And so it happens that exactly one week after Rose’s Journey, I return to Bamunanika to lay to rest, another step mother. The sadness I have is not for her but for her children—my step siblings—whom I am supposed to meet today. My heart aches...I can imagine their sorrow and grief; I have been in their position many times. It is heartrending to lose a parent. In the car to the funeral, I spend much time thinking about that. Thinking about what Brian, Allen, Julius, and Vincent must be feeling ( I mentioned their Mother in the previous Blog). I know they lost their father, my father, at a time when they were much too young to comprehend the magnitude of that loss. But not now; now they are a little older, and now they are true orphans. My brother Tom, his wife Hilda, and Hajati (my Brother Robert’s wife) are all in the car with me. I have most of this dialog in my head and heart, I say very little to my companions…
We stop at Sure House (central Kampala) to buy a wreath; I think it is an appropriate gesture for a woman who was part of our lives even in a small way. At the flower shop, the gentleman asks me to write on the card before sticking it to the cover of the wreath. He asks me who has died and I say to him, “Our step mother.” He says, as if to correct me, “So it’s your mother...!” I know what he means, there is no classification when it comes to family in Uganda—your father’s wives are all your mothers, and all his children are your brothers and sisters. I know this, so I do not argue with him...
When I have the card, I stop long enough to think of what to write, long enough for the flower-shop-man to say to me; “Write, Farewell Thee Mother…” It is not the words that I am looking for, although that is part of it, it is because for the first time since I was told she was dead, I chock up pretty badly. I hate saying these kinds of goodbyes, I doubt anybody likes them! I finally write, “Farewell Maama, we love you, all your children.” I don’t recall if my own mother had a wreath, so it feels right for this mother to have one. The flower man reads it and says to me in correction...“It is supposed to be farewell thee Mothe…” He is making me impatient, I am impatient when I am grieving...so I say “It is ok” in an effort to cut him off; I hope that I am not being too unkind to a stranger...but I write what I want it to be, I think. I write it on behalf of my siblings who I am meeting later that day, and I write it on behalf of all of us who were under her care for a short while. I remember that she was young and kind and probably a bit lost when she married my father…
We arrive at the funeral shortly after 11AM. There is a crowd and among them, several of my siblings, step uncles, another step mother (Maama R, the only one left of my father’s wives—of the ones he married), villagers I don’t recognize and the like. We take our mat to where Maama R and my sister Florence are seated. We greet everyone in earshot and settle into uncomfortable positions as we wait for the hour of the funeral. It is uncomfortable because I don’t remember the last time I knelt these many times to greet people, and my knees are screaming something I must obey…
In the mean time I make inquiries about the children. Florence points them out to me one by one...that is Brian she says, and that there is Allen…and so on. The children look a lot like most of my father’s children, and this likeness helps the way I feel towards them…mild kinship...I feel guilty that I am not feeling more...Brian is the first to come where we are seated; he greets us and calls me “Baaba” which is a respectable and appropriate way to address an older sister. I am not sure what to do or how to encourage and console him. His sense of loss and grief is palpable…I know he is going through the motions of greeting people. As I watch him, I think, “It is not fair for others to expect a child to greet them at a time like this!” But I know it is expected, and because it is expected, Brian has no choice but to adhere to the perfunctory customs...I watch this child, my brother and my heart breaks...small pieces of it...where is my anchor...?
My Uncle K calls a quick meeting. We all know what it is about, it is about collecting money—contributions towards funeral expenses. I get up grudgingly…I resent this...I resent the fact that I have to contribute money when someone is already dead and not before…but I voice none of this…perfunctory customs! People expect me to have money…you see I live in the United States, and anyone who lives in the United States has money! I have long given up explaining that none of that is true…partly because I know I could talk until I were blue in the face and no one would believe me…actually I still try...and I must examine how blue my face gets...
“We need money,” my uncle announces as soon as we gather around him. Instead of saying “how much” which is what is expected, I say “whatever for” in a nicer tone in Luganda and regret voicing my objections out loud. He is patient with me, this Uncle. I recently bought him a shirt and tie and this pleased him a great deal...there was a reason for the shirt...
