My new brothers and I come from different worlds. We are connected by a woman who is their mother and her child who was my brother. The connection is real. The complexities are real. The differences are real. And the emotions are real.
I learn through David and Frank of the deep passion their mother had for teaching and education. Since being here, I’ve been thinking about building a school in memory of my brother. I tell the boys my dream. My new brothers announce that it has always been their dream to build a school in memory of their mother. It’s a beautiful, romantic dream that we share.
Before we head back to Kampala, David wants to show us his home. He tells us it is close by, but I’m learning that could mean it is miles away. Thankfully this time it really isn’t too far to go.
David is proud of his home, a brick-built, three bedroom bungalow. Unlike similar properties in Scotland, this house is unfinished. There are no glazed windows and no internal doors. The walls aren’t plastered and there is no ceiling, just the eves. I’m impressed by David’s family home—it’s spacious and has much potential. I have already witnessed lots of unfinished construction in Uganda. I don’t know how they go about selling houses, but I would love to see some home reports. Of course, if we had Ugandan weather, we in the UK might not finish our homes either.
Much to Frank’s surprise, David has a lady friend staying there. It is hard to ascertain the exact position she holds or to whom the children belong, but it seems Frank has some new nieces and nephews and so do I!
David wants to show us his prized possessions. I’m expecting a car or a wide screen TV. Instead we are led into in a side room of his living room where two moth-eaten turkeys flap around wildly. I duck and dive, unprepared to be henpecked by this pair. I look up at the ceiling and there are the remnants of Christmas decorations still in the living room. I wonder if there was another, less lucky, turkey. The stench is overpowering but Rony insists on keeping me there long enough to attempt to pose for his camera with these two big birds. I’m grateful when David suggests tea.
Being Asked to Leave
In my family we used to joke that Frankie could sleep through an earthquake. He frequently slept through his alarm clock and was often late for work. However, because he was so charming, he mostly got away with it.
I now know that many black people sleep very deeply—quite differently to white people. I remember reading Michael Caine’s biography and his anecdotes about discovering this on one of his trips to Kenya. After trying to wake his personal driver without success and checking his pulse, which he couldn’t feel, Michael was convinced the man was dead and called a doctor at two o’clock in the morning. He fully expected him to write a death certificate. However, after checking the driver over, the doctor gave Michael a lecture for waking him up in the middle of the night to attend to a sleeping man. He told him nothing would wake the driver until he was good and ready to wake and suggested he hire himself another driver. I can see our Frankie in this story.
As a young man from Glasgow, Scotland, Frankie enjoyed a fair bit of alcohol. Probably not that much more than any of his peers, but when Frankie drank he seemed to get drunk faster than most – let’s just say he could become inebriated.
One Friday night in the early hours of the morning, when everyone else was sleeping, Frankie came home drunk and with a beery-hunger. His ritual was to put toast under the grill—not a toaster which would pop the toast up when it was ready, but a grill under the cooker. Frankie then went into the living room and subsequently fell sound asleep while the toast burned away to a crisp under the grill.
I hadn’t long gone to bed myself when I smelled the smoke, ran down stairs and possibly saved us all from a house fire. I somehow managed to get Frankie up to his bed before Mum or Dad was woken by the smell of smoke. Of course, the next morning Mum did notice someone had buttered the video recorder in the living room—like I say, inebriated.
The next time, I wasn’t there to cover for him. It was Mum who, fortunately, woke up and smelled the burning toast. The only way she could get Frankie to wake up that night was to throw a few glasses of cold water over him. He was oblivious to the potential threat of disaster she had just averted. The combination of being a deep sleeper and too much alcohol was deadly, and my parents knew it.
Frankie didn’t have good judgment when it came to people—seen through his eyes, everyone was nice. It was like a filter was missing when it came to judging a person’s character. Don’t get me wrong, he did have some wonderful friends, many of whom I’m still in touch with to this day. But he was a total sucker for people with sob stories—especially women. Sometimes he’d bring them back to the house. I remember one girl in particular who got up during the night and robbed us blind. She was a very clever little thief—we didn’t discover the theft until Mum and I were at the checkout in the supermarket and realized that all Mum’s credit cards and cash were gone out of her handbag. You can imagine Mum’s embarrassment.
At first, Mum thought Frankie had stolen her cash and cards. It’s sad but true that he had, on occasion, stolen money from her purse. Not much, just a few pounds or a fiver here and there. It was the principle that Mum couldn’t get her head around. It went back to the early days of him stealing food; why steal food when there is enough? Why steal money? He only had to ask her if he was short. And, just like the food as an infant, he’d tell her he hadn’t taken the money. Then he’d admit it; then he’d promise he was going to give it all back to her—with interest!
Frankie was always full of good intentions, great intentions even, and all his intentions were genuine. There was not a mean or bad bone in Frankie’s body; that was what made it so hard to be angry with him. But when it came to Mum, he eventually managed to make her angry. He didn’t once steal money from Dad’s wallet or mine. I hate writing this because I feel as if I am betraying Frankie by doing so; it is so difficult to be open about all the truths of our past. But I know there is no point in writing about the difficulties that can arise with some adoptions if I gloss over the specific issues we faced as a family.
