Let's Tell This Story Properly

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

  ‘Of course we know his name.’ Mulumba’s spokesman was fraught. ‘But sir, you know we don’t articulate important people’s names, faa, like that!’

  Dad’s spokesman paused: he had not anticipated this recovery.

  ‘What name do you call him when you meet?’

  ‘I refer to him by his office—muko. I say, Muko-muko! And he asks, “But you Mulumba, when are you bringing my cockerel? If you’re not careful, I’ll give my sister away.” So today I said to myself, “Mulumba, why don’t you take muko’s cockerel before he gives your lovely away?”’

  Nnaava stole a relieved glance at me.

  ‘What if I bring him out here and he says that he doesn’t know you?’

  ‘Go ahead, sir: bring him. As soon as he sees me, we’ll be hugging: you’ll see.’

  Mulumba’s spokesman was doing well: you’d rather have a muko in the marquee saying that he doesn’t know you than one hiding away in the house where you can’t appeal to him.

  ‘Bring my son,’ Dad’s spokesman called to the people in the house. He turned to Mulumba’s spokesman and said, ‘If he doesn’t know you, you see the gate over there? Take a walk!’

  Bwemage stepped out of the house. He wore a kanzu and a coat on top like all the men. Mulumba’s spokesman looked the boy over, took in the fact that he was not only very young but mixed race and decided that there was nothing to be afraid of. In fact, there was a stir of relief in Mulumba’s clan, a sense that the negotiations were done.

  Bwemage went and stood next to Dad’s spokesman. The man put a loving hand around his shoulders.

  ‘Son, these people say they’re your friends.’

  ‘Which ones, them?’ Bwemage pointed at Mulumba’s clan, his face saying How can I be friends with them? ‘Never seen them before.’ He did not even bother to look at them again.

  Mulumba’s clan froze not just at Bwema’s crisp Luganda but at his confident voice and the belligerent attitude. Realising that the boy was trouble, Mulumba sneaked a fat envelope to his spokesman. Dad’s spokesman was saying, ‘That’s all I needed, son. Go back and play.’

  ‘Wait’—Mulumba’s spokesman grabbed Bwemage’s hand deferentially—‘Muko, yii, vvawo nawe, Muko! You, my very own, to forget me like this in my moment of need?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It’s me, your very best friend.’ Mulumba’s spokesman draped a loving hand around Bwema’s shoulders and pulled him towards himself while he slipped the envelope into Bwemage’s hand. ‘How could you forget me so soon?’

  Bribery is traditionally Ganda, I swear! Bwemage grabbed the envelope and hid it behind his back and flashed a toothy smile at Mulumba’s spokesman. ‘Oh, it’s you, tsk. For a moment there I didn’t recognise you. Finally, you’ve come. You’re lucky you’re in time. I was about to give my sister away.’ He turned to Dad’s spokesman. ‘I know him. He’s a good person.’

  Mulumba’s clan broke out ululating.

  Dad’s spokesman was suspicious. ‘Where is he from?’

  ‘Yii yii, Mulumba was born in Kabowa but his father and grandfather and grandfather twice over come from Kiboga. I know them very well. They’re of the Musu clan.’

  Mulumba’s clan ululated again. His spokesman did a dance and twirled.

  Everyone stared at a boy of ten addressing a gathering of no fewer than a hundred people with such audacity.

  ‘So, are you going to give them your sister?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Mulumba’s clan applauded again. Our side deflated. Bwemage had sold out too easily.

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘On one condition.’

  Dad’s spokesman perked up. ‘What condition, son?’

  ‘You know, Father, that Nnaava is my favourite sister.’ Dad’s spokesman nodded as if he had known all along. ‘She understands me. The thought of losing her makes me sad.’ Bwemage, hand on heart, closed his eyes. ‘But of course, Mulumba promised that if I gave her up he would replace her with something equally precious.’

  ‘Do you know what this precious thing is?’

  ‘No, I am waiting to see what he thinks can replace my sister, because as you know I have everything I need.’

  ‘Go back to your games, son! You have spoken so well I’ve got nothing to add.’

  The little monkey was beginning to walk away when he added:

  ‘Oh, Father, I’ve remembered.’

  ‘What is it?

