Tombstones and Banana Trees (3 page)

If we were at home and my father came back but did not want to beat us, he might want us to sing for him. He would wake us in the middle of the night and demand that we sing him to sleep. It could take a long time, and even after he did eventually pass out we would sleep around him because if he woke up and noticed that we had stopped we would have to start up again quickly or suffer the consequences.

It must be said that, if a man behaved like this today in Uganda, the police would arrest him. But in those days, there was little that anyone would do. My mother begged the local leaders to intervene, but they never helped. In their eyes this was just a case of a man doing what men did, and of a Rwandese woman having an over-inflated sense of her own self-worth.

She thought about taking us back to Rwanda, but life was getting even harder for Tutsis back there, and no matter how cruel the beatings, they were better than the threat of death by a machete-wielding mob. It was not until 1999 that I first went back to Rwanda, in search of any of my mother's relatives. I could not find a single one.

And so we had no choice but to endure the abuses of my father. I still do not know quite what caused his bile, but his rage was horrific. It was not limited to physical acts either. He also employed verbal violence, using abusive language all the time. Those sorts of words delivered to a child can really affect self-esteem, and for us they added emotional insult to physical injury. I still tell people that in those days it was as if he had a degree in Teargasology: Just as he proved when he staged the dramatic rejection of us by the pickup trucks, he was capable of unleashing verbal bombs that would leave us stunned and in tears, almost completely helpless. It created chronic negativity, and it took me years to begin to recover. Later the physical and emotional abuse were joined by financial abuse. Despite the fact that we were trying to live without salt, sugar, or school fees, our father would be drinking every day.

We prayed in those days. We prayed for him to die. The government cared for widows and orphans, but we did not count. My father was there in body, even though he was financially and emotionally useless. We used to feel jealous when we heard about other children losing their parents, and we dreamed of the day when we could bury him. You must know that he tried to kill me before I was born, aiming drunken kicks at my mother's pregnant belly. Nine times during her pregnancy my mother lost blood. Nine times she thought I was dead. He even refused to give my mother money to travel to the hospital, leaving her no choice but to squat beneath the banana trees and hope that from her bruised belly would come a healthy boy.

There is a proverb from Nigeria: If your face is swollen from the beatings of life, smile and pretend to be a fat man.

Perhaps I might agree with this a little more today, but as my father's rage, drinking, and number of wives increased, smiling was the last thing we were going to do. By the time I was six my sisters and I knew he was getting out of control, and his attacks on our mother were particularly savage. We realized that if they were allowed to continue, then she would surely end up dead. And where would that leave us? We would either be killed too or thrown out of our home and left to take our chances in the wild. Either way, we knew that our mother was the only person on earth who could protect us. We must protect her as well.

We made a pact that if it appeared that her life was in danger, we would do all we could to step in. This might not seem like a controversial plan today, but in our culture, in those times, a child who fought his parent was an abomination of nature. We had endured so many hits and punches and abuses, called for help so many times, and nobody had even once told us to fight back. It was simply an unthinkable option.

We knew that it was a risk, that if we fought our father there would be consequences for us all—severe ones. But doing nothing and allowing the violence to escalate would lead us to death anyway. What choice did we have?

The time to act came one night. We knew he was going to kill her. I do not remember what started it, and it never really mattered anyway. His rage was an inflamed sore that took only the mildest glance to prompt a reaction. What I do remember is seeing my mother—my beautiful mother—lying on the ground inside our house. Her feet were twitching and thrashing like snakes in a sack. My father sat on her chest, his hands around her neck. No sound came from her other than a strange choking noise. She would die if we did not act.

As one, my sisters and I launched our attack. We picked up every weapon we could: a stool, a cup, a plate. My sisters were biting him, forcing him off my mother, who was curled up on one side. They had him on the ground now, and I saw a stick that was halfway into the fire. I pulled it out. I held it with two hands and all my strength as I stuck it into his thigh. I do not know how long it was there—perhaps a few seconds or as long as half a minute—but I do remember the smell of burning flesh.

It was not the alcohol that made him slow to react. I do not believe he was as drunk as he made out. I think it was the shock of his children fighting back that made him pause. Soon he backed off and disappeared for the rest of the night.

We were left with our anger subsiding and our doubt beginning to rise. Yes, we had defended our mother, our only hope, our only eyes, our only encouragement, but at what cost?

