#longingforthemdays

My three-year old niece is reading a book called 'Not Now Bernard'
In that book, Bernard’s Mum and Dad never have time for him. Whenever Bernard asks a question, or seems like he is about to ask a question, his parents say, “Not now Bernard.” His mother is cleaning, cooking and washing dishes. His father is lounging in front of the TV. Eventually, Bernard walks out into the back garden and the Monster, who is waiting there, gobbles him up. Then the Monster walks into the house, and the minute Bernard’s father hears footsteps come into the living room, he shouts, “Not now Bernard!”, without even turning his head to see who's there.

That story got me thinking. First and foremost, this is not like the story books we write in Africa. The book tells the story of a society where parents no longer have time for their children and the important things in their lives. These parents never have time for their only child- they are too busy doing the things they felt matter to them. Washing dishes and watching TV.

Today we have all sorts of digital equipment- phones, iPads, iPods, computers- and the Internet. Jokes have been told, cartoons have been drawn about how children are 'manufactured' today. Mum on computer, Dad on phone. Both gadgets are connected to a printer from where the baby comes. No conversations at the dinner table. Kids feel it is their inherent right to own these gadgets, even if they don’t have the money to maintain them. And because the parents do not have time for them, then the whole fabric of the family unit is lost. And it has crept into Africa, making us lose that tight bond that we have always had. The proverbial bond that made us sit around the fire telling stories, and singing folk songs like "Nsangi, Nsangi mwana wange." Oh!

That is the reason I long for so many things, even the ones I see in the videos, because the world has changed so much.

I long for the days when our mothers told us stories about Waguleddene and Wakayima and Wanjovu.

I long for the days when the air was clean, when no buveeras clogged the drains and when there was so much space to play and having a compound in your home meant having a HUGE COMPOUND.

I long for the days when my parents took us out for dinner, when every Sunday afternoon meant we would jump into Daddy's Mini Minor and drive miles, out into the countryside, to the hills where the air was so clean and fresh, and he carried us high up on his shoulders and the strong winds threatened to blow us off.

I long for the days when the Kabaka ruled and women wore busuutis, and men wore kanzus. When women knelt down in humility to greet, when nobody worried about mini skirts, and trousers that hung around the knees.

I long for the days when weddings were cheap and fun. When you didn't have to be forced to contribute to someone’s union, when there were no endless messages about boring meetings. When getting married meant choosing a partner for life, when you could entertain your guests with popcorn and cups of tea, and didn't have to break the bank to give them things they would never appreciate anyway.

I long for the days when the cars in town were few and people didn't have to sit for hours in traffic jams looking worried about reaching work late, and about bosses who would send them packing. When the fuel was cheap, and when having a car didn't mean having the latest model, but as long as it could get you to your destination was all that mattered.

I long for the days when you could wear your hair natural and look so amazing, and not have to look for money to braid it, and not have to worry about spending hours and hours chemicalizing, moisturizing and not have anyone criticizing because you were all the same.

I long for the days when food was food, and not genetically modified organisms; when you ate chicken and tasted chicken, when ice-cream and chocolate did not make women worry that they would grow fat, and when soda was drunk only on Christmas and New Year's Day.

I long for the days when Christmas meant new clothes and shoes, when the day started with a grand church service and hymns of old were sung; when you skipped back home and Mummy let you wear your new clothes for the rest of the day; when steamed matooke never smelt so good, and when you are till your stomach felt like a tight drum.

I long for the days when music was music, when Abba and Boney M ruled the airwaves and we sang along to everything as we jumped and danced on the dining table holding a wooden cooking spoon for a microphone; when we had exercise books filled with lyrics of all Michael Jackson's and Lionel Richie's songs, when going to the club meant being on your feet the whole night.

But I can only long for those days. Those days were so good.

#whack!whack!!

The punishments we got in school bannange. There was this teacher—— I don't know where she learnt that pinching the inner thigh caused so much pain. She inflicted this punishment even for the simplest of “crimes”. A wrong spelling, over-asking to go to the toilet, coming into class late after break-time. For boys, she would pull up one leg of their wide khaki shorts, and for the girls, the checked green-and white dress allowed easy access. Then she would take that meaty part inside the upper thigh between her fingers, and give it a tight, hard, tug, kind of like wanting to wrench it off the bone. It lasted only a few seconds but the ‘inflictee’s' howls and tears assured her that the punishment had been effective. Even the toughest of little boys cried.

