Kirabo smiled.
“Look at you, I mean, just look at her. When you next come to Nattetta, I will take a walk around the villages with you on my arm and all the young men will ask, What is that namukadde geezer doing with her? and I will say, Gnash your teeth, ineffective youth, she is mine.”
Kirabo sat down next to him and they hugged again. She took him in, the whole of him. Grey hairs had won. They openly defied his Kanta efforts now. A stubble of little white pricks had grown in the folds around his jaw and down to his throat. He was very dark but you did not notice it, maybe because he was a man. He wore a blue shirt, long-sleeved. He looked vulnerable away from his home.
“My wife has been wondering what she did to you. She asks, why does Kirabo not visit us at all? And I say to her, ‘She is studying hard. She does not need the likes of me and you disturbing her.’”
“How is Grandmother really?”
“Old.” Miiro shook his head. “Look at me, am I old?”
“Not at all.”
Miiro wagged his finger in Kirabo’s face, as if to say I did not know you were a flatterer. But they could not sustain the banter. Silence fell like a stone. Kirabo looked at Grandfather, her eyes asking How could this happen? Grandfather dropped his head.
4
A car, a white Datsun, drove in. A woman jumped out and ran screaming towards the house.
“Gayi.” Kirabo did not realise she had shouted.
Miiro sat up.
Kirabo ran and caught up with her before Gayi made it to the steps. She grabbed Gayi, but they just stared at each other. Eight years stood between them. Kirabo was overwhelmed by suppressed emotions at seeing Gayi again, Gayi overcome by guilt, fear, hurt, and who knows what else. Before they could hug, other women caught up and clamoured to touch and cry. Kirabo stepped away. It was not clear whom these tears were for—losing Gayi, finding her, or losing Tom. Gayi was smaller, older. Wearing a busuuti, she was a real woman. The women, anticipating the battle ahead of Gayi as she tried to reinsert herself into the family, whispered, “You look well … All that matters is that you look well … No one can argue with that; just be strong.”
When the women were done with her, Gayi went over to Grandmother, who had stood back a little, perhaps confused about whether to be happy to see a prodigal daughter when she had just lost a son. They held each other. Grandmother laid her cheek on Gayi’s and they rubbed as if to make sure this was really happening. She turned the other cheek to Gayi’s. When Grandmother pulled away she looked at Gayi’s face, as if to check whether all of her was still there. Aunt Abi and Aunt YA held back, arms folded, their eyes saying You hurt our parents, until Grandmother intervened, disarming them with, “Have you seen your sister?” They embraced Gayi coolly, under Grandmother’s watchful eye. Then she led Gayi to the living room to share her. Kirabo heard the volume of noise rise from the sitting room and walked away, imagining renewed crying. Then she saw the man who had come with Gayi. He stood outside his car looking lost. He had three children on his hands—two boys and a girl. In no time, the children were whisked away. From one pair of hands to another, the children were hugged and scrutinised. All this time, the man remained standing alone, bewildered. No one acknowledged him as Gayi’s man or the father of Miiro’s grandchildren. It was Widow Diba who asked for a chair and sat Gayi’s man close to the hedge, far away from Miiro and the male clan members. Then she whispered to everyone to go and greet him.
So this is the motorcycle man who sneaked off with Gayi in the night all those years ago, Kirabo thought as she went to greet him. She felt sorry for him: he was in so much trouble. Then she saw the body art—dark and shiny dot-dots in two rows curved above his eyebrows. They made the eyebrows prominent as if lifted, forcing you to look at his eyes. Kirabo could almost hear the communal consternation: God in heaven, he has tribal marks? But Gayi’s man was clever; when he greeted old women, he spoke proper Luganda, acknowledging their bereavement with “Nga kitalo Maama, yii yii.” But when Kirabo came along he spoke English: “Don’t, don’t kneel at all. How are you? What is your name? Oh, I am so sorry about your dad.” And Kirabo decided she liked him. When she walked back, women were still speculating about his ethnicity—Nubian … Madi … Lugbara. They agreed on one thing: “Gayi has no mercy—adding that darkness to the dark skin in Miiro’s house? The poor children.”
