parent loves adventure, the other is calculated – if the full equation is not understood, it’s not happening, but for the sake of peace and harmony, they’ll lay down their lives. Sacrifice – the man’s calling.

The car drives onto the gravel of this open facility – water of the Nile roars in the distance, there’s a vast space of dark green vegetation, a beautiful canopy. Music blasts through the speakers.

Boy: “What are we doing here?”

Dad: (Silent because really… “For you don’t you just enjoy life ko?”)

Girl: Acts invisible.

Mom: “Let’s see what we can do”

A few meters ahead a set of metal fortified stairs lead up to nowhere. Basically, if you start the journey up, there is only one way you are coming down – free fall.

Boy: “That’s just crazy!”

Mom: “Come on! Let’s give it a shot”

Boy gives mom the look, she knows it’s not happening.

Girl: Acts like she is not there, then suddenly blurts out, “Ok, I’ll go.”

We all turn. The question on all our minds: “Are you sure?”

She’s only 11. Does she know what she’s getting into?

The guide, a bulked up young man tells her there is nothing to be afraid of, it is safe. The equipment is tested and he’s trained so he will walk her through the steps. He adds, if she is uncertain, she has time to change her mind. Still acting like she’s invisible but consumed with resolve, she nods her head, “Let’s do this!”

The family is led to a balcony where we watch the spectacle go down – feel the guilt of letting our baby fly in the wind, strapped with ropes.

The DJ pumps up the volume, “I feel it coming” by The Weeknd.

Boy is bored – like, “What madness in this?” like, who in their right mind thought this would be fun?

DJ increases volume.

Dad is pacing, looking out over the Nile. Pebbles on the ridges now look like rocks.

What if there are crocodiles? We’ve seen those creatures literally walk on water for their prey.

DJ increases volume again. “I feel it coming”

Now the beats are in sync with our hearts, soothing the thumps, numbing the sudden jerks.

Where’s mom? She’s watching her baby get strapped in to the gear. From this distance, her girl looks like a stick figure, hands up, then hands down, like the cock screw. She’s thinking, “wait, what? This kid is actually going through with this? Some nerve!”

Then woosh! The girl is catapulted into the air. Dad makes a sound between a growl and a howl.  The teen’s hands are spread out superman style. She goes with the wind, suspended in space. The seconds freeze in-slow-motion each micro second doing a full stage act. Then the rope drops, then the rope pulls her back half way up, it drops again – we feel that – sweaty palms, dry throat. We are all breathing like women in labor, our legs shake.

I look again, ok she’s still strapped to the rope, good! Nothing has malfunctioned and no crocodiles or hippos emerged for the spectacle.

A boat rows out to the girl, she is gently lowered onto its floor. Now we can’t see her. She could be kidnapped down there although frankly with her stare even a kidnapper would think twice.

She emerges unperturbed, dad and mom are frantic like they did the bungee jump. Boy still thinks humans are crazy to consider this fun.

Mom: Squills “Oh my! How was it?”

Girl: “Hm! It was ok”

Mom: “So what was the guy telling you up there? You talked for a long time.”

Girl: “Oh! He asked me to choose, I could have the rope around my waist and fall forward, but that’s basic. Or the harder level, have the rope around my ankles.”

What did this reserved, non-expressive, quiet, assume-invisible-state of a girl decide? Yup! Option two.

Who is this girl?

African Dance

Have you listened to Amapiano? Man! The log drum hits different. It irons out emotions on its threshing floor. When faced with those gentle persistent hills on a morning jog, the log drum pushes me forward, it gives me resolve. As my heart races and my lungs expand for air, the log drum keeps my feet in motion with its sequence: one-one, two-two, one-two, two-one, five-five, a hundred. “You can do it!” I go. 3 miles, 4 miles… nice! 

The African drumbeat speaks and African’s love rhythm, it is magical. Rhythm reaches deep into our souls. It gets people going. I listened to the drum beat in Jinja, by the Nile River – the translation of the rhythm in to language was not lost on me. The drummer layered sensual sentences into his beats – you listen and know, then you watch people dance – the communication is complete. It is crazy. 

But have you also noticed that most traditional African dances are racy? I guess there are only a set number of body parts that can groove. I had never thought about it until uncle J came for an evening chat with my parents. This was the era when Congolese dance videos saturated UTV – Tshala Mwana and Pepe Kale disorganized Uganda. My mom was appalled by all the movement, dad couldn’t be bothered but uncle J, a little tipsy and free of all inhibitions grabbed the elephant in the room. 

