Let's Tell This Story Properly

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘I flew with her to Britain. But Bunjo didn’t come once to see us, forget inviting us to his house. She was with me all the time. I suspect Melanie supervised everything on his part. I was going to pay for the procedure, but your father would not let me. All I paid for was surrogacy. I looked after Nnazziwa for almost two years. To be fair, Bunjo visited when you were born and kept coming regularly until you were four or five.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I fail to look at her.

  ‘You’re angry with me.’ She comes towards me. ‘I’ve hurt you?’ When she holds me, I feel like I am a child again. When I have held my emotions in check, I pull away.

  ‘No, but it’s hurled me quite afar.’ There is silence. ‘In Britain, you go to a fertility clinic and pick a picture of a man you like, read up on him—his education and medical evaluation—and say, that one.’ I shrug. ‘But I have a father and a mother and all their relatives; it doesn’t matter how I happened. What has shocked me is that you and Mother and Father did this kind of thing back in the eighties.’

  She holds me again. I hold her too. Relieved, she says, ‘If you want to have children the same way, go on. I won’t lie, I would love to see you walk down the aisle with someone, but I am not stupid. Besides, the Mutaayis are a decent family. Children don’t only inherit wealth but a family’s attitude to life too.’

  I smile. ‘Let’s wait and see what life says.’

  • • •

  I’ve stayed so long in the bath the water has gone cold. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that I was commissioned like a piece of art. No one ever thinks about their conception, but now that I’m forced to contemplate it, I would have liked to imagine myself the product of a bout of passion. That my parents’ love for me started with a strong attraction to each other. The image of your dad jerking off into a sterilised beaker. Why name me Kitone? Certainly I am not an unexpected gift. On the other hand, I couldn’t have been a mistake.

  I didn’t need to know.

  I miss Mikka. These are the kinds of things I would ring breathless to talk about. Crazy Dad. Crazier grandmother. Mother sold her egg. AI is for artificial insemination. But then I would laugh. Your parents have gone rogue, Mikka. You won’t believe their indecent proposal. His quiet laughter. His disbelief. I am a sucker for quiet men. Dad was suspicious: ‘Are you shagging a married man, Kitone?’ But at the time I was going out with Caryl, a Liberian guy. I like Mikka’s family. I like the look of his children. Marriage is a business transaction. Love is not blind; that’s why we don’t fall in love with vagabonds. Mikka has never attempted to cheat on his wife. Dad would love a grandchild.

  I get out of the bath, unplug the water and scrub the bathtub. I wrap a towel around myself but instead of the bedroom, I tiptoe to the cabinet in the sitting room where I had seen Nnakazaana’s wines. I pick up a quarter-full Uganda Waragi and a liquor glass and slip into my bedroom. I toss back a swallow before I pick up the phone from where it was charging. I go to the box where I keep my passports, British bank cards, NI card and foreign currency. I retrieve the British phone and take both phones to the bed. I switch it on and while it plays its start-up images and tunes, I toss back more Uganda Waragi. I go into Contacts, scroll down until I come to Mikka. I write down his number, switch off the British phone and take it back to the box. It’s 10 p.m. in Britain. WhatsApp’s ringing is muted when you call. I start to rehearse what I am going to say but before the words form, there is crackling and Mikka’s quiet voice: ‘Hello, Kitone?’ I hold my breath. I’ve been poisoned. We’re no longer Mikka and Kitone, close friends. He’s Mikka with potential.

  Let’s Tell This Story Properly

  IF YOU GO INSIDE Nnam’s house right now the smell of paint will choke you but she enjoys it. She enjoys it the way her mother loved the smell of the outside toilet, a pit latrine, when she was pregnant. Her mother would sit a little distance away from the toilet, whiff-ward, doing her chores, eating, and disgusting everyone until the baby was born. But Nnam is not pregnant. She enjoys the smell of paint because her husband Kayita died a year ago but his scent lingered, his image stayed on objects and his voice was absorbed into the bedroom walls: every time Nnam lay down to sleep, the walls played back his voice like a recording. This past week, the paint has drowned Kayita’s odour and the bedroom walls have been quiet. Today, Nnam plans to wipe his image off the objects.

