He emerged, head and neck like a tortoise’s, and he saw her eyes popping, her jaw dropping open. He had become an apparition. She started hurrying down the steps, almost tripping and falling over. She stopped at the bottom, as if seized, as if unsure how to proceed. He stood still beside the car, not knowing whether he was smiling or frowning, and then rushed towards her, arms spread wing-like, propelled by all the choked feelings of love laced with guilt, desire, relief, and enclosed her. She flopped onto his chest, tears wetting his shoulder, her sighs penetrating deep into his starving, tormented body. Her shape felt reassuringly familiar. He could feel his spirit expanding, making way for her once again, combatting the selfishness and indifference which had held his sanity intact in detention. They mounted the steps in awkward fashion. Things looked more familiar now, as if she were the guide through whose eyes he saw the house. They sat next to each other, trying to read each other. The tears in her eyes flickered like a random spread of gems, charming him with their message of steadfast love, longing, anxiety.
She waited, an open chalice, ready to absorb his story, his body, his spirit. He gave her scattered bits in the bedroom, arms fumbling, groping. Clad in borrowed clothes, he was a hungry refugee in dire need of the nourishment her replete depths promised. The curtain-filtered rays pouring into the room fell on her skin and made it glow, like a ripe fruit bursting to release its sticky juice. All the stolidity, the indifference induced in him by captivity seemed to erupt and empty into her, the receptacle which could hold it without overflowing. Charged by deprivation, he prodded her swollen womanhood, reminding himself how it had been and setting the course for the future.
Let us fuck all afternoon, his greed said somewhere.
He had missed her husky, impassioned voice, and the way coitus penetrated it and extracted the underlying childish whimpers he cherished. He had missed her heat, her tightness, the clean sheets, the trees outside, the lake, the luxury of contemplating it all while riding her, while lying beside her, freshly wiped with a smooth white cloth. Without her, the world felt remote, expendable, parched, hostile.
Drained, glowing, he could see her clearly, hear her, open himself to her, a kid after a good suck at the tit. Her trials and tribulations of the recent past, her fears, the frantic searches, the dread of finding him in the pile of oozing bodies, she told him. It sounded terrible, depressing, searing to the soul. He could imagine the anguish her family had undergone, the doubts, the pain. This was what he had all along been protecting himself against. He did not feel any immediate need to confess his sins, nor that he knew the secrets of the forest intimately. By withholding his secrets he believed he was doing penance, suffering like the others had suffered on his behalf. He knew that if he told her, she would absolve him too quickly, cry about it and leave him without a clear sense of what to do next. The secrets were his reminder, his warning. They made him protective of her, made him feel he wasn’t using her to unload his problems.
“It wasn’t your fault, dear. Don’t think about it . . . Anybody would have done the same . . .” she would have said to reassure him.
His detention secrets and money secrets made him feel in control. They made him feel responsible for those nearest and dearest to him.
News of Victoria’s evil campaign saddened him. It took him back to the threatening letter he had written the boy so many years ago. It was like an old wound opening. He didn’t know exactly what to do, apart from talking to her, and demanding that she stop harassing Babit. Was Victoria capable of carrying out her threats? He had brought her into his house; he had chased her out, but keeping her spirit out was going to be that much more difficult. He had desired a fresh start, but it was evident that he would have to settle old problems first.
He exercised his freedom in visits to family and friends. He travelled to his sister’s home. The emissary he had sent to inform her of his release found her in labour. By the time he arrived, she had already delivered a baby boy, a large shapeless bundle with its father’s blunt features. Mafuta was overjoyed; she beamed with pride, the first hurdle cleared. She lay in hospital recuperating, getting attention for the damage inflicted on her by the bundle. She smiled through her pain, crying tears of joy over her brother’s resurrection. She and Mafuta had had a big quarrel: She wanted to name the boy after Bat. Mafuta had wanted none of it. He wanted to supply all the names; it was his first child, after all. The child bearing the names of a man he disliked smacked of defeat, loss of face and authority. They had reached a compromise: she would provide one of two first names; Mafuta would give the baby its surname.
On arrival, Bat heard that he had acquired a namesake.
“I am overjoyed, Sister,” he said, squeezing her hand and looking in her eyes.
“It is a very good coincidence,” Babit remarked, wondering whether she was really barren. The sight of babies had started to hammer her with doubt and a string of questions. Bat’s indifference to the subject just seemed to make it worse for her. She imagined the joy he would have felt had he come from captivity expecting a son. She imagined herself in Sister’s place, flat on her back, propped by white pillows, smiling, receiving homage. The stark white room, with the green bed and the casement window, looked like a sweet cross to carry and get crucified on before entering the paradise of motherhood.
“I am so lucky to have a sister like you,” Bat said loudly, as if addressing a big audience. “Calling Villeneuve was the most important move in the whole drama.”
“I kept blaming myself that I had not done enough. I would lie here and curse myself for not being in the city trying.”
“I knew you were doing your very best, Sister,” he replied, squeezing her palm. Tears filled her eyes. For a moment he felt extremely close to her, as if he knew everything about her and would remain by her side forever.
