Legal Alien

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Legal Alien

Rutangye Crystal Butungi

I can’t believe the receptionist is not going to take my consultation fee just because I’m from her
tribe! I thought corruption was only for the politicians and big businessmen. But here, in a small
town clinic, I am going to be the beneficiary of a corrupt doctor’s receptionist. Is this a good thing
or a bad thing? Well, I don’t care right now. I have spent the day running around offices getting
papers stamped. Now, I have to get a doctor to give me a check-up, approve this medical form, and
stamp it. I was about to walk out of this clinic because the consultation fee alone, without the
medical check-up fee, was way too high. But then, the receptionist glimpsed my name on the form
and said, “Eh, you mean you are from my village! Why didn’t you tell me your surname, I would
have done you a favour.” Then she started chatting away in our language.
“If you had told me where you were from, I wouldn’t have told you to pay that high consultation
fee. In fact, I’ve got enough for today, so don’t bother paying for consultation. Just wait for the
patient who is in now to come out and you can go in for your check-up.” Thank goodness she
sneaked those last sentences in English. She started rattling on in our language again. I dared not
inform her that I didn’t understand a single word she was saying. Today, was not going to be the
day I revealed my excuse for not knowing my mother tongue.
I will not reveal to her that I became aware of my vernacular deprivation in ‘93, when I was a
child. Daddy had taken me to the classroom and left me there. I stopped sobbing when the teacher
led me in. The room was so big! There were over a hundred children in there; at least seven pupils
on each of the fifteen or so benches. The walls were dirty, and you could see where the blue paint
had been chipped at by enthusiastic kids. There were no cupboards, no teacher’s desk, no carpet,
no sleeping corner, no tiles. The room held only children, benches, a cemented floor and a huge,
old blackboard positioned at the front. Everything was so dated. It was as if the décor had been
inspired by an Adams Family episode. At the back of the classroom, bags were sprawled all over the
floor, since there were not enough hooks on the wall to carry them all. I looked up at the man who
I assumed was the class teacher, as I’d heard my daddy address him as Mr. Muhangazima, and
asked, “Where is the fridge?”
There were loud gasps and the class started laughing. I began to cry again. Mr. Muhangazima bent
down and quietly said, “This is a classroom. We don’t keep fridges in classrooms. We don’t have a
fridge in the school, except the one in the canteen. Mpozi there’s a new one in the kitchen –”
“But where will I keep my break time snacks?”
“Just leave them in your bag and then put it at the back of the classroom.”
He led me to the back and pulled one bag off a strong hook, hastily threw it to the ground, and
put mine in its place.
I couldn’t understand my new surroundings. Back in Australia, my Grade 2 class – with just
thirty-two pupils - was the biggest in the whole school. Each class had a fridge to keep snacks until
break time and a microwave to warm them if necessary. My Australian class had a carpet for story
time and tables for writing at and red and blue building blocks for doing algebra. We also had a
painting corner, an ‘imaginary’ corner, and a sleeping corner for taking afternoon naps. And we
could wear anything we wanted. Not like this school, where I had to wear white socks pulled up to
my knees and a green and white checked dress that looked exactly like the ones mummy used to

