Now I Am Known by Peter Mutabazi

Author:Peter Mutabazi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Inspirational / Memoir;Fathers—Uganda;Foster parents—Uganda;Uganda—Social conditions;REL012040;BIO002010;SEL021000
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2022-06-16T00:00:00+00:00

Reunion

After thirteen hours, the bus finally reached Nyabikoni. No one was waiting for me because I had not told anyone I was coming home. I wanted my return to be a surprise. I gathered my bags and found a bike taxi. I had too much stuff to carry and couldn’t walk two miles from the station to home. The ride to my house took only ten minutes, but it almost seemed longer than the bus trip. I had been so excited to see everyone and to shove my success in my dad’s face, but now my stomach twisted into knots. What if they don’t want to see me? I wished I could train my mind to stop jumping to worst-case scenarios.

My little brother was the first one to see me coming up the road toward our house. He must have thought he had seen a ghost. He didn’t even wave. Instead, he spun around and ran into our house calling for my mom.

Then my mom came outside. She covered her mouth and began to weep. I dropped my stuff and started walking toward her. She ran to me, crying and laughing and smiling all at the same time. When she reached me, she threw her arms around me and hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe. “You’re home, you’re home, you’re home,” she said over and over. “I can’t believe it’s you. Oh, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” I said.

My mom laughed and hugged me again. “I am very surprised,” she said. My brothers and sister came rushing up next. A million arms hugged me all at once. “Go get the chicken,” my mom told one of my brothers. “We will feast tonight to celebrate. Your brother has returned!” For our family, this was like the father of the prodigal son killing the fatted calf. We had meat only once or twice a year. To kill a chicken and cook it for me? I cannot describe how momentous this was.

We moved our celebration into my family’s small house. My mother served me tea, then we sat down and everyone asked me a million questions. “How is life? How is school? What is Kampala like?” My mother kept shaking her head in disbelief and staring at me like this sight was too good to be true. One of my brothers pointed at my shoes in disbelief. “Where did you get those?”

“I actually have two pairs,” I said.

“Two pairs! You must be rich!” I just smiled and shook my head. When I first went to Katweha, I thought all the kids in my school had to be rich based on how they were dressed. Now my brother thought that of me. When you have nothing, even a little looks like great wealth.

I pulled out the clothes I had brought for my brothers and sister. Even though they were my hand-me-downs, my siblings reacted like I had brought them the latest fashion from Paris.

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