I Am a Girl from Africa Read online

  I am because we are, and because we are, you are.

  —African proverb

  9

  Stumbling through a dense forest in rural Uganda, practically breathless, I finally slump over. I have been walking for six hours. Breathing the humid air feels like trying to breathe water. I fall to the ground, then quickly leap to my feet; I’ve been warned about the rattlesnakes. The rhythmic pulse of insects surrounds me. Dripping with sweat, my skin is sticky and hot to the touch, and I am light-headed from dehydration. I have a throbbing headache, and my heavy backpack seems to grow heavier with each step. I start walking again, putting one foot in front of the other. I must find a way to manage the hike through the jungle, the punishing humidity, and my physical fatigue. I also carry some trepidation about what I am marching into.

  The Budongo Forest is a four-hour drive from Kampala, the capital city. Ernest, my gregarious driver and translator, is a local Ugandan who will accompany me to a village affected by river blindness, a devastating disease that, once it spreads in a community, seems intractable.

  Ernest notices that I’m struggling. “Now we rest a little, my sister,” he says in his choppy English, lifting the backpack from my shoulders and setting it on the ground. Ernest speaks many of the more than forty indigenous Bantu languages spoken in Uganda; English is not his first language. He is sweating too, but doesn’t seem terribly bothered by it, as I am.

  “I am so sorry, Ernest. Yes, ten minutes rest, please.” I am frustrated with myself, as I normally handle intense heat and humidity well; I simply hadn’t expected this kind of physical effort, at least not today. Unlike my last visit, two years ago, Ernest wasn’t able to drive us to the end of the dirt road, where the village would be just a ten-minute walk away. This time, when we entered the forest, the road had been washed away by a recent torrential rain and we faced an impassable, muddy brown river. My heart sank. “Eeee, road not safe,” Ernest said. “Us, we leave car. Us, we walk. Me, I lead, my sister,” he said with an energy I did not share. I followed him; there was no other choice.

  “You, you wait for me, my sister.” Ernest disappears for a moment into the thick forest. I take a few deep breaths and try to gather myself.

  It is 2007, four years since I started work at the United Nations. I am still living in Geneva and am now a technical officer with the World Health Organization (WHO), which is fully committed to the fight against river blindness. As part of my role, which entails providing programmatic advice to governments and communities on how to best address river blindness, I am returning to Budongo to check on the community’s progress in terms of treatment and prevention of the disease. Although every part of my body hurts, and I’m feeling muscles I didn’t know I had, this pain is a far cry from the suffering I witnessed during my last visit. I try to prepare myself for the people I will meet again and the stories I will hear. To be of service, I remind myself, is worth any difficult and seemingly endless trek through a jungle.

  Ernest finally reemerges with a huge grin on his face, clutching a handful of green leaves. “This is a good one, my sister. Eat.” He hands me some leaves and shoves the rest into his mouth. As I chew, the bitter juice perks me up. “Thank you, my brother,” I say, truly grateful for his kindness.

  “Now we go, my sister, yes?” Ernest asks as he helps me strap the backpack over my shoulders. It seems lighter somehow, and I am able to carry on. I’m reminded of the sisis in Goromonzi; when they saw me struggling to carry my water container, they always offered to relieve my burden for a moment so I could make it all the way home.

  Ernest and I march on; I’m still breathing hard, but I’m reenergized enough to notice how the forest hums with life: leaves scratch together and birds call from trees. The day’s light is fading; when we emerge from the forest, night has fallen completely and the world is dark apart from millions of twinkling stars scattered across the sky. The bright light from my flashlight reveals a cluster of round grass-thatched huts, similar to those in Goromonzi, and I feel nostalgic for my village. I glance at my watch. We have been walking for over ten hours. No wonder I feel as though I could fall asleep standing up.

  “We are here, my sister,” Ernest says. He knocks on the door of a hut—not the same hut where I was welcomed on the last visit—and shouts something in the local Bantu language. He turns to me, saying, “So, my sister, you, you sleep here tonight.”