  ‘For the last three weeks, I’ve not leaked on an ounce of sleep.’

  ‘Why, son?’

  ‘All sorts of men bothering me—waiting in the house, calling on my phone and waylaying me on the road.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘What else? To marry my sister. Can you imagine, one offered me a car? I said, “I am just a boy: I can’t drive a car.” He said, “I’ll give you a driver to take you wherever you want,” but I said no. Then another one gave me a whole house. But when I told him that I have a home, he said that I would need it when I grow up. I told him that I don’t take bribes.’ The imp looked at the fat envelope in his hands and smirked. ‘Even just now, as I was coming out of the house, this man grabbed my hand and I think he had been to see a wizard who broke into my dreams.’

  ‘He did not!’

  ‘He must have! This man was holding one of my dreams in his hands.’

  ‘No! Which one?’

  Everyone leaned forward to hear what this boy’s dream could possibly be. He whispered in the microphone.

  ‘A ticket to Disney World—Orlando!’

  Everyone was laughing and clapping as Bwemage walked back to the house. Our side of the family cheered because Mulumba’s spokesman had run out of words. Even his clan was clapping.

  Soon after, Nnaava and I were asked to leave the marquee as Dad’s spokesman considered taking pity on Mulumba and accepting his request to be born in our house. When we got back to the house, Nnaava ran up to Bwema and lifted him, shrieking, ‘You, you, you, I could eat you.’ She put him down. ‘You went beyond! Just beyond. At first, I was worried that I didn’t tell Mulumba about you but now I am glad I didn’t. You’ve made the whole negotiations so entertaining!’

  The women coming into the house to get the food ready hugged Bwema, pinched his cheeks and told him how he had done us proud, and he was very happy. I smiled at him from a distance. Through the window, I saw his mother and her friend come to the backyard. They held large dishes with Chinese patterns. I wanted to nudge Nnaava to tell her that Bwema’s mother had brought food, that she had come to help the women with lunch, but just then Dad’s spokesman came and said that the final rite—when Bwema would receive Nnaava’s fiancé into the house, give him a tour and then serve him his first meal as part of the family—was about to begin. Nnaava and I, because we were daughters, were asked to step outside.

  As I walked out of our house I glanced back. Bwema stood alone in the sitting room, filling it with his presence. There was not a shred of unease about him. As if he had grown in that sitting room all his life. I marched to where Mum sat and whispered, ‘Mum, you’re not coming back to Britain with us.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’re staying behind to—’

  ‘You can’t tell me what—’

  ‘You’re not hearing me, Mum.’ I was shaking. ‘Sort things out. Find out for real that when all the anger is done, you still don’t want to be with Dad. I deserve to know that if something happened to Dad, this house is still my home.’

  I walked away before people heard us.

  The Aftertaste of Success

  WHEN I STEP OUTSIDE, after a week of hibernating, I feel like a traditional bride coming out of the honeymoon bedroom to start a new life. Every sense is attuned to the difference. A loud cockerel, goats bleating, someone chopping wood; I smell ripe jackfruit and my eyes search for the tree. A boda boda whizzes down the hill, raising a cloud of dust. The morning is cool but Ddembe, my older sister, and Mugabi, who has come to open the gat
e, are shivering. Manchester has hardened me. But then my lips twist. A long day lies ahead. Fifteen years away is not long enough to forget things, but it is long enough to yearn for a certain Britishness, like hyper-politeness, political correctness, queuing up and those tiny rights I’d learnt to demand—This is unacceptable; can I speak to the manager. You pull those tricks here, you suffer. They accuse you of bringing your luzunguzungu. And yet the lack of hurry in the air, the ntangawuzi chai and yellow bread with Blue Band spread I had for breakfast, then the morning bath in a plastic basin, say You’ll be alright, you’ll get back in the rhythm. Ddembe drives out first and I follow her in her second car.

  Kampala city centre feels like a toddler learning to walk. There is exuberance despite the many falls. Manchester was middle-aged, around 220 years old. The thought of Kampala growing is at once optimistic and depressing. You want those kids off the streets, but the idea of that concrete used to build megacities sunk into these virginal hills of Kampala is almost sacrilegious. Sometimes, Manchester city centre felt like a steamed-up bus. As if someone was breathing too close to your nostrils. Kampala is dust. It makes the buildings look weather-beaten. It’s a waste of time getting irritated by boda bodas. They own the country now. Young people are skinny. So are most men. As if middle-aged women eat all the food. The build of the women’s bodies, their gaits, the hairstyles, the mannerisms, the colourful clothes. I never realised how good-looking Ugandans are until I left the country.

