"Africa, I lay my hand upon your swarthy belly-

And keep it there till death stubs his toe

against my manhood in the night"

O Africa, Where I Baked My Bread

 Lance Jeffers

     Night falls suddenly in the African hinterland. One moment there is a brilliant sunset with a fusion of colors-blue, gray, purple and gold-splashed against the sky as on a painter's canvas, the next moment there is a blackened sky devoid of any color. The nights in the hinterland are eerie, as animals both large and small creep out of their holes and lairs in search of food, preying on the wild and tame, emitting sounds which can cause fear yet bring a sense of comfort as one feels the balance of nature. I gained this sense of overpowering forces of the African night as I hastened to find shelter as evening closed in on me.

     I was on my way to visit a student who lived at the foot of the Ruwenzori mountains in a small village in western Uganda. This would be the last time that I would be able to see my student/friend, as the forces of Idi Amin were imposing stringent restrictions on travel, my passport meant little to his forces, and I had learned from my long stay in Uganda that an African-American travelling by bus was just another member of a different tribe. I had been travelling all day from the capital of Kampala with the hope of reaching Fort Portal by nightfall. Along the way continuous breakdowns, washed out roads, army checkpoints and other assorted matters forced me to seek other means of transportation before night closed in around me. I did not have any great fear, as I had been in Uganda for some time, coming with the first contingent of Teachers for East Africa. I had  been threatened, but never really abused. I was considered an oddity in the village of Kisubi, near the school where I taught, and many had referred to me as the "African who does not speak the mother tongue." Yet this was the first time I found myself in the hinterland with night approaching quickly.

     Luckily for me a long-haul driver heading for Zaire came along while I was standing on the road and took me to a small community- nothing more than a duka, a small transient hotel and a restaurant. Together we shared a meal of curried goat and matoke, drank some pombe and talked about the state of the world in general before we both went to bed to listen to the world around us.

     Since I had been in Uganda, I had seen the history of East Africa unfold before my very eyes: the coming of the independence of Uganda; the rise and fall of my good friend, Benedicto Kiwanuka; the overthrow of Kabaka Mutesa II; the rise of Milton Obote, the first Prime Minister and President of Uganda; and the rise of Idi Amin. In my travels throughout East Africa I had seen both the beauty and the savagery of nature and man's inhumanity to man. I had tired of the death and destruction. I wanted to leave Uganda and return home, yet I had to get clear in my mind who I was and why I had come to Africa in the first place.

         In 1961 East Africa was in the midst of momentous changes. Tanganyika (Tanzania), guided by Julius Nyerere was on the threshold of independence. Kenya, still seething from the Mau Mau emergency was in turmoil as the demands grew for Jomo Kenyatta to be released from jail. Uganda was moving toward self government and it appeared that the "Pearl of Africa" would peacefully gain its true independence from Britain. This was not to happen.

      In the United States things were different for me. Despite the Brown decision of 1954, I was still relegated to teach in the segregated system that I had been assigned to since release from my service in Korea. In addition the winds of change in American society had been blowing for some time as black Americans had become frustrated with the slow movement toward a free society progressed through the courts and the continuous demonstrations. As a boy I was told about Africa as the Motherland, the land of our deliverance from the oppression of the white society - our promised land. So when Teachers College, Columbia, asked for teachers for East Africa, I answered the call with the hope I would gain that for which I was searching. I was not aware of the tribalism, the religious division created by the British, and what I would have to do and say as a black American.

     It was into this maelstrom that I came as a naive black American determined to assist my African brothers and sisters in nation building. To my students I was a novelty, someone that they had read about in the newspapers or magazines. To the people of the village I was an enigma. I closely resembled any average Muganda but I could not speak Luganda, and when I tried my limited Swahili, I was looked upon as African from another tribe with a different language or dialect. It was not long before the euphoria of being in the Motherland vanished. The whole experience confused me. All Africans belonged to some tribe and their name would identify their origin. Every African therefore had a name that was uniquely theirs. My name stamped me as being an African without identity. My close African friends were sympathetic to my dilemma, and insisted that my problem originated from the fact that I was born of slave parents. 

         I immediately tried to fit in and my students helped me. They gave me an adopted name of Mukasa - a very standard Baganda name. They invited me to their homes where I learned to greet in true Baganda fashion - a greeting so long that you were advised not begin it unless you had a year in your life to give to greetings alone. The Civil Rights crisis that was developing in the States gave me the opportunity to discuss the attitudes of the white ruling class in the South and the need to resist tyranny wherever it was found. Many of my students felt that if tyranny was not met in Uganda at its beginning of independence then the nation would suffer for years to come. Tyranny did come to the nation, and many of my students and friends were casualties of the resistance to it. Even today as I see Mathias Kiwanuka play for the New York football Giants, the image of his grandfather Benedicto flashes through my mind. I should have avoided any political involvement, but I could not avoid the friendships which Kiwanuka and other members of his party afforded me.

         In 1966 I formally left Uganda and TEA. The journey through those years had been rewarding. There were happy moments and humorous moments. I could recall nearly being arrested by the Kabaka's police for non-payment of poll tax. They would later explain that I looked like any other Muganda. It was scary then, but my friends and I could laugh about it later. Through all of this misidentification, I had a feeling of belonging. No one could place me with a tribe, but all I met during my stay knew that somewhere in the history of the continent my ancestors were dragged from their homes and sold into slavery. I was taught by Carter G. Woodson early in my life not to forsake Africa but to embrace it. He emphasized that it was the land that gave you soul. This was so true. And through the years as I recall my stay in the "pearl of Africa," I know that this period was the defining moment of my life.