“Baale, I’ve found it useful to listen to the noise she makes when we’re in our moment—”
“The noisier, the phonier.”
“Don’t start me on noisy women!”
“It means you don’t know what you’re doing. Trust me, Baale: when you take a woman there, there is no way she’s going to sing: Oh, you’re the pharaoh in my Misr—I mean, she can hardly breathe.”
“Often, the noise is a ploy to get you there quickly so she can go to sleep.”
“Do aunts teach them how to sing?”
“I can’t stand the noise, me. Sometimes I want to shout: Shut up and let me get on with it.”
“Silence? Aaah, it’s like fucking a mattress.”
“Same here, I need music to dance to.”
“No one’s talking dead silence. We’re talking false noises.”
“Noise or silence, Baale, the most important thing is for you to know how your woman behaves when she’s actually into it. Learn to knock for as long as it takes for her to open up. However, if you can tell that she’s not in it with you and still carry on just because she’s screaming, that’s entirely up to you. But I recommend that you hold her hand so that you both get there.”
“Haa, there are some clever women; when she is not in the mood, she does not say no. Instead, she touches you here and there and before you have even started you have come. She turns around and faces the wall.”
“Don’t let her rush you—say, don’t touch that.”
“As long as Baale knows that women are innate actresses.”
“Until they get pregnant.”
“Where do I start on pregnant women?”
“With the crazy cravings and bizarre—”
“My Nnabakka . . .” a man lowered his voice as if there were women nearby, “has the oddest craving when she’s pregnant. I return from digging, sticky and stinking of sweat, but she wants me. I lie down and she buries her head into places and sniffs. If I take a bath and lie next to her, she throws up. At first, I thought, what sort of child is coming?”
“I thought sex stops when a woman’s pregnant?” Baale asked.
There was a chorus of groans.
“My Nnamale would claim: I’ve not felt the child move all day, why don’t you check and see? At first I asked, Check how? She quipped, How did you put him there?”
“Mine cannot stand the sight of me. I walk past, she spits. She sees me coming in, she walks out.”
“Baale, Ntongo will fall pregnant and you may not recognize her. Don’t be alarmed. She’ll return to normal as soon as the baby comes out.”
“I went to a wedding fifteen years ago,” Kintu started, and the room fell silent. “A friend’s son was marrying. The lad had a ‘reputation’ like our Baale here. Dowry was paid, the bride was brought, the wedding went well until ‘real marriage.’ Just before midnight, the bride retired to the bedroom and soon afterwards, the groom joined her. The drummers signaled consummation and you know those drums won’t stop until the groom comes out to signal that it’s a deal.”
“In fact, Baale—sorry to interrupt, Kintu—those drums are for you, to urge you on and give you rhythm. If the bride is erratic, as virgins normally are, ask her to respond to them, it helps with the nerves as well. Carry on, Kintu.”
“When the fellow got to the bedroom, he fell asleep.”
“He did what?”
“Fell snoring-asleep beside his bride.”
An elder turned and knocked his head on the wall, “No, no, no.”
“The girl, having been prepared for the wedding night, shook the groom’s hand shyly, Husband, husband; aren’t we supposed to be doing something?”
“I can’t take this!”
“Don’t hide your head, Baale. This is manhood under pressure.”
“An hour later, in comes the girl’s aunt to check on the couple.”
“What about the drums?”
“Still going, presuming that the groom’s stamina is phenomenal.”
“Wowe!”
“First, the aunt listens at the door; no noises. She imagines it’s done. She walks in to check the bed sheet. What does she see? The bride’s sitting on the bed bemused, the groom’s snoring.”
“Wololo,” a man cried.
“God knows the women people pick to be grooming-aunts: this one was evil. She woke the groom up and asked: Do you imagine my girl came here to admire your backside? Whose girl do you think you’re going to starve? Before the groom could explain, she had reached for his manhood.”
“Who reached for his manhood?” Baale hissed.
“The aunt. As you can imagine, the member had not stirred. What is this—she flapped him like a straw—Have you ever got ‘this’ up?”
