A Girl is a Body of Water

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

  “Don’t hold my hand, Kirabo, people are frowning.”

  “Where? I don’t see them.”

  “They look at me like I am a hyena that snatched a chick.”

  “Ignore them.” She turned and walked backwards facing him. “They are backward. You are only slightly taller.”

  •

  Giibwa’s aunt’s friend directed them to Kyadondo Road in Nakasero, and they walked back through the Lugogo swamp. The rugby pitch had flooded. Their route took them past the rows of huge, ancient mango trees, across the Lugogo bypass, and over to Lugogo Indoor Arena. Soon they were in Lower Kololo. Once they crossed the golf course and Kitante Road, Kyadondo Road was just above the Fairway Hotel. Giibwa’s home was easy to find; there were plot numbers on the gates. A tarmacked driveway, then a paved walkway led to a side door. Kirabo knocked on the door, wondering how Giibwa had adjusted to the incredible wealth around her.

  The door opened. Giibwa stood there. A Giibwa with a posture like she had grown up in that house and the demeanour of someone newly arrived from Switzerland. This Giibwa knew she was beautiful, Kirabo realised. It was there in her eyes. That entitlement that light-skinned girls had to beauty, to being the centre of attention. Kirabo reached for Sio’s hand. How had Giibwa got even more light-skinned? Her hair was enormous and dark. She had lost weight and stretched at the waist. This was no longer the innocent beauty of childhood; this was sharp and malignant. You saw it for the first time, you looked away. Then you stole small, secret glances until you got used to it. It was the kind of beauty that made you hate a girl who had done nothing to you.

  “Giibwa, happy to see you.”

  Giibwa should have been the first to greet them, open her arms and hug Kirabo, but she had not. She did not respond to Kirabo’s greeting, so Kirabo said the next thing that came to mind.

  “You have lost weight but you are looking so well. Being small suits you.”

  Giibwa’s eyes were a cave.

  Kirabo feared that Giibwa had seen her envy. But whatever she had felt was gone. She was glad to see her again. It was almost three years since she had last seen her. Kirabo was sixteen and a half now and Giibwa was already seventeen, but she was still Kirabo’s first best friend.

  “Can you imagine, we walked first from Shimon to Nakawa, and then your aunt’s friend directed us here and we plodded all the way from Nakawa to here.” In that inventory lay Kirabo’s appeal to Giibwa: Measure how long we have walked and gauge how much I love you. Then she walked up the steps and went to hug Giibwa. Giibwa was a tree. In the past, no matter how viciously they fought, Giibwa never tied anger around her heart. Kirabo would come back or Giibwa would come to Kirabo’s home and they would carry on as though they had not fought. This unsmiling Giibwa, the one looking at her with disdain, was new.

  Kirabo pulled away and Giibwa smiled a bit. “Hello, Kirabo.” She spoke English. “Nice to see you.” But there was no sparkle in her eyes, just irritation, as if Kirabo was a smitten puppy.

  Kirabo had imagined their first meeting as a succession of breathless hugs, girly exclamations, high-pitched nothings like Bannange ki kati, gesturing, exaggerating the greatness of the moment, like girls did.

  When Giibwa turned to lead them inside the house, Kirabo thought Kdto, some girls can be slender and curvaceous at the same time. She decided to try again. After all, this was Giibwa. She had to let her know she was still the Kirabo she knew, Kirabo of Nattetta.

  “Eh,” she started breezily. “I have been pushing this Sio”—she punched Sio in the arm—“to find you, but he has been giving me excuses. Today I said, ‘Lazima, we must find Giibwa no matter what.’”

  Giibwa stole a glance at Sio. Sio smiled at Kirabo.

  Kirabo noticed and looked down. She blinked and blinked but then shook the suspicion out of her head. It was her fault; she had to reassure Giibwa that she was not jealous of her looks. She gave it a moment, then tried again. “Remember our promise, Giibwa?”

  “What promise?”

  “All of us together again, bringing our Nattetta to Kampala?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, here we are.”

  Giibwa did not respond.

  They walked through the kitchen. The house belonged to a Zungu; the smells were not Ugandan. Neither were the utensils. The living room’s sparse furnishing confirmed it—Ugandans choked their living rooms with furniture. The curtains were kikoy prints—no Ugandan would do that. Instead of a carpet, the floor was covered with a traditional straw and banana-fibre kirago. There were African carvings, masks, and Maasai art. Ugandans could not have enough European art.

