By Peter Kahindi

Way back in my Primary One days, I had a white classmate. 

Yes, a Caucasian boy called Petersen Mukama whose surname would confuse you because he was of German descent.

What you will find even more strange is that we were in a village primary school deep in the South Western region of Uganda – formerly Bushenyi but now Sheema District – in a small township called Kabwohe. 

Okay, maybe that part is not that deep.

The point is, even now it’s not every day that you find a German boy living and attending school in upcountry Uganda.

Petersen was my friend and neighbor. We shared the same name when his was shortened, and that helped buttress our friendship.

We also shared a high appetite for defiance. We defied everything: school rules, teachers’ instructions, parents’ counsel…everything! 

And we both liked to play football all the time, especially during class hours. 

Peter was born of a German father and a Ugandan mother. Unlike most mixed blood children, Peter didn’t take on any physical traits from his mother. 

He was a white boy with natural straight blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes. There was hardly anything about him that would inform an innocent bystander that he had African blood somewhere in him.

To me, Peter was just a good friend; a good friend with a different skin complexion from mine and hair that was a bit “strange”. 

That was about it. After all, there were other light skinned pupils like Brian Ajuna. Peter was just a a little more “brown” than Brian Ajuna…no big deal.

Besides, he spoke Runyankore and Luganda better than most, having been raised by his mother’s side of the family. They spoke both languages because they had moved from Buganda in the late 19^th century during the Bunyoro-Buganda wars.

It would therefore surprise me whenever fellow pupils would respond to his very presence with awe, admiration and even envy. 

They seemed to think that he was some sort of superior being. He didn’t seem to know or even acknowledge it. He just went about his business – the business of being a naughty child and growing up in that spirited place called Kabwohe.

Phrases like “Mujungu-mworo” were thrown at him casually, almost every day. Mujungu-mworo is/was meant to have a derogatory connotation for a poor white person, since the assumption is that all white people are rich. They called him that because they felt that he was just like everyone else around; poor and ordinary.

Typically, he would laugh off such comments, often retorting with “Omworo neiwe” (It’s you who’s poor). 

I don’t think he meant it to be true more than he wanted to return the insult. He was from a well-to-do family, whereas most of the children who hurled insults were not.

I noticed back then that, no matter how long Peter had lived with us in the village, attended the same schools, went to the same church, and spoke the same language, he was always treated differently. 

A front chair here, leeway given there, a favour offered just for just…somehow.

Growing up, I always noticed the general attitude we black Africans hold towards non-blacks. I use non-blacks to include white, brown, and heaven-knows-what other colours there are.

At the height of my partying days, I used to quietly watch the excitement amongst waiting staff at different establishments when a group of white people would walk in. 

A fuss would be thrown about as they mobilised clean chairs, tables, and more. 

Ugandans would not be given a second look.

It was not just in restaurants and bars. A few years back, a cousin of mine was entering Uchumi Supermarket. There was a white lady in front of her who was admitted without any security check. 

When it was my cousin’s turn, the private security guard asked her to hand her bag over for checking. My cousin refused, insisting that they should check the white lady’s bag and person first. 

The security guard tried to intimidate my cousin, citing professional discretion. But she did not know how far my cousin could escalate matters.

Eventually, they called the white lady and checked her thoroughly before inspecting my cousin’s bag.

Our admiration for white folks seems to know no bounds. It goes beyond reverence, and most times crosses into imitation and mimicking – including forged/faked accents to bleaching to slimming our bodies.

I suspect that the way we behave is a product of decades and decades that have been invested in ensuring that we should think of ourselves as less human. 

If it is impressed upon you that you are a less human with little or no value and that there is someone better and whose values you must uphold, it is more than likely that you will not only believe it, but act the part to boot.

Petersen didn’t think of himself as anything other than a child at Nganwa Junior Primary, but it was pretty clear to us that the likes of our Math teacher John-Pelly used to exempt him from the mental work kiboko because he (Petersen) was white.

The teacher probably could never conceive a way of engaging in a corporal punishment session involving a white man’s child.

It takes a certain level of cultural, collective and deliberate consciousness to overcome the shackles of inferiority, even amongst those of us who have attained high levels of education and exposure. 

We need to be aware of its presence, and then deal with it decisively by denying it any space in our lives.

Be firm in your faith and believe in your blackness. You are what you are regardless of your skin colour.

Rest in peace, Petersen Mukama, my German childhood from Kabwohe.