Home Life Lessons I spent that night in a cell, but I was unfazed

I spent that night in a cell, but I was unfazed

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My Father chose to name me Yasser Arafat when I was born to affirm his allegiance to the ex Palestinian leader whose people he empathised with. Such is the nature of my father, mutinous against social constructs. My old man has struggled with alcohol addiction for as long as I can remember. We do not know what befell him, but when he returned from The States in 2000, he had a PhD in Literature and an attachment to the bottle to the point of enslavement. Papa was a good man whose demons held him captive. Mother says he returned from the USA a different man, a broken man. I believe alcoholism runs through our family. I have had my fair share of the alcohol plague. Pa lost two brothers to alcohol poisoning. Pa often blamed Ma for spoiling my brother and me whilst he laboured hard in The States. This accusation pissed my mother off each time because she had chosen to stay. When his alcoholism got so bad, she had held the family together despite her circumstances. She was a secretary, and he was a university professor with a drinking problem. Mother could have chosen to leave, yet she didn’t. He, luckily for us, wasn’t a violent alcoholic, and that helped, but he had a voracious tongue which he efficiently used to utter loads of needlessly mean stuff. He would scream at the top of his voice, bang tables, and switch off the TV, typical alcoholic behaviour. 

I went to seven schools for my six years of secondary school, so I guess it would be fitting to say I was a bit of a problematic child, always at loggerheads with authority. My first suspension seemed unfair. I got suspended for sitting through the part of mass celebrants are required to stand. I had not slept well the night before, and the refusal of the authorities to understand me made me so angry. Then I got suspended for sneaking out of school for a ‘Rolex’. I constantly sought freedom, which meant I expressed my dissatisfaction with social limitations and enforcers of norms; prefects, teachers, and the police. My father rarely came to school for visitation. The one time he did, the man showed up drunk. My elder brother and I told him off and asked him not to come to school drunk. In retaliation, father withdrew all our upkeep and refused to offer us any upkeep. He never forgot and never forgave us. I was traumatized by my father’s struggles, and I didn’t have a father figure because I held much resentment against my father. It is true what they say; resentment rusts the soul. The breakdown of the relationship with Father was the beginning of my struggles with alcohol, weed and obedience

I discovered alcohol and cigarettes in my senior four long holidays in 2008. Cigarettes made me feel cool and responsible. My parents didn’t know their little son had grown wings. I had a fantastic relationship with my mother, which gave her no reason to notice my struggles. My father was mostly in his world, blind to us all. I discovered weed munchies when I enrolled for my upper secondary from the boys I met in my new school. I was famed for running an illegal alcohol business within the school. I would sneak out from school, buy up to three boxes of alcohol tot packs and sell the stuff to kids for a profit. The business was swift; three boxes containing 12 tot packs apiece would sell out over the weekend. I would buy a box for the weekday gang, composed of students with an actual drinking problem. I initially didn’t consider myself a businessman. I was more or less a subsistence farmer. My stash was mainly for my own consumption and the surplus for sale, but then word went round, and my clientele exponentially grew, especially when we had social events within the school. 

I got expelled for smoking, and I moved to another school. On the first day in school and who do I meet but my ‘clients’ from my old school were obviously excited to see me. Unknown to me, these guys had earned themselves a reputation not entirely floral. When the headteacher saw me speak to them, he came through and prophesied that my days in his school were numbered, on the very first day, man. He, after that, kept his eyes on me. I wasn’t a very social kid, speaking only to friends. I didn’t know it then, but I was always angry. My anger issues only occurred to me when I made 25; I remember looking into the mirror and asking myself, ‘who is this angry young man? Why is he so angry at the world?’ 

