A Unsettling Sunday

I know the sound our gate makes: chiming of keys and the sturdy thud of the padlock releasing, the metal latch creaking open and while an ownerless hand gropes for the iron bar on the inside. A push and the door sighs open. It’s a sound I hear everyday.

This morning, our fan spun above and the lopsided momentum made an even tempo. My book was propped up on my chest, legs lazily dangling over the couch. A distant sound of the gate.

But it wasn’t the ordinary sound. It was softer, less clamor. An easy exhale. Curious—maybe my roommate had just come home, it had been a late night and her keys weren’t in their usual resting place; she must have spent the night across town—I pull the curtain back and looked towards the driveway of our compound.

A dull confusion. There was a man. Not one I recognized. Reason came first: it was only too often that we were greeted by strangers who came to do odd jobs around the house for Milly, the house cleaner. Maybe it was a gardener. Our unannounced guests always put me slightly on edge (too many face to faces with random men near by bedroom) but the frustration was quickly released and forgotten. Just another annoyance of living in the too-often under-managed staff house.

But this man wasn’t here to see Milly. She wasn’t working today. Neither was our guard. The shushed confusion turned into a roaring panic. This was an intruder.

I froze for an instant. The porch door was unlocked, open, letting in the morning breeze and the ululations of Sunday worship. He was nearing it. Should I close it? The lock, a metal bar, was stubborn. I wouldn’t be able to secure it in time. Lock myself in my room? The more selfish option but the quieter, less conspicuous one. Like my quiet disappearance would mean his as well.

I crept away. But before leaving the room, before leaving his sight, I looked back. He was heading for the gate. He was leaving. He was gone. Did he see me?

Then I heard voices. He was talking to someone. Who? Had I overreacted? Was he only a construction worker from next door retrieving a tool? But that didn’t make sense.

Suddenly, I had to follow him. I had to laugh about the mix-up with him. I had to let out a sigh of relief with a smile that said how embarrassed I was for doubting him, misjudging him. My mistake.

I pushed open the door, bent down and let myself through. Anticipating the usual guys who hang out on our road, but no one was around. All I heard was the quick patter of footsteps, shouting, laughter. He enjoyed it, his narrow escape. The blurred edges of my mind closed in, resolved on what I already knew: he wanted to get inside our house.

Shaking, I ran back inside. I grabbed my phone and dialed the number of our office. No answer. I called another number and then another.

My mind stacked all of my vulnerabilities: I was a walking target as a Westerner, my white skin glowing in the night, my expensive laptop, my inability to read social cues, my desire to trust people on default despite the stories that swirled around the city. I mentally fingered the two parallel scratches than ran from my collarbone done to my shoulder blade, a scabbed over rope-burn from when two kids ripped my purse off of my body and stole away with my iPhone just a week before.

Finally, the line connected. Somebody was coming over. I took deep breathes. Heart rate down. Resolution, almost.

The rest of the day was pins and needles, telling and re-telling the series of events. Expelling verbal frustrations and worries. Weighing the contradiction of loving and loathing something all at once. Turning questions over in my mind, turning answers around and around.

The truth is, I hate feeling unsafe. I hate being exposed. I hate that people know our house and know when we come and go, know our routine and our possessions. I hate that it can be unsafe to stand up for myself. I hate that man can grope me and make kissing noises and ask to marry me and wag their tongue at me. I hate that I can’t tell them off, let my feminism roar.  I hate that there is so much out of my control.

And I hate that I hate it.

To whoever’s reading this (hi mom) I know that I haven’t written much about my ten months in Uganda. I haven’t known what to say. I’ve been afraid to draw conclusions (because they will inevitably be wrong). But suddenly, therapeutically, the words have been coming. My intensions have been to expose a life here that many of you can’t picture, to disrupt the assumptions you have of Kampala, Uganda, this continent. But now, here I am, affirming your suspicions: Africa’s not safe. So this final word is for me: an apology, an act of grace. I’m taking off that burden and responsibility for today. I’m writing something real. Today was a frightening day. Tomorrow will not be.

 

Well—I have to say I personally have never drawn such a sharp line between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ as you. For me: that line is often false. As long as I am acting out of love, I feel I am doing best I know how.

Donna Tart, The Goldfinch

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