A Girl is a Body of Water

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

  Aunt Abi put up her hand.

  Miiro gave her permission to speak. She rose to her knees and addressed the clan heads. “I’m not telling you what to do, Sirs; I am only suggesting.” She turned to Miiro. “Father, can I suggest that Tom’s house is not given to Tommy but remains available, especially the rent, to all his children, but especially the girls, in case their marriages do not work out? Little Tommy here has been given a lot of land. When he grows up, he should build his own house like his father did.”

  Miiro, then his brothers, then their sons agreed it was a sound idea, but clan heads shifted uncomfortably. One of them protested that since time immemorial the house had always gone to the successor, to protect the family seat, at which Jjajja Doctor pointed out that the family seat was Luutu’s house. Aunt Abi, perhaps buoyed by the support her suggestion had received, carried on: “I also propose that Kirabo, the eldest child, becomes Tom’s successor.”

  Ho ho! A wave of consternation spread through the room. Scandalised clan heads clapped so hard their hands almost caught fire. Ndiira gave Aunt Abi a side glance that said You are bold. Father Dewo grinned. Jjajja Doctor coughed into his fist. Even little Tommy, who was only walking his eighth year, shook his head. Only Miiro remained impassive. Kirabo hid her face so as not to give away how much she approved of the idea.

  “Yes.” Gayi’s head was hunched as if she was talking to the floor. “Why not Kirabo?”

  “What did I tell you?” a clan head started. “Bring women to our meetings and you have brought chaos.”

  “They are like children. They speak faa—whatever pops on to their tongues.”

  “But what is wrong with you two?” Aunt YA turned on her sisters. “Who does not know that men succeed men and women succeed women? How does a daughter start to succeed her father?” Kirabo wanted to scream Stop it, Aunt YA, stop it and remind her that since men no longer sacrificed their lives hunting for protein or in war protecting nations, because women were part of armies too, there was no need to elevate them anymore.

  The clan heads, feeling vindicated, continued. “Abisaagi is clever,” said one. “She is positioning herself to succeed Miiro, that one. Ndiira, watch out.”

  “Yes, why is Ndiira not in charge of Tom’s family?”

  “Don’t drag me into your argument,” Uncle Ndiira snapped. “Abi’s suggestion has nothing to do with me. And if my father wills that Abi is his successor, I will honour his wishes. Have some respect for our father, who is here with us. And if he goes, this is our mother’s house.”

  Silence fell. It was the type of hush that is brought about when someone who rarely speaks is made angry. There was a genuine sense of regret from the clan heads who had provoked him. Miiro looked proud but said nothing. However, Gayi, who could not protest outright because she was yet to wedge her man into the family fold, spoke into her armpit. “Shaa. There is nothing to inherit from aunts apart from land on peripheries, forests, and swamps. Why should I develop land that is not going to my children?”

  The clan heads reignited:

  “Have women started to head clans, hmm?”

  “Have children started to take after their mothers’ clans?”

  “You cannot blame the women. It is fathers like Luutu and Miiro here who have brought this trouble for us. They pumped their daughters with energy, now women are running out of control, cultural systems are crumbling, and we are lost.”

  “Kdto!” Kirabo realised too late that she had clicked loudly.

  “What?” a clan head barked at her.

  “Nothing.” Kirabo dropped her head.

  “Speak up,” the elder said sarcastically. “After all, we came here to be scorned. Tell us if what we said is rubbish.”

  “It is not rubbish, it is just … women don’t need their fathers to inject them with energy to ask for their rights.”

  “You see that?” An elder pointed at Kirabo. “Even the grandchild is pissing on our heads.”

  “She is her Aunt Abisaagi, that one.”

  “Kdto, do you think these girls will last in marriage?”

  “Why would they? They can say to a husband, How much was my dowry; my father will write you a cheque.”

  “Did I not tell you? Give women chairs and they will make men kneel on the floor.”

