On the day we are to install the equipment we get up very early, drive across town and deposit the money required at the Fire Masters.
Now, as I said before, everyone is late in Kampala and the Fire Masters are no exception. The Fire Masters inform me they will be there by 10:00 a.m., but by 2:00 p.m. they haven’t arrived and I am starving. We’ve been up since 6:00 a.m. and have already driven across the city and back.
Rony and I decide to take a driver to the nearest little café for a bite to eat. We tell the Babies’ Home to call us the minute they arrive as we want to film the extinguishers being installed. Of course, no sooner has our egg and chips arrived but the phone rings. We wolf down the café’s only answer to fast food and jump in the car.
Just as we are driving through the gates of the home and I spot the Fire Master’s van, the song, “Frankie” by Sister Sledge comes on the car radio! I cannot believe it—that was Frankie’s song! The song was such a hit in the early eighties and of course, we used to tease Frankie by singing it to him. The chorus goes like this:
Oh, Frankie, do you remember me?
Do you remember me? Me, Frankie.
It is as if he is saying to me, I am right here with you, Sister and I am watching what you are doing today.
I had spoken to him that morning. I often speak to my deceased family and friends, because as far as I’m concerned, they are not really dead; we just can’t see them. I had told him what we were going to be doing that day in his memory and how much I wished he was there with me. I had asked him to give me a sign, and here it was.
All this happened the very day before I went to Gayaza High School, saw a picture of Frankie’s mother and met his brother, Frank. It is easy to understand why I got the feeling that some powerful force beyond my understanding was on my side.
Everything synced up. Right down to the first dance Frank and I have together.
Modern-Day Miracles
Scotland, 2012
A month or so before we went to Uganda, Rony decided he’d had enough of his general practitioner and switched to a new doctor, a Dr. Ian Kennedy. When Rony went to see Ian for the first time at his surgery, he informed Ian he was going to Uganda and needed one more injection. Ian told him he had a very good friend, Dr. Moses Apiliga, who was from Uganda but lived in Glasgow. To Rony’s surprise, right there and then Ian picked up the phone in his surgery and called Moses.
By two o’clock that same day, Rony was sitting in Moses’ surgery in Scotstoun, having tea with him and explaining my story.
It turned out that Moses came to study medicine at Glasgow University in 1966, the same year Frankie was born. Just like Frankie’s mother probably had been, he was unceremoniously uprooted from his home in Uganda and told he must go to the UK to study, whether he liked it or not.
You see, after Uganda gained its independence from the UK in 1962, its government sent its brightest students to the UK to study. Their tuition fees, accommodation, clothes and sometimes even a car were all paid for. In fact, as Moses stated, they felt like the richest students in Glasgow at the time.
For some Ugandans, the prospect of going to the UK to study was a dream come true. For some, like Moses, the anxiety of forced separation from his family and all he knew in Uganda caused him great upset. It was an honor and opportunity for which only a chosen few were selected, whether they wanted it or not.
Uganda was very proud and wanted its student ambassadors to present themselves well and not show the country up. Moses, like Janet, was sent on a training course, to learn how to behave in the UK. They were taught how to hold cutlery properly and other weird and wonderful things that are seemingly very British. One of Moses’ favorite stories is that he was told he must never eat in the street. When he got here he couldn’t believe all these people eating fish and chips out of newspaper wrappers! And poky hats—ice-cream cones—in the freezing cold weather!
He still finds it hard to eat on the street in Scotland, but not Uganda; there he loves nothing more than to stop at the street vendors who cook muchomo—long meat kebabs—on small charcoal barbeques by the side of the road. I’ve never tasted them as I’ve been advised the meat could be anything—including rat! But Moses grew up eating rat and devours these meat sticks with delight.
Needless to say, Moses and I became very good friends. If you think about the way we met, it was again, miraculous.
Before we were due to leave, Moses warned Rony and me about a few things in Uganda. He wrote them down on a sheet of paper. In fact, he thought they were so important that he wrote them down three times each.
Corruption, corruption, corruption!
Personal safety, personal safety, personal safety!
Unexpectedly, a few days before we were due to leave, Moses called and said he had to go to Uganda urgently because someone had claimed he was dead and stolen his land. We learned that this is not an unusual occurrence in Uganda, buying land there is like buying air. While this was bad news for Moses, it turned out to be great news for Rony and me. Having Moses there in person to help us navigate a complex country was wonderful, and he facilitated many things for us. But perhaps the thing I was most grateful to Moses for was the party he threw for us on the evening of the day I met Frank.
Don’t Worry About a Thing
Uganda, 2012
Moses is the first person I call to tell I have found Frankie’s brother. Moses says he has been praying for this miracle as he knew in his heart I wanted to find the family; he is overjoyed for me.
That evening he arranges a celebration for us all at his friend’s restaurant, The Carnival. If you like meat, lots of meat, then it’s the place to go in Kampala. You can eat as much of an assortment of meat as you want (no rat). Then, when you have finished eating, you turn a small wooden carved Gorilla on your table over onto its back.