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wear when she was pregnant with my younger brother - except mine had a belt. Such a strange
uniform!
Mr. Muhangazima took me to a bench at the back of the classroom. There were five pupils seated
at it.
“Daisy is a good girl” he said as he beckoned me into a seat next to a thin lipped girl, “she will
make friends with you.” He walked away chuckling as though it was hard for him to suppress his
laughter. As soon as I sat and said “hello”, Daisy pulled away from me and in doing so almost
pushed the others off the bench. She looked down at her book and continued doing the math
exercises that Mr. Muhangazima had left on the board. I had never have to add fifteen to twelve
without using building blocks, so I could not understand a thing. I didn’t want to be laughed at
again, so I didn’t ask for them. Every time I tried to ask Daisy to explain, she inched further and
further away from me. It was as if she was blocking me. There was some barrier I could not
penetrate.
Barriers. My attention was brought back to the receptionist’s incessant rambling. Somewhere in
between, I figured out she had offered me a seat in the waiting area right in front of her desk. It’s
2011 and I still feel like there are barriers I cannot penetrate, like this one. What on earth is she
saying to me? It’s been 18 years and I still feel like that girl my classmates were inching away from.
I can’t break into certain social circles because of this barrier. Either I’m trying to break into
people’s lives, but they shrink from me because they don’t understand me or I’m avoiding people
because I’m too ashamed to reveal that I don’t understand them. I wish I could hide from the
receptionist right now. What if she figures out that I can’t speak our language? Will she still think of
me as a village mate or will she feel taken advantage of and withdraw her no-consultation-fee offer?
I’ve encountered so many barriers; age barriers, education barriers, gender barriers, but none has
made me feel as alienated as the language barrier. Anyone can understand a woman fighting for her
rights, but few comprehend how one can fail to learn their own language. Thank goodness more
patients have walked in! Now the receptionist is preoccupied with explaining to them the high
consultation fee prices. One patient has a Kenyan accent. Lucky her. Everyone can understand why
she can’t speak any Ugandan languages. Perhaps next time I walk into a place I should speak with a
foreign accent so that people can immediately address me in English. Urgh!! That thought reminds
me again of that first day in school.
After that episode with Daisy, it was time for social sciences. The teacher was skinny and tall. She
walked to the front of the class and crooned, “Good morning P.3 K.”
“Good morning, Miss Nakanwagi!” Everyone stood up to greet her.
“Good. Sit down. Where is the new girl?”
Everyone turned and looked me.
“Eh, they have not yet cut your hair? Did the headmaster give you permission to keep your hair
long?”
I hadn’t noticed that none of the girls had hair on their heads. Before I had time to think about it,
the teacher had sent a boy from the front of the class to the back and told me to take his place. At
the front, I felt as if people’s stares were piercing my back. Halfway through the lesson, I began to
feel stupid because I couldn’t answer any questions. She was asking about Muntu and Sera - the first
humans on earth and then moved on to some tale, mentioning Gipiir and Labong. Then she asked
the shape of the world. Finally! I shot my hand up - I definitely knew the answer this one!
“Yes new girl. Stand up and give us the answer.”
“It’s a circle.” I shouted, beaming.
The class burst out laughing.

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“Repeat!” The teacher made me repeat my answer until my new classmates started mimicking my
accent. I sat down, depressed. Everyone was laughing at me.
I was so relieved when it was time for break. I wished I could have hidden somewhere in the
school and not return for another class! Before walking off to eat, I went to thank the teachers for
their classes. They were sitting at their table on the classroom verandah. My thanking them sparked
off some kind of debate.
“Eh bambi, the girl is from outside countries but she is still well-mannered,” said one of the
teachers.
“You mean people from bulaaya have bad manners?” Mr. Muhangazima always seemed kind and
supportive when he spoke.
“Nanti they are always proud and spoilt when they come back, but this one bambi even thanks us
for teaching?”
“Wamma go and have your break before the bell rings.”
When I turned round to look for a place to sit, I wished I could have stayed with Mr.
Muhangazima instead, because all the children were avoiding me. The school was so big. The road
from the main gate led up to a roundabout. On the left side of the road was the lower primary
section, made of primary one and two (referred to as P.1 and P.2). The rest of the school was on
the right side of the road. This included the school kitchen, administrative offices, main hall and
staff room. Each class had five streams; N, P, S, K and U, derived from N-akasero P-rimary S-chool
K-ampala U-ganda. When daddy and I had reported to the headmaster’s office that morning, the
headmaster asked which colour I liked best among yellow, blue, red, green and white. “Green”, I
had said, because I was in green house in my school in Australia. So he allocated me to P.3K
because all the K classes were in the green building of Eland house. Whoever designed the school
was very organized, because each block of classes had five classrooms for the five streams. And the
classes were huge; accommodating over a hundred pupils per stream. The P.3 and P.4 blocks were
separated by a big, grassy, fenced compound. I sat on a step on the verandah of my P.3 block, near
the teacher’s table. I began to eat the bread and cake mummy had packed for me. Then Daisy came
up to me with another boy and asked, “Wamma did you used to talk to Eddie Murphy?”
“Who is Eddie Murphy?” I responded.
“The one who acted in Coming to America.”
“I don’t know Eddie Murphy. I came from Australia, not America”
“This boy said that your father is a black American! He saw your dad bringing you, he even heard
him talking like from America.”
“No. My father is Ugandan, but we used to live in Australia.”
“You see I told you!” she said to the boy and they walked off arguing. Then break time was done.
The English teacher was awful. She started with my bench which was at the front. I couldn’t open
my book with the homework she wanted, because since it was my first day at a Ugandan school; I
didn’t have any homework completed. I didn’t want her to get to me because I hated the way she
was screaming insults about everyone’s work. But I didn’t have enough time to nurture my fear
because I was the fourth person in the row, “Where is your homework?” She asked.
“I’m -”
“Don’t tell me your nonsense!! Where is your homework?”
Before I could answer, her hand slap me hard across my face.
“Didn’t you hear me telling people to open their homework on the bench –”
The multiple shouts from the class telling her that I was a new pupil silenced her.
“Eh, sorry.” And she walked on, just like that, screaming at the next person in her broken English.

