Kintu

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

  “I could’ve carried on,” he laughed, shaking his hamstring.

  Kintu clicked his tongue. “You’re numb. One of these days, this journey will creep on you with such malice that even your tongue will ache.”

  As they sat down to eat, Kintu asked Kalema to get him brew. Kalema picked up one of his father’s rounded gourds and ran down to the spring where the jugs had been rested to cool. He blew dust out of the gourd, tipped a jug with banana brew, filled the gourd, and took it to Kintu. After a sip, Kintu waved the gourd at Kalema, coughing. “Bring me water!” His voice was hoarse. “This is warm,” he coughed.

  Kalema ran back to the spring. He looked at the brew in the gourd, and for a moment was stuck. He could not pour it back into the jug yet all the other gourds were back in the cave. The other option, pouring the brew away, seemed like a waste to him. On the other hand, it was taboo to drink from Kintu’s dedicated utensils. When his gourds cracked they were buried. Nonetheless, Kalema put his mouth on Kintu’s gourd and started to drink.

  Out of nowhere, Kintu’s backhand crashed into Kalema’s jaw. Kalema’s hands let go of the gourd and it fell to the ground shattering into fragments. Kalema looked up at his father, surprised, but his eyes kept rising as if the slap had come from the sky. He started to blink rapidly and then sank to the ground. He made to stand up, but fell back onto a rock. He raised his right hand, trying to get up. His hand rose and rose, but then he fell forward, face down and thrashed. The force of his thrashing flipped him, turning him onto his back. The back of his head rolled in the mud. Small shards of the gourd stuck in his hair. His eyes stared wild. For a while Kalema writhed like a caterpillar whose hairs were set on fire. Finally, he slowed down until only his fingers twitched. A long rush of breath drained from deep inside him. Then he stopped.

  “Abange,” Kintu choked.

  The men came running.

  “Oh.”

  “What is this?”

  “Ah.”

  “A snake?”

  But none of them would question the governor by asking what happened. Nnondo looked in the distance, all around, as if he expected to catch whatever killed Kalema disappearing.

  “He’s gone,” one of the men whispered as if not to wake Kalema. And the men stood and stared. To still his shaking hands, Kintu clasped them behind his back. Several times, he opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out.

  “To say that just a minute ago this boy was—” a man started and stopped. Then he tried again. “Take a step back, just a minute back, this boy will be running.”

  “I chastised him—a slap,” Kintu finally managed.

  There was silence as if Kintu had not spoken.

  Then a man said soothingly, “Journeying is like that. Some are allowed, some are not. We all slap our children. They don’t drop dead.”

  The men sat down around the corpse. Kintu walked back to the cave; he had to hold himself together. He had been on his way to relieve himself when he saw Kalema drinking from his gourd. In panic, he had slapped the gourd off Kalema’s mouth but instead caught his jaw.

  In the cave, Kintu sat down. Not far from him, Kalema’s food sat on a calabash as if he were coming back to eat it. The shattered fragments of the gourd flashed in Kintu’s mind and he shivered. Take a step back . . . he had never struck a child, he had made all the right sacrifices for the journey, he had not offended any god. Take a step back indeed! He pulled a sheet of barkcloth from a pile and covered himself. o Lwera’s heat had fled.

  Outside, Nnondo rallied the men, “Come on! Let’s get on with it.” He made to lift Kalema. Custom dictated that trekkers who died on a journey be buried by the roadside. The other men hesitated.

  “I’ll ask him for instructions,” one of the men said as he hurried toward the cave. When he got there he asked Kintu, “Can we still bury him today, Ppookino?”

  “No,” Kintu said. “Wash him and lay him on a mat. We’ll bury him at sunrise.” Kintu gave the man his thickest sheet and told him to wrap Kalema up well to keep him warm. On hearing these instructions, the men looked at each other. Any fool could see that Kalema was dead and there was plenty of time to bury him before sunset. But they could not question Ppookino. First, Nnondo passed his hand over Kalema’s eyes and closed them. Then he straightened him and washed him. Finally, they laid him on a mat and covered him just as Kintu had instructed, with his face uncovered as if he were asleep.

