19th December 2012.The tall and big rectangular white billboard among numerous small ones, zoomed in front of us as we approached the muram (earth) feeder road off the Kampala-Masaka highway; ’King’s College Budo, Budo Junior School-Gakyali Mabaga’ the red letters stood bold and firm against the white background like an older brother protecting a young one.
I smiled at the same old address P.O. Box 1712 Kampala. An address that was at the fore front of my memory as I wrote letters to my parents complaining of hunger, the bad school food of the 1970’s and reminding them of the visiting days. I turned to my mother, who was sitting behind me in the car and said, “I think you remember the address well”. She smiled and nodded in agreement.
My daughter asked her “Jajja how did you send Mum to a school so far from Masaka?”
“It is one of the best schools” she answered.
“Didn’t you miss her?” she continued.
“Off course I did but it was what was best for her”
“Mum, would you have wanted to send me to boarding school in England?” she asked me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t for two reasons. First, I can’t afford it; boarding schools in England are very expensive. It is not the sums of money we are talking about here in Uganda. Most important; and one of the main reasons I am taking you to see my school is: in the time I have lived in England I have had to be defensive about attending a boarding school so young. I learnt quite early on that I shouldn’t talk about it. If I am being honest, I feel cheated that I should be made to feel ashamed of that part of my upbringing, a background I should be incredibly proud of and what made me the person I am today. The place of boarding schools in Ugandan society is very different from England. Jajja did not take me to boarding because she ‘didn’t want responsibility’ and I don’t feel ‘unloved’ or ‘neglected’ as a child.”
There was absolute silence while I poured out my explanation. My voice croaking and breaking as my impaired speech struggled to contain the emotion. I recalled the struggles and sacrifices my parents had made to bring me here in their quest for my education: no holidays, no days out or luxuries, my mother only bought a new dress probably once a year, she saved her teachers’ salary to pay my fees.
”What?” Isa, our driver asked, shaking his head in disbelief.
” Apparently so” I replied.
The drops of rain hit my window on this cold and dark January morning. I long for them to clear the snow which had been falling over the last few days. I turn to face the wall thinking of the summer months, hot, like in the land of my ancestors. It was the home of my grand father, where my father grew up and, I was born there in 1964.
The elegant banana trees tower below the sky, and their ever dark green leaves spread out like cobwebs. They shield the drying beans, wrapped in their shrinking pods from the scorching sun at this time of year. They protect the secrets of a family too. It is the final resting place of our fallen.
Some graves are un- marked; others are names with stories told by those who met them. In my mind, I can touch the faces of my three sisters while I walk through the plantation. Their laughter echoes through my ears. The good and sad times we shared are memories I hold on to in my sleep.
I shut my eyes and stop to greet Alice, the youngest. Eighteen years was too soon to go. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of her. Where would she be living? What would be her job? Would she be married? What about her children? It wasn’t to be.
I arrive at the tall palm tree. I know it is the place where our house used to be. I sat here playing with my dolls made of dry banana stems, ebyayi, their square heads without hair or eyes, with straight arms and no legs. I was oblivious to the world I now live in, where they walk and talk.
My mother was usually seated yards away, and often glanced her watchful eyes over my play. Weaving her bright coloured wool thread into patterns of artistic crotchet, her hands moved in rhythmical strides.
Whilst I lie in bed, thousands of miles away, across the seas and no earth road besides a matooke plantation. My ancestral home, Bubango village is forever in my heart.
It had been 20 years since I was in Uganda in December. The 20th of December in Kampala was a world away from London I and my children had left two weeks ago . The bitter cold wind, foggy mist , twinkling lights on the roadside light poles, lonely Christmas trees in open parks, decorations sparkling in every shop window, shoppers carrying bags of presents, Santa red and white fleece hats on sale and workers planning office parties to see their managers drunk.
Driving around Kampala all you could hear was occasional bursts of Christmas songs, like Sekukulu eyasokera ddala by the late Philly Lutaya or the timeless Mary’s boy by Bonny M from music shops. It was business as usual.
The sun was hot and unforgiving. The air was cloudy and filled with dust. The roads were full of pot holes but busy; mini buses packed with people, police men and women dressed in white manning congestion hot points and failed traffic lights. The boda boda motorcycles were whizzing around, squeezing between cars like termites, carrying people and goods.
A boda boda surged to over take us with woman passenger carrying a baby tied to her back. “Look Mum” my daughter shouted pointing at them. “They would be arrested in London” I replied. “Social Services would take the baby” she continued.