Grandmother and Gayi came out of the house. They sat on the lawn away from everyone and whispered. Kirabo hovered in the middle, undecided whether to join them or go back and sit with Grandfather. In the end, she sat under the avocado tree, where she could observe both. Grandmother tugged at the grass. “Go now, go greet your father before he reorganises his thoughts to make it hard for us.”
Gayi began to tug at the grass like her mother. Then, as if the tugging had given her strength, she stood up and walked towards Miiro. Tension rose. People watched without looking. Neither daughter nor father looked up as Gayi crossed the lawn. Miiro sat rigid and angry. Gayi walked hunched with shame. As she drew closer, Miiro squared for confrontation. Gayi bowed for reconciliation. By the time she reached him, she had gathered her busuuti around her as if to minimise the space she occupied. The compound held its breath. Gayi knelt. “Nga kitalo, Father,” she said.
“Kitalo.” Miiro was curt. “Bring the children.”
And when the children were brought, he fussed over them, asking, “Have you ever heard of Jjajja Miiro of Nattetta?” He introduced himself and asked them questions he should have asked their mother: “Where do you live? What is the name of your father?” When he asked the children their names and the little girls said she was Jannat, and the eldest boy said he was Moussa, and the last one chimed ‘Youssouff’—Gayi’s disappearance made sense.
All the while Gayi knelt, hunched and silent. But as the children moved from Miiro to greet other relatives, quick tongues changed their names from Muslim into Christian variants. “The girl is Janet,” a youngish woman said. “The older boy is Moses, and the youngest is Joseph.” It was ingenuous. Or not at all. Perhaps Gayi and her husband, anticipating this precise moment, had selected compliant names. Then the apologists chimed in: “Gayi’s man grew up here in Buganda with us. He is matooke-eater that one. If it was not for the tribal marks—”
“Who is she?” Miiro pointed to the woman Christianising his grandchildren’s Muslim names.
“I don’t know,” Kirabo shrugged. “Funerals bring all sorts.”
Miiro spoke up. “The children can speak for themselves; why not ask them?” However, Kirabo knew that if he had wanted to stop the tongues castrating Gayi’s man, he should have pronounced the children’s names in their Muslim versions. Instead, he left it to the children.
Kirabo looked at Gayi hunched on the ground and shook her head. There are things you don’t need to be told. You suckle them at your mother’s teat. It is the lack of these things which prompts people to say She did not get enough breast. Running off with a Muslim man who was a northerner before you had finished school was one of them. After all, as Jjajja Nsangi would say, there had never been foreign blood in Luutu’s house, never. For Luutu’s descendants, Christianity was in the blood. Luutu built churches, for heaven’s sake. Grandmother’s father was a reverend. How do you start to bring home a Muslim? And as Jjajja Doctor would tell you, Luutu’s descendants were academic: How dare you drop out of education without even O levels?
“You mean they can be Muslim as well?” Widow Diba was asking, as if being Muslim was a delinquency that only the Ganda indulged in. To Diba, if you were unfortunate enough to be non-Ganda—one could not help one’s parents—at least endeavour to take on an acceptable religion. After all, religion was a cloth you wore on certain days and took off for the rest of the week. Grandmother must have heard Diba’s comment, as she raised her voice: “My son has looked after my child well. She is happy. He is educated, and he has not forced Gayi to become Muslim.”
The silence indicated that Grandmother was alone in this convict
ion. With the tendency for men to want as many women as possible, it was hard to believe that a man whose religion allowed it would pass up the chance. The women gave each other knowing looks of Let’s wait and see.
Finally, Miiro looked at Gayi and asked, “Does he treat you well?”
Gayi nodded, tugging at the lawn. When the grass broke, she let it fall and went for more.
“You are very small; you are sure you are treated well?”
“Yes, Father.”
“You are sure you have enough food?”
“I grow my own food.”
“You know there is room at home if you are not happy. I don’t want to hear you are stuck in an unhappy marriage because you fear coming home. The big boys’ house is vacant.”
Gayi smiled.
“Bring the children for holidays. We have nothing to do, me and your mother. And if you want to do something with yourself, a course or a trade, and the children are in the way, bring them. You know we have good schools in Nattetta.”
“I know, Father.”
“Don’t bring him. I don’t want to see him, ever.”
