Tombstones and Banana Trees by Medad Birungi Page B

brought its own unique pain that tortured our insides, we had no choice other than to bring back whatever we found in the bins at the back of the trading post, no matter how rotten, moldy, or filthy. On good days we found good food and called it “a big catch.”
    But it was always embarrassing, and everyone knew we were doing it. What made it worse was that we were the only ones, and if they saw us people would shout at us. There we were, sharing with goats, pigs, and dogs. The only thing that separated us from the animals was the fact that we had names.

    Life in rural Uganda is communal. Even though we were the poorest family in the area, and even though we had assaulted our father and been publicly shamed by him, we were still a part of the community. We would try to have as little to do with our father’s siblings as we could, but there were others in the village who were not unkind to us. And when the whole village united for communal events, we would join in.
    Funerals were the best—at least they were if you were hungry. The food would be free and often available to everyone in the village. People would let us come up and help ourselves to the leftovers. Some adults would take the scraps to the pigs or dogs, but we could often get in first. We would eat all we could, cramming our stomachs, cheeks, and pockets with as much matoke, Irish potatoes, and groundnut sauce as was possible, and make our way, unsteadily, back home to deal with the inevitable stomachache that descended as soon as we lay down. Eventually my mother made each of us a cloth bag into which we could load our spoils at these events, and it went some way to prevent this severe overloading of our stomachs.
    Weddings were also good opportunities for a free feast, although the adults were typically more distracted at funerals. I found this out to my cost at one wedding when I was a child. One of my relatives was getting married, and even though we were not invited, I was there as I had not eaten for two days. I was hungry, and there was a lot of food on display.
    My godfather was the head cook of the wedding, and he stood near the fire, spooning out the goat stew to the guests as they approached. I had jiggers and head lice at the time and felt as though I had no meaning in life. We would go a week without bathing and we did not need to listen to the taunts and shouts from others to know we were a disgrace. Our humiliation was deep, but our hunger was deeper. I approached my godfather and asked for some food.
    I honestly thought he would say yes and reach in and deliver some tasty meat right into my bag. I honestly thought he would take pity on me. Years later, my godfather told me that as I stood in front of him, asking for some meat, he felt ashamed of me.
    â€œLook at your feet,” he said, loud enough to catch the attention of those standing around us.
    I looked at my feet. They were cracked, but so were everybody else’s. But mine were also covered in scabs and cuts. There was excrement on them, and flies were investigating an open sore. I looked back up at my godfather, and he carried on.
    â€œThey are as bad as those of a duck.”
    This brought much laughter from the crowd.
    â€œAnd your head,” he continued, “is like that of a pig. Will you ever be anybody?”
    In our culture ducks and pigs are lowly creatures. To be compared to either is a horrendous slander. People laughed louder now and started to cheer as he reached into the pot and pulled out the largest bone he could find within it. I looked up. What was he going to do? Was he about to hand me something to eat? Were those words just a form of teasing before he finally showed me some pity?
    He lifted the bone high and brought it down on my neck. I instinctively put my hand out to protect myself, but I was too slow. I fell over, blood leaking from the wound. I did not feel hungry anymore, but the pain was twice as bad as the ache that had been