Starchild

by Michaela Foster Marsh

  Everywhere I looked in Sheelagh’s house there were biblical quotes and pictures of Jesus. She was a missionary in Uganda for over forty years. Born there to missionary parents, she later returned and taught throughout the most turbulent post-colonial years. As far as Sheelagh was concerned, God would protect and provide for those who put their trust in him. She believed in all that happened, however fearful, God was there. Sheelagh had looked down the barrel of several guns. She lived through chaos in the country. From 1972, a regime of torture began and many professional people fled or were murdered. Sheelagh told us that even when the British Consulate ordered her to leave the country for her safety, she had snuck out of the Consulate, jumped in her car and told her driver to go back to Gayaza: she wasn’t leaving her girls.

  After the liberation from Idi Amin, there was a merry-go-round of presidents, followed by a raging civil war with its horrors lasting for almost ten years. Sheelagh lived through it all. Most of the killings took place in the Luweero Triangle only a few miles from Gayaza High School. Armed men crossed the compound almost daily. Every journey outside the school was a risk-taking adventure of road blocks and intimidation; water and electricity were erratic and there was no phone service. She spoke of the loss of staff and lives threatened, yet the school never closed. The children never missed a meal or an exam. In fact, Gayaza became a refuge for many who had nowhere safe to sleep. Sheelagh and Anne, who had also been a teacher at Gayaza, sometimes welled up as they recalled those days.

  After lunch, the ladies pulled out photo album after photo album. They showed Rony and me pictures of her girls in their busuutis. Sheelagh claimed her school had invented the busuuti and went into an elaborate tale to back it up. “It used to be a long piece of cloth tied under the armpit until Miss Allen designed a yoke for it in 1905. You know my dear, the larger the lady looks in her busuuti the more respect she will gain. Thinness is not admired in Uganda.” She said it while looking right at me. She pointed out the various colors worn by the girls and the ladies and the symbolism each had. I’d never seen so much color and pattern! She shared pictures of formal occasions where her schoolgirls would switch their immaculate white and red uniforms for tribal costumes and sing and dance with patriotic flags flying in the background. She produced a vast array of pictures of blazing flowers set against deep blue skies and faces of joy with bright smiles. Despite the harrowing tales in our earlier conversation there was no evidence of weary faces in these photographs. Only the resilience of the human spirit shone through. I felt humbled to be sitting in the company of these courageous ladies.

  After much reminiscing about Gayaza, Sheelagh asked to look at the adoption papers. Suddenly Sheelagh started repetitively tapping on the piece of paper. “I know that name…that name Wevugira…I know it. I don’t know why or how I know it, but I know that I know that name from Gayaza. It’s a very unusual African name.”

  I grabbed Rony’s hand. “I have goose bumps. Are you sure, Sheelagh?”

  Sheelagh looked right at me. “Yes. Yes. I know that name Wevugira.”

  I looked away, afraid I might cry. Sheelagh could see this meant a lot to me. She patted my hand, “Just leave it with me my dear. It will come to me. My eighty-year-old brain doesn’t work as well as it used to, but it will come to me in time.”

  There was no doubt I had been serendipitously led to both Margaret and Sheelagh. But Sheelagh couldn’t remember where or who the connection was with the name and I wondered if I was once again being led on a wild goose chase.

  Then, two weeks later, I received an email from Sheelagh. She’d remembered where she knew the name from and confirmed it with one of her Old Girls—another teacher at the school. She believed Frankie’s grandfather to have been the pastor of her school from 1950 to 1960. I had not only placed the lead character of my novel at that school, but now I had discovered that Frankie’s grandfather worked there. I couldn’t believe it—now I had to go to Gayaza.

  Long-Lost Family

  Gayaza High School

  Uganda, 2012

  As I think about Sheelagh and all the memories she shared with me about her turbulent post-colonial years at Gayaza, I can’t help but survey the room looking for bullet holes. In 1988, when Princess Anne visited the school, Sheelagh wondered where best to seat her in case she became distracted by the number of bullet holes in the wall.

