Lauren – For Taata Lauren

Lauren,
Your Dad loves you without end.
I found that touching,
The same way Manjeri did.
Lauren dear Lauren
May you desire God’s word
And be caring and robust
Just like a laurel tree

Mom’ll understand you
She’ll teach you how to cook
And will give you the first tips on boys.
But your Dad will set the norm for him -
The man you will tie the knot with.

I know dear Lauren
That you’ll read Manjeri and you’ll enjoy it very much.
I know Lauren dear Lauren
You’ll love Babyliss.

Lauren,
Your Dad loves you without end,
You have brought him such joy.
For you are his first,
Lauren dear Lauren.
Sometimes Mom will scold you,
But she loves you dearly,
You’re her pride and joy.
And when you’ve grown,
You will know Mom was right
And you will be a fine ma’am just like her.
Her codes will sound in your mind,
Each time you have a snag.

Your Dad will fuss over you and really spoil you,
He’ll provide you with all you will need.
He’s the closest living,
Live print of Christ
That you will know.
Make good use of that.

© Samantha Khainza

The Last of J

Dear M,

You’ve been asking me about my break up with J last year. It has not been easy to write to you about it because of the sadness of it all. But just so you know, this is the story:

I met J in December 2007. He was 36 years old and with no stable job. He did a few odd jobs here and there like painting buildings, mobile phone repairs and creating sign posts. I once watched him painting some graphic art on a building and it was beautiful. He spoke several languages fluently and was intelligent. However, he only had an ‘O’ level certificate and he did not want to work for anyone. He preferred to be self-employed.

J lived with his siblings in the city centre.

On our first date, he told me a story of his life. If you meet him, he has the look of a man who has been through tough times. There is a look of maturity in his eyes that suggests a difficult experience.

He told me about the loss of his beloved grandma and his cousin who had been like a brother to him. He told me of how his father never cared for him and how he felt unwanted wherever he stayed. He told me of a woman he lived with for 7 years but who he had to leave because of her constant nagging and possessiveness. He told me of how he lost everything he had ever worked for to this woman he once loved but who proved impossible to continue living with. A woman who never wanted to have his baby. I liked the fact that J was completely honest about his situation from the beginning so I went out with him for 5 months. However, during that time, I noticed how hard it was for me to understand him. I seemed to annoy him very easily. I did not like the way he insisted on dwelling on topics where we did not see eye to eye because they ended up in arguments that seemed like quarrels to me.

I was not happy because I had to foot the bills every time we met and pay for our transport wherever we went. He would claim to have no money. Even a hundred shillings. He would often ask me for a hundred shillings to buy a cigarette to keep him warm as he preferred walking back home at the end of our dates. J kept asking for money to do all sorts of things. I once gave him shs 70,000 to add on to his money and start a business but he asked for another shs 200,000 which I did not have. Another time he made me pay shs 25,000 for his medical bill. That was when I decided enough was enough. I could not spend any more money on him.

He started pleading with me not to leave him and telling me how he could not live without me. I thought to myself "why do I keep meeting such men? Is this what I will have to settle for? What will happen if his situation never changes?”

True, I needed someone to share my life with. I needed a man who could help me repair my electrical equipment or help me lift heavy objects in the house. I needed a man with a good head on his shoulders and a business acumen that could give Wavamuno a run for his money. At first I hoped J had that but when he began asking for money and getting so angry when I couldn’t give him any, I thought differently.

Dear Juhan

I’ve got to look beyond this state of affairs. Poverty. Bad habits. Shattered dreams. Broken promises. No bachelor’s degrees. Past hurts. Unhappy homes.

I’ve got to look beyond this situation to a future that is bright. You and me working interdependently. Like the sun and moon. Like rainfall and sunshine. Like day and night. Sharing our lives, dreams and possessions.

A few months ago, life seemed hopeless. Sugar tasted sour. Love songs got on my nerves.

Now that I have you, the world seems a better place. You are a blessing to me. I now know that your love is for real and that you are not just playing games.

Sometimes I say such dumb things but you love me still. Sometimes I do not look my best but your love remains the same.

Thank you for being patient with me.

I love you dear Juhan.

My Love for Desert Food Begins

I’ve been sick for the last two weeks.

I had no appetite until Monday when J took me to an Ethiopian eating place near a city slum where he resides.

The waiter came with the food on one large plate.

It was lined with a spongy flatbread which J said was fermented rice since in Uganda it is not easy to find the fermented tef called injera. Injera is a spongy traditional flatbread made with fermented tef - a tiny grain native to Ethiopia.

