But I’m thinking surely there are many Ugandans who wish to adopt. Ugandans all want big families. There must be families who can’t conceive who would love to adopt but are getting bypassed in favor of the muzungus. Wealth alone, even relative wealth, cannot guarantee a better life for a child.
Muzungu is a Bantu word dating back to the 18th century, used in the African Great Lakes region to refer to people from Europe. It means “someone who roams around aimlessly.” It seems 18th century explorers had a tendency to get lost when wandering in Africa. Nowadays it is used to refer to anyone with white skin. It is not necessarily a derogatory term; traditionally, people with white skin in Africa were considered wealthy and that belief continues today.
I’m beginning to sense that well-meaning muzungus are unwittingly feeding into an orphan tourism industry. It seems inter-country adoption has become vastly lucrative, with children as commodities. I’m sure most of these people are driven by compassion and a desire to help, especially after witnessing the levels of poverty. That’s why I think we are all such easy targets and why I reckon some of these homes keep the babies and children looking so impoverished.
But it’s not just the well-meaning people in search of a vulnerable child to adopt into their family that concerns me. If it’s that easy to “buy” children and bring them out of the country, surely they are at risk of sex tourism or child pornography.
The solemn young daughter drags herself over to her new brother and reluctantly picks him up. It’s an uncomfortable scene to witness. I can sense the girl’s scorn at having to accommodate her new brother, or is it her mother’s whims she is accommodating? I want to speak to the girl and ask her how she feels about this adoption and her new brother to be. There is so much fuss being made around the new adopted sibling. I wonder if her feelings have even been considered in this adoption.
It makes me wonder about my older brother Stephen. I know Stephen was not rejected by our parents in favor of Frankie or me, but I also know he certainly didn’t appreciate the day I appeared in the world. I wonder if he felt shunned in some way by having two siblings the same age running around beneath his feet. Perhaps he felt we were a bit of a circus show—the black and white twins. I was always finding new ways to seek attention while Frankie was always unwittingly the center of it. Frankie, however, was never a victim of Stephen’s disdain. I, on the other hand, was. Stephen, I am sure, has his own story. That is best left for him to share. Perhaps my greatest disappointment in life is that my biological brother and I have no relationship; we have never been close.
And perhaps too, Frankie subconsciously knew he had to make an ally of Stephen, and in his usual charming way, he did so. He was compliant with Stephen—something I was far from able to mimic. Frankie rarely showed anger, hostility, disappointment, or sadness and he could innocently garner pity. It is easy to get along with a sibling like that. I was the complete opposite. I readily showed my emotions. But then I didn’t have the internal anxieties that Frankie had.
Frankie and me in the bathtub
Leaving the Past Where It Belongs
Scotland, 2011
My inbox pinged early in the morning—an email from Dr. Eric Morier-Genoud, whom I’d been hoping to hear from since my January weekend in Belfast. I looked out the window at the beautiful April morning—the sun shining, birds chirping, leaves starting to show on the trees. Maybe this was a sign of good things to come.
I wondered if I should wait until Rony woke up before reading the email. I felt this could be momentous: I so hoped Eric had been able to find Janet! Perhaps he had found both of Frankie’s parents! I paced the floor, unable to wait any longer; I had to know. I said a prayer, then closed my eyes, hit the key, then slowly opened them enough to peek at the screen.
Dear Michaela,
I am afraid to say that the University Student records could not find any trace of Janet. Here is what they said:
“Unfortunately, we were unable to trace any records of Janet Weivugira (Wevugira).
I have contacted another college (St. Mary) and they had no record of an African studying there. I am afraid I have stopped there. I contacted a certain Wevugira on Facebook but he was unrelated.”
I hope you have better luck in Uganda, as well as a safe and pleasant trip. Please do let me know if you find any traces of her.
Our report is advancing well and we are hopeful to be finished by the end of April. I will let you know about it.
