Death with Dignity

The last visit with my paternal grandfather was sad. His mind seems to have receded back a generation or two and he mistook me for my mother. The conversation was a bit awkward when he called me Janet (my mother's name) and asked me how Anne was doing. He died at the ripe old age of 93 and no one thought of his 'forgetfulness' as a symptom of illness. In fact everyone in our village understood that he was suffering from old age. His mind was allowed to wander undisturbed and in full understanding that his condition was expected and acceptable. One thing to be said for our village communities is the social security net of the extended family which ensured that the dignity of our elderly relatives was preserved in their final years. We supported them in their homes until they passed on then the family came together for the burial and funeral rites in what was strictly managed as a family affair.

But that was before we travelled and watched cable TV. Enterprising Ugandans have learnt that there is money to be made from old age and death, so nursing homes and funeral parlors are creeping in to erode the culture that surrounded our rites of passage. The simplicity and dignity of funerals is being replaced by the same vulgarity displayed at weddings. Social commentary and carefully positioned photographers focus on the place of death, the funeral company that is contracted, the number of wreaths, the size and style of the casket, the suits of the pall bearers and the outfits of the closely bereaved. A well draped widow in large, dark sunglasses with orphans in matching black outfits make for good cover stories for tabloids. Yet all the glamor cannot match the simple dignity and intimacy of my grandfather's funeral. The point was driven home when I returned to my deceased husband's graveside the day after his burial to find the pile of flowers we had left there was all gone. The carefully chosen wreaths picked by individuals to express their fond farewells were packed by the funeral company as we walked away from the grave weeping. The local undertakers who stayed behind to cover the grave were not accustomed to the new style funerals so they assumed that it was the norm for the pall bearers to pack the flowers back into the empty hearse. They did not realize that the grave was being plundered!

At 50 I know that we cannot stop the wave of modernity that comes with globalization and increasing affluence but I hope that we can identify the best practices in our cultures and preserve them jealously.

— feeling pissed off.

Becoming a Dinosaur

Five reasons why my kids think that am a dinosaur:

1. I remember my Dad's car number plates from the 70s (UYT 404) but I do not know the number plates of my car.
2. I love African American comedy and watched nearly every Eddie Murphy movie but my kids laughed when I asked, 'Who is Kevin Hart?'
3. I say 'I like that number,' when I hear a favorite song. Apparently no one says this anymore....
4. I tell them they can't go to the disco without my permission. Kids say they are no longer called discos.
5. The telephone number in my childhood home was 30365 but if you ask me the number of my cell phone now, I have to check.

At 50 I know am experiencing that curious phenomenon when it gets difficult to keep pace with new trends in urban culture or retain new frivolous information but thankfully my earlier memories are still intact.

 
— feeling concerned.

Daisy - More than a Toy

Daisy is a pretty little stuffed lamb that came into our home when my daughter was only four. Daisy has moved with us around the world from Plantation, FL to Silver Springs, MD, back to Plantation and then Lake Mary, FL before we relocated to Kampala, Uganda then moved back to Lake Mary, FL . She now lives with us in Nairobi, Kenya where we have already had two homes in as many years. We nearly lost her once in Mbarara, Uganda when the neighbors kids took a fancy to Daisy and borrowed her to play. My daughter's distraught reaction to that incident made me worry about her devotion to Daisy. I feared that Daisy symbolized some kind of deep seated feeling that could not be expressed in words. Now I regard Daisy as a symbol of the familiar: She is one of the few things in Jojo's life that has remained constant and predictable as I dragged my family across the world from one job to the next, one calling to the next, from one home to another. When I think of my childhood and youth there are only three homes I remember and only one that I call my childhood home because we stayed there longest. I had the stability of remaining in one place for years, decades. We got to know the neighbors and they became extended family at a time when Kampala was safe enough for kids to walk around the neighborhood without fear. We had mango trees and guava trees growing in the backyard and ate their fruit for many seasons. We completed primary school, secondary school, high school and joined university with the same group of friends. All this we took for granted and found rather confining so we dreamed of going abroad, far, far away from the familiar neighborhood of our childhood and youth. My daughter is 17 and Daisy hasn't grown at all but she is still one of the most loved and well taken care of stuffed toys ever. She represents the past and the familiar in Jojo's life...the mango trees and guava trees of my childhood in Nakasero.

At 50 I know not to dismiss the strong attachment that we have to our favorite things. They are the thread that weaves the tapestry of our life; the glue that holds together the memories that paint the mural that is the story of our lives.

— feeling thoughtful.

Mind Your Language

The other night I received a message which broke all known grammatical rules and reminded me of Henry Higgins' distaste for a Cockney accent in the 1964 seminal musical 'My Fair Lady.' Remember the line? 'Oh why can't the English teach their children how to speak!' We have been thrust into a global society and it's nearly impossible to find a homogeneous community (even on Facebook) that speaks only one language. English is no longer owned by the English - we all need one international language to survive in the bold new world. Unlike Eliza Doolittle, English is not our mother tongue and we do not have any obligation to meet Henry Higgin's exacting standards. We let the language evolve to capture our own cultures and idiosyncrasies; and in the process we slaughter the language and let it bleed to death on Facebook. Still I was outraged by the message which read:

'Its beyond ma human imagination to prove how u r doing. Well, i got to extend my sincere regards as far as your evening is concerned. have it nicely please.'