  Now Kintu remembered. He should have said something when he had that premonition. It was now useless to say, My hair rose early into the journey. I felt something stalking us. Nnakato, he wanted to call out and indulge in grief in the privacy of her chamber, but Nnakato was far. Had Nnakato got the sensations, she would have sat down in the road; they would not have moved an inch further.

  Memories came flooding back: the eyes he had felt watching as the men closed the reed gate at home, even that moon sinking when they were in the forest was now significant. Kintu would give his life to retrieve those moments because in them, Kalema was still alive. To think now that when he sensed danger he had brought Kalema close to himself, to think that Kalema, his gentlest son, should die at the hands of his own father. Nature had a cruel sense of irony.

  Sleep is a thief: at dawn, despite staying awake all night, despite the death of his son, sleep stole Kintu away. While he slept, the men took Kalema for burial and left Kintu to rest. To them, o Lwera was mysterious. Once in a while, despite sacrifices, it swallowed a sojourner. They were as bound to nature’s whims as the smallest ants. It was sad to bury someone so young, but a relief it was not one of them.

  By not setting off at midnight, the party had lost half the time to travel to the next resting place. The men buried Kalema in a hurry. The grave was narrow and shallow. They used a stick to measure Kalema’s length, but while the stick fit into the grave, Kalema did not. They crammed him in. They also stripped him of the sheet Kintu gave them to cover him. To them, it was too expensive to be wasted on the dead. In their hurry, the men did not even realize that they had buried Kalema beside a thorny shrub, e Jirikiti, the burial shrub for dogs. When they were ready to start, Nnondo woke Kintu up.

  “Did I fall asleep?”

  “You needed it, Ppookino.”

  “Did you lay him properly?”

  Nnondo nodded.

  7.

  The men had not slept and they carried the extra weight of death. Kintu was worse: he had only licked on sleep. For a while, after being woken up, his body shook with the wrath of early sleep cut short. Even blinking was uncomfortable, as if there was sand under his eyelids. The sun gave them no respite. Nature’s company were shadowy birds that croaked and menacing mirages that shimmered. The men had run out of laughter to mask their fears and o Lwera gave them nothing cheerful to talk about. The journey resisted them. Kintu tried to empty his mind of Kalema but failed. It wandered here and there, never anchoring on any subject.

  A week later, they made it out of o Lwera, gaunt and sunburned. The vegetation started to thicken and to darken. The ground grew tolerant of their feet. It rained and the earth smelled fresh. At the sight of the green color of life, the men’s spirits lifted. Soon the party was in Mawokota Province. At Kibuuka Town, Nnondo’s relations awaited them. For a week, the party rested in Kibuuka until the blisters on their heels healed and the burned skin peeled off. When they set off again, cool wind soothed the sun-bite, it rained, and the air was filled with cheerful noises.

  From that point on, Kyabaggu played mischief in Kintu’s mind. Kintu had only met him twice before. As a prince, Kyabaggu was exceedingly haughty. Looking back now, to Kintu, the brothers had always seemed fond of each other, although it was clear that Kyabaggu was sharper than Namugala. Kyabaggu had once said to Namugala, in Kintu’s hearing, “I’d take time to trust people from Buddu if I were you. Nyoro blood still runs thick in them.”

  “Did you hear that, Ppookino?” Namugala had laughed lazily. “Kyabaggu does not think you’re Ganda enough yet.”r />
  Kintu had broken into a litany of allegiance, cursing any remnants of Nyoro blood in his veins. He also added, his eyes on the ground, “Those who betray the king, Ssabasajja, man above men, tend to be close to the throne. We commoners, whatever our blood, are nothing.”

  Now Kintu went over every word he had said on that occasion. It could mean life or death.

  Fourteen days after Kibuuka Town, the party arrived below Buddo Bulungi Hill in Busiro Province where Namugala had been enthroned with new rituals and spectacle. From the traffic going up the hill, it was clear that Kyabaggu planned to be crowned in the same manner. The party pushed on until they came to the River Mayanja. There, as was traditional, the kabaka’s men, the bakunta, were waiting for Ppookino’s party at the riverbanks. Kintu did not recognize any of the men. To him, that was the first sign that Namugala had not willingly handed over his throne to Kyabaggu as stated—otherwise there would still be familiar faces among the bakunta. Knowing that among Kyabaggu’s men were spies and assassins, Kintu wore his most impotent look. No doubt, word had already reached the lubiri describing Ppookino’s entourage. It was just as well that his men looked gaunt.