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Abing Abong was my Std Six teacher. He had a faun-like look, just that his ears were not as pointy, and he didn't hold a lyre. Scraggly beard, thin lips. That man could punish. Thank God he never touched me, but I remember that we wrote our lessons in fear because his mood was like the weather. Sometimes he came late, and because he had the class key, we waited outside even after the bell rang and all the other classes started.
Abing Abong parked his car in a shade near the classroom and we would see him drive into the school as we stood in the corridor outside the classroom. He didn't say “Good morning” to anybody as he walked past us. Just jangled the bunch of keys and opened the door.
On some mornings, “Who wasss sssuppossssed to clean this classsss??” he hissed, through the slit in his lips. No answer. We all looked away, pretending to busy ourselves with our school-bags. He repeated the question. Still no answer. Then he pounced. “You! Come here!!” All heads whipped in the direction of our unfortunate peer.
Abing Abong had a whip in form of a pipe, a broken hose-pipe. The unfortunate victim walked to the front of the class with tears in his eyes to where Abing Abong stood, caressing the pipe in his hands, a half-smile playing on his faun-like features.
“Bend and touch!” That meant “bend, and touch your toes”. And if the victim was wearing a sweater, Abing Abong pulled it away using the end of the pipe. So that the only thing between the pipe and your skin was the thin cotton of your uniform dress or shirt. For maximum effect. The pipe landed on the upper back, near the shoulder. Woe betide you if you put your bu-fingers there to touch, he would give them swift little taps, equally painful.
None of us laughed, even when the victim made all sorts of faces and begged all sorts of ‘begs’, apologizing for a crime he did not commit, howling in pain, and shaking with fear. Five whacks were enough to keep you in tears for the rest of the day.
And MORE woe betide you if you sniffled your way through his lessons.

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Then there was the Std Five teacher everyone talked about. She loved the wooden ruler. By the way, I wonder why the makers of those rulers put a blade on one side. Madam Teacher usually meted her punishments during Maths lessons, or when she received the list of noise-makers.
She read out the names the class-monitor had put on the piece of exercise book paper, and the owners of those names knew the drill. Ukaenda to the front of the class. They waited in the line for their turn, their bu-knees shaking. “Make a fist and give me your knuckles!!”
The Maths’ sin had its number of strikes, and the noise-making sin had its own. Sometimes  the number, and heaviness of the strikes depended on her mood. And she gave nyongeza if you pulled your hand away and she missed.
And when that punishment was over and the sinners were furiously rubbing the pain away, she announced, “Empty tins make the most noise!”
And the lesson continued.

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My class Four teacher was not much of a beater. Hers were mind-games. And she was like an elephant, she never forgot. She would “store you” till the end of the day. Then when it came to home-time, or if there was a game in the field, you stayed in and wrote “I will not talk in class”, “I will not reach school late” 100 times, 200 times on a paper. And which, when you handed to her, she tore into 1,000 small pieces, and threw in the waste paper basket.
As you looked on.

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Before I joined Standard One, my older sister told me that the Headmaster used to give 'hot sticks'. Ati he had a jiiko in his office, and that it was always lit. Yaani, it was always on fire. So woe betide you if your crime was too big for the class teacher to handle and could only be dealt with by the Headie. Mbu he would put the cane on the jiiko, and when it got really hot, then he would give you six of the best, as you lay on the floor of his office, writhing and yelping away for help. Anyway, I soon found out that this was a figment of her very imaginative mind, and that the Headie was as kind as a puppy.

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Sometimes the teachers pinched your ears and left them feeling really hot, and you imagining that they had turned red. Or they went for your cheek(s), and you would imagine she had left an imprint of her fingers. That feeling lasted for hours. Sometimes you picked leaves for the whole of the morning till break-time at 10am. And the headmistress- Mrs Kamau- we called her "Kamale"- was an expert at caning. Boy or girl, it didn't matter, you all lay down and allowed her to administer the kibokos.