  All but one of the messages I carried for Ugandans in Manchester have been collected by their loved ones. Two days after I arrived, I rang them and they collected their envelopes. Today, I’ll deliver Mikka’s, the last one. It’s for his parents: they are elderly and it’s a lot of money. Mikka and I were quite close, which is rare. Friendship among Ugandans in Britain is transient. People are too busy, too guarded, too jittery. You can’t expect someone who goes to bed not sure where she will be when the sun rises, or someone who had been betrayed back home, or people who walk on tiptoes because they fall in love the other way, to offer you firm friendships. But Mikka was always there, generous and quiet. We had to be careful, though: that nonsense that men and women can’t be best friends.

  I am going to start by announcing myself to family. People take it personally if you don’t tell them that you’re back. You never know when you’ll need their help. Then they’ll click, Ktdo, she came back, didn’t even tell us, now she wants our help? I’ll start with Mother, then Nnakazaana, my grandmother, then lunch with my sisters, and finally I’ll go to Mikka’s parents’.

  On second thoughts, I’ll start with Grandmother. Nnakazaana is mother, father, aunt, grandmother all in one. My parents are supplements. But Nnakazaana is not your typical melting grandmother; wait till you meet her. She is a tough girl. Even age is struggling to chew her. I so love my grandmother, there is not enough water in the Nalubaale, but if I find her arguing with someone, my heart will go out to the other person. In the late 1950s, she was a trailblazer. The first woman to do business in Kenya, or so she says. When other traders flocked to Kenya, she turned to Zaire. In the 1980s, she changed to Dubai and when other people flooded Dubai she went to Japan to import reconditioned cars, then Denmark for bitenge. She has always held a British passport. Her reasons? She was born in the British Empire and her father fought in World War II. She says that in those days saying I am British opened doors around the world. She had an address in London long before she set foot in Britain. Renewals of her passport were sent there. Because of the merchandise shop she set up in the sixties, then the famous Bunjo Boutique in Uganda House and finally, in the eighties, the Mobil petrol station that doubled as a reconditioned Nagoya car dealership, tongues that whipped women into domesticity lashed. You can feel the welts in her hoarse voice, the spikes in her temperament and in her confrontational attitude. Tongues said she made her money by selling herself—first in Mombasa, then Dubai, London and finally Amsterdam. But in Zaire she smuggled gold, they said. The rumours about Dubai were most hurtful. Apparently, Arabs made such African women fuck their dogs. Kids in primary school would shout at me Ki Kitone, is your grandmother still a malaya? Consequently, Nnakazaana grew thorns on her skin. But sometimes her thorns tear into loved ones. It’s best to get her out of the way first thing in the morning.

  • • •

  I get to Kawempe and stop to buy meat, matooke, cooking stuff, sugar, washing soap—the kind of things you take to old ones you’ve not visited in a long time. The butcher has sussed me out; he speaks English: ‘Ah, my Muzungu, come to me.’

  I am still too black British to find the ‘compliment’ muzungu palatable. I take a breath: Calm down, Kitone, that’s what people call you before they overcharge you. I smile. ‘Have people in Kawempe abandoned Luganda entirely?’

  ‘Tsk’—he switches to Luganda—‘you kivebulayas pretend to have forgotten our language, speaking mangled Luganda. I was only helping you.’

  I buy goat meat, two pieces—one for Mother, one for Nnakazaana. Then I cross the road to the fresh market and buy matooke, fresh beans, peas, greens and then carry on. Along the way, places that used to be bush, swamps, shambas or gardens are built-up. The crowds are along the road, even though it is still early in the morning. Matugga is now suburbia. I see my grandmother’s house long before I turn off Bombo Road.

  Nnakazaana hurries out of the house. She’s in trousers. I smile and shake my head. At her age she’s expected to wear either a busuuti or long bitenge robes, not jeans. Back in the nineties, traders on Luwum Street used to call her Mukadde takadiwa because she was a grandmother but not acting it.