He said, “But you know African dance has always been about …” he started naming body parts. Mom sprung from her chair; uncle J was known to have little restraint with his language. She closed the door with the hope that the heavy words flying from his mouth would sail into the open air and dissolve somewhere beyond the gate. But uncle J was not done, he kept on talking. They moved to the veranda.

On the veranda, they could engage in further conversation with a bit of privacy or so they thought. As it turned out, my bedroom was adjacent to the veranda so when uncle J begun to speak and with the influence of alcohol raise his voice, it carried without restraint through the open windows. It settled on the beds, the heads and the ears of anyone in the room. Suddenly mom remembered the windows to my room were open, every syllable pushed its way in. She slammed the shutters muttering something about mosquitoes. I was seated on the bed, not quite dotting the “I’s” and crossing the “t’s” in uncle J’s sentences but mom’s antsy behavior drew my attention and I listened in. Uncle J was quite on a roll about legs and backsides. I had never before considered the “Bakisimba” and "Nankasa" as anything more than a cultural dance. Ah! Then I looked at “Ding-ding” and saw a pattern of human expression saved by raffle skirts and long flowing bitenge. 

Mom was at a loss, the words flew where ever they willed, no doors or windows would stop them. 

She resigned and in the next breath as if waiting for her to calm down, uncle J swiftly moved on to politics. She called for one more round of hot water for the Ajono. 

Before long, dinner was served, the news was read by Baale Francis (RIP) and uncle J was ready to head back to his home fully satiated. 

Oh the things that come to remembrance. I think these are signs of aging. :-)

A poem: The battle of place Uganda Vs America

 

Ugandan flag - shot taken in backyard during fall

They say let go, move on
They say when you boarded the plane and shook the dust off your feet 

When you peeled the sun off your back and covered your body with winters jacket, shielded your head with springs umbrella, exposed your legs to summers heat and raised your hands to falls leaves 

When you embraced this new life 

You gave up Toto’s Atap, Tata’s Acok 

You gave up lighting Asigiri - blowing into that small open door to encourage the embers 

You gave up playing dodgeball with Acen, Babirye, Mbabazi and Amito 

You gave up twisting the Sound-solo knob and listening to Boniface Toterebuka Bamwenda, Sidney Jingo and Toya Kilama bringing the news of the day 

You gave up lighting Atadoba and the deep sighs that heaved in your chest when “karra fired” in the middle of watching “Another Life” 

You gave up the memory of the kid who stole your red and black pencil 

The classmate who took the Bic pen that you’d marked with your name on a torn piece of foolscap paper carefully tucked between the tube and the see-through plastic 

You gave up crushes and boyfriends 

You left 

But you see I’m more than this body confined to one location 

I’m spirit, I’m emotion, I’m memory 

All you see and all you don’t see make up who I am 

What do I leave? What do I take? 

If I must leave everything, it would include you.

Namasagali productions and the impressionable years

Namasagali productions were the talk of the town. Around March, girls in brief red dresses flowered the streets of Kampala, especially near Uganda National Theatre.

I looked forward to this time of year, my brother would be home in the middle of school term – a change up from my mundane routine. He’d come with stories and lots of friends.

 

I attempted to hang out with his friends, they’d pinch my cheeks and tell me how cute I was. I felt prized, like I belonged in this group of boisterous, sexy, carefree grownups.

 

Sitting on the edge of the green worn out theater seats I’d marvel as my brother captivated the audience. He’d spin, leap and swing from one corner of the stage to the other in his leotard. His strong muscular frame moving to the rhythm of a song that rose from under our feet and out through each strand of hair on our heads.

 

A pretty girl also in a leotard would emerge, twirl and jump into his arms. He’d raise her into the air like an empty delicate pot – the magic! The audience clapped and I’d be like “Yeah! That’s my bro!”.

 

At the end of the show I’d walk out expecting to be greeted and patted on the back like I was the star. Like, “Did you see my bro? We live in the same house. Family genes please!”

 

Nobody knew me. The crowds gave accolades to the rightful owners.

 

I grew older. A shy, impressionable twelve-year-old girl.

 

At another production a girl strode on to the stage. Her tall, svelte frame captivated the crowds. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate – the darker the berry the sweeter the juice kind of beauty. Her posture and presence brought the building to a pause. Her confidence carried the auditorium.

 

Her dance moves had the audience in get-set mode. She’d mastered her lines.

 

It was easy to see she was all that – “Oil wells pumping in my living room” kind of sassy.

 

I admired her severely.

 

After the show and enshrouded in the crowds making their way out the theatre corridors, her beautiful face stayed imprinted on the ceiling of my mind.

 

I’m sure many girls wanted to be like her.

