Last Day In Uganda

In a tiny shop in the crafts market in Kampala, I apologised to a fellow customer for cramming the space with my presence. I apologised again for moving around to see the trinkets. He asked if by any chance I was Canadian. I said, by some chance and a lot of effort, I was. But that’s not why I apologize. I smiled and stepped out of the tiny shop with my hand on my purse that held the Canadian passport. 

Only 40 minutes left to the next meeting. I have to change, pack, and check out before that. I have to submit a proposal before our ride to the airport. I have to wear a mask on the flight for 24 hours. I have to get home to my child who was not doing so well. My stomach growled. 

How do you buy a gift for a teenager who was not doing so well? Something that says I am sorry you aren’t doing so well. That says sorry I wasn’t there.

With sweat trickling down my spine, and every single shopkeeper in that market hustling to get me to buy something, I realised, anything I buy could be deemed cultural appropriation. What do I say to the hustlers trying to sell me beautiful fabrics with African bodies? I apologise to them for not buying them.

Time was ticking. I was ticking. I apologised to my colleague who drove me there. Sorry for being so confused. He bought me a gorilla fridge magnet as his gift to my daughter. I bought a giraffe for my boss’s daughter who was not a teenager.

I was late for the checkout. I was late for the meeting. The craft giraffe in my boss’s suitcase caught suspicion at every security checkpoint at the airport. 

I apologised some more. 

Not because I am Canadian. Maybe because I am Pakistani who still finds it strange to be called (out) a Mzungu (white person) by excited children on the streets.