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I had never been slapped before, except by my mummy. I had tried to be superman and flew off
the top of a cupboard and sprained my knee and pretended to be dead. She was so scared and angry
and happy at the same time, so that when I came to all she could do was slap me for giving her such
a fright. But why would a teacher beat a student? In Australia, a teacher hit a child once in my
nursery school and was arrested. No one is allowed to beat children there, except their parents or
guardians, and even then, there were restrictions on how much a parent could beat their own child.
Beating. It is strange how I have gotten so used to it over the years. I am not even perturbed by
the sound of policemen beating idlers on Bombo road just outside this building. The clinic is on the
fourth floor where the tear gas doesn’t seem to have had as much effect. The receptionist finished
with the other patients and turned back to me. By her gestures I could tell she was saying something
about the ongoing riots. Ever since Muammar Gaddafi died, the opposition thinks it can overthrow
our president too. So every Monday they hold ‘Walk to Work’ demonstrations. All opposition
party members and parliamentarians walk to their offices. Idlers and workers in town stand by the
roadsides to cheer them on or join them, so every Monday morning the police and army roam
about in ‘mambas’ spraying tear gas and pink water at the crowds, then the shops close for a few
hours to prevent theft, until the protestors are arrested and released on bail, then the businessmen
put on a demonstration because the ‘Walk to Work’ campaign disrupts their profit-making, then
the university students hold a strike because the lecturers use the campaign to extend their
weekends. This cycle has continued for months, such that medical workers, teachers and lawyers
have also taken turns going on strike. I would like to use the routine to stay safe at home, but this
week is my deadline for sending the papers.
This morning I took a taxi before the sun rose (and before the protestors started walking to
work). I wisely spent the morning going to offices further from the town center where there wasn’t
much commotion. In the afternoon, I had to brave the remaining disturbances to visit the offices in
town. I hid in the crowded toilets of the commercial buildings and turned on a tap to wash tear gas
out of my eyes. Everyone was in their offices because they couldn’t go out into the smoky streets,
so I got everything else signed and stamped, except my medical forms. There was no way I was
going to get through to the taxi park to go to my family’s clinic. Well, at least not until the evening
when everyone would stop rioting and go home. So I stopped at the first signposted town clinic and
entered into the safest-looking building. And here I am now, staring at the receptionist’s blabbering
mouth. Our pseudo-conversation was interrupted by a small crowd rushing a bleeding child into
the reception. I couldn’t tell if the blood was coming from the child’s forehead or eye. Either way,
the blood managed to mingle with mucus from the nose and so was smeared all over the left side of
the child’s face. The mother was wailing. She looked more terrified than the injured little girl who
was sobbing quietly. The girl must have been about eight years old. As they whisked her into the
emergency room, I thought the receptionist would finally be silenced by the horrific scene. I was
wrong. It gave her a lot more to blabber about. I think she started talking about things that make
women and girls cry. I hate seeing crying girls. They remind me of that unforgettable first day.
***
I sobbed and cried quietly throughout the English lesson that day. The teacher made me think of
the stories of Amin that I had heard. Daddy said the reason we came back to Uganda was because
President Amin was no longer president. H. E. Museveni had restored peace, and so we didn’t have
to be in exile anymore. If it wasn’t for Amin, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling like an outcast in my
country and new school. My big sisters wanted to stay in Sidney for a few more years, but daddy
said when death came his way; it should find him in his own country. He had spent the last two
years sending money back to Uganda in order to build a home for us. Also, since he was a vice-
principal of a teacher’s training college in Australia, Makerere University offered him a big job that