Our father went to his sisters and told them what had happened. They nursed him and listened to his account of the story about his terrible children and his abominable first wife. He went from house to house, showing his wounds and telling his story. With every visit, our status in the village slipped a little lower. To the outside world Boniface was a good man—only our neighbors knew the truth about the violence. What kind of curse were we to treat him this way?

Soon he left our mother's house and never came back again … but not before he told us that he had made a vow: One day he would teach us a lesson. It was a threat we did not take very seriously at the time. We were just relieved his exit meant that, at last, we might be about to enter a period of peace. During this period when he was in self-imposed exile we were happy because at last we got to sleep in the house and to eat food without being bitten, and we lived a life without intimidation or violence.

It was a year and a half before he came back to our house and stayed with us. During that time he appeared in our village only twice. He had traveled a long way west and found land in what is now Queen Elizabeth National Park, in a place that today is called Bunyaruguru. It is a good place to go on safari today, but thirty-five years ago it was an untamed wilderness. The animals were savage, and nobody lived there. The land was cheap, but it was incredibly fertile, even by western Ugandan standards. If our father was going to settle there, then he could not do it alone, even though his own family was so large; he would need others to join him, and his trips back to Rwanjogori were his attempts to recruit settlers. I remember him holding sweet potatoes that were twice as big as normal, holding them up and amazing the crowds with tales of even greater riches on offer.

Eventually he came back and settled once more in our compound, though not in our house. He brought another wife with him, but at least he did not eat our food. We could eat without fear that he would come into our house, and yet in a strange way his presence comforted us; we had a father figure around. Now we were protected from other people who might have abused us.

He became very friendly. As well as large sweet potatoes he brought cloth and sugar with him. As he told us about his plan for a mass migration of our family to this new land, we all agreed that it was a good solution to our problems. He sold his land and his cows and gathered the village together to come and say farewell.

We packed those pickup trucks with such joy and excitement. We had no idea what his plan was. We had no way of knowing quite how bad life was about to become.

Chapter Three

Jesus Has Left the Village

In my nightmares I can still feel the fear. My heart beats at night just as it did when, as a boy, I would run away from them. They would hunt me like an animal, using their dogs to track and find me. They would be silent as they stalked me, and then they would release their anger and excitement with cries and shouts once I was held at their feet. Whenever they caught me I knew that the physical agony I was about to experience would last for days. The emotional scars from the humiliation would take longer to heal. They were the jigger hunters, and I was one of their favorite prey.

If you are poor, shoes are a luxury. If you are poor, soap is also a luxury. If you are poor and have to collect water by hand each day, the practice of bathing and maintaining good personal hygiene slips further down your list of priorities than is good for you.

We were suddenly poor. My father had left us with nothing. Absolutely nothing. No clothes other than those that were stuck, like flags on a coffin, to our tear- and mud-stained bodies. No mattresses. No pots for cooking or collecting water. No tools for preparing food or harvesting crops. But since we had no land on which to farm and no house in which to live, these missing items were of little consequence. All we had was our breath, and surely that would soon run out?

In one simple yet dramatic act our father had sent our status plummeting. In the morning we had been a family of wealth. We had possessions so numerous they required three pickup trucks to transport. We were part of a family who could look at others and say, “It is good that we are not poor like they are.”

All that had not been packed onto the trucks had been sold. Our land, our cows and goats, our homes—all had been sold to others in the neighboring villages. For three hours my mother, my sisters and brothers, and I crouched at the foot of the tree by the roadside, fresh waves of tears coming with each realization of just how bleak and difficult our lives now looked. We had nothing. If only death would settle upon us at that very moment, then our pain might be relieved.

Yet God had other plans. Slowly at first, like the way you take care when first stirring in the millet as you add water for morning porridge, God brought help to us. He did not restore our fortunes overnight, nor did He transform us at the drop of a hat. That is not generally the way God works. Instead, He brought us on a journey. A long journey made up of many steps. Some were painful; many were small. But today I can see that each one has brought me closer to God.

As we lay there, hoping to die, a man came to talk to us. He had been one of the men my father had done business with, and my father had sold him our house.

“I do not need this house today,” he told us. “You may return to it and live there for three weeks. But then I will need it.”

I do not know whether he intended those three weeks to extend quite as far into the future as they did, but it does not matter that much. What matters is that for five years we lived in our old home. Free of charge.

