Wham. The dust flies in the air and I sneeze. I shouldn’t sit near the mess that is my neighbor making flour from her sorghum harvest but moving away would be an insult. Wham. Sneeze. Wham. Sneeze. The pattern continues for another few minutes before my neighbor ceases and looks up from her cloud of dust in my general direction but not directly at me.
“Tomorrow is the baptism of my granddaughter, Tracy, at the Teso mass. We will have lunch afterwards,” my neighbor, Petua, tells me as we sit in the shade of our mango tree. Immediately after her announcement, she returns to beating her sorghum and our conversation ends.
This is the common method of communication in my village: direct in the sense of a quasi-order. In my first months I felt like everyone told me what to do and I became angry; however, now I know words like “please” and the phrase “would you . . .” don’t exist. The scary thing is that I catch myself using the same style of direct language.
I remain under the mango tree with Petua for another ten minutes and the debris from the massacred sorghum saturates the air and impedes my lungs. I quickly excuse myself, go indoors for a literal breather and time to interpret her announcement over a cup of tea. As awkward as it may sound, the hot beverage helps me balance the heat. While communication seems explicit, it is indirect to the likes of outsiders. Was the conversation an invitation to the service or simply an announcement? Does this mean I have to go to church?
I’m not an intensely religious person—claiming agnosticism is a stretch. However, I did make an effort to attend the different houses of worship in my first months here. After making the rounds thrice (and sitting through a homily concerning the annihilation of demonic people . . . those who know me will understand), I abruptly stopped and the entire village started to gossip. Witchcraft? Possession? Didn’t he find his preferred religion? The reminders of Sunday/ Friday worship followed for six months thereafter in an effort to “save my soul.” Church is a different experience in the village context: it lasts anywhere from two to seven hours and the resident white man (yours truly) gets to make his own sermon. By the time I start eating the tea leaves, I decide to show my support and attend. How bad can it be?
The next morning I awake promptly at eight o’clock to bathe, have a cup of coffee (always a great surprise in the mail) and brush up on my Ateso flashcards in preparation for the “Omoding sermon.” All this used to take me an astonishing two hours but now lasts a half hour. Adaptation at its finest. By nine o’clock, I make my way to St. Mark’s for the Teso mass and reach it in two minutes. In Uganda, all schools have religious affiliations and a church on the school compound. This makes the peer-pressure factor of church attendance almost unbearable, but I somehow resist. DARE did me well.
I walk into the church to find the English service still underway. I freeze in the middle of the aisle at the back of the church. My mind failed me! The Teso mass wasn’t at nine but nine thirty. Damnit. “Omoding! Please join us,” the reverend singles me out as everyone turns to stare.
Too late to turn back, I sit in the last pew and endure the looks of the parishioners that silently scream, “You come for the last half hour? You heathen.” I shrug off the looks and act as if I can’t see the stares. The ushers stand and move through the church to take a collection. Again, the awful looks continue as I pass the basket without contributing. I don’t give money to institutions that discriminate against certain individuals. Sorry, that’s just me.
The ushers count the money, auction a chicken and announce the total income to the congregation. People clap and the women holler with glee at their success. The reverend stands and looks me in the eye, “Now, Brother Omoding. Please deliver a few words to the people.”
I laugh to myself at the use of the term “the people” and clear my throat for optimal stage voice, “As you all know, the school year starts in only a few weeks. I urge every parent to register your children with the school of your choice to ensure the successful development of your family and our community.” I smile at my use of Ateso but feel a slight twinge of pain in my frontal lobe. My brain fears the impending three to four hours of Ateso. A few seconds pass as everyone waits for me to continue my speech with the mention of Our Savior Jesus Christ. I sit down, cross my legs and wipe my brow with my handkerchief. People in the village understand my choice to wear jeans, not slaughter chickens, bike everywhere (not a choice but everything else is against PC policy), drink water while walking (it signifies alcoholism), but they cannot wrap their minds around my concise nature. It is common to speak until your voice fails so my ten-second address left one hundred people looking at me with bewilderment.
The mass concludes with ten minutes of hymns and a few prayers for those suffering eseny—HIV. People start to congratulate each other on their prayers and file out of the church. I remain in my seat and people stop to chat with me, “Omoding. You came very late.” “Omoding, you must come every week to pray.” “Omoding, it is nice to see you at church. See you next week.” “Omoding, what are you? Catholic? Muslim? Protestant? Born Again? We are all very confused.”
I laugh each question off and wish everyone a nice day when I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Sir, yes. Sorry to bother you, but I am a teacher without placement. I need to register with the CCT. He told me you could help me,” a young man dressed professionally despite the hole in his left pocket looks to the ground as he speaks. The Ministry of Education asked all teachers without placement to register with the area CCTs for consideration in the new term. Because my counterpart lives a great distance from our office, I have the great task of registering our county’s jobless teachers.