 

Something about artists portraying the best self we secretly desire.

 

In the theater’s restroom, I looked into the mirror.

 

A certain reality stared back.

Mowzey Radio and Marvin Gaye: Singers Cut From the Same Cloth

“Marvin Gaye is Shot and Killed; Pop Singer’s Father Faces Charges”: The New York Times April 1, 1984.

“Uganda's Mowzey Radio dies after 'pub brawl'”: BBC Africa February 1, 2018

Two music icons, two news headlines 34 years apart.

When I read the news of Mowzey Radio’s death, my mind was quickened to the death of Marvin Gaye. Marvin Gaye was a black American soul singer and song writer of the 60’s and 70’s. He helped shape the sound of Motown music. He wrote songs like “Let’s Get It On”, “Midnight Love” and the famous “Sexual Healing”.

Marvin Gaye’s death shocked the world. He was shot dead by his father. They had a quarrel, Marvin fought and beat up his 70-year-old father. His father, wounded and humiliated by his son shot him dead a day before Marvin’s 44th birthday. Marvin struggled with substance abuse and depression.

Mowzey Radio’s death continues to shake his family and fans like an endless earthquake. He got into a bar fight when “a man came out of nowhere” lifted him up and threw him to the ground. He sustained a head injury, lost consciousness and within six days he breathed his last. A few short days after his 34th birthday. It is said he struggled with alcohol abuse and a shot temper.

Market Day Excites Serere

Market day (Okisoni) in Serere

Early in the morning, before the birds came out to sing, before one could see beyond their nose -  in the pitch-black dark of night, feet shuffled outside; People talked in the distance and footsteps went pitter-patter on the village paths. A special day dawned. A day to buy and sell - to exchange and trade.

People came from miles around, from neighboring towns and villages. Some walked, some rod bicycles, others came by bus or taxi.

Summer and Short Shorts

Summer is almost here and the clothes are gone.

I first came to this beautiful country in the middle of a heat wave. I never knew a place on earth to be so hot, I saw mirages everywhere.

All shades of skin tones filled the Penn campus and on the narrow West Philly streets. Girls in the shortest shorts and tiniest tank tops. There were bellies and thighs everywhere. “God help the brothers” I thought. But then, I was the only one butting eyelids (I think).

Now, 10 years and a tougher skin later I’m just like “Oh whatever! It’s just another belly button, another thigh.” I’m sure the guys say the same no? Is this what they call assimilation? Adaptation?

I don’t know how young men handle the situation but one thing is for sure, I can’t afford enough kangas or kitenges to wrap around every skin baring lady. I will therefore mind my house.

Race and the Ugandan in America

He is dark, 5ft 7 inches. On most days he’ll wear a hoodie and a pair of jeans. As I watch him walk to the bus I think, there goes my baby – my Japadhola/Mufumbira/ Etesot. A Ugandan boy who holds no grudges for his ethnicity. In the world we live in, he is a “Young black man!” - not the description I would use for my son, but like the police here would say – “he fits the profile.” Can one tell that he is not an angry black man when he walks into a store with a hoodie? In moving to America I exchanged one set of issues for another.

A "passionate" story

I walked into a Giant Supermarket the other day and saw dark purple bulbs that looked like passion fruits. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I looked closer and indeed they were passion fruits.

We celebrated like we had found a gold mine. I scooped the core clean, leaving no seed to waste. The result was just right. We savored every last drop.

“Don’t drink it too fast. Take little sips, then think about something else. Then when you remember it’s there you’ll be very excited and it will be fresh again.” No prizes for guessing who said this. My little girl on the other hand could not believe we could make juice at home.

Spare a thought for us when you next drink this passion at leisure (for those of you, especially my friends in Uganda). 

Did you know its scientific name is “Passiflora edulis”? Well, just in case.

Mrs O Tags Along for Outdoor Education Camp

Fire to keep us warm inside. 

Never dreamed of the day I would be the parent who attends her son's events hoping not to totally embarrass him. But you see, the school organized a 3 day outdoor education camp and parents were invited to volunteer I thought it was a brilliant idea until I told my son.

Africa Branded; from the mouths of babes

It happened yet again. I suspect I'm still looking fresh from Teso land.

Today we visited a church and a little girl asked me "Are you from Africa?"
I was in jeans and sneakers, looking like a "summer" and all so really what could have given me away?
I said yes.
Little girl: "Are you from Nigeria?"
I said "No, I'm from Uganda but you must be from Nigeria" (I took a wild guess).
She nodded her head with pride and said "Yes! And I have lots of friends" 
I loved her confidence. I got more interested.
"What is your name?"
Little girl: "Chineke but my name at baptism is ..."
(Banange!!! oba I also start introducing myself like that?!).
"How old are you?"
Little girl: 8 years old.

