Tombstones and Banana Trees (4 page)

My father would always make the same complaints about each of his wives. They would end up being called pigheaded Jezebels. I do not know whether he ever really understood that the problem was his own. He would simply go away when things got particularly bad and return with a new wife in tow. He would extend the compound a little at the far end and build her a house, and the meager resources would have to stretch a little further.

Incest, witchcraft, violence, alcohol abuse—these all seem to go hand in hand with polygamy. It is a continental curse, and it has caused more pain, bitterness, and depression than many would like to admit. The statistics, however, reveal that if you are in a polygamous marriage you are more likely to be physically abused.

About 10 percent of marriages are polygamous here. Even some members of the clergy are polygamous, despite their attempts to keep it a secret. Members of our cabinet have many wives, and at the southern tip of the continent, Jacob Zuma, South Africa's president, is husband to (at the time of writing) three wives.

Will polygamy end? HIV has made it less popular, but the increase in urbanization has made it catch on again, as men look to have one wife for the city and one for their rural ancestral home. This is a problem, and the idea of having one wife for the working week and another for the holidays is odd whichever way you try to dress it up.

With the compound now empty, except for my sisters, brothers, and our mother, there was far less noise to distract us from the pain of hunger. I began to retreat into myself a little. We all did. We were faced with the very real possibility that life might be cut short at any time—perhaps through the slow agony of starvation, or in the sudden torment of an unexpected death, or by the hands of wild boys who could grab a sister in the night and take her from us. And so we retreated.

I do not often return to Rwanjogori—the place of maggots. When I am in the area, I normally stop at the tall tree opposite the trading post at Kashumuruzi. This was the place where we were beaten down from the pickup trucks, and even today it marks a boundary beyond which I do not often pass.

But whether I go beyond the tree or not, I am reminded of what the people of Israel used to think about Egypt after they had escaped. I am reminded of the pain I went through, of the rejection I experienced, of the abandonment I fed on for so many of the years that followed. A spirit of rejection and abandonment can stay with you for a long time. For so long I felt as though I had become an orphan on that morning by the tree. Anger, desperation, hopelessness … they all took up residence within me then, leaving me feeling so alone. Throughout Africa the orphan spirit has led many young people into depression, drugs, alcoholism, and violence.

I am reminded of how deceitful people can be, how they can betray you, how you cannot really build your trust on people. We had seen our father as our source of security, but he had failed us. So what was to be my source of self-worth, with poverty biting at my flesh and the effects of polygamy still toxic in my veins? Jealousy, hate, and envy were inevitably going to win the day.

And I am reminded that this was the time when God took care of me and my family despite so much despair. In His mercy He helped us through. His love carried us. His forgiveness took us out of the dirt. I believe that no scheme of man, no power of hell, shall ever pluck me from His hands. Jesus commands my destiny!

As I said already, that journey from despair to hope was measured out in the smallest of steps. Most of the time I had little idea that it was underway, and it is only now that I can look back and see what was happening, only today that I can discern God in action. He used a range of people, even those who had every reason not to like me.

I have told you that my father's family in Rwanjogori were our fiercest opponents. But not all of them hated us. Deborah Karagi, who was one of the wives of my uncle and whose son was my age-mate and a great friend, was a great Christian. When I was young I stayed with her for a month, and every night she would read us Bible stories. We read through the book of John, and I was fascinated by Jesus' miracles. Slowly I grew to like Jesus, to like the things He did and the way He acted.

Deborah also taught me that if you sin against God He will punish you, but if you ask for forgiveness He will forgive. She taught us to repent every day and to pray every day for food. When those prayers were answered she was always quick to remind us to thank God. I was only little, but those experiences in her home are the roots of my faith. And I am especially grateful for the lesson she taught me about Judas's suicide and how it led him to the ultimate place of no return—hell. Later on that one story would come back to me, with her exact words flooding my mind as I contemplated ending my own life.