  Giibwa looked at Sio. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No thank you.”

  Kirabo did not answer. She wanted to make sure she had been included in that invitation. When Giibwa did not ask her, Kirabo began to well up. Yes, she had felt insecure and held Sio’s hand possessively, but Giibwa treating her like this, after she had trekked across the city to find her, was too much. For a while she looked away, holding back the tears. Then she began to resent the comfort with which Giibwa spoke to Sio. She looked up and asked, “Giibwa, you are so much lighter-skinned; are you bleaching?”

  Sio caught his breath.

  Giibwa looked at Sio: Do you see how nasty she is?

  Sio looked down.

  Kirabo could tell natural from bleached skin, but it did not matter. Giibwa was in love with Sio.

  “Giibwa is lighter because she is indoors most of the time.” Sio shook Kirabo by the shoulders, imploring her to lighten up.

  Kirabo did not look at him. “By the way, what happened to Wafula?”

  Giibwa shot her a Shut up look.

  “Wafula is at Nabumali High,” Sio explained. “Sometimes he comes home for holidays, but most times he stays in Mbale with his grandparents.”

  “Yeah, but hasn’t Giibwa heard from him?”

  “There was nothing between me and Wafula.”

  “Oh really?”

  There is no pain like seeing a best friend, and a best friend whose beauty eclipses your own at that, as she itches for your man. Bugs ran through Kirabo’s veins, chroo, chroo, chroo, making her twitchy and impulsive. But she knew she had to act unconcerned. Giibwa and Sio kept talking. He spoke Luganda, she English. Sio must have sensed Kirabo’s turmoil because he put his hand on her knee, his thumb caressing it. Giibwa glanced at it, then looked away.

  As their conversation deepened, Giibwa’s grasp on English grammar started to slip. She had no sense of the past participle. Irregular verbs eluded her. Kirabo’s eyes lit up. What did Giibwa think, that living in a Zungu’s house was enough? You still need those dry and brittle grammar classes. If Sio had not been in the room, she would have corrected Giibwa’s verbs ruthlessly. But if you wanted to see Sio’s anger, laugh at “broken” English. Colonial snobbery, he called it.

  Kirabo stood up and stretched as if she and Sio were still in the lodge. “I am tired,” she announced, looking at Sio intently. She spoke Luganda. She spoke Luganda as if she was above English, the language of desperate social climbers. “I am leaving.” She walked across the room. She had got to the door when Giibwa asked, “Has your mother come to find you?”

  Kirabo stopped, then recovered. “My mother? God, I had forgotten about her.” She looked at Sio. “It is your fault, Sio. You have made me forget.” She looked back at Giibwa. “No, she has not come. But I have been told she finished her education and has got a job. She is married and has two children. We are waiting until she tells her husband about me. Thank you for asking,” she smiled, and walked out.

  Sio must have said goodbye immediately because he caught up with her before she got to the gate. Kirabo exploded. “Who does she think she is? How can she be like that? Because she has acquired a handful of English words? Because she is a housemaid for a Zungu? I bet he is old and bald, I bet she is prostituting herself with him. That is what maids for Zungu men do. No wonder she looks so mature. Older than y
ou, even. Perhaps she hopes to hook him. Otherwise where did those airs come from?”

  “You are being cruel, Kirabo.”

  “Me? What about her? And I am telling you, Sio, that is what happens when you rise suddenly from dung-rolling to sleeping with your employer.”

  “I cannot believe you just said that, Kirabo. Giibwa is not a maid. She lives with her aunt; her aunt is the maid. Giibwa is studying tailoring or baking or both at YMCA. I saw how she treated you and I didn’t like it, but people can be awkward for all sorts of reasons. Maybe she had felt downtrodden all along in Nattetta, but now she feels emancipated and does not know how to handle it.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “Back home everyone knows. When Giibwa visits her parents she is haughty, dresses crazy, speaks English everywhere, at everyone. People shake their heads. That is why I was not so keen to find her.”

  “Sewing and baking: that is what she is studying? Typical: pretty girl, empty head.”