  When I step inside the hut, I am overjoyed to see an old woman sitting by the fire—she looks to be roughly Gogo’s age. We exchange basic greetings in the local language and she smiles at me warmly, as if she’s known me a long time. I feel instantly connected to her as if she is my own Gogo. As I settle myself next to the warm fire, every limb and muscle in my body aching in pain, I have a sudden longing for Gogo. I see her in my mind, sitting next to the fire cooking sadza in our smoke-filled hut, teaching me valuable lessons about what it means to be African, stories that would shape the vision of my life and work.

  * * *

  It is nightfall in Goromonzi, and Gogo is busy-busy making sadza over the roaring fire. Plenty-plenty smoke swirls inside the warm and cozy hut. Gogo stirs the porridge and then asks me to sit down. “My dear child, I must tell you a very important story. Listen carefully. Open up your ears wide-wide.”

  I love learning about our land and our people through Gogo’s stories. There is so much about the world I long to know! I sit at Gogo’s feet and train my attention on her. I hear ambuyas and sekurus in neighboring huts laughing and talking, and every once in a while, a baby’s cry. The wind rustles the trees; animals shuffle and howl in the forest. The familiar night sounds of home.

  “A long, long time ago,” Gogo begins, “there was a lion and an elephant who lived happily in the forest with the other animals.” Gogo always uses animals to teach me. I learned to count by pinching all ten fingers, one finger for each goat. This is how many goats we have. Never forget.

  “In the middle of the forest stood the big-big Tree of Harmony. The elephant ate its leaves, and the lion and her baby cub escaped the hot sun in the shade of the branches. They shared the Tree of Harmony happily, until one day a hungry hyena from a different forest tried to eat the lion’s baby as it slept.” I shiver. I do not like hyenas.

  “The lion told the elephant, ‘I must sleep on the tree’s branches so I can see the hyena coming.’ ‘No, lion,’ said the elephant, ‘those leaves are my food and I want to eat without being disturbed.’ ” Both arguments make sense to me.

  “The lion suggested the elephant find a different tree. The elephant suggested the lion also finds a new tree,” Gogo continues. “Now both animals were angry. They argued and argued and finally decided to fight for the Tree of Harmony. The next morning, the buffalo, the zebra, the giraffe, and the leopard gathered to watch the battle. The lion roared and the elephant stomped, shaking the earth, both charging to destroy one another.”

  Gogo’s eyes gleam in the firelight. I have forgotten about dinner, lost in the story. “In the middle of the battle, the zebra stood between them and said, ‘Stop. You can’t fight. There is a better way to solve this. Together.’ They continued fighting and charging until the buffalo stepped in. ‘Stop! The lion and her baby can cool off with me in the river!’ The giraffe stepped in offering the elephant leaves from her tree. The leopard promised to protect the baby lion from hyenas.”

  Gogo pauses. I can feel my heart thumping. “The lion and the elephant stopped charging, realizing their great mistake; they were best friends, and the tree belonged to both of them. There was no need to fight; and to keep fighting would destroy them both, as well as the lives of the other animals. From that day on, the lion and the elephant shared the Tree of Harmony again. On hot days, the lion and the cub played in the water with the buffalo; the giraffe shared her leaves with the elephant; the leopard watched over the lion cub, chasing away the hungry hyenas. The animals lived happily together in the forest, sharing whatever they had and protecting one another.”

&
nbsp; A smile crosses Gogo’s face. “Now, my dear child. What do you think this story teaches us?”

  “That we should be nice-nice to each other,” I respond. “And not fight.”

  “Very good,” she says, and then looks at me intently. “Just like the animals, we must always take care of each other. We have a word for this: UBUNTU.” She says the word slowly, articulating each syllable. “U-bun-tu [Ooo-Boon-too] is what connects us as human beings—here in Goromonzi, but also everywhere in the world.” Gogo blows on the fire, sending sparks into the air like shooting stars. “Ubuntu is the essence of who we are as Africans, a lesson we learned from our ancestors, who understood that we are all part of one human family. We need each other, and we are responsible for each other.”

