On the sideline

This Sunday morning, on August 11th, Nyla's grandfather Alphonse Kaweesi Kakooza passed away. I got the news from Nyla's dad, via a WhatsApp message. A short conversation followed about how her grandfather had not been able to speak for two days. He was in a lot of pain since the cancer had spread through his entire body the last weeks. He had been in and out of the hospital in Kampala. Not able to go back to his village three hours away from the capital city anymore. The village where his heart and soul were, where he was born, raised and raised his kids. I'm sure he would have preferred to breathe his last breath in the midst of his own banana plantations.

The fact that Alphonse Kaweesi Kakooza was dying was the reason why the last week, Nyla and I had been in touch with David again. We hadn't been talking for weeks and every month that passes since David and I broke up, it feels like it is becoming more 'normal' that it's just Nyla and me (and Nairah!) David comes in and out once in a while, often with a lot of emotions. But because his visits are rare and short, it is doable and even nice at times. This time, David blustered into the picture with an emotional conversation about how he was in Kampala with his dad and he was not going to lose Nyla too now that he was losing his dad. I felt his pain but it also seemed like a very inappropriate comment. I couldn't really say much to it though. Sadly, it didn't stay at one inappropriate comment only but a lot of 'you kept Nyla away from her family' and 'fuck you' comments followed, as usual. I tried taking them in as the comments of a person with mental issues who has a lot going on, they had nothing to do with me, but I couldn't help it that his words stung me like a bee again.

How could I fight with someone who is losing his father and wants to see his daughter? While I am the one with that daughter? How could I fight with someone who has real emotions about losing his dad while that man also upset him so much and many people would have cut off all contact with their father completely? I admired David that he was still taking care of his father while his father had also hurt him a lot. While it was surely heavy for David to drive up and down from Masaka to Kampala, sleep in a hospital and talk to doctors. (Mentally heavy - but I did need to remind myself that he's one of the only people who could do that because he has no job or other responsibilities yet he always seems to have money). One thing David can be extremely good at, is taking care of someone when he wants to / is able to. At the same time, I hate David for thinking that everyone has to be like him and for disrespecting other people so much when he isn't happy with their approach. And the size of his disrespect tends to blur everything else.

In the blur of David's words, I started to feel paralyzed. I know that feeling very well, where I become slow and start to overthink everything. I thought about visiting Nyla's grandfather in the hospital but I had been in many urgent situations where I took action when David demanded action and regretted it later. I started wondering why the man would even want to see us. God knows what David and he had been discussing. His dad had a lot of siblings, a lot of kids and a lot of grandchildren. Yes, Nyla was one of them. But one out of very many. Didn't he just want to be with his close relatives only? And unnecessarily involving a child in a lot of pain and drama wasn't something any adult would want either, right?

What was best for Nyla really when the person who we needed to guide us in the situation was so unpredictable? Her dad and I couldn't even have a calm conversation in which we discussed what action to take when there wasn't a problem. Leave alone stick to a plan in such a difficult situation. What should I do? What could I do? And how would I be able to distinguish between what I should and could do? I tried to fight my brain out of the paralysis, to keep looking for solutions but it felt like there was nothing I could do apart from being sad on my own and trying to swallow it all as quickly as possible to get it over with.

In the days that followed after David reached out again, I woke up every morning with the mantra that I should just keep going and things would become clear by itself. I was used to David being extreme with his words and should focus on the fact that Kakooza was dying. I kept doing my work, reading Nyla her bedtime stories and going to the gym. I continued organising our holiday trip. And I also browsed through my Luganda homework to check how I could offer my condolences in Luganda and started imagining how the rest of David's family would be doing. I had little work and it was difficult to motivate myself to work anyway but I tried to keep pushing on as it was obviously a matter of finances too. Thinking about finances: should I spend money on the burial? If yes, how much? And who should I give it to? Surely not to David. But who else? Don't they have enough people to mobilise money? Maybe the only thing I should really do is check David's mental health once in a while...

But David's hard words stayed with me the whole time. David was losing his dad and that was sad, no matter what. I couldn't be numb to his sadness but contacting him and getting into fights didn't seem right either. He clearly needed someone to check on him, to guide him in this situation but that could and should not be me. My mind started to wonder off and I was about to get overwhelmed with fear that David might end up psychotic again once his dad passed away. I pulled myself back. That would be extremely sad but not my business. I needed to limit myself to take minimum action. I should watch the situation and care where I could but I should not fall in that endless tunnel of sadness again.