Even though God had begun His rescue plan, our journey through it was long. We had to endure the suffocating impact of extreme poverty and the consequences that followed. Without soap and shoes and plentiful water we were dirty. And with animal feces all around us, we were easy targets for jiggers, the small fleas that thrive in such conditions. They burrow into the skin of your feet—or your buttocks—and lay their eggs beneath the surface. They are painful and unhygienic, and nobody wants to know you if you have them. And they certainly do not want you to walk anywhere near their compound.

The only way to deal with jiggers is to cut them out. Using a small, sharp knife you must carefully pry them out, making sure you get rid of all the eggs and clean the wound thoroughly afterward. It is a painful process and one that demands attention, a steady hand, and a good dose of skill.

The jigger hunters did not care about the pain they caused. They were not careful, patient, or compassionate. They were drunk, and they were looking for sport. They claimed they were performing an act of service, but their deeds were those of torturers who took pleasure in their work.

I would hear them coming. It would often be a Sunday morning while others were at church. These men would chant their songs as they marched up the path to our home, and if I had got distracted and failed to anticipate their arrival I would have to run out from our compound with all the speed I could summon. They were nearly always drunk, but it did not seem to slow them down very much. I think it only served to make them more determined and less careful when they finally caught me.

I would scurry away if I could. I would head for the thickest parts of the banana plantation, the places where it was hard to see more than ten or twenty meters ahead. Sunlight never made it down this far onto the valley floor, but there were dried leaves everywhere, and it was hard not to make a noise. Sooner or later they would nearly always catch me when I hid here.

What happened next was horrible. Always horrible. They would force me to the ground. Taking my feet in their hands, they would use the tips of their machetes to cut the jiggers out. The smell of alcohol leeched out from their skin, lying heavy on their breath like the early-morning fog that dozes along the floor of the valley. Their eyes were clouded and their hands unsteady; these are the colors of my nightmares.

They used to tell me they were performing this act for my own good. They would say it was for the good of the village. They spoke of themselves as men who were doing a duty. But I knew this was a lie because of what they did next.

They brought with them a paste made from goat and cow feces. Into it they would mix the seeds of the red chilies that grew beneath the banana trees. They would then smear the blistering paste into the bleeding wounds and between my toes. The pain attacked every nerve in my body.

The humiliation was even sharper. To have jiggers was shame enough, but to have them removed in this way was even worse. There would often be a crowd around me, people laughing at the poor animal as he was given his medicine. It was not enough that we were wretched in our poverty; we were now beasts, stripped of our humanity.

Jigger hunters were not our only threat. While the other wives had left with our father, his relatives were still in the village. His sisters and brothers were a constant and growing menace. They saw us as their enemy and believed it was their job to manage our downfall.

We turned to the one power we believed could protect us: witchcraft.

There are two types of witchcraft. The first is an attempt to protect yourself from harm. The second seeks to bring suffering and death down on others. Whatever it is used for, witchcraft connects you with the occult. And it works. From alcoholism to madness, failed marriages to sickness and even death, witchcraft can be the cause of all manner of suffering and pain. I have seen it work many times. Years ago, when I was eight, the whole village was gripped by the news that someone had called up demons from the grave. Out of nowhere stones would be hurled at the victims—a family from the town—by invisible hands. The family was terrified and called in the local church to come and pray, but as they arrived, yet more stones started to rain down upon the clergy. Once they were inside, the stones continued to attack them, this time appearing to come down from the ceiling itself. Out of fear the wife eventually committed suicide, and it emerged that her sister-in-law had put the curse on the family.

People call on all manner of demons to harm others. It might be a demon from the forest (to make someone mad or fearful), or the mountains (to breed arrogance), or the desert (leading to depression, isolation, and rejection). You can imagine what a demon from the grave does.

We were never involved in that sort of witchcraft, even though we had no love left for our father. But my mother, my sisters and brothers, and I spent a lot of time and money with the witch doctors in the hope they would be able to protect us from the danger that seemed to be all around us. We were sold all manner of fetishes to keep us safe. I remember having a piece of lion or leopard skin that I kept in my underwear, as well as a small bag that contained the tooth of a rat or a mole. The fear was so great that I do not think we ever questioned whether these tokens actually worked. All those things around the house, filling it with strange smells and sights, served to make us feel as though we were actively doing something to make our future a little more secure.

It was never just a matter of paying for the items and then going away and carrying on as normal. You were not supposed to get the fetishes wet, but those that had to be worn could not be removed either. That only served to make my hygiene problem even worse. And at times the witch doctors would cut my skin and smear medicine on me. I did not know they were making demonic covenants: I simply thought this was what all people did when life was desperate.