Gayi bit her lower lip.
“Is that how they marry their wives where he comes from? Do they just run off with people’s daughters before they have finished school? I brought up my daughters to be self-reliant, but look at you. These days, a woman marrying rich is not enough. You need your own source of income.”
“But I grow my own food, Father.”
“On his land? What if he evicts you?”
Gayi remained silent. Girls have run off with men since time immemorial, but Gayi was stolen, Kirabo thought. Many such girls ended up in the city, abandoned with children and no way of survival. Yet here was a man who wanted to make everything right, but Miiro’s pride, and perhaps the man’s ethnicity and religion, stood in the way.
“He wants to come and apologise,” Gayi said. “We would like to start the marriage rites so we can get married properly.”
“Nnaggayi,” Miiro leaned forward, “my son has just died. This is neither the time nor the place to talk about something like that. Let’s bury your brother first and we will see what comes after his second funeral rites.”
Gayi stood up and walked back. She had cleared the first hurdle. As soon as she sat down, Grandmother whispered, “What did he say?”
“He does not want to see him.”
“But you mentioned that your man intends to visit and ask for marriage rites.”
“He said this is neither the time nor the place to talk about that.”
“Don’t worry. Leave Miiro to me. Your man holds a respectable job as the District Administrator of Iganga, does he not?”
“He said I am small. As if only Baganda men look after their wives.”
“He is looking for an angle; he is still hurting.”
“But why do we have to beg? Why does my man need to be wealthy and educated to be acceptable? I was not stolen, Mother. I chose to run away with him. Father’s quarrel should be with me, not with my man. I am the one who wasted his money in school. Father’s mantra that girls must be educated to escape oppression can also be oppressive. Mother, I stayed long enough in school to know it was not for me.”
Grandmother remained silent, as if Gayi were still talking. Then she whispered, “This quarrel has nothing to do with us women. You cannot be held responsible for your actions. It is him that is to blame—”
“But why, am I not a person?”
“Listen, Nnaggayi.” Grandmother’s voice became gravelly. “I am on your side here, but do not make me say obvious things. Now tell me; are you going to change the clan system so we start to own our children? Do women own their children where your husband comes from?”
Gayi shook her head.
“Do men pay dowry for their wives where your man comes from?”
“Yes.” Gayi’s voice had shrunk.
“Then let’s focus on what we can change, like your father allowing you to marry your man. Miiro knows best why he must protect you. He wants your man to know that another man cares for you. Right now, he has the upper hand, and I suggest your man indulges him.”
Despite Grandmother’s traditional common sense, Gayi wept afresh. “And if he leaves me, who will suffer? Me and my children. Mother, the man is mine, the marriage is mine, the children are mine, my life is mine, but somehow my views don’t count.”
“If your man ever starts looking away from you, your father will take you back and look after the children.”
“If he leaves me, Mother; not all men are like that.”
“Well, if.”
“All the same, I wish Father would let me tell him how I feel. I am happy, Mother, even though I have no degree. I am happy working in my garden and looking after my man and my children.”
At this point, women started to stream out of the sitting room. Miiro, his brothers, and other men his age entered the room and closed the door. Kirabo realised that the time to strip Tom of synthetic items and wrap him in barkcloth had come. It was around two and the compound was now crowded. Tom was to be buried at four, to allow people who had worked to attend. Kirabo walked back and sat on the mat on which Grandfather had been sitting.
People who came to commiserate with Kirabo ended up marvelling. How she had grown, how well she had done to stay in school. Apparently, most of the girls she had grown up with in Nattetta were mothers and running homes. Even some boys had dropped out of school and were hustling in the city. “Hang on to your books: the pen never lies.” Then two women, Grandmother’s age, came towards her. From their bleached faces they were city girls, the kind of women people resented for refusing to return to the rural areas where old people belonged. When they sat down, the one who had permed her hair introduced herself as Solome Jjali. Kirabo had heard that name, but the memory was distant. Unfortunately, the straightening creams had burned her so badly along the hairline the blisters had formed thick crusts. She introduced the other woman as her sister. They said nga kitalo and slipped condolence money into her hands.