I met her mom after the service and she told me I'd only got half the story.
If I'd said I was Nigerian she would have asked "Are you Ibo?"
I recalled my encounter on the train, these Ibo's' have quite the presence.

So here's a question for you: Are you proud of your origin? You need to be. It's a good thing. This little girl showed me.

I think I need to prepare my lines for the next encounter or perhaps get the Uganda t-shirts.

Dog Window-shops with Old Man

Old man and dog

"Bagyenzi bange!!" In Ateso we say "ikatunga!!" It's an expression of surprise.
When I first came to America, I was shocked at how close people were to animals. In some cases it seemed the relationship with other humans had been interchanged for that with animals.

Experts on Their Own Turf

It's complicated this black and white thing. We see it where it's not and its not where we see it.The mind plays us and experience affects the way we view the world and each other.

New Kids on The Block

One look at these guys and I immediately identified them as our good neighbors to the north:- height, skin tone... enough said. I could tell they were fresh as cucumbers.

The Train Ride

It happened again.
I stepped up to the train rails and as I waited a man came up to me and said "hello! Where are you from?" I'm thinking oh no! Not again! He was clearly an African - that comes with a certain familiarity that lowers my guard. I smiled and said "Uganda". I thought that was the end of it.

Coffee and Free Things

Where I come from tea and coffee are served hot. So hot the steam makes waves in the air. Yes, Uganda has 25C/80F degree temperatures but we like our chai hot.

I got a coupon in the mail for free ice coffee at Dunkin Donuts and I thought pssh! Why not? ...Free things.

I got in line for my first ice coffee. I know, four years in America and this was my first ice coffee :-). Like I said, free things - my undoing. 

I took 2 sips, stirred it a little perhaps the sweetness had settled at the bottom. The ice cubes clinked. I took another sip. The cup was getting sweaty and I had to get to work. I imagined running to work with a cup of coffee clenched in one hand - just like in the movies. I thought, let me get to office and tackle this beverage properly.

The day came to an end and the ice coffee - cubes melted - the cup a little fuller, sat forsaken next to my keyboard. I think I need more practice, this African girl still has a lot of village.

So much for free things.

The Beautiful Girls of Karamoja

The beautiful girls of Karamoja.  During planting and harvesting seasons they travel several miles to Teso. Early in the morning they head to the fields, their voices carry as they sing and harvest crops. After they bring the early harvest in they stop for a break, gather together, sing and dance. They range from ages 14 to 17. Ideally they should be in school but they can’t afford it – the daily pay tides them over until the next job.

A Call for International Hair Day

When she was a baby I kept her hair short. The hussle of plaiting a squirmy little girls hair was more than I could handle at the time. The less the maintenance the better. Then we relocated. She grew older and slowly the idea of short hair wasn't appealing anymore. I yielded and started plaiting little toots. Her hair grew. Imagine her shock and surprise when we washed it and it shrunk.

She looked in the mirror.

"Mummy?"

"Yes"

"Why is my hair going in circles?"

I thought, oh oh!

"Well, that is what happens to our hair when we wash it. It shrinks"

She looked puzzled. It was the strangest thing ever. 

You see, my little girl thinks we are a mirror of the people around us.That we all look the same - especially the little people she spends time with. How ever things get a little complicated when the fine toothed comb does not move as easily through her hair as she thinks it should. Reality check! Culture shock!   

Now mummy has to explain things that would not be issues in Kampala. I remember my friend Ama's experience at the barbers and how it led her to write "Sunne's gift".

Like waves erase foot prints on the shore, my little girl soon forgets and assumes her hair is the same as that which she sees.

"Mummy, make it go up like this and like this"

I look at her and my face cracks into a smile. I resist the temptation to say "girl, that is how our hair bes". 

She says "leave it open" and in her little mind, it is now flowing down to her back well, until she looks into the mirror again and it's gloriously standing strait up and singing alleluya.

I tell her it's beautiful. I tell her it's perfect just the way God made it. That she's fearfully and wonderfully made - unique and special in every way.

One day I un-braided my hair and washed it - naturally it shrunk. She would not come near me. Little miss who is generous with hugs was reserved this time. She would not let her head touch mine. We talked about hair again.

And that is why we need International Hair Day, so that humans of the world can rock what God gave them with out fear or favor and in the process understand and celebrate their differences - long, short, straight, kinky, steel wire, kaweke, GQ all of them.
Here is to International Hair Day! oh yes and to African mama's living in "outside countries".