Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

The Lugandan directions to Kiwaguzi were inked in blue on the palm of my hand, but I mispronounced the village name to the drivers. They conferred amongst themselves until a man in white track pants pulled up and asked me in broken English where I wanted to go. Relieved, I asked if he knew my new host father, Tebandeke. He shook his head. I had only been to the house once before, but the green exterior had stood out from the surrounding mud huts of the village. I hoped my memory would not fail me.

After spending two months studying development in Kampala, I had come to Kiwaguzi to conduct a study of the effect of gender roles on children’s healthcare in rural Uganda. My American friend Lara bestowed upon me material necessities: a roll of grainy blue toilet paper, fruit leather for the nights I couldn’t stand to eat any more plantains, and a sheath of well-worn Luganda notes.

In my limited Lugandan, I could answer, “Oli otya?” (“How are you?”) But it was often dishonest, since I did not know how to say I was anything but “fine” or “good.” I was often neither. I was often confused, hot, hungry. But most of all, I was lonely.

Sensing my frustration, my host father Tebandeke began to coax me through rigorous Lugandan lessons each evening as dinner was being prepared. As a guest, I was not allowed to help in the kitchen after my day of research at neighboring schools and hospitals, so I patiently waited for food. It was always hot in the house from tiny bodies throwing before-bed fits.

One night, Tebandeke began teaching me Lugandan numbers with an Uno deck. He announced the numbers on the cards in English and I reciprocated in Luganda, each of us eager to learn the other’s language.

As we played cards, Mama Nam and her oldest daughters scraped matooke (mashed plantains) from a huge tin pot into plastic bowls. Nabaloga, my 16-year-old host sister, glanced sideways at her father and me as we babbled back and forth, the corners of her mouth upturned just slightly. She was the second-oldest child, and unlike children in Kampala, was only beginning to learn English. (City children are inundated with English from their first day of primary school.)

Tired of cards, I watched Nabaloga peel plantains to make matooke. She asked about my relationship status. When I reached for a word to explain, she haltingly clarified that there is no word in Luganda that means “partner.” You are either married or you are friends. Only when she made a hugging motion and pursed her lips did I understand. I modified my explanation of my boyfriend to indicate we intended to get married—although that was not the truth, it seemed to fit better than anything else I’d been offered. I asked her, “Do you want to get married?” She looked at me and laughed as the smoke from the kitchen fire curled around her face.

“No,” she said, “I want to be a doctor.”

An average family in Uganda may have anywhere from five to 30 children, although the largest families are headed by a husband and several wives. Nabaloga motioned to convey her inquiry of how many children I hope to have: She rocked a mock baby in her arms and looked up at me to see if I understood. I responded, “One or two. Maybe.” And I returned the question, curious as to how such a seemingly progressive young woman would respond in a society where women are raised to have children, the more the better. “I don’t know,” she said. “Twenty or 30.” I was trying to puzzle out the numbers when she burst out laughing. I recognized her reply for what it was: a joke.

After dinner, Nabaloga let me out to use the pit latrine. No one went in and out at night; the heavy double doors linked with a thin chain were the family’s only protection, although I am not sure from whom. I never learned how to say “bathroom” in Luganda, only “outside.” I wasn’t sure whether this was due to formality or simply because it was the truth. As Nabaloga and I shone the beam of the flashlight along the path to the latrine, we giggled together.

These occasional gleaming moments of communication were precious, but they were few and far between. I was lonely in Kiwaguzi not because I missed English, but because my grasp of Luganda wasn’t strong enough to fully communicate with people. I was never able to engage in meaningful discussions about my country or theirs.

During my month there, I learned that I can live without flush toilets, and can accustom myself to the sight of  chickens wandering through the yard and sometimes through the living room. But it was my first language I reached for when I needed a sliver of home—those comforting nasal English consonants. I reached for English because it was what I knew: Luganda would have worked just as well if only I had mastered it.