“Brother-in-law, welcome back,” Mafuta said, marching into the room. “It is a relief to see you back.” He squeezed Bat in an impromptu bearhug.
“I appreciate the effort you made on my behalf. A son is a fitting reward. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. A historical baby in family terms,” Mafuta said, glowing with pride. This was his creation, the best thing he had ever done. He was euphoric. All the pieces of his life seemed to have fallen into place. He seemed to have won a victory over Bat. He had a son, somebody like him; Bat didn’t. He felt grateful for the moment. He wanted to stretch it out before gloom, competition, jealousy, tarnished and swallowed it.
Bat found the town small, uninspiring. It did not evoke any tender feelings in him. It was just another shapeless entity astride the road. Rural life bored him; it constricted him. It looked frozen, caught between the past and the future, as if afraid to advance or retreat. Having grown up among farmers, listening to their complaints about fluctuating crop prices, he now felt how cut off they were from the centre of power, government, decision-making. He had vowed never to find himself in such a predicament in the future. It was one of the reasons why he wanted to stay in Uganda. Here, he could move things; abroad, he would be on the periphery, a refugee trying to find a foothold. He always believed that the city and the big towns were the place to be. If they were dangerous and unpredictable, that was a fair price to pay.
Bat did not understand his sister’s thinking at times. What did she see in this place? What if something had gone wrong with the delivery? Would she have made it to Mulago Hospital for surgery? Why she had chosen nursing puzzled him. Spending one’s life with the sick, the injured, the needy, didn’t look that appealing. That she could be so close to filth and still retain a smile on her face defeated him.
The days he and Babit spent in these mosquito-bitten back-waters visiting his family passed slowly, sodden with beer, flatulent with overeating, saturated with the same stories. He told his story and heard it retold till it became formless, almost unreal. It made his secrets seem very precious, close to his heart, privy to a handful of eyes. These people seemed to know him, and he kept thinking that th
ere was a lot they didn’t know. In some eyes he had already become a hero, somebody who had conquered death. The power of astrology had also been inserted into the saga. Some claimed that it had been Dr. Ali who had freed him in a dream. Bat found this curious, and he asked his brother why he had sacrificed the bull so openly. But then he understood the desperation caused by his disappearance. He decided to accept it all, although the glorification and mythicization bored and bothered him.
He realized that he was not fulfilling any useful purpose in these areas. He seemed to be getting in the way of his myth. His departure served everybody better. He would then love them because he would not have to deal with them. They would love him more because his myth would become more malleable, easier to forge into different shapes. They could then turn him into a politician, a fighter, whatever they wanted.
BAT SPENT his time preparing for his return to Britain. He had got his XJ10 back, even though he felt uneasy about driving it. Jobless, he felt he did not deserve to drive such a prestigious machine. He continued to use it only because soldiers still let him pass roadblocks unchecked.
Babit was both scared and excited by the journey. She wanted to see the other world, and thank the man who had helped free her husband, but she was afraid of losing the familiar. Uganda was still the font of her fondest memories, the cradle of the people she loved, the source of the hopes she cherished.
Her parents, on the other hand, wanted the pair to go away and get over the shock, and cement their love. They were afraid that if Bat stayed in the country he might get into more trouble. “Every evil wind has to be given an outlet to pass,” her father had said.
Bat spent an evening with Babit’s family. They were farmers cultivating tea. They had been in the business for decades. From their earnings they had built a brick house, educated their children, and put something aside for their old age. They kept most of their political views to themselves, but let it be known that they had supported a progressive party and were ready to do so again when things changed. They expected Babit to set a good example for her younger sisters by marrying. Bat liked the contrast between Babit’s parents and the people of his village. These people listened to his story carefully, asked questions, sympathized and were not out to create heroes. He left feeling quite close to them.
“Are we going to come back?” Babit asked that night, worried that like many people these days they might be embarking on permanent exile. They slept at a neighbour’s house because traditionally it was improper for them to share her parents’ house.
“We are going for a holiday, not to settle there, dear.”
“Won’t you be tempted to stay?” she asked, thinking that normally only rich people travelled or went for holidays. Finding herself in those circles frightened her.
“I know Britain quite well. I have no plans to spend the rest of my life there.”
“But last time you had no money.”
“Stop worrying, you will love it.”
“I will start looking for a job when we return. What if the government throws us out of the house?”
“Don’t worry about money. I will get a job when we return. If not, I can always borrow from Kalanda.”
BABIT HAD BEEN RIGHT. Britain felt different this time. It had lost its power to bully and intimidate him. They had travelled to Kenya and caught a plane to London. Bat loved the luxury; Babit felt uncomfortable, always worried how much it all cost. She was not used to being served by white people and she felt insecure about her English.
“We are paying for everything, service inclusive,” Bat explained. “If you want anything, just ask, even if it is something to vomit in.”
This was the first time he noticed the difference in their academic backgrounds; before, it had been a joke. It did not bother him at all because he separated work from home, and if Babit was vulnerable, it was his job to take care of her. She seemed to believe that people noticed that she had never been on a plane before, that she did not know London, that many English accents baffled her. At this Bat laughed.
