Surviving Africa

All along I thought I was supposed to come here. Meeting Laban and Alice when I was five or six years old. Marrying a Ugandan, although I didn’t know he was, to start with. Loving South Africa; assuming Uganda would forge the same connection.

And even all these thousands of miles away, I cannot escape my shadow. It is a land of intense sun. And so, intense shadows. Do the shadows seem more indelible because of the contrast? Here, no hurt was supposed to come. I’d had my imaginings of how it would be: me, wrapped in a kimono, standing on a porch step, surveying the early morning scene, cup of tea in hand. That romantic ideal has never been realised. The kimono is packed away in a suitcase, with my hopes and dreams and idea of who I was.

Hurt came, and quickly. Divorce was suggested. Just not to me. So I sat through a whole uncivilised meeting with one perception, only to discover afterwards that I was not in full possession of the facts.

Ignored for five months, with a mind that could never cope with this drastic change.

And so, assault upon assault. And taking, as always, responsibility, to block denial.

Ludicrous. Now, is it me or the attack that is ludicrous?

The past looms. How are its fingers so long? Stretching over continents and seas and time zones. But I am always ahead now.

I never intended to run away from my past. But somehow I have arrived in Africa. I thought I was created; shaped and formed before Uganda ever breathed her first, for a purpose here. But maybe Laban and Alice were my first ticket? At six, sizing up the horizons of escape.

I don’t deal well with change. Yet moving furniture around is my favourite game.

Here, I have had to learn new rules for the old games. Even when it came to abuse, I thought I knew how that was played. Wrong. It’s different here.

There is so much to appreciate: beautiful tiny birds and bright butterflies. My favourite sound here: wind through the banana leaves.

There are strange animals and human behaviours. Much to photograph. Beautiful languages to hear. Even if no one will teach me. So much to observe and appreciate. Which is a wonderful attitude for visiting a place. Kinda difficult for living somewhere.

This isn’t homesickness. That’s kindergarten-level emotion. This engulfing loneliness. This isolation. This separation. Bigger even than the shadow of my past.

My day to day is covered by this unbearable indelible stain. As to the future? I’m alive because I haven’t died. It seems there is still a tiny part of me that hopes not to die here. That wants at least dignity of location at the last.