  This is exactly my experience of village life, people helping others for the good of all, but the word is new to me. “What does ubuntu mean-mean, Gogo?”

  “Ubuntu means: I am because we are, and because we are, you are.”

  I understand that I have seen ubuntu in action all the time. We share the weight of work and sorrow, and the lightness of joy and abundance. We pray for sick ambuyas and sekurus; we bless one another each time we meet; we pray for rain and celebrate together when it arrives. “And,” Gogo says, “we must always treat each other with humanity and never cause others to suffer, because when we do, we in turn cause suffering to ourselves.” I think of the times when I have been unkind and resolve to do better, in honor of our ancestors and the gift of ubuntu.

  Gogo takes my hand and folds it into hers, gripping tightly until our hands make a ball. “You are special because of ubuntu. We all are. Never forget, my dear child. Never forget.”

  I am because we are, and because we are, you are. I squeeze Gogo’s hand and feel connected to my ancestors, to my family, to my village, to my community, and even to myself, since this special word is my birthright. Gogo and I hold hands in silence as the fire fades. The village is quiet now; even the animals in the forest are asleep. In this moment, everything is as it should be—peaceful.

  Over the coming days, Gogo further explains how ubuntu shapes every aspect of our lives, how we live in the world, how we treat one another, and even how we dream for the future. Gogo teaches me what it means to have and pursue a dream as part of an ubuntu community. “Aaaa, you have to dream big, my dear child, because your dream doesn’t just belong to you, it is a dream for all of us,” Gogo explains. I don’t fully understand, so I wait for her to continue. “You are part of ubuntu, which means that your dream must be big enough for all of us, big enough for all Africans. Never forget that my dear child. Never forget.”

  * * *

  The values of ubuntu guide my upbringing and, in particular, my understanding that a dream is a shared, inclusive vision for all; rather than just an individual ambition or desire, a dream represents the hope of a future for the people you love, for your family, for your entire community.

  The ubuntu worldview is this: there is no “I” without a “we.” So when I am in secondary school at Roosevelt High in Harare, an all-girls school named for Eleanor Roosevelt, a former first lady of the United States and a pioneering women’s rights activist—I know just what to do when the teacher gives us a special assignment to write an essay describing each of our personal dreams. I write about the dream I have held firmly in my heart and mind since I was young: the dream to become the girl in the blue uniform so that I can uplift the lives of others. I work as hard on the essay as I have ever worked on anything, so I am baffled when my English teacher gives the paper an F and summons me to her office.

  “Elizabeth, what happened?” Her slender face is serious as her eyes scan each page of the essay. “This is not a dream, Elizabeth. A dream must speak to your personal ambitions, and not all this nonsense that you have included about your village and family. This is neither ambitious, nor focused. That’s why you failed.”

  I am legitimately shocked, as I had expected to get an A+ mark for the essay. I knew it was passionate and well written, and more than that—it was the truth. I did exactly as Gogo taught me, clearly articulating how my dream held within it the hope that I might improve the lives of my family, my community, other Zimbabweans, and even fellow Africans who might be positively impacted by my humanitarian work one day. I imagined all of these people, known and unknown, with access to education, adequate food and safe shelter, quality healthcare. A world free of violence and strife, where each person lived with meaning and purpose and joy.

  I try to explain all this to the teacher, but she doesn’t understand. I am dismissed, failed essay in hand.

  At night, after supper, I share my essay as well as my deep frustration with Uncle Sam. Since the moment I arrived at his home in Harare, Uncle Sam has been my champion, my tutor, my family, my sounding board, and my source of total and unwavering support. To call him a father figure would be an understatement, because I can bring to him my anger, my triumphs, my confusion, as well as my anguish, knowing that each and every time he will not judge me, but instead patiently support me to find a solution, always encouraging me to try harder, challenging me to embrace new ideas and pushing me to reach my goals—just as he does tonight.