I had low esteem, and I oddly didn’t know it. I wasn’t a good kid. I had a harsh tongue. I once emptied a mug of porridge on a kid, for he had refused to get off my bed. I craved acceptance, and this played out when students talked to me because I had drugs and alcohol for them. I got expelled again for escaping. One of the students snitched on me to the authorities. When I returned, it was all over. Between 2008 and 2013, my father had found help and was off the bottle, which meant that he wasn’t amused when he learned I was drinking. I imagine he saw his old self in me. My father’s life flipped went downhill for him. in the world of alcoholics, one drink is all it takes for the rollercoaster to run again. 

At University, I opened a metal scrap business to survive because my father was only giving me just tuition. I wasn’t living with dad because we did not have a close bond. I would run to Lira to my mother over the holidays. Mother had since moved on in pursuit of her career goals. I was living in simple units at University. I was afraid of troubling my mom for money; I wouldn’t run her down to fund my lifestyle. My biggest struggle was that no one seemed to understand what was going on in my life. I invested the little monies I got in the business only for my business partners to rip me off and run down the business. I also got into a bit of trouble with the law. I often found myself in situations I probably might have avoided if I had a father figure in my life. Without a father figure, I made decisions in situations that happened so quickly and left me on the wrong side. I once hurled a rock at a policeman in the night and got shot at. I spent that night in a cell, but I was unfazed. I have been arrested over 35 times. I’m not proud of that.

I’ve been homeless twice. Many people hold a misconception about the homeless. People wrongly believe that the homeless don’t have options. When you are homeless, the options available are undesirable, and this is what many people fail to get. Homeless kids, for instance, find refuge in the bellies of the cold streets to evade abusive homes they don’t want to return to. For my part, it was because I had already disappointed my mother enough and didn’t want to put her through the pressure of living with me.  The first time I got homeless stemmed from an altercation with my father. After University, my father threw me a party to celebrate my graduation. He invited his Makerere University professor friends, and I invited friends from the ghetto. My party was thus a blend of grandeur and squalor. Father didn’t seem impressed that I had chosen to associate with the ‘wretched of the city.’ My father got me my first job in a bank; I was living with him again and was essentially trying to build a father-son relationship. I remember him offering to coach me the night before my interview. I asked him to calm down because I did not base myself on his charm and that he hadn’t been there for me from the start. I went for that interview with my shaggy hair and told the panel; 

‘I will chop off these dreadlocks if I get the job. There is no point in cutting off my hair if I won’t get the job; it would have wasted my time. I’m not that kind of person.’ 

The bank hired me. I worked as a data entrant, a banking assistant, and a teller, and then I got transferred to Lira because I wanted to be close to my mother.  I spent a year in Lira before it struck me how fiercely I had missed my friends and how suffocating the smallness of Lira town was, so I was reposted to Kampala and moved into my father’s house. One morning I find my father drinking, so I ask him why he is drinking in the morning. I ask him what his problem is. ‘I mean, your kids are done with school. What is eating you up? So I grab his bottle and crash it down on the floor. Now a direct affront isn’t something my father was used to, so he went to my bosses and said I had threatened to kill him. He dropped my property at the police and kicked me out of his house. 

My contract was not renewed.  I lost my first job that way. I had gotten it thanks to my father and lost it thanks to my father.  My scrap business had flipped over by then. I did not want to go through the struggle of my university days again. Life in the corporate world had taught me you didn’t have to hustle so hard to survive. Penniless, without much to do, I decided to sell weed. I got a small place where my white and wild creative friends thronged. It was no surprise that I got kicked out because of my friends’ bad vibes. That’s how I found myself on the cold streets. On some nights, I would crash in with friends, and on other nights, I would find a cosy place along the street or on an isolated rooftop, place my backpack down and curl the night away like the street urchin I had become.

After a spell that felt like it had lasted for all eternity, I got off the streets temporarily. 