  Aunt Abi could not take it any longer; she burst into tears and turned to Miiro. “Father, in reality it is Kirabo who has inherited her siblings, not Tommy. Every day we drum it into her that as soon as she starts working, her siblings’ education will come first. Chances are that if she gets a home, they will live with her. Right now, she is the one who visits them at school. She takes them to school, does the shopping, and picks them up when I am busy. Tommy, being the youngest, will never look after his sisters, apart from presiding over their marriage rituals. You may not be around in the future. All this love the children are getting is now, but after the shock of Tom’s passing has worn off, everyone else has the luxury of forgetting. But Kirabo here cannot forget. Why can the clan not honour the burden that has fallen on her shoulders?”

  Before Miiro could even put in a word, the clan head jumped in. “Because we inherit bloodlines, not just roles and property.”

  “Don’t waste time explaining our ways to her. If Abisaagi is unhappy with our culture, let her go and form her own, where women rule. But this is our world, our culture, and we shall uphold what our grandfathers have protected for time immemorial.”

  “If she does not like our systems, let her go and strangle herself.”

  “You do not tell my child to go and strangle herself in my house,” Miiro turned to the elder. “In this place she can speak her mind. What you do as a clan head is to explain or correct but you do not insult my children.”

  Abi stood up to leave.

  “Sit down, Abisaagi. It is my land, it is my son who died, they are my children and my grandchildren. I will distribute my properties the way I please.”

  “Then why waste our time calling us to this meeting?”

  “Because I respect your offices and I would like my children to respect you when I am gone. But you must respect my views too. Now, Abisaagi”—Miiro looked at Aunt Abi—“Kirabo will not succeed her father, because she will marry out of the clan and leave. Even I cannot alter that.”

  Kirabo rubbed her nose. She wished Nsuuta was here. Only Nsuuta would see the ancient struggle playing out in this room: men doing all they could to keep women as migrants on land. Now Kirabo understood why the Ganda considered the selling of family land an abomination. But then again, after Amin’s regime, which had left the Ganda desperately impoverished, things were changing. Some “despicable” men were selling land. And because money knows no gender, women were buying it too.

  Later, when the meeting was over, when the only law of traditional inheritance that had been broken was the fact that little Tommy was getting only half the share of land and no house, Grandfather called Kirabo into his bedroom. It was approaching four o’clock in the morning. Outside, the drums were mad. Most people were drunk. Kirabo’s friends and Sio were not yet back. She went to Grandfather’s bedroom.

  “Sit down, Kirabo,” he said. “I have called you to explain why I did not mention that I gave you Luutu’s house as well.”

  “It is the family seat; they will not let you give it to me.”

  “Oh no, it is not that. Today you inherited your father’s estate. Luutu’s house was not going to be given to Tom. I wanted to tell you I have written it down in my will. However, it would be good if you started to do something with it as soon as you finish studying. You never know how people, the clan, and even my own children might turn when I am gone. Now don’t tell anyone about it yet. I will do the talking. Remember, it is your house. Even when you get married, your husband cannot co-own it or inherit it from you. It is your womanly house. Even your children, because they will belong to a different clan, cannot inherit it. This is why in the past we Ganda did not allow daughters to marry into a family poorer
than their own. Imagine if YA’s children were poor but I, their grandfather, had all this land which I could not give to them.” He whispered, “I would be tempted to give them some because no matter what the clan says, YA’s children are my blood too. So Luutu’s house must stay in the family. Repair it and let it out if you do not want to live in it. Put a matooke plantation on the land. When the time comes, I trust you to do the right thing.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather. I will use the place, but I will be buying my own land to build my own house, married or not.”

  “You will? Come here, let me give you a hug because you are my own.” When he pulled away he said, “Now I don’t have to worry about you.”

  •

  The following day, during the heir installation rituals, Kirabo sat next to Nsuuta. Her friends, who had returned at six in the morning, were snoring in the tent. Grandmother sat with her Timiina family, Grandfather with his generation of family and friends. Mwagale sat with Nnambi and her family. Little Tommy was led out of the house dressed in a kanzu. The Mutuba Head introduced himself by reciting four of his forefathers. As he announced Tommy as Tom’s successor and heir, he draped the barkcloth knot on top of Tommy’s kanzu. Then he gave Tommy a shield and a spear (“To protect your family with”) and a hoe (“To feed the family with”). Finally, he recited four names of Tommy’s forefathers, including Miiro and Luutu, and told him to learn them by heart.