“Women are ruthless.”
“Before long, she was manipulating him, telling the girl to strip.”
“Is it allowed for the aunt to touch him there?” Baale was alarmed.
“Is it allowed? Baale, it’s decreed in Ganda law that when a groom fails to get it up, the aunt must get him going, that when a bride’s having problems, the aunt must show her what to do. What do you think they have her there for?”
“Baale, most aunts will not let you make the mistake in the first place. Before they call you into the bedroom, she’s stationed under the bed.”
“Under what?” Baale stood up. “Do you mean her aunt will be under our bed?”
“Sit down, Baale. Nothing to be frightened of.”
“My wife’s aunt was under the bed on our first night. When I came into the bedroom, I gestured to my wife and she nodded. On the contrary, the idea turned me on. I thought, let me knock her girl so hard that by the time she gets from under our bed, she will be drenched. As I left the room, I said: I am still running you know, can I have your aunt as well?”
“The hag was under our bed too, but as I left afterwards, I called: Aunt, how did you like that? She was mute.”
“That’s the attitude. If her aunt is the nosey type, by all means give her something to remember.”
“Mine could not fit under the bed. The bed-stands had been dug so deep into the floor that she could not slip underneath. I don’t know whether I would have taken the pressure.”
“I can ‘ask’ Ntongo’s aunt not to be under your bed, Baale, as long as you won’t fall asleep,” Kintu laughed.
“I’ll not fall asleep!”
“Either way, she will come in afterwards to check the bed sheets. You can’t get out of that one.”
Baale’s hands were locked between his legs.
“I don’t advise it, Kintu,” one of Kintu’s brothers said. “To bribe an aunt is to sow suspicion.”
“Where did the reluctant groom end up?”
“I’ll tell you three things I learned that day, Baale,” Kintu started again. “One, our culture does not joke with sex. Two, being a man is no privilege because when things don’t work you can’t hide it—women are lucky: they can. Three, don’t ever take your erection for granted. That aunt knew a few tricks. The groom finally rose to the task and she showed him what to do. But as he mounted the bride, he threw up.”
“Threw up?”
“Emptied his stomach onto the bride.”
“Kintu, must you tell this story?”
“Baale must know that sometimes manhood malfunctions.”
“Was the groom drunk?”
“He does not touch alcohol.”
“Oh.”
“Draw the picture of that moment,” Kintu stretched his legs. “The aunt steps out of the house and summons the father of the groom. Luckily, the bride’s family has gone home and the rest of the revelers are drunk. The father calls me to help and the first thing I do is to tell the groom to step out and signal that it’s a deal. Meanwhile, the bride is crying. The aunt, now packing the bride’s bags, huffs: We’re going home child, there is no man here. The father, as you can imagine, is speechless. I try to calm the aunt down: Let’s not be hasty. Let’s talk like grown-ups, but
is she listening? I tell you fellow men: never negotiate with a woman. Their sense is not our sense. This woman looks me in the eye and says: Before we talk, Ppookino, two bulls on the table for wasting our time. I say: Two bulls? For what? She looks at me and laughs: Then I’ll return home with my child and that clean bed sheet. She holds the bride in one hand, luggage in the other and walks to the door. I say: Fine, fine, you have two bulls. To cut the story short, we gave her two extra cows.
“Why?”
“She threatened to bring a cockerel to the groom’s family in broad daylight, because he was a virgin.”
“What humiliation!”
“Even then, after talking like grown-ups do, the aunt demanded that for the bride to stay, she would choose from among the groom’s brothers whom she would have children with.” Kintu shook his head helplessly. “Can you imagine a girl ticking off your sons one by one: Not that one, no, I don’t like that one, noo, yeah, that one! Given a chance, women will kick you straight in the seeds. The shy bride chose the best-looking brother.”
“Aha!”
“Give respect where it is due though, that aunt was thorough.”
