How Do People See Us?

I went to Entebbe airport for the first time in my life; before the first rains but after the third moon this year. I walked through the special gates that I have sometimes seen at the doorways of offices in Kampala, but I have never entered. Special gates can’t be for an old village Mze like me. Oh, sorry, a Mze is a term of endearment for a wise old man. I get a lot of respect from everyone for living so long. I wonder if they have that in Britain? They are our colonial parents so it must be the same.

Anyway, on passing through the grey doorway without any supporting walls at Entebbe, nothing happened to me except the sound of a loud bleep – much louder than my daughter’s mobile phone that I hear when she comes to visit us from Town. By the way, it is a marvelous thing that I can talk to my son in England without wires through Prossy’s phone. As I was saying, I told the man in the blue uniform as he passed this crackling gadget up and down my legs and across my chest and waist, “Sir, there is nothing wrong with this belt! I bought it from Mr Muyindi’s shop in Mbarara ten years ago and it has never exploded or shot me! Even if it was loaded, I would never use it.” I will be taking it back to Mr Muyindi to point out the dangers of his apparel when I get back from seeing Godfrey, my son who lives around the corner from that famous Oxford Street.

The most memorable time I was in Kampala was in January 1986 – to celebrate the presidential inauguration of Museveni – we had been delivered from a terrible time in our country. Now we have sugar and coffee at home and our grandchildren can go to school. I know how developed Kampala is through these twenty years of peace. The newspapers say that America and Europe have paid for most of what we see. That I don’t know, but I am sure our leaders have made our country better off. I wonder if it is true that the streets of London are paved with gold? I wonder really how much better it can be than what I see back home.

Anyway, after the sun had moved from the horizon to mid-sky I was ushered with many other Ugandans and Bazungu onto a big metal bus with wings. Inside there were lots of very comfortable cushioned seats and a special harvest bin above my head to keep my bag. The person next to me was complaining about the lack of space but I reassured her of my contentment since no-one was trying to squeeze another person into our row, there were no children on our laps and the chickens and goats were nowhere to be seen. Nobody kept pestering us for extra fare money. I did not sweat once but felt very cold due to freezing air coming out of the roof – I wish I had kept my coat out of the suitcase like the Ugandan brother on the other side of me. A very nice lady - very smartly dressed - kept coming to check on us and to see that our extra belt – in the seat – was fastened. It was easier to use than that one which goes across the shoulder in Prossy’s car. I can never get that one right. She even brought us food and juices and we watched TV all the way without any power cuts.

I arrived at the Heathrow airports and there were so many different faces in one place that I thought it was a city. Everybody was in such a hurry they were almost running and nobody replied to my greetings. It seems people did not have time to be polite to each other.

I was so happy to see Godfrey after so many years. He had a very good car and we drove on wonderful roads. I never saw one pothole in all the time I was there. We had such a lot to share on the journey to his fully carpeted house with indoor flushing toilet. Godfrey spoke English so fast I had to ask him to repeat his words in our language, but I could tell that he struggled to find the right way to talk. He quickly moved away from my account of life in our home village where he should eventually be buried. His body movements were not gentle like that of my people and I wondered who had tortured him to be so abrupt. Even Idi Amin could not have changed his personality like this. I think I need to take him back home to help him overcome this rude culture. I don’t understand it because the Christian bazungu in my country are so kind. I wonder what is taking place. I realized that a muzungu doesn’t have to be white and a real Ugandan may not be black. Even suggesting these thoughts to my son made him very uneasy. He said it was offensive in the UK to talk about skin colour. In my country it is used often to describe a person and nobody bats an eyelid. Even my father was sometimes referred to as "the brown one".

After getting some few days rest I asked Godfrey to take me to Oxford Street. He said it was a bit far so he would take me to Bluewater instead. I didn’t know they had blue water like Lake Victoria In London since the sky was so grey most of the time. Maybe that explains why they keep strictly to their wrist watches - they can't see the sun! Apart from the fact that they are always indoors and will not go outside to check if it still there. Instead they wait for someone on the TV to predict the weather for them.

Well (continuing with my story) we went to this huge car park somewhere near the River Thames with just a small fountain of blue water. He took me inside this very large building that looked like the Rubaga Miracle Cathedral, but there was no preaching or singing; just lots of worshippers, walking in and out of shops all day – craving the latest gadget, trouser or yet more cosmetics. When we got back, I saw Godfrey stuffing his fully clothed wardrobe with another shirt and realized that they must be stocking their houses with things to help the shops in case the time of shortages was coming like our struggle under Obote. I thank God for my two pair of trouser and three shirts. Oh, and the suit I got for Prossy's wedding. They fit well with my wife's clothes into our tin box on the floor of our two-roomed house.

I left what I hear people calling the Third World to enter what must be the First World. Others call it the Developed World. It is definitely a very long journey from the one to the other and my son showed me that many of our values get lost along the way.

I am not sure whether I like this kind of development. Maybe my village is more developed in its social support structure with everybody responsible for everybody else; as opposed to this “Developed World”, where everybody seems to care most about themselves.

I think I am looking forward to going home, sitting with my cup of tea under the African sun – which gives me a better perspective of time – and talking with my family as the stars litter that same canopy at night – telling us of our secure place in the family of our Creator.