Allowed to be 50.

Allowed to be 50.

Independence month is coming up, and before I write about this year's I thought I might let you know what I wrote about last year's independence anniversary.

Allowed to be 50.

He’s only five years old, but he knows more things than everybody I know. He doesn’t judge things or people the way adults do, and he has the most open mind a child can have. He hardly fails to find an answer for people who challenge him. Being nineteen years older than him, I always try to ask him about things that are simple, but even when I ask about adult issues; he usually shocks me with brilliant answers. But when I ask him what independence is he stares at me like a sheep.  He looks clueless. No matter how much candy I promise him, he can’t make up a story about independence (he’s always making up stories about everything - most of it lies). How on earth am I supposed to explain it to his little brain? Seeming to read my thoughts, he walks away to play. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Mum says if he feels like a looser it will affect his self esteem. So I follow him and try to explain. “Think of it as a time when people become free”, I try to break it down. But when I mention this he tries to regain his reputation by asking if it is similar to going for break tea after singing and reading at day care, or being allowed to go visit one of his friends. Allowed! Then it hits me. How can anybody think they are free when they are only allowed to do the things they do!

Independence. When I type it into my computer and check for its synonyms, I get words like self-government, sovereignty, autonomy, self-rule, self-determination, freedom and liberty. And then I look around, and see the opposite. How could Uganda claim to be self governed when vital decisions are only made according to the needs of donor countries? And what ridiculous person would say that Uganda is sovereign? Autonomy? Seriously? That’s a lie of the century. Or dream, to be polite. Everything important to Kampala is imported. There was once a joke around the city about a man who, on a radio call–in-show reportedly said the government hires ‘Chinese cookers’ (meaning cooks) to come and repair traffic lights because it does not trust Ugandan trained or born electricians and engineers.

I try everyday to love Uganda. And I know I do. But it’s not an easy place to love. It’s like being abused by your own mother or father. You want to love them and hold them tight when the storm comes, but then their stench is too real for you to ignore it. I look for reasons to celebrate that fifty years ago, unlike many countries that fought for their freedom, Uganda was just granted independence. May be that’s why it’s hard to be proud of her. Because she doesn’t know how to fight for the right reasons. How can I be at peace knowing that our tribes still hate each other and would jump at any opportunity to insult and fight each other? When I know that countless mothers are dying each day not only in the countryside but even in the middle of the city, while crowds at Kololo airstrip are excited by jets that paint the sky above them with Uganda flag colors? When I know that roads to villages where there is no ‘government interest’ are horrible to use, and our leaders think they are more important than the rest of us? How can I think of freedom when nothing looks free? When I don’t feel free?

But then again, may be my brother is right. May be there is no freedom that is free. May be we all have to be allowed to be independent? I check the word again, and at the bottom of its synonyms is another word that says; dependence (antonym). And in that moment I realize that the universe is bigger than individuals, and that Uganda is only a portion of that universe, the same way I am of Uganda. We all depend on each other. We all need each other. The donors need developing countries to depend on them so they can depend on them too, except they do it brilliantly and few people ever notice. May be it’s not her fault that Uganda is what she is, maybe that’s the image they’ve painted of her. May be with better public relations, and an amendment of what the principles that determine ‘development’ are, she would not be so badly off. May be there is no place without disease, and hunger and bad roads at one point in time. May be it’s us who don’t try hard enough, waiting for the government to come to our rescue. May be we are independent after all, if it means we admit that we depend on others and allow them to depend on us. May be to be independent is to be allowed by the rest of the world, to be.

Yet, why do I feel like a five-year old? Trying to find words that I do not understand? Could it be because children are wiser than us, thinking of things without complicating them with context and experience?

Maybe I am trying to learn from my little brother. Learn about things only children can see. Getting to know a long forgotten point of view.  Or do I feel this way because I am now capable of changing my point of view and look beyond myself? Could it be ….

Or could it be that I am grown up, and so is Uganda? For believe it or not, fifty years is not the same as five or twenty. In fifty years you grow up and shape up, and unlearn the mischief of your youth and begin to show the wisdom of your adulthood but still, long for the freedom of your childhood.

 In many ways Uganda has grown up. When I look around at the many influential women that have been able to shake our city out of sleep, people like the KCCA boss, Jennifer Musisi, I see growth. Even KCCA itself is a great achievement. The streets have been cleared. Buildings that were once a talk of town because they are not properly built have finally been brought down. The owners may be annoyed, but those are sacrifices every city has to make, to move forward. When I go to the market and see all kinds of food stuffs and vegetables coming in from the country side, I see a people getting serious with agriculture, something that used to be only a plea to them. I see parliament for the first time voting in a female speaker and am not just impressed because I am a woman. I see change, I see growth, and I see people being given credit due their names, irrespective of their gender. Things that were once only dreams, I see them coming true.  So maybe it calls for celebration after all, to be fifty. To be allowed, to be fifty.