• • •
Mikka’s home is a grand old house, like the ones in Mmengo built back in history when architecture was still indulgent. Obviously, Mikka’s family owned the land in the village then. His parents must have sold to the new money clans in Kampala. The compound is too large for Naalya, an upscale village. It is well kept with high hedges. An old royal palm fell and lies in the compound as if still being mourned. The falawo trees are so tall and old you hear them sigh up above in the breeze. The house is square. Sprawling roof. Bland front. Two large windows on either side of the door. A huge veranda, wider than an extravagant corridor. The outdoor kitchen of perforated red bricks is annexed to the main house by a tunnel walkway. Mikka’s parents must have inherited this house.
I peer in before knocking. The front door opens into the sitting room, but there is no one around. On the walls, with wood panelling halfway up, are fading black-and-white pictures of former kings: Mwanga, Ccwa and Muteesa II in informal moments. I recognise Sir Apollo Kaggwa and Ham Mukasa. The decor is frozen in the 1970s. The floor is overlaid with a thin red carpet. On top of the carpet are mats spread in the spaces between the furniture.
‘Koodi abeeno?’
‘Karibu.’ A woman’s voice comes from further inside the house. ‘We’re home: come in.’
I don’t step in. Not until I see who is inviting me.
The door to the inner house squeaks as it is pulled back. Mikka’s mother steps out. He does not look like her, but there is that labelling that parents do to their children, like mannerisms. She is early seventies or late sixties. Her hair is dyed and relaxed in leisure curls. Her eyebrows are pencilled, lips glossed.
‘Is this Mr Mutaayi’s home?’ It’s unnecessary but I’ve got to start somewhere.
‘This is it, come in.’
‘Mikka sent me.’ I am still standing at the door.
‘Oh.’ The woman twirls and claps. ‘Bambi! You’re Mikka’s friend? What a good person to be our friend. Yii yii, come in, get out of the doorway, come in.’ She ushers me towards the chairs but common sense tells me to grab a mat. I sit with my legs neatly tucked under my bottom like I was brought up properly.
The greeting is lengthy—how are your people, is the sun as mean over there, what is the city saying? What lies is the world telling? I say what everyone usually says: ‘Life is like that, hard.’
‘Hardship is not illness,’ she says. ‘As long as there is peace, there is life. We too here are contemplating time. And Manchester, have you been there long?’
When I say that I am not going back, she leans in and shakes my hands. ‘Well done; your parents are lucky.’
‘You’ve got such lovely photographs here.’ I motion to the walls to change the subject.
‘Those?’ She looks up. ‘They’re old, ancient people the world has forgotten.’ But then she stands up and pulls down a family picture. There are other pictures on the wall behind me I had not seen from outside. They are in colour and of young families. The one she has pulled down is black-and-white and of a whole family. She points out Mikka as a boy. I peer at it. Mikka sucked his thumb. He was a lot younger than his siblings. As if his parents had already been finished. She points out each of Mikka’s siblings: ‘That one is in Germany, that one in California, this one was in Sweden but she passed away. That one is in Canada, he has no family yet.’
‘All Mikka’s siblings are abroad?’
‘All gone and lost,’ she sighs as she hangs back the picture before sitting down again. ‘We have no children, no grandchildren, not even in-laws to find fault with.’ She claps. ‘They went to study but never returned. Now all we get are phone calls telling us to expect money as if they’re paying us off.’
‘You could visit them.’
‘You get tired of begging for visas. And then it’s awkward when you get there. The houses are so tiny, there is no space to stretch your legs. And then you lock yourselves indoors all day like a prison. Ah, ah.’ She throws her arm out in refusal. ‘They should visit us, not the other way around. Why should we go guba-guba all the way to Bulaya where they’re scattered?’
‘Even Mikka does not visit?’
‘Especially Mikka. And when he comes, he doesn’t bring the children.’
‘Yii, yii? But in Manchester whenever I see him, he’s with his children.’
‘The wife confiscated the children’s passports.’
‘What? Tell him to apply for Ugandan passports.’
