A Girl is a Body of Water

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

  They arrived in Busega, a mostly unbuilt area. Large plots were still bush, some were matooke plantations, cassava, sweet potato gardens. But there was a sense that the plots were being snapped up. Many of them were fenced off, some had been levelled by tractors, and some had structures going up.

  The lorry turned off the main road into a rutted track. It drove past Aunt Abi’s plot. She had brought Kirabo along to inspect it before she bought it, and she had used it as a teachable moment: “No matter how much a husband loves you, Kirabo, you must buy your own land and build your own house—in case. Most women do it on the stealth, but I say, let him know you are doing it so he knows you have an alternative to his home. Until the law starts to protect us, we must find ways. And Kirabo,” she added, “you should only have children you can bring up on your own. Too many women are trapped in bad marriages because of children.” The foundation to Aunt Abi’s house had been dug. There were heaps of sand, stones and blocks. Aunt Abi had started to build her house despite Jjajja Nsangi’s caution? Apparently, Ganda men did not like marrying successful women; they emasculated them.

  When they got to Tom’s house, Kirabo realised how lofty Tom’s dreams had been.

  9

  Tom’s last rites were to be held in Nattetta because his new house was not only without facilities to cater to the multitudes of people expected, but, as Miiro had put it, there was no space for people to stretch their legs.

  Grandmother’s clan, from Timiina, was the first to arrive, two weeks early, and camped in two of the three double rooms on the big boys’ block. They brought food, goats and chickens. The men started cutting down spare tree branches and shrubs for firewood to dry. They fetched water and filled hired tanks. They harvested mbidde bananas to ripen for brewing alcohol. They cut poles to build tents. They were unassuming in Miiro’s house, these people from Timiina. Even Grandmother’s brothers. They took on Grandmother’s attitude—that of people who had married into the clan.

  Nnambi’s family came a week later. They arrived discreetly and took the last double rooms on the big boys’ block. They all joined in the preparations, except her mother, who Grandmother and Nsuuta drew into their inner circle, and her father, who joined Miiro.

  Miiro’s relations arrived three days before the rituals started, when all the main preparations had been done. Even though they were few, you knew who they were instantly. They swung car keys and mixed Luganda with English, showing that they were not just the clan but the money. The women were loud and male. Apart from Aunts YA and Abi, who took supervisory roles, the other women did not do any chores at all: that was for women who had married into the family and their people. They sat under tree shades and found fault with young girls and asked to be introduced to children and the newly married wives. Jjajja Nsangi presided over their gossip, food, and alcohol. The men drove in and out buying this, bringing that, only doing things that needed the muscle of money.

  The main house was arranged in a way that if you still had tears to cry, you took them to the diiro and quenched yourself. After Little Tommy, Tom’s heir, was installed on Saturday and his children’s tears were washed off by Aunt YA, crying would become wrong.

  •

  For the five months Tom had been dead, Giibwa had not tried to find Kirabo to say Nga kitalo about your father at all. Yet at midday on Friday she made a shimmering entrance.

  Sio arrived in the morning. He greeted Kirabo as if he did not know her and joined the men doing chores. All morning, he worked with Batte. First, they helped with the construction of the large canopy, then fetched firewood from where it had been chopped and left in the sun to dry by Grandmother’s people. By the time Giibwa arrived at midday, Sio and Batte were fetching water to refill the tanks. Female residents were on the peripheries of Grandmother’s matooke plantations, peeling and wrapping food into huge mounds. Women from Nnambi’s family were cooking food for lunch and supper. Women from Timiina were preparing bunches of banana leaves for wrapping foods. The goats and chickens from Timiina had been slaughtered, the goats skinned, and the chickens plucked. Male residents were brewing tonto. Some men were further away, preparing the cow for the main event.

  Kirabo was at the back of the house drawing water from the barrels when she heard a woman whisper in distress, “Kati, what has she come dressed like that for?”

  “To poke Kirabo over Kabuye’s son.”

  “Poke Kirabo, whatever for?”

  “You don’t know? Kirabo was the first on him.”

  “I thought it ended when she left.”

