Many of my relationships at home are marked by a bit of teasing, good natured jabs that sometimes miss the mark but are meant to be playful. Here, in this new environment people have been courteous, respectful of differences; but the happy quality of good-natured banter has, until recently, been missing.
Yesterday, in the teacher's lounge, that changed. At 57, I am the oldest of the teachers. There is a 20 year old student teacher. Olaye, who greets me with a puzzled smile every day. Yesterday, he got up the nerve to ask, "How old are you." He was astonished at my response, in no small part because the average life span in Uganda is 45.
He remarked, "57! You are almost dead! In three more years--if you are still alive--you will be just wasting food."
I told him it was my intention to waste food for a long time. I also reminded him that we were in a small room, that I weighed 100 kilos and he only 60, and if he did not behave, I would catch him and sit on him. The teachers loved the exchange and ribbed us about our parts in it for the rest of the day.
Later, the two teachers I have been working with asked me to join them in taking lunch off school grounds in the market. They were sick of beans. Although apprehensive, I agreed. As we started out, Adonga Edward took my hand, a sign of friendship in Uganda. We walked, hand-in-hand, swinging carefree. Soon, Okama William took my other hand, and we three men strode out across the street. It was warm, friendly. I suddenly felt like an innocent again. Their hands in mine evoked a feeling akin to my father's arm draped across my shoulder on the way to a game, my mother's hand toussling my hair as I studied at the dinner table, my sister's kiss or brother's hug after a too-long absence. Suddenly, 7,000 miles away from family, I felt a little of the warmth of home.
On another note, my post-dining experience at what I think of as "The Road Kill Cafe" has been, shall we say, unsettling.
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