By Mohezin Tejani
Enclosed inside the O-shaped housing complex of Madras Gardens, stands a three-tiered grassy field that we Ugandan boys—some thirty of us including Sikhs, Hindus, Punjabis, Bagandas, and Muslims, both Shia and Sunni—use as much more than a playground. It is our life-after-school haven that we sprint to as soon as the three o’clock bell of the last period rings.
The bottom tier, a grassy patch twenty meters long and ten meters wide, is our football field. Our local chappals (flips flops or sandals made of rubber tires) serve as goal posts (with no net) and as field boundaries (with no linesmen). Every afternoon, barefoot “wannabe Pele” strikers snake passed “make-believe Garrincha” defenders—our two Brazilian heroes who by 1962 have already won two World Cup Jules Rimet trophies—as they continue down the field scoring stupendous goals between the two chappals. A referee, selected from among us and agreed to by both teams, has the final word on whether the tattered leather ball is out of bounds during play or a flying torpedo shot to the goalposts is too high over the imaginary net to be counted as a valid goal.
This field—our own Kampala version of Old Trafford Stadium in England, the land of our colonial godfathers—is maintained by all of us with unfaltering pride. Boys on rotational duty make sure that the grass does not grow too long, cutting it down with machetes on weekends and twice a week during the rainy season. Littering is prohibited and intruder birds from the sky or neighborhood dogs wanting to defecate are persona non grata. Slippery animal shit or a discarded can of coke can create havoc on a boy’s feet as he dribbles his way to stardom. Our star forwards, nicknamed Bobby Charlton, and our goal keepers dubbed Lev Yashin are crowned after each game. In our minds, it is just a question of time and practice before some of us will be playing on the Ugandan team and eventually even the FA Cup finals at Wembley.
The middle tier at Madras Gardens serves as our cricket grounds. It is a bit more even up front but slopes downward at the bottom end where hardly any grass grows. In the center is the pitch, a parallel line of red dirt two meters wide and ten meters long, that we flatten with a concrete roller (over buckets of sweat and heated discussions), borrowed from a neighbor who works at a construction site. Eventually, it’s smooth enough for bowlers to deliver “googlie” balls to strike out the lone batsman at the front end of the pitch. Unfortunately, the bottom sloping end of the tier denies us the luxury of having two batsmen batting at the same time. The cricket ball itself is made out of real cork but the wickets and bells were homemade from local teak wood. The two bats, cut from the branches of a nearby mahogany tree, are shared by the five-a-side batsmen, and are polished with grease after each game to enhance their longevity.
Every afternoon, the more enthusiastic players imagine themselves to be the one of the three Ws (Worrell, Walcott, or Weekes) from the West Indies National team, who recently became world champions despite the racial policies of their colonial masters. They bat their way to stardom. Meanwhile boys who didn’t make the cut for the football game become batsmen and fielders patiently waiting their turn, while chewing on a stalk of sugar cane or chatting with each other about the latest Bollywood musical or Hollywood western playing at one of the four theaters in the city.
The third and final tier at the top of the playground is full of large unmovable rocks, a few trees and unmanageable weeds, and is used in the evenings only. After the football and cricket games are over, many of us die-hard athletes—those brave enough to ignore our mothers’ call to come home for dinner or else risk a spanking—start up local games like tree tag played on guava trees or thapo, our version of hide-and-seek, that go on till the pangs of hunger and thirst give way to childhood play.
This three-tiered playground is our escape from the world of adults. It’s the place that we designed by ourselves, where we make our own decisions, and implement changes as needed on games schedules, structural improvements, and even inclusion or dismissal of participants, as called for, after intense discussions followed by a majority consensus vote. Participatory democracy by children with minimal intervention from the power-brokering adults!
When political and ethnic strife takes over our city in 1966 following the ouster of Bagandan president King Mutesa by Prime Minster Obote whose army thugs slaughter hundreds of protesting Bagandans, the Baganda boys have special dispensation to head home well before dark, especially during the 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. citywide curfews. When the Muslim boys plead that they are under intense family pressure to forfeit games in order to attend mosque prayers on Friday evenings or during religious festivals like Eid (the celebration of Prophet Mohammed’s birthday) or Ramadhan (the month of fasting), we let them off the hook. Over time, we come up with the rule that boys from any ethnic group have the right to be absent if they have to attend a religious festival or national day, as long as we get to share some of their “goodies” from the event. During Holi, a Hindu water-throwing festival to commemorate the coming of the rains after the dry season, we all fill up colored water balloons for water fights among designated teams. During the Diwali fireworks festival, we use coke bottles and tin cans as our launching pads for the rockets and shooting stars we use to light up the African sky. We become cross-cultural experts through default.
When the fields are due for maintenance and upkeep, we have back-up plans for games devised for outside the three-tiered fields. . . . Whichever particularly tasty fruit is in season at the time, teams are organized for the night raid of the neighborhood fruit trees. There are many to choose from—guavas, custard apples, mangoes, and our favorite, the African pafu on the tall tree trunks with sturdy branches that can hold our weight. Fruit-stealing teams are elected based on the skills each of us have in terms of speed and stealth, essential qualities needed so as not to get caught by the fruit owners or their ferocious mutts. Luwanga, a Bagandan who is our champion fruit stealer, always leads the strategic plans for each night’s raids.
