Starchild

by Michaela Foster Marsh

  On my return I find our group already seated at a long table by the window. I’m glad to see Assis, our driver, is sitting alongside everyone without me having to request him. Normally drivers sit at a separate table for dinner, but I don’t like this custom. We are surrounded by elegant tables but still no people. A member of staff has been found in my absence and Rony informs me a round of drinks has been ordered. Soon a large African gin and tonic is put down in front of me. Ah, just what I need after a day like today. “Cheers everyone.”

  A beautiful African girl approaches our table and asks if we are ready to order food. Ready? We’re all starving! The menu looks great. David has picked a lovely place. It’s just bizarre that there are no people here. By the time everyone has ordered their food, my gin is done and Helen and I are asked if we would like another double.

  Forty minutes later there is no sign of food—not even smells coming from the kitchen. I smell a rat, well not literally, but something doesn’t seem right. David decides to go in search of another member of staff. He comes back shortly and tells us the food is on its way, and that they had to wake up the chef.

  “Wake up the chef?” I look quizzically at David.

  “Yes, Sister. You see, I did not know the restaurant is usually closed on a Monday. But it is not a problem, Sister. Not a problem at all. They are happy to oblige. The chef is now awake.”

  Thank goodness for small mercies. I assume the chef stays in one of the rooms here and this isn’t as big an issue as it sounds. Iain asks me why they didn’t just tell us that when we came in. Is it not evident to him yet? We are the walking wallets—the muzungus. Of course, they don’t want to turn us away.

  Another gin and another half an hour later we are still waiting, and there are still no smells of food. This time it is Pastor Sam who decides to see what is going on in the kitchen. A few minutes later Sam returns and tells us it won’t be long now as the chef has arrived from the village. Since Ugandans tell you what you want to hear, the chef might as well be in Timbuktu. As I sip my third—or is it my fourth?—gin, I overhear a potential political nightmare playing out at our table. There has clearly been too much drink and not enough food. I know only too well that politics, religion and drink shouldn’t be mixed. Add in cultural naiveté and we could be asking for trouble. Assis excuses himself and goes in search of the chef. I sense he has deliberately removed himself and has probably gone to pray —for food I hope.

  Finally, food smells start to drift across the table and smiles appear on our drawn faces. But not for long. Assis is back from prayers and is the first to almost yelp when he puts his fork into the fish, which is practically still frozen. It’s not long before everyone is complaining the food isn’t properly cooked. By this point Iain’s face is red with rage. Rony speaks to him in local Glaswegian slang, “Keep yer heid, big man.” Translated, it means “Maintain your composure my friend.” However, our dear friend, Iain, is way beyond composing himself. He stands up and starts ranting and raving about this total farce, attempting to instruct the ever-increasing number of staff around us about how to increase tourism in Uganda. Oh dear, his blood sugar levels must really have dropped. Suddenly there is a manager, deputy manager, porters, cleaners—everyone has gathered for the fascinating spectacle of an angry muzungu. Now, we have been informed on numerous occasions to never lose our tempers with Ugandans as they treat it as a sign of immaturity. While Iain has his meltdown, Rony quietly negotiates the bill and we hightail it to the car. A few minutes later Iain is followed out by a polite entourage of staff attempting to pacify him. His parting message to the manager is a Glaswegian saying, “Get on yer bike!” To which the manager calmly replies, “I’m sorry sir, I don’t have a bike.”