I always encourage parents to teach their children the Word of God. You never know what will happen or what will return to their minds in a moment of rebellion later on in life. Thanks to Deborah I began to see the links between the Bible and my own life. I was a shepherd boy looking after goats, so the story of David was a great encouragement. Even though I was not sure whether my Goliath was my father or just poverty in general—and I was powerless against both—I was greatly encouraged by the thought that I might grow to become more than these humble beginnings suggested.

The story of Joseph was another favorite. Tricked, abandoned, separated from his father, and falsely accused, Joseph was nevertheless eventually restored and highly favored. Could it be that there was more to my life than the sorrow and suffering that pinned me to this valley?

It was in these hills that appear to be folded over themselves that I first sensed God was calling me. After too many times of getting caught in the thicket of banana trees by the jigger hunters, I discovered a new hiding place: the church. The far edge of our land stopped at the bottom of another hill, and on top of it sat a church. The jigger hunters used the fact that the good people were all in church on a Sunday morning as cover for their malevolent acts, but I could turn it to my advantage. By heading straight for the church I found safety. When I stopped trying to hide myself and looked to God's people for support, I found it. The church was my refuge. Literally.

Once in the church, I would attend Sunday school. It did not take me long to tear my eyes away from the door and relax a little. I found the stories that they told fascinating.

Joseph, David; they were my favorites.

And Moses, too. The priest was called Moses Bagyendera, and he was a good man. He led us well, and after the services I used to go to look after his goats. One day when I was ten as I sat beneath the eucalyptus trees at the back of our compound, I had an immediate sense that I wanted to be a priest just like Moses Bagyendera. During those days the church in Uganda refused to baptize the children of women who were not married in church. The children would have to grow and make vows for themselves first before they were baptized. Nevertheless, my prayer was simple, and I meant it wholeheartedly: “Lord, let me be a priest like Moses.”

Thirty-two years later that prayer would be answered.

Chapter Four

Sending for Jesus

It is true that grief brings its own unique kind of pain. To the person who mourns, the weight of tears can be overwhelming. But even in the midst of the deepest sorrow there is the potential for a certain distraction that comes with the rising sun. Even in the darkest moments, light can still shine. As life continues to advance, eventually grief begins to thaw, bringing with it the faintest glimmer of hope and rebirth.

Grief is painful. But there is no ache quite like the ache of extreme poverty. To wake up and know that today will hold the same hunger, the same sores, the same humiliations as yesterday is an ache that stands alone in its cruelty. To know that your life is closer to that of your animals, that you share their food in the day and their floor space at night robs you of dignity. You might find yourself hoping tomorrow will be better, but that hope eventually feels more like folly than truth.

For those living in poverty—aching poverty, extreme poverty, absolute poverty—life is flawed. Poverty brings its own darkness, beneath which it seems impossible to move. The lack of resources, whether they be a pot to cook in or a blanket to sleep under or some land to farm or seeds to sow, robs life of the oxygen of hope.

But that is not the whole story. There is always oxygen somewhere. There is always hope. There is always the potential for things to change. And they did, eventually, although not before every cell within my body knew what it was to ache.

In the middle of his depression Job understood that when a tree is cut down it is right to hope that it will sprout again (Job 14:7). Isaiah also said that from the stump of David's family a shoot would come (Isa. 11:1). Winston Churchill defined success as moving from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm. Some of those who have suffered the most understand that tough times come and go but tough people stay. After storms there are always showers.

I have already told you about Uganda's beauty. The area of the southwest has a character all its own. The land is dramatic, with the horizon defined by volcanoes lurking over the border in the Democratic Republic of Congo and in Rwanda. I grew up in the hills and valleys that surround those jagged peaks, an area abundant in its fertility. Yet even though in many places the soil is red like the last rays of the evening sun, it can still be rocky on those mountain paths. Your feet get stronger, building their own leather that protects them from minor cuts, but they cannot escape the jiggers and they cannot protect you from a machete.