“The British don’t understand their own accents. When the Irish talk Irish English or the Scots Scottish English, nobody understands them. You speak ten times more clearly than those people, dear.”
The luxury and magnificence of the city sat in her mind like a bull in a hut. A taxi had driven them through the city to the Grand Empire Hotel, a magnificent affair with marble floors, glittering lifts and cathedral-like rooms. All traces of havoc wreaked by the IRA bomb were gone, blown away by money and technology. Anyone who did not know the story of those killed or injured there could never guess. It was the Western way: tragedy erased and carted away into library files where it lost bite, later coming off the page like a shadow, bland in its weightlessness, almost a figment of the chronicler’s imagination.
“But you are paying a fortune for this!” Babit gasped in horror. “How are we going to relax in the midst of this?”
“Close your eyes and think. A few weeks ago you were looking for me in a heap of bodies. Right now we are moving in top circles. It is just life, dear,” he said, patting her on the shoulder.
“Everything is happening so fast! Captivity! This! I guess I am too happy for words.”
“That is what happens when a girl finds a good guy, and a guy finds a good girl. Leave it all to me. If you see a dress you want, we buy it. We are here to enjoy the best that is available.”
During the first week, they did nothing but eat, drink, go out for walks and luxuriate in their surroundings. They loved cruising through the city in big cars, neon lights gliding by like a string of coloured balloons, lighted jewellery shops flashing icy diamonds. They loved the feeling of insulation from the city’s mundane problems. It felt wonderful not to have to worry about their security.
During the second week, Damon Villeneuve got the time to see them. He was a Labour politician representing a poor London borough. He was a tall, thin, small-headed man with green eyes in a serious face. They found him in the hotel’s restaurant. When he saw them, he rose, stretched out his hand and said, “Mr. Bat Katanga, I presume.”
“You must be Damon Villeneuve, the rogue MP found with a crocodile purse on his head and a pipe in his hand,” Bat joked, smiling from ear to ear. He gripped the proffered hand, embraced the man, and patted him on the back.
“And this must be . . .”
“Please meet my girlfriend.”
Babit and Villeneuve shook hands, exchanged polite words, and the trio sat down. Babit found Villeneuve’s accent hard to understand and wondered if he was Irish or Scottish. He seemed to swallow letters where she stretched them out. He understood her well, but the exchange remained laboured. This is our saviour, this is our saviour, this is our saviour, she thought. Before, it had been a faceless person, without a voice, without human qualities; now he sat in front of her, and she did not know what to do. She wanted to embrace him, to kneel in front of him, to rub his feet, but felt it would be highly improper.
Bat felt grateful, as grateful as he had ever felt in his life. For a moment he felt very close to Villeneuve. It seemed amazing that his only real friend at Cambridge had turned into his saviour. He remembered him in his house captain days. He had always been steady, reliable, capable. Nothing seemed to bother him. He lacked the charisma of a born leader, but he got things done. It felt strange to be this deep in debt to somebody. He felt incapable of repaying him. The words that came to his mind felt limited in range, jaded. “You saved my life, Damon. The noblest thing you will ever do. The biggest debt I will ever have. Thanks.” At that moment he remembered that Damon used to love “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.” He started singing it, right there in the restaurant, clapping his hands for time, putting in quite a bit of soul, stretching the “ooohs and aaahs.” Damon first listened as if he could not believe his ears, then he joined in singing the higher notes. Babit looked on for some time with her jaw hanging open till she started clapping. Bat seemed totally free, floating, all inhibitio
n gone. At the end, with Bat sweating and smiling and feeling very happy, they sat down.
“I will settle for that thank you. I haven’t been serenaded in ages. It is good for a politician to be thanked once in a while. We mostly get dog pooh in the letterbox or on the lawn as a reward.”
“You should have looked for a proper job,” Bat grinned.
“Said my dad. But then you would be dead or still in detention. Hey, life has been kind to us. We can’t complain.”
“It is not every day that a Conservative MP is found wearing a purse on his head,” Bat said, trying to imagine the dead honourable member with the garbage bag on his head.
“When I got your sister on the line, I thought, What a waste of life! When such a thing happens to somebody you know, it feels like a ton of newsreels dumped on your head. You start panicking and calling up people.”
“I am sure you’ve got a huge phone bill waiting for me.”
“It depends on how deep your pockets are.”
“I am not too badly off.”
“I can see where you are staying.”
“I can make a donation to your office. Anonymously, that is.”
“We need all the funds we can lay hands on. There are no bigger beggars in the world than politicians,” Damon explained, smiling self-deprecatingly.
“By the way, I hope you still have that car you had at Cambridge. I want to buy it.”
“Thieves took it a long time ago,” Damon said, raising his hands palms-up in the universal sign of resignation.
“It is a shame. I wanted to take it back to Uganda as a memento.”
“Have you explored London, Mrs. Bat?” Damon asked, turning to Babit.
“A little bit. It is amazing.”
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