  Kyabaggu’s men led Kintu and his party through a new route. This way they cut Nateete, Wakaliga, and Lubaga off, and headed toward Mpiimelebela, across Kitunzi, through Bulange at the bottom of Namirembe Hill. This helped to avoid most of Kyadondo’s steep hills and floodplains. To Kintu, Kyadondo was a foreign land. It did not matter whether it was the wet or the dry season: Kyadondo’s valleys were always difficult to cross and the hills were painful to climb. Kintu had been up Namirembe Hill once when Namugala invited him to join him in a hunt for mpala antelope. Up there, the views over Buganda and Nnalubaale Lake were most magnificent. Only the kabaka was permitted to build on top of the hills. Each new kabaka vied to build a more magnificent court on a higher hill with a more spectacular view than his predecessor. Kyabaggu was expected to build a new palace on a hill not recently inhabited by a kabaka for hygienic reasons; however, Kintu was curious as to why Kyabaggu had chosen Lubya, a less imposing hill.

  Even though Kyabaggu’s escorts avoided the steepest hills and most wetlands, the party arrived at the foot of Lubya Hill out of breath.

  8.

  Up on top of Lubya Hill, Kintu could see a column of smoke rise steadily up the sky, indicating that the sovereign was at home. His heart turned slowly but he ignored the apprehension. Just this one last climb and the journey will be over, he thought. He asked for his leopard skin and draped it over his barkcloth. Nnondo passed him his ceremonial spear and shield. Kintu summoned all the energy he had left and holding his spear and shield in combat position—one never knows where the kabaka might be—he performed his allegiance and intention to protect the kabaka. Holding that position, Nnondo fell behind him and then the men. They marched up the hill.

  The road to the lubiri was twice as wide as a commoner’s courtyard. The periphery was lined with neat reed fencing. Kintu was sweating under his regalia but he held his warrior stance. As the retinue approached the summit, Kyabaggu’s ambitions became clear. From what he could see, the palace under construction promised to be larger than anything Kintu had ever beheld.

  At last they reached the summit. Kintu wanted to stop for a moment to catch his breath but the bakunta were hurrying ahead. Still he held his posture but looked around. The hilltop was vast and level. Perhaps this is why Kyabaggu chose it. Men were working everywhere—on gates, on the kisaakaate, the fencing, and on other structures. Kintu stood at the wankaki, the main entrance to the lubiri, and gritted his teeth. He stood right leg in front and his spear poised and performed fighting motions with the spear and shield reiterating that he was strong, he was fearless, he was loyal, he would serve and protect the kabaka. Then, without letting his guard down—even though his arms were quivering with pain—he led his men through the wankaki. The gatehouse for the royal drums was ready and the attendants stood in place. Behind him his men gasped at the size of the drums, the enormous gourds in the brewery, and the gigantic boats where banana juice was made. Before him, at the center of the lubiri, a sprawling reception area was ready. Two pillars ran along its face like a man’s sideburns, curving back gently at the fringe. Men were smoothening the thatch, which ran from the top of the roof to the ground, covering the sides and the back of the building. Kintu’s men walked, mouths open, turning around looking everywhere.

  “Watch where you are going lest you turn your backs to the kabaka,” Nnondo hissed at the men. “We’re in the lion’s den.” The men fell back in line, quiet, wary. To Kintu, there was no doubt now that Kyabaggu had planned his ascension long before Namugala “abdicated.” With the brevity of his brothers’ reigns, one would expect Kyabaggu to commission something less elaborate, Kintu thought cynically.

  The provincial governors’ quarters, built on the western slope, had already been completed. A courtesan girl, Nnanteza, met Kintu at the arched entrance. Nnondo rushed to take the shield and spear from him and whispered, “You’re still strong, Governor. You did not waver.” Kintu smiled his relief. He wondered whether Kyabaggu had even seen his performance. The bakunta handed Kintu over to Nnanteza and Nnondo and Kintu’s men were led away. Before Nnondo left, Kintu reminded him to procure the special Bwaise purple yam tubers that Nnakato loved and the medicinal enkejje fish powder for children.