I was so often hungry in the years after my father abandoned us. When the pain got too bad, and I felt brave enough to risk it, I would climb banana trees like a monkey to eat the fruit at the very top that was ripe but eaten only by birds. Once I made the mistake of choosing the fruit at the top of one of my uncle's trees. I must have been very hungry that day, for as I perched among the branches I did not hear him approach. I did not see him attach his machete to the long stick, and I did not see him take aim at my foot. But I felt the pain. The cut was deep, all the way through to the bone, and once I had fallen to the ground, I could see that it was bleeding profusely. He abandoned me on the ground right there, just like his brother, my father.

I am grateful that a woman saw me. She screamed and then bandaged me with cloth from her dress before taking me home. Though the cut was deep, the humiliation inflicted greater pain. It took me many years to forgive my uncle; after all, these bananas were only food for the birds. Why would he not let us eat them? If we had a father around, people would not have treated us like this.

We call the type of home we lived in “self-contained.” It sounds nice enough, but it really means that you share your living space with your livestock. Because we did not have a secure area out in our compound where our goats and chickens could be kept safely at night, they slept in with us. It was untidy and dirty, but the animals' fleas were far from poor: Our bodies and blood provided them with an easy-access, open-all-hours banquet.

The danger outside was never far away. Hyenas, wolves, even lions were all known to have attacked at night, especially before the national parks were established throughout the 1970s. If we needed to relieve ourselves in the night we would have to go out to the forest; even though nothing bad ever happened to me, I never liked it. As soon as we had the money to buy a bucket, we used that instead.

After my father left we had nothing to sleep on or under. Gradually we began to acquire a few replacements for the possessions that were now doubtless being used by my father's other wives. The first item of bedding my mother was able to bring home was a sack, the sort used for shipping beans. It was cold up in the hills at night, and so it was a welcome addition to our home. But it was hardly comfortable. For that luxury we had to wait until my mother somehow got hold of some old surplus coats from the German army. These long winter coats lasted for years and years; they could be a bedsheet and blanket at the same time. When your floor is nothing but compressed mud, lying on one of these coats is enough to make you feel like a king.

The goats' urine put an end to those feelings. Somehow, no matter where we placed ourselves in the hut, their urine always trickled over to us while we slept. Eventually our mother made us a bed out of logs that raised us up off the floor, and the urine flowed freely underneath. Surprisingly, I do not remember the smell, so it was probably not too much of a problem.

What clothes we had were basic. I wore a shirt. That was it. No pants, no trousers, no underwear, no shoes. I was eight years old when I got my first underwear and twenty-one when I got my first shoes. Whenever we did get new clothes they were secondhand ones that our mother would buy from the trading post. These days you see poor children all over Africa wearing T-shirts advertising the Western products and sports teams of yesterday, but when we were children we were not like these odd-looking billboards. However, we did have some strange clothes; once one of my uncles gave me an overall, an all-in-one red work suit with a hood attached. I felt like a man and wore it pretty much every day for four years, from the early days as a ten-year-old when it draped over my feet and hands right up to the point when it began to burst across my back and shoulders.

Even though shoes were objects that had an almost mythical status, our feet were not always bare. The banana leaves made good sandals—good enough for a day, at least—and they prepared me for the time when, a few years before I married, I put on my first pair of real shoes that belonged to me. It was an odd moment, and I felt self-conscious as I flapped about. But I cannot deny that it felt good. Later I replaced these with a pair of
rugabire
—sandals made from car tires. They felt even better.

I was thirteen years old when I started to work for money or food. I would carry things for people, help others brew their alcohol, or spend the whole day digging. I was good at trapping moles, using just a bit of rope, a couple of sticks, and a bit of luck. They were good to eat. Very delicious. And they made a change from our usual diet.

My mother and sisters would work as well. They would dig or harvest for others, usually working from six in the morning to the same time at night, at the end of it receiving a bunch of matoke or whatever else they had been collecting during the day. If they worked every day for a month, apart from Sundays, and if we were not extravagant, we might be able to eat every day.

Did we know life was hard? Before my father left, there were other families in the village that were poorer than we were—quite a few of them, in fact. But once he left we were even worse off than they were. Other families ate millet; we had maize. Some had cows; we had goats. Some started their fires with matches; we used sticks and grass. I do remember that there were some people who lived up in the hills, and even though they had animals, they felt that they were poor. If you were measuring poverty on how they looked, then they were poorer than us. But they had cows and we did not, so we were poorer. Yes, we knew life was harder than it might otherwise have been. But there was not the time to spend fretting over it; there was work to be done.

