I turn a juicy
30 in a year or so. Not quite the dried out wrinkled raisin but I have enough
life under my belt to make some fairly accurate Observations.
Broken homes.
The generation
of our fathers were the last of an old stock. In Uganda, they probably are the
last to have seen three presidents and lived through Amin’s reign of terror. They
are the last of the baby boomers. They still hang on to traditions like going
to the village, the opinions of the public still determine how and why they do
things.
The mothers of this
generation are enduring symbols of strength. Most of them have endured the
hardship of raising children in an uncertain times and making due with the little
that the ripped economy could offer. They were your everyday run of the mill MacGyver’s.
They were cooks able to scrounge up a feast with a tomato, half an onion and
some dried out greens. They were doctors and nurses who only rushed to the
hospital when all home remedies, both theirs and the supermoms in the
neighbourhoods had failed or when sickness and injury dropped on their loved
ones like a ten tonne bomb.
They stood tall,
like the ageless rocks, filled with so much wisdom, and love but like the other
side of the coin they struck terror into our childish hearts when we crossed
the line. My mom’s favourite weapon was her hard rubber Bata sandal. Many a Ugandan
bottom turned blacker after a few good whacks and when all tears were dried,
her voice and hands soothed the skin she had bruised. Moms were
everything.
Like the rocks
the endured another silent torture, one that only they and their kind could
endure. They tolerated marriages that died a long time ago to raise their
children and provide a stable environment for their precious buds, the seeds of
their labour to grow and blossom, nursing hopes, in their heart that they would
not have to go through what their mothers had. They took the tongue lashing and
the tongue wagging, braced only by the hope that tomorrow would be a better day…not
for them, but for their children.
Fathers of this
generation were the last of a patriarchal breed. They were never wrong, they
were not to be trifled with and they were as stoic and unmoving as a tick on a buffalo’s
rump. They were the lions and the jewels. The roamed the grasslands with no
equal. They had those silly rituals they insisted on that showed that they were
THE MAN of the house. When they got back, tea was served of course after the
dotting young sons had taken off their shoes and brought their slipper.
The slumped in a
chair, slurped their tea as they perused the newspaper. They then lumbered to
the bathroom where hot water, cooled to just the right temperature was waiting
and after they had washed away the grime and tension of a hard day, lumbered
back to the sitting room and plumped back into the chair, turned on the TV to
watch the news and have their supper. This was their routine.
Most of us
remember the whole concept of dads chair, dad’s cup and plate etc. if you do not;
well you are blessed and should think on your good fortune.
They had one
thing in common, there were never really there and when we grew up we were
informed that we were not alone for our fathers had scattered their seeds far
and wide. For some this realisation was at their father’s funeral, when the
many children and wives gathered all vying for a share of his spoils. For others
this realisation was much sooner but none the less abrupt. A stranger invited
into the home and you informed that you were going to share your room with a
new brother almost your age or older.
For me this came
when we shifted and my mom did not join us. My new mother was already ensconced
in the new residence and my brothers and sisters from another mother waited me.
The rest is history.
Broken Lives.
Could they do
things any different? After all their fathers were just like that. They sprouted
from the earth of polygamy and conquest. They knew no other. Their mothers were
powerless, mere property; they could not alter the course of this tide. Into the
mouths of their babes they squeezed their life blood in the hope that their
desire would be heard by the ear a child has for his mother. But alas this was
not to be...
And so they put
together new families like ill cut jigsaw puzzles. Of course there was to be no discussion. His
word was law. This chapter is too long to write but just know when we watched fairy
tales we understood because we too had our evil step mothers. Some were
mistreated while some were just ignored, left to the hands of neglect.
That is that
rock onto which the China Cups that were our little vulnerable lives were
dashed never to be gathered again. Our Humpty Dumpty experience was begun. The king’s
horses or the king’s men could not put us back together again.
Words I have,
but alas patience and time I do not. I could fill a book with the injustices perceived
and real I suffered. The physical stuff is easy to get over, humans are made to
survive those, but the emotional stuff was just too much.
It is at this
point that the heroes our fathers were pulled to the ground. His castle,
nothing but a man child apparition, sand washed away by the rising tide of his children’s
hurt, hate and resentment.
We soldier on
for what can children do? We transformed ourselves into child soldiers, true
infantry, for the battle that was our home. Through this we had to live through
the chaos and confusion that was puberty, another one of life curve balls.
We soldier on
and somehow we make it. We travel forward through time doing school and finally
university and then our first job. I cannot even begin to unravel the dilemmas
we face on the way as the past; the reality of my parents is washed away by new
norms and cultures.
I cannot even
begin to explain the back breaking nerve racking balancing act to please our
parents and fulfil their age old ways and follow the trends of our times. To integrate
digital mind-sets to analogue mind-sets.
We were the new
kids on the block they the old guys from the village.
Broken kids.
It’s only now,
at the threshold of 30, that I begin to deal with some of the baggage from the
past. I know what you may be thinking, you may think that maybe I should have
done this a long time ago and maybe I would agree. But the past 7 or so years I
have been too busy growing and dodging every bullet life has shot at me and its
only now, armed with some experience, growth, peace and a knowledge of myself
can I go back and look into those trunks packed so many years ago, and one by
one deal with the broken kid in them.
The armour is
not too big nor the sword too heavy. I am a
man now but I have to deal with the nightmares of a child. There are
some dragons in my past that need slaying before I go on.