Moses has also made sure that there is a traditional African band playing. Not only is the food an absolute feast but the traditional music and tribal dance mixed in with some more modern-day reggae are simply incredible.
Grass skirts, tribal masks, tribal makeup, creative headpieces, jewelry and spears all grace the dance floor. My childhood imagination of Africa is coming to life in front of me.
An eclectic array of traditional instruments I have never seen before are used to create this captivating music. The drums are simply hypnotic, and the speed at which these people play is incredible. The energy of the dance is worthy of an Olympic medal. The height they jump is jaw dropping. It is simply spectacular. This is Uganda at its finest, such a rich cultural heritage of stories, music and dance. All of which is on display for us as I sit with my new Ugandan brother.
When Frankie died, the album on his turntable was Bob Marley’s Exodus. As fate would have it, the first song Frank and I dance to together at The Carnival restaurant is Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” from that very album. It’s a fantastic song that makes anyone feel better. I’m sure you know it:
Don’t worry about a thing,
’Cause every little thing gonna be all right!
And at that time everything most certainly is. As soon as that song starts playing, Frank stands up and puts his hand out toward me. I know what he is thinking—I want to dance too! I can feel the rhythm in my shoulders, my legs, my heartbeat. He is grinning in that familiar way Frankie used to. As Frank walks me to the dance floor, I notice we are almost the same height. Frankie was taller than me by about four inches. The only time I was ever taller than him was when we were about six years old—and boy did I enjoy that.
Frank and I dance around the sizable wooden floor, singing along to the Bob Marley lyrics. It is as if Frankie is there in the midst of us. I’m no longer worried that I’ve done the wrong thing by telling people about Janet’s secret. Everything is indeed gonna be all right. I have a new brother and my family has just expanded like the legs of the African dancer jumpin
g in the air in front of me.
Soon everyone from our table is up dancing. Rony is grabbed by one of the dancers from the band and shown some African moves. The energy is electric.
Everyone in the room is so joyful for my coming to Uganda. Shortly after we return to the table I receive another wonderful surprise.
Frank makes a phone call from the table. “Hello Paul, you were right, the meeting was about our brother.” Frank hands me the phone, “It’s your brother, Paul, in the States; he wants to say hello.” Paul’s voice bubbles like the drink in front of me. He tells me how he had tried in vain to trace Frankie when he was living in the UK, and how disappointed he had been not to find any leads. He is quick to tell me he was the only one who believed the story about their mother leaving a baby boy in the UK. He explains to me he was touring with his band Limit X in Europe and he had stopped in London for a few days to visit family and friends. When he was there he called his cousin who told him her mum, his auntie, was very sick and about to pass on but she had a message from his deceased mother that she had to pass on to him. “That day, I called Auntie Pursis, her voice was weak but she told me I had a brother in the UK whom I had never met. I was in shock.”
“Yes, Frank told me a bit of the story today but said, at the time, he didn’t believe you.”
“I didn’t want to believe it either but at the same time I was asking for any contacts of my brother. She gave me some names and I promised her I would look for my brother and I would find him, and now, you show up all these years later. This is a miracle of God!”
“I know, I know. It’s incredible. I can’t believe I have found his family after all this time.”
“I called all the hospitals and every contact I had including my mum’s guardians in Belfast and no one seemed to know what I was talking about. I knew it was true and never gave up hope that God would send me my brother. Then, when Frank called today and told me he was meeting someone who knew our mum, I just knew in my heart it had to be something to do with my brother. I so want to meet him. Where is he living now?”
My heart sinks. Why has Frank not told him his brother died? I don’t know what else to do but tell him the truth, “Paul, I’m not sure how to tell you this but your brother, Frankie, died a number of years ago in an accidental fire.”
The excitement leaves Paul’s voice and he is lost for words.
“I’m sorry, Paul. I thought Frank would have told you. All I can give you is pictures and short videos of him. I can tell you about him if you want and how he lived his short life. He was loved and had a good family.”
I know Paul is sad and is finding it hard to comprehend. I sense he is genuinely upset. He tells me he so wishes he could be there with us in person to celebrate finally making contact and he is glad for that. I feel the same way.
“I cannot wait to meet you, Sister, and give you a big hug and share stories with you about our life and find out about our brother.”
I tell Paul I am so happy to have found my brother’s family. It has turned out to be truly one of the happiest days of my life. I have to pinch myself; here I am sitting around a table with some of Frankie’s family in Uganda and with Moses’ relatives. I have a new Ugandan family. Everyone is euphoric. Oh, life is good. God is good. Modern-day miracles do indeed happen.
Homing Instincts
I married a man who was adopted practically from birth—at three weeks old if I remember correctly. Gerry Foster was born in Canada, but his first set of names, given by his biological mother, was Gregory Allan Monroe—more Scottish names you could not find. As a result, Gerry had romanticized about Scotland all his life and had always wanted to visit there. When I was on holiday in Ottawa, Canada, a young red-headed girl from Scotland, was it any wonder Gerry took an interest? Being a hospitable Scot, I told him he was welcome anytime. So, Gerry arrived one day in Scotland for a holiday and four weeks later we were getting married.