He fires of several things we need money for…meat for one, matooke for other, rice et cetera. He then says that he and Fred had already gotten these things on credit…what was now needed is money to pay for them! I think, “This is not practical, why meat? We could have beans, they are less expensive.” I do not like being the only disagreeable person present, so I voice none of my objections…I have learned to choose my battles. One by one we check our pockets. My Uncle is the first to pull out a 20,000/- note, then MM, then CN, then Juda, then Tom, then Fred, Florence’s husband gives us 30,000/-, then Cissy, and finally, me. I know I am expected to give more, but I don’t have what is expected. We each hand in either a 10,000/- or 20,000/- note and by the end of the meeting we have 180,000/-. It is just enough to cover everything on the list which is, quite frankly, a relief…
Just before 4PM, the children are called inside the house to pay their final respects and wash the face of the dead body. I have not seen Maama Muto since 1996, at my father’s funeral and I don’t recognize the face I see when I step inside the house where her body is laid. The body is not treated…I note this. I note this because I am a nurse, one who is ridiculously sensitive to offensive smells. I note it too because it makes the final washing of the face even more nerving. I remember these kinds of smells…I know I am being judged, I stand out, I am the one he family threw out...people point their lips in my direction...I concentrate on the task at hand...
I scan the room to keep my mind occupied…I hate this part of the funeral proceedings. I remember it well. First, it was my mother, then it was my father, then it was my step mother, then it was Isaac…then it was Paul, et cetera, and now this step mother! Faces one never forgets: cold faces, unresponsive ones, and faces of our dear parents or relatives we would rather not encounter! Why do we do this? I wonder. Is this not a horrid way to remember someone? But I ask none of these questions out loud. Instead I do what is expected …
Allen cries none-stop shortly after the washing of her mother’s face. I hear her cry and it pierces my heart deeply, but I am not able to attend to her. I am still waiting in queue for my turn to wash my step mothers’ face for the final time. Allen continues to wail, and Julius follows her example, while Brian walks out as mechanically as he possibly can. Others in the room, including the mother of my step mother are crying quietly. I look at my step grandmother and note with sadness that she too will be dead soon. She will be dead soon because she too is HIV positive and has been poorly for the last few months. I know this from information passed on by his sons (my step uncles) who were among the people I had greeted outside on arrival. My sadness and sorrow deepens with each thought of her, as well as the thoughts of my dead step mother who lies in room, and the four children who are now orphaned…
When it is my turn to wash her face, I am determined not to fall apart. I am given a tiny ball of fresh banana fiber to wash her, and I am shown the technique which I am already familiar with. “Start at the fore head and down to the chin,” the woman who is sitting near the dead body and whom I do not recognize instructs. I do as instructed: I wash the cold, unrecognizable face of my step mother and in a small way honor her and say goodbye…
Outside, the wailing has stopped. I look for Allen and find her lying down with her head in Florence’s lap. I ask her if she needs anything…headache medicine, something to drink, something to eat…to which she says no. I suddenly have an overwhelming need to fix something…to do something, anything…and realize quickly that there are things that cannot be fixed, not today at least, and not by me either. I know that besides telling their story, I can pray for these children…I know that in some small way I can offer them up to the God I believe in, to one who rescued me and keeps bringing me back into these relationships, into this victims circle. I later look for Vincent and Julius and find that they too have stopped crying…for now…
At the grave site, we each throw a handful of soil over the casket and walk away. I follow Fred’s daughter, Proscovia, (Fred is my step brother who was neighbors with Maama Muto; and for Proscovia, this is the grandmother she has known all her life) who is now inconsolable. I cry with her and offer her the only thing I think appropriate, a companion in sorrow and grief. I quietly pray for her and hold her…it feels as though it is not enough…not enough to cover or fill the depth of sadness and loss consuming her heart and small body, but I pray anyway…
I am at home…life is raw…life is short…it is the way back home…
My step mother, the man responsible for announcements had said, was 43 years old; she is survived by four children; she was once married to Silvester Luyombya Kyobe...et cetera.
Her homage is short, much like her life…
Much later, after people have eaten and most have left to return to their homes, my uncle K calls another meeting. Once we are gathered (my brother CN…heir to my father, Cissy, Fred, Robert, Tom, Florence, MM, R, Andrew, Juda and I), Uncle voices what had been on our minds all day long, “What happens to Brian, Julius, Allen and Vincent?” I think, “I knew this was coming, it is the reason we should have bought beans instead of meat...”
Someone interrupts my condemning thoughts by mentioning my name. They suggest that maybe I should take the children to the Orphanage I volunteer for, and another suggests we pay tuition and school fees for them. The meeting goes on like this…one idea after another with no concrete plan…
I keep wondering internally what my responsibility in all this is, how it all now becomes my responsibility! I try not to think of the past, I think instead of the future...