Best wishes and again, a safe trip to Africa.
Eric.
Just like that, my spark of hope for finding Frankie’s parents was extinguished. But how could it be? I could understand Janet producing an alias name for the father, but was she herself not on record as having been in Belfast? If Eric, who does extensive research on Africans in Belfast during the very time in question can’t find a trace of them, what chance do I have? I was deflated. It was just as well Rony was still in bed. Perhaps I could recover before he got up.
Why did this seem so important in the first place? Janet gave up her child over forty-five years ago, so why was I digging around looking for her? What right had I to have even opened that folder? She wasn’t my mother and even if I were to find her, Frankie would still be dead.
I needed to shake off my mood. A shower would help. I stared at the picture of Frankie and me in the bathtub as youngsters. It used to sit on top of our upright piano at home; now it had pride of place in my bathroom. I missed him so much. I missed all my family. I wondered if I was searching for his family now that I was technically an orphan myself. What piece of my life was truly so missing that I wanted to find this woman who gave birth to my brother? Was it that Frankie was so like a biological twin to me that I felt I had to carry on the search he had wanted to make in his last year of life?
The warm water from the shower merged with my tears.
My father always used to say, “Leave the past where it belongs.” I kept hearing that phrase resounding in my head. I knew that is what I had to do, to leave the past where it belonged. I had to resign myself to the void of never knowing who Frankie’s mother or father was.
I put my dressing gown back on, poured myself a coffee, went back to my desk and continued writing my novel. However, my life was soon to become stranger than fiction.
Hallowed Gates
Gayaza High School
Gayaza, Wakiso district,
Buganda Region, Uganda, 2012
The intimidating young guard doesn’t speak but brandishes his rifle at Rony and me.
I take a step back from the gates. “I’m here to see Head Teacher Vicky Kisarale.”
He smiles and relaxes his gun. “Ah, welcome to Gayaza High School. Any friend of Vicky’s is a friend of mine.”
The massive gates slowly creak open. We enter the grounds; it’s like entering a bygone era. The gates close with a thud. I have the sudden feeling of being trapped in Gayaza, like it’s a prison.
I’m swept back to the time I was singing at The Kingston Penitentiary for Women in Canada. I remember the large iron gates shutting behind me and being led by a woman with a rifle out to a beautiful lawn where I was to perform for women who were murderers. This is a school; still I feel a bit like I did that day—scared, but with a mix of excitement and curiosity.
I wonder if the young female students feel like this when they arrive here, knowing that they are expected to live and study in this one place throughout their high school years. It is such an honor for these girls to attend Gayaza, to even consider leaving would not be tolerated in Ugandan culture.
Gayaza High School is the oldest girl’s school in Uganda. It is an iconic institution. It was set up in 1905 by a formidable group of female missionaries to educate the daughters of chiefs to become suitable wives. Now, just about all Ugandan families wish their daughters to be educated here. I’m disappointed that, as today is a school holi
day, none of the students will be here to talk to or to see in their lovely red and white uniforms. But Vicky thought it best as it would give us more time to talk and for her to show me around.
We stroll up the long tree-lined path to Vicky’s office. As a young teenager, I certainly wouldn’t have coped with this kind of educational institution. I wasn’t considered “clever” at school and wouldn’t have been a candidate for such a lofty education. I was also far too attached to my home at that age—I would have hated being sent away to study as well as being separated from Frankie. I imagine myself being knocked down by the “clever” girls and wanting to call home every day. No, I was not Gayaza material.
I can sense history here—a history that I wonder if Frankie’s family perhaps also belonged to.