  ‘Kitone,’ she claps.

  ‘Jjajja.’

  My grandmother is magical, beautiful, intelligent, regal, loving, but no one else sees it. She looks the same she did two years ago but has abandoned her trademark wigs. There is a softness to her when she wears her own hair. She had never put on that midriff weight that middle-aged women do. There was a time when she was prickly about her slender frame, but times have changed. Now she claims I watch my figure, rather than commend a bad-tempered metabolism. Had she put on weight, she would have claimed credit: Age does not look good skinny; it was time to put on some. Recently, she owned up to being seventy-eight rather than sixty-five. When I rang on her birthday, she spoke in the plural: ‘Yes, we’re seventy-eight: what are we hiding any more? We’ve devoured the years.’

  As I reverse to park, she follows the car back and forth as if I might drive away. Most old people move out of large houses into smaller ones; Nnakazaana recently moved into this house. Dad built it in 1986, soon after I was born. A wing for his mother and one for himself when he visited. Apparently, he had hoped his mother would stop hustling in Kampala and move to the quiet of what was rural Matugga then. But Nnakazaana was not ready. She loved the city and thrived on hustling: ‘Who says a woman has to give up her life to bring up a child?’ She did not say this to Dad. She let him finish the house, said thank you very much and waited for him to fly back to Britain. Then she built another house, smaller, on the compound and rented the properties to a non-government organisation. Her rent was quoted in dollars. Then she informed her son that she had a new idea for the property. Recently, after her birthday, she said, ‘I am going to enjoy my son’s labours before I die,’ and moved into the property. When I told her I was returning she said, ‘Otyo! The half-mansion is vacant; it’s waiting for you.’

  By the time I finish parking, she has made so much noise the neighbours have come to see. They greet me and withdraw. But not before Nnakazaana tells them that unlike the brainless lot who go to Britain and get stuck there, meaning Dad, I’ve returned.

  First, she walks me around the bigger house to show me what she’s done with it. It has been decorated tastefully, professional work; but it’s overwhelmingly big. I suspect that she only moved in because she could not find worthy tenants. The whole left wing is unoccupied. After greetings, she asks, ‘So, you people really Brexited!’


  I shrug. For someone who went into a semi-depression after the referendum, I am surprised by my indifference.

  ‘Jjajja, these nations are growing old and it has taken them by surprise. For the first time, they are worried by the youth, energy, optimism of younger nations. They’re afraid they’ll be devoured like they did us in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.’

  ‘But things were improving. The Europe of the seventies and eighties was a dark place, but now when I come, everyone is nice and polite. You even have African MPs.’

  ‘But then the economy shrank. On the one hand Britain had embroiled itself in two wars it couldn’t afford, while on the other machines took the jobs. What did they do? They blamed us. Liberalism was a luxury they indulged in when things were good.’

  ‘Oh well,’ she sighs, ‘who knew that Britain would one day claim an Independence Day? We saw it on TV and asked ourselves: did Europe colonise Britain?’

  ‘All this time I’ve been in Britain I saw a genuine attempt to eradicate prejudice.’

  ‘I hope our children also Brexit and come home.’

  ‘Oh, they will. Anyone who has a home to come back to is laying down plans. When we woke up that morning after the referendum, the clouds spelt Go home!’

  ‘Good, come home, all of you. Otherwise, how was everyone else?’

  By ‘everyone else’ Nnakazaana means Bunjo, my father. There is no shielding her from the reality: Dad did not send a word. She and he don’t talk. Nnakazaana takes credit for the breakdown of Dad’s marriage. Just because she lived here while Bunjo’s wife, Melanie, was in Britain did not mean that Nnakazaana could not be the mother-in-law from hell. She had warned Bunjo against marrying European women who marry your son and swallow him, who are so possessive it’s unhealthy. The relationship between Nnakazaana and Melanie became so bad that Bunjo’s visits to Uganda stopped altogether. Nnakazaana blamed Melanie and would fly to Manchester to terrorise her. I’ve heard her say, ‘I asked Melanie, “Do you think our sons fall from trees that you pick one up and do as you please?” He left relations in Africa.’