Kintu

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

  11.

  Ntwire, on his own on the plains grazing Kintu’s cattle during the day and alone in his hut during the night, dwelt more on the difficulties of settling in Buganda than the advantages. Over the years, the novelty of being in Buganda had eroded. In its place was the contempt typical of alienated immigrants for their hosts. The acceptance of his son as one of them, his life in their home, of working for a generous but aloof governor, and the benevolence of his twin wives were insufficient to ward off this contempt. It was not his little knowledge of the language alone that kept him apart: it was unease as well, born out of the Ganda’s indifference toward him. Then there was that obsessive cleanliness of theirs. As a foreigner, the Ganda presumed that he was naturally filthy. Even the most accepting among them would not allow him close to their utensils.

  After taking his child from him, no one looked back to ask him how the boy should be brought up. At first, it was flattering to see Kalemanzira belong to the home as a son, but it soon became clear that they had no intentions of letting the boy know that he was his real father. It was wonderful to see his son happy but painful when Kalema did not acknowledge him. He never told Kalema the truth because he had heard that Kalema and Baale once beat up a boy for calling Kalema a Tutsi. Ntwire could not bear to see his son’s disappointment when he found out that he was not Ganda.

  In his isolation, little things like the Ganda’s legendary ugliness gave Ntwire some satisfaction. Kalema stood out for his chiseled looks. Then there were things that the Ganda did that were just repugnant. For instance, for all their pride, art of language, and poise, the Ganda ate winged termites. It was not as though Buganda was without food. On the contrary, matooke rotted in the gardens unharvested. At any rate, the Ganda were fussy eaters who did not think that anything other than matooke deserved to be called food. Hence, to watch respectable men and women hankering after crawlies was abhorrent.

  When it came to cows, the Ganda were impoverished. The only person with respectable herds of cattle in the region was Kintu. Milk was luxurious. The Ganda watered it down so badly that to Ntwire their hot milk mujaja drink looked like water. Every time Kintu held a feast, he slaughtered at least three cows to feed everyone in the nearby villages. Ntwire had never seen a people who loved meat as the Ganda did: they ate everything apart from the bones and skin. In fact, they sang songs cursing people who did not share meat with them. The men were such gluttons that they forbade women from eating chicken, eggs, mutton, and pork.

  Because of his limited use of language, over the years Ntwire had developed a keen perception of body language. He could tell one who looked down on him even when they smiled. He could tell when they talked about him even when they whispered. He could tell a clear heart from a muddy one. He could tell when things had gone wrong. And now he was sure that something had happened to Kalema.

  He had known immediately when the party returned. That initial eye contact when he smiled his gratitude at them for taking his boy to the capital and they had looked away. When he greeted them, they were abrupt, their bodies saying, “Don’t ask.” Often times, members of the party tensed when he walked past or they pretended not to see him. He saw it in their turned backs and in their veiled eyes. It was not one, not a few, but all of them. Ntwire was used to prejudice and contempt, but not to fear.

  One moon after the governor returned, Ntwire deemed it polite to ask him about Kalema. But like a wary outsider negotiating a foreign language, he spoke without preamble. It came out brusque.

  “I want my son back next time you travel.”

  “That will not be possible,” Kintu looked at him levelly.

  “Then I’ll come along next time you travel.”

  “That will not be possible either.”

  “Because Kalema is dead?”

  Ntwire’s head tilted to the right until the ear touched the shoulder. It was a pleading posture.

  Kintu was impassive. He did not refute Ntwire’s assertion but he did not confirm it either. A flicker of hope floated across Ntwire’s eyes. He thought that the governor was laughing. He waited for the laughter to break out so he could join in. When none came, Ntwire spoke up. It was as if he spoke his own language. His pain was harsh on the bs. Ns became ny, ks became gs and ts were muffled yet what he said was clear. He pointed his shepherd stick at Kintu.