  “Who lied you? When children are determined, they are determined. Kirabo has been carrying on with Kabuye’s son where Abi’s eyes don’t see.”

  “You lie.”

  “But you know men, Kabuye’s son saw Giibwa too. One little touch like this and she was pregnant. I think she heard that Kabuye’s son is here doing chores, and has come to do battle.”

  “Yii yii, when Giibwa and Kirabo used to run all over this village inseparable? Where has shame gone?”

  “Which shame? You are the only one who knows shame.”

  Kirabo threw the bowl she had been scooping water with into the barrel and marched around the house, past the women who now gasped, into the back room, through the diiro, to the front of the house. Giibwa stood in the front yard dressed for an evening party. Stilettos, sheer body stocking, black glittery evening dress, dangly earrings, metallic eyeshadow, and scarlet lipstick. Kirabo wanted to laugh, Giibwa, you are competing with sunshine right now, but instead said, “I think you are lost, Giibwa. We are at last funeral rites here, not partying.”

  Giibwa replied in English, “I am a villagement too. I have a right to be here.”

  Ssozi, who had been eating porridge under the mango tree, put his mug down, covered it with a saucer, and came to where Giibwa stood. “My child, why would you stick your hand into a beehive? Either go back home and dress for chores or don’t come back.”

  “Who put you in charge?” she asked in Luganda. Then she pointed at Kirabo, laughing. “They were showing off, splashing their bulove-love all over the place as if they were the first to fall in love. Now where is it?”

  Ssozi held Giibwa by the upper arm and tried to steer her away. She shook him off. People had started to gather, especially the youth looking for entertainment. Kirabo changed the subject. “The word is village-mate, not villagement.”

  “Don’t waste your English on me. After all, the thing Sio is really interested in does not speak English.”

  The compound gasped. Kirabo looked at Giibwa the way you look at a child who has pushed its boundaries. “If you are not joining in doing chores, please leave; you are being disruptive.”

  “You are so dumb, Kirabo, if you cannot see he is only in love with your great-grandfather and your grandfather and your father and your education.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, Giibwa.”

  “Take all that away and you are no better than me.”

  At that moment, Sio turned into the walkway lugging a jerrycan in either hand. Kirabo wanted to call, Sio, your Giibwa is here stirring up trouble, but she would attract more attention. He disappeared behind the house. Giibwa had her back to the road and did not see him. Someone must have tipped him off. He returned hurrying, grabbed Giibwa’s hand, and steered her away. Somehow seeing Sio touch Giibwa catapulted Kirabo over the steps, and by the time someone shouted, “Hold that child,” she had slapped Sio’s cheeks once, twice, thrice. Ssozi held the fourth slap. Sio closed his eyes and bit down on the pain. Ntaate ran behind the house ululating: “Wolololo, she has sizzled his cheeks, ba cha, ba cha, ba cha.”

  Grandmother pulled Kirabo away. “Swallow those tears,” she ordered. “Swallow them right now. You slapped him; you don’t get to cry.” She turned to Sio. “Grandson, forgive us. Kirabo has done very wrong, I will deal with her presently. But why don’t you take your woman away from here?”

  Sio started to say that he, not Kirabo, was to blame
, but Grandmother had turned away.

  “Kdto, haa!” Ssozi clapped in wonderment. “Me, I told you a long time ago: if you want to see how a woman beats up a man, marry into Luutu’s clan.”

  Grandmother, who had reached the porch with Kirabo, stopped and said, “On my mother’s truth, I will start with you, Ssozi. Then you can tell the world how I am a buffalo.”

  Perhaps Aunt Abi did not hear Grandmother challenge a whole man, because while the entire world stood frozen, she came down the steps, held Sio’s hand, and led him past Giibwa, whispering, “Child, hyenas will be hyenas even when you dress them in leopard skin,” and walked him to the back of the house. Meanwhile, inside the house Grandmother handed Kirabo over to Nsuuta and went back outside. Nsuuta held Kirabo’s hand and said loudly, “What did I say about hitting people?” Then she whispered, “At least you did not hit her.” Then loudly, “How would you feel if he hit you back?” Then she giggled. “But did you hear what Alikisa said to Ssozi?”

