Baby in the Bar

There was one night, the time of day that falls into those precious few hours between the end of building/duties and sleep, where it was suggested that we go to the local pool club – a place the builders and our amazing live-in cook Sarah always went after work. Only a few of us went, most too keen on resting their aching limbs to want to walk the five minutes it took to get there. Ordinarily I too would have stayed behind to rest, but the thought of seeing the village and local people in their natural environment at night appealed to me, so off I went. 

The building was very small and run-down, consisting of just a single room with a small sofa and large pool table taking up the space. It was dark and dingy, and a faint smell of dust and dirt lingered in the air, yet the excitement from the builders was palpable and contagious. As soon as we got there we noticed that the locals who only a few minutes previously had been crowded in the small room had all stepped outside, staring into the room from a small covered alcove. Nothing quite clears the room of a small Ugandan clubhouse like the sight of a large group of mzungus, that’s for sure. Knowing that I’d affected their night so much made me feel incredibly guilty. I felt like the privileges I had as a white person (without even asking for them) were unfair. Why should I get to be in this room and watch this game, while they sat outside, too scared to share the same space as me? I know they were scared, or at least intimidated, because one mother had to drag her son through this small room so he could go to the long-drop that stood just beyond. The boy was screaming and dragging his legs as me and another girl watched – twin expressions of shock and guilt masking our faces as we realised that the reason the boy didn’t want to walk through was because we were there. The reality is he had probably never seen a white person in the flesh before - certainly not such a large group of them. 

I remember hearing one of the builders talk about how he was taught as a little boy in school that white people paid to have their skin bleached, and that was the reason we were so rich and had so much more than everybody else. It’s shocking and heart-breaking to see first-hand the impact such lessons can have. There was one moment though, when I saw a little girl who was standing on the edge of the room staring at me. She seemed scared, on the verge of tears, but her mother pushed her forward, whispering to her words I can only assume were encouragement. She walked over to me with so much doubt and terror in her face, yet as she reached me she simply stared. I smiled at her and spoke, gingerly making to grab her finger, which she allowed. This small skin-on-skin contact seemed to encourage her though, and she began to stroke the knee of the girl sat next to me as we both watched her. She didn’t smile, but the fear that had been on her face disappeared. She seemed so curious, and it was such a wonderful moment. I felt like I had helped that little girl overcome something big, or at least set the wheels in motion for her to overcome it. 

Seeing for myself the affect and fear white people can have was sobering and to be perfectly honest, completely awful, but watching this little girl, who was no more than 2 years old, turn her fear into something else was overwhelmingly cathartic. It was strange though, knowing the impact my presence had on that small crowd of people. The whole time we were there, which was no more than an hour, we were stared at, especially by the men. I think the sight of two white women in a bar filled primarily with men was controversial, and certainly came as a stark reminder to me how privileged I am in comparison to other women in the world.