  “You see these feet,” then he pointed at his feet. “I am going to look for my child. If he’s alive, I’ll bring him home and apologize. But if I don’t find him—to you, to your house, and to those that will be born out of it—to live will be to suffer. You will endure so much that you’ll wish that you were never born.” Ntwire’s voice shook as he added, “And for you Kintu, even death will not bring relief.”

  But as he turned away, Ntwire still hoped that Kintu was only shocked at his audacity, that he would shout, how dare you talk to me like that and call him ungrateful because Kalema was fine and alive in the capital.

  No word came after him.

  Ntwire did not go back to his hut: he took nothing but the shepherd stick.

  The rest of the family, not knowing why Ntwire had left suddenly, waited for him to return. Nnakato kept his house maintained and a tally of his cattle. She was sure that one day she would see Ntwire and Kalema on the horizon. Kintu kept silent. So did his men.

  Kalema returned once in Kintu’s dream.

  “What did I say about you coming back?”

  “It’s so lonely out there,” Kalema had gasped, out of breath.

  “You died on a journey: you were buried according to custom.”

  “But I am frightened. I want to come home.”

  “First thing tomorrow, I am going to get you bound.”

  “Don’t bind me, Father,” Kalema had started to run away. At a distance he stopped and said, “Just bring Baale to see me one day.”

  But when he woke up the following morning, Kintu could not bring himself to bind Kalema’s spirit. He considered taking Baale to o Lwera, to bid his brother goodbye, but he could not risk another son. Besides, to take Baale to bury Kalema was to bring the boy into the secret. It would not be fair on him. Instead, Kintu visited the strongest medicine man he knew and asked for protection. On top of sacrifices and ablutions, the medicine man directed that Kintu’s children should never be slapped on the head as Ntwire was bound to revenge in a similar manner. Kintu made this a directive in his house; no child should ever be slapped on the head. If a child had to be punished then it would be on the buttocks where there was excessive muscle.

  Kalema never came back again.

  12.

  It was ten years since his coronation, but Kyabaggu was still on the throne. In fact, there had been no royal uprising despite Kyabaggu’s continual absence from the kingdom. Potential upstarts, nephews by former kings Mwanga and Namugala, were firmly in the control of their grandmother, Nnabulya. As Kintu had suspected, Namugala was pronounced dead soon after Kyabaggu’s coronation festivities were over and the lukiiko had dispersed. Apparently, he had fallen to his death. But the nation knew that Namugala had been dead long before Kyabaggu’s coronation. It was also known that Ssentalo was killed because he refused to assassinate Namugala on Kyabaggu’s orders. Kyabaggu had taken over Ssentalo’s warmongering and spent most of his time across the River Kiyira, terrorizing the Ssoga people.

  Kintu was cynical about Kyabaggu’s warring. On the outside, Kyabaggu seemed like a warrior kabaka seeking to subdue the obstinate Ssoga, yet he had not annexed any parts of Busoga to the kingdom. On the inside, Kintu knew that soon after his coronation Kyabaggu became an insomniac given to bouts of anxiety. Rumor had it that he had lured Namugala to Lubya Hill where he speared him. Namugala had fallen on the large rock outside the palace. Recently, Kyabaggu and his priests had consecrated the rock and made it holy. No doubt Namugala’s blood was weeping. Haunted, Kyabaggu had fled the throne under the guise of war. Kintu wondered what had possessed Kyabaggu to build a palace where he had assassinated his brother in the first
place.

  Meanwhile, Nnanteza had played her mpiki better than Kintu had hoped. She had found favour with Kyabaggu and so far she had borne him two sons, Jjunju and Ssemakokiro. Whenever Kintu went for the lukiiko in Lubya, Nnanteza insisted that Kintu’s food be prepared by her own hand. Despite the circumstances of their first meeting, Kintu was always humble before Nnanteza. He had never discussed his role in her rise in status because words not only travel, but they acquire legs and arms along the way. And by the time they get to the person talked about, they are beyond recognition. Too many governors had lost their lives because of a rumor. Nonetheless, Nnanteza remained grateful. When she introduced Kintu to her family saying, “This is the man who rescued me,” Kintu had asked, “Which rescue? I don’t know what you are talking about.” Nnanteza had resorted to sending the princes to visit Kintu every time he came to the capital.