Think about this from a mother’s perspective. If an adoptive mother offers a child her home, her love and everything she has and that child hurts her by lying, stealing, or almost setting the house on fire, then no matter how much she can try to understand the psychological wounds of that little soul, it still hurts—really hurts! Mum was hurting.
Some might argue that Frankie’s case was unique; it was and is, just like all children and all adoptions are unique. However, having read The Primal Wound by Nancy Newton Verrier, I have learned that it is not uncommon for the adoptive child to steal from the one person whose affection and attention the child craves the most—usually the mother.
A psychologist might call it testing behavior. A self-fulfilling prophecy. In the end Mum and Dad—very reluctantly—had to ask Frankie to leave the family home. Frankie had perpetuated his own myth that he wasn’t worthy of a mother’s love and that one day Mum would abandon him just like his biological mother had done.
Although Frankie was in his early twenties by this stage, the pain resonated in each one of our family members. We subconsciously knew the wounds were different from that of a biological child being asked to leave the family home. But the truth was that as much as they loved him, he was, at times, a danger to himself and the family.
Frankie laughing at Dad’s dry sense of humor
I think Dad, in particular, had enormous difficulty asking Frankie to move out. Dad would have adopted more children. Being honest, I expect it was partly to help him unravel his own emotions, because he genuinely wanted to give children a secure, lovely environment—something he himself had lacked. It was evident, even within my friendship groups, that he wanted children to feel safe and secure. Many of my friends saw my dad as their second father and our home was always open to waifs and strays. Many of my generation would say to this day that my dad had a pr
ofound impact on their lives. But no matter how much good Dad did with other children, I know he also felt he had failed Frankie in some way. Although of course, he hadn’t. I don’t believe he could have done any more to help him. Frankie and Dad adored each other—there was always laughter and playful affection between them. Perhaps their ease with each other enlarged the tensions between Mum and Frankie, but as a father and husband, he sincerely tried to address the conflict between Frankie and Mum.
The really sad irony is that the house fire in which Frankie died was due to a power failure and a total accident. Perhaps if Frankie hadn’t been such a deep sleeper, he might have woken up before it was too late. But sadly this wasn’t to be.
CHAPTER SIX
Grandma Miriam
Uganda, 2012
Frankie’s grandma lives in a parish called Vvumba, in the district of Luweero approximately forty kilometers from Kampala and just twenty kilometers from Gayaza High School. Phibi has arranged for us to visit; she believes so sincerely that God has brought me to Uganda for a reason and that my meeting her at Gayaza was divine providence. It’s hard to argue with the amazing synchronicity.
Even though Grandma Miriam is not Frankie’s maternal grandmother, to me it is the same as if she is. I am still not sure of the wisdom of telling Janet’s secret to the older generation, but Phibi reassures me that her aunt Miriam will be sympathetic to the circumstances and that I have nothing to fear.
As is customary, Frank, who hasn’t actually seen his grandmother in over thirteen years, wants to buy her some gifts. I expect Frank might be asking our driver to stop the car to buy some flowers or the equivalent of a box of Ferrero Rocher, but once again Uganda and its customs surprise me.
First, we stop at some roadside vendors to find the sweetest pineapples. After much scrutiny of literally hundreds of pineapples strewn on the ground, Phibi and Frank pick out about a dozen and load them into the back of the car. Further along the road we stop for the staple of the Ugandan diet, matoke—huge branches of these green banana-like plantains are ubiquitous in Uganda and they take up most of the trunk of the car. Matoke might look like bananas but don’t be fooled; when in an unripe state, which is the state in which they are most commonly used, it needs to be cooked—and well cooked. Its flesh is hard due to the heavy starch content and so it is steamed or roasted before consumption. Once cooked, the flesh turns to orange and its texture is like turnip but that’s where the similarity ends. It’s totally tasteless. Thankfully, we also pick up some of the yellow bananas that are more familiar to my palate.
Everywhere you look in Uganda there is food. Small kiosks and stalls line every road. Color and texture fight for attention like the vendors themselves, both in the towns and countryside. No one in Uganda should ever go hungry—in theory at least. The land is so fertile; I am sure if I planted myself in it I would grow. It has the perfect climate for most crops. However, the distribution of the harvest from the land leaves a lot to be desired. One in three children has no food to eat during the day and more than half the population is eating way less than they need. It’s surprising in a country that claims to produce more food than it can consume. Yet, poverty still limits access to good nutritious food.
Our next stop is a small grocery shop where Frank buys bread, rice, and soap for his grandmother. I ask what I should buy as a gift and am told to buy bottled water. I would have preferred something more frivolous like a beautiful scarf, a china teapot, perfume, or scented candles. Or how about a nice piece of jewelry? But I oblige and fill what is left of the trunk with my practical gift.
By the time we finish, the car looks like a small kiosk. Pyramids of pineapples, mounds of matoke, bunches of bananas—and not a chocolate or flower in sight.