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In secondary school, which I did in Uganda, there were punishments for all sorts of things- even matters that we scoffed at, like - going with the key, staring (idle-gazing), or wearing high-heels that made you walk like a lame horse. They sounded like very silly charges, but they had been carefully thought out, to stop you being silly, irresponsible and careless later in life.
And so we knelt on the Meditation Green, we walked in bare feet, and we screamed and kicked as we received 15 canes for declining in class.
One time, the ones who “Despised Diet” or who were “Absent Food” had to wear manilla boards over their clothes- to class and in prep- with “I will not miss meals” scribbled on the paper.
There were others- several strokes of the hippo hide for drinking alcohol, and a scrub, and several pails of cold water for the girls who partook of the forbidden drink.

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There was a cabinet minister’s son who went berserk on a Judge (yes, we had a whole judicial system in school) who had sentenced him to receive some canes for one or other crime. He broke a wooden chair over the Judge’s head when the Senior Four examinations were over. Then he left the school, confident that he would never to return.
Of course the Headmaster was not amused, and so was the Cabinet Minister when he heard what his son had done. Two weeks later, as we were in class, about 11am, the emergency siren sounded. That meant “drop everything and run to the administration block”. From there, we were ordered to hurry down to the main hall, about seven minutes away.
The headmaster’s car was parked in its usual spot. He was already standing on the stage. He announced that the Cabinet Minister’s son had committed a grave offense- attacking a fellow student and grievously harming him- and for that, he would be punished. Publicly.
The Cabinet Minister’s son was led on to the stage, kind of like a sheep to the slaughter, by one of his father’s uniformed bodyguards.
Then very dramatically, with a wave of his fingers and a folding of the arms, the Headmaster declared that the penalty would be 25 sticks of the cane. To be delivered, not by him, but by the bodyguard.
“Lala chini!!” The Cabinet Minister’s son stretched himself out on the floor. We craned our necks. Whack! Whack! Whack! Somewhere in the middle of the whacks, Cabinet Minister’s child started whimpering and leaped up in pain, clutching at his buttocks.
“Rudi chini!!” the guard ordered.
He 'rudid' chini for another bout of torture. Again he jumped up, this time in tears. He clutched at his bottom, it must have been red-hot and numb at the same time. He walked in circles, but the canes were not done. And the Headmaster was counting faithfully.
Again the bodyguard ‘towad order’. By the time the boy’s ordeal was done, he never ever wanted to look at another wooden chair again.
And—— to add salt to the wound—— he had a girlfriend in the "audience".

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Of course there were more severe punishments in the form of suspensions, some indefinite, and expulsions. A Senior Four girl stole some money, and strenuously denied that she took it. She cried and told pity stories, and even rolled on the ground.
“Those people accusing me, they just hate me, oh God, I don’t know what I ever did to them. I know I am from a poor family, my mother doesn’t have money but I CANNOT STEAL! I am not a thief!!”
I was the chief investigator in the case. Someone said they had seen her, with their “own two eyes”, take the money from under her roommate’s pillow.
The case went on for three days, and the girl did not go to class all this time. She knelt on the Meditation Green, not even the law of Harbeus Corpus could save her.
I talked to her, pleaded with her, and promised that if she told me the truth, I would ask for a lesser sentence. And still she said she didn't take the money.
So, on the afternoon of the third day, armed with my search warrant, I decided to do a thorough final sweep, just so she could be freed from the embarrassment of having to be led to the Green for a fourth day. Everyone was asking what felony she had committed, they were that concerned.
That thorough sweep led me to the store, to her tin trunk where the 'edibles' for the term were stored.
She’d given me her keys at the start of the investigation, and so I opened the trunk. Save for half a bar of washing soap, there was nothing there. The bottom was lined with new newspapers. I put the padlock back, but as I walked away, my gut instinct told me to check under those newspapers.
And there, in the corner, was something folded in an exercise book page. It could only be one thing.
Sure enough. It was the money. She had not touched even a shilling. I expected her to say that I had planted the “evidence” but she didn’t. She was suspended for two weeks and off she went, quietly. She never returned.

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One Sunday morning at the weekly conference, the Headmaster shamed a girl in my class. As all of us listened, he asked her to stand.
“This girl will have AIDS by the time she’s…”.
Her case was that she was “…disturbing her Auntie during the holidays and running off with boys…” and a lot more. And so he decided that the public shaming was good enough punishment to make her cower, and change.
She disappeared from school in the night and there was a frantic search for her the next morning when her roommates discovered her  unmade bed was empty. The poor “abasadha b’e misaayi” (bloody men) askaris were summoned, and interrogated 'a’kana, n’akataano' about how they could let a student out of the gate but they couldn't explain how.

