NOWHERE TO HIDE

by Nancy Ball

Have you ever awakened from a dream profoundly relieved

that it was just a dream?

I stood there, helpless, in the middle of Africa, surrounded by thousands of guests who came to see their new king. Most of them were milling about, along the shores of Lake Victoria on my left. They had been watching the colorful hand-carved rowboats race across the wind-swept channel. The winning team would be honored at the coronation ceremonies. To my right I could see the primitive grandstand filled with dignitaries. On the dusty clay road behind our Mercedes military jeep an endless sea of villagers trudged along, hoping there was enough room for them. I didn’t notice the TV cameras till later.

This day of ceremonies was an interruption of a five-month long missionary journey, which had taken us around the world one and one-half times. While we were teaching at the East/Central African pastor’s conference the minister of security for the nation of Uganda invited us to his home to stay. His armed guard came to our hotel, loaded our luggage into the military vehicle, and took us to our new residence. Ithought that was amazing, but the next few weeks would be more so.

For the first time in 15 years the nation of Uganda, the “Pearl of Africa”, was about to crown a new king. The shoreline of Lake Victoria was included in the ceremonies because the first White missionaries landed here.

My new friend, Grace, had to put the native dress on me because I didn’t know what to do with it. The Basuti consisted of a long piece of cloth, two buttons, and two armholes. A wide, heavy satin sash with fringes was the only thing that held the dress together. We had to get ready at four in the morning, and the middle of my body is “puffy” that early. I stood there with my arms outstretched as Grace took the two yards of fabric that hung from my bosom, turned it into an accordion pleat, and tucked it under my left armpit. The sash was wrapped tightly around me, and it rested on my hips, with a giant, heavy bow below my navel.

I always carry a video camera on my shoulder when traveling. That day I also had drawstring bag with bottled water in my opposite hand.

Someone estimated that 200,000 people were at the coronation ceremony. The dry roads were packed with villagers who quickly scurried to the rocky edges as our military jeep approached. I was starting to feel pretty special. My husband looked really neat in his

long white robe and jacket. All the men dressed alike. So did the women, except their dresses were of many different beautiful fabrics.

When the van arrived the excitement in the air infected me. I was filled with anticipation, and wondered….

“Will I get some good pictures?”

“Where will we be sitting?”

The men walk ahead of the women in this culture, so when I stepped down from the van our host had already disappeared into the crowd. Then I heard a loud cheer. The roar sounded like a stadium where a touchdown had just been scored. They told me, later, that it was considered an honor to them when a visitor wore their native dress. So they were cheering because I was dressed like them. (We were the only white people there, except for the media and a few ambassadors.)

That’s when it happened! I stepped on my hem, and because the fluid balance in my body had shifted in the hours since I was dressed, the weighty sash slid down to the ground. As I reached for it, the camera strap slid down to my wrist and caught on my bracelet. The water bottles were swinging from the strings on my other wrist.

The wind was blowing hard off the lake, so the long piece of cloth unfolded and blew away from my body. The sounds of cheering changed to a louder OOOOOOOHHHH!

There I stood, a foreigner, a minority, at a historical site, on a historical day, surrounded by strangers, and I couldn’t put myself together again!

My mind raced….

“Oh dear, they see my belly!”

“They see my underwear!”

“I can’t pick up the sash because the camera slid too. I don’t even know how to fold myself back together again, and I’ll never get the knot untied and tied again!”

In a flash I found myself surrounded, not by strangers, but by caring women, half of them in military uniforms. They quickly circled me to protect my modesty, folded my dress, found a pin, and retied the sash securely around me. I alternately watched what they were doing and stared at the ground, wishing this were a dream and not the most embarrassing moment in my life.

When I lifted my eyes I was looking into dozens of camera lenses. Can you imaging how I was feeling, as I had to continue the slow procession across the front of the stands and up the many steps? The cameras followed me all the way.

The incident was on the evening news, but I was never ridiculed for creating a scene at their most important occasion in recent history.

I think that God allowed this to happen to me to keep me from getting puffed up with pride. We were treated with incredible hospitality as missionaries in Russia, Nigeria, Togo, Kenya, The Philippines, Singapore, Malaysia, and now, Uganda. I was getting spoiled. We worked hard among the people, and in return they carried our bags, fed us, protected us and treated us with respect.

I’ll never be the same again. I repented and told God I was sorry my lack of compassion in the past, when foreigners seemed bewildered or ‘out of place’ in my country. I will always remember that I wasn’t treated with disdain. The people of Uganda didn’t make fun of me because I was an alien who didn’t even know how to dress properly. They responded in a manner that protected my modesty as they repaired my embarrassing clothing situation. Their quick, non-judgmental, caring response set an example for all of us to follow.