I admit there are more coincidences flying around the room than mosquitoes. The Scot in me is saying to myself that it’s time for the pub; everything gets fixed in the pub over a wee drink. Only this is a high school for girls and the strongest thing around is a Coca-Cola. Of course, Ugandans think Coca-Cola fixes everything—even amoebic dysentery, as I have discovered. Anyway, I am not allowed the decision or a Coca-Cola because the next thing I know Phibi is on the phone talking to someone in Luganda. She passes me the phone.
“Hello, this is Frank; I understand you knew my mum when she was in Scotland and have some information to share?”
“Eh, yes.” What am I saying, I knew her? I don’t know her or anything about her other than the fact that she gave up a son, my brother, your brother. I have obviously never met her. What on earth has Phibi said to him?
“That is good. I will be happy to meet you today.”
“Today!”
“Yes. Let us meet today. Where are you staying?”
I tell him and he says, “Perfect. I shall be there at two p.m. Is that okay?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” And he hangs up. No goodbyes. Nothing else. Ugandans don’t say goodbye on the phone; they just hang up.
I ask Phibi another burning question. “What age is Frank?”
Phibi tells me she thinks he is in his early fifties, which would make him older than Frankie and me. But that isn’t the picture I have in my head of Janet as an innocent young girl being led astray by some medical student. This means Frank was born before Frankie. But Janet wasn’t married. At least, she had told the adoption agency she wasn’t married. What is the real truth? If she was married before she went to the UK and had an affair, I am about to meet her eldest son. What on earth will I say to him?
Hoarding
Scotland, 1971
During the night, Frankie stole food. He was too small to reach the cupboard shelves but he knew to get the stool and climb up. He hoarded it in his blankets, under the pillows and the sheets. It upset Mum. His squirreling made crumbs in the bed. It didn’t matter however many times Mum told him there was enough food to eat, he still got up during the night, stole whatever he could find, and hid it in his bed.
I wish I’d never asked for my Santa sweeties that day. I’d been looking forward to eating them as they were so colorful, a rainbow of colors. Some twisted, some wrapped, some soft, some hard, some gummy. Love Hearts, Fizzers, Refreshers all fought for my attention. When Santa gave us each a bulk bag, my five-year-old excitement was hard to contain. I can still remember Frankie and me looking into each other’s bag to see if we had different sweeties and if one of us had more than the other. Mum suggested she put them away so we could enjoy them over a period of time; the last thing she needed while she was studying was two sugar-crazed kids running around.
Our first Christmas together
One day I asked Mum if I could have my bag down from the shelf. Since I had been such a good girl, she obliged. Guess what? The bag was missing and the sweetie wrappers were under Frankie’s bed. Oh, I wish I hadn’t cried. But I was five years old. I’d never seen so many sweeties in my life and my brother had eaten them all.
Of course, Frankie denied it and denied it and Mum got angrier and angrier. It ended with his bottom getting slapped, or as we say in Scotland—his bahookie got skelped. (Parents did that in those days without fear of condemnation.) Of course, Frankie getting a skelp made me cry even harder. I felt so guilty—I told Mum I didn’t care about the sweeties, but it was too late.
Mum was frustrated by the whole situation. It didn’t matter how many times she told Frankie he could have what he wanted, that he didn’t need to get up in the night and steal food and hoard it, he still did it.
Many years later, Mum and I were snuggled in bed one night at the Marie Curie Hospice. I was on the cot bed beside her. Our roles in life had changed by then and I was now her primary caregiver. She told me one time she’d wondered if she just let Frankie eat everything and anything he wanted then it might help him to feel more secure. So, she did just that and Frankie ate and ate and ate till he was sick. She told me how awful she felt for doing that to him, but she thought she’d be showing him that he didn’t have to worry about never having enough food to eat. I can understand. Sadly, it didn’t seem to cure Frankie of his hoarding. But what might be worse was that Mum was still holding on to the guilt of that little experiment in her last days. And I’m still holding on to the guilt of the Santa sweeties.