  As Iain finally gets into the car, I ask Helen if she has any food in her bag. Peanuts—anything. Helen opens her handbag and says, “I have some jelly beans. Anyone want one?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Wishing Upon a Star

  By the end of Starchild’s first year, people were starting to give their time, talents and money. As a result, we were able to organize some charitable events, enabling us to fulfill some good projects in Uganda. We used the power of social media and the facilities of local churches and clubs to show what we had achieved. Not only had we provided a year’s supply of sanitary products to the schoolgirls, but we also delivered over eight hundred mosquito nets to schools and clinics, provided school tables and chairs, scholastic materials, school uniforms, shoes, clothes and much-needed supplies to children’s homes. All of these worthwhile activities garnered public confidence in Starchild. As a new charity, we not only had to build trust with our supporters, but I had to create a sense of confidence amongst our board and inspire them to trust in me and my vision. We were serious about building a school. Were it all to go wrong, I would not only feel terrible for letting down people in Uganda, but my reputation as a person of integrity in my own country could face ruin.

  If Starchild was going to build a school, the first thing we needed was land. But there was a major sticking point; as muzungus we couldn’t legally purchase land. And even if we did, it might not be worth the paper on which it was written. I already knew through Moses’ experience that buying land in Uganda was unreliable—even some Ugandans don’t know if they legally own the land they are building on or already live on.

  We had heard many horror stories of charities losing millions through corrupt dealing. We witnessed projects that had been started by charities who had later walked away because of the corruption. Some people we met had naively sent money across to Uganda and expected a school, church or orphanage to be built—with no supervision.

  I recall one man telling us his church back home in the United States had been donating money to a local pastor to build an orphanage. The church was regularly sent pictures of the construction and heart-warming photos of orphans. Eventually, this man from the States decided he had better go out and see this orphanage for himself. Wisely, he decided to arrive unannounced. It turned out there was no orphanage. The only construction being done was an extension to the pastor’s home!

  Another man told us his church back in the States had been supporting a ‘church’ in Uganda for over a year, with a congregation who were supposedly doing God’s good work and transforming the lives of Uganda’s most vulnerable. Now, to be classed as a real church, it had to have a congregation of at least sixty. Again, this man from the States got a tad suspicious and decided to take an unannounced trip to Uganda.

  When he arrived, he phoned the pastor and told him he was coming to visit the church that Sunday. The church turned out to be nothing but a shed, with exactly sixty people crammed into it. Some of the attendees had Bibles in their hands, but these were mainly being held upside down. It didn’t take him long to figure out that the congregation was made up of some local villagers who had been paid a few shillings to turn up for his visit.

  By this point, I had witnessed lots of projects that were started all over Uganda with the best of intentions and then sadly left to ruin. The Ugandan hand is often out for ‘chai’ as it is called. Little can get done without a backhander, even in the banks. Few seem to do much without thinking of lining their own pockets. It’s destroying the country, the charities, and the good people who are trying to help. But most of all it is hurting Uganda and those good citizens who find themselves embroiled in a corrupt system.

  I arranged many meetings during my next trip to Uganda. However, most were with time-wasting bureaucrats who didn’t like dealing with a woman—especially a muzungu—and worse, one who refused to pay chai. It soon became evident that the best thing for Starchild would be to partner with a reputable organization or school that already existed and was in need of financial support.

  As muzungus, if we were seen as the front people for the school then we would be paying extortionate costs for everything and wouldn’t be able to get anything done unless we continuous
ly paid chai. That would mean that every day obstacles could be put in our way. Even getting the school registered could be a potential nightmare; it would most certainly involve a large bribe for someone to pull strings. Most of the schools in Uganda are at the mercy of this game. Even with the best schools, it usually takes at least three years to become legally registered, and the threat that a school could be closed at some bureaucrat’s whim is always there. We remained undeterred, but realistic.

  Back in Scotland, Starchild was lucky enough to have a respected architect, Gary Mochrie, the brother of one of my dear trustees, Lisa Trainer, donating his time and talents. Gary brought the Starchild vision to life on paper. I remember how I cried with joy when he first gave me the plans, beautifully bound in a folder. As fate would have it, Gary asked to meet with us to hand them over in what used to be the old Greek Taverna, now known as The Mulberry Street. Unbeknownst to Gary, it had been Frankie’s old watering hole—and mine, until I left for Canada.

