Waves of Nostalgia

Outside the supermarket, you will fight with your friend who is like your sister because she wants you to go to cell at her house. It’s Wednesday–your sister always asked you to go to cell on Wednesday. She asked you so many times that one evening you went up the hill past the clustered shops and the cows in the kraal to the house that had a KPC cell sign on its gate.  You went in to watch them sing, and dance and Praise God in the tiny space. You listened to their teary testimonies as you sat in the wonderful sharing circle. You passed around the popcorn and the black tea when it was time to eat afterwards. And you recoiled inside. So you say “No” firmly and watch the same sad look that streaked your sister’s face streak your friend’s. You repeat the “No” as the Q46 bus pulls up behind you, and you mutter your goodbye quickly and walk away without turning back.
Inside the supermarket, you will find things that will take you still further back. Digestive biscuits that will swing you to a Namagunga box-room at break-time to hear a plaintive voice or two cry, “Some digestives, also you.” Nido that will remind you of Nunu who spread the white powder liberally over her matooke and yellow peas at Saturday lunch. In the check-out line near the counter, you will see a tall black woman who looks over her glasses to read the label on a packet of crackers, pushes her lips up after seeing the price and sets the packet back decisively. It will seem to you that she is thinking of her young son or daughter at home when first she picks the crackers up–but she must not waste money, of course. She is tall enough for you to look up at and her hair is cut into a silver-grey Janet. She smiles a “How are you?” at the woman at the counter and adjusts the straps of her uncannily familiar black and brown handbag before she opens it and reaches for her purse. She wears a pant suit, sensible dark brown shoes, and a plain gold band. You want to drop your shopping basket and run and hug her. But the girl at the counter asks you to pay and you hand over your debit card without looking at how much everything costs. The mother who is not your mother is leaving the supermarket, and you are staring after her longingly.
Outside the supermarket, while you absentmindedly cross the street, the smell of freshly baked bread will sear your nostrils and you will see your mother bustle into a Bukoto shop to buy Hot Loaf for shs. 1500. You will sigh.
I miss my mother. Which is really just a fancy way of crying, “I want my mummy!”