THE UNSUNG HERO: PART TWO
BY Winnie Babirye
*************************************************************(Winnie’s Bio — Winfred Babirye is a proud wife to Elly Mulinda Ruharo. She is a mother, a grandmother and a born-again Christian. She loves helping women in her role as a Gender and Development Consultant. She has a BA in Literature from Makerere University as well as a Masters in Women and Gender studies. She lives and works in Kampala, Uganda.)
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Please Find the First Part of this Story HERE…
MY MOTHER’S DEATH
I remember the day my mother died. June 8th 1981. It was cold and the hospital ward was even colder. The large windows were good for ventilation but I guess they made the wards cold too. I always needed a sweater inside the hospital even if it was sweltering outside. My father drove me to the hospital, checked on Maama and left for his office in Kawempe where he had to report by 7:00am. My mother died very early in the morning at around 6:30am. Day was just breaking and it was during the change of shifts. It was shadowy and I could hardly make out the figures of the nurses and doctors bustling around as they exchanged notes on the patients. They talked about Maama in whispers although they did not say anything to us. I was anxious because my mother hadn’t spoken to me and she had a glazed look in her eyes. Her body was slightly limp. She was breathing heavily and gasped intermittently. I was hoping for a reassurance from the doctors to allay my fears. My elder sisters, who had stayed for the night, told me to help my aunt feed Maama as they left for the office.
In order to feed her I would have to sit behind her and cradle her in my arms as she rested on my chest. My aunt would then feed her. I felt the warmth of her body through her light cloth. I kept wiping the sweat off her face and stroked her hair. She swallowed the first few spoonfuls then I heard a strange sound like something dropping down a long distance from her mouth to the stomach. After that the porridge began filling back in her mouth and my aunt said, “Let’s leave her to rest, we shall try to feed her again later.” She put away the spoon and bowl and told me to come down off the bed where I had perched. I liked to cradle my mother and she seemed so peaceful so I held her a little longer. I wanted to be there for her and hold her. Then she took a deep breath, stopped breathing and I felt her full weight on me. Maama died in my arms although I didn’t realize immediately that she had died. We shared no words that morning as we had not yet settled into the day’s routine of catching up on our conversations.
My aunt helped me down the bed but as I tried to lay Maama down the pillow as gently as I could, she just fell back. I got very scared as I realized something was wrong. Not wanting to believe the worst, I hoped she had simply fainted. My aunt made me sit on the chair beside the bed and told me; “Winnie, Maama wo afudde” Winnie, your mother has died.
I chose not to believe what aunt said and I went looking for a nurse or doctor to ask them to come and confirm. They had just left our section of the ward so when I went after them, they told me to be patient because they were still doing the rounds and handing over. I insisted and told one of them that I think my mother has died. It was a very difficult statement for me to make, I just wanted her to come and tell me I was wrong.
The nurse came immediately. They tried to shield me away from the bed where my Maama lay. She checked the pulse and covered her up. She wrote something on the chart, called another nurse and told her, “Come and help me remove this dead body!” I was getting afraid and confused. I wanted to tell her “This is my mother, not a dead body!”
My aunt worked in a frenzy. She packed our belongings and I looked at Maama, dazed. She asked me to help her pack but the person I wanted to help was my Maama. Her body had been removed from the room and placed just outside the entrance to the ward. Within a short time the mortuary staff arrived and whisked her away. All this time, I was in shock. It was all like a dream. I felt so helpless. I had been helping my mother, nursing her, feeding her, even propping her up so that she could sit up. Now I was not being allowed to do anything for her, strangers took over — I wondered if they knew what she felt or wanted. She was my Maama and they were taking her away calling her “omulambo” — a dead body. I was anguished. I felt a crushing pain in my chest but the worst was a feeling of utter hopelessness.
Finally my aunt reminded me that I had to call my family members to give them the news. I snapped back to reality. I was able to find a telephone in the doctors’ hostel of Mulago hospital. I called my father, who had just left for the office, and informed him that Maama has died. I also called my two elder sisters and informed them. When I talked to my eldest sister, she dropped the phone and her workmate picked it up to talk to me. He asked, “Who is calling?” I responded, “This is Winnie and I want to talk to Jane.” He asked what I had just told her because she was not talking. I told him our mother had died. Oh bambi, nga kitalo! — that is very sad. Will you be able to handle this by yourself? I told him I am with aunt and we are arranging to go home. He offered to drive my sister to the hospital so that they could help. During all this time, I felt removed from the incident and I talked as if I was not part of the event.
I got a taxi from Mulago hospital to Kira Road where I stopped then walked home to Nagulu. I could have walked for about two kilometers. Just before I reached home, I met a woman who asked me, “Mwana wa Nnalongo, omulwadde yasuze atya?” — Nnalongo’s child, how is the patient this morning? I responded, “Maama afudde” — Maama has died. Whenever I spoke these words they sounded so foreign and incredible. The woman started wailing and she followed me as I continued home. As we walked, she would tell people we met along the way and by the time I reached home there was a crowd with me. These people helped me to arrange the house to receive maama’s body. I showed them what to do and they helped set up everything.