Normally I would have deleted the message but it was a gem in vulgarity. So instead I posted it on Facebook and let it bleed while we went down memory lane remembering past murders of the English language. During my youth the language suffered most when young men scribbled pick-up lines in the snail mail letters which we eagerly anticipated. The grammar was not always wrong but the metaphors were killers: 'As I saw your body gliding across the waters of the pool, my heart was arrested,' wrote one love sick pup. My personal favorite was: 'This morning I looked in the mirror and I saw you!' I sometimes wonder if the people who wrote those pitiable lines ever scored girlfriends. How I wish I had kept them for my daughters so we could compare notes.

At 50 I know that there are many lonely guys out there who have not realized that it's not their aftershave that's keeping them single - it's their poor use of language!

— feeling entertained.

Musical Disgrace

We grew up on kinder pop music. Lyrics could be followed, they generally made sense and told a decent story. Even then, our parents cringed when we bumped to 'Dance the Kung-fu,' rocked to Michael Jackson's 'Off the Wall' and jumped to Marley's Reggae. They were trapped in their era of waltzing to old Jim Reeves melodies and Miriam Makeba's 'Malaika.' I started to appreciate their perspective when I too cringed through MC Hammer's sounds and the violent lyrics of very popular rap artists of his time. In those days there was very little Pop music produced on our local scene . I kept hoping that the world would regain its ear for meaningful melodies and that our local music would gain pop status. Uganda eventually got its pop scene when someone automated musical instruments and priced them well within the reach of many including the villagers of my home town.
So recently I had the misfortune of listening to an artist from Western Uganda making his debut (and I hope his last attempt) at 'Pop.' The lyrics lament kids that are disrespectful of elders and castigate children for greeting their grandmother with 'Whazzup Nyakwe!' It took me a while to figure that Nyakwe was the hip abbreviation of Nyakwenkuru (grandmother!) From start to finish the song is full of contradictions and mixed messages crudely corrupting my mother tongue with broken English. The song's only entertainment value is its hilarious lack of logic as the singer stitches together unrelated lines that rhyme only in his dreams. Automated instruments have made it possible for untalented individuals to slap together a few lines and create melodious atrocities that they call music. There ought to be a law! 

At 50 I know that music technology has progressed faster than talent.
 

— feeling irritated.

Daddy Dearest

Every girl has a special relationship with their father and am no different. For as long as I can remember he has been the solid rock on which I leaned when things were not so sparkly in my life. In childhood he spoilt me and we had a warm relationship, as a teenager I rebelled and saw his harsh side. But it is in adulthood that he totally amazed me. My father looks out for me in a way that makes me indebted to him for the rest of my life. When I was broke he had some savings to share, when I was homeless, he offered me a roof over my head. He seems to understand my motivation for taking certain actions even before I have worked it out myself and he gives me clarity when I am uncertain. He never judges me even for my weakest decisions. He has offered advice without expecting me to take it and many times I take his advice because I do not feel the pressure of making the decision. Whenever am troubled he offers calm wisdom and often quotes that verse in Ecclesiastes that reminds us that everything is but the wind. When my marriage was on the rocks he did not judge or take sides, he simply stood by me holding my hand and praying. He never prayed for a specific outcome but he prayed for me to find peace of mind. Many a time he referred to my middle name; 'My daughter, I called you Busingye, (Peace) for a reason. Find you own peace of mind.' 

At 50 I know that there is truth in the suspicion that a lot of the dissatisfaction in marriage stems from women expecting their spouses to treat them just like their Dad did.
 

— feeling loved.

The Truth Will Set You Free

Children have a way of forcing us to revisit our past and to re-examine the truth about it. I remember the seething anger with which I walked out of my marriage to live separately from my sweetheart- I never divorced him (don't ask me why - I haven't figured that one out yet.) If you asked me at the time of leaving I could easily reel off ten reasons - a couple of which were strongly justifiable in popular view. If you ask me now I wouldn't be so sure. And that uncertainty crept in when my two babies, aged about four and six at the time; asked me so innocently 'Mom, tell us the truth, were we adopted?' I don't know what feeling hit home first: Guilt for not sharing with them the reason we were living so far away from their Daddy or the pain of knowing that they were missing him so much. As young as they were, society had already inflicted on them its misconceived norms of how many people should make up a family and they figured there was someone missing in the picture. Poor little tots were trying to figure out why?
I wish I could say that I immediately sat them down and told them the whole truth and nothing but the truth - that would be a lie. It takes time for us to deal with the truth honestly. We know the truth, in fact we live right through it but when the truth is too painful to share we hide it somewhere in our sub conscience and let it remain there undisturbed until some nosy kids shock us into searching for it and staring it square in the face. And so the truth is that the multiple reasons I used to give for walking out of my marriage were eroded with time. They were eroded by that sneaky truth that kept slipping out of its hiding place to confront me. My initial reasons were all his fault (of course,) but the truth showed up now and again to point me to the part that was my responsibility and after wrestling with truth for long enough you simply give up because truth is so powerful. Now that he is gone for good, I regret that while he was alive I did not find the courage to tell John, that the reason we were friends again towards the end was because I had made peace with the truth and owned up to my part in the breakdown of our relationship.

At 50 I know that being honest is something we are all proud of but in all honesty, it is not something that we can claim to be 100% of the time.

— feeling blue.