‘They would need visas to go back.’
I shake my head. I have no other suggestion. I ponder Mikka. The thing with quiet people. Mikka never talks about himself. I call him, complaining about this and that, but he never does the same. I look at his mother’s pain and decide to deliver the message and get the hell out of there. But then the grandfather clock, which has tick-tocked quietly up to that point, sets off the bell. She stands up. ‘Time to wake up my one otherwise he’ll not sleep tonight. You’d have gone without seeing him.’
The door protests as she opens and disappears. A long pause. The door creaks again. She steps out first and holds it. Mikka so took after his father now I know what he’ll look like when he is old. His father’s legs are not good but he has that well-preserved look of the upper-class. After greeting him, I pass Mikka’s envelope on to his mother. She passes it over to her husband without opening it. ‘You count it.’
‘But it was given to you.’
‘But I’ve given it to you.’
Wife and husband go back and forth like a lovable old couple until she wins with, ‘You know I have no eyes any more.’ The smile on her face says she’s used to getting her own way.
Mikka’s father counts the notes, licking his forefinger now and again, until he’s finished. He slips the notes back into the envelope. I notice that the wife has been staring at me rather than listening to the counting. The husband asks, ‘One thousand five hundred pounds?’
I nod.
‘Thanks for carrying it, child,’ Mikka’s mother says without interest. Then she leans forward. ‘But how was my boy really?’
I smile as I realise that Mikka is her boy. ‘He was well.’
‘What does well look like?’
‘Healthy, not struggling financially.’
‘How old are the children now?’
I remember taking photos with Mikka and his children just before leaving. And because Mikka always brought his children to the Ugandan community gatherings, I have a few others. His wife, however, is a different case. Like Dad, she’s never been to the Ugandan community gatherings. No one knows what she looks like. Mikka never talks about her. Mikka has never invited me to his house even though he walks into Dad’s house and mine easily, most times with his children. There are issues in his marriage, it is written all over him, but I’ve never asked. I suspect he is hanging on for the children’s sake. I get my phone and retrieve the pictures. ‘I have pictures of him and the children.’ I get up and kneel beside his mother. ‘Here, that’s Nnassali, the big girl, then Nnakabugo, the middle one, and that’s Kiggundu, the youngest. They were learning how to drum.’
‘You mean our drums?’
‘They even learnt to play nsaasi.’
She claps in happy wonderment.
‘Here they’re learning kiganda dance.’ I scroll. ‘Here they’re singing the Buganda anthem. Mikka always talks to his children in Luganda.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s very keen. Everyone in the Ugandan community knows you don’t talk to Mikka’s children in English. Here, hold the phone and scroll down yourself.’
As soon as she’s got the phone, the anger melts and she gasps and giggles and exclaims. Her legs stretch out on the mat, her eyes shining as she pores over each frame. At one picture, she catches her breath, then looks at her husband. ‘Yii yii.’ She stands up and goes over to him. ‘Look at what you did, look how you gave this poor girl your wide feet?’
‘Oh, kitalo’—he holds his mouth in delighted mortificati
on—‘my ugly feet.’
‘That nose is ours too: see how it is sat like luggage,’ she says, and they fall over each other giggling. For a long time Mikka’s parents are in their own world, looking for themselves in Mikka’s children. When their excitement wanes, she returns the phone. I promise to print off the pictures and bring them.
‘Are you married, child?’ Mikka’s mother takes me by surprise.
‘No.’
‘Yii yii, you’re alone, bwa namunigina like this.’ She wags a lone finger. ‘Surely there must be someone you have hopes in?’
‘No, not at the moment.’
‘At least you have a child?’
I shake my head.
‘Would you like to have children?’
‘In the future, yes.’