“You don’t know us, but we know you,” Solome Jjali said. “Someday, someone will tell you about us. Until then we shall wait before we introduce ourselves properly.”
Kirabo smiled.
“We wanted to say that your grandparents and your aunt have done a big job of bringing you up for all of us. We are happy you have turned into a real human.” She turned to her sister. “Hasn’t she?”
“Yes, she is a real human,” the younger one said, as if some children do not turn into real humans.
After they had gone, Kirabo uncrumpled the notes they had given her and added them to the growing bundle of condolence money in her pocket. When she looked up, Batte was lowering himself on to the mat. Kirabo could not hide her surprise. She had never sat so close to him. He was sober but his eyes were like curry powder, his lips charred. She knelt to greet him.
“You have grown, Kirabo,” he smiled. “Tom has really been a father.” His voice was full of admiration, as if being a father was a feat Tom had not been expected to accomplish. “I saw you the first time you were brought to the house in Kamwokya.”
“Kamwokya?”
“We were doing our Cambridge exams. I remember it clearly. Tom was like a young bird asked to look after an egg.”
“Who brought me?”
“Your mother.”
“Did you see her?”
“No, by the time I came back from school she was gone. At the time, Tom and I shared a room in Miiro’s rental house while we studied at Kololo SSS. All I know is that she was thirteen.”
“So she did not bring me to Nattetta?”
“She dropped you off at the room. That very day Tom brought you to Nattetta.”
“I did not know that.”
“But then university had changed him. He would come to Nattetta and complain about everything—why you did not wear the shoes or slippers he bought you, how the education in the village was substandard, how you should not
play in the dust—but you just wanted to be like other village children. We shook our heads because Tom was becoming like his uncle, Dokita.” He paused again and then said softly, “He had been bringing me clothes and shoes. Always arguing with me that I had thrown my life away into a gourd. Now he is the one who has died and left behind three children. They will need food, school fees, clothes, but I, his best friend, am useless,” he sighed. “Poor Nnambi, she is stuck with his sisters.”
Kirabo was astounded by Batte’s humanity. “The clan will help.”
“Miiro and Abi yes, but don’t count on the others. Clans are notoriously unreliable; visible on special occasions to flex their muscles, but scarce when there are responsibilities.” He smiled. “I had better clean up fast if I am going to help.”
Kirabo smiled politely.
Tom’s coffin was carried out of the house and loaded on to a pick-up truck. Jjajja Doctor stood on the porch and announced, “It is time to take our son back home to his grandfatherhood. Those who wish to accompany him, we are setting off.” He pointed out the taxis and the fare.
Everyone stood up. Kirabo looked to where Gayi’s man sat and despaired. Grandfather held out, and so did Jjajja Nsangi. However, Father Dewo and Jjajja Doctor had greeted him. They were not Miiro, but they were close. The worst possible scenario would have been Gayi dying the way Tom had and that man bringing her body back to Nattetta. The first question would be Who gave her to you, hmm? and the second How come she did not die while she lived with us? Next would be lashes. Okulula bukulizi, like you drag a goat on a leash. But now, because Miiro’s brothers had acknowledged him, they would say Leave him; we have met him.
5
In the four years Kirabo had not been to Nattetta, the region had shrunk. The distance from Nazigo to Nattetta had contracted. The main road, which cut across the villages, was now tarred, but so narrow it was a wonder cars did not collide. The churches seemed compressed. But the fir and mugavu trees in the church compound looked bigger. Nattetta Modani Baara had corrected its English to Nattetta Modern Bar after a rival, New Kidandali Bar, had set up close to it. Diba’s house needed a bath of paint. Grandfather’s house had shrivelled; where did all those cousins sleep? The truck carrying Tom’s coffin did not even glance at Miiro’s house. As if Tom had not grown up there. That roof on Batte’s house would one day buckle in and break his head. Ssozi built a bigger house? He has made money from that shop. What had happened to the koparativu stowa? Without it, the muvule, the tree which had protected its roof from the wind, seemed larger. Nsuuta’s house was a box. It was as if the earth were swallowing it. The valley was a mere dip now. The little forest at the fringes of Bugiri Village had drawn back from the road, replaced by beans, maize, and groundnuts.
A Girl is a Body of Water Page 33