Kintu

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

  “Women can be savage. I can’t watch,” a man said.

  In the process, Suubi’s hand was let go and she joined the people running back to the road. She heard a guttural cry, “Maama nyabo,” and she stopped to look back. A woman hitting one of the young men screamed, “Call your mother again. Let me hear you call her.”

  “You abducted the wrong child this morning.”

  “Yeah . . .” agreed another and, for emphasis, she raised her club and brought it down on one man adding, “She’s protected by a strong taboo this one.”

  “She is your last.”

  A man retched. Suubi slunk away. When she got back to the road, where the people down below could not see her, she ran. She was certain that someone would come to her and say: You led those men to their slaughter. The men’s spirits could haunt her at night. She was supposed to die. Suubi had never known that her life was so precious that total strangers would kill for her. She decided that the women down below were only scaring the men. They would not kill them. It was useless to think about it. She should forget. She must not remember. It did not happen.

  It took her all day to walk back home. She did not even realize that her heels did not hurt anymore. Along the way, she skipped and sang joyously. Think good thoughts only, good thoughts only. Every time the memory of what had happened tried to come back to her, she blocked it and sang louder and thought about her parents in Britain, how they would soon send the woman and how she would hug her. If she allowed bad memories to return, her molars would hurt. I wonder why I am hungry when I had lunch at school? Suubi, you are becoming a glutton! She hastened her pace so that night-time did not catch her away from home. I am a nalubili, my thinness is natural, and it runs in the family. Thinness is not sickness, sickness is not thinness, thinness is not sickness and sickness, is not . . . She was happy, walking in places she had never been. She had had a good time at school and she was on her way home. When she saw blood on the back of her uniform she thought, perhaps my periods have started, most of the girls in my class have had theirs, but Suubi had not seen hers. She was happy that her periods had finally arrived. I am normal. I’ll have children when I grow up. By the time she arrived at the Palace the incident had been pushed out of her mind.

  The following day when Suubi went to the toilet, she noticed that flesh on her inner thigh had been torn away. At that instant, the wound started to hurt and she limped out of the toilet. She could not remember how she got injured. When she got back in the garage, she tore a piece of cloth from a rag and bound the wound.

  A month later, during the second-term break, the landlady called Suubi to the annex and told her, in a congratulatory way, that she had found her a temporary job. Suubi looked at her in consternation—she had not asked anyone to find her a job, she was young, she was still studying. The woman explained, “Look, such a chance does not come every day. You don’t have a home, you don’t have anyone. Your aunt Kulata is on her final lap. Where will you go when she dies? In any case, she has never cared for you. You could be knocked down by a car and that woman would walk past your corpse. As a house-servant you’ll at least live in a proper home, you’ll be fed, and there will be grown-ups to watch over you. You can save your money toward a stall in the market.”

  Suubi broke down and cried. She could not help feeling sorry for herself.

  “It is OK, if you don’t want to go,” the landlady pretended to give Suubi a choice. “But I don’t want to see you around my house except if you are living with your aunt. She dies, we pack you with her corpse on a truck and you will be taken to wherever she will be buried. You don’t come back to my house.”

  Suubi cried like a spoiled child, as if what the landlady had said did not make sense, as if she did not know that getting a job in a proper home—to eat proper food, to sleep in a bed, to have grown-ups in her life—would be the best thing to happen to her in a long time. Nonetheless, she cried because she had only finished her mock exams and had hoped to go to secondary school.

  The following morning a long gleaming Volvo arrived. Suubi wore her beautiful blue floral dress, with a thick elasticated waistband, which the slut had given her—the tailor had made it too small for the slut. Suubi got into the car but she was uneasy. She did not like cars.

  7.

  MAKINDYE HILL, KAMPALA

  December 1988

  Inspect the house: make sure everything is perfect before they return. Dishes washed and put away in the pantry, the sink is empty and dry, lunch is ready, and the floor is spotless. Close the kitchen door behind you. The dining table is laid for lunch—tablemats, glasses, cutlery, plates—everything is in place. Ah, peace and quiet when they’re not here: this becomes your home then. When there is no one to remind you who you are, then you belong. It’s a great feeling. This could be your home, they your mother and father, they your siblings. You’re younger than Katama and Kula. Their father calls you Kaama: nice of him. Close the dining-room door behind you.