#badapples

Twenty-two years ago I gave birth to my son. 3.9 kgs (P.S. for those of you who asked where he is today, from my last post- he is a law student now). I went to Mulago hospital. Old Mulago section. I was a young woman with no money and there were free services- tetanus shot, height, weight, pressure measurements- but they came with a cost.
The day came for the great arrival and I carried my ka-bag and walked all the way. There were plenty of women in the ward that day- about 16. And then me. With two stressed, over-worked midwives on duty. At one point the births became back-to-back. One woman’s child popped out and she fell to the floor on her knees with the baby’s head stuck between her legs. Before I fled from the ward, the midwife was yelling, “Oli musiru! Oyagala kutta mwana wo? Lwaki bwowulidde nga omwana ajja tosituse??!! (Foolish woman! do you want to kill your child? Why didn't you get up when you felt the baby coming??!!) And the woman was crawling around in circles moaning, “Musawo jangu onyambe! Musawo jangu onyambe!” (Nurse, please help me, Nurse, please help me!”) repeatedly.
When my labor pains started showing me touch at about 6:30pm, I decided that there would be no repeat scenario of what I had witnessed. For me I wasn't going to be yelled at. I got the plastic sheet and bag of gloves, cotton wool etc and raced to the delivery bed. I hoisted myself up, not even knowing how to lie down.
By this time, there was only one midwife on duty, busy grumbling about “Bakazi mwe muntamye!” (I’m fed up with you women!) She was working on a woman who had been in labor for three days (I managed to hear that gossip in between my contractions) and who had nearly puked all her intestines out. Even when she was pushing out the baby, she was heaving. Big dry heaves. Anti she had been drinking only black tea for three days but it long been ejected. (Someone please tell me how black tea helps the birth process). The baby was eventually born. Then it was my turn. I have no idea if the midwife shouted at me. All I remember was pain from the tips of my toes to the tips of my hair, then a baby and stitches. Then I jumped off the delivery bed, shaking like a leaf.
Twenty-two years later, many of the Mulago staff are still a grumpy, surly lot. I have tried to put myself in their shoes so that I don’t come off as being unfair, unfeeling, prejudiced. I understand that they want more pay, that their working conditions may not be the best, that they see a lot of blood and broken bones. And that can be stressful.
But take for example the Cancer Institute which we have been attending for a year and a half. The doctors are okay. Nice and polite. Listening.
The nurses…
A middle-aged woman with breast cancer, who had been waiting nearly the whole day, braving the mid-morning rain and the cold, and who had not been attended to, meekly approached the nurse who was taking the weight and pressure measurements. The nurse had taken a ka-break and was standing behind an old, empty counter of sorts.
“Nansi, mbadde wano olunaku lwonna naye temunyata failo yange.” (Nurse, I have been here the whole day, but there is no mention of my file.)
“Kati oyagala nkole ki??” (What do you want me to do??)The nurse barked back.
“Mbadde mbuza bubuza. Oyinza okunyambako ojinfunire bambi?” (I was asking if you could help me locate it please?) There were tears in her eyes.
The nurse looked right through her like she wasn't there, the way some children look at visitors when you say “hallo” and you don't have a sweet for them.
After a few minutes of being ignored, the patient made another feeble attempt, “Nansi, nsaba… (Nurse, please…) ”
She shouldn't have. Because Nansi suddenly metamorphosed into an animal of sorts.
“Nkugambye oyagala nkukolere ki??!!! (I have asked you what you want me to do for you!!), she screamed, her eyes blazing and the veins in her neck standing out. She hit the counter top with her palm. “Kati okaba. Kale ffembi katukabe, tulabe ani asinga amaziga!!
The woman dissolved into more tears, reached into her hand and pulled out a big hanky, then retreated to the corner like a mouse where she cried her eyes out.
The girl at the front desk is no better. She has big sad eyes and can only offer one word answers. “Ye”. “Nedda”. “Wali”. “Awo.” “Eri”.
What went wrong? What is the matter? Why is their moral so damp? How can they be motivated? Are they motivatable? Do they love their jobs? Clearly not. I know their code of ethics demands professionalism and mutual respect, but does that include yelling at people and refusing to help?
By the way, its not all of them, just a few bad apples spoiling the rest.