I don’t write often so I’m sorry that when I do I can’t stop
myself!
I felt cooped up.
Even though I had been out to Rukoki Special Needs school in the morning
and arranged some very exciting music therapy work for the coming school year
from February onwards and had tested my nerve with the diff-lock through green
muddy puddles in which I could see no bottom, Samuel somehow made our house
seem very small!
“Right! We’re going
for a walk!” I ordered. I got out the factor 50 and chased Sam round
the house lathering it on his protesting face.
“Go use the potty.” I said to my
newly-potty-trained toddler. He has been
doing so well with very few wee accidents and it is in fact very comical to see
him sitting playing quite happily then all of a sudden grab his bottom and
shout “ME NEED POO! QUICK!” and sprint
to the bathroom as though he was being chased by a hippo! Just as we thought we had cracked the potty-training,
two incidents occurred today: Firstly the wiff of guilt as a fresh poo lay on
Jonah’s play-mat and secondly Samuel squatting on the floor over another
pile. “What happened Sam, why didn’t you
use the potty, it’s only two metres away from you.” “Me fall over, mummy.” Was the reply followed
by “me do poo.” Oh toddlers, you are so
very amusing and frustrating in one cute little package!
I digress.
The boys were creamed, Jonah was packed into his carrier and
we set off through the gate with red pick-up and nee-nor car. Our neighbour’s drive made for a perfect “doof”
scenario so we sat for a while in the shade while Samuel played out the
previous week’s car fiasco. “Mummy wheel
big hole – doof! Daddy get out help car
back on road.” He narrated to himself as
the red pick-up helped the nee-nor car out of a miniature ravine in the dirt
driveway. Toddlers hide no secrets and I
was permanently reminded of my little wheel-stuck-down-a-hole transgression. I was just going into a dream with Jonah
hanging off my front in his sling when a man carrying two small jerry-cans
greeted me. “Good evening.” He
said. (It was only 3.30pm but apparently
that makes it evening.) We exchanged
pleasantries (at least I did. Samuel
grunted and squawked as is his embarrassing way currently when a Ugandan greets
him). “I am a mountain dweller,” said the man, matter-of-factly. “I wish I had a stallion because small boys
like to use those mules but I am a mere mountain dweller.”
“It’s okay, really.”
I replied, not quite sure what to do with this information or what the
information actually was in the first place.
“The face is like a map of Africa. The hands can raise hair above the head and
that is why Africa has to be so humble.”
He paused as he saw the look on my face trying to catch his drift. “It is a metaphor. Are you getting me?”
“Oh yes,” I lied. He
turned as if to go and wished me a nice day. After a second thought he turned on his heel
and said to me “Do you know Jesus?”
“Yes.” I replied. “I
know him very well.”
“Good. I was taught
in school that you people brought us that religion from Europe.”
“Well that’s not strictly true,” I pondered. “There was a disciple called Philip who was
traveling through Ethiopia and spread the Gospel to an Ethiopian man who was
then baptised long before anyone in Europe had heard about Christianity.” I hoped my details were correct. People who know me know I’m not one for
remembering facts! This information set
him wondering and he went off to collect his water in his two small jerry-cans.
I told Samuel that he should rescue his red pick-up once
more and then we could continue on our walk.
We had, after all, in half an hour, only reached the neighbour’s
drive! He dutifully unearthed the
nee-nor car from under a pile of rubble (with red pick-up’s help of course) and
trotted next to me saying “nee-nor car – doof!
Red pick-up help nee-nor car.
Help help help!” “Yes Sam.” I replied on auto.
We walked to the digger-park where there are two decrepit
diggers and four other types of diggers (sorry can’t be more exact on what
types they are despite reading Sam’s digger book to him several times a
day). This is a day-trip in itself as
Samuel gets so excited about it and, let’s be fair, there’s not a lot else to
do to entertain him! At the digger park
a man greeted me and asked me if I was married.
“Yes” I replied. “To a mzungu.” I added that last bit because he had that
look in his eye that people get when they are about to say the following: “You
should marry an African so that you can have good coloured babies.” And yes, that is what he said. I had read correctly! “Eh! I’m
sorry, but I only want to marry one man and I already have him. I cannot marry a Ugandan now.” I knew what was coming next. “Do you have sisters?” he asked, in all seriousness. “No. I’m
Muhindo and last born.” This was an intrinsic
way of saying I have only brothers since Muhindo means a change from one sex to
another in the birth order. “But what of
others. … Surely your father must have
siblings and they have family that may help me?” “I have cousins but they are married.” I
lied. Well he doesn’t have to know, and
my female cousins will thank me for not landing them in being the (probably)
third concurrent wife of an aging Ugandan man!
He suddenly lost all interest in the conversation and left without even
saying goodbye. I shook my head to
myself at the randomness of today’s conversational offerings.
I finally dragged Sammy away from the diggers and we hauled
ourselves up the hill in the heat to our house.
You will never guess who was waiting there sitting outside our drive-way
with his jerry-cans now full, ready to continue our conversation! “I was waiting for you to come back. I have been thinking of this Ethiopian man
and it made me realise that God was revealing something to me to tell you.” Uh-oh I thought. “What do you think it was about Mary that
made her become the mother of Jesus? You
know that girls should grow their hair beyond their knees then when they
breathe out the spirits go into cows and they may bear angels or cherubs. It is Bibilical!”
“Oh?” Well what else
could I say?
… I can’t even go on to describe the direction the
conversation took from here but it involved all sorts of fantasies about young
virgins giving birth to small cherubim and as I turned into our compound (I had
opened the gate to let Sammy in) the teenage boys who were slashing the grass
looked at me and burst into laughter. “Do
you know him?” They taunted. “Uh, no.
But he is certainly an interesting character!” I responded. “He is crazy!” they said and almost rolled
around on the floor laughing at the conversation I had endured. Aha.
There indeed is one in every village…
No comments:
Post a Comment