The beginning
It was always a blessing in a family to have the boy born first followed by the girl. The boy was regarded as the heir for the father. The girl to be born first was seen as a curse and referred to as ‘sugar’. Sugar was used to refer to girls because when they grew up and got married they brought sugar to their parents a gift from their marital homes.
I would have been my mother’s fourth child discounting the two who died at birth. So I became my mother’s second born.
By the time of my birth my father’s family members and some people in my village had started cursing my mother for losing children at birth.
Opening my eyes to the new world I met a woman my mother who was depressed, aggrieved and never expected me to survive for even a day. My two predecessors had not even spent an hour alive on earth.
It was on the first Saturday of March 1970, the 5th day, the weather was cloudy. The clouds were running at a higher speed from East to West and every body expected it to rain.
When the clouds ran from East to West the rain always rained and it was calm. If the rain ran from west to east it did not rain.
Often hen the rain came from the north it was destructive with snowfall, lightening, thunderstorm and heavy wind.
Kiti was my village of birth. The beautiful village was gifted by hardworking people, humorous and hospitable people. The people were generous and ready to lend a hand incase of a need.
Kiti is bordered by Gayaza in the east. Bukanda is in the west of Kiti. Lwagulwe in the north and another hilly Watuba in the south.
Kiti was an old village with a lot of people with grey hair. The name Kiti was derived from the big tree that was located on the walkway to the well.
The big mahogany tree was believed to contain demons. One day a middle aged was going to fetch water in the late hours of the evening and the tree swallowed him.
The whole village started cursing the tree and it was refered to as ekiti (meaning bad tree in Luganda the local language). From that day the village got the name Kiti in reference to the demonic tree.
My mother started to feel the labour pain. At first my father ignored the cries because he thought she was faking. When the pain intensified my father got out his ‘golden’ bicycle and rushed my mother to the nearby traditional birth attendant.
Ms Nantume was in her 60s. Her voice was coarse. The head had started to bend while walking. Because she was one of the beautiful girls during her youthful days, at her age she hadn’t developed wrinkles like other ladies of her age and those who were a few years younger than her.
She had chocolate colour and used to put on gomesi traditional attire and her old veil.
“I am happy to see you” she greeted as she was looking for a mat to offer to the visitors.
My father ignored the greetings and straight away told her that her life wanted to give birth.
Nantume had been a traditional attendant for more than 4o years. She had inherited the job from her mother who had taught her in helping women have safe deliveries