Then there were moments in between, in which David would come to his senses and be kind to Nyla and me. One day he came by for only five minutes and the next day he actually went on a short boat trip on Lake Victoria with Nyla. It had been almost a year since they went somewhere together. I had always been scared to leave her with him alone but he seemed sharp that day and I followed my intuition and let them be. They came back on time and brought me fresh fish. A few days later, David shared a bit about how his dad's siblings seemed more into local medicine than the modern medicine they gave in the hospitals in Kampala and they had secretly been trying to influence the treatment. It gave me chills and I thought about all the times in which I had no idea how to handle David's psychoses and whether to listen to advice from local Ugandans (without an education but probably with a lot of life experience) or Dutch psychiatrists (with a high education but probably a lot less life experience). The moments in which I had considered both sides, only to find out that people were using their own treatments on him without communicating it were the worst. I felt like I understood David's frustration about his dad's situation and it was good to be a listening ear for him.

But sadly, things kept turning into fights. Whatever I would say or do, it wouldn't make any difference. I felt like keeping quiet wouldn't really make any difference either because at some point we would be pulled into the story again and then I wouldn't know what was going on and things would come even more unexpectedly. I tried to act unemotional but couldn't help feeling agitated and having the urge to tell David that his mind was playing tricks with him. After pushing back on David's emotional words and threats like he would commit suicide if he couldn't see Nyla (bipolar really is a bitch), I recollected myself for the umpteenth time. It was just pain expressed in a wrong way and it had nothing to do with me or Nyla. David wouldn't listen to my defence so it would all be wasted energy. I was simply raising my daughter. I had made my choices and needed to keep making the right choices now. What was important at the moment was that someone was dying! I never knew the man well but just thinking about how he was counting his days while knowing that his death was approaching was devastating.

When Kakooza had finally said goodbye to this earth, Nairah was the first person whom I told about it. As I already expected, she had no idea how to respond and said nothing apart from 'sorry for your loss', after which she turned around and continued folding her laundry. In a way it was a typical response. I had come to terms with that a long time ago, that a lot of Ugandans don't know how to deal with sadness and negative emotions, and I couldn't really blame them as sickness and death are so much nearer in a country like Uganda than in a country like the Netherlands. David also hadn't been particularly kind to Nairah and she didn't know his dad. Besides, I wasn't a great talker so I had probably not expressed clearly how I really felt about it all. But it wasn't the response I needed in that moment. It was such a contrast with David's extreme emotions that I got an error in my head. I felt angry with everyone and everything and my mind rushed into hating poverty, hating Uganda, hating our colonial ancestors and wanting to just fight it all. Yet I was at home with Nairah and Nyla, had no idea who else to talk to and the only thing I could do was have a shower and make a plan about what to do to clear my mind.

Nyla and I went to the swimming pool, from where I started writing.

A few hours after telling me the news about his dad passing, David send me the message 'Sunday'. I wondered what he meant. Did he mean that it was strange that such a religious man left this world on a Sunday? It was a bit ironic indeed. Though I found it even more ironic that the man passed away on his wife's birthday. The woman with whom he had been married for about 15 years but whom he had also left about 20 years earlier. As far as I know, they never officially got divorced though. Then David explained that the burial would be taking place on the Sunday a week later. The third ironic moment of the day: that would be the day on which Nyla, Nairah and I would go on our holiday trip, which I had been preparing for a long time.

It was only when my friend Dauson called me to ask whether I had heard 'the news' that I suddenly broke down. I had not yet cried but in the middle of all the mess, I had a friend who cared to call and tears started rolling down my cheeks. It changed everything. Rather than feeling stuck in a blur, I suddenly simply felt sad. Not confused or guilty or ashamed or messed up. But sad that cancer ate up another human being. Sad that Nyla would never grow up with her grandfather. Sad that I could never enjoy his beautiful music again. Sad that the world had lost a man who had tried his best to let his family escape from poverty.

And then suddenly, I also saw what else had become clear. I am back where I belong: on the sideline. I am not part of the Kaweesi family. I came to make a documentary film about that family. I fell for David and sure tried to blend well in the family. But the universe had something else in mind. I remember how it even felt wrong to love David in the beginning. I had come to make a film but became a part of the story. I knew some of David's family members already. How could I start a relationship with another member of the family? But I let love lead the way. I was blinded. I believed more in David than I believed in myself. I gave up on the documentary. And, of course, I also didn't fully have a choice in it. David got so sick, it took over everything. I shouldn't be too hard on myself.