At the end of the path sits a church. I want to go in and feel the atmosphere. I want to tour the bright green manicured lawns that sprawl before me, walk through the unfamiliar trees and the long colonial-style buildings. Much to my surprise and delight, many of the trees have a sign nailed on them which not only gives the name of the species but explains the purposes they can be used for. I love trees and start reading the properties of the various species. I learn that the olive-green, bushy, fern-like tree beside me is called Grevillea Robusta and is used for external joinery. It’s also good for cabinet timber and is resistant to rotting. Then I spy a Mango Tree pregnant with its fleshy, rose- and lime-colored fruit. I read that its leaves and its bark cure coughs. I’m thinking maybe Rony should try some, but he has taken shade under a giant tree which seem to be ubiquitous here. It turns out he’s standing under the Mvule tree which not only provides excellent shade but is one of Uganda’s most valuable resources of good timber. I am busy taking in the sights and fragrances of the trees standing proud on the 140 acres surrounding us when we are greeted by the lovely Ugandan head teacher, Vicky. Her clothes are classic British—knee length skirt, checked shirt. She’s generous with her smiles and puts me at ease right away, something very few head teachers have done in my life.
“Come, come.” She ushers Rony and me into her 1950s-style office. “Tea?”
There is still something very British about the Ugandans and serving tea is part of that. I spy a picture of Sheelagh Warren on the mantel. Sheelagh Warren was the head teacher of Gayaza from the fifties to the eighties. And she is the other serendipitous reason I have found my way to these hallowed gates.
Serendipity
Canada, 2009
I was attending the induction of my friend Brian Galligan into the Anglican Priesthood in Canada and a group of us were staying at Brian’s house in Milton, Ontario. His cousin Sheila is a librarian and she was curious about my writing. I told her the novel was set in Uganda and that it started around the time of Idi Amin.
Sheila was astonished and told me her friend had written a book about the Archbishop of Uganda, Janani Luwum. I couldn’t believe it—I had just finished writing about Janani’s murder in my novel. Janani was one of the most influential church leaders in the history of Uganda. Sheila went on to tell me her friend, Margaret Ford, was a nun and had been Janani’s secretary at the time of his brutal murder. Later, it was discovered that Idi Amin had him stripped naked, beaten and then Amin shot him. Margaret had to make a harrowing escape from Uganda during the last and harshest days of Amin’s reign.
I was surprised Sheila had a direct link to someone who was in Uganda at the very time I was writing about. I had been trawling through old National Geographic magazines from that time, found for me by Rony in a second-hand shop, and surfing the net researching Ugandan history. But here was someone who had actually lived through it! Of course, I asked Sheila if she would be willing to introduce me to Margaret.
By the time I was back in Scotland, Sheila had already arranged for Margaret and me to talk on the phone. Subsequently, Rony and I were invited to stay with her for a weekend in Lincoln, England.
Margaret greeted Rony and me warmly and welcomed us into her lovely home. She was so friendly and genuinely excited by what I was writing. Bits and pieces of Ugandan memorabilia were scattered around her house. The first thing she did was to scurry around collecting them and explaining each to us—table mats, stools, drums and all kinds of African utensils carved from wood. I instantly liked this generous-spirited lady.
She asked if I had a picture of my brother with me.
Of course I did, a whole album of them.
Margaret took a photograph of Frankie in her hand. “Oh, he was a handsome boy. Muganda.”
It was obvious I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
“Your brother. He was Muganda. From The Kingdom of Buganda. From the Bantu tribe. I can tell by looking at his face.”
I could hardly believe it. I asked Margaret to tell me more about this Kingdom of Buganda.
“Well, they had their own King, known as the Kabaka. And their Queen, known as Nnabagereka. The Buganda people were sometimes referred to as the King’s Men.”
My childhood daydreams of African kings and queens were coming to life in Margaret’s living room! I always loved the idea that Frankie came from a land far, far away—in my head, it was always exotic. As a child I somehow missed the TV programs with immense poverty, mud huts, witch doctors and tribal rituals. Oh, there was often some teasing at school by kids asking Frankie where his grass skirt and scary mask were. But as far as I was concerned they were idiots, especially the ones who jumped around imitating a monkey or gorilla in front of him. Frankie’s left hook did come in handy at times. Oh, how I would love to be able tell some of those nasty children from school that my brother came from royalty!