  Kintu smiled to himself—luck was so far on his side. His plans were moving well. All he had to do now was to get Baale married and then he would start to take him along to the capital.

  At home, though the family still speculated about Kalema, Ntwire had faded from Kiyirika’s memory. Kintu wondered whether Ntwire’s curse had been just words from a grieving man or whether the protection from the medicine man had worked because nothing had happened to him or to his family. Not everything had gone according to plan though: Babirye still lived at Mayirika. Nnakato had refused to have her removed because she could not bear to see her sister “discarded’ somewhere on her own. When Kintu insisted, Nnakato had started crying, saying, “Mbuga, you don’t see Babirye’s pain; it will kill us both.” Kintu never raised the subject again.

  Zaya had failed to transform into a wife. She was taller than most men and stood erect in spite of her breasts. Whatever made women feminine, Zaya had missed out on. She still begged the men to take her hunting, as joining Kintu’s bambowa to go to war was out of the question. Gitta did not want her anymore but no man had come asking about her. Zaya did not even care about this “rejected” status of hers. She was happy to become part of Kintu’s household. The family now treated her as a daughter who never got married.

  Kintu was waiting at the fringes of the backyard. He stood near the wawu shrub whose coarse leaves the family used to scour pots. He was waiting for Baale. Father and son were going up the hill to harvest honey. The collection of honey was Kintu’s chore. Normally, servants carried the torch on the way up and the honey afterwards on the way down, but this time only Baale was invited.

  Baale joined Kintu with a lit torch and two large gourds. He was a man, taller than Kintu, though he still walked with a swagger. Baale had been reluctant to marry because he still wanted to kulyabutaala like an untethered goat. But then three moons ago he had surprised everyone by declaring that he was getting married soon and that no one was going to help him decide whom to marry. Baale had been a restless boy with a quick tongue and equally quick fists. Kalema had had a cooling effect on him. Every time the boys came home with Baale nursing a bleeding nose, Nnakato would ask Kalema, “What happened this time?” because Kalema’s versions were more reliable. The fights had stopped about the same time as Kalema’s departure. After the initial mournful stance, Baale had turned into a brooding young man who sucked his teeth at everything. Recently, his twin mothers were worried that he was getting too close to the gourd. Kintu was glad that Baale was finally getting married: a wife and a home would soon use up the excessive energy that made him swagger.

  Kintu and Baale took the path leading up the hill. They walked quietly past the path that led to the gorge where the family collected water, past the twins’ banana plantations, into the fallow land where goats and sheep grazed. At this point, the climb became steep and the path was covered in pebbles, some of them quite large. When they came to the huge mango tree that dominated the slope, Baale broke the silence.

  “Is this mango tree male?”

  “Why?”

  “It only yields a mango or two in three years.”

  “If it was male, it would not yield any mangoes at all. I suppose it’s one of those trees that wastes everything on appearance: handsome leaves, expansive branches but no fruit.”

  Just before the top of the hill, they came to a tree with a curious pink bark. It stood against a large rock. The tree had a straight trunk, but four meters off the ground it split into numerous branches. Kintu paused and touched it. He looked it up and down and shook his head. “There has always been such a tree in this place,” he said distractedly. They walked around the rock. “It’s always the same size though, I don’t know whether it’s the same tree or if one dies and another one grows.” Baale, walking behind him, did not reply.

  “So, Baale . . .” Kintu’s voice rose, “You’ll not wait for us to observe Ntongo. You’re on fire. You must have her now.”

  “Who said I am on fire? I just can’t see anything for anyone to observe for me.”

