By Maroushka F. Kanywani

Sam’s wife picked me up at the airport when I arrived in Canada and one look at her has made me realise that she must single-handedly be the person responsible for all the worrying changes I have noticed in Sam lately.

It isn’t Canada, as many have suggested; I attribute all the changes in Sam to her advent into his life.

A mother always knows.

This is what happens when one marries outside one’s tribe or culture. Kitalo!

Sam has begged me repeatedly to stop saying kitalo but how else am I supposed to express my feelings? “What a pity” is just not a good enough translation for kitalo.

It all started with a last-minute text message from Sam telling me he would not be able to pick me up at the airport and that Andrea would be coming instead. I wasn’t at all pleased at this sudden change in plans and honestly felt quite slighted by it all. In fact, I still do. I feel that a change this significant should have been communicated through a phone call.

Sam’s cavalier attitude towards something so important—my first trip to visit him since he left Uganda—has left me with a bad taste in my mouth and I fear it has set the tone for the rest of my stay in Toronto.

The flight from Entebbe to Toronto was largely uneventful; however, the fourteen-hour layover in Dubai before the thirteen-hour flight to Toronto has left me extremely exhausted and not in the best of moods, especially considering I was going to have to deal with a complete stranger picking me up.

I tried to freshen up as much as I could but there was only so much I could do considering the amount of time I had spent in the air as well as at two different airports. I’m not sure the re-application of my pocket-size L’Air du Temps did much good but it did boost my spirits somewhat, as did the two miniature bottles of Johnny Walker I had as soon as we touched down in Toronto.

I had no problems with the Immigration people at all; they were very courteous to me and believed my bold lie that I was not bringing in any food.

Switching the ghee into shampoo bottles and then freezing the bottles was brilliant!

I saw one poor woman pulled aside because the sniffer dog had sat next to her luggage and had refused to budge. I saw her trying to shoo it away with her foot but when it bared its teeth and growled menacingly, she relented.

I don’t think she had realised that this was a working dog until the burly security lady with a very cheap-looking wig and tired acrylic nails started a conversation with her. I heard her denying that there was any food in her luggage until the officer sternly told her that the dog is trained to sniff out meat and dairy products.

By this time, more than one security guard had surrounded her. She burst into tears and admitted she had brought a specially prepared meal for her son since he had last tasted her cooking over ten years ago.

I left her trying to negotiate with them, oscillating between tears and small fits of anger.

I walked into the Arrival Lounge and there she was.

When I saw Andrea in person and then quickly mentally pulled up the wedding picture that was emailed to me three years before, the difference was like night and day. I felt like the entire family had been deceived!

The demure smiling bride wearing what looked to be a normal office suit—people in North America really don’t make any effort for special occasions, kitalo!—and clinging rather desperately to my handsome Sam’s arm was replaced by a woman wearing some sort of multi-coloured head gear that was a cross between a turban and an over-sized headscarf with tassels, with the sad ensemble proceeding downward to a threadbare yellow vest and a faded fuschia sarong with white dolphins.

Nothing was matching, much to my consternation.

I had been willing to make concessions if at least I could identify some sort of color scheme to the outfit, but there was none.

She was also wearing an anklet and a nose ring, which reminded me of those prostitutes I’ve heard about who sip a beer an hour at the Rock Garden Cafe in Kampala.

I cannot imagine what went through her mind that had her wearing a vest to her first meeting with her mother-in-law. It was also clear that there was no bra underneath the vest and I admit that a sharp twinge of jealousy coursed through me at this glaring testimony to youth but I brushed it aside and chose to return to my insulted stage instead.

I could see all the time and money Sam’s father and I had spent on getting him a good education in Uganda and in the US along with the endless talks on how important it was to have good manners, and how first impressions make lasting impressions had been cast aside dismissively with Andrea’s entry into his life.

How barren could Sam’s life have possibly been to allow someone like this to wash up onto the shores of his life?

I began to worry even more about my son’s mental and emotional state since his move to Canada and in perfect cue, my heart started racing.

We had still not uttered a word to each other for I was still trying to digest this disaster in front of me; a disaster that was now a permanent fixture in my son’s life, thanks to vows exchanged and by extension, now a fixture in mine.

“Hey, how’s it going?”, were her first words to me, and said so joyously and in a nonchalant manner that grated on nerves that were already stretched to the limit given the long journey I had taken.

My dislike for Andrea grew intensely and somewhat illogically, I admit, with the realisation that I didn’t know what the correct response to “hey, how’s it going?” was.

“I’m doing very well, thank you,” schooling my features into what I hoped was a smile. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Andrea then proceeded to rush me out of the Arrival Lounge, saying that the parking ticket she had purchased was about to expire.