I stand and pull the culturally appropriate card, “Yes, I can help you but you show bad manners by disturbing me while I am in church. This is Sunday; the day of rest. Did you forget? Come, I’ll register you but the paperwork is at my home,” and I parade out of the church, causing the people coming for the Ateso mass to look at me as though I decided not to attend at the last minute. I march to my house determined not to be late for the next mass with the teacher walking behind me, head down, knowing his mistake.
It takes twenty minutes for the teacher to complete the paperwork, which makes me late for mass. I run through the compound towards the church when I see Amojong making her way into the church. Amojong literally means “old woman” and is a sign of respect for women in my village. I don’t know her actual name but look to her as my adopted grandmother. She recognizes me and starts to shoo me into mass, thinking I’m on my way into the trading center, “Ilosi ijo okanisa. Ipuda ijo ailip. You go to church. You need to pray.”
I gallop in a few strides in front of her determined to find my own seat that is not immediately in front of the altar. I sit down towards the back in a pew with ample legroom and a strange half-pillar in front of it. As Amojong passes, she takes my arm in her hand and tries to pull me to my feet. I start to whisper, “Mam! Mam! No. No.” If I go with her to the front, I won’t be able to escape the mass at my leisure. I resist and she accepts defeat after a few seconds of people looking at the commotion.
Minutes turn into an hour and my mind becomes mush with concentration. Ateso mass always gives me a headache. My brow permanently wrinkles as I lean forward to decipher the content. The Arch Deacon stands and walks towards me with my neighbor, her daughter and the grandbaby. Closer they come until they sit in my pew. That strange half-pillar structure in my row? The baptismal fountain. My pew? Meant for the family of the child. Damnit. All eyes turn on me. I’m sure everyone thinks I’m an attention-hungry man out to steal the moment but it’s too late to find a new seat—the church is full. The baptism continues and the village photographer holds his ancient camera to take a snap. The ceremony pauses and everyone poses, without smiling, and the Arch Deacon pulls me into the frame. “Click” and I’m permanently engrained in little Tracy’s baptism. The surprised white man. Poor girl.
After the baptism, minutes continue and hours pass. My headache pulses until, at the end of the mass, the Arch Deacon stands up and repeats the familiar request, “Now, Brother Omoding. Please deliver a few words to the people.”
I slowly stand up and massage my forehead. The fluency of my first address escapes me. In fact, all words disappear except, “I’m not sure what to say.” I give a little giggle and attempt the same address that I gave to the first service, murdering the grammar and pronunciation but too tired to dwell on my lack of perfection. The expected stares come as I fail to continue my speech and I decide to walk out of the church and make a beeline for my house. I passed my limit.
I unlock my door and lay down for a nap. “This is why I don’t go to church,” I say to myself as I drift off to a perfect world full of ice cream and hamburgers and walks after dusk. It’s nearly 1:30 PM.
Half of an hour passes in the blink of an eye and I hear Petua screaming my name outside. Hazily, I roll out of bed and weigh my options. I can either crawl under my bed to escape the imminent intrusion of privacy (pulling back of the curtains for a game of Where’s Waldo or, in my case, Where’s Whitey) or go outside and confront the situation. I make the adult decision and go to the front door, messing my hair to rid its bedheadedness, not that anyone in the village could tell the difference. “Inyo bo? What?” I answer trying to amplify the look of fatigue on my face while simultaneously diminishing the look of annoyance.
“The lunch for Tracy. It is now. You come.”
I sigh and accept my defeat. I went to the mass and now I’m bound to the luncheon. “Of course. You wait one minute,” I pull on my shoes and walk to the house next door to find the Arch Deacon, Reverend and the chairwoman of the Mother’s Union already mid-meal.
I serve myself a plate of rice, spiced rice, atap (millet bread), chicken and cabbage. Still half asleep I shovel a first bite with my fingers as everyone stares at me in disbelief. Damnit. I broke a cardinal rule of any Ugandan event including food: I didn’t pray before eating. Rather than admit my faux-pas I continue eating, thinking if I stuff my face they will forget about my fault and focus on how much I can shovel in my mouth. Not the most rational thought process. I can only laugh as I picture how large my cheeks must look.
The meal concludes quickly and the Chairwoman of the Mother’s Union says a closing prayer, “Dear Lord Jesus Christ, please let Mother Tracy remember that it is most important to pray before she breast feeds. We must all remember to thank you for our food before consuming those gifts. It is often forgotten these days and we ask you for a kindly reminder.”
I am sure I blushed, hiccupped and then sniggered at my day; my always-interesting Ugandan life. Ejokuna naarai mam eoŋ alosenenei okanisa ŋinisaabiti naarai anyami eoŋ inyamat lu ipu. It’s for the best I don’t go to church because then I eat too much.
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From my life to yours:
Book: The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Michael Greer (themes of race, class, sexuality, power in a WWII San Fran make a spellbinding read)
Tune: “On the Radio” by Regina Spektor (makes me weep thinking of Raccoon and Espresso Royale)
Taste: Raspberry Tea with warmed milk in lieu of water (i.e., the African way)
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Love,
Omoding
(the “H” is silent J)