  Perhaps because they are my parents returned from London?

  No, no Suubi, don’t start that!

  Ssanyu Babirye had started whispering to Suubi when she arrived at the beautiful house in the long Volvo six months ago. It was a vast house surrounded by a tall hedge of fir. Suubi had only seen such beautiful homes in white people’s magazines. When she stepped out of the Volvo and into their house, three delicate children had stared at her as if she were a rat crawling out of a pipe. Their eyes languid, their skin pampered, they had never seen ugliness, never known foraging. Their father had glanced at her and quickly looked away. Their mother smiled a lot. The house was quiet as if there were no children. Suubi had never known air in a house to be so weightless. Everything was clean. The family spoke in delicate tones, whispers almost. That day, Suubi’s tongue could not move. At night, she was dazzled by the beautiful curtains flowing to the floor in the sitting room, by the bright lights that left no shadows in the rooms, by the food that smelled like restaurants she had walked past, by the clinking of cutlery that sounded so civilized, by how everyone ate with a fork and knife so efficiently while her fork chased her food around the plate. The family ate such tiny portions yet the food was so tasty. And the way the children were indifferent to it all! Suubi felt the urge to roll on the soft carpet in the opulence surrounding her because, to her, to be rich was to be spoiled and to be spoiled was to roll on the soft carpet with no care at all.

  Ssanyu whispered the following morning when Suubi started working. She told her what to say and what to do.

  You’re getting absentminded again, Suubi!

  Suubi carried on inspecting the house. That curtain is askew, use the tieback. Run, the player is chewing the cassette. Press STOP, now EJECT. Take the cassette out slowly.

  Suubi had been listening to UB40.

  Use a pen to roll the tape back into the cassette: it is that rewinding of “Red Red Wine” over and over that made the player chew the tape. Turn off the player. Close the dining door behind you. The hallway is silent and clean. The toilet mat is straight, straighten the hand-towel. The bathroom is perfect . . . Who strangled the toothpaste? Squeeze it upward, there. Close the bathroom door behind you. Five months you’ve been living in this place but I still have to remind you to close the doors! The girls’ bedroom is clean. No, you’re not going to try on Kula’s dresses: she smelled your sweat on them last time. Katama’s bedroom is neat and tidy. The master bedroom is locked: nothing you can do about that . . . the horn! They are back. Run to the gate.

  Suubi opened the gate and a picture of a Westernized family in a maroon Volvo Estate—Dad driving, Mum in the passenger seat, three children in the back looking fed up and a boot weighed down by shopping—drove through. Suubi locked the gate. The car parked outside the garage, which meant that the family or the parents would be going out again. Mr. Kiyaga stepped out, then his wife, Muwunde. The children, Katama, the eldest, a boy of fifteen, Kula, a girl of fourteen, and Katiiti, a girl of ten, scrambled out of the back seat. Kul
a and Katiiti were squabbling over who should sit next to the car doors.

  “You’re the youngest and must sit in the middle,” Kula shouted at Katiiti.

  “But I booked first. Mummy said I can if I book fir—”

  Stop staring, Suubi. They would not take you along because you’re a servant. There are only three seats in the back of the car. That’s why they have three children only. Now open the boot and take out the shopping.

  “Welcome back,” Suubi started but the children ran past her.

  They’re excited. Try again when you get to the house.

  When she had brought all the shopping into the kitchen Suubi asked the children, “Where have you been this morning?” She had put lightness into her voice but the children glanced at each other and scampered off to their parents’ bedroom giggling.

  They don’t play with servants.

  “Lunch’s not yet on the table, Suubi?” their mother asked.

  “I’ll get it.”