When we had set up the house, one of my brothers arrived home. He was crying. He asked me, “Winnie, kituufu maama afudde?” “Is it true maama has died?”
I said, “Afudde!” — Yes, she is dead. This is when I broke down and cried. All the pent up emotions were released and I began mourning my maama.
Maama’s death was a shared loss for all of us. We all mourned her passing apart from our last born who was too young to understand what was going on. There was wailing, everyone calling on maama who was now unresponsive. I saw my father look at her closely and touching her gently as if he feared to injure her. Then he said, “Teddy, ondesewo!” — Teddy, you have left me! He then made a sign of the cross and started praying.
The hostile political situation in the country at the time made my mother’s death even sadder. There was only one big lorry available for taking the body and mourners for the funeral in Masaka. My father’s employers had loaned him the lorry. All the family and friends piled onto the lorry and we set off. The ride was rough because the roads were full of potholes. Shortly on our journey we were stopped at a roadblock and we were all ordered to get off the lorry to be searched. The soldiers climbed the lorry, searched luggage and to our horror even opened the coffin an unwrapped the body saying we could be hiding guns in there. My twin sister scrambled off the lorry, fell and twisted her ankle. Her foot was bandaged but she cried all the way, which made me even sadder. I was usually strong for her but this time I offered no consolation. The day after the funeral, we returned to Kampala and I tried to start life without my maama.
I turned nineteen the year mother died and was to join the university later. Before I could join the university there was a period of waiting. I used this time to help out at home using the skills my mother had taught me. I cooked, cleaned the home, washed and helped my siblings. I missed Maama so much because she was no longer at home. Wherever I looked at the door I would imagine she would be walking through it at any time but she was never to reappear. The kitchen looked so strange without her. I longed for her voice to correct me or send me on an errand. There was a gaping rift in my home and in my heart which refused to close for so many years. This was filled years later when I met and accepted Jesus Christ to be my personal Lord and Savior.
Every 8th June, in the successive years, had become a burden to me because it was always a sad day. Until one day I asked God to help me get out of the heavy dread of this day that would consume me every year. God told me to become what I missed about my mother, to do it for Him and for others. It was after so many years but I got delivered from the dread and now I have become a mother to myself to others. Every year I celebrate my achievement as a mother, I share with others lessons learned from my mother. On 8th June 2016 I made an entry on my facebook page, which was thanksgiving. This is what I wrote that day:
I was writing something this morning and looked to check the date. 8th June is the day my mother died, in 1981. That same year I also joined university, starting her dream for me. She had told me in one of those mother to daughter talks that she would like me to be a nurse, get married and have children.
I nursed her without qualifications of a nurse until she passed away in my arms, in Mulago hospital. But I did my best — is that why she wanted me to be a nurse?
Then I have gone ahead and done more nursing still without qualifications but being there when needed; I don’t give injections or tablets, nor do I put on a uniform, but I do nurse the hurts of those God places in my way. Way to go mother, you were right! I did not study to be a nurse but you taught me how to care for others.
Also, I got married to a wonderful man and had children. Maama, I have fulfilled that dream of yours and it is the most fulfilling job I have done. Thank you for the sacrifices you made for us; I never realized how much until I became a woman myself. I thank God for the mother He gave me. I had her for 19 years and she equipped me for a lifetime.
Recently I was with a friend’s mum and I made a comment which my mother used to make and she was surprised that I knew that! So the nuggets my mother left are still valuable! God does not make mistakes and I will no longer mourn my mother but look for those jewels she left me and polish them for my legacy. Lastly devil, I am not coming for that pity party!
My mother taught me how to be a mother. She was my role model and she taught me to love to serve others. I learned how to be gentle yet strong. l learned that to love children I don’t have to spoil them. I know children will love me even if I punish them. I learned not to abuse children and love them as individuals.
One thing I learned from my mother not to do is to forget about myself. I realize my mother’s life revolved around her family, her children, husband, their friends and the community. One person my mother forgot to care of was herself. When my mother fell ill, the doctors could not find out what was really wrong with her. The post mortem report was inconclusive. My mother never got holidays. She never left home for more than two weeks. She never belonged to a club, neither did she have a fellowship. I don’t remember her having any close friends and she rarely visited the neighbours. I have a few recollections when we would have a walk with her escorting a visitor back. It was very rare for my mother to take a break from the stressful work of giving birth and raising twelve children.
In the eyes of a child, my home was a very stable environment. I wonder if it was stable for her. I never got to know her fears, her dreams, or expectations. She cared for others and forgot about herself. The only time she lay down for the longest time was when she was ill and permanently when she died. I thank God I was able to care for her in her last days and for all she taught me.