  A week ago, Nnam took a month off work and sent her sons, Lumumba and Sankara, to her parents in Uganda for Kayita’s last funeral rites. That is why she is naked. Being naked, alone with silence in the house, is therapy. Now Nnam understands why when people lose their minds the first impulse is to strip naked. Clothes are constricting but you don’t realise until you have walked naked in your house all day, every day for a week.

  • • •

  Kayita died in the bathroom with his pants down. He was forty-five years old and should have pulled up his pants before he collapsed. The more shame because it was Easter. Who dies naked at Easter?

  That morning, he got up and swung his legs out of bed. He stood up but then sat down as if he had been pulled back. Then he put his hand on his chest and listened.

  Nnam, lying next to the wall, propped her head on her elbow and said, ‘What?’

  ‘I guess I’ve not woken up yet,’ he yawned.

  ‘Then come back to bed.’

  But Kayita stood up and wrapped a towel around his waist. At the door, he turned to Nnam and said, ‘Go back to sleep; I’ll give the children their breakfast.’

  Lumumba woke her up. He needed the bathroom, but ‘Dad won’t come out.’ Nnam got out of bed, cursing the builders who put the bathroom and the toilet in the same room. She knocked and opened the bathroom door, saying, ‘It’s only me.’

  Kayita lay on the floor with his head near the heater, his stomach on the bathroom mat, one end of the towel inside the toilet bowl, the other on the floor, him totally naked save for the briefs around his ankles.

  Nnam did not scream. Perhaps she feared that Lumumba would come in and see his father naked. Perhaps it was because Kayita’s eyes were closed like he had only fainted. She closed the door and, calling his name, pulled his underwear up. She took the towel out of the toilet bowl and threw it in the bathtub. Then she shouted, ‘Get me the phone, Lum.’

  She held the door closed as Lumumba gave it to her.

  ‘Get me your father’s gown too,’ she said, dialling.

  She closed the door and covered Kayita with his grey gown.

  On the phone, the nurse told her what to do while she waited for the ambulance to arrive: ‘Put him in the recovery position…keep him warm…you need to talk to him…make sure he can hear you…’

  When the paramedics arrived, Nnam explained that the only thing she had noticed was Kayita falling back in bed that morning. Tears gathered a bit when she explained to the boys, ‘Daddy’s unwell, but he’ll be fine.’ She got dressed and rang a friend to come and pick up the boys. When the paramedics emerged from the bathroom, they had put an oxygen mask on Kayita, which reassured her. Because the friend had not arrived to take the boys, Nnam did not go with the ambulance. The paramedics would ring to let her know which hospital had admitted Kayita.

  When she arrived in Casualty, a receptionist told her to sit and wait. Then a young nurse came and asked, ‘Did you come with someone?’

  Nnam shook her head and the nurse disappeared. After a few moments, the same nurse returned and asked, ‘Are you driving?’

  She was, and the nurse went away again.

  ‘Mrs Kayita?’

  Nnam looked up.

  ‘Come with me.’ It was an African nurse. ‘The doctor working on your husband is ready.’

  She led Nnam to a consultation room and told her to sit down.

  ‘The doctor will be with you shortly,’ the nurse said, and closed the door behind her.

  Presently, a youngish doctor wearing blue scrubs came in and introduced himself.

  ‘Mrs Kayit
a, I am sorry, we could not save your husband: he was dead on arrival.’ His voice was velvety. ‘There was nothing we could do. I am sorry for your loss.’ His hands crossed each other and settled on his chest. Then one hand pinched his lips. ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  In Britain grief is private—you know how women throw themselves about, howling this, screaming that back home? None of that. You can’t force your grief on other people. When Nnam was overcome, she ran to the toilet and held on to the sink. As she washed her face before walking out, she realised that she did not have her handbag. She went back to the consultation room. The African nurse was holding it.

  Her name was Lesego. Was there something she could do? Nnam shook her head. ‘Is there someone you need me to call: you cannot drive in this state.’ Before Nnam said no, Lesego said, ‘Give me your phone.’

