Weeraba - "Bye"

While I would like to blame my lack of blog posts to the recent death of my computer or to the fact that I am in the process of writing the longest paper I have ever written, the real reason is probably more due to the fact that I have not been as deeply reflective as I was through most of this program. Maybe I burned myself out spending too much time in my own head. Or maybe I’ve just become so accustomed to my life here. It’s really too bad that I feel so at home now, two weeks before I leave. But then again, maybe that is why I am able to forget my homesickness and enjoy those things around me.

Now, I choose to go back to my aquaintance from a previous post, my dear pen pal, Shamim, who I got to see for the last time this weekend, which was also my last visit to my homestay.

On my walk into Natete to see my homestay, I greeted Shamim and her friends and family with a photobook of my homestate, Kentucky, as well as a child’s English dictionary. The gifts were eagerly received, though I honestly felt that the eagerness had little to do with the physical gifts, as the broad smiles and bounding exhuberance preceded the opening of my duffle bag. Shamim and her mother picked out a few of the pears I love so much and I couple of carrots from the stand, which I received with the humblest of “thank-yous” – weebale. Then, Shamim and her friend escorted me a ways down the street. I think I was just as proud and happy to have them as my entourage as they were to have me.

Two days later, I am stopped on my walk back before I even reach Shamim’s plot. Her mother had spotted me from wherever she was at the time and had chased me down the street. At first I was annoyed to hear someone following me, repeating “Muzungu,” before I turned around and recognized Shamim’s mother. My annoyance disapated and all I felt was joy at seeing her face. Shamim’s mother walked me to their plot, chatting away in Luganda as if we were old friends. I only caught maybe every sixth word that she said, but I picked up on enough clues to laugh at all the appropriate places, and that’s really what conversations are all about.

Shamim and friends came running out as soon as they were called, and I embraced all four of them in a warm group-hug. I don’t really remember what words were said, which were in Luganda and which were in English; the circumstance was evident. They knew this was my last walk past their plot and they were ready with a send-off most fitting and humbling.

The fruitstand was closed for Sunday, but while I was greeting the children, Shamim’s mother pulled out from a container by her house, a plastic back full of pears, carrots, and tomatoes. Each one of them looked as though they had been hand-picked for their ripeness and perfection. To make way for the bulging bag of produce and to try to compensate for my woefully inadequate supply of gifts, I pulled out my fleece sleeping blanket and handed it to Shamim. I was thankful that I had barely used the blanket and that it was still in nearly new condition. My gift was relatively inferior to theirs, but I had a feeling that Shamim and her mother were not concerned with what the gifts were, but about the interaction they afforded.
Taking my hand in hers, Shamim and I walked towards the taxi which would take me back to the hostel, and in less than two weeks time, home.