  It was a ritual of men by men for men. For Kirabo, the idea of little Tommy inheriting her was so belittling, she leaned towards Nsuuta and whispered, “I’m not calling Tommy ‘Father.’”

  Nsuuta laughed.

  Kirabo drew closer. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go on.”

  “Please don’t be offended.”

  “Go on.”

  “Did my grandmother’s possessiveness lead to the death of your unborn child?”

  Nsuuta was horrified. “Who told you that?”

  “It has been pressing, Nsuuta. I know you lost a child and Grandfather gave you my father.”

  “Listen, Kirabo, be careful. Some people have fangs. They don’t talk, they bite. Alikisa has never raised her hand against me. Miiro did not even offer Tom to me—Alikisa did. I expected more sense from you, Kirabo. And before you ask, I fell. My house was new. It had rained. Because I knew I was going blind, I asked the doctors to stop me from getting pregnant again. There were no contraceptives back then. When Alikisa found out, she gave me Tom. She had promised to have children for me anyway. But people would not believe I could have given up my womb. So Alikisa must have attacked me, Miiro must have given me his son.”

  “I am sorry, Nsuuta.”

  There was silence.

  “So why did she take him away?”

  Nsuuta laughed. “Alikisa is moral and she found out I am not.”

  “You are not?”

  Nsuuta sucked her teeth contemptuously. “When Miiro and I got back together, Alikisa presumed I would be with him only.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I had other men besides Miiro.”

  “Nsuuta …”

  “What? Miiro had Alikisa. What did I have?”

  “Nsuuta, you are too much.”

  “When Miiro’s family first found out that I had his pregnancy, Dewo and Levi ganged up on him: ‘How could you do this so soon after Father’s death? You are rolling the family name in dirt. How can you treat Alikisa like this?’ Dewo would not even allow my child to be buried with Luutu. I said fine. I get to bury my child on my land.”

  Kirabo clapped disbelief.

  “It was a big scandal. They held family meetings—‘Can you imagine what Miiro has done?’ Then there were church meetings—‘Where did he learn such heathen behaviour?’ Miiro gave in. He stopped seeing me publicly. We started to steal moments with each other, creeping about the village in the night. But me, I was not going to sit around waiting for him to steal a moment for me once a week, once a month. In the end,” she said in English, “I supplemented him.”

  “You suppliwhat?” Kirabo responded in English.

  Nsuuta was cynical. “You know why you are shocked, Kirabo? Because women are brought up to treat sex as sacred while men treat it as a snack.”

  “Okay.”

  “Unfortunately, I did not tell Alikisa. One night a man came to spend the night. But Miiro came too.”

  “Two men in one night?”

  “Miiro saw the other man and ran. He must have told Alikisa when he got home. Next what do I see? Alikisa growling at my door. Apparently, the city had made me immoral, she would not have Tom watch me bring this man and that man to the house. Ahh, she took him. What could I do?” Nsuuta dropped her head to hide the pain. Then she lifted it and smiled. “But for me that was not the problem. What brought strife between me and Alikisa was her suggestion that perhaps my child was not Miiro’s. That was cruel.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “But Miiro came back to you.”

  “On my terms. Why do you think I am called a witch?”

  “Ah, you make men do your bidding—ha!”

  Nsuuta shushed Kirabo quiet. Kirabo looked up. Tommy now sat on a chair. On the floor sat a girl, the lubuga. In front of them was a basket. Most men had been up to congratulate him. Just a few elders and young men were left in the queue going up to introduce themselves: “My name … I live at … My relation to you is … We share this great-great-grandparent, you don’t call me uncle/grandfather any more, you call me brother/uncle. You are a Father, an uncle now …” and put money in the basket to help Tommy start his new roles.

  Kirabo looked at him and wondered whether he was overwhelmed. “Poor Tommy,” she whispered to Nsuuta.

  “He will get over it once he realises the immense power he has inherited. It is Nnambi you should worry about; the women trampled her.”

