Around the Fire

Chapter 1: Storytelling is in our blood. I remember the sense of anticipation, fun and fascination that I felt as a child as I joined cousins and other children as we gathered around to listen to a story. Awo olwatuuka…! Two words in Luganda would signal that the story had begun. We would fall silent, eyes and ears glued to the storyteller, hanging onto every word and every twist. Waiting. Minds completely enthralled by the imagery and emotions brought to life by the words, the tone of voice, the storyteller for that moment a magician who transported us through time, perching us in our imaginary seats – witness to events alive only in our minds. For that moment (“awo”) we were in the story! Awo nange (“There too”) … two words would announce the end of the story … and we would all join in to say the closing word…. wenalabira (That’s what I saw). And with that, we would be brought out of our trance and then the analysis and arguments would begin, each one of us trying to cast some magic of our own as we made a passionate case for an alternate twist that would certainly have improved the plot. Our storytellers would often sit back listening to us, smiling contentedly. Their job was done. The seed of imagination had been activated. The next generation of storytellers was already hard at work. As long as we are alive, we each have a story to tell and no matter our journeys, we can each win ardent listeners who recognize their stories, hopes and questions in our tales. Our stories have profound meaning because they reflect many things at once yet a different way for each person to connect: a life lived, ideas nurtured, intimate conversations and privileged access, questions posed, answers discovered, sights seen, emotions, lessons learned, battles fought, won and lost, and identity. So this is my story. As I look back at my life, I see blocks of time that make up each chapter. But I also see countless brief and seemingly insignificant moments – at the time - that I only fully appreciated in retrospect for the momentous chapters or turning points that they were in my journey. What amazes me most about all of these chapters are the people whose stories intertwined with mine at each moment, teaching me through their words and actions, shaping my understanding of myself and of the world around me and thus sometimes gently and sometimes dramatically shaping my choices and journey. Stories can serve as a compass. They can tell about where we’ve been and thus illuminate lessons about context, decisions and their consequences. In my culture in Uganda, traditional songs are passed down from generation to generation to tell the tale of great warriors, wise leaders and fools. We learned these songs as children, danced to them, laughed heartily at the storyline or acted them out with all the energy and drama that childhood imagination inspires. The education system in Uganda has not done enough to exploit our treasury of traditional Ugandan stories. These stories, combined traditional art and history about character and values, the stories that were designed to offer insight to cultural identity, are relegated at best to the most basic use during instruction of very young children – a valuable yet wholly insufficient investment of this resource. There is virtually no place for these old treasures in formal instruction on literature and analysis for older children, the priority in the curriculum accorded instead to “modern” (read “mostly foreign”) literature. If “we are what we read”, then who are we as a consequence? Educators must do so much more, particularly now in light of the conflagration that is social media, to cultivate better understanding and preserve equal appreciation for our art, history and literature, for our stories and by extension our identity and all that these contribute to the global tapestry and wealth of knowledge on the human experience. To protect the place and purpose of our own narratives in this noisy marketplace, parents, grandparents (Jajjas), aunts and uncles have carried forward the tradition of storytelling, adding new accounts to the old collection and giving more children the opportunity to imagine, argue, recreate and self-affirm. My story, in effect, is a praise song to all of these people generously investing their time in helping children find their feet, their own voice, their love of self. In particular though, because we don’t hear about women enough, it’s a song to honour the women who carefully, deliberately or sometimes unknowingly guided or cheered me on as I stepped ever closer to growing into the person and character that I inhabit today. With their hands and their words, these women taught me everything I know about what it means to be an “African Woman” and I celebrate their beauty, diversity, elegance, grace, strength, ingenuity and wisdom.