Going to the food market is one of my favourite things to do in Kamwenge. I normally go to the market a few times a week to buy our fruit and vegetables.
The market, with the dusty well-worn path leading to the semi-undercover, crumbling old building full of wooden stalls and umbrellas and loosely hung material shade; with its neat piles of freshly picked garden vegetables and mothers sitting lazily at their stalls chatting in Rukiga; the market that is brimming with life. The market proudly presents the picture of Uganda that I love the most: the localness of all things, the respect and time for relationship, the placid pace of life, and the now-familiar smells of Kamwenge: the smell of dust, smoke from charcoal stoves, matooke, boda-boda fumes and most importantly, lots of ankole cows. Now, it has become a part of my everyday life.
When I first started coming to the market, no one knew the story of this strange white girl – she buys her own food from the market? She cooks? She walks? She carries the food in our local baskets? One of the first times I went there I wrote about it in my journal:
“I asked for green pepper. The woman took my hand and guided me past several little food stalls, each selling the same food – matooke, rice, sweet potatoes, cassava, groundnuts, millet, spinach, tomatoes, a million different types of banana, and pineapple. I am careful to avoid the spread of fresh beans, maize and sorghum laid out on sacks on the uneven ground, drying or waiting to be sorted by hard working women doubled over at the waste, ensuring the purity of their produce. Most people would look at me in shock but smile their jovial Ugandan smile, surprised that the Mzungu has braved the food market; it seems this is a rare occurrence. Mischievous kids follow behind me cautiously, the light pitter-patter of their bare feet drowned out by their chanting of ‘mzungu’. A few are daring enough to come and hold my hand. As I pass one stall, a little semi-naked boy playing beside his mother’s vegetables begins to quiver, then shake, then scream at the top of his lungs and cling to his mother’s legs in a fit of fear at the sight of this strange ghost-like person. It must be his first time. The mother tries to sooth him between her own fits of laughter. She catches my eye and I laugh and shake my head, as a crowd gathers around entertained by the boy’s reaction. This is my first time causing someone to hyperventilate – I feel caught somewhere between a super-celebrity and a school yard bully. But alas, the boy calms as I continue on my way, now loaded up with a limited variety of fruit and vegetables.”
Now when I enter, I am met with familiar faces greeting me in the Batooro pet-name the women there have chosen for me. So much of the beauty and strength of communal living is disrupted and distorted in Uganda these days; but it seems this is one of the places where it stays true to form. And for a brief moment when I am there, I also feel a part of this living, breathing organism. The women allow me to practice my Rukiga on them, free of the laughter and ridicule that I sometimes find in town. They help me stumble over new words, teach me phrases that I didn’t know, and throw in free produce when they have excess, well aware I am a loyal customer. I hear their stories of illness and burial, of the woman at the corner stall who has just lost her daughter because of an obstructed labour, or the struggle of a bad harvest for a particular food due to the never ending dry weather. I also laugh with them now, when they introduce their shy children who don’t quite know what to do about the muzungu that knows their mother…
And in return? I can offer almost nothing, except to buy their fresh food at fair prices.