There were two more letters that I found in the manila folder which might explain some of Frankie’s behavior.
In 1979, Dad contacted the Church of Scotland Committee of Social Responsibility to ask for more details about Frankie’s adoption. The reply stated:
Francis was placed in the Children’s Home directly from hospital and had at no time been introduced to a foster family. This, unfortunately, leaves a gap in his early life.
Then a further letter, dated only a few months later, from the same lady, contradicting that statement:
Although there is not a great deal of information relating to Frankie’s background history, I would be only too willing to pass this information to you for future use. I feel it would be helpful for us to meet and discuss the advisability of passing on this type of information and any further matters relating to the adoption and if it is convenient, I suggest we meet Wednesday, April 11 at 2:00 p.m.
Although there is no written evidence of the meeting between my father and this social worker, I know what that gap in Frankie’s life was—a painful gap that Frankie probably never knew about. From her bed at the hospice, Mum told me Frankie was previously fostered with the view to adopt and then sent back to the children’s home. A double whammy!
From the contradiction in the letters, the information about Frankie’s first placement seems to have been covered up initially. Perhaps it was to protect Frankie emotionally, or perhaps it was in case it put off any other potential adoptive parents.
It wasn’t that Frankie had been a bad child, Mum assured me. It was that the young couple who wanted to adopt him came up against so much racial prejudice from their relatives that they eventually found the adoption impossible. The parents of the couple wishing to adopt Frankie told them that they would disown them if they went ahead with it. And so, Frankie was sent back. No wonder he hoarded his food. No wonder he wet the bed. No wonder he didn’t cry at night. No wonder, no wonder, no wonder.
I can only imagine Frankie’s young mind, thinking that at any time these people who were looking after him could disappear without notice. Even though he was cared for in the same way as I was, he must still have held on to that underlying fear of abandonment. My parents never told Frankie he had been sent back to the children’s home in his early life. I think it was just as well. But I am sure he knew, subconsciously.
Mum told me she thought she was having a nervous breakdown during those early years. It can’t have been easy. She was a young mother, trying to improve her lot for herself and her family by studying to become a nurse. My father was deep into his theological studies at university by day and working in a garage by night to make ends meet. The initial joy of adopting a little black boy was proving to be a strain on the family.
Today my parents wouldn’t have been allowed to adopt. First, truth be told, Dad had a petty criminal past. Second, they were both poor students with two other children. But times were different then and my parents were grateful they were not subjected to the rigmarole hopeful adoptive parents have to go through today. It was perhaps a time when people were judged more on instinct than box ticking. Whoever was responsible for allowing my parents to adopt Frankie did the right thing. Regardless of the struggles my parents had, they never regretted their decision to adopt Frankie—no matter what, they loved him as their own.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kampala Time
; Uganda, 2012
Gayaza is only forty-five kilometers from Kampala. However, it has become clear that it could take us hours to get through the traffic-infested capital. It’s an absolute nightmare sharing the road with the crazy drivers of motorbikes called boda bodas; local taxis, called mutatus, that cram people inside like battery chickens; and some cars that are, frankly, unfit for the road. We seem to be coming across at least one breakdown every few kilometers. I decide I might as well chill and enjoy the goods on offer outside my window.
All the windows are down. There is no air conditioning in the car. I can feel the sweat on my neck start running down my back. I wish myself in the Toyota Land Cruiser that pulls up alongside us. The disparity of cars on the road is a clear reflection of the ever-widening gap between the haves and the have-nots in this country. The signage on this trendy Land Cruiser reads, ‘Ugandan Health Service supported by UNICEF’. I’ve started to notice that the majority of brand-new four-wheel drive vehicles are the property of well-known international charities.
Street vendors mass as we sit in the traffic jam. I’m offered everything from loo rolls to live geese, anatomy charts, jump leads, dubious food, and an array of newspapers and magazines.