For my children this was the most unusual build up to Christmas they had ever experienced. They sat in silence as we drove past Makerere University. “This is my University” I said pointing to the main gate. “Oh yes, I remember we went inside during our last visit in 2001” my daughter said.
A new shopping mall has been built opposite the gate. I could see the colourful displays of dummies dressed in the latest fashion outfits, made to attract University students. “I can imagine spending all my money in this shopping mall in my days here”. I said. Its tinted glass walls were shining in the blazing sun, but there was no sign of the Christmas spirit.
“I haven’t seen a single decoration so far” my daughter said. “People here don’t decorate” I replied. “I can’t imagine what a tree with lights outside would look like in the hot weather” I continued. They both laughed. “I have never seen anyone selling a Christmas tree”. I said. “Do they grow them?” my son asked. “Hedges, sedero is what you can use to make a Christmas tree” I said. “With no decorations?” my daughter asked. “When I was young, I remember my mother putting cotton wool and some glitter, if she ever made a tree” I replied.
Same old Kampala, not fussy about Christmas decorations, cards or presents.
She looked at me. Her brown framed spectacles slanting towards the tip of her nose. Her short brown hair arranged in large waves. The expression on her face was seeking for an answer. I stared back unsure of what to say or do. Since she had announced that we were going to do a production of The Bird Catcher from Magic Flute by Mozart, I had occupied my self with looking outside through the large windows of the music room. It was annexed to Hutchinson house, the central dormitory in the school compound. I could see girls in pairs and small groups walking up and down the pavement. My hand was fumbling inside my uniform pocket, holding on to my blue handkerchief. I was contemplating putting myself forward for the auditions of the main character but it was my first term in Gayaza Singers and a junior. As an O’ level student I felt intimidated by the longer serving A’ level members.
Three A level girls came forward. Miss Hobday took off her glasses and wiped them with a white handkerchief. She run her hand through her hair and said “Can some O’ level students come forward too” her eyes fixed on me. I took a deep breath and felt my body usurped with confidence. There was silence and the girls looked on in anticipation. I slowly got up and walked to the front of the room and Miss Hobday broke into a smile to mark the achievement of her words of encouragement.
All my fears vanished as my voice filled the room with Handle’s Lascia ch’io pianga and I could see the beaming faces in front of me.
I re-lived the moment I performed ‘Embwa yange’ a traditional folk song I used to lead in primary school within weeks of my first year, four years earlier for my house, Cox during a singing competition. Not only did I catch the eye of the English music teacher Miss Hobday but whole school then knew who I was.
Whether you met him or not you can feel him, smell him and touch him. His influence never fades.
Grandfather died in 1968, in his 90s.His final resting place is below these beautiful banana leaves spreading out like butterflies.
This Mutuba tree represents everything he stood for; a humble village man who planted lots of such trees, harvested their back by wrapping fresh banana leaves , beat them with wooden mallets into bark cloth to sell for a living.
I felt immensely proud of my grandfather to find history repeating itself when I visited this plantation, my ancestral ground at Bubango Village in Rakai District in March 2014
A young Mutuba tree being harvested in the same way he did nearly 100 years ago.
From an unassuming right turn off Jinja Road, we drove into an earth (murram) road flanked by sugar cane spread out like a thick green blanket. Behind the sugar plantation we took a left down a steep hill onto a dead end. In the right hand corner is this spread of beauty.
We arrived to a peaceful and quiet and relaxing atmosphere with beautiful gardens. The still atmosphere interrupted by the sound of the falling waters.
Water particles filled the air adding freshness to the surrounding ancient trees.
Surrounded in mystery and bound by tradition Sezibwa Falls is Uganda’s hidden treasure. This breathtaking water spectacle falls over 7 meters over steep sharp rocks forming a small lake below.
River Sezibwa continues its journey to Lake Kyoga in central Uganda; it is merely a trickle of stream with a visible river bed at this point
This beautiful enclosure is owned by the Kingdom of Buganda.It is a tourist attraction but of cultural significance to the Kings(Kabaka) and chiefs of the Kingdom.
The tree behind the shelter was planted by Kabaka Mwanga in the 1800s
7th January 1971, the start of a new school year in the country and a new life for me. This day that was to shape my position in Ugandan social circles forever.
We were late, but I was excited about joining a new boarding school, away from home and the watchful eyes of my parents. I was going to have my own voice and opinions. It should have been a daunting experience for a six year old, but I was too busy wondering about how an ordinary girl like me had managed to beat off stiff competition to be admitted to this school.