The sense of helplessness from everyone in the meeting is overwhelming. Everyone has a problem big enough to warrant help from other people, no one is able to comfortably take on added responsibilities. I start to feel guilty…I am single and without children of my own. I am unemployed but live in the United States, and attend one of the most prestigious colleges in the world. I am adopted by an Irish family who are well-off by Ugandan standards, and I am an activist for women and children. From the look of things, I am the only one who seems to have no problems, besides the fact that I am not able to take four children to live with me in my apartment in New Haven…
We end the meeting with no concrete plan, but to ‘think’ about the problem…When it is time to leave, I look for my siblings (Brian and team) to say goodbye to them. I know I am breaking another custom…one does not say goodbye after the funeral…one just leaves. Well aware of this, I still look for my siblings. I have, in the past broken customs and replaced them with the Grace of God. In this circle of grace, I am confident of God’s protection over my life and that of others. When I find them, I embrace each one not knowing when I will be seeing them again, not knowing what the future holds for them, and not having a concrete plan for their welfare. In parting, I make one promise, I shall return to see you, I say. Be brave, I say again, and God bless you, I finish. I know that is a promise and a prayer I can keep…
In the car, on the way back to Kampala, all four of us are silent for some time. Conversations are forced and labored…Brian, Julius, Allen and Vincent are on our minds. What will happen to them, I wonder and so does Tom and his wife. We are quickly distracted by Kampala traffic 35 minutes after we leave Bamunanika and just as easily, our thoughts quickly shift to the task at hand…how to avoid sitting in traffic for the next hour or so, and how to avoid being killed by mad taxi drivers! I am saddened by the quick turn of events and how quickly life shifts, how full of distractions, and how quickly we forget…Gayita Kukibi Negaseka, my mother said…
When I get back to my house, DJ is there, having cancelled his trip to the north. He inquires about my day and I his. I give little feedback about mine and I finally say, as if to sum up everything I am feeling, that I am exhausted. This is the answer I give to Helen as well; my host and a VSO volunteer currently staying in the house. It is a true descriptor of how I feel; I have been so busy before and after the walk that exhausted seems like an understatement. I eat a mango and retire to bed...
Once alone, I finally feel the sadness and sorrow of the day, the life history of all my parents weighs heavily on my heart; their short-lived romances; the chronicles of shifted blame—children to parent, parent to parent, and parents to children; their pain and despair as they lay dying…each knowing what they were leaving behind; their shame, guilt, and humiliation as a result of their actions, especially when the consequences became too public an event such as impending death; the stigma of HIV that most people have forgotten...as if it does not exist any longer: their pride and efforts to save face, to hide their fears; inherited patterns of behavior I now witness among some of my siblings, and of lessons not learned; the pain, shame and humiliation we have had to suffer as a result of our parent’s choices; the weight of the expected responsibility we have to each other; and numerous parentless children left behind…a family in shambles, always in turmoil, a victims circle...!
I weep at, and because of these things. I pray quietly even as I ask…when will all this end? At what point will the pleasures of adults cease to be more important than the w
elfare of their children? I receive no answers…I pray still…When I become president--if ever--I predict I will be one of them who cry!!!
We journey together, through and in these places; we journey for and because of people locked in and out of victims circles…and we hope still…our solidarity is noted, a permanent imprint of one hundred and forty four thousand steps…
“Lord, be the goal of my pilgrimage and my rest by the way." -St. Augustine
I went back to Kiwanga many weekends with and without Isabel. I was drawn to more than the plight of these children. As dreadful as most of their stories were and still are, there was something more to their ostensibly limited existence. I was drawn to their laughter, to their song, music and dance; to their boldness in loving the many strangers who turned up at their home, and to their hope and lighthearted attitude towards life amidst and against all odds… 
Many years have passed since Isabel first introduced me to these children and over the years, I have discovered many ways in which their stories intertwine with mine and that of many other Ugandans, as well as hundreds abroad. The passing of time has not changed the things I have mentioned above. I return to Kiwanga, and Rakai with less of a fractured internal person, with a little more confidence in my capacity to give rather than be a recipient of the challenge. Every year I return with severe expectations (self-inflicted) and with a little more courage to ask myself and others--will we give what it takes to make a difference or love these children as much? Will we hug with no reserve? I ask myself these questions and more every time I walk back into the old and new relationships, into the ever embracing open arms of Kawala and Charles, and Joseph and…