  “But that is not the problem, Nsuuta. Nnambi invested too much in her looks. Yes, they got her a good marriage, but now it is gone. She has two children and a widowhood—what now?”

  Nsuuta made a helpless gesture with her hands.

  “Giibwa made the same mistake,” Kirabo added. “She thought her looks would plant her in Kabuye’s house. And when she realised that they were inadequate she came to shout at me.”

  Nsuuta burst out laughing. When she stopped, she only managed a non-committal “Hmm,” neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

  11

  After that first encounter with Nnakku in Jinja, thinking about her became too painful. Kirabo’s mind took mercy on her and stored the memory away in the subconscious where, unfortunately, it festered. Even after her A-level exams, when she was working at the Ministry of Finance again, Nnakku did not emerge. It was not just that Nnakku had rejected her; the fact that Nnakku looked so like Nnambi made it hard to handle. There was no way she would ever look at Nnakku and not see Nnambi. However, the Monday after the last rites, when family went back to the graveyard to clear weeds, plant new flowers, and commune with the ancestors, the thin skin that had grown over the rawness of her pain peeled away.

  Before they started digging, Grandfather indicated each grave in turn, introducing the ancestors, “This is Father Nsubuga, he was a singer—I hope you are resting well, Father Nsubuga. That is Father Piitu, he pinched the ndingidi harp … This one here is my aunt, Baagala, Luutu’s sister. She never married. I am not slandering you, Aunt, but you were quarrelsome … That is Mother, Kirabo Nnabbanja. Father so loved her he called her ‘my gift,’ Kirabo kyange. She was very dark; that smooth-like-glass dark skin that seems to reflect light. But only Gayi and my kabejja”—he pointed at Kirabo—“inherited it … That is Grandfather Sserwanja, the last barkcloth-maker. Until Luutu’s generation, all our ancestors dressed the nation …” Miiro was not just introducing ancestors to new members of the family, he was explaining family traits, behaviour, talent, and looks, the idea that no one was original.

  They had been working fo
r more than two hours when porridge was served and digging halted. Conversation found its way to Batte. Someone said, “Haa, but Tom’s death was so momentous it hauled Batte out of his slumps … He has forgotten the smell of alcohol.” Batte put down his Tumpeco mug. “Eish,” someone added as if Batte was not there. “He has stopped feeling sorry for himself.” But then Batte, he clicked and talked back: “I had no alternative,” he said, “not after how you harangued Mulamu Nnambi.” Batte was the first person Kirabo had heard recognise Nnambi as an in-law. “I said, someone needs to feed Tom’s widow until she gets back on her feet.” And everyone agreed that Batte had a good heart. “Me, I would not throw a coin at that woman if she was starving,” a woman said. “Can you believe Batte sends maize, beans, sweet potatoes, cassava, sometimes matooke every weekend to her?”

  After everyone had thanked Batte, an aunt, one of the many cousins who had grown up in Miiro’s house, turned to Kirabo: “Forgive me, Kirabo, but let me talk about that woman, your mother, Nnakku. Yii yii? What did Tom do to her, hmm?” Her tone said that if Tom’s death had hauled Batte out of feeling sorry for himself, it surely should have jolted Nnakku out of her stupidity.

  “It is Kirabo,” another aunt explained. “To acknowledge that she is her mother makes Nnakku seem old.”

  “Me, if Nnakku ever comes here. Mbu I have come to apologise, mbu thank you for bringing up Kirabo … I swear, she will stumble on me.”

  The men were silent; it was the women promising Nnakku hell and fire.

  Kirabo did not contribute to the chatter: no one expected her to. Thus the women had no idea of the fire their conversation was stoking within her. Nnakku emerged from wherever she had been festering and consumed Kirabo again. But it was not the self-righteous anger, self-pity that had consumed her before; it was the different ways she would make Nnakku know what rejection felt like. Her absence, first at Tom’s burial and now at his last rites, was indefensible. You cannot sleep with a man, have a child with him, and not bury him when he dies. Yes, she did not want her husband to know, but all she had to do was nip in as Nnambi’s sister, say hello, acknowledge that Tom had passed on, and nip out.