  I point to a picture behind a Dickensian-looking desk strewn with paperwork, “Wow, look Rony; it’s Sheelagh.”

  Vicky looks surprised. “You know our Sheelagh?”

  “Yes. I met with her at her home in Farnham, England. She is one of the reasons I’m here.”

  “Oh, wow. God is good. I am an Old Girl of Gayaza. Joined in 1973. We girls of that year call ourselves ‘the firstborn’ of Sheelagh Warren.”

  Sheelagh has left such a powerful legacy; I can feel her presence in the room as surely as if she is standing here. I want to ask where the bullet holes are but our tea has arrived. We sit down around the small table at the front of the room. A gentle breeze pushes through the open slats of the window and I’m grateful for it.

  I explain to Vicky I had an adopted brother whose parents were Ugandan. I tell her I know very little about his mother but, by a very strange coincidence, I met Sheelagh Warren just months before I was coming to Uganda and she thinks perhaps my brother’s grandfather was the pastor of the school from 1950 to 1960.

  Vicky just about leaps from her chair. She lifts her hands and places them in a prayer position, “Oh, praise the Lord,” she says with vigor. “Praise the Lord indeed.” She brings her hands back down and places them firmly on my lap, leaning into me until we’re almost nose to nose. “And Sheelagh remembers this man?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It would seem so.”

  “And now you are here! Here at Gayaza.” She throws her hands wide. “All the way from Scotland.” She lifts up her hands again. “This is a sign from God.” She pats my lap again and looks at me. “We must find him.”

  “Oh,” I say, “that would be good.” Find him, find Frankie’s grandfather? The guy is surely dead. He’s probably been dead for 50 years. If he were alive, he’d be over a hundred years old and that would indeed be a miracle.

  I put my cup of tea down. “I had wondered if perhaps there is a photograph of Pastor Wevugira somewhere or perhaps the church he preached in is still standing. I know it was a long time ago.” I emphasize the word long, just in case she’s missed something.

  Vicky leans in again, this time doing a kind of break-dance move with her head. “Did you say Wevugira?”

  “Yes. I think that’s how you pronounce it.”

  Vicky repeats the name again and again, “Wevugira. Wevugira. Wevugira.”

  By now I have noticed that Ugandans do like to repeat themselves, and often repeat what you have just said. But I’m thinking maybe it’s my pronunciation that has got her looking so quizzical.

  It seems to me there are two types of Ugandans. There are the Ugandans that hardly move a facial muscle when they talk and who sit back patiently when someone else is talking. And then there is the type that has these amazing facial and body expressions. They seem to somehow throw their whole body into a conversation, their faces contracting and contorting with every sentence. Vicky, it has to be said, falls into the latter category.

  She puts her hand on my lap again and pushes in closer, “Wevugira.” Vicky stares right at me. “I know that name! Why do I know that name?” She shakes her finger like the head teacher she is. “That name came up in conversation the other day. Now let me think, let me think.” She looks up at the ceiling as if it holds the answer. Even the oscillating fan seems to be whispering, “Wevugira, Wevugira.”

  I’m starting to think that this name has a connection to some long-forgotten witch doctor’s spell that makes everyone think they know it. There is movement outside the office. Vicky stands up like a meerkat
and looks outside. “Phibi! Phibi! Come into my office.”

  A middle-aged African lady walks up the short, paved path leading to Vicky’s office. The door is open to greet her. She is dressed in classic African attire: a swirl of orange and brown patterned skirt and top clinging neatly to her curvy physique.

  “Ah, Phibi. I did not expect to see you today. Please, meet my new friends from Scotland.”

  Phibi stands back a little with her hands clasped in front of her stomach, head tilted to the side. She smiles broadly. “Ah, Scotland. Welcome. Welcome to Uganda.”

  “Phibi. I think you know something about the Wevugiras? Did you not say something to me about the Wevugiras just the other day?”

  “Yes. Yes, Janet. She’s in the cupboard.”

  “In the cupboard?”

  “Yes. Yes, the big cupboard. The one behind your desk. We had a hard time opening it, but Janet is in there.”