It used to take us an hour to collect water. We would walk down the hill and poke the ground with our sticks until we freed the spring just below the muddy surface. When the water flowed out we would wait the twenty minutes it took to fill up our pot or our plastic jerrican, and then we would carry it back up the hill to home.

We would collect the water four times a day. Mostly it was just the children, but occasionally women would join in. But I never remember seeing any men at the spring. I stopped collecting water when I was twenty-nine and married Connie, for that was the time that I became a man. Even today when many houses have iron roofs and water collection tanks that meet some of their water needs, there are many, many families who have to collect their own water from a tap (a faucet) or from a protected spring away from their home. There are some men who do collect their own water if their wife is pregnant or ill, or if they are building something that needs a lot of water, but then they will do it only at night or early in the morning.

One day a mudslide sliced away the whole layer of soil that led down the hill to the place where the water came to the surface. This transformed our lives. Where there once had been pools of water that only seeped into our cans, now we had a clean, clear, fast-flowing stream that was easy to collect from, as well as bathe in and drink from. That mudslide was a gift to us, although it has to be said that it took away a large area of land from one of our neighbors.

Water was always our greatest problem. Whenever we were building, we did it by mixing mud with water to make a coating to cover the frame we made with sticks. On these construction days each child would have to carry as many as twenty jerricans weighing anything from ten to forty pounds when full. And since it would take as long as a week to build the house, these periods were exhausting. We would not have to do it often, though, as a house that was properly built would last for many years.

When I was a teenager we acquired some land and moved up out of the valley of maggots to the very top of one of the hills. It was steep—almost impossibly so—and that was a contributing factor in the land being cheap enough for us to buy it. It was also the area where cattle used to be quarantined when they were ill, and even though it had not been used for this purpose for many years, nobody else in the area thought it was a fit place to live.

I had chest pains as I carried the water up the hill while my mother mixed the mud together to insulate the walls. Later, as she and I carried up thick, long logs from the valley floor to support the roof, she slipped and dropped one of the logs. It fell on my shoulder and the pain was terrible. But what can you do? What option did I have but to carry on?

Occasionally when I was younger the day might start with a bowl of maize porridge. Others would be able to afford sorghum or millet, but we were stuck with maize, at least when we were doing well. I generally had only one meal a day, and that was more often served in the evening. During the day, while my mother and older sisters were out working I—together with my younger siblings—had to look for my own way of survival. For five and a half years I would spend the days scavenging for food. I learned to avoid the tops of banana trees and to steer clear of any of the jigger hunters who might see me and decide to hand out an extra lesson in the importance of good hygiene. Quickly I learned to look in dustbins to find food that had been thrown away. If we were lucky we might find a potato, but more likely the food would have excrement pasted over it and we would have to wash it clean at the spring before trying to cook it. My mother always boiled it up in her pot, unless it was a sweet potato, which we could eat raw. But if we found that someone had eaten meat or fish it was a different story altogether. We would take the bones or the fish head back and add it in. The water would taste delicious, and we would feel as though we had feasted on pure delicacies.

On the bad days, the ones when the hunger brought its own unique pain that tortured our insides, we had no choice other than to bring back whatever we found in the bins at the back of the trading post, no matter how rotten, moldy, or filthy. On good days we found good food and called it “a big catch.”

But it was always embarrassing, and everyone knew we were doing it. What made it worse was that we were the only ones, and if they saw us people would shout at us. There we were, sharing with goats, pigs, and dogs. The only thing that separated us from the animals was the fact that we had names.

Life in rural Uganda is communal. Even though we were the poorest family in the area, and even though we had assaulted our father and been publicly shamed by him, we were still a part of the community. We would try to have as little to do with our father's siblings as we could, but there were others in the village who were not unkind to us. And when the whole village united for communal events, we would join in.