  Kirabo laughed despite her tears.

  “Now, I can die.” Nsuuta whispered when she caught her breath.

  10

  Thankfully, the ten school friends Kirabo had invited to the rites arrived at around four, after Giibwa had left. Had they been around, it would have been a different story.

  Apart from Atim, who had supported Kirabo through her loss, the friends came not to mourn or celebrate her father but to escape their parents’ watchful eyes. There was no fun like last funeral rites. They brought booze and boyfriends. For those who did not have a partner, Kirabo had promised a steady supply of young uncles—Jjajja Doctor’s younger sons and Grandmother’s nephews—for two unsupervised days. They also wanted to see Sio for themselves and sort out Giibwa the slut. Kirabo had asked Miiro for a large traditional tent to be made specifically for her and her friends.

  It was as if boys in the villages had sensed the girls’ arrival. Within no time, they started to whizz past Kirabo’s tent, throwing quick glances at the girls as they strutted by, greeting Kirabo with exaggerated enthusiasm: “Ki kati, Kirabo, long time no see,” as if Nattetta was anglophone. As night closed in, more boys and girls descended on Miiro’s compound dressed as if there was a disco on. Word went around that if you had beer, wine, or Uganda Waragi and were willing to share, you gained entrance to Kirabo’s tent. Within no time, it was heaving.

  Ignoring Kirabo’s feelings, Atim found Sio and introduced herself as Kirabo’s best friend. When she brought him to the tent, she claimed to Kirabo that Sio could not resist the first woman president-to-be. Then she introduced him to the other boyfriends. Kirabo waved to him and carried on as if he was not there. Often she felt his gaze and was transported back to the time before Giibwa had become that Giibwa. There was so much bustle around Kirabo’s tent that the tents belonging to Uncle Ndiira and Aunt Abi, who had brought a lot of unmarried friends and booze with them, looked mediocre by comparison.

  By eight, when girls and boys had settled in and the chatter was flowing as freely as the alcohol, Aunt YA arrived in Kirabo’s tent. She came nice and smiley to meet the “lovely” girls and boys who had come to Kirabo’s dad’s last rites. “What wonderful friends you are!” she exclaimed. Before long she was counting how many girls had come from Kampala and who their parents were (she chose to ignore the boys). And oh, she would sleep in the same tent because she had seen the wolves circling: “And you know how last funeral rites notoriously slacken people’s morals. And the parents of these good girls allowed them to come to our rites because they know Kirabo comes from a decent family.”

  In the silence that ensued, Kirabo could hear the death throes of her party as Aunt YA chased away all traces of revelry.

  The boys started to slink out as the girls glared at Kirabo. Kirabo wanted to scream. She was nineteen, most of her friends were eighteen and about to start university where they could sleep around if they wished, but Aunt YA was carrying on as if they were thirteen-year-olds. And then people wondered why girls at university were sexually liberal after being tethered on short leashes all their lives. By the time the drums started, even the girls had slipped away. Kirabo went and sat in the tent because Aunt YA had made it obvious she was keeping an eye on her.

  An hour later Atim came to Kirabo breathless. “You did not tell me Sio has two cars.”

  “They belonged to his parents.”

  “Us, we are off to Kayunga to get more booze. And to see if there is a disco on.”

  “Come on, Atim, you cannot leave me here on my own.”

  “Then come along. Actually, I told Sio you are coming.”

  “Atim—”

  “It was your Aunt Mean who drove us away,” she whispered with a glance at Aunt YA. “I will tell Sio you have been called by the elders to talk culture.”

  “Atim—”

  “It is okay,” Atim said, starting to walk away, “he is safe with me.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  Midnight came and went, but Kirabo’s friends had not yet returned. She and Aunt YA were in the large canopy watching traditional dancers when they were called into the house for a clan meeting to discuss Tom’s successor and the distribution of his property. Kirabo was surprised. From what she had heard, women did not attend such meetings. If your father died without making a will and his children came from multiple mothers, it was for the sisters to meet to choose which of their brothers would inherit them and become their father. As for the distribution of Tom’s estate, everything would go to Tommy now there was no will. Besides, Tom’s only property was that unfinished house in Busega. Kirabo did not see why she needed to attend to hear little Tommy being given everything.