  The vision seemed more real now I had something tangible to show people. Then Gavin Coley of Abacus Modelmakers, who had been our next-door neighbor and Frankie’s friend, agreed to build a model of the school from Gary’s plans. Such generosity of spirit was truly humbling.

  Much to our sadness, we then discovered that the plans couldn’t be accepted in Uganda unless they had been produced by a Ugandan architect—at least that is what I was told. I wonder if some chai might have helped. It was one of my first very painful lessons. Starchild always knew our plans had to stay fluid, but this setback proved just how difficult the red tape in Uganda could be. Perhaps I was wishing upon a star that I could pull this project off.

  Fortunately, no egos got terribly ruffled, but it was a huge disappointment for everyone involved. The fact remained that we had professional architectural plans and a fantastic model of our concept to show people, both here and in Uganda. This gave us credibility; it was hard not to be impressed with the Starchild vision when you looked at what Gary had created on paper and Gavin had brought into a different dimension as a model.

  It was time to go back to Uganda.

  The Sins of the Father

  Uganda 2015

  Today I am meeting with Leonard Okello from the Uhuru Institute for Social Development in Kampala. Our friend, Moses has told me Leonard could potentially offer Starchild some advice about the dos and don’ts of setting up a not-for-profit organization in Uganda.

  Rony, Moses, and I walk up metal stairs to the small office tucked away inside a larger building. The door to the office is open and Leonard’s voice welcomes us in. Immediately, another man, who is sitting at the table facing us, stands up and says, “Moses, my friend! It is so good to see you. I didn’t expect to see you here. This is wonderful. Just wonderful.”

  I am struck by this man. His height, his presence, everything about him is striking. He hugs Moses, who practically disappears in his arms. He then turns his attention to Rony and me. He shakes my hand warmly and puts his other hand on my shoulder. His hands are huge! He is huge!

  “I’m Jaffar, Jaffar Amin. It’s lovely to meet you.”

  The name Amin jumps out for obvious reasons, though I assume it is a common name in Uganda. But I can’t take my eyes off this guy. He’s stunning! High chiseled cheek bones, slim African nose, intense eyes and broad shoulders. His smile is as Hollywood as his presence.

  He tells us he had just popped in to see Leonard and doesn’t want to intrude. Moses insists he sits down and has a coffee with us; Leonard has already put on the kettle. Jaffar tells Rony and me it has been years since they last saw each other and hopes we don’t mind him joining us for a bit.

  Of course, we don’t. I’m quite taken by his charm and good looks. Jaffar goes on to tell us how much Moses means to him. He explains our friend, Moses, helped him at a time when he was trying to come to terms with his name. He said Moses helped him own up to his name and prayed with him at a time he needed it the most. Since then, Jaffar says, he has been on a mission to reconcile with the many victims of his father’s tyranny.

  I can hardly believe it—this must be Idi Amin’s son! I can only imagine the presence his father must have had if this is his son. I feel a shiver.

  Moses explains to Jaffar we are here to see Leonard about our charity, Starchild. He offers him some background about the charity and why it was set up.

  Jaffar engages deeply in the conversation about Starchild. His face and body are animated as he listens to Frankie’s story. Then he reaches his long arms across the table to me. His fingers are long and slender, his palms almost white. He cups my hand in his, puts his other hand on top and looks right at me. “It’s been so lovely to meet you today and see my old friend, Moses. It’s such a beautiful coincidence that you had a meeting today with Leonard. Starchild sounds wonderful. Helping other people is so important. Like you, I am dedicating my life to helping people.”

  The energy from his hands is magnetic.

  Jaffar goes on to tell us he feels that being Idi Amin’s son is like carrying the weight of a million tons on his head. But forgiveness, he urges, is the only way forward. “Though difficult, we cannot continue to wallow in bitterness in this country.”