I look ahead and see fridges and coffins being transported on motorcycles. I even see a cow transported on one! I swear boda boda drivers believe that driving in the middle of the road is their right. The cacophony of loud electronic beats is starting to do my head in. A child street beggar orbits our vehicle, hoping to catch our attention. She looks to be around seven. I struggle with the sight of her twisted limbs and the malnourished baby she carries, even though I know she has been strategically placed to catch the attention of us travelers. I am convinced that a number of these infants are deliberately mutilated, enough to attract sympathy but not enough to be a physical burden to the parents or the putative guardian. As our car slows to a stop again, tiny, dusty hands fight for my attention, reaching in through any opening they can find. She tries to extract money from us in any way she can. She’s a professional.
Her sullen eyes stare at us. “Please, please, I beg you, please help me, Miss. Please.” Her beseeching manner ensures that Rony puts some small change in her pitiful little hand. Of course, I know it is probably going to go right into the hand of her “guardian” waiting across the street; the Ugandan equivalent of Dickens’ Fagin. I see one little victim collapsed on the street—she probably hasn’t had any food or water in this scorching heat. I offer my water bottle to the young girl still leaning on our vehicle. Our driver tells us not to encourage her and suggests we roll up our windows. These children are banners that remind me of just how desperate life is for many Ugandans.
As we carry on weaving through a gridlock of noise, pollution and smog, the potholes make me think the city must have suffered a recent military bombardment. I would roll my window back down but the terrible drainage which has backed up from last night’s rains makes the smell close to unbearable.
Ahead, a car drives over the roundabout. Someone needs to tell Ugandans—as well as the stray cattle, sheep, and goats—that they are supposed to drive around them. It’s positively entertaining—but I’m in a hurry to meet my adopted brother’s brother for the first time in my life and now a boda boda driver is trying to squeeze past us with a large coffin tied to its side.
Our driver tells me to relax. “No one is ever on time in Kampala, Miss Michaela. This traffic is always terrible here. Jam, after jam. Just stay cool. Richard will get you there—soon.”
I’m learning in Uganda the word soon can mean hours. I’m also starting to realize Ugandans love to complain about the traffic. However, I’m not convinced anyone in Kampala actually wants the roads to improve. First of all, it gives everyone an excuse to be late for everything, and if the traffic actually moved then how would all these street vendors and beggars survive? It also appears to give the local traffic police a chance to survey the cars for any “damage.”
Richard rolls down his window, “Yes, officer.”
“I see one of your brake lights is not working. That is very naughty. Very naughty indeed.”
“Yes, sir, we are in a hurry, sir. I will get it fixed.”
“Yes, well I am very thirsty.” He strokes his AK47.
Rony leans over and hands him a bottle of coke.
“Thank you, my friend. You are very smart, but your driver here is not so smart. I must charge him for this offense.” He takes out his notebook and slowly searches for a pen.
Richard whispers to Rony, “Have you got some dollars on you?”
“How much?”
“Just a few should do.”
Richard hands the officer ten dollars.
“Ah. Thank you. I see your muzungu friend has saved you from a ticket. He is very smart.” He hits the side of the car and sends us on our way.
It seems these angelically-dressed police officers who marshal the traffic make sure everything is running as smoothly as the lining of their pockets.
Richards laughs. “He spied you. The muzungu tourists. The car beside me might not have a windshield, and it might be blowing black smoke from its exhaust, but if they see a muzungu in my car, they will try to fine me by finding any flimsy excuse.”
Uganda is riddled with corrupt tendering processes, and it seems even traffic jams add to the Black Economy.
Finding a New Brother
We finally arrive at our guest house. I’ve got about five minutes to make myself look somewhat presentable. Oh, my God, what the heck do I wear to meet my brother’s brother?