  Nnam passed it to her.

  She scrolled down the contacts calling out the names. When Nnam nodded at a name, Lesego rang the number and said, ‘I’m calling from Manchester Royal Infirmary…I’m sorry to inform you that…Mrs Kayita is still here…yes, yes…yes of course…I’ll stay with her until you arrive.’

  Looking back now, Nnam cannot remember how many people Lesego rang. She only stopped when Ugandans started to arrive at the hospital. Leaving the hospital was the hardest. You know when you get those two namasasana bananas joined together by the skin: you rip them apart and eat one? That is how Nnam felt.

  • • •

  Nnam starts cleaning in the bathroom. The floor has been replaced by blue mini mosaic vinyl. Rather than the laundry basket, she puts the toilet mats in the bin. She goes to the cupboard to get clean ones. She picks up all the toilet mats there are and stuffs them in the bin too: Kayita’s stomach died on one of them. Then she bleaches the bathtub, the sink and the toilet bowl. She unhooks the shower curtain and stuffs it into the bin too. When she opens the cabinet, she finds Kayita’s razor-bumps powder, a shaver and cologne. They go into the bin. Mould has collected on the shelves inside the cabinet. She unhooks the cabinet from the wall and takes it to the front door. She will throw it outside later. When she returns, the bathroom is more spacious and breezy. She ties the bin liner and takes it to the front door as well.

  • • •

  Kayita had had two children before he met Nnam. He had left them back home with their mother but his relationship with their mother had ended long before he met Nnam. On several occasions Nnam asked him to bring the children to Britain but he said, ‘Kdt, you don’t know their mother; the children are her cash cows.’

  Still, Nnam was uneasy about his children being deprived of their father. She insisted that he rang them every weekend: she even bought the phone cards. When he visited, she sent them clothes.

  Kayita had adapted well to the changing environment of a Western marriage unlike other Ugandan men, married to women who immigrated before they did. Many such marriages became strained when a groom, fresh from home, was ‘culture-shocked’ and began to feel emasculated by a Britain-savvy wife. Kayita had no qualms about assuming a domestic role when he was not working. They could only afford a small wedding, they could only afford two children. At the end of the month, they pooled their salaries: Kayita worked for G4S, so his amount was considerably smaller, but he tried to offset this by doing a lot of overtime. After paying the bills and other household expenses, they deducted monies to send home to his children and sometimes for issues in either family—someone had died, someone was sick, someone was getting married.

  Nnam had bought a nine-acre tract of land in rural Kalule before she met Kayita. After decades in Manchester, she dreamt of retiring to rural Uganda. But when Kayita came along, he suggested that they buy land in Kampala and build a city house first.

  ‘Why build a house we’re not going to live in for the next two decades in rural Kalule, where no one will rent it? The rent from the city house will be saved to build the house in Kalule.’

  It made sense.

  They bought a piece of land at Nsangi. But Nnam’s father, who purchased it for them, knew that most of the money came from his daughter. He put the title deeds in her name. When Kayita protested that he was being sidelined, Nnam told her father to put everything in Kayita’s name.

  Because they could not afford the fare for the whole family to visit, Kayita was the one who flew home regularly to check on the house. However, it was largely built by Nnam’s father, the only person she could trust with their money and who was an engineer. When the house was finished, Kayita found the tenants that would rent it. That was in 1990, six years before his death. They had had the same tenants all that time. Nnam had been to see the house and had met the tenants.

  • • •

  Nnam is cleaning the bedroom now. The windowsill is stained. Kayita used to put his wallet, car keys, spectacles and G4S pass on the windowsill at night. Once he put a form near the window while it was open. It rained and the paper got soaked. The ink dissolved and the colour spread on the windowsill, discolouring it. Nnam sprays Mr Muscle cleaner on the stains but the ink will not budge. She goes for some bleach.

  After the window, she clears out the old handbags and shoes from the wardrobe’s floor. She had sent Kayita’s clothes to a charity shop soon after the burial but she finds a belt and a pair of his underwear behind the bags. Perhaps they are the reason his scent has persisted. After cleaning, she drops a scented tablet on the wardrobe floor.