She flashes a happy smile at her husband. Then she leans in and says, ‘You see all of this?’ She indicates the property. ‘It belongs to no one. Me and my one’—she points at her husband—‘we’re useless. We can’t develop it. Mikka’s children belong to England. They can’t come into our dust and flies.’ She strokes her lower lip in thought. ‘Ssali, Mikka’s older brother, has not married. We can’t even have the grandchildren in Sweden. When our daughter died, our son-in-law refused to bring her home for burial. We trudged all the way to Stockholm. Never seen a more desolate funeral; only a handful of mourners. Oh! The last we heard was that her Swede husband remarried and put the children in welfare because they don’t get on with his wife. Apparently they are uncontrollable.’
‘But they could have sent them to you!’
‘They are Swedish, you see.’
‘That’s the thing! They won’t let them come out here because all Africa is starving.’
‘It’s our fault. As parents, we lost our way. We—me and my one there—were the clever parents, quite trendy in our time. You educated your children, then sent them abroad to get international qualifications, widen their horizons. That was the trend in the 1980s.’
‘Hmm!’
I notice that Mikka’s quietness is the same as his father’s.
‘Now we’re the childless, grandchildless couple! People our age are grandparenting, but our hands are empty.’ She draws a huge breath and sighs, ‘Aha, the bitter aftertaste of success.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Sometimes we look at people coming to us pleading, You have a child in this country, can you help mine to go as well? Don’t we, wamma?’ She turns to her husband, who nods. ‘But if you tell them that to send your children abroad is to bury them they won’t believe you.’ Now she looks at me. ‘Tell me what’s wrong with our country? Look at us. Don’t we look well? Don’t we eat, don’t we sleep?’
‘You do.’
‘But what are children looking for abroad any more?’
‘Hmm.’
‘If there is nothing good about Uganda, why is everyone coming here—West Africans, South Africans, the Chinese, all of them; haven’t you seen them?’
‘We’re blind to what we have,’ the husband sighs.
‘Now, what our children do is send money. Money-money, money-money, money-money’—she swings her arm to the rhythm—‘as if money is life. If you go to our bank, all their money is sitting idle like this.’ She makes a sign of a heap. ‘But who said we don’t have our own money? Me and my one, we keep it in a foreign account. We don’t touch it. One day they’ll come to visit, when one of us is dying or dead, and we shall show them their heaps of money. But I digress.’ She leans forward, speaking in earnest. ‘What I meant to ask, child, is which clan are you?’
‘Mmamba. My clan name is Nnabunjo. Kitone Nnabunjo.’
‘Mmamba clan?’ She turns to her husband in an excited you see? Then back to me: ‘We’re of Monkey clan’—she recites some Monkey Clan names—‘We’re Kabugo and Nnakabugo, Ssali and Nnassali.’
I keep my face neutral.
‘What I am saying is, but really, I am just suggesting, because that is all it is, a suggestion because if you don’t ask you die in ignorance; what if you and Mikka get together and have a child or two? Don’t answer immediately, child.’ She flips her hand. ‘You see, a squirrel that failed to adapt to urbanisation died crossing the highway. If our children are lost in the world, we must come up with ways of making alternative grandchildren. I tell you, if we die now, everyone—our children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren—will scatter because they have no anchor. Mikka and his siblings will come, sell off all of this and melt into the world. But this here is their centre. This is what will hold them together. Everyone, even fifty years from now, who is curious should be able to come here and say This is where I come from.’
‘Child’—the husband leans forward—‘new laws say that if you are non-Ugandan, you can’t own property here. All our children and their children have NATO passports.’
‘Do you see our problem now?’
‘Aah—’
‘As I said, don’t answer right away. Go home and think yourself through. You said you want to have children; didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Do you have a job yet?’
‘Yes, but I don’t start until next month.’
‘Good, but with our proposal you don’t need a job. As soon as you get pregnant, ba ppa.’ She cracks a knuckle. ‘We prepare a house, we look after you. The child is born, we take him or her for a blood test, because you know girls these days can be clever…’
‘Kdto, they don’t joke,’ the husband laughs.
‘We don’t care whether she is a girl or a boy; we just want someone our own to take over after us. As soon as the child is confirmed ours, we write the will.’