I rarely kept quiet during the Masaka-Kampala journey, often chatting to my father. On this occasion I was lost for words and awake, immersed in my own thoughts and day dreaming about life in the new school .I pondered over the events of that morning and why we were late, we were supposed to arrive at 2 pm for admission but at 1.30 were still having lunch at Masaka Tropic Inn, a farewell meal despite a tight budget. My parents putting on brave faces for my sake.
Despite their efforts of saving money since I had passed the entry interview six months earlier, on that morning there was not enough money for me to start the term on time. Both of them had spent the morning running around trying to borrow from relatives and friends to total the 400 shillings (about 1pence in modern day Britain).
It was 2 pm when we left Masaka to embark on the two hour journey to Budo Junior School.
Enthralled by my new possessions, I forgot about the worries of the morning hours, and ignored the faces of my stressed out parents. I had a new black suitcase, pink jinja sheets, and a brown checked blanket, a green bucket with a white handle, red wellington boots, green lusejjera (running shoes),new dresses, night wear and above all my blue and white swimming costume.
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We drove through the large red iron gates of the school and up a drive way flanked by Kabaka anjagala trees each side. “This is like the Buganda Palace drive”, my father explained. ‘King Muteesa 11 and his son Mutebi attended this school, they had to use a royal type drive in’ he continued. I marvelled at the two adjacent rows of the Kabaka anjagala trees with their large green leaves. They looked like protective arms round the school drive. I felt protected by the Kabaka as we drove through.
At the school office, we were greeted by two girls about twelve years old. They were wearing the red jinja school uniform. Like my own, according to the school rule their hair was cut to half an inch. I couldn’t grow my hair long any more, have plaits or biswayiri. I felt sad when they cut it short but seeing the girls made me feel it was worth it. The girls led us into the staff room for the admission.
While my parents were doing all the paper work for admission, I stood there like a lost puppy, glancing around the surroundings of the place I was to call home for the next seven years. Outside; purple hibiscus flower bushes stood in a mud bed in front of a glass door building. In the distance was a large red brick school hall with doors that looked liked extra large owl eyes staring in the night. A play ground lay between that building and the Kabaka anjagala trees.
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Flanked by my parents carrying my suitcase, we arrived at Grace House, the middle of the four girl’s dormitory block. We met the matron, MukyalaJuliana, a grey haired, dark skinned small woman. She was wearing a blue ankle length dress instead of the busuuti which I found odd for her age. She reminded me of my father’s sister, SengaEresi. Senga was so old that I called her Jajja, grand-mother. After sorting out my bed, Mukyala Juliana handed over to the house prefect, Solome, and disappeared into her flat through the door that joined it to the dormitory.
I said my goodbyes to my parents at the door clutching my small hand into Solome’s and fighting back tears. I was excited, but anxious about their safe journey back to Masaka in the dark, and that I would not be home until half term, in six weeks.
My head felt heavy. The wind was blowing and rustling against the long dark green banana leaves. I felt the chills against my ear and pulled the blanket over. I heard footsteps thundering behind me. As they got closer they became heavier. I turned to look behind but my neck hurt.
I took a glimpse of the shadowy figure, a tall man walking in long rhythmical strides. His face was blurred with only a set of white teeth shinning through a wide smile. He was holding a big stick in his right hand.
With my feet feeling heavy and unbalanced, I staggered to the twin banana trees on my left. My foot sunk in the soft and muddy ground. I slipped and grabbed the stem of the tree, looking up to the large leaves spreading out like protective arms. Drops of water scattered over my face. The footsteps were getting nearer and heavier. I could hear heavy gulps of breath behind me.
The plantation consisted of rows and columns of banana trees. A ray of sun penetrated through the dark green blanket of leaves. My families’ graves lying below them, serene. I looked at them. “Dad was never buried. He is not here”
The attendant was chopping wood at the far end. The noise cutting through the still and silent atmosphere. I tried to scream but felt a lump in my throat.
I held my bed sheets tight and felt my palms sweating as I jumped onto my sister’s grave. I stopped and turned around, and stood akimbo, ready to face him. The man came closer and his face became clear.”Dad I thought you were dead. You look smart. I never saw you wearing jeans”
He grimaced, and raised the stick in front of my face.
“Dad please, don’t hit me”
I opened my eyes to the sound of rain outside my bedroom window and wiped my fore head.