I believe that Christians cannot be bewitched, but that does not mean we are immune to the effects of fear, and fear itself can drive you mad. When people tell me they are committed Christians but are being troubled by demons, I doubt demons are really there—unless in fact the people are not really Christians after all. Christians may suffer from the effects of demonic activity, but they cannot be possessed by demons, as the Holy Spirit lives in them. When committed Christians are being harassed or oppressed in this way, they can stand in the authority of Jesus Christ because they belong to Him. Their hearts are temples of the Holy Spirit, not of demons. It may first be necessary to determine the grounds upon which the Devil is encroaching on the believer, such as unconfessed sin, unforgiveness, or occult involvement (even in the past or by someone else), and this can be confessed or broken and dealt with as needed. Let me tell you, as one who was reared in a nursery of witchcraft, there is a truth bigger than any curse, any token, any spell: Once we are saved, Jesus commands our destiny. Those weapons simply cannot harm us. Demons do not have homes or bodies where they can stay, and they are always looking for a home that is empty. Once your heart is full of the Holy Spirit, there is no room for demons.

I was three when my father married his second wife. Her name was Lodah, and they were married in a traditional ceremony, the sort that was conducted in public. Having paid the dowry of four cows and twelve goats, my father appeared with Lodah in front of everyone and performed the usual rituals—sharing butter, making vows, sharing clippings of their hair, cutting their fingernails, and so on. I do not remember the event, but I have seen many like it.

That is not the only way people in Uganda get married. Some marriages happen at night when the boy and girl disappear and find someone to marry them. They get fined, but as long as the boy pays the proper dowry it is allowed. Once you have paid the bride price it is a legal marriage.

There are also forced marriages (which we call
okujumba),
the sort that start out with men drinking and quarreling. At some point they will talk about how wealthy they are, and someone will say, “You may be rich, but not rich enough to pay the bride price for my daughter.”

“You are wrong. I have ten cows and twenty goats. I could easily afford your daughter.”

“Then prove it. Bring me the cows and goats, and you shall have my daughter.”

So these two foolish men change the life of a young girl forever simply because their drunken egos are allowed to take charge of their mouths. One goes to fetch his ten cows and twenty goats, while the other fetches his daughter. She might be working in the field or cooking at home, and there is no point in her resisting. She is grabbed and brought to the other man. The livestock changes hands. There is no great public ceremony, no great show of the rituals. Just the easing of the drunken stupor and the beginnings of a life married to a man less than worthy of his bride.

My grandmother was married to Kasabaraara in this way. Her father had made some wild claims, and she was the prize. She had no say in the matter. How else would you get married to a man who stole cattle for a living and who was named after the act of murder?

But this is not the worst way to get married. At least there is a parent involved. At least it happens in daylight. If there is no father around to protect a young girl, then she is vulnerable. She could be walking somewhere remote, perhaps at night, and a gang of young men could set upon her. One might rape her, even though she is only just changing from child to woman.

Her family might hear that their sister has been stolen, and they might go and attempt a rescue. But when they find her they see that her eyes have lost light and life. “I have already been defiled by this man,” she tells them. “Who else will have me now?”

I know this story. This is the story of my own sister Peace. Even today she is still married to the man who stole and raped her. He has not become a better man over the years. In fact he has become far worse.

We were vulnerable after my father left. Even though our father beat and abused us, nobody would have stolen and defiled Peace had he not abandoned us. Life, as well as feeling more fragile and uncertain, was also a good deal less fun, and we had less food to eat. My half brothers and half sisters had all lived in our compound, and there had been times when we would all share our food and eat together—on those occasions when all our mothers were not fighting about something.

Sadly, fighting happened a lot, and it was always the children who became the casualties. My mother would tell us that the other wives were going to poison us, that they were using witchcraft, and that we should avoid them and their children at all costs. The other wives might accuse us of stealing their food, destroying their crops, or spreading lies about them. The seeds of bitterness were scattered far and wide, and it was easy to see them taking root in us all. It reminds me of the saying, When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.

It was very rare for marriages to end in divorce in those days, and compared to life in the West today, it still is. But back then the solution to a troubled marriage was normally for the man to take another wife. One or two nights a week he would sleep with his previous wife and continue to have children, and this arrangement kept some sort of relationship in place. But polygamy causes far more harm than good.