My Pen Pal

NOTE: This blog was originally written Friday and Saturday March 19 & 20. It was easier to just leave the text in the present tense.

So today marked the end of the first half of the program. We have turned in any final assignments, our proposals for practicum and got our 950,000 UgSh stipends. I took the taxi to Natete for the last time going “home” to the Kawooyas.

Walking down the path to home, I had the usual, slight feeling of anxiety I get whenever I walk any stretch of road alone. Most of the time, the anticipation of being hassled is far worse than the event itself.

I was passing by the usual place I have spoke of before, where the mom’s announce my coming to the delight of two to six children, who run out, screaming my name. Our interactions have gradually grown to the point where they now cross the street to grab hold of my hand in greeting.

Tonight, I was getting back late, past 7:00pm, so the sun was already nearly set. Down the dirt path, a stampede of school children were skipping and singing in unison. It was too late for them to be just getting out of school, so I wondered what the reason for this parade at dusk was. But then that question quickly left my mind, following so many others I have learned to let pass. Like the thirty or so children, they disappear behind me, into the dust and darkness, T.I.A. (This is Africa)

But fighting through the crowd of kids was the little girl who held my hand so softly in hers yesterday, and told me that she loved me. Today, she said earnestly, she had something to give me: a pink envelope, folded twice over.

“Weebale nnyabo”, I thanked this gentle little girl. Clutching the envelope in one hand, and slowly releasing hers from the other, I let her fall back into the crowd of passing children. But I know she will be there tomorrow, and the next, waiting for me.

I walk home. The sun has fallen too low for me to read the precious epistle. I continue on the dirt path, staring at the ground as intently as some of the men I pass by are probably staring at me. I look up only at those areas now known to me as friendly faces. They are shopkeepers; women with their children who seem to be waiting for me to pass in order to test my Luganda skills.

Arriving back at the home, I apologize for my tardiness and make for my room as quickly a politeness will allow.

Temporary power outage. No problem. I can find my headlamp with my eyes closed now. I unfold the envelope in the LED-focused beam to read my name addressed on the cover: “Muzungu Bye Bye”. Precisely my name! I smile as I look at those words on the pink envelope, creased twice & soiled with the red dust that is so pervasive.
Flip over: written in handwriting almost as tiny and meek as its author: Nalwadda Shamim. The envelope is unsealed, and I lift the flap to pull out a half sheet of notebook paper. On the wide-ruled lines is writ:
“My name is Shamim
I love you so much
I lern in primary 4
even you write for me a letter
A you happy I think you are happy
Bye Bye
Nalwadda Shamim

The free-verse half-sonnet is lined by colorful trees drawn int the margins and is grounded by blue and pink rows at the bottom. I flip the torn half of paper over to see a row of trees planted above rainbow-colored, wide-ruled rows. Such a loving letter I have never received from a perfect stranger before.
* * *
Using the best of my Luganda and simple english, I respond with this:
Dear Shamim,
My name is Kelly - Erinnya lyange nze Kelly
I come from the U.S.A. - nva U.S.A.
I learn in University - nsoma mu university
Your letter makes me very happy
Thank you so much! - Weebale Nyo!
I love to see you every day - Njagala okulaba gwe buli lunaku
I will be going soon, sadly
I will live at Makerere - ngenda okubeera mu Makerere
But I will pass by to visit
I will never forget you, Shamim.
You have made me so happy.
I wish you the best in your studies.
And hope for the best for you and your family.
Stay happy,
Kelly Allen - U.S.A.

Lesson: My Luganda is worse than a grade-schooler’s ESL

Saturday- I walked down and was spotted a block away before the shops, despite coming from the opposite direction. I handed the letter to Shamim and we parted ways as soon as our greetings were exchanged. But before we split, I heard a couple of kids behind me say “Muzungu, give me some money.” I didn’t dignify the request with even a glance, but I did look to see Shamim’s reaction. Perhaps it was my fond feelings for the unassuming kindness of this girl which made me read into her expression, but I could have sworn I saw her look towards the kids with an air of embarrassment, or was it even distaste?

A part of me wants to leave our interaction at these past exchanges, before something like money spoils it. But a bigger part of me wants to come back.