On top of the flatbread was spicy beef, cabbage, avocado, French peas and irish potatoes.

I watched him tear off a bit and use it to pick up a portion of the spicy food with his right hand and followed suit. He sometimes fed me oblivious of the Ethiopians’ eyes nearby as they enjoyed their meal. They could have been his distant cousins. Ethiopian blood runs through his veins thanks to his paternal grandmother.

I felt like a Gentile trying a Jewish dish for the first time.

To this day, I am addicted to way the bread soaked up the flavours from the spicy food resting on top.

Delicious!

No Laughing Matter

The reception area at the clinic was intimidating. It was 7:30 p.m and there were few patients waiting to be attended to. J and I walked to the receptionist. We greeted her and she responded without looking up.

“We would like to have a test. Is that possible?” J asked her.
“What kind of test?”
“…HIV,” J said.
“It is shs 15,000.”
“Per person?”
“Yes.”
“What are the procedures?”
“You will each fill out a form, take it to the cashier and make your payment. After that you will go the lab upstairs.”

My stomach lurched as she gave us the forms. We both had been dreading this day and J had kept lamenting on Valentine’s Day which is his birthday, of how it might be his last time to meet me in case the news was bad on this day. I tried to reassure him that all will be well.

J looked at his form and hesitated to fill it. I filled out mine first and then he filled his. I noticed that he misspellt both his names. He was later to explain that he did not want to leave both his real names in the clinic records in case the results came out positive.

Outside the lab, we found other couples waiting to be attended to. They were chatting and seemed relaxed compared to us. J and I sat in silence for what seemed like hours.

When it was finally our turn, we both entered the lab. We showed the lab technician our forms.
“Sit here and she can sit there,” he said without a smile.

The environment made me feel sick just like hospitals always do.

After he had finished with J, he made a joke.
“Should we put your blood together?”
“What do you mean?” J asked.
“And what is that?” I asked pointing to the container he had put aside. I did not realise it had a needle. The whole process had been so fast.
“That is his. Now we are still negotiating on whether to put yours with his.”
“How can that be?” I asked.

J gave the lab technician his mean look and he shut his mouth and attended to me. I held J’s hand close by as I watched him tying my arm and looking for my vein before inserting the needle.

After he had finished, he asked us to wait for the results at the reception area for an hour.
“Sam, let’s take a walk. I can’t wait for the results with all the tension here. I need to smoke and relax my mind,” J said.

He stopped to buy a cigarette and we took a walk to an Indian restaurant in Old Kampala. There was a match between Manchester United and Arsenal. J was happy because his team, Manchester United had beaten Arsenal. Some Indians were playing pool while others were taking some drinks.

A good looking and drank Indian man seated on the table across ours shouted a greeting at J who waved back and smiled. I had never seen an Indian man who was drank before. It seemed weird.

Another young Indian with ‘back bush’ was seated behind us, taking some Bell Lager. J said that the Indian must be fresh from a village in India considering his outdated hair style. I laughed at this. I took a Fanta while J took Krest mixed with cold water.

We were both scared about the impending results at the clinic. We had both informed our friends about our coming for HIV tests. We laughed at ourselves and joked about the tension we felt at the clinic and the way he misspellt both his names.

The Indian man walked to our table and shook J’s hands.
“Hallo, sir!”
“Hallo!” J responded.

As he brought out his hand to shake mine, J said “No, that is my lady.”
“I only want to shake her hand,” the Indian said.
“Ok.”
As he shook my hand, I noticed a wedding ring on his finger.

We chatted about Indians and about J’s past experiences. When it was time to go, we paid for our drinks and walked to the clinic.

Fortunately, both our results were negative.

The Potential LC 1

The noise at the kibanda was becoming unbearable so I requested J to take me to a quieter place so we could continue with our talk. He stood, ground out his cigarette with his shoe and led me out. I thought to myself 'never a rose without the prick. I love him, anyway.'

I kept following him as he took me to the streets in one of the city slums.

The dark and lonely corners of the street had a hint of danger threatening to come any time.

My heart was in my mouth.

I received curious looks from men rushing to watch football at various bibandas. J kept stopping to greet some of them. One of them introduced himself to me as J took a light for his cigarette from his. The way J seemed to be popular in this area; he could easily be the LC 1.

We entered a less noisy kibanda. People were watching the Africa Cup of Nations losers match between Ghana and Ivory Coast. J talked to someone, showed me a seat but I did not see him moving out.

Five minutes later, I realised he had moved out. I panicked.