I yell at Rony, “My hair’s a mess! Look at me!” I reach into the suitcase and bring out my portable heated rollers. Okay, give me a break, folks —it was my first time in Uganda. They have never come with me again! First, it is far too hot to contemplate them next to your head and second, the security guards at the airport think they are some kind of bomb or new form of ammunition for a machine gun. Take my advice; if you don’t want to be hauled away and almost miss your plane then do not take heated rollers to Uganda. Still, in my panic to look good for my new brother I plug them in.
“What will I wear? Don’t just stand there, Rony. Help me!” I’m having a meltdown. Poor Rony pulls out a nice white lace dress.
“No, it’s too short. Ugandans don’t like women to wear short clothes. He’s probably a strict Christian. After all, his grandfather was a pastor.”
Another outfit.
“Nope, it’s too pale. Ugandans like color.”
Another outfit.
“I read that Ugandans don’t like women in trousers; they prefer skirts and dresses.”
Rony is thankful that I have traveled light and therefore have little choice. “What’s wrong with what you’re already wearing?” He asks.
It’s a bright ankle-length dress. He is right. It is perfect.
There is not much point in doing my hair in Uganda. It’s hot and humid and putting on makeup makes even less sense. Still I have to try, after all; it’s not every day I meet my brother’s brother for the first time in my life.
Our guest house sits on the slopes of Namirembe Hill. It might command a million-dollar view but you wouldn’t have paid a single dollar for the first room we were offered. Only if you were some kind of religious fanatic on some kind of penance would you have wished to stay in that room; the plastic basin in the middle of the floor and the two small twin beds gave it a cell-like quality. They had just discovered upon registration that we weren’t married! Shock, horror and unspoken condemnation of our sinful ways is what I think led them to offer us that dark, lonely room at the end of the corridor.
Rony declined ‘The Mandela Suite,’ as he called it and after some monetary negotiations we were moved to something better. The room I’m now getting ready in at least has a double bed and a shower rather than a bucket.
We have arranged to meet Frank
in the small dining area outside. It is surrounded by lovely plants and shrubs, but is basic in both its food and its décor. The hot-food trays are still laid out, but they are empty other than one that has a shin bone complete with kneecap and hoof hanging out of it.
I’m sitting on a white plastic chair, slowly melting into it and wishing we had picked somewhere better.
Our guest house is a Christian establishment and therefore does not serve alcohol. Perhaps it’s a good thing I can’t order a large brandy as my emotions are already heightened, but boy am I ready for a glass of something stronger than African tea. My heart is racing. I’m filled with a sense of conflict and anxiety.
Lots of men appear in Frank’s age group, many wearing church garments: purple, black, white, and gold all parade the stairs of the guest house. White pastoral collars and gold crosses fight for my attention. Each of these men looks right at me—probably because I am looking right at them. I wonder if Frank has taken after his grandfather and become a pastor. I’m sorry I didn’t ask that question back at Gayaza.
Ugandans always greet muzungus. I’m fooled into believing they are all Frank. I even pick out the ones with long embroidered African dress—perhaps Frank, like me, wanted to dress up for the occasion. Then a man appears at the top of the stairs wearing a yellow and brown-checked shirt and beige trousers. He’s carrying a black briefcase and white plastic bag under his arm. There is no doubt this is Frank. He looks so like Frankie that it takes my breath away. I bolt upright from the chair. We are easy to spot, the only muzungus there. Frank comes toward our table. I can’t speak. Tears have started.
Frank doesn’t understand why this strange white woman is crying all over him. I want to compose myself but he looks so like Frankie that it’s simply impossible for me not to cry. I feel this unimaginable link and want to give Frank the biggest hug in the world, but he knows nothing about why I’m here.
We all sit down at the stark white table. Frank instinctively takes my hand and keeps hold of it. I’m thinking, this is totally surreal. I’m holding hands with Frankie’s brother in Uganda. This morning I didn’t even know he existed! I can’t stop staring at him. My God, he even wrinkles his nose the same way as Frankie when he smiles. We just sit there until I can compose myself. I don’t know where or how to start.
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