The traditional harvesting of your inner bark makes
The sacred fabric, bark cloth, that
Defines the spirit of the Buganda Kingdom.
No machines and no weaving
Just simple beating with wooden mallets
Stretching and sun drying
The practice has been around for centuries.
And still defies the modern process of cloth making
In all shades of brown, light and dark
The bark cloth unites us
From Royal attire to street fashion
Normal garments, burial sheets and precious works of art
It defines the identity of the kindred
Mutuba tree, the mother of the bark cloth
You make me proud to be Ugandan
Juliet Lubega (unpublished 2013)
**This is dedicated to my late grandfather who was a bark cloth maker by trade.He planted these trees at our ancestral ground,Bubango Village,Rakai District in Southern Uganda. Jajja we miss your wooden mallets.
“Musa, can you hold on for a few minutes? I need to check on my cooking.” I said sternly excusing myself from the conversation. “Alright” he replied hesitantly probably thinking I wasn’t coming back. I assured him that I will be back in a few minutes. I went and sat down in the large black two sitter sofa in the lounge, heavily breathing, I could hear my heart pumping and a hot sensation trickled through my body. I felt hot and my throat felt dry. I then went to the kitchen opposite, opened the fridge and poured orange juice into a glass which I drank very quickly, feeling the ice cold liquid gush down my neck like water through a hose pipe. Although I was furious at Musa just turning up, we had been mates in Uganda and I was determined to find a middle ground. A few minutes later I was back on the phone and explained to Musa that; I had visitors for the evening and couldn’t go to Heathrow. If he took the Underground train to Seven Sisters and phone me again, I would be able to help him get a cheaper Bed & Breakfast at the nearby Finsbury Park. Reluctantly Musa agreed but I never heard from him again. He probably expected me to drop everything, not only pick him up but allow him to stay in my home. Whether I have lost the well celebrated Ugandan hospitality is debatable. I just know I did the right thing for myself.
I soon got to the West Green Tavern on the same side and just a few yards from the saloon. Its large blacked out windows looked like dark sun glasses in the summer sunshine. I recalled when I first heard of this pub several years ago. “A Ugandan pub has been opened up in West Green Road” my friend Halima sounded very excited on the other end of the phone. “What? Is it selling Ugandan beer then?” I asked. “Yes, it is” she answered. “You mean real Bell and Nile Special in the big brown bottles?” I asked further. “It is selling UgandaWaragi (vodka) and muchomo (charcoal barbeque meat) as well.” She replied,full of laughter. We found it funny that someone had thought of opening a Ugandan pub at all, we agreed to go there on Saturday and find out what was going on. How will Halima go in a pub? I wondered after I put down the phone. I have never known Ugandan Muslims to go near alcohol in Uganda. Perhaps she just wanted to see the reality of an attempt to recreate a Ugandan baala on West Green Road and felt part of a community? The West Green Tavern is not only a place you can access Ugandan alcohol but music, live performances, karaoke and meet Ugandans you may or may not know. They come from all surrounding areas in North East and North West London for a night out.
At the zebra crossing besides the pub I glanced at my watch, to establish whether I had enough time to check out the new Ugandan boutique near the Somali shop.“Mr Gomesi” ,the white writing on a sky blue background read, as I went past aboard bus 41 towards Seven Sisters that morning. I beamed as I saw this new addition to the long line of Ugandan shops and traders along West Green Road. In its display window, the lifeless model dummies were wearing bright, multi coloured floral busuuti and coordinating waist bands for women. The white kanzu for men. The straight rectangle kikoyi in its Ugandan standard colours of yellow, red and brown lay in the display shelf, as well as various colourful beaded necklaces and bangles. This was what I had longed for a long time. It was going to save me from endless efforts, to get my mother have a busuuti made for me every time someone I knew was travelling to Uganda,I thought to myself. She often has to travel from Masaka to Kampala to get the busuuti to the person who would then bring it to England to me. It is difficult for her to keep up with the weather seasons and appropriate colours. Once in December she sent me a bright lime green busuuti for a winter February function. Between December and February is the hottest and brightest time of the year in Uganda, whereas it is dark and cold in the UK.