  • • •

  Ugandans rallied around her during that first week of Kayita’s death. The men took over the mortuary issues, the women took care of the home, Nnam floated between weeping and sleeping. They arranged the funeral service in Manchester and masterminded the fundraising drive, saying, We are not burying one of us in snow.

  Throughout that week, women who worked shifts slept at Nnam’s house, looking after the children then going to work. People brought food and money in the evening and prayed and sang. Two of her friends took leave and bought tickets to fly back home with her.

  It was when she was buying the tickets that she wondered where the funeral would be held back home, as their house had tenants. She rang and asked her father. He said that Kayita’s family was not forthcoming about the funeral arrangements.

  ‘Not forthcoming?’

  ‘Evasive.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘They are peasants, Nnameya: you knew that when you married him.’

  Nnam kept quiet. Her father was like that. He never liked Kayita. Kayita had neither the degrees nor the right background.

  ‘Bring Kayita home; we’ll see when you get here,’ he said finally.

  As soon as she saw Kayita’s family at Entebbe Airport, Nnam knew that something was wrong. They were not the brothers she had met before, and they were unfriendly. When she asked her family where Kayita’s real family was they said, ‘That’s the real family.’

  Nnam scratched her chin for a long time. There were echoes in her ears.

  When the coffin was released from customs, Kayita’s family took it, loaded it on a van they had brought and drove off.

  Nnam was mouth-open shocked.

  ‘Do they think I killed him? I have the post-mortem documents.’

  ‘Post-mortem, who cares?’

  ‘Perhaps he was ashamed of his family,’ Nnam was beginning to blame her father’s snobbery. ‘Perhaps they think we’re snobs.’

  She got into one of her family’s cars to drive after Kayita’s brothers.

  ‘No, not snobbery,’ Meya, Nnam’s oldest brother said quietly. Then he turned to Nnam, who sat in the back seat, and said, ‘I think you need to be strong, Nnameya.’

  Instead of asking What do you mean, Nnam twisted her mouth and clenched her teeth as if anticipating a blow.

  ‘Kayita is…was married. He has the two older children he told you about, but in the few times he returned, he had two other children with his wife.’

  Nnam did not react. Something stringy was stuck between her lower front teeth. Her
tongue, irritated, kept poking at it. Now she picked at it with her thumbnail.

  ‘We only found out when he died, but Father said we should wait to tell you until you were home with family.’

  In the car were three of her brothers, all older than her. Her sisters were in another car behind. Her father and the boys were in another; uncles and aunts were in yet another. Nnam was silent.

  Another brother pointed at the van with the coffin. ‘We need to stop them and ask how far we are going in case we need to fill the tank.’

  Still Nnam remained silent. She was a kiwuduwudu, a dismembered torso—no feelings.

  They came to Ndeeba roundabout and the van containing the coffin veered into Masaka Road. In Ndeeba town, near the timber shacks, they overtook the van and flagged it down. Nnam’s brothers jumped out of the car and went to Kayita’s family. Nnam still picked at the irritating something in her teeth. Ndeeba was wrapped in the mouldy smell of half-dry timber and sawdust. Heavy planks fell on each other and rumbled. Planks being cut sounded like a lawnmower. She looked across the road at the petrol station with its car wash and smiled, You need to be strong, Nnameya, as if she had an alternative.

  ‘How far we are going?’ Meya asked Kayita’s brothers. ‘We might need to fill the tank.’

  ‘Only to Nsangi,’ one of them replied.

  ‘Don’t try to lose us: we shall call the police.’

  The van drove off rudely. The three brothers went back to the car.

  ‘They are taking him to Nsangi, Nnam; I thought your house in Nsangi was rented out?’

  Like a dog pricking up its ears, Nnam sat up. Her eyes moved from one brother to another to another, as if the answer was written on their faces.

  ‘Get me Father on the phone,’ she said.

  Meya put the phone on speaker. When their father’s voice came Nnam asked, ‘Father, do you have the title deeds for the house in Nsangi?’