  “You must understand something very important. The word ‘dream’ means something entirely different in the West than it means to us Africans. In the West, people mostly have a dream for themselves, a dream to better their individual lives and fortunes, and the assignment you were set was to explain how you interpret this definition. Your essay uses our African understanding of the word dream, which is important. However, you should also take this opportunity to see things from a new perspective, to understand the importance of having a dream for yourself.”

  I am confused. “Does it mean that I can no longer have a dream for others?”

  Uncle Sam shakes his head. “A dream can be both things. Take your aunt Jane, for example. The dream she had for herself became a dream for her community. When we first met, she was chasing after her dream to become a medical doctor. It was something that she wanted to accomplish for herself, to prove to herself that she could do it. She also told me then, as you’ve said here, that she was driven by the dream to help others, the dream to give back to our people. Your aunt Jane’s dream was both things.”

  Uncle Sam pauses, places his hand on my shoulder, and says, “Always remember, if your dream benefits others, it will ultimately benefit you. Ubuntu teaches us to think of ourselves as part of a whole, so if one person is uplifted, then others also rise.” I listen intently to Uncle Sam’s words. I begin to understand that improving the lives of others will improve and enrich mine as well. A shared dream is a true give-and-take. A dream can be for one, and it can also be for many. In that moment I know, without a doubt, that as long as my dream continues to be a dream for others, it will also be my own.

  * * *

  In the morning, I wake to the unique and stunning yellow African sky, which always makes me feel at home, hopeful, and ready to work. I thank the gogo for her hospitality and step out to see the village of Budongo in the bright light of day. Before I take my first step, a young girl I do not recognize practically tackles me in a hug.

  “You are back, you are back! Me, I can be your teacher now. Me, I go to school.”

  I immediately recognize her voice. “Betty! It’s so good to see you.” I pull her toward me for another hug. It is almost impossible to believe that this is the same girl I met two years ago when she was ten years old. During that visit, she was one of the first people I encountered in the village. I found her sitting underneath a tree in her parents’ yard, wearing a short brown dress with shoulder straps. Her entire body, including her pretty round face, was covered in a bumpy red rash and she scratched her skin incessantly.

  This constant itching was caused by the millions of baby worms that squirmed beneath Betty’s skin: a telltale symptom of having contracted river blindness. An adult parasitic worm—transmitted to humans through the bites of infected bl
ackflies that breed in fast-flowing streams and rivers—will, once inside the host, produce baby worms that cause severe itching and a constant need to scratch. Eventually the worms travel to the eyes and can cause permanent blindness. This corrosive disease impacts approximately 25 million people of all ages, primarily in Africa, and fell particularly hard on Betty’s community.

  When I introduced myself to Betty two years ago, she stopped scratching her skin for a moment to laugh.

  “Aaaa, you, you can’t speak well-well,” she said.

  “Aaaa, maybe you can be my teacher, Betty,” I said, playfully.

  Her smile dissolved and the light disappeared from her eyes. “Me, I can’t be a teacher, because me, I can’t go to school because my skin is itching all the time.” Betty’s suffering was palpable, and I wanted so badly to ease her pain.

  Now, only two short years later, I pull away from this revitalized, energetic girl so I can take a proper look at her. Betty’s skin has cleared up apart from some minor scarring, and she is no longer scratching. As I look into her lovely brown eyes and feel her youthful energy, I choke up with emotion. Two years ago, I held the image of Betty digging into her skin at the forefront of my mind as I encouraged the communities to equally prioritize treatment for children impacted by river blindness, which was not yet happening. If Betty’s story is any indication, the issue of inequities in the distribution of available medicine, supported by me and my colleagues at WHO, is clearly being resolved.