During the rainy season, when the football and cricket fields are too soggy to play either game, we turn them into areas for our two favorite games, nagoria and gili danda, in which everyone can participate.
The first one, nagoria, involves seven flat stones and a tennis ball. The team batting piles flat stones on top of each other, the largest at the bottom and the smallest at the top. The fielding team pitcher aims to break the pile with a tennis ball from a distance. Once broken, the batting team spreads over the field to avoid any of their players being tagged by the tennis ball from the fielding team. If the batting team is able to pile up all the stones back onto the pile without being tagged, they win a point and the game starts all over again. If not, the teams changes sides. The first team to reach ten points wins the game.
Gili danda is an Indian version of baseball played with two wooden sticks, one long, one short. The longer one is used as the bat and the shorter one as the ball. The batsman places the short stick in a V-shaped groove dug out of the dirt. Using the “bat” to flip it spinning into the air, he then tries to hit it again in mid air as far as he can from home base. Three missed strikes on the short stick or a catch by any of the fielders and the batsman is out. When all the batsmen are out, the team changes sides. The team with the most points, measured with the long stick from the point where the short stick lands to home base, wins the game.
We play these games for hours on end, stopping only when the drizzle turns into ferocious sheets of rain, creating minor rivers in our fields and forcing us to head home, so we can nurse our colds before they turn into lethal dengue fever.
* * *
Boyhood grows into adulthood. Black and white TV comes to Uganda, sounding the death knell of communal games. Prime Minister Obote’s thugs slaughter more Bagandas during another purge. Luwanga, our master fruit stealer, gets killed by rifle bullets in the head from a passing army jeep for breaking curfew. A few years later, General Idi Amin, a product of our colonial exploiters, kicks out all 80,000 Ugandan Asians claiming they are “milking the economy for free.” The games, the boys, the camaraderie are dispersed to the worldwide winds of change.
I return to Uganda in 1997 after twenty-five years of exile. The three-tiered fields of Madras Gardens—deserted and unmaintained for years—are covered in pigeon and dog shit with poisonous mamba snakes crawling in and out of the tall elephant grass.
Date posted on Simerg: April 8, 2011
Copyright: M. Tejani 2011
About the writer: Mohezin Tejani, a globetrotting Muslim exiled from Idi Amin’s Uganda, is writing his trilogy memoirs. The first volume “A Chameleon’s Tale: True Stories of a Global Refugee,” published in 2006, was a finalist for a PEN book award in New York. Three of his stories from the second volume “Global Crossroads” have won Gold and Silver Awards in a world wide travel writing competition. The piece “Childhood Games” is from a collection of essays, poems and letters written over four decades. He currently lives in Chiang Mai, Thailand, and can be reached at email@example.com or though his website: www.motejani.com.
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I have read this with considerable interest .I was at OldKampala Secondary School around that time and we were blessed with a flat ground (the size of a badminton court) next to our house where we played many of these games .
Your description of these games and the spirit in which we all participated is superbly and memorably uplifting .
Well done and many thanks.
Thank you Arun for your feedback on Moezin’s excellent piece Childhood Games. I am sorry to inform you that he passed away a few years ago. Please read tributes to Moezin by clicking https://simerg.com/passings/mohezin-tejani-brilliant-author-humanitarian-and-global-nomad-is-dead-at-61/
I am thrilled to read about the time of my childhood. I was a resident of Madras Garden and played with all my friends.
It was a nice reading, especially sitting at the airport.
What a reminder – I used to be one of the Bakuli boys who used to come and play cricket at Madras/Bombay gardens. If we can get together now we will teach the community of the present world how to live in harmony .
Brought back wonderful memories of my childhood growing up in Madras Gardens (no. 16). Among other games remember playing volleyball, Bakuli one of our opponents.
Think badminton could have been the last sport played before the ’72 exodus when I was 15 years old.
Absolutely Brilliant – Sheer nostalgia – going down memory lane and reading this story has been like unfolding chapters of our halcyon days in Kampala. How can we ever forget the central playground of Bombay Gardens playground – where we lived, and I emphasize lived, because the greater part of our lives were spent there!! Congratulations Mo, you have done a brilliant job of capturing the very essence of our lives in Kampala.
Nicely written, I could see it so clearly though I have never been there. There are parallels in my life of course of the places and games I played as a child. I went back to one of these places when I was last in the UK, an old deserted barn which had now become a 5 star restaurant. Have you ever read the book,’ Coming up for air’ by George Orwell? That’s how I felt. I think you should change the book cover to the ‘Thank you Idi Amin’ version though.
Smita, Many thanks for your comments. Glad it took you back to Kampala Mukade! Alex, indeed the Ebook “Thank you Idi Amin” will be uploaded on the web (with a link on my website (www.motejani.com) within the next couple of months or so. Cheers.