  “Exactly. You can’t see! Let’s say that where Ntongo is concerned, this thick emotion obstructs your view. But unlike you, we can see.” Baale groaned. “Listen to me, Baale,” Kintu said gently. “Let’s imagine that Ntongo has a fiery temperament. We know how hot-tempered our Baale is. Would we be wrong to conclude that the two of you would set your house on fire? You shake your head? Good, because then we would either advise you to reconsider marrying her or we would prepare to put the fire out every time it broke out.”

  “There’ll be no fire,” Baale said tersely.

  “What I am saying is that we’re a very large family. Sometimes, what seems a private decision might have consequences beyond ourselves. For example, would Ntongo run an extensive home the way Nnakato does?”

  Baale kept quiet. He realized that his father had asked him to come along not to help with honey but to discuss his impending marriage.

  They arrived at the crown of the hill. Five trees similar in size and shape stood in a circle like quintuplets. The ground in the middle was clear. The trees had cavities like deep pockets into their stems. It was dark around the mouth of each hole which, at a distance, made the holes seem deep. Only one tree had bee activity, the others were quiet. A short ladder leaned against one of the trees. Kintu got the ladder and placed it against the tree with bees. He climbed two steps up and peered into the hole. “There is a lot,” he whispered happily. He came down and took the torch. As he brought it close to the cavity, bees started flying out. Baale stood at a distance, watching.

  Family lore had it that in the old, old days, a woman gave birth to a bee that settled close to home and built a colony. The colony was called Kayuki and it supplied the family with honey. But when, as a child, Baale asked Kintu about the story, he had replied, “My father did not pass on those details to me. However, he told me that the bees that live on top of Mayirika Hill are treated like a brother.”

  Baale had wanted the story to be true, to add magic to his ancestry. Even then, the way bees behaved around Mayirika was significant. Stray bees inside the house announced visitors. Dead bees were an omen. When a bee buzzed incessantly around a person, it indicated love felt somewhere.

  “Baale,” Kintu called. “Watch and learn; one day you might have to do this yourself. First, stand against the wind. That way, smoke comes toward you while the bees go the other way. Don’t bring the torch too close to the mouth of the hive. You need to leave room for the bees to escape. Remember not to come in a foul mood.”

  When all the bees had gone, Kintu handed the torch back to Baale and climbed the ladder again.

  “Sometimes Kayuki is in a mood. When the bees will not leave or when they’re aggressive, go home; return when he’s in a better mood.” Kintu worked delicately. “The most important thing is to take only some, a half maybe. Just as you pick wild fruit and must throw back some to the wild, so must you leave honey for the bees.” He withdrew a golden honeycomb and prepared to milk it.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Kintu asked unexpectedly.

  Baale remained sile
nt. All that bee talk had been preamble. Here was the real thing. Kintu did not look up. He let the honey slide down into the calabash. Silence dragged on. Finally, Baale asked, “What do you mean where I am going?”

  “Women.”

  Baale gave a short irritated laugh, “Of course I know where I am going.”

  “I am not talking about the breathless girls you steal with behind bushes. You know, the ones that challenge: Show me your sun rising and I’ll show you heaven. Who, before you even get started, are quaking: I hear someone coming.”

  “Father, I am known this village over, you can ask—”

  “Who? The girls?”

  “Of course not, but everyone knows I am—”

  “No one knows anything, Baale, apart from you and the alleged girls. You forget I was once a boy.” Kintu laughed. “We put about stories conjured in wet dreams. After all, girls always deny.” Now Kintu looked at Baale, “I am your father. Is everything working?”

  “Of course!”

  “No need to raise your voice,” Kintu looked around. “In the morning, do you wake up alert or . . . drowsy?”

  “Alert. Father, I rise.”

  “So does my senile uncle,” Kintu laughed. “Every morning, he gets out of bed. However, either we beg or cajole. Sometimes, he gets up, but moments later he’s down again.”