lugbara friends and families

So, I had my first boda-boda accident. It was a bicycle boda and not a motor boda, but an accident that yielded a broken rib (maybe…) a ripped pant leg, banged up knee and a handful of scattered bruises (as my rib cage smashed into the right side of the handle bars and my right knee into the right side view mirror). This was my first time taking a non-motorized ride (I ride home from work with “my boda driver” Asiku, who pulls his motorcycle up to the gate as soon as he sees me exiting the compound, and who incessantly beeps and texts me after I made the mistake of giving him my number…), while going with my housemate to visit our guard Patrick’s new baby, Godwin, in a village 10 km outside of town.

We hired these boda drivers about a 5-minute walk from our front gate to drive us these 10 km outside of town. Lillian, are steadfast accompaniment (and regular house-girl), negotiated a price while Sarah negotiated introductions with some visiting missionaries (who I said looked like Sarah’s breed [of bible-thumpers] and she declared of my breed [ridiculous Americans]). The ride was a bit exhilarating – you’re paying someone to carry your ass outside of town on the back of his bike. For me, the whole thing conjures memories of “don’t ride on the handle bars of your best friend because the neighbor kid’s friend’s friend fell off and put a tooth through her lip,” sort of thing.

Lillian didn’t know exactly where we were to go and we round up riding around for a good bit (read: 2 hours on a hired bike-taxi, in sunny African bush country, asking where is Patrick’s village…) before finding someone that went to school with Patrick years back, who then offered to shuck the bike bodas and for us to hire him and his motorized boda that we proceeded to fit 3 riders onto to find our way to Patrick, 2.5 hours late.

At a house where we stopped and asked for directions, waiting for the boda to fuel up.



Me and Lillian on the motorized boda…smiling, laughing in the heat of the Aruan bush.


We arrived. Patrick’s young, really beautiful wife Helen ushered us into their compound and into their family’s quarters, where she had prepared a lovely meal for visitors. As is customary, she served us, stepped outside, and left us to dine on our own, before serving herself and other adults, and then passing remnants onto the children.

Patrick’s family (three kids from wife #1, and this new baby lived in one tukul (thatch hut); his parents, his younger brother, his other brother and family all stayed in their respective buildings. Shared bathing areas and shared latrines. His mother taught me how to grind cassava, and his brother climbed the biggest avocado tree I’ve ever seen to hurl a nice collection down for us to bring home for ourselves to enjoy.

Sarah and Patrick’s family


Patrick with his mother and father


Mama grinding Casava and teaching me the ropes



Avocado from heaven


Baby Godwin (very flattering photo…)


Small children and Patrick with a coloring book



Last Saturday I attended the funeral reception for a former MP (Member of Parliament). This highly respected man was the cousin-brother of my favorite Aruan/ friend Mary Nyadri. In what is an increasingly common explanation for passing, he fell sick and died in Mulago hospital, after being imprisoned for three months for being part of an opposition party, contracting TB, and subsequently pneumonia (Side note, Caroline told me that 90% of their TB patients are HIV positive, if that’s an additional indicator…). There were probably 800 people at this funeral. The man was apparently very well liked, a very smart, caring, and gifted person – a rasta in fact! – who had written a pretty popular song, started a dance hall, had a masters degree from Russia, and will apparently be greatly missed.

I got to meet Mary’s family, which for me was the positive outcome of the experience – Me, with Mary’s new granddaughter; Mary with her sister (who looks just like her!), daughter, sons, and neighbors.