  “What is wrong with you, Kirabo? When Giibwa was ‘dung-rolling,’ as you call it, you loved her. Now she is getting educated, you are being nasty.”

  “Why are you defending her? She is the one who hates me.” Kirabo stopped and suspicion came into her eyes. “You are in love with her, aren’t you? Have you slept with her?”

  “Ha.” Sio stopped, speechless. Then he stormed past her. After a while of marching ahead he stopped and spoke English. “For your information, Giibwa came to Nattetta and I asked her where she lived because you wanted to see her. She said they were moving to a new house but did not know where. She said I could go to that lady in Nakawa to find out where. Perhaps she didn’t want you to visit her. Have you considered that? You were the one who wanted to visit her.”

  Kirabo swept past him. She walked fast ahead so he would not overtake her.

  He did.

  Kirabo broke into a run and sped past him.

  Sio fell back. He did not attempt to walk past her this time. As they came to Buganda Road Primary, Sio caught up with her. He grabbed her hand like I am going to hold your hand whether you like it or not. She did not shake him off. People giving them disapproving glances did not matter. They walked briskly but quietly. Kirabo’s feet were sore but it did not matter; Giibwa had hurt her worse. By the time they got to Rashid Khamis Road it was almost six o’clock. Kirabo crossed the road, but Sio hesitated. He remained on the other side near the house with a green roof. He waved once and turned away. The stale taste in Kirabo’s mouth became bitter, but she kept walking.

  On her own that night, mortification ate at her. I should have … I should not have … Then she remembered Sio was travelling to Dar the following night. And you cannot hold anger against someone going on a long journey. Besides, it was not Sio’s fault Giibwa was being silly. After all, plenty of boys were attracted to Kirabo; it did not mean she would pay them any attention in return. Why would Sio listen to Giibwa? As soon as Aunt Abi left the house the following morning, she rang him. He was relieved. He told her to stay away from Giibwa and promised to call as soon as he got to Dar. Long after they had run out of things to say, they stayed on the phone, their silence interrupted only by the occasional sigh. But when Kirabo put the phone down, she could no longer lie to herself. She was relieved Sio was going to be far away from Giibwa. It was not that she did not trust him; it was just that Giibwa was the kind of girl a boy cheated with and the world sympathised with him—that he could not help himself—and then blamed you for asking him to find her.

  8

  In January 1981, Nsuuta was admitted to Mulago Hospital with yellow fever. Tom asked Kirabo, who had just finished her O-level exams, to give Nsuuta hospital care. The country had not started to recover from Idi Amin’s regime or the war that had ousted him. Hospitals were so understaffed, so overwhelmed, you had to bribe staff to be given a proper examination. At first, Kirabo refused: she would not undermine Grandmother so publicly. But asking Nnambi was out of the question, and Aunt Abi had a job. Besides, she was too loyal to Grandmother. Kirabo eventually agreed, but only after Tom promised to explain to Grandmother that he had told Kirabo to look after Nsuuta.

  How do you care for a woman who had warned you against hurting your fellow women while she was sneaking around with your grandmother’s husband at the same time? What would Kirabo say to Nsuuta about the original state? During her final year of O levels, the study of Elechi Amadi’s The Concubine had resurrected Nsuuta’s idea of women having originally been seen as aquatic. For some time as she read the novel, Kirabo had been excited that maybe Nsuuta was on to something universal. But during class discussion, when she suggested that maybe the human subconscious located women in the sea and men on land, both the teacher and other students had looked at her like she was crazy. They did not see persecution in the presentation of Ihuoma as a sea goddess and femme fatale. When the teacher said she was reading too much into nothing, she gave up. Gradually, Kirabo’s mind had converted Nsuuta into a radical mwenkanonkano activist. Kirabo was in awe of Nsuuta’s bold philosophy and was grateful to her for trying to allay her fears about flying and finding her mother. But the fact remained: Nsuuta had been sneaking around with Grandfather.

  When Kirabo arrived at the hospital, Nsuuta was so ill and frail that Kirabo’s unease fled. Nsuuta was yellow. Because she could not keep anything down, she was put on a drip. When she grew stronger and the drip was removed, Nsuuta did not say much. She seemed locked inside herself. Kirabo tried to pry her out by telling her about the nuns at St. Theresa’s and their attempt to create a paradise for girls, how she had thought St. Theresa’s was a collection of girls with the original state. But Nsuuta only batted her eyelids in return. Most of the time Kirabo sat and watched her, wondering if the fiery Nsuuta would ever come back.