I got my second job, a sales job, to survive and did well at the job. Life on the streets had hardened my resolve, so when I felt unappreciated after eight months, I left unceremoniously and got into a bit of trouble with the law. My mother had to bail me out. My mother gave me a piece of her mind when I moved to Lira. She wondered aloud when I would finally grow. I was depressed in that place, was drinking heavily again, had nothing to my name, no money, no job, no capital, no friends. It wasn’t too long before I told my mother, I had no intentions of living in Lira, and she reluctantly let me go. That was 2018. I returned to the city, but I had no place to go. So I would spend many nights on the rooftop that had become my space since I wasn’t renting. I would wake up in the morning, wash my face, find something to eat, retrieve my bag of clothes and go out into the wide world to look for opportunities like any regular guy. When you are homeless, the status quo ceases to matter; you get accustomed to your circumstances. You get used to the daily patterns and sequences; wake up, wander, wine, repeat. On the good days, I made some money. I would go to a cheap motel or lodging, shower and delight in the simple pleasure of clean beddings. Homelessness is a revolving trap trapdoor, and it isn’t easy to climb out from. I was aware of my friend’s struggles, too. I avoided my friends altogether because their drug abuse lifestyles brought me down.

I spent my 26th birthday on the mean city streets;  homeless, sullen, lonesome. On the 8th day of July 2018, I firmly resolved not to be homeless again, to not crash at friends’ houses, not to drink or abuse substances anymore. I knew that if I stopped drinking, I would find a home, maybe I would find hope, and switch up my life. I knew that I had troubled every single of my relations enough, and it was now down to me to change my fortunes. I, through my depression, had gone on large spells without abusing alcohol, so I knew I had it in me to fight. I read A Piece of Cake, a memoir by a lady who had struggled with homelessness and substance abuse like myself and had found help by reaching out. So I looked up Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), a society of ex alcoholics helping alcoholics combat their demons. That is where I met the lovely Derrick; God bless him every day. I joined the recovery program with this remarkable community of fighters battling addiction. For once, I wasn’t inspired by money which was the most significant paradigm shift I experienced because I had always imagined it was about money. When you are on the streets, it’s about money; tell a lie if it makes you money, inflate prices, be crooked. These guys spoke of religion candidly implored me to find a god of my understanding and spiritual attunement. 

I am no religious bigot and, indeed, no atheist. I love to consider myself spiritual. I believe in the existence of a spiritual being, where goodness is repaid by goodness. You build your energy, eat right, treat your body right to manifest the best you. I believe that the universe is alive and that there are good and bad forces and good spirits and evil spirits. I was inspired by these people who seemed to have found peace amid the storms in their lives. I attended weekly meets, fixed coffee, took readings from religious books and positive text, and stayed away from alcohol. 

Derrick, the German pastor who refused to judge me, agreed to help me when I told him I needed help. He asked me to go to his home in Kalangala, where he runs an alcoholics clinic. I remember meeting with my mates and telling them I needed 20,000 UGX to go to Kalangala because I was tired of living life on the edge and running back to my mother constantly. 

Derrick took me in and loved me as a father would; he was the first father figure in my life. Derrick introduced me to carpentry and all handy works, including teaching me to drive. I was in Kalangala for a long time, gaining sobriety and turning my life around. He would still buy me the occasional cigarette because he knew expunging alcohol abuse is a complex process. I soon realized I didn’t need alcohol or cigarettes and abandoned alcohol altogether. 

I have been sober for over 18 months now; no alcohol, no weed, no smoke, all clean. My mother reached out to my uncle, telling him of my metamorphosis. My uncle asked me what he could do for me. I asked for an engraver. When I shared my work with him, he went beyond the call of affection and sent me carpentry equipment, which arrived just a few months ago. I have since set up a simple carpentry workshop on the same rooftop I used to go to for a smoke. My mates work with me, while most of them are still stuck in that dark place, I am confident they will find their shining lights just like I did. My fortunes have turned; I have a place that I own and pay for, decent work that gives me a reason to rise each morning, my mother has renewed faith in me. Maybe someday, my father will find healing too. I hope I stay clean. 

Yasser Arafat, 28 

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