“The poor lad who was chosen—not yet married—was summoned and informed about the arrangement. Still, as if to make us feel her, the aunt insisted that the marriage be consummated that night. You can imagine, the young brother going in with a woman he had not anticipated for family honor. But as you know young men, he said: Prepare her, I am ready. So we hid the groom while his brother took over. The aunt got her bloodied sheet, and a goat, and left. She threatened that if the bride was not pregnant in two seasons, she would be back.”
“I would rather die.”
“The funny thing is that the couple is still together and had seven children the last time I checked. He’s wealthy, the wife seems happy: no trace of contempt or anger.”
“So what was wrong?”
“Who knows? Maybe the groom was asexual, maybe he was frightened of the dark depth or he walks the male path.”
“That’s what we brothers do for each other, Baale. After all, the most important thing, the children, are still blood,” Kitunzi of Ggomba said quietly. “A brother will come and say there’s a problem. He asks you to help with his wife. If his woman does not mind, then we do it. Men by nature don’t have thin lips. We don’t discuss each other with our wives. Even when you fall out with your brother, what must be kept from the tongue stays off the tongue. You don’t say to a fellow man: After all, I fuck your wife for you. There, right there, you cease to be a man. We see you coming, we spit; we cross the road. The good thing about a woman: she will not disgrace her children by disgracing you.”
“Baale, there are men born that way. They can get it up but they will not stick it into a woman. Others want a woman but it can’t be bothered to get up. Sometimes, one that used to be enthusiastic loses interest. That is no reason to commit suicide. There are medicines.”
“Baale looks crestfallen. Do you still want to marry?”
“Of course—it’s just that no one ever told me any of this.”
“Would you go back and tell your unmarried friends what you learned tonight?”
“Oh, that would be childish,” Baale laughed.
“That’s why no one ever told you.”
“You’ll be fine. If you treat Ntongo well and if you don’t try to be perfect, things will work out in time.”
“Besides, we shall be looking out for you. All of us here.”
“And your mothers, they will be looking out for the girl. All you have to do is listen, watch, and learn. Soon, you’ll work out what suits you.”
“May I ask?”
“Sure, Baale. It’s your night.”
“I heard that . . . my friends say that a man must attempt at least three trips in a night—”
The session was thrown into uproar. Everyone spoke at once: some clicking their tongues in derision, some sucking their teeth.
“This is irresponsible—” but Kintu struggled to control his own mirth. “Our son wants to know whether three is the minimum journeys in a night. Who wants to take this one on?”
“Depends how long each journey is. If you’re only going across the road like a rabbit—”
“If he’s walking on his fingers—”
“Three trips? In your wet dreams, Baale.”
“On the wedding night maybe.”
“Get this, Baale—by the time you work out each other’s rhythms you can’t keep it up that long.”
“But there are men like that: three hours later the bed is still creaking.”
And the men went on into the night, remembering, laughing, sharing and disagreeing. They cited women’s weird ways, feuding wives, keen mothers-in-law and all those issues that men considered their lot.
It was now a week since Ntongo’s dowry day and another week until her arrival. Kiyirika was gripped with anticipation. Women and girls speculated on Baale’s Ntongo—how beautiful she was. Men had put their own work on hold and were putting final touches to Baale’s house. Unlike his older brothers who were scattered all over the province, Baale’s house was close to Mayirika. Apparently, Nnakato needed to keep an eye on Baale’s home—Ntongo was coming from so far; she could get lonely; Ntongo was very young; she needed to be inducted into the family; the family was large: it could be daunting—all Nnakato’s reasoning. Babirye, rather than ask why the same was never done for the older boys, rolled her eyes but kept her peace.
She knew the truth: Baale was being groomed to become Ppookino.
Baale came to the back of the house carrying a number of bales. One by one, he threw them up to the men reinforcing the roof. When he stopped, his hand flew to his face. His index finger skirted around a pimple. A sensation, pleasurable and tingly, threatened to turn into pain if he moved his finger closer. Gingerly, he placed the finger on the tip of the pimple and pain shot through the back of his head. He pulled the finger away.