  Put matooke on the big plate, rice in a dish, greens in a small dish, and meat in the large dish. Put the dirty pots away. Now go and call them.

  “Food’s on the table.”

  The family came out and headed toward the table. As they sat down, Katiiti observed, “There’s no juice?”

  “Oh sorry, I forgot! I’ll get it.”

  “Can’t you get the juice from the fridge, Katiiti?” their mother’s voice came. “Suubi’s made it, surely you can get it.”

  As she sat down again, Katiiti started, excited, “Uhh, I can’t wait to go—” she gasped the rest of the words. Eating stopped. Spiky eyes tore into Katiiti. They each stole a glance at Suubi, then darts at Katiiti again.

  All right, something is going on and they can’t talk about it because you act like you’re their abused stepsister. You’re making them nervous.

  “Are you all right, Suubi?” Kula was observant.

  “Yes, why?”

  “You’re staring at your plate like you’d break it.”

  Laugh, roll your eyes.

  “That’s funny.”

  “She scares me.” That was Katiiti. Katama, the boy, never talked to Suubi at all.

  Your jealousy is showing!

  After lunch, the children went back to their parents’ bedroom but their father stayed in the sitting room, reading the newspaper. Suubi knew as she cleared the table that something was going on—a party somewhere, a trip to Nairobi, a sleepover somewhere—otherwise the children would have been sent off to bed to have their mandatory afternoon siesta. Rather than start to wash the dishes, Suubi went outside and sat in the frog, the old Citroën. Ssanyu pleaded, Suubi, you’re not Cinderella. Go back and wash the dishes.

  Something in Suubi refused to do the dishes. She did not know why she chose to sit in the old abandoned car, but it felt right. It smelled of oil, there were nuts and bolts in the foot wells, the leather on the seats was cracked, and the speedometer, clock face, and glove compartment had all been pulled out from under the dashboard: it was a shell. The grime and the dirt and smell calmed her down. When she lay down on the cold leather on the back seat, she felt at home.

  Next she heard, “Mummy, she’s here. She’s sleeping in the frog.”

  Suubi sat up.

  The sun is setting.

  “Why are you sleeping in the car, Suubi? Don’t you have a bed?” Mrs. Kiyaga asked.

  “It was so quiet and cool in here. I sat down for a while. I must have fallen asleep.”

  “We’ve been looking for you for hours.”

  “I am sorry. I fell asleep.”

  “Come with me,” said Mrs. Kiyaga.

  Now you’re in trouble.

  “The rest of you stay here. I want to talk to Suubi alone.”

  Close the door behind you. Sit down on the carpet.

  “Suubi, you seem unhappy with us,” Mrs. Kiyaga started. “Often, you forget that you came to work. It’s as if you’re here on holiday. You’re how old?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Children younger than you run homes larger than this, but you’re struggling. Because you’re young, we share everything with you, which we never do with other servants. Maybe that is the problem.”

  “No!” Suubi was alarmed.

  “If someone came and found you sleeping in the abandoned car, they’d think you’re being abused. Suubi, I can’t take you everywhere we go. I don’t mind living with you until we find proper servants, but your behavior worries me. Let me know if you want to leave.”

  Don’t even cry. Do you want to go back to the Palace? You’re not their child. Is not being part of them the worst thing that has happened to you? Like you had a car, like you had a bed, like you’ve ever belonged. Close the door!

  “Mummy, why does she live with us?” Katiiti asked.

  “Shhhh, she’s helping us.”

  “Then she must sleep in the annex. All servants sleep in the annex. We’re crowded. There’re only four bedrooms.”

  “She’s young.”

  “What if she dies in our house?” Kula whispered.

  “Yeah, Mummy: she looks like she’s about to die.” Katama’s voice seemed to embarrass him. When he spoke, it started deeply but ended in a squeak.

  “I don’t want to hear that talk again.”

  Focus on the beautiful things like their bathtub, rich food, and they do Christmas like in films. But you can’t be their child.

  8.

  MAKINDYE HILL

  June 1989

  “Didn’t I say that I wanted that girl removed before I left for work this morning?”

