The rain began to thin. When she heard Grandmother calling, she went to the bedroom and grabbed the towel on the bed. Grandmother led Nsuuta to the verandah and Kirabo wrapped the towel around her.
“Check in the cupboard for another towel.”
Kirabo found it and gave it to Grandmother. Then she led Nsuuta, who was now shaking from the cold, into the bedroom and rubbed her until she stopped trembling. She oiled her skin, dressed her in a nightie, and sat her on the bed wrapped in a blanket. Then she got the stool from the back yard, wiped it, and took it to the kitchen. She stoked the fire and came back to the house. She helped Nsuuta to the kitchen, sat her on the stool, the cancerous breast facing the door. Kirabo asked, “How do you feel now?”
“Life has returned.”
Kirabo poked the fire. The embers sparked. The flames were a deep yellow, smokeless. Then she sat down on the ramp to watch Nsuuta. Nsuuta opened her palms and brought them closer to the fire.
“Go get out of those damp clothes, Kirabo, or you will be buried instead of me.”
“I did not bring any. I will have to borrow from someone.”
Nsuuta smiled but did not pursue it. When Nsuuta was warm, she sat back and said, “You have surprised me, Kirabo.”
“Me? How?”
“I thought you would fly. I thought you would break rules, upset things, laying waste to everything right and moral. I guess you really clipped your wings and buried them.”
“Nsuuta, this is the second time you are saying that.”
“Because I think you are going to marry Kabuye’s son as soon as you finish your degree.”
“He believes in mwenkanonkano.”
“Clever boy.”
“And he is not afraid of the vagina.”
“How do you know?”
“I showed him.”
“So that is how he took the sting out of you.”
“No sting was taken. If we acquiesce in hiding our bodies, we allow the myths to stay.”
“But taking away the myths takes the little power some women have.”
“Nsuuta, it is dangerous keeping feminine power down there. Whether it is in myths or in mystery, we put a target on our bodies. Sooner or later, they come to raid. Unless you did not hear about the women raped during the war.”
For a long time, Nsuuta kept quiet. Then she sighed, “I guess you are growing up.”
“Now you are worried?”
“Nothing takes the sting out of a woman like marriage. And when children arrive, the window closes. Wife, mother, age, and role model—the ‘respect’ that comes with these roles is the water they pour on your fire.”
“Nsuuta, every woman resists. Often it is private. Most of our resistance is so everyday that women don’t think twice about it. It is life. Even the worst of us, like Aunt YA, who massage the male ego with ‘Allow men to be men,’ are not really shrinking but managing their men.”
Nsuuta was silent as if digesting Kirabo’s words. Then she sighed. “I wish I could see you, Kirabo.”
“I think you do, Nsuuta.”
“I would like to see how much of Alikisa is in you.”
Kirabo laughed and whispered, “I have her skinny legs.”
“Promise me you will pass on the story of the first woman—in whatever form you wish. It was given to me by women in captivity. They lived an awful state of migration, my grandmothers. Telling origin stories was their act of resistance. I only added on a bit here and a bit there. Stories are critical, Kirabo,” she added thoughtfully. “The minute we fall silent, someone will fill the silence for us.”
Grandmother appeared in the doorway wearing Nsuuta’s busuuti. Mischief still shone in her eyes.
“Jjajja, you look twenty years old.” Kirabo said.
“Listen to this child; I am an old woman.”
Nsuuta feigned irritation. “Alikisa, for once take a compliment. Me, I am starving.”
“Ah ha.” Grandmother clapped as if she had found the medicine for Nsuuta’s appetite. “We have been begging you to eat all this time.”
She picked the knife stuck in one of the kitchen beams, plucked a few fingers of matooke off a bunch leaning against the wall, and started to peel. “I will boil these in tomatoes and onion leaves, maybe drop doodo on top?” Nsuuta nodded. “Maybe a dollop of ghee?” Nsuuta shook her head. When the food sat on the fire, Nsuuta, now warm, asked to be moved to the doorway where the cold would keep her left breast cool.
“I saw my mother, Nnakku.”
Both women looked at her.
“She just stood there, unspeaking. Then she denied. ‘I never birthed her’; that is her story.”
“Oh, you stop; stop right there.” Gravelly Grandmother had returned. “You want us to feel sorry you have found out that a woman who has never sought you once in nineteen years does not want you? If that is what you are looking for, you have come to the wrong place. My child, Abi, has been there for you. From the moment she heard you had arrived in Nattetta, Abi was there, loving you. Tell me what she has not done. But do you see her? No. Now that your craving has been sated, settle down and love the mother you are with.”
“True, Alikisa, but it was important for Kirabo to see this rejection for herself, otherwise the heart keeps hoping.”
Grandmother looked at Kirabo and relented. “Okay, now you know. I don’t want to hear you have gone looking for her again.” She stepped outside to pick vegetables in Nsuuta’s garden.
Kirabo stood up to go. Nsuuta touched her. “Don’t feel down. That is your grandmother’s love speaking. She hurts deeply, and it hurts when you are hurt, especially when she does not know how to stop it. Don’t tell Abi you went looking for your mother. She is the same. They have tried to be your mother. They might feel like they have failed.”
“I won’t.” Kirabo put her cheek on Nsuuta’s and rubbed it, then the other. “I will see you next weekend.”
“Greet everyone for us.”
Kirabo went to the garden and said goodbye to her grandmother, who was still picking doodo spinach.
When she got to the main road, it was empty. Nattetta was silent. That silence that falls after a thunderstorm. As if the world is still in awe. Residents were indoors—men in their bedrooms listening to radios, women weaving mats, children in kitchens roasting and munching maize and groundnuts. The air was fresh and crisp. Dust had washed away from foliage along the road. She started to walk, but her shoes were heavy. They had collected mud as she walked across Nsuuta’s yard. Kirabo kicked at the tarmac on the road to shake it off, but it stuck. She picked a twig and scraped the sludge off her shoes. When she stood up, her watch said it was five o’clock.