We don’t have to go too far along a tree-lined red murram dust road in the rural village before we come to Grandma Miriam’s home. We stop at her small stone house, which has a huge ant hill sitting off to one side. An old dog who had been lounging on the rickety porch gets up from its spot to greet us with as much enthusiasm as it can muster in the heat.
A visit with Grandma Miriam
Sadly, we are not greeted at the door by Miriam as I had imagined. On entry to her humble home, I discover Grandma Miriam is paralyzed from the waist down and has been for at least eight years. As is her sister, who sits opposite, bookending her in the living room. I’m told there in no connection to their disabilities. Phibi tells me it’s a combination of things that has caused both her aunts to be paralyzed from the waist down. Miriam, I’m told was a fatty big lady at one point and fell down and got a bad fracture, then a foot ulcer. I’m glad being called a fatty big lady isn’t necessarily an insult in Uganda.
But now these two frail old ladies, legs outstretched and covered in blankets, sit like the epitome of grace in later life. Arms with skin like parchment covering thin bones reach out as far as they can to greet us all with warm hugs. Their broad, pink-lipped, toothless smiles are absolutely endearing as is their obvious excitement at this meeting.
They are both wearing their busuuti and I am deeply touched.
I can see that Miriam has little in the way of possessions, but I know instinctively that what she lacks materially, she makes up for in richness of experience. Her body is etched with the ravages of time. She reminds me of an old gnarled tree trunk that has stood for centuries. If you could see inside, you could count the rings. But her face is mild, gentle with soft saggy wrinkles.
Her sister, however, is like a Tutankhamun’s mummy. She is obviously well into her nineties—if not her hundreds—and looks as though she has been unwrapped from her bandages especially for our visit.
I sit down beside Miriam, who immediately holds my hands. Phibi starts to tell her the story of Frankie in her native tongue. Frank sits to my other side and holds my hand. He joins in excitedly to tell his grandmother all about his brother in Scotland. I’m overwhelmed. Here I am sitting enveloped by Frankie’s relatives in Uganda. I know Frankie is here with us! Miriam keeps her eyes firmly on mine and starts stroking my hands. Tears well up in her eyes as Phibi and Frank relate the tale. Miriam grasps my hands even tighter. Phibi tells me that Frank is explaining to her how Frankie and I were like twins, and how hard his death was on me. Miriam looks at me with such sympathy and then gives me the biggest hug, holding on to me as tight as she can.
This woman is not sitting in judgment of Janet or me. I sense she aches inside for the pain Janet must have felt giving up her child.
Phibi tells me Miriam is saying she is sad that Janet had to carry her secret on her own. She tells them she wishes she had known and could have helped Janet in some way. I am told she is saying she is grateful to me for coming and I am now her granddaughter. She says I have made an old lady very happy today. She thanks God for bringing me to her and telling her the truth. She thanks me for being a good sister to Janet’s son.
Miriam does not speak any English, but she doesn’t have to for me to know what she is thinking and feeling. She looks at me with such an endearing smile that I can trust she really is grateful for my pilgrimage and is somehow better off for this knowledge. I had feared the truth might destroy this mother’s image of Janet, but now I feel I have actually enhanced it in the eyes of this old soul.
Miriam is eager to see the photo album I have brought. She takes her time, taking in every detail. She quickly remarks how much Frank looks like Frankie. Frank’s face lights up when anyone says this. After looking at all the photographs, she reaches for the Bible sitting next to her. She picks it up and unzips it like it holds some precious treasure—and it turns out that it does. From its worn pages she produces a picture of Frankie’s grandfather in his Army Chaplains uniform. Wow, I can’t believe I am finally seeing a photograph of Pastor Wevugira. He looks so refined. She then shows me her wedding picture. It’s an immense thrill to see these photographs. I think she feels a similar thrill at showing them to me. Her eyes ar
e alive and sparkling as she remembers herself on her wedding day; she smiles and giggles like a teenager.
Grandma Miriam on her wedding day to
Frankie’s grandfather
The old black and white photographs Miriam shows me make Frankie’s family look like landed gentry. Some of the family look like caricatures of white people! But I know from my research that many did in those days. Still, to see Frankie’s lineage looking like this is both comical and endearing. They were a well-educated group by the looks of them, and proud landowners. Pastor Wevugira was obviously highly revered in the community.
As I look at photographs of Miriam, barely twenty years old, I think how difficult it must have been for her to take on four girls and five boys who had lost their biological mamma as well as a much older man of the clergy. But I can see in the photographs that, even in her youth, Miriam was made of the right stuff—tough, yet tender.
Miriam’s young helpers have been busy preparing a feast for us in the back garden. Most kitchens in Uganda are outside. It is amazing what a variety of food can be made on small wooden charcoal stoves in the ground and how much can be fitted onto a small wooden table!
Everything we brought with us has been magically transformed into a banquet fit for a king. The only thing we didn’t bring with us was the chicken. However, I have already decided it would be safer to eat like a vegetarian while in Uganda, so I gracefully decline the grilled chicken—again, and again and again.
After my vegetarian feast, I am shown the back garden and introduced to—no, not a grave—but two small chickens running around. Phibi tells me they just lost a sibling.
“Oh, dear,” I say. “That is such a shame.”
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