Not that I am going back into making that documentary but if I am indeed the person reporting from the sideline, what am I supposed to do now? When I think of mister Alphonse Kaweesi Kakooza, I mainly remember a day in which I filmed him in his own home. I think it was in 2018. I remember how I had been told numerous times that I really had to wear a long dress if I ever went to visit the man. He was a very traditional man, I was told, and he would send someone away if her dress was not covering her knees. I also knew about his five more Ugandan kids after the four Dutch kids he had had. Although at the time I probably didn't know how many 'extra' kids he had had exactly, because there was so much pain and shame in the family that no one seemed to really want to tell me. (Or maybe I just didn't listen closely enough because this family history was so different from the stories I knew and my ears weren't tuned to it). I remember almost not wanting to go and film him because now that I was with his son, I should actually not get close to the man. Baganda tradition says that a man will get Parkinson if he gets near his daughter in law.

But Alphonse Kaweesi Kakooza had been married to a Dutch lady in the end and via via I found out he was actually very willing to speak on camera. So there I was, bravely setting up my gear. Feeling extremely uncomfortable but reporting for the sake of the story. My curiousity beat my fear and we started talking. I had no idea how to approach the man. Some said I needed to call him 'taata' (dad), others said I should call him 'kojja' (uncle), I heard people call him 'mister Kaweesi' and his (ex) wife seemed to be one of the only ones who just called him 'Kakooza'. I think I tried to stick to 'sir' and avoided calling him the wrong name. He waited for me to start asking him questions and I felt a lot of pressure to ask the right questions and not insult him. Then we started talking and soon he took the lead in the conversation. We briefly talked about his childhood. Then we briefly talked about the organisation his wife and he set up that had put over one hundred kids in their neighbourhood in school. But the longest we talked about all his traditional music instruments. And God, he knew about them! I saw instruments I had never seem before, some old and some new. He really seemed to know how to play each and every instrument and which instrument to use for which tradional occasion.

Alphonse Kaweesi Kakooza was a short man who lived in a simple house but next to him I felt small. By the time I met him, I already knew about a lot of pain he had caused and still I couldn't help but respect the man. He was calm, chose his words carefully, had a lot of wisdom in him and a youthful twinkle in his eyes. Maybe I could respect him because I knew I would never get close to him. I never had to carry the pain he caused when he was absent as a husband and father. I remember him thanking me for taking care of his son and those words coming from his mouth seemed to mean a lot. I will never know whether he later started aversing me because I left his son. Nor will I ever know whether he was really interested in getting to know me or Nyla.

Alphonse Kaweesi Kakooza taught me a lot about Uganda. He taught me on that day when I filmed him and he taught me indirectly, by the many stories I heard about him. By the time he died, eight of his nine children were still alive. His youngest daughter, Maritha, who was born with cerebral palsy, died about a year earlier. His four Dutch children are all adults but his other four Ugandan children aren't even all teenagers yet. I don't know whether the mothers of those children are in the picture by now but I know that in the past they weren't always. My thoughts go to them and I can only hope that their futures won't be influenced too much by the loss of their dad - though I am almost sure that Marleen, Kakooza's first wife, won't let that happen. The poor woman is also getting older though and I cannot even imagine what she must be feeling today.

Nyla has two uncles and two aunties that are barely older than her. They are old enough to understand death though. But what does a three year old know about death? At times when I hear Nyla play with the neighbours' kids, I hear them say things like "I'm going to die" or "I'm going to kill you" but of course always in a playful way. She might have picked up on some things about death from the cartoons she watches. The first thing she asked when I told her about his death was: "did a snake bite him?" And while I was in shock for a second, wondering whether to burst out laughing or explain more, I left it there.

Wherever we are in life, we have limits to what we can carry. Whether in the middle of the battlefield or on the sideline. The Kaweesi family inspires me up to today in how much they carry on their shoulders and makes me feel just as pissed for taking so much on their shoulders that it inevitably made them blind for a lot of suffering too. Alphonse Kaweesi Kakooza took over one hundred children to school and helped reconstructing a government school with over €100.000 sponsor money. An amazing achievement! But he could have never done that without Marleen Keijzer, who in turn could have never raised all that sponsor money had she not gotten all that help either. I have much to say about the things they missed out on while working on all their big dreams but it would be horrible to complain about a dead man. Nyla lost her grandfather and he surely was a special person that I will tell her stories about in the future.

The good thing about being on the sideline is that it's relatively easier to not take too much on your shoulders. Therefore I also shouldn't take on the task of writing an entire novel now but let my brain rest. And who knows, just maybe, Alphonse Kaweesi Kakooza himself also looks down upon this world from the sideline now. Where I sure hope he can find peace. And from where I hope he will allow me to thank him for the wisdom and grandchild he gave me...