A Mzungu beggar and my son’s imperfections
Aug 21, 2011
AS parents, we want to believe the best of our children. Secretly, most parents harbour a deep-rooted conviction that their children come close to perfection.
By Ilonka Naziwa
AS parents, we want to believe the best of our children. Secretly, most parents harbour a deep-rooted conviction that their children come close to perfection.
The only hindrances to the achievement of full-blown, glorified and sanctified perfection are weaknesses that we, as the parents, have defined.
No other human is allowed to identify new issues with our children, without our sanctioning and approval. So, therefore, one of the worst things you can do to a parent is highlight a few more non-perfect issues on their children, no matter how minor they may be.
On a particular Wednesday morning, I was trying to come to terms with a phone call from my son’s class teacher. She had noticed something about him that was not right (read: not perfect). I immediately wanted to talk to my son to confirm that he had acted under influence of some bad apple(s).
Yes, I was eager to prove to the teacher and to myself that my son was perfect and that his allotment of faults was limited and closed off by me! No offspring of mine was disposed to misbehave. These thoughts were set to torture me the whole of that Wednesday because the teacher had called me during a serene morning hour. I was relegated to day of tepid anxiety.
Needing to get my mind off this issue, I decided to take a walk to ‘my’ ATM as opposed to driving. It was after all, uncharacteristically cool weather, and I had donned flat pumps. However, despite the walk, my mind remained pondering my son’s alleged actions. I, therefore, did not see the beggar approaching me, because if I had, I would have smoothly, and as if innocently, side-stepped him, and walked on (‘beggar avoidance’ skills are a must-have in Kampala).
“Excuse me ma’am do you speak English?â€
A middle-aged Mzungu stood right in front me, with leathery tanned skin, his tan was consistent, but it did not hide the filth of his skin. After I conceded that I actually understood English, he informed me that he was married to a Muganda woman; they had one son and lived in Kasese.
He was in Kampala to buy a uniform for his son, who was going to back to school (as far as I knew, international schools were in their summer hiatus and the local schools had just started their second term holidays).
Well, the man with the receding blond hairline explained that at the point that he was about to pay for the uniform, his wallet had been stolen. To cut a long story short, the Mzungu man was begging for money to take him back to Kasese, as he had no access to his bank account because he banked in the UK.
At the time I realised he was begging, I also noticed a few other things. First being: the Mzungu and I were standing at a busy spot and were in full view of a heavy, two-directional traffic. All eyes were on us.
The other thing I noticed was we were standing a couple of feet away from another beggar, and I had been seeing this legless beggar in Kampala for the last 10 years. He sat proudly at a pavement curb and pretended to ignore us. I had just passed him without as much as noticing him.
These observations put me in a mini dilemma! Should I, or shouldn’t I give the Mzungu some money? Then, would I have to retract my steps and give the legless beggar some money too? One thing was for sure; the Mzungu had some inconsistencies in his tale, and the elaborate way in which he told his story had a sinister ring to it; like predator hedging his prey in on all sides.
I eventually declined his request and instead graciously directed him to the British High Commission! (Do I qualify as a Good Samaritan?) He in tur n made some snide remark about me withholding assistance because he was a Mzungu!
Immediately I re-amoured my ‘beggar-avoidance’ skills and briskly headed to my destination. I wondered how this Mzungu had ended up here! In my wondering, my thoughts returned to my son’s misdemeanoar.
I suddenly saw it all in a new light. Just maybe, my son is not perfect and just maybe, not all Bazungu (in Uganda) are rich with infinite resources at their disposal!
AS parents, we want to believe the best of our children. Secretly, most parents harbour a deep-rooted conviction that their children come close to perfection.
The only hindrances to the achievement of full-blown, glorified and sanctified perfection are weaknesses that we, as the parents, have defined.
No other human is allowed to identify new issues with our children, without our sanctioning and approval. So, therefore, one of the worst things you can do to a parent is highlight a few more non-perfect issues on their children, no matter how minor they may be.
On a particular Wednesday morning, I was trying to come to terms with a phone call from my son’s class teacher. She had noticed something about him that was not right (read: not perfect). I immediately wanted to talk to my son to confirm that he had acted under influence of some bad apple(s).
Yes, I was eager to prove to the teacher and to myself that my son was perfect and that his allotment of faults was limited and closed off by me! No offspring of mine was disposed to misbehave. These thoughts were set to torture me the whole of that Wednesday because the teacher had called me during a serene morning hour. I was relegated to day of tepid anxiety.
Needing to get my mind off this issue, I decided to take a walk to ‘my’ ATM as opposed to driving. It was after all, uncharacteristically cool weather, and I had donned flat pumps. However, despite the walk, my mind remained pondering my son’s alleged actions. I, therefore, did not see the beggar approaching me, because if I had, I would have smoothly, and as if innocently, side-stepped him, and walked on (‘beggar avoidance’ skills are a must-have in Kampala).
“Excuse me ma’am do you speak English?â€
A middle-aged Mzungu stood right in front me, with leathery tanned skin, his tan was consistent, but it did not hide the filth of his skin. After I conceded that I actually understood English, he informed me that he was married to a Muganda woman; they had one son and lived in Kasese.
He was in Kampala to buy a uniform for his son, who was going to back to school (as far as I knew, international schools were in their summer hiatus and the local schools had just started their second term holidays).
Well, the man with the receding blond hairline explained that at the point that he was about to pay for the uniform, his wallet had been stolen. To cut a long story short, the Mzungu man was begging for money to take him back to Kasese, as he had no access to his bank account because he banked in the UK.
At the time I realised he was begging, I also noticed a few other things. First being: the Mzungu and I were standing at a busy spot and were in full view of a heavy, two-directional traffic. All eyes were on us.
The other thing I noticed was we were standing a couple of feet away from another beggar, and I had been seeing this legless beggar in Kampala for the last 10 years. He sat proudly at a pavement curb and pretended to ignore us. I had just passed him without as much as noticing him.
These observations put me in a mini dilemma! Should I, or shouldn’t I give the Mzungu some money? Then, would I have to retract my steps and give the legless beggar some money too? One thing was for sure; the Mzungu had some inconsistencies in his tale, and the elaborate way in which he told his story had a sinister ring to it; like predator hedging his prey in on all sides.
I eventually declined his request and instead graciously directed him to the British High Commission! (Do I qualify as a Good Samaritan?) He in tur n made some snide remark about me withholding assistance because he was a Mzungu!
Immediately I re-amoured my ‘beggar-avoidance’ skills and briskly headed to my destination. I wondered how this Mzungu had ended up here! In my wondering, my thoughts returned to my son’s misdemeanoar.
I suddenly saw it all in a new light. Just maybe, my son is not perfect and just maybe, not all Bazungu (in Uganda) are rich with infinite resources at their disposal!