Margaret showed me some pictures of her friends in Uganda and pointed out the features of different tribes. “See, here,” she pointed to an African lady. “You can tell by the shape of the nose, the head, the color of the skin that she is a Muganda lady. And the busuuti she is wearing—that is their traditional dress—usually it’s reserved for high days.”
Margaret dashed off upstairs and returned with a busuuti. “Here, why don’t you try mine on?”
Before I knew it, I was standing there having my photograph taken in traditional African dress. If only Frankie could see me now, how amused he would be, I thought. Margaret explained that all the different tribes have their own features and garments. “Like your Scottish tartan, some have their own woven fabric—like the Kenyan Masai. See here?”
I told her when Frankie was growing up in Scotland, everyone thought all black people looked the same. There was another black boy who lived near us who was always in and out of prison or in trouble for something. Frankie often got pulled out of school—even arrested on occasion—for crimes this other black boy had committed. The police always used to say, “Well, they all look the same to us.”
Over the weekend, Margaret read some of my book. She suggested I meet Miss Sheelagh Warren who was the head teacher at Gayaza High School from 1957 to 1990.
Three weeks later we were in the car, racing through yet another amber light in London. I was starting to have trouble breathing—much to Rony’s amusement. It wasn’t the huge scary roundabouts or the congestion on the roads that were causing my panic; it was being over an hour late for Sheelagh. By the time we hit another road block sign, Rony realized that my fear of head teachers was very, very real.
Sheelagh might have agreed to meet me, but she sounded very formal on the telephone and requested I bring Frankie’s adoption papers. I knew she was suspicious I might be a journalist. But I was suspicious, in turn, that she hadn’t left her head teacher days behind.
When we finally arrived at Sheelagh’s two-story terrace cottage, I was wishing I had packed my Rescue Remedy. I’d read there was a punishment tree at Gayaza. If a teacher wanted to punish a student for doing something wrong, they would tell the student to go and stand under the punishment tree. The aim was for the girls to feel ashamed because it f
aced the staff room so all the teachers and visitors would know who the naughty girl was. It was said to be thorny and not a pretty tree. I checked Sheelagh’s small garden, just in case she had planted an alternative to corporal punishment outside her home.
Sheelagh opened the door and I could tell she was not impressed by my lateness. She was the epitome of the old classic head teacher. However, she accepted my apology and told me I was a silly girl to have even contemplated driving from London to Farnham when I could have so easily taken a train. Once the lecture was out of the way, Sheelagh and her friend Anne treated us to a beautiful homemade lunch. Most of it was a cold buffet—she must have known we’d be late.
Over lunch, Sheelagh relaxed and talked with great passion about “her girls” at Gayaza and the struggles some of them had to endure. It is not easy for the African girl child but it was obvious Sheelagh had their backs. Gayaza was not just a school to Sheelagh—it was her home and the girls were like her daughters. Many of her girls carried the burden of broken homes, as well as the threat of witchcraft and its practices. The stigma surrounding the menstrual cycle was horrendous and although Sheelagh didn’t mention it directly, especially in front of Rony, I knew some of the girls would have been subjected to female genital mutilation. The practice is still very ingrained in some parts of the country; despite the fact, there are recent laws in place against the practise. I knew from researching my novel; the cutting is usually performed by women themselves who see it as an honor. Failure to initiate their daughters or granddaughters in this way can result in social exclusion. Gender inequality is still rife in the country, so it’s not hard to understand boys were always favored when it came to education. Much was expected of any girl given a chance at an education. She told me how the desire for education in Uganda led to an abuse of the system and how there was pressure exerted on the head teacher to admit unsuitable candidates. Mostly it related to someone in authority, or whose bribe was the biggest. She said, “It was an educational rat race.”
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