I felt national and historical pride on West Green Road. Busuuti is the traditional dress for Baganda women and has been adopted by other tribes. The busuuti made from 6 meters of cloth evolved from the suuka which is the modern day kikoyi won from below the armpits. The original suuka was made from bark cloth the sacred material of the Baganda.I t comes from the ficus tree (Ficus natalensis), also known as bark cloth tree or mutuba in Luganda. My grandfather was a bark cloth maker by trade and had lots of mituba (plural) trees in our ancestral home at Bubango village. The suuka design exposes the upper chest of women. When an English missionary, Miss Allen walked from the East African coast and founded Gayaza High School in 1905,a boarding school for girls, she felt that the girls were cold in suuka. She then designed the upper chest and sleeves. The local tailor was Mr Gomez. Subsequently the busuuti is also commonly known as ‘bordingi’ or ‘gomesi’. I had been smiles all day looking forward to checking out this shop,it had become easier for me to buy Ugandan traditional wear and I felt proud as a Muganda woman, and an old girl of Gayaza High school. However, there was not enough time to allow busuuti viewing at Mr Gomesi boutique. I had to leave it for some other time.
I crossed the road again heading for the Salabed shop on the other side to find out the cost for sending cargo to Uganda by ship. Since the Spring cleaning I had this heap of clothes outgrown by my children and from me. I had been thinking of sending them to help out members of my family. A group of men were standing outside Salabed. From a distance I could see they were discussing some news papers. As I approached them I heard they were talking about Ugandan politics.I also recognised one of them. I had helped him get on a course in 1993 when I worked for Uganda Community Relief Association. I greeted them together ‘Musibye mutyano ba sebo” ‘how are you today gentlemen’ “Bulungi” ‘fine’ they replied. Known to him as a Community Worker, he asked the others to refer their discussion to me. I was handed the newspaper and asked my opinion on the standing of the political situation. I looked at the date on the Bukedde paper, it was two weeks ago. I quickly excused myself that I couldn’t stop to chat as I had to pick my son from school. In reality I had nothing to contribute as I am completely out of touch. I wondered how any of this affected their daily lives, but admired their enthusiasm for keeping up with news in Uganda even if they had to debate information which was out of date.
I entered the shop, the owners a delightful couple from one of the large tribes in Eastern Uganda were packing someone’s cargo. I held my breath to avoid laughing out loud as the shipment included an ironing board. Instead I greeted them in their Lusoga language “kodheyo”, ’how are you’and they replied “tuliyo” ‘fine’. I then found a reason to laugh, pretending it was my inadequate Lusoga accent and I can’t speak it in real terms, I can just about greet. In fact of about 45 languages spoken in Uganda, I only speak Luganda and English fluently. I was laughing at the ironing board, with all the wood and metal in Uganda, I was fascinated that anyone was shipping an ironing board even if it costs about £5. After a brief conversation about the prices, I left the shop and headed for the bus stop a few yards away. Just before I got to the bus top, my eyes caught a big poster in the display window in the Ugandan owned shop a few feet away. I stopped to browse. It was advertising a concert by Ugandan artists who were on tour to be held in East London, and all the Ugandan hot spots in London where you could buy tickets. I was actually interested but the bus was approaching. I decided to come back another day and get more information.
While on the bus I pondered over the events of the last hour, the Colombian women buying matooke, the significance of the Equator and how food brings people together. I thought about meeting Katalina and our relationship in a new context. The importance of socialization, and community cohesion in a foreign country; for example the pub and Ugandan artists. The historical context in which I find myself as I live in this area of London, just by having attended Gayaza High School in Uganda. I couldn’t help but smile at holding on to news from Uganda. How the well being of our families in Uganda still matters .What is it that we hold on to about back home? I kept asking myself. Ironically, three weeks into a month holiday in Uganda in 2001, 11 years since I left. I wanted to come home to my bed in Avenue Road off West Green Road. My Mother wasn’t amused when I kept telling the children “When we get back home….we will go to the seaside……see the sort things out” “Eh bannange!” She sighed with a queer look on her face at my endless reference to home meaning London. I am still confused about ‘home’, it seems ‘home’ is where you are not living at that given moment. I can’t define ‘home’ but West Green Road is where my life rotates between two countries.
***West Green Road
A walk on a street in Tottenham, North London; looks at one hub where a community in the diaspora struggles to maintain their common identity. It explores a shift in relationships away from home, and examines how migrant communities struggle to differentiate between their lives in the host countries, and their origin. It highlights the social cohesion within diaspora communities through lifestyles and how they maintain ties with their origin. The touch of history is an attempt to identify any aspects in the host country that link to one self, in the quest for a sense of belonging. It attempts to establish at the real home and how people define it; it is neither here nor there.
Juliet Lubega 