As she was hoisting my large suitcases into the car, I caught a glimpse of an unshaved armpit and recoiled in horror but at the same time was thankful that none of my sisters were here to see this.

I wondered then whether she was an orphan who had received no home training from her Aunties and at the same time was mentally flipping through the conversations I had had with Sam, trying to remember if he had mentioned her parents’ existence or not.

I could not remember and the reason is I was not that interested at the time.

Now I was.

I also considered the unshaved armpits as a bad omen. What would their house look like if she didn’t have the time to shave?

I placed my hand on my chest and drew in a deep breath.

She glanced at me with a frown and asked if I was alright. I assured her that I was just tired after the long flight and was looking forward to getting a good night’s rest.

She asked me to buckle my seat belt and even before I had clicked the belt into place, the car was lurching forward yet she was able to reach for a brown cup marked with the words “Always Fresh Tim Hortons Coffee” with such dexterity that I knew I was watching an old habit at work.

I wondered how fresh the coffee was and why she had left the house without breakfast.

I pursed my lips with the realisation that this was probably a sign that she never made Sam any breakfast.

Kitalo.

There was a radio station playing music that reminded me of Harry Belafonte’s songs and as we sped by other cars, I was surprised to see that Andrea was not the only one drinking coffee.

When we slowed down due to what I presume was some sort of traffic jam ahead, I glanced at the car alongside us and saw the woman who was driving applying mascara followed by lipstick.

I wondered what kind of lives people led here that didn’t allow one the time to put on mascara in the privacy of one’s home or have breakfast before leaving.

I now understood that what many of us in Uganda thought of as strange when we saw European tourists with heavy backpacks and dusty feet walking while eating bananas or whatever they happened to have in hand, was actually the norm here.

Andrea interrupted my thoughts to inform me that we were almost home and asked if there was anything I needed before we got there.

I was confused by the question and said I was fine and was just looking forward to getting some rest.

She then proceeded to alarm me when she said, “I didn’t have time to make your bed, so I’ll do that once we get home. Hopefully Sam will be up so you can chit chat as I get that done.”

What did she mean by this? Why would Sam be at home at this time, considering it was close to four in the afternoon on a weekday?

I sent up a prayer hoping that Sam’s sister in Boston had reminded him to buy new bed sheets for me for the duration of my stay.

I didn’t quite know how to broach this rather delicate issue with Sam so I had called his sister and asked her to do it for me once I’d been granted a Visitor’s Visa by the Canadian High Commission.

I had wanted to bring my own sheets but my daughter had said it would look very odd, and besides, no one had been to Sam’s house in Toronto so we didn’t know what size the bed was and it would also be a strange thing to inquire about.

We were soon on a quiet street lined with trees and what struck me is that each and every house looked exactly the same.

If it were not for the house numbers showing prominently on the front doors, I imagine many people would have been knocking at the wrong door.

While I was not impressed by the lack of originality in the homes, I was impressed at how clean and neat all the front yards were though they were quite tiny compared to what we have back home.

No wonder this part of the world has so many parks.

Andrea flipped down her visor and pressed a button on a small console attached to it and I first heard then saw a garage door start to open just as she turned into a driveway.

I was a bit startled to read the number on their front door—666.

A few seconds after we had pulled into the garage, the door started its descent.

We had arrived.

She said we should pass through the kitchen and I was taken aback at being welcomed into a house for the first time through the kitchen.

Did she not realise how momentous this occasion was, her mother-in-law’s first visit to her son and his wife’s home?

I pursed my lips and wondered what kind of home training Andrea had received, if any at all, for that matter.

I glanced around the kitchen and noticed that there were no chairs, only bar stools around a granite-top island.

My back had started aching and I had been hoping for the comfort of the sturdy back of a chair to lean against.

I started taking in the kitchen in more detail and noticed that it was quite tidy except for some dishes in the sink.

I hoped these were from lunchtime and not from last night’s meal.

Andrea opened a large double-doored fridge and when I stealthily leaned a little to the left to look in, I was surprised to see that it was practically empty.

All the American films I had watched always showed fridges stocked to the brim as if a war were imminent and I vividly remember a documentary on MNet on The Cult of the American Kitchen, where they explained that big, shiny appliances were the trend, yet the paradox was that people were spending less time actually cooking.

It was all for show.

With the frequent power outages in Kampala, having a stocked fridge was not exactly a good idea.

Andrea asked me if I’d like a cup of tea and I acquiesced when in truth all I wanted to do was sleep but there was the unresolved issue of an unmade bed.

I wondered rather ungraciously why my room had not been prepared ahead of my arrival and why she was having a cup of tea with me when I saw two cups being brought out.