  Rony and I look at each other. Surely Frankie’s mum is not in that big old cupboard facing me. I mean things were getting strange but still!

  “Sorry,” I say to Phibi. “Do you mean there is something about Janet Wevugira in that cupboard?”

  “Yes, my dear. I found an old photograph of Janet in there just the other day. You see, I did not know until the other day that Janet had actually attended this school as a young girl. I only noted it because well—” Phibi sees the tears falling from my face and asks, “Why are you so upset my dear?”

  Frankie’s mum

  I am hardly able to talk for the tears streaming down my face into my mouth. I mumble, “Janet Wevugira was my brother’s mother.”

  It is as if the Ugandan rains have stopped. The only thing making a sound is the hypnotic fan still whispering Wevugira, Wevugira. Finally, the chattering birds outside the open windows give me permission to break the silence. And it’s my turn to start chattering away. Before I know it, I have told them the whole story. Ugandans like stories. They listen in like children—oohing and aahing and twisting their faces, opening and closing their eyes, shaking their heads back and forth, reflecting the emotions they are feeling from the story.

  Vicky starts rocking back and forth in her chair. “Oh, my God, Oh, my God.”

  Oh, dear, I’m thinking to myself. This looks very bad. These women look traumatized by this news. What on earth have I got myself into? I should have never opened that stupid manila folder! I should have never come to Uganda or started writing my novel! I should have left the past where it belongs—in the past!

  Phibi is still standing, hands folded over her stomach, head tilted to one side. Then she tilts it to the other side, looking at me curiously. I can almost see her mind ticking over, trying to fit the pieces of this rather complicated jigsaw puzzle together. Her head does that weird break-dance head move thing that Vicky’s does. “You mean she gave up her child. Janet. And Janet was your brother’s mother? Janet Wevugira, in Scotland. She had a baby boy. And the boy died?” Her neck sticks out as long as she makes the last word last.

  “Yes.” I say it as if I am testifying in a courtroom.

  Phibi’s eyes are wide open, fully dilated like a shocked cartoon character. “Oh, God. Oh, God. And you are the boy’s sister!”

  I start crying even harder and telling them I didn’t come here to open up Pandora’s Box. Janet probably hadn’t told anyone she had given up her child. I explain I didn’t come here to find his family, I came for research for my novel. The last thing I was expecting to find was Janet in the cupboard.

  Vicky jumps up, “No. No! Don’t you see my dear girl; you have come here for a reason! The Lord has brought you here today. You have written this novel for a reason. The good Lord has brought you here to find this family. We will help you.” Vicky raises her arms again. “Praise the Lord, this is a miracle. A real-life miracle. In this room today!”

  “Praise God!” Phibi joins in the chorus. “You are right. You are so right. It’s a miracle!” Phibi goes on to justify this miracle even more by telling us she was not supposed to be in school today. She had forgotten her paperwork and decided to come in and pick it up—just at the very time we were visiting Gayaza. She didn’t know anyone would even be at the school since it was a holiday.

  The two women are practically singing in unison, “Oh, God is good! Oh, praise God. God is good indeed!” In fact, now they are dancing. They are doing the Bugandan Shuffle, as I have come to call it endearingly. It’s a hip-swinging Ugandan happy dance. I swear they are also tongue trilling.

  I want to join in the dance. It’s hard to stay still, but my head is pounding and I have one hundred and one questions and apprehensions running through my head right now.

  Phibi notices I’ve withdrawn. She tilts her head to the side again and looks at me sympathetically. “You look so worried my dear. Do not worry. I know the family. I am a relative. Phibi, me, I will help you find your family.”

  Oh, no. A relative. Please, God help me. I am sorry I opened that folder. Janet is going to be furious that I have told her secret. She’s probably moved on, and here I am all these years later showing up in Uganda asking her to relive the pain, the shame! Oh, good God, what have I done? But no, maybe I’ll be able to speak to Janet in private and tell her what a wonderful life Frankie had, what an amazing brother I had. Maybe Janet needs to know what happened to her son and that’s why all this has happened. I convince myself God really did want me to come here and find Frankie’s mother and show her pictures of her son and tell her all about his childhood. But no. Oh no. How do I tell her that he died? Oh, God, this is a mess!

