A Tale Of Mistaken Identity

As I strolled through a local village market, a lady yelled out, Iwe mwana wa Kaheru (literally meaning, you, son of Kaheru!); without hesitation I walked to her vegetable-filled stall.  Very excited to see me, she introduced herself as a long -time friend of my mother;

“Your mother buys vegetables from my stall,” she emphatically said, pitching her voice to ensure that my walk through the stalls ends just right at her stall. She then went on to ask me about one of my little brothers that used to read the news at one local FM station called, Crispy Kaheru.

Despite my muttering that it was me she was talking to, she went on to give me a full account of how that ‘Crispy’ used to be her very good friend, “Every time he was around for holidays he would come by my stall and buy sweet bananas,” – she recalled.  Our long conversation ended in half-bliss after I bought the same good sweet bananas that I had last tasted 10 years ago.

On Easter Sunday, I was brusquely woken up at 7:00am to prepare for the 8:30am English service at St. Matthews Cathedral in Masindi.  The cathedral is located on the famous Kabalega hill, which is just about ten minutes by foot from our home. 

It being an Easter service, my wife and I planned to get to church slightly before 8:30am so that we could get good seats in the front rows of the Cathedral.  Unlike about ten years ago where everyone would definitely find space to sit inside the church, times have now changed, and there is a tent right outside the church for any persons who will miss seats inside the Cathedral.  Even with that hundred-seater-tent, many of the Christians will still fight to catch space on the veranda.

After arriving at 8:15am, the earlier ‘revival’ service didn’t end until about 9:00am.  So I used the 45 minutes to greet old friends and neighbours who I hadn’t seen in many years.  One of those was a very amiable Reverend who was really excited to see me and couldn’t resist giving me that long priestly twirl hug.

I began to introduce my wife to him but before I could finish the introductions, he interjected telling me how she had changed since he had last seen her over ten years ago – at this point I was quite certain that my good old reverend friend hadn’t grasped that the lady next to me was my wife (and not my sister).  He hadn’t met my wife before, so there is no way they could have known each other ten or so years ago. In line with the mood of the tête-à-tête, the reverend asked me if I had children since time was ‘running out’.

In a quick twist of things the reverend used the few minutes before we entered church to lecture me about marriage.  In the presence of my wife he went on to try to talk me into getting married ‘very soon’. 

As expected, my wife’s face darkened quite quickly and before long she was pinching me and whispering aggressive suggestions that I introduce her in order to put an end to her emotional torture.

Eventually, I interjected with the necessary introductions, only for him to declare:

“Eeeeeh! Onu nuwe owa Stephen?!” totally refusing to acknowledge that it was I who was married, rather than my brother whose lecture I was destined to suffer.

Eventually, I was released and made my way into church, where we enjoyed another glorious service.

At the end of the service, the Vicar called upon all visitors  (‘aba-Kampala’) to stand up for recognition. Being at home, I looked out for the people who were visiting us in order to also welcome them, only to notice that some in the congregation were pointing fingers at me to stand up!

I hardened in my seat and maintained my resolve – I was AT HOME!

And I will always be there – more often than before so that these cases of mistaken identity come to a complete end.