“What if he forgets to come back and I’m stuck here? How will I leave this place? It is 9 p.m. I should be on my way home.”

I thought of that man who yelled at me the previous night and threatened to shoot me because I did not respond to his greeting. What if I found him lying in wait for me?

I sent J a text message to find out where he was but the message was not going. I tried calling him but his phone was off.

By the time he returned ten minutes later, I was furious and ready to leave.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Now, where were we?...”he said as he settled down beside me.
“J…it is late. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you but your phone was off.”
“But Sam, I’ve been out for only 5 minutes…”
“Make it 10, J! You could have told me you were going out. One minute you were talking to a friend and the next you were gone. All along I thought you were still here talking to your friend.”
“I’m sorry, Sam. The guy wanted his earphone and so I had to run home and pick it. If I hadn’t, he would have created a scene here since he is drank.”

When I insisted that I needed to leave, he was disappointed but he got up and led me out.

He took a shortcut through the dark and lonely streets.

“Don’t get scared. This is my home. No one can touch you. They all know me here.”
“I really need to be home soon.”
“I’m sorry Sam for leaving you like that. You see I have been living alone for the last 8 years and I’ve not been used to letting people know where I am I’m going. But I will learn.”

As we kept arguing about whether or not it was late, I hesitated to go on because I felt the place ahead was dangerous.

He held me so as to reassure me that I would be safe. In the process, our eyes met. The five seconds gaze felt like hours. The desire that flared through me was so strong that when his lips found mine, I struggled with myself to pull away.

When I set myself free from his grip two seconds later, I felt lightheaded. I could not hear what he was saying and I do not remember what I said.

“Sam, I thought you would stay longer so that we could continue with our talk. I’m doing this because you want to go now and I still want us to talk.”
“If I don’t go now, I would be forced to stay…and I can’t.”

He held me in his arms again but I pulled away quickly when I heard some noise. It was children opening a gate close by.

We walked to the park and when I was about to board my taxi, he stopped me and took my hand. He tried to start a conversation but when I saw the desire in his eyes, I knew I had to leave then before I missed the last taxi home.

I ran away and left him calling after me.

The Tea Flask that Never Was & Other Stories

My mom, sister (Noelle) and I enter a restaurant in Mbale town.

The Menu reads:

Tea Flask 1000
Tea Flask medium 500

Before we go any further we all burst into laughter.

The waitress comes to attend to us.

Mom: May I have a cup of tea with milk, please?

Noelle: Tea

Me: Soda

The waitress goes away and swiftly comes back holding a cup of tea for Mom. There is no flask and no tray either. She places it before her with such force that some of it spills over.

Mom: I don’t take sugar. Have you put any sugar in my tea?

Waitress: I am not sure. You taste and see.

Noelle: And if she finds there is sugar, will you bring another cup of tea for her?

Waitress has no answer.

She goes and brings my sis her cup of tea.

Noelle (tastes it): Mine has no sugar.

Mom: Mine has a lot of sugar.

The waitress grabs a sugar bowl from a neighboring table and gives it to my sis. My sis looks at the wet spoon that has been put in the sugar bowl by a previous customer with dissatisfaction.

The waitress seats at a nearby table waiting for my sis to finish putting sugar in her tea so she can take the sugar bowl away.

After she has taken the sugar bowl away, she asks me for what soda I want. Mom and Noelle ask for pilau, matooke and beef. I ask for Krest and chaps.

Waitress: You mean chaps chicken?

Me: Well, whatever you have.

Waitress brings pilau and matooke that has been boiled without banana leaves and very oily soup. She goes back and returns with a very huge fatty piece of chicken deep fried in wheat flour.

Good enough we spent the night in town. The next morning we traveled to the village, packed like sardine. We were going for a family meeting and I was angry because I had just received a text message from the secretary that read:

Please be early for the meeting and prepare cash for the CAO official.

The meeting that was supposed to start at 10 a.m ended up starting at 2 p.m because some of my relatives had not yet arrived and yet the CAO official had to attend the January 26th NRM celebrations.

Anyway, at least we got to tour the land that my late Papa owned. I think it is about 5 hectares in all.

The meeting went well except it was mostly in Lugisu which I struggled to understand. Mom says she could understand every word though she cannot speak it.

My cousin gave us a lift to Kampala immediately after the meeting. We arrived at about 11 p.m. Mom had to spend the night at my house for the first time. Usually she spends it at Noelle’s if she has to sleep in Kampala but her place is too far these days. She and her husband built a house in a village called Nabweru.