  •

  The family had gathered in the diiro. Only Luutu’s descendants from male lineages were eligible to attend. No Grandmother, no Tom’s widow, no Jjajja Doctor’s wife, certainly not Ndiira’s girlfriend, and no aunts’ children. A high clan leader, the Mutuba Head, presided. Kirabo and Aunt YA grabbed mats and sat on the floor.

  Miiro had broken protocol and brought his daughters and granddaughters to the meeting. His sister Nsangi could not come because she was too drunk. The attendance of women was an irritation to the clan heads because they were not used to talking to women about clan issues. Besides, Miiro’s brothers, the priest and the doctor, were intimidating to the peasant clan heads, who felt they were being bullied. At first, they reminded Miiro that only his brothers, sons, and grandsons should attend, but Miiro argued that it was his daughter who was looking after Tom’s family. It did not make sense to exclude her from making decisions. Father Dewo stepped in, explaining that their father, Luutu, never discriminated against Nsangi, their sister. She was included in all major family decisions and they were honouring that. The Mutuba Head pointed out that it was widely known that Luutu’s house not only flaunted cultural etiquette but was condescending to clan leaders. He stopped short of saying that Nsangi was drunk precisely because Luutu gave her too much leeway, but it was there in the air.

  “The problem with women is,” another clan head explained, “you give them an inch, they demand an acre.”

  But Miiro insisted that no meeting would start until all his daughters and granddaughters were present. In the end, the clan heads conceded: “Bring the women, but only if they will sit down and keep quiet.”

  For a moment all was well. The men—clan heads, Miiro, Father Dewo, Jjajja Doctor and his sons, Uncle Ndiira and his little boy, and Tommy—sat up on the chairs. The women—both Miiro’s and Jjajja Doctor’s daughters, plus Kirabo and Mwagale, sat down on the floor. But if Jjajja Nsangi had been present, she would have pulled little Tommy down from the chair and taken it herself: You are not going to swing your legs above my head, little man. Kirabo gnashed her teeth, wondering where Jjajja Nsangi was when she needed her to shake things up a bit.

  First, Miiro introduced the clan heads, then everyone else introduced themselves. Miiro told the Mutuba Head about Tom’
s estate, the urban property in Busega, and then the land Tom would have inherited from him. Then he elaborated on how he had distributed the properties. Tommy, being the only son and successor, would take half of the land, which Tom would have inherited from Miiro. He would also inherit Tom’s house when he grew up. Kirabo and Mwagale would share the other half of the land. The widow could stay in her home, the annex, if she wished. It belonged to her if she stayed in the family. The large house, when completed, would be let out to generate an income for her and the children. For as long as she lived in it, Tommy did not fully own the house, which meant he could not throw out his mother or sell it. On the other hand, she did not own it enough to sell either. As soon as she found a man, Nnambi would move out. Then even the annex would be let out.

  Jjajja Doctor was uneasy. “The wife does not inherit anything?”

  “Culturally, she inherits through her children. As long as she does not sell, she can do whatever she wishes on their land, because in the end the land would come back to her children and into the clan,” a clan head explained.

  Jjajja Doctor and his sons exchanged looks.

  Then the Mutuba Head asked why Tommy was getting only half. Did Miiro not know that once you give land to daughters, the clan loses it?

  Miiro explained that he was aware, but that his father gave land to his sister Nsangi and he would follow his example. “It is to prevent women falling into poverty and daughters being trapped in bad marriages,” he explained. However, Luutu had foreseen this loss and put a caveat in place. Children born to daughters would not inherit their mothers’ land. “It is passed on to their brothers’ daughters, who would be their successors anyway. So the land my father gave to our sister Nsangi will not go to her children, it will come back to either mine or Levi’s daughters; whoever Nsangi chooses to give it to. And then to their brothers’ daughters, like that and like that, through the generations. What we do not want to see are destitute daughters in our family.”