I watched her watch the kettle boil, make the tea and then almost lost my balance on the bar stool when she reached into the cup to pull out the stringless tea bag with her hand!

I abruptly got up, stretched and injected false enthusiasm into my voice and asked to see the rest of the house.

She seemed rather happy with my request and led me out of the kitchen into a beautiful sunken living room.

The furniture and decor were tasteful, however my eye caught a fine patina of dust coating the nested side tables as well as more dust on the mantel.

I was miffed that no special effort had been made for my arrival.

I glanced at the sofa set and wondered where all the chair backs I had crocheted and mailed by DHL had been put.

My daughter in Boston had tried to gently explain to me when I’d visited her two years ago that they didn’t really suit the “look” she was trying to attain for her living area.

I felt a wave of self-pity engulf me as I realised Andrea and Sam had something in common with my daughter in Boston.

Andrea cleared her throat and said, “I’m going to check on Sam; please make yourself comfortable.”

I sank into one of the armchairs and was delighted at how plush it was and a wave of fatigue suddenly washed over me.

However, I was still worried about the bed sheet issue because I was almost certain that the sheets I was going to sleep on were sheets Andrea and Sam had also slept on.

I know it should not be a “big deal” as my daughter puts it, but it is taboo in my culture to sleep on the same sheets as a married couple and if my daughter was right, I was the first visitor in Sam and Andrea’s home.

I didn’t have a problem when I was in Boston because my daughter had the new sheets still in their packaging when I arrived and threw them into the dryer for a few minutes.

I closed my eyes and started thinking about Andrea in more depth.

Where was she from and what kind of family did she come from?

Was she treating my Sam well or were the signs of neglect I was picking up around the house symbolic of her relationship with Sam?

Sam had become withdrawn over the past couple of years, especially since his decision to marry Andrea.

Our applications for visas to the wedding were denied on the basis that it didn’t look as if we would return to Uganda.

I was incensed when the letter arrived informing us of the Canadians’ decision!

I had no interest in staying in that cold country; all I wanted—like any mother—was to be present at my son’s wedding.

Sam’s father and I were leading a happy and comfortable life in Uganda and only travelled for leisure.

It was a surprise that we were granted US visas but not Canadian ones; the impression has always been back home that since 9/11, the US is not easy to get into, especially when you are based in Africa.

I heard footsteps approaching and opened my eyes to take in a son I had not seen in over seven years.

I was shocked!

This was not the Sam I had seen in the wedding pictures; this man was a stranger!

He looked quite gaunt and I noticed that this time it was Sam who was desperately clinging to Andrea’s arm—for balance, or was it for emotional support?

In the only wedding picture we had received from them, it had been Andrea clinging to Sam’s arm.

His hair had now grown from a low cut into those locks I despise on men, however I had the presence of mind to acknowledge that I’d never known his hair could grow to such lengths.

I was quite certain now that Andrea was sporting the same look under that multi-coloured head tie of hers.

She must have been the one who led him down that path; Sam doesn’t have it in him.

A mother knows.

I got up hastily and rushed to embrace him and to sever the link he had forged with Andrea, if not emotionally then at least physically.

I was alarmed to feel his bones poking me through a vest I belatedly realised was identical to Andrea’s and looked at her accusingly.

I took my son’s face in both my hands and in a quivering voice asked, “Kiki Sam, obadde ki?”, pleading with him to tell me what had happened to him and hoping he would respond in our local dialect and not in English, as he was wont to do since his arrival in North America.

He looked at me and sadly said, “I’m okay, Mom; you just caught me at a bad time.”

I gave Andrea an inquiring look but she evaded me adroitly with the blank expression now on her face and I began to wonder what kind of situation I had walked into.

Where was the carefree woman who had greeted me at the airport with her annoying “Hey, how’s it going”?

I could handle that persona quite well; but I was flummoxed on how to handle the current situation, especially since it seemed that both Sam and Andrea were affected by it.

Was there more to the neglect I had seen that I had initially chalked up to being a result of Andrea’s laziness?

Were her unshaved armpits, the dirty dishes, my unmade bed as well as the thin coating of dust in the living room a result of far more than just poor hygiene and poor time management?

I took their hands and led both of them to the largest sofa and sat between them and still holding onto their hands asked again, “What’s the matter? What are you keeping away from me?”

My questions were met with silence.

I glanced at Sam and he had closed his eyes while Andrea was worrying a loose piece of thread that had come undone on the sofa with her free hand.

In a tired voice he said, “Tell her. She’s here now; there’s no way to avoid it.”

I felt a frisson of fear work its way down my spine.

Tell me what?

Were they sick?

Dying?

Wasn’t I supposed to already know?

A mother always knows.