“Repeat!” The teacher made me repeat my answer until my new classmates started mimicking my accent. I sat down, depressed. Everyone was laughing at me. I was so relieved when it was time for break. I wished I could have hidden somewhere in the school and not return for another class! Before walking off to eat, I went to thank the teachers for their classes.
They were sitting at their table on the classroom verandah. My thanking them sparked off some kind of debate. “Eh bambi, the girl is from outside countries but she is still well-mannered,” said one of the teachers. “You mean people from bulaaya have bad manners?” Mr. Muhangazima always seemed kind and supportive when he spoke. “Nanti they are always proud and spoilt when they come back, but this one bambi even thanks us for teaching?” “
Wamma go and have your break before the bell rings.” When I turned round to look for a place to sit, I wished I could have stayed with Mr. Muhangazima instead, because all the children were avoiding me. The school was so big.
The road from the main gate led up to a roundabout. On the left side of the road was the lower primary section, made of primary one and two (referred to as P.1 and P.2). The rest of the school was on the right side of the road.
This included the school kitchen, administrative offices, main hall and staff room. Each class had five streams; N, P, S, K and U, derived from N-akasero P-rimary S-chool K-ampala U-ganda. When daddy and I had reported to the headmaster’s office that morning, the headmaster asked which colour I liked best among yellow, blue, red, green and white. “Green”, I had said, because I was in green house in my school in Australia. So he allocated me to P.3K because all the K classes were in the green building of Eland house. Whoever designed the school was very organized, because each block of classes had five classrooms for the five streams. And the classes were huge; accommodating over a hundred pupils per stream. The P.3 and P.4 blocks were separated by a big, grassy, fenced compound. I sat on a step on the verandah of my P.3 block, near the teacher’s table. I began to eat the bread and cake mummy had packed for me. Then Daisy came up to me with another boy and asked, “Wamma did you used to talk to Eddie Murphy?” “Who is Eddie Murphy?” I responded. “The one who acted in Coming to America.” “I don’t know Eddie Murphy. I came from Australia, not America” “This boy said that your father is a black American! He saw your dad bringing you, he even heard him talking like from America.” “No. My father is Ugandan, but we used to live in Australia.” “You see I told you!” she said to the boy and they walked off arguing. Then break time was done. The English teacher was awful. She started with my bench which was at the front. I couldn’t open my book with the homework she wanted, because since it was my first day at a Ugandan school; I didn’t have any homework completed. I didn’t want her to get to me because I hated the way she was screaming insults about everyone’s work. But I didn’t have enough time to nurture my fear because I was the fourth person in the row, “Where is your homework?” She asked. “I’m -” “Don’t tell me your nonsense!! Where is your homework?” Before I could answer, her hand slap me hard across my face. “Didn’t you hear me telling people to open their homework on the bench –” The multiple shouts from the class telling her that I was a new pupil silenced her. “Eh, sorry.” And she walked on, just like that, screaming at the next person in her broken English. 28 I had never been slapped before, except by my mummy. I had tried to be superman and flew off the top of a cupboard and sprained my knee and pretended to be dead. She was so scared and angry and happy at the same time, so that when I came to all she could do was slap me for giving her such a fright. But why would a teacher beat a student? In Australia, a teacher hit a child once in my nursery school and was arrested. No one is allowed to beat children there, except their parents or guardians, and even then, there were restrictions on how much a parent could beat their own child. Beating. It is strange how I have gotten so used to it over the years. I am not even perturbed by the sound of policemen beating idlers on Bombo road just outside this building. The clinic is on the fourth floor where the tear gas doesn’t seem to have had as much effect. The receptionist finished with the other patients and turned back to me. By her gestures I could tell she was saying something about the ongoing riots. Ever since Muammar Gaddafi died, the opposition thinks it can overthrow our president too. So every Monday they hold ‘Walk to Work’ demonstrations. All opposition party members and parliamentarians walk to their offices. Idlers and workers in town stand by the roadsides to cheer them on or join them, so every Monday morning the police and army roam about in ‘mambas’ spraying tear gas and pink water at the crowds, then the shops close for a few hours to prevent theft, until the protestors are arrested and released on bail, then the businessmen put on a demonstration because the ‘Walk to Work’ campaign disrupts their profit-making, then the university students hold a strike because the lecturers use the campaign to extend their weekends. This cycle has continued for months, such that medical workers, teachers and lawyers have also taken turns going on strike. I would like to use the routine to stay safe at home, but this week is my deadline for sending the papers. This morning I took a taxi before the sun rose (and before the protestors started walking to work). I wisely spent the morning going to offices further from the town center where there wasn’t much commotion. In the afternoon, I had to brave the remaining disturbances to visit the offices in town. I hid in the crowded toilets of the commercial buildings and turned on a tap to wash tear gas out of my eyes. Everyone was in their offices because they couldn’t go out into the smoky streets, so I got everything else signed and stamped, except my medical forms. There was no way I was going to get through to the taxi park to go to my family’s clinic. Well, at least not until the evening when everyone would stop rioting and go home. So I stopped at the first signposted town clinic and entered into the safest-looking building. And here I am now, staring at the receptionist’s blabbering mouth. Our pseudo-conversation was interrupted by a small crowd rushing a bleeding child into the reception. I couldn’t tell if the blood was coming from the child’s forehead or eye. Either way, the blood managed to mingle with mucus from the nose and so was smeared all over the left side of the child’s face. The mother was wailing. She looked more terrified than the injured little girl who was sobbing quietly. The girl must have been about eight years old. As they whisked her into the emergency room, I thought the receptionist would finally be silenced by the horrific scene. I was wrong. It gave her a lot more to blabber about. I think she started talking about things that make women and girls cry. I hate seeing crying girls. They remind me of that unforgettable first day. *** I sobbed and cried quietly throughout the English lesson that day. The teacher made me think of the stories of Amin that I had heard. Daddy said the reason we came back to Uganda was because President Amin was no longer president. H. E. Museveni had restored peace, and so we didn’t have to be in exile anymore. If it wasn’t for Amin, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling like an outcast in my country and new school. My big sisters wanted to stay in Sidney for a few more years, but daddy said when death came his way; it should find him in his own country. He had spent the last two years sending money back to Uganda in order to build a home for us. Also, since he was a viceprincipal of a teacher’s training college in Australia, Makerere University offered him a big job that
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