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he couldn’t turn down. I thought I would find peace in Uganda like he said, but instead, the English
teacher had just slapped me. I tried hard not to pee in my pants in terror of it all. I resolved never
to come back to school again. But then, as soon as the teacher ended her class, the children sitting
around me started saying sorry and offering me sweets and telling me how I’d get used to the
beatings and all. Suddenly, I was making friends. The children were no longer scared of talking to
me. This began my orientation into my country, Uganda.
Uganda was horrible at first! When we arrived, three weeks before my initiation into Ugandan
school days, we did not have electricity for two days in a row. After that, electricity was off every
other night. There were only two TV stations; UTV and CTV. Between those two stations, there
were only five cartoons; Pingu, Superbook, Kissyfur, Duck Tales and Didi. Well Didi wasn’t a cartoon,
but he was just as fun to watch since he was a clown. In Australia, power only went off once or
twice a year, and the dates of the power cuts were announced at least six months before the
blackout. And there were two whole channels dedicated to cartoons all day and night. Here, the
cartoons only came on during the weekdays in the evenings, so I spent my weekends learning how
to play kwepena (dodgeball) and dool (shooting marbles) with my neighbours. I have learnt a lot since
then, over the years. I have learnt to kneel when greeting elders and to peel and steam matooke in its
banana leaves. I have learnt to iron clothes with a charcoal iron when there is no power, and to
cook with firewood. I learnt to wear three pairs of shorts under my school uniform so that it didn’t
hurt as much when I was caned by teachers. I learnt enough Luganda to bargain for things in Owino
market, and how to make kwepena balls out of any piece of soft rubbish in the compound. I no
longer have an Australian accent. My friends learnt a lot too. They learnt the difference between
Australia and America. They learnt that not every Ugandan abroad is cleaning toilets and bedpans in
hospitals. They learnt that not every child from abroad is a spoilt brat who can’t climb trees; in fact,
children from bulaaya can be very generous with their fancy toys! They learnt that it is futile to
speak vernacular to someone who spent the first nine years of their life speaking English in a foreign
continent. In fact, had it not been for the numerous relatives that camped at our spacious home for
years after we got back, I probably wouldn’t even be able to speak the little Luganda I do now. And
we speak Luganda, not because it is our language, but because daddy’s new job is in the country’s
capital - Bugandaland. Everyone from every other tribe in the country learns to speak Luganda
when they live here. Most of them know their own languages too. But a few, like me, who only
visit our villages once or twice a year, will forever suffer this minor identity crisis and those
quizzical looks we get every time someone declares, “You can’t speak your language!”
But today, I am not going get that look. I am going to let the receptionist blabber on in our mother
tongue, and I’ll keep nodding and laughing and exclaiming at appropriate intervals, because that is
my ticket to getting into the doctor’s room without paying that expensive consultation fee. Then
he’ll fill in my medical form, stamp it, and I’ll get out and say bye to the receptionist in Luganda or
English. Then she’ll say bye to me in Luganda or English and she won’t find it weird because
everyone in Kampala speaks Luganda or English. Then I’ll get out and add my medical form to my
other papers which I will submit to the embassy. Then they will call me after a few days to let me
know if I’ve been approved for a visa to fly out of my country to do my masters degree in Australia.

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