  Even when the women from Nattetta started to arrive with food and gossip, Nsuuta remained silent. Widow Diba came alone. Despite her swollen legs she said, “Take a rest, Kirabo. I will take care of Nsuuta today.” When she finished the chores she sat down, stretched her legs, and sighed the pain of old women. When Kirabo joined her, she laughed. “Your grandmother will pull down the heavens when she finds out you are looking after Nsuuta. Me, I did not tell her I was coming.”

  Before Kirabo could respond, nurses and a doctor arrived to examine Nsuuta. Kirabo and Widow Diba withdrew to the foyer. Diba sat on the floor and leaned against the wall. Kirabo sighed, “But Widow Diba, what is it between Grandmother and Nsuuta?”

  “Child, those two are beyond us all.”

  “I know Grandfather is grazing in Nsuuta’s paddock.”

  “You do?”

  “And I am thinking, Nsuuta knows better than to make a fellow woman miserable. But then I hear that Grandmother pinched Grandfather from Nsuuta in the first place, and I’m lost. The only person left to blame is Grandfather.”

  “But what you do not know is that as children Alikisa and Nsuuta were like this”—she crossed her fore and middle fingers—“so close, they would split a mite to share it. But I always said a man would be the death of that friendship.”

  Kirabo looked away.

  “Miiro loved Nsuuta first, and he loved her hard. You know, those wealthy people married wealthy people in our day. So, for Miiro, it was just right for Luutu’s son, educated and lugogofu-handsome, to marry the Muluka’s beautiful and educated daughter. Luutu had a car, but years earlier Nsuuta’s grandfather was the first to ride a pikipiki.”

  “You mean there were motorcycles in those days?”

  “Of course. They were wooden.”

  “Get out, Widow Diba. How can a pikipiki be wooden?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes. Apart from the tyres, the pouch for fuel, wires and tubes, maybe the seat had a cushion, but everything else was smooth wood—beautiful. In fact, the day Nsuuta’s grandfather died, his wives—there were only seven left then—pounced on that pikipiki with axes, and by the time his sons came to rescue it, most of it was in the hearth cooking food for his funera
l. Apparently, the pikipiki noise drove the wives mad.”

  “That is madness.”

  “Forget the wives’ madness; Miiro and Nsuuta brought new ways to courting. In our days, parents arranged marriages. Not for Miiro and Nsuuta. They made their decision. Miiro would collect Nsuuta from her home and they would walk down that road discussing their love while the world watched. We were waiting for their parents to set the wedding processes in motion when what did we hear?”

  “What?”

  “Nsuuta was off to Gayaza High for further studies. I said, ‘Which further studies? What model of madness is this?’ It was a perfect marriage proposal. But Nsuuta wanted to do nursing. Some said she had raised herself so high she wanted to complete all the studying in Uganda and go to Bungeleza to become a doctor like men. In the 1930s a girl aiming to be a doctor was a girl intending to climb into the world of men and shit on their heads. In any case, by the time you finished all that studying you were past marrying age: Who would want you? So Miiro pleads, ‘Nsuuta my one, stop this nursing nonsense and let’s get married.’ Miiro had a good plan. Nsuuta would start having children while he finished his diploma at Bukalasa. Then he would come home and they would carry on with their life. That plan made sense to us ordinary people, but not to Nsuuta.”

  “So?”

  “Miiro, maybe in anger, maybe because Alikisa was the next best thing, asked her to marry him.”

  “Yii, just like that?”

  “You joke with men, one moment he is dying for you, the next he is marrying your best friend.”

  Kirabo clapped.

  “Truth is that when Miiro turned to Alikisa I was the first to say, ‘Akale, if Nsuuta’s head is sailing in the clouds, what is a young man to do?’ After all, Miiro’s father built churches and Alikisa’s father was reverending them. ‘Maybe it was meant to be,’ we said. When Alikisa’s parents heard Miiro had turned his eyes on their daughter, did they blink?”

  “No?”