As she walked, Kirabo’s mind went back to Nsuuta, to how nature had melted her body away. Yet she felt neither pain nor regret. Even though there would always be questions she needed to ask her, even though she still wanted to look at Nsuuta, which was like looking in a mirror, to see the parts of herself that were yet to grow, she was ready to let her go. Kirabo closed her eyes to the tears because there was kindness in the way she was losing Nsuuta. Besides, she had this stubborn conviction that since the world had created Nsuuta’s captive grandmothers, and had given her Nsuuta and Aunt Abi and Jjajja Nsangi and Kana, there were other women out there.
CAST OF KEY CHARACTERS
KIRABO NNAMIIRO: heroine
BULASIO LUUTU: Kirabo’s great-grandfather, Miiro’s father
MIIRO: Kirabo’s grandfather
ALIKISA, MUKA (MRS.) MIIRO: Kirabo’s grandmother
FAAZA DEWO (DEOGRACIAS): Miiro’s oldest brother, a priest
JJAJJA DOKITA (DOCTOR) LEVI: Miiro’s youngest brother
JJAJJA NSANGI: Miiro’s only sister
AUNT YA (YAGALA AKULIKO): Miiro’s eldest daughter
AUNT ABI (ABISAAGI): Miiro’s middle daughter
TOM (TOMUSANGE) PIITU: Miro’s eldest son and Kirabo’s father
UNCLE NDIIRA: Miiro’s youngest son
AUNT GAYI (NNAGGAYI): Mi
iro’s youngest daughter
NNAMBI: Kirabo’s stepmother and Tom’s wife (shares a name with the wife of the mythical figure Kintu)
MWAGALE: Kirabo’s half-sister and Nnambi’s daughter
TOMMY (JUNIOR): Kirabo’s half-brother and Nnambi’s son
NSUUTA: village witch
WIDOW DIBA (NNAABA): village gossip
NAIGAGA: Nsuuta’s missing grandmother
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Manchester Metropolitan University MA class 2001–2003.
Kate Ezra for introducing this novel in its rough stages to readers at Yale and for the advice on that chapter.
Cedric Ssebalamu Makumbi, my chauffeur as I did research. And for putting up with my demands.
Catherine Makumbi-Kakiiza and family, plus Sheila—for the accommodation, transport, and love while I did research for this book.
To my brother, Ronald Mayombwe Makumbi—I love you.
Damian Morris, words are inadequate.
Marie Goreth Nandago, thank you.
Martha N. Ludigo-Nyenje, who first read this story in its shoddiest draft back in 1998.
Sarah Terry for the sensitive but determined editing of this novel.
Masie Cochran, for the enthusiasm and vision for this book.
Juliet Mabey, for believing in what I do.
James Macdonald Lockhart and Veronica Goldstein, thank you for everything.
To my children, Ssebalamu, Kiggundu, Nnansasi, and Nnansubuga, we’re enough.
DANNY MORAN
JENNIFER NANSUBUGA MAKUMBI is a recipient of the Windham-Campbell Prize and her first novel, Kintu, won the Kwani? Manuscript Project Prize in 2013 and was longlisted for the Etisalat Prize in 2014. Her story “Let’s Tell This Story Properly” was the winner of the 2014 Commonwealth Short Story Prize. Jennifer lives in Manchester, UK with her husband and son.
“A Girl is a Body of Water is a wonder, as clear, vivid, moving, powerful, and captivatingly unpredictable as water itself—from the ‘irate noises’ of Nnankya’s stream to the ‘theatrical’ rains of Nattetta with which Makumbi’s women wash, delight, and sate themselves. With wry wisdom, great humor, and deep complexity, Makumbi has created a feminist coming-of-age classic for the ages, sure to join the company of Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, Tsitsi Dangarembga’s Nervous Conditions, and Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan quartet. Being surrounded by Makumbi’s women—young and old—as they each struggle in different ways to clarify and achieve mwenkanonkano, feels like love, feels like learning—and best of all it often feels, as she puts it, ‘like mischief’!”
—NAMWALI SERPELL, author of The Old Drift
“In her characteristically page-turning and engaging style, Makumbi lays bare the complex power dynamics of patriarchy, capitalism, and neocolonialism, not through academic jargon but via that most effective tool of education—storytelling. An achingly beautiful tale.”
—SYLVIA TAMALE
Praise for Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi
“Ugandan literature can boast of an international superstar in Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi.”
—The Economist
“Makumbi writes with the assurance and wry omniscience of an easygoing deity.”
—The New York Times
“A soaring and sublime epic. One of those great stories that was just waiting to be told.”
—MARLON JAMES, author of Black Leopard, Red Wolf
“A masterpiece, an absolute gem, the great Ugandan novel you didn’t know you were waiting for.”
—AARON BADY, The New Inquiry
“With a novel that is inventive in scope, masterful in execution, she does for Ugandan literature what Chinua Achebe did for Nigerian writing.”
—LESLEY NNEKA ARIMAH, The Guardian
Copyright © 2020 Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact Tin House, 2617 NW Thurman St., Portland, OR 97210.
Published by Tin House, Portland, Oregon
Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company
The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Names: Makumbi, Jennifer Nansubuga, author.
Title: A girl is a body of water / Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi.
Description: Portland, Oregon : Tin House, [2020]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020013151 | ISBN 9781951142049 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781951142056 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PR9402.9.M35 G57 2020 | DDC 823/.92--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020013151
First US Edition 2020
Printed in the USA
Interior design by Diane Chonette
www.tinhouse.com
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