my consultation fee just because I’m from her tribe! I thought corruption was only for the politicians and big businessmen. But here, in a small town clinic, I am going to be the beneficiary of a corrupt doctor’s receptionist. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Well, I don’t care right now.
I have spent the day running around offices getting papers stamped. Now, I have to get a doctor to give me a check-up, approve this medical form, and stamp it.
I was about to walk out of this clinic because the consultation fee alone, without the medical check-up fee, was way too high. But then, the receptionist glimpsed my name on the form and said, “Eh, you mean you are from my village! Why didn’t you tell me your surname, I would have done you a favour.” Then she started chatting away in our language. “If you had told me where you were from,
I wouldn’t have told you to pay that high consultation fee. In fact, I’ve got enough for today, so don’t bother paying for consultation
. Just wait for the patient who is in now to come out and you can go in for your check-up.” Thank goodness she sneaked those last sentences in English.
She started rattling on in our language again. I dared not inform her that I didn’t understand a single word she was saying. Today, was not going to be the day I revealed my excuse for not knowing my mother tongue. I will not reveal to her that
I became aware of my vernacular deprivation in ‘93, when I was a child.
Daddy had taken me to the classroom and left me there. I stopped sobbing when the teacher led me in. The room was so big!
There were over a hundred children in there; at least seven pupils on each of the fifteen or so benches. The walls were dirty, and you could see
where the blue paint had been chipped at by enthusiastic kids. There were no cupboards, no teacher’s desk, no carpet, no sleeping corner, no tiles. The room held only children, benches, a cemented floor and a huge, old blackboard positioned at the front. Everything was so dated. It was as if the décor had been inspired by an Adams Family episode. At the back of the classroom, bags were sprawled all over the floor,
since there were not enough hooks on the wall to carry them all. I looked up at the man who I assumed was the class teacher, as I’d heard my daddy address him as Mr. Muhangazima, and asked, “Where is the fridge?” There were loud gasps and the class started laughing. I began to cry again. Mr. Muhangazima bent down and quietly said, “
This is a classroom. We don’t keep fridges in classrooms. We don’t have a fridge in the school, except the one in the canteen.
Mpozi there’s a new one in the kitchen –” “But where will I keep my break time snacks?” “Just leave them in your bag and then put it at the back of the classroom.
” He led me to the back and pulled one bag off a strong hook, hastily threw it to the ground, and put mine in its place.
I couldn’t understand my new surroundings. Back in Australia, my Grade 2 class – with just thirty-two pupils - was the biggest in the whole school. Each class had a fridge to keep snacks until break time and a microwave to warm them if necessary.
My Australian class had a carpet for story time and tables for writing at and red and blue building blocks for doing algebra. We also had a painting corner, an ‘imaginary’ corner, and a sleeping corner for taking afternoon naps. And we could wear anything we wanted.
Not like this school, where I had to wear white socks pulled up to my knees and a green and white checked dress that looked exactly like the ones mummy used to 26 wear when she was pregnant with my younger brother - except mine had a belt. Such a strange uniform! Mr. Muhangazima took me to a bench at the back of the classroom. There were five pupils seated at it. “Daisy is a good girl” he said as he beckoned me into a seat next to a thin lipped girl, “she will make friends with you.” He walked away chuckling as though it was hard for him to suppress his laughter. As soon as I sat and said “hello”,
Daisy pulled away from me and in doing so almost pushed the others off the bench. She looked down at her book and continued doing the math exercises that Mr. Muhangazima had left on the board. I had never have to add fifteen to twelve without using building blocks, so I could not understand a thing. I didn’t want to be laughed at again, so I didn’t ask for them. Every time
I tried to ask Daisy to explain, she inched further and further away from me. It was as if she was blocking me. There was some barrier I could not penetrate. Barriers. My attention was brought back to the receptionist’s incessant rambling.
Somewhere in between, I figured out she had offered me a seat in the waiting area right in front of her desk. It’s 2011 and I still feel like there are barriers I cannot penetrate, like this one. What on earth is she saying to me? It’s been 18 years and I still feel like that girl my classmates were inching away from. I can’t break into certain social circles because of this barrier. Either
I’m trying to break into people’s lives, but they shrink from me because they don’t understand me or I’m
avoiding people because I’m too ashamed to reveal that I don’t understand them. I wish I could hide from the receptionist right now.
What if she figures out that I can’t speak our language? Will she still think of me as a village mate or will she feel taken advantage of and withdraw her no-consultation-fee offer? I’ve encountered so many barriers; age barriers, education barriers, gender barriers, but none has made me feel as alienated as the language barrier. Anyone can understand a woman fighting for her rights, but few comprehend how one can fail to learn their own language. Thank goodness more patients have walked in! Now the receptionist is preoccupied with explaining to them the high consultation fee prices
. One patient has a Kenyan accent. Lucky her. Everyone can understand why she can’t speak any Ugandan languages. Perhaps next time I walk into a place I should speak with a foreign accent so that people can immediately address me in English. Urgh!! That thought reminds me again of that first day in school. After that episode with Daisy, it was time for social sciences.
The teacher was skinny and tall. She walked to the front of the class and crooned, “Good morning P.3 K.” “Good morning, Miss Nakanwagi!”
Everyone stood up to greet her. “Good. Sit down. Where is the new girl?” Everyone turned and looked me. “Eh, they have not yet cut your hair?
Did the headmaster give you permission to keep your hair long?” I hadn’t noticed that none of the girls had hair on their heads. Before
I had time to think about it, the teacher had sent a boy from the front of the class to the back and told me to take his place. At the front,
I felt as if people’s stares were piercing my back. Halfway through the lesson, I began to feel stupid because
I couldn’t answer any questions. She was asking about Muntu and Sera - the first humans on earth and then moved on to some tale, mentioning
Gipiir and Labong.
Then she asked the shape of the world. Finally! I shot my hand up - I definitely knew the answer this one! “Yes new girl. Stand up and give us the answer.” “It’s a circle.” I shouted, beaming. The class burst out laughing
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