  Vicky puts her hand on my lap again. “It’s okay, dear. Please don’t worry. Know that I am here for you also.”

  I finally ask the question I have been aching to ask. “Is Janet still alive?”

  Phibi tilts her head to the side, closes her eyes for a moment and then says softly, “No, my dear. Janet died some time ago now.” She sees the tears covering my face again and says, as if in comfort, “But she had three boys that are still alive. My dear, you have brothers! Let me call Frank. We must speak to Frank.”

  “Frank!” Rony and I say in unison.

  “Yes, Frank is the eldest brother.”

  I mumble through my trembling lips, “That was my brother’s name.”

  Rony puts his arm around me. He has been filming some of the day’s events but has long since stopped. “Maybe you should let Phibi call Frank. They are right. You’ve been brought here for a reason, Michaela. He even has the same name.” He reminds me of my belief in the universe. “When you’re doing the right things, the right things happen.” Even Rony is starting to believe that the universe has set up this coincidental meeting.

  But I insist, “No! How could I tell these boys their mother gave up a child for adoption in Scotland? I am sure she hasn’t told anyone.”

  “My dear, what can we do to help you?” Phibi asks.

  Vicki puts her hand on my lap again, “We know Janet did the right thing. It was the only thing she could have done. She could never have come back to Uganda with an illegitimate child. It is okay. We understand only too well her situation. Things have changed since then. We understand. No one will judge her harshly. She did the best thing for her child.”

  They are so nice to me. These two complete strangers. They are genuinely moved by my story and want to help me. I agree it is all very strange. I always knew I’d come to Uganda; even as a child, I dreamt about Africa. But this is beyond even my imagination.

  I whimper, “If I could just see a picture of her, please? I’ve never seen a picture of his mum.”

  Well, Phibi was not exaggerating when she said the big old cupboard was hard to open. After all this, it seems as if Janet doesn’t want to give herself up. It takes three men and a couple of tools to eventually pry the cupboard open. By this point, I am hoping there is also a bottle of brandy in there.

 
; Phibi reaches in and pulls out a large black photograph album. As she does so, she explains that the other day she was asked to compile an album of some of the Old Girls. That was when she had come across the picture of Janet.

  We flick through the photograph album. My heart is literally in my mouth. To see a picture of Janet is beyond my wildest expectations. I don’t believe anyone could be more excited if it were their own biological mother they were going to see a picture of for the first time.

  Janet is absolutely beautiful and Frankie’s double! Dressed in white, with small pearls around her neck, she looks like the epitome of innocence. The photograph is dated 1946-1948. There is no doubt this is Janet, my brother’s mother. I hold the picture in my hand. Hello, Janet, I say to myself. It’s nice to finally put a face to your name. Did you know I used to wonder about you? Did you guide my journey? Or was it Frankie? The tears fall hard again as I imagine them both with us, right at this very moment.

  “Michaela, you should let me call Frank. He’s your brother now and I am their Auntie Phibi.”

  “You’re their aunt?”

  “Yes, my dear. Frankie’s grandmother is still alive. She’s my mum’s sister. So they call me Auntie.”

  “You mean Janet’s mother is still alive?” Oh, no this is all too close for comfort. I could happily stop at the picture of Janet, but the fact that Phibi is a relative and a not-so-distant one is just too weird for words. And his grandmother—alive—how is that even possible?

  “Phibi,” I said. “Think about it. How on earth do I tell an old lady her daughter got pregnant during her studies in the UK and gave up the baby for adoption? There is no way I could EVER do that.”

  “No, no, she’s not her real mother, but she accepted Janet as her own. Pastor Wevugira’s first wife died and he remarried. That girl was my mother’s sister, and she is the grandmother of your family. Let me call Frank for you. I won’t say anything. You can talk to Frank. Trust us. God has brought you here.”