  When he walked into his lodgings, Kintu caught his breath. The walls were finished with the finest red earth only found on new anthills. The floor was underlaid with a soft layer of hay and then carpeted with white-and-black goatskins. The touch of goatskin under his feet was so smooth it was almost slippery. Kyabaggu was saying, “The real kabaka has arrived.”

  As he sat down, Kintu sighed. Starting all over again, getting to know Kyabaggu, negotiating his moods and whims, seemed like a mountain to scale. Then there were the “Worms” to watch out for —governors who would ingratiate themselves to the kabaka at the expense of others. No doubt, some had already brought virgin daughters for Kyabaggu to choose wives from.

  There was also the tricky issue of explaining himself to Nnanteza: why he would not lie with her. Namugala had understood. He took no offence when he heard of Kintu’s abstinence. Kintu had assured him that he was not averse to sex: just that o Lwera wrung the last liquid out of him. But then again, Namugala was always drunk.

  Kintu looked at Nnanteza fussing over him and felt sorry. She had not made it to Kyabaggu’s bedchamber as her parents had dreamed. Rejected, she would content herself with the casual use of royal guests. Nnanteza caught him staring and smiled. She was of the classical beauty: a long ringed neck, gapped front upper teeth, dimpled cheeks, large happy eyes, an aubergine skin, a wasp waist, and a firm earthen-pot bottom, all well assembled.

  Now Nnanteza brought water in a calabash and knelt before him. Two tutus, short sturdy breasts, as if swollen, came close. Even when she leaned forward they refused to bow. Kintu stole a closer look: she had those rare breasts that are so wide at the base that there was almost no space between them—yet, they don’t glut out. Five sons would knock them up and down and those breasts would bounce back, erect, Kintu thought.

  “You know you’re not only beautiful, Nnanteza, but you’re blazing,” Kintu said quietly.

  Nnanteza looked up in disbelief.

  “True—you belong in the arms of the kabaka.”

  Nnanteza’s eyes fell to the floor. “Hmm,” she said cynically.

  “Kyabaggu will notice eventually,” Kintu said softly.

  “I didn’t even get a royal viewing!”

  “You did not?”

  “I didn’t make it past the king mother. Nnabulya decides who goes into his presence.”

  Kintu could only marvel at Nnabulya’s shrewdness. She chose girls who would never threaten her position. “I’ll not touch you, Nnanteza. In case Kyabaggu changes his mind.”

  Nnanteza smiled gratefully as she started washing Kintu’s feet. Given the chance, he would mention he
r to Kyabaggu: a royal poking or two, a prince, become a namasole, who knows?

  Among provincial governors, Kintu had the notoriety of failing to partake of the “fruits of the throne.” He had had no esteem in Namugala’s harem or the ones before. But Kintu was content with this reputation. To him, it was unwise to display sexual agility in the lubiri. His father had warned him that there was only room for one man in a palace, the kabaka. Besides, after his ebisanja through his wives at home, Kintu refused to perform in Kyadondo. After all, feeble performances were derided as well. As long as there was no concrete evidence, his “flaccid situation” could only be speculated upon, unlike those governors whose mediocrity was well established.

  It was midmorning when Kintu stepped out of his quarters. The day was warming and he felt slow. He had been at the palace fifteen days but Kyabaggu had not summoned him yet. He spent the days catching up with other governors. Kintu yawned and considered visiting Kangawo of Bulemeezi. He had already seen Kaggo of Kyadondo and Ssebwana of Busiro. Because their provinces were closest to the palace, they arrived first and had already met Kyabaggu. Both men claimed Kyabaggu’s graciousness, but offered no further information. Kintu had not expected it: governors guarded their thoughts on sovereigns.

  Kintu decided to visit Ssekiboobo of Kyaggwe first, but as he set off, nature called and he took a detour to the back of his quarters. As he watered the back of an acacia, a cobra rose on his left. In the corner of his eye, he saw it spread its neck, brandishing a thorny tongue. Kintu’s leak died. The cobra rose higher, and shiny black scales glistened in the sun. A pattern, cube-like, on its throat wavered from left to right as it moved its head. Kintu waited until it stopped dancing. He then lifted his right foot and sat it softly on top of the left foot to keep still and look like a tree. The snake swayed belligerently again. Kintu closed his eyes and remained still.