A Great Mind At Work

One morning my little guy lined his bowl with foil and proceeded to add cereal and milk. After a while I could not resist. I asked why the foil? He said it was to reduce on the number of breakfast dishes he had to wash. I smiled all the way to work.

Help me understand Ugandan children raised in America - I have two

I have the bad habit of checking my phone every few seconds; at the dinner table, between mouthfuls, in the living room, during family banter...

I check my phone - anxious to receive an imaginary email, text message or stumble on the news of a life time on social media. My son throws me daggers and I can almost hear the words boiling in his head.

Sometimes I eat while standing in the kitchen and sermon my little girl to her seat when she roams the house with a snack in her hand.

When it's time to head out with the family I sound the alarm "It's time to go - put on your shoes and get to the car". Then I remember I didn't close the curtain or get the book I had planned to carry, so I rush back in.
My little girl insists the humidifier should be plugged in her room because she senses a cold coming on (it's been "coming" for a while now). To reduce the incessant requests I tell her yeah I will do it tomorrow and never get round to it until she pulls it out herself and tells me - "now mummy!"

At times, I'm exhausted, tidying up after little people have run all over the place and dropped stuff makes me weak in the knees, so I ignore the mess. The problem is sometimes, I ignore the mess for far too long - there is so much to do over the weekend; shop, cook, do laundry, attempt to sleep... I create enough space for the plates to fit on the table never mind the homework and art crafts that have piled all week long.  Then I'm hit with a sudden fever when friends hint on a desire to visit.

Kids develop a familiarity with their parents over here. We are a community of four mingling in each others space. We get a break with school and work, and the Ugandan fellowship once a month but our safe place - the place where we are most ourselves is in the community of four (Mom, Dad, and 2 kids).  I get upset in front of the kids. I make mistakes. They hear about my struggles. After a while mom is just another human being - she is not magical. When I approach my son with instructions I'm always shocked when he responds with peer attitude. Where is the respect? I wonder. How dare he respond to me that way? Then it hits me; we are in each others space all the time. He sees my excellent points and my weaknesses, he knows my passions and what upsets me.

What happened to the days when we worshiped the ground on which our parents walked? I remember the fear that gripped me the moment my dad returned home. "Welcome back Daddy!" We run to pick his briefcase, get him a glass of water and so on. Mom was approachable but  we never took her for granted. Here, you know where the kitchen is, yeah we've all had a hard day so get with the program. "Why should I be the one to get you water?" "But so and so is right there, why don't you ask them to do it". So I go and get the water myself.
Perhaps because we spent more time with uncles, aunts, helpers, neighbors and everybody else - the parent was honored. Perhaps there was more respect because we didn't spend each waking moment together and thus were not exposed to their quirks. Play time was reserved for age mates. 

When my little girl calls me her best friend and insists that we color together - I love it! But I suspect that as she grows older she may arrive at my 10 year old son's base where he is upset that I didn't consult him about weekend plans. "What?! You invited visitors? Why didn't you tell me? Next time I will also invite my friends over without letting you know". I look at him and wonder when the need to consult crept onto the scene. On the inside I wonder"who is this boy?" There is a constant battle of cultures: the one I was raised in and try to impart and the one he lives in. I was raised to respect and honor, he believes every opportunity is presented so he can assert himself. God please help me understand children raised in America - I have two in this house and they leave this Ugandan mama speechless".

Hallucinations In The Sun

The beginnings of craziness:

The swelter of a summer’s day stirs a sudden desire to perform regrettable acts, to disregard values that have governed life. As I strain to make my way home after a day at work the sun beats down with relentless pressure. I force one foot in front of the other and resist the urge to remain motionless - to shrivel up under its burning gaze. Concerns and frustrations coupled with the need to fit into a different culture, to be accepted and understood boil within. 

I straighten a paper clip and fix it in the Nissan parked in the car lot. I want to get in and drive away. The alarm goes off but I don’t care. I don’t care for the consequences, my instincts are not motivated by the need for a car. I just want a little attention. Sweat oozes from my pores. The reflection from the sun irks me. I want to scream. Now I understand why Camus’ Stranger pulled the trigger. The rays unravel crude instincts buried under frustrations and nagged by egotistic living and self-promotion. The sun messes with my senses, it melts my social conformity's, toasts my dignity and allover a sudden, nothing matters anymore. I turn the corner and see a man, the only other human being for miles. He is tall and fit, dressed in a light lavender shirt and black pants. I walk up to him and suggest something. A disconnection between what I believe and what I feel. I don’t care for his race. I don’t care that he doesn't know me. He says yes and we go our separate ways, forget it ever happened, we are strangers. The tension is released until another scotching sun roasts all my concerns in its flame.I won't see him again, he will move to a different city, use a different route and probably forget we ever met.

It has been 3 years since I saw familiar strangers on the street. We looked alike and spoke the same language even though our dialects were different. We crossed paths daily. On occasion we exchanged smiles. We were comfortable in the little city of Kampala. We shook our heads at the government’s lack of credibility and laughed at the same comedians on the taxi radio. Here, genuine smiles are few. We are permanently hypnotized by our gadgets; we download the latest apps, respond to office mail after midnight, advocate for animal rights, human rights, gun rights and the right to be wrong.