‘Maama,’ Mikka’s father calls, but I don’t register that he could be addressing me like that. ‘Anzaala mukadde?’ I turn. He leans in with that respect old men bestow on daughters-in-law. ‘Will you think about it?’
I have no choice but to nod.
‘We’re not bad people and not the ugliest either,’ his wife says. ‘We promise love, thick, cordial love for the child. Meanwhile I’ll talk to Mikka. He’s going to call to see whether the money has arrived. And then I’ll say But isn’t Nnabunjo beautiful, have you noticed?’
• • •
A week later, I visit Mother. She rang to ask how I was settling in at Nnakazaana’s, but I knew it was to to gauge my attitude towards my sisters. I agreed to go for lunch. So far, neither she nor I have mentioned the bust-up with my sisters. I had expected them to join us, but they are not here. We are sitting outside on the veranda. Mother has been talking about an Indian soap on TV, some girl called Radhika and her exploits. I am struggling to stay awake when she remembers Mikka’s parents and asks whether I found them. I describe the house to her.
‘Oh, those Mutaayis. They’re old money.’
‘You won’t believe what they asked me.’ I explain everything.
‘Of all people, why ask you?’
I shrug.
‘What did you say?’
‘What could I say? They’re old people, why break their hearts? They told me to think about it.’
‘Tell me you’re not thinking about it.’
Instead of saying of course not I hear myself saying: ‘Well, these days, you don’t have to wait for a man to come along, weigh you up, decide you’re right for him, do the courtship dance, marry and then have children. These days you can find a man you share mutual like and respect with and say By the way, can you give me one or two children? No strings attached, no financial support. All I need are names, a clan and perhaps extended family for the children. That way a woman can have children on her own terms.’ Seeing the horror on her face I add, ‘Mother, for the first time a woman can own her children.’
Mother smiles. She even looks relieved. ‘You’re trying to scare me.’
‘Three of my friends here in Kampala have done it.’
Her face changes again. She does not respond, though. I smile. ‘Don’t worry, Mother, I might meet someone tomorrow and fall
in love.’
She remains silent for a moment, then clicks in self-pity, ‘What you eat beautiful today will come back ugly tomorrow. That’s the truth.’
I don’t pay attention to her proverb because two of her sisters arrive and we have lunch. By the time I leave, the whole thing is forgotten. I visit another friend who I met in Manchester years ago and we go out. It’s past ten when I get home. Nnakazaana is up waiting even though I rang to say I was eating out. Before I even drop my bag she starts:
‘Your mother was here, hysterical.’
I frown.
‘Apparently you’re planning to have a child like yourself.’
‘A child like myself? What does she mean, like myself?’
‘No relationship between the parents.’
I laugh. ‘That’s most people I know. I was joking. Besides, if I ever do it, it would be artificially.’ But now I am really peeved. ‘What’s wrong with Mother? I told her it was a joke!’
‘She’s frightened because that’s what happened with you.’
‘What?’ I look at my grandmother.
She leans against the door frame, arms folded. Her stare does not negate my suspicion.
‘You mean Mother did not, I mean, never went with Dad?’
‘Nope.’ She walks to the sofa, pats the cushions. ‘It was artificial.’
‘What?’
‘I paid her for everything, including breastfeeding.’
‘You mean you sat down and negotiated the terms of my birth? I thought you paid her for giving me up.’
‘Don’t get angry with her, it was me, I approached her. Part of me hoped that when Bunjo met her he would fancy her. Nnazziwa was beautiful, well-mannered, the kind of girl you wished your son would marry. Unfortunately, she had had three children; no one married such women then. I sent Bunjo her pictures, he had separated from Melanie then, we discussed it over the phone. He came, I introduced them, I told Nnazziwa, “It’s now up to you to hook him.” They went out once, twice, thrice but in the end Bunjo said, “We’re doing it in a fertility clinic.” Poor Nnazziwa, she had fallen in love.’ She shrugs. ‘What we didn’t know was that at one point, Bunjo reconciled with Melanie. Apparently to get me off his back, Melanie agreed to go on with it. So Bunjo was not touching Nnazziwa whatsoever.’
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