  He recalls to us how he turned up at a village one day to give a talk about reconciliation and a woman ran out from the crowd. “She ran straight for me and started beating my chest again and again. I allowed her to hit me as hard as she could. I just stood there until she could hit me no more. Eventually, she crumbled before me in deep sobs. I bent down and put my arms around her and wept with her and asked for her forgiveness for my father and my family.”

  I’m just about weeping listening to him. This is surreal. Here I am, sitting across from Idi Amin’s son. I have been entirely saturated in the history of his father and the atrocities of his brutal dictatorship for the past several years while writing my novel. And now I’m in Uganda listening to his third son tell me about his life with him as a father.

  “My father called me over one day and said, ‘I have a sweetie for you, Son. Open your mouth and close your eyes.’ My father put a chili in my mouth and held it closed. I could hear him laughing as I was trying to scream.” Jaffar chuckles like a giant. “I think he was trying to toughen me up. That is one of my earliest memories of my father.”

  I see the sadness in the story and the sadness in Jaffar. Despite his honor, he is wounded—deeply.

  Then he says, “I am Muslim, but we are all one in God. Would you mind if I lead us all in prayer?” Jaffar holds out both his hands. “Let us form a circle of prayer.”

  We all hold hands and bow our heads. Even his voice is captivating. With my eyes closed, I could be listening to a BBC news presenter. He prays for Starchild, he prays for peace, for reconciliation and truth. He thanks God for bringing old and new friends together today.

  His prayer is sincere and warm. I want to believe this man is a good man who truly does want to be a vehicle for healing and forgiveness in a country that is still reeling from its violent history. A history that Jaffar feels has at times been manipulated by the media and not truly reflective of his father. He disputes some of the histories of his father as an insane tyrant and tells us he is, in fact, writing a book to set his father’s record straight.

  I tell him I can’t believe I am sitting with him today. I am honest and tell him I don’t think he would like the depiction of his father in my book. I say to him I have read a lot about his father in the context of Ugandan history.

  He is humble and understands why I would choose to portrait his father negatively. He feels there is perhaps a greater reason we have been brought together today and offers an exchange of emails—he wants to share his writing with me.

  Uganda is still to this day a fiercely patriarchal society. Its tough warrior exterior could do with some softening. Perhaps Jaffar can show Ugandans that there can be a different kind of warrior. Perhaps. But
it is too early for history to tell.

  The Mango Tree School and Learning Centre

  Nankwanga Village

  Malindi, Jinja,

  Uganda

  Today we are on a mission to deliver another two hundred new school uniforms to The Mango Tree School. Our alarm clocks are set for 6:00 a.m. as we have a long journey ahead to Jinja. It might look close on a map, but the Jinja road is one of the busiest in Uganda. Although it is a single tarmac carriageway road, it is a major route for large commercial vehicles. This can mean vehicles speed and overtake dangerously. Accidents are as frequent as the roadside traders of snacks. The Mango Tree School is in Jinja, approximately eighty-three kilometers from Kampala. Jinja sits along the northern shores of Lake Victoria, near the much-contested site of ‘the source of the Nile’, a small spot along the shoreline of the mighty river.

  Delivering new uniforms to The Mango Tree School

  Jessica Norrby runs the school. Jessica was a child soldier in Museveni’s army during Uganda’s raging civil war. She was one of the lucky survivors who found refuge in the UK. On my first visit to Uganda, I tried to find a child soldier to interview for my book but I didn’t have much luck. Then a British chap, Eric Walford, I met out here suggested that I interview a friend of his, Jessica, who lives in London.

  The first time I spoke to Jessica was on Skype. Much to my surprise, she openly shared her experiences with me. It was painful for her to recall, but I was grateful for her willingness to let a total stranger into that dark period of her life. The stories I chose to tell of child soldiers in my novel are not representative of Jessica’s story, but it was important to hear her journey. It was also the start of a deep and lasting friendship. Against the odds, Jessica has risen in life. She is proof that it is the resilience of the human spirit that wins. She is passionate and committed to helping needy women and children in her country.