Christmas in northern Uganda

MINE was what one would call a Prodigal Son’s Christmas. Prodigal Son’s X-mas in that I’d spent a staggering three years and counting since I had last been home.To most kinsmen and village folk who knew me, I was that other member of the family who had no face, who only existed through the snippets of stories told of me.But why had I spent all this while away in the first place? And where had I been? Doing what? Was I now married?In my three year absence from home, I had not seen my dad. Not a single time! I hardly heard from him directly. When he wanted to hear from me, or know where I was and what I was up to, he most probably went through an intermediary. And whenever this happened (talking on phone), it was obvious things were tense. Once we were done with the pleasantries, an awkward silence would pervade that mysterious realm that happens between two people on opposite sides of a phone conversation. Most times, there was simply nothing to say!The most difficult part of it is that I never once knew why I actually had nothing to say to my own parents. Well, sometimes, a few times, perhaps in one of those light, inspired moments, I felt I could really push a conversation with my dad beyond the standard ‘how are you plus everybody in the family?’. But doing the deed was tough. Well, to be honest with you, it required some bit of effort, of courage even. And that, precisely, is what put me off the scheme, effectively turning me into a total stranger to my own family. Why was it needing some effort and courage on my part to just as much as talk to my people on phone? To me, this was something weird, something I Just could not understand.I also had karmic debts to settle with my mum. This is a woman who talks extremely little, even with her own children. She rarely speaks and she rarely admonishes using her tongue. Rather, she does so using her trained and experienced eye. Whenever I lock eyes with her, that single magical moment is usually a revelation; a revelation into the state of our emotional relationship.The last time I had seen her was in Entebbe, my birth town, when we met at one of my sister’s home. Upon seeing me then, her first words had been; ‘Are you now another Lucky Dube or what?’ She had been shocked to see my shabby and unkempt beard, overgrown hair and a very pale, ashy skin. That was about one and a half years ago. She had by then spent as much time without any sightings of me. It was obvious (and scary) then that we were strangers. This fact was rife in the air. So rife that whenever we took a pause from a conversation and the house fell silent, people shifted uneasily. I often found myself fidgeting and fumbling with this or that; the TV remote, kid’s toys, something from the bookshelf...you name it.Whenever I walked past or in front of her, I could feel her intent gaze almost piercing through my back. I did not need to see her stealing such intense gazes at me; I just simply felt it.Fast forward to Christmas. Now that I was coming home, one would have expected that I would now have shored up some courage to excitedly announce my home-coming. That is what it should have been, what I should have done, but did I?It still felt weird to call up my parents proclaiming my return to the fold. After so much silent animosity toward them, I just simply could not get on the phone to them. So what I did was to make word of my intended trip seep through slowly. I called up two sisters who were also home-bound, though not with the same amount of karmic debts and explanation to do as I. I made it be known to them that I was determined to make the trip from Kigali to Gulu in the Northern Province of Uganda, whether that be on foot. My parents were not the only ones to have borne the brunt of my wayward, anti-family behaviour. The entire family did. Hence I could feel the elation in my sisters’ voices as they welcomed the news of my X-mas home-coming. And all I wanted from them was simple; to relay this bit of good news to mama and papa. They did not disappointBut, where I’d been a stranger during my sabbatical, now I seemed to look even stranger; my mum particularly found many things weird; that I prefer a chilled Pepsi to tea for breakfast, that when I wake up, I don’t want to speak to anybody till I have done an hour or so of reggae music, which reggae music itself she found strange and fit for social rebels.Everybody seemed not to understand why I woke up first every morning and took a walk or bike to literally nowhere. I kept telling them that there is nothing more enjoyable than walking, or riding about aimlessly, just sucking up on huge quantities of unadulterated oxygen, with no clear itinerary. During such aimless walks, I would melt into reminiscence mode; I sat at shop verandas and sipped Senator Lager, the ‘common man’s beer’, other than trying to wow the village with pseudo-exotic tastes. I tried not to make people at home hear me, but feel me.I had a blast, and I’m sure they too did.

Lifestyle

Christmas in northern Uganda