I am thrilled and touched that this essay has brought back such a flood of memories for all of you…
An Italian friend in Thailand recalls his childhood and the monk who cheated at football in his village,
A New Zealand daughter who traversed the world with Red Cross says “Took me back to my childhood, pre-tv days when all the kids in the neighbourhood made their own games”
A brother in Pennsylvania writes “Yes we were all brothers & loved to compete against Bombay Gardens & Delhi Gardens, especially at cricket, played at the museum.Know what I remember, it was the smell of suki machi (dry fish) that came out of the Goan family home.Other games included hututu & godi”
A niece in Vancouver brags to her brother “btw shai – my team always beat your teams we rocked !! I remember dancing around after winning and declaring Naahghelle after we piled on the seven stones unbeaten …and calling the opponents nagurree or nahgurrrow 🙂 and yes we played for hours and hours it was keli danda or naghl, go kart building and racing, climbing over roof tops , .. ..tearing down the neighbors rose bushes ( all without computers, iphones, x box or text messaging …survived and were so happy )
In comments on this blog, Beg takes on another whirlwind nostalgic journey though childhood Uganda, Mahebub reminds us of other games we played, Ndugu Dr. Vali, in graphically making us aware how big is the generational gap between the old and young, dreams of making gili danda an Olympic sport one day, starting off with a resurgence of the game at Ismaili picnics. We anxiously await the publication of his upcoming and comprehensive compilation of life of Ugandan Asians from a time gone by that our grandchildren can only imagine through our documentation of “what once was”
For me, all this just goes to show that global nomads like us, no matter where we are dispersed on this viral planet, whether out of choice or necessity, no matter how complicated are the high-tech lives we live today, deep down in our subconscious psyche, we will always carry the memories of exile, the memories of a simpler life of childhood when community welfare was paramount, where racism was an nonexistent word and the bonds of intercultural games our strongest ally,
It is a perfect irony that the same high-tech world that we decry is what makes this cyberspace global blog possible.
Keep it coming friends!
Great story Mo. You’re quite a story teller, it transported me back in time in Italy to a different set of priorities. We also played soccer and a monk, Padre Spigone, used to lift his cassock over the ball, lower it and run like hell toward the goal line, and if we didn’t manage to trip him before, he’d get there, lift his habit and kick the ball past the goalie. I wonder if he went to confession after that. Congratulations, Mo.
……From far away land of Thailand……..
Its always a treat to hear from you, bro.
Yes, your “Childhood Games” have taken me from the gullies of Bakuli (K`la, Uganda), swimming in somebody’s pool near Kabaka Lake to VH Junior High of Iganga (Uganda), playing gololi & bunta to fishing @ Pier of Jinja, to the top of Kilima`njaro & back down to Ruben Karanja’s shop outside Outward Bound Mountain School at Loitokitok (Kenya), to Hockey, Volleyball & Cricket pitch of Old K`la SSS and roaming in Madras & Bombay Gardens neighbourhoods and not forgetting treats @ DeJays & Mishkaki (Nyama choma) opposite K’la Jamat Khana……..
Best wishes to you & always Hakuna Matata, ndugu yaangu
Salaams & Pranaams!!
ps: You know you are in good company of writers when you get comments from award winning writers such as Ndugu Vali Jamal, frequent contributor to “EAcirclefirstname.lastname@example.org”
Down memory lane. I remember those days well and despite no TV and no mobiles, We were all much closer as families, cummunity, and amongst our friends were Hindus, Sunnis, Christains. We all celebrated each others festivals together. And yes Karim, the games, also ambla pipi, cricket, volleyball and ghori etc. Thanks to Mo for starting us off and taking us down memory lane.
Everybody will commend this special new category “Essays and Letters” and Mo Tejani for giving it a great start. He has presented a history and our history is special because not many of us wrote about those times when we were living it and there aren’t that many left to remember it. Mo is writing about that very special East African childhood until the early 1960s, max. After that things changed; we became rich and “modern” and stopped playing those games. By the end of that decade many us crept away from East Africa because we didn’t feel wanted and at the start of the 1970s others were just thrown out. Where we went we leap-frogged over a generational change. The children born in those countries (bless them) will never know a thing about climbing trees, playing nagorio, goma, gili-danda. They have 100s of Facebook friends, but no way could they get together two teams of five players even to play street cricket. So they play cricket on their TV screens, drop bombs on their enemies and make like knights in medieval England. They Twit interminably. Amongst some there’s a hankering to know where did grandpa come from. Writings such as these contribute towards that and are to be commended.
In a way this is self-congratulatory since I am right now engaged in writing up the story of our expulsion from Uganda. There’s whole section in it of people’s memories of growing up in Uganda. I hope there’ll be readers! I have this great thought that gili-danda could be introduced as a sports in schools. We should have a tournament at Ismaili picnics!
This piece reminds me of old days when we were in a village called Mkuyuni, 20 miles from Morogoro, Tanzania, during holidays playing football with local kids,it was fun. There were no TV’s (Tanzania got TV much much later than its other East African neighbours) and Video games. We played gilidandi, gololi and many more games.