  Suubi had walked into the pantry to get a glass from the shelves and get water from the fridge. She had been constantly thirsty all day. When she heard Mr. Kiyaga’s voice, she stopped. Someone has annoyed Daddy, she thought.

  No answer came from his wife. Mr. Kiyaga carried on, “I don’t want her mixing with my children anymore. We now have three servants and that’s enough. Besides, you know that things have been disappearing since she arrived.”

  “What do you want me to do,” now the wife’s voice came from further in the house, “throw her out on the streets? I took her back where I found her but her aunt had died. She doesn’t know her relations.”

  “She’s lying. Where did she come from? How can she not remember where she came from?”

  “Suubi was very young when she was abandoned and no one had seen any relations visiting. I can’t just send her away; she’s too young.”

  “Then take her to the police.”

  “And where will I say I found her?”

  “You should’ve known she was underage when you employed her.”

  “Like you came up with any options! I’ve put announcements on the radio. Someone will claim her.”

  Someone is coming, run! Get out of the house before they see you!

  “Here she is, Mummy. You’re not allowed in here. Go back where you came from. You are making Mummy and Daddy argue.”

  “Yeah, they never quarrelled before you came.”

  “Let’s go, Katiiti. We’re not supposed to talk to her.”

  What are you smiling about, Suubi?

  I am happy.

  Shhh, they’ll see you talking to yourself.

  I have my own bedroom in the boys’ quarters, I mean the annex. Daddy says that “Boys’ quarters” is a colonial word. I like “Annex,” it is an educated word. The annex is not really bad. Mukasa the shamba boy who doubles as our askari at night sleeps in one room. Daddy says that Mukasa is not a “shamba boy,” another colonial word, but the gardener. Mutono, our ayah and Naiti, who is our cook, all sleep in the annex. I’ll lie down for the rest of the day . . . some children in Africa go without food. I’ve seen them on TV.

  Now you’re properly unhinged. Stop calling him “Daddy.” He’s not your father. What were you thinking sneaking back into their house? You’ve been told to stay in the boys’ quarters until your relatives come to claim you.

  It is the annex and I was thirsty
. I think a headache is coming on.

  You could have waited for Naiti to bring your food and asked for water but no, you must be in their house. Now you’ve set him off.

  It’s the servants: they won’t even let me touch a book, they’re terrible. Before they came everything was fine. Naiti hates bringing food to me. Oh, I told her that her name is spelt N-i-g-h-t: she didn’t know. How ignorant! I think she’s been telling lies about me and turned the family against me. That’s why everyone has changed suddenly. Before the servants came, everyone loved me.

  They asked you to leave the house because you stole things from the children, you wore their clothes, and you kept calling them Mummy and Daddy.

  You make things up. I slept in that big beautiful house and watched films and listened to music. I read a lot of beautiful books and I was very, very happy.

  Remember when Mrs. Kiyaga took you back to the Palace? You cried all the way. The landlady wouldn’t have you back because Kulata is dead.

  I’ll go back to school! I’ll catch up. I brought my books and uniform with me. Now I understand why Mummy gave me all this money. It’s to buy things I need for school. I need a pair of shoes, socks, knickers, another uniform, a school bag, books, and pens. It’s a long way to school but if I set off at five-thirty in the morning, by eight I will be in Old Kampala. It’s seven or eight miles away but from Makindye to Ndeeba is rolling down hill, from Ndeeba to Namirembe Road is a flat straight walk, the only climb, Namirembe Road, past the mosque and I am at school. When I bring home a good school report, they will forgive me, they will love me again, wait and see. There is a funny taste in my mouth. I am so tired I want to sleep.

  That money was your pay. Save it. Find another job and save some more. In the end, find a market stall and sell second-hand clothes while you wait to find a man and marry.

  What is that itching up my leg?

  The scar, you got it when you were abducted: the only mark you’ve failed to erase.

  You lie: I have never been abducted. Suubi was almost screaming now. Stop coming to me.