Memories Under the Kampala Sun

 
Memories Under the Kampala Sun: A Reflective Journey Through Childhood Challenges and Resilience

By WABUYI DENIS

Kampala is currently hot, extremely hot. The scorching sun in Kampala triggers poignant memories of my childhood. The recent intense heat has made mundane tasks challenging; a shirt hung out to dry can be parched before one even reaches the basin to hang trousers, and handkerchiefs seem on the verge of combustion.

Reflecting on childhood, our mother assumed responsibility for us at a tender age, before completing her education. After giving birth to all five of us, she made the difficult decision to return to school. To make this possible, she divided us into three groups: the eldest stayed with our stepfather, while I and my immediate younger sibling stayed with our maternal grandmother until her declining health made it impossible for her to care for us. The youngest pair, consisting of my sibling and our youngest brother, were entrusted to our mother's elder sister, Aunt Agatha.

Looking back, this period was undoubtedly one of the most challenging for our parents. Despite the hardship, they persevered. It's a testament to their resilience that they managed to navigate such difficult circumstances. This experience deeply influences my desire for my own child to never be separated from their parents, if circumstances permit. I believe it's essential for a child to have the presence of at least one parent at all times, ideally both. The families who took us in during this time were incredibly generous and loving. For our younger brothers, the distinction between their biological parents and their caregivers was blurred by the care and affection they received.

Returning to the topic of the Kampala sun, following our grandmother's declining health, our parents brought us back home. We stayed with a cousin brother known as Kibbande for a few days. Kibbande was a drummer for the circumcision candidates in Bugisu, and during the circumcision season, we spent much of our time together, surviving on the plentiful fruits of our village. A mango tree provided us with sustenance for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. However, life's unpredictability became evident when one day, Kibbande abruptly cut down the mango tree to gather firewood for brickmaking. In an instant, our source of nourishment was gone.

Given that we were essentially left to fend for ourselves at such a tender age, with Kibbande preoccupied with his duties, our parents relocated us to another place where we endured what can only be described as hell on earth. At that time, I was barely six years old, yet the memories of the mistreatment we endured remain etched in my mind, so much so that encountering that individual still triggers a visceral reaction in me.

Growing up under those circumstances was incredibly challenging. We had to trek over 5 kilometers to fetch water from a well. Without mosquito nets or repellents, when mosquitoes attacked, our only recourse was to flee the house and seek refuge in the banana plantation. It was an extreme measure, but it was the only way we could find respite. Despite the adversity, we somehow managed to survive, and that tumultuous chapter of our lives eventually came to an end. Looking back, I believe it instilled a remarkable resilience in us; we learned to endure hardships without succumbing. I recall that during that period, we often resorted to drinking water from the river.

However, there was also another well called Namaloko, which ominously translates to "a place of witches/witchcraft." This was where we were sent to fetch drinking water. Situated approximately 10 kilometers away, this well was not just a source of water; it was also a gauge of our punishment. In the scorching heat of Kampala, I'm reminded of how the length of time spent at the well was meticulously monitored. If you exceeded the designated time, you knew you were in for a brutal reception upon your return - a cocktail of beatings, slaps, and kicks awaited. Remarkably, I always approached the task of fetching water fully aware that I would be greeted with such torment.

The measure of time at the well was not marked in hours or minutes, but rather in saliva. Here's how it worked: the woman in charge would spit on the ground before sending you off to fetch water. If you returned after the spit had dried, you had exceeded the allotted time, and the punishment would commence.

Reflecting on those challenging times, I realize now that my own stubbornness likely contributed to the severity of the punishment I endured. While I cannot recall if my brother faced as much punishment as I did, there were instances when we both bore the brunt of floggings. Despite any perceived stubbornness on my part and whatever punishment I may have warranted, I vehemently believe that subjecting any child to such treatment is utterly unacceptable. The scars inflicted during childhood not only mar the body (of which I bear several as reminders of that harrowing period) but also linger in the depths of our hearts. Witnessing instances of public officials accused of physically torturing citizens, I can't help but wonder if these officers are products of similar torment inflicted upon them by authority figures in their past - be it teachers, parents, or other relatives. In a society where such behavior is normalized, the vicious cycle perpetuates, with some who suffered in their youth perpetuating the cycle onto future generations.

Returning to the topic of the heat, there's a curious belief among experts in Bugisu and surrounding areas that the ideal time for conceiving a girl-child is during hot weather like what we're experiencing now. So, if you happen to notice us closing up shop at midday, rest assured, we're a people on a mission.

If I go beyond this, I may start talking profanities!

Originally shared on Peril of Africa. https://perilofafrica.com/2024/03/memories-under-the-kampala-sun-a-reflective-journey-through-childhood-challenges-and-resilience.html