Now Baale carried a pot of water inside the house. Men were plastering the walls with clay. With the roof on, the house was dark. It smelled of freshly dried hay. Soon, the warmth of his wife would wear the sharp edges of newness off the walls and round them into the familiarity of home. Baale looked at the floor. The hay carpeting was thin. He had opted for the scented kisubi hay. However, the rains would not let it dry. Now, he would probably leave the carpeting to Ntongo. Baale was happy. A whole moon of not working would be his to spend with Ntongo after the wedding: just the two of them on their own, in their home getting to know each other. They would wake up to be fed by his twin mothers and bask in the sweet morning sun. They would take lazy strolls at sunset. Then for another moon Ntongo would officially be allowed to move outside the bedchamber, but still she would not do chores. By then she would have morning sickness. Baale smiled. Nnakato and Babirye would fuss over Ntongo. He shook himself up and walked out of the house.
Before Baale realized, his finger flew back to the pimple, touching the tip. A sharp pain pierced his eyeballs and his head fell back. He had never had acne. For a huge pimple to grow right on the edge of his nostril, just before his wedding, was malicious. He turned to Kayima, his close friend, and said, “Look at this pimple for me.”
Kayima tipped Baale’s head. “Bend a bit, I can’t see.” Baale squatted. Kayima turned Baale’s head toward the sun to get a better view. “Hmm hard: still raw,” he said.
Three days later, work on the roof was finished. The bed-stands were dug into the ground and cemented in. Two men wove the flat of the bed using straps made from the bark of a muvule tree. Nnakato stuffed a sewn sheet with dried cow dung carefully fluffed out to get rid of the smell. Soon, the mattress would be done too. The men working on the bed were the only ones still in the house. The rest were out brewing. Drinking had already started. In the evening, after the chores, the villagers helped themselves to the brew before retiring.
Baale walked up to Kayima and asked him to look at his pimple again.
“It’s
ready,” Kayima said. “Sit down, I’ll squeeze it.”
When he squeezed, a blinding pain gripped Baale. He pulled his head away and shook it. He blinked back the tears.
“The pain shot right through my eyes,” Baale explained.
“I don’t understand. It looks ripe but—”
“Try again,” Baale said. Kayima hesitated.
“Maybe we should give it more time.”
“No, it’s two days to the wedding. There’s no time. I’ll bring a thorn.”
Baale went behind the house to the lime tree and broke off a thorn. His friend started picking at the pimple’s mouth but instead of yellow fat bursting forth, it trickled blood and water.
Kayima shook his head. “I don’t understand: it looks all ripe on the outside, but it’s raw inside. Let’s leave it.”
Baale passed his index finger on the tip. It was wet. He looked at the wet on his finger and rubbed again. He resigned himself to it, but a dull headache started throbbing in his left eye.
The following morning, when Baale woke up, his head was so heavy he struggled to get up. When he did, intense pain shot through his left eye into his jaw. He fell back on the bed. Finally, he sat up. Holding onto the wall, he walked outside. The sun cut right into his eyeballs. He shielded them with his hands.
Nnakato saw him first and screamed. “What has bitten my child?” She ran up to him. “Is this a spider’s puff?”
“It’s that pimple,” Babirye caught up with her. “He wouldn’t let it alone yesterday.”
“What kind of pimple swells an eye?” Nnakato asked Babirye. “Look at the puffed face. I’ve seen acne before, this is not it.”
Nnakato sat Baale down and gave him breakfast. When Kintu saw Baale’s face, he made light of it.
“Do you reckon Ntongo will stay? One look at that face and she will be running home.”
For the rest of the day, people poked fun at Baale’s puffed face and he laughed with them. He did not manage to do anything at all. He blamed fatigue on the hectic weeks earlier.
The following morning, Baale did not get up. Nnakato went to check on him and found him in bed. His left eye had closed completely. He could not talk properly. The whole of his left side was dead. He could only move his right arm and leg. Nnakato was hysterical.
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