Cars whiz by, I come to a traffic light; red, yellow, green - it's my turn to walk across. The sun continues to play on my senses. I snap back into the present, my feet firmly on the ground - I keep walking.

Dentists and Poverty

Every time I walk into a dentists office, I'm reminded why I should have listened to mom. She told me sweets were not good for my teeth but it didn't register - Big G, toffees and tropical mint were essential to life. I insisted and look where it got me - constant sessions on that dreaded chair opening my mouth wide, sweating profusely as huge needles pierce my gums. I have cut a few inches off my waist and strengthened my stomach muscles in that chair.
The doctor drills, fills, cements and crowns and all the while thoughts of building sites and house construction flash across mind. My stomach feels like one big pool of cold porridge at the sound of those machines. I imagine the doctor might drill through my skull, or pierce through my lower jaw. When silent machines are invented perhaps I will be a happier patient. If  teeth were on our elbows perhaps it would not feel so life threatening, one could then choose to look away while the doctor poked and pulled. But because the teeth are attached to the head with special organs such as the ears and brain close by, the trauma is doubled. See,  my visits are not the 6 month routine checkups - they have increased to every 3 weeks or so (depending on my finances) it's a filling, a root canal, a crown or something similar.

In America once you have teeth trouble that is the beginning of bankruptcy. Dentists rub their hands in glee each time you walk through their doors. They scheme on how to squeeze every last penny out of you. They have always been on my "not so liked" list but the ones in America have quickly graduated to avoid at all costs. I'm inspired to floss and brush with extra gusto or else they will be the death of me. Each tiny problem is doubled in size and depth, cosmetic procedures are presented as essential.
I knew it was time to look up my dental insurance cover when one of my teeth started giving me trouble. In this country no doctor will touch you with a ten foot pole without insurance.
In Uganda by the third visit the dentist knew enough to go beyond the pleasantries and ask about the family and work. Here even after the 4th visit the doctor is still asking which country you come from and if you have family - the same questions he asked the first time you walked into his clinic. With his instruments in your mouth, the best you can do is roll your eyes.
I chose the closest dentist under my insurance cover. The first order of business was choosing what treatment he would provide - the cheap vs expensive . He let his assistant do all the negotiations while he listened in the background. Once the decision was made he put on a big smile and introduced himself with a handshake.  Every visit after that was like placing a down payment on a car which I would never drive. Sam had to intervene as the quotes were getting out of hand. Sometimes I didn't quite understand what I was paying for. We approached the accountant to ask about the overall bill which she printed. Sam began to ask line by line what the different charges were for and by the end of the visit it turned out I had paid $1,200 more than was necessary. By coincidence, on the day I decided to end the unhealthy relationship the dentist asked me to write him a review. I said I would and before I knew it and while still in the dentist chair he presented me with his own ipad - I was pressured to write the recommendation under his breath. That was the end. Lets just say I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley - his stern facial expressions and clear thirst for money still give me the chills. Money hungry doesn't even begin to describe him. I guess they are instructed to put up photos of their kids so that patients feel comfortable with them but I'm beginning to suspect, those kids were on loan.
I found a more pleasant dentist who explains the procedures before hand and gives you an estimate before he starts any kind of treatment.
Oh why did I not listen to mummy?!

African DNA!

I suspect Africans possess particular hereditary material. Some of the Africans I have met here highlight the very issues we are constantly battling in Uganda. To think that these people don't know each other and yet act the same way leads me to this interesting conclusion that there is African DNA. Certain streaks die hard!

I made an appointment with a Senegalese hair dresser and called her the day before to confirm. Because I had to juggle my schedule between taking kids to daycare, dropping my husband at the metro station and getting to my dental appointment, I rushed the little people's breakfast. So glad I was on schedule after the dental appointment, I drove at a good speed to the hair dressers 17 miles away (you could compare that to a trip from Kampala central to Namagunga). She let me in as soon as I arrived and proceeded to tell me how she burned her finger two days ago and therefore couldn't braid my hair. I don't know why she didn't provide this information earlier. I was speechless! I got into the car and started the journey back, this after she promised to call me later in the day to confirm another appointment. All my plans were thrown into disarray.
I decided to visit the shopping mall near home just in case I had some luck. I saw a "Best African Braids" sign on one of the stores but there was no one in sight. I stood there a while before a man (Ivorian) walked in from one of the rooms. He said they were open and would be happy to braid my hair but the girls were not yet in. He said they didn't live too far away and immediately made a phone call.
"Yeah! I got her, she will be here any time" He was looking over my shoulder as though she was just round the corner and would make an appearance any moment. Those actions were familiar but I thought "Nah! We be in America. Here people no do that". He took my number and told me to stay close by, my phone would ring any time. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and lingered around. An hour later, still no phone call. As I walked towards him he said "yeah, she has arrived, just in the parking lot". She must have had trouble parking the car because fifteen minutes later she still hadn't arrived.
The day was slipping through my fingers. The stylist (from Togo) finally appeared, we sat down and the first thing she told me was "I need to let you know that I'm pregnant!". Well, nice to meet you too. She said some people are superstitious about pregnant ladies plaiting hair which I thought was funny but I also thought - welcome to Africa! Confirmed DNA.