I have always been drawn to people who were adopted, fostered, or who have suffered major rejection from their parents. They seem to be able to hone in on me and me on them—not just from across a room but even from across the globe. Talk about a homing instinct!
I didn’t know Gerry was adopted when we first met, in Canada. He was dating a friend of mine, but the minute he found out I was Scottish I had a new best friend and she sadly lost her lover. I instinctively knew his pain. And guess what—I wanted to heal him. Did he hurt me? Of course, he did. Did I hurt him? Of course, I did.
You see, Gerry was told by his well-meaning adoptive parents that his Scottish mother loved him and was doing the very best for him by giving him up for adoption. I’m sure many adopted children are told this. It’s understandable. But think about that message for a moment: I am abandoning you because I love you. It might have been the truth because in her heart she thought it was the best thing to do. But isn’t that a bewildering statement? In my experience, it sets in motion a great deal of unconscious confusion in a person’s heart between love and abandonment.
For love to be accepted there must be trust, trust that you will not be abandoned. Loving someone is scary, but I think more so for adoptees. The rejection and abandonment they fear can manifest itself in all kind of self-destructive and testing behaviors. There can often be a need to control and at times a misdirected anger at the person who loves them. That very love causes so many internal anxieties that I think, in some, it can lead to an unconscious sabotage. Love does not always conquer all—especially for the parents and lovers of adoptees.
Just like my brother, I think I have spent my life trying to calm the silent screams of the others I have loved. I wasn’t qualified to do it and they weren’t qualified to heal me either. But boy, was letting go of that and freeing myself from the legacy of their trauma—and mine—difficult. The hardest thing I ever did was leave Gerry. We both had painful lessons to learn.
Adopted children can love, oh, wow can they love! But they need to get past the subconscious anxieties. The wounds are deep and defenses are strong. Most are totally unaware of them and that makes it very tricky, sometimes dangerous, to even go there. The pain is so intense and the coping mechanisms are so ingrained. I am sure there are many adopted people out there who would say that I am wrong and this isn’t the case at all for them, and they are fully adjusted human beings. But I’m taking my chances in the hopes that this might at least help the few who are not faring so well with the emotional trauma of separation.
We all want our mummies and daddies. Even if that mother beats you and puts cigarette burns on your body, often excuses are made for them and the pain internalized: you blame yourself for being a bad child. I know this because my sister-in-law, who was also adopted, was taken away from her biological mother by social services because her mother was an alcoholic. She had been found with cigarette burns on her body. Did my dear sister-in-law stop loving her mother when she found this information out? No. Instead she went in search of her biological mother as soon as her adopted mother died.
My sister-in-law left it until then as she hadn’t wanted to hurt the woman who adopted her, a woman she loved dearly. Nevertheless, the need to find her biological mother was so strong that she contacted Children’s Aid to search for her. She was very brave. She knew the facts but wanted—needed—to know who her mother was. She was also curious to know if she had any siblings. She felt she could not be whole until she had met her mother, and had hoped and prayed she was still alive. She did find her; she discovered her mother was also looking for her and it was a happy reunion. By that time her biological mother was a recovering alcoholic who had carried the pain of what she had done to her child with her the rest of her days. It turned out her mother lived around the corner from Gerry and me—just meters away! They were lucky to find each other; both needed to heal. It turned out Sandra did have a half-sister and they became close. Sadly, her sister died a few years later. The mother returned to alcohol sh
ortly after, and the cycle of hurt began again. Regardless, Sandra still found solace in having found her mother and bonded with a sister. She also told me she realized that blood does not necessarily make a family.
I think most children have an unconditional love for their parents and most mothers never forget about the child they gave up for adoption. That’s what makes the whole thing so tragic. Children aren’t born with an ability to defend themselves from their parents, and the social systems that are in place are far from perfect. I have found this especially in the case of the ever-increasing intercultural adoption in Africa.
Me with my new brothers David and Frank
Eeenie, Meenie, Miney, Moe
Uganda, 2012
This is a big day for me. I am going to visit Janet’s grave. She is laid to rest in Masaka, which is also where Frank’s brother—my new brother—David lives. We have arranged to meet him in the center of Masaka town.
I feel uncomfortable using that word, “brother.” Frank has taken to calling me his sister, but he is not really my brother. Not in the way Frankie was. I worry that I am dishonoring Frankie in some way by calling his biological siblings my brothers. Doesn’t one have to earn the right to call someone a brother or a sister? It’s a pretty powerful word. Still, it seems to be the way here, so I go along with it.
Besides, I do like having this new family of brothers. It’s comforting to know I have brothers, even if they don’t really know anything about me. After all, my biological brother Stephen and I lived in the same house for almost sixteen years and he still doesn’t know the first thing about me.
Frank has even taken to holding my hand, especially when we are crossing the streets. It’s just as well as the traffic seems hell-bent on mowing me down. Crossing a busy road in Uganda is not for the faint of heart; there’s a real skill to it.
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