Poonah went after her, but Athol stopped her: ‘Can’t you see she wants to be left alone?’
But she opened the door anyway and went in. Freya joined them.
Don’t beg to help, pack your bags and go back to Kampala. If she needs you she will call. Then she relented. Kayla is British; brushing you off does not mean she’s being rude. She walked back to her room. But it hurt. All the years she had known Kayla, she had never known the sisters to show interest in their nephews. At the boys’ birthdays they tended to nip in and nip out, but now that there was a camera they were displaying concern. She sent Wakhooli a text: We need to talk. Urgently. Give me a call.
When they got together, Poonah told him, ‘Something’s been going on with Kayla since her sisters arrived. I don’t know why, but twice, you know that BBC woman?’
‘Julie?’
‘Twice she’s interviewed them, and both times Kayla’s come out upset.’
‘Why were you not with her?’
‘Her sisters are here.’
‘I know what they’re doing. Ever since they started this documentary business, Julie’s been trying to tear-jerk her and Masaaba. Like, Oh, it must be terrifying for you as a mother… knowing your baby is going…? They need her to cry. That’s what they do. With Masaaba I had to step in and say, “Do not introduce fear into my boy’s mind.” Now they’re trying to milk Kayla through the sisters.’
‘Problem is showing Kayla crying on TV. They’ll edit it to seem like she’s regretting… you know what they’re like. They edit their programmes to show this fragile white woman who married an African now traumatised by his barbaric culture. Can you imagine the backlash online when Africans see it?’
Wakhooli sighed exhaustion. ‘I’ll talk to Julie.’
‘Also tell them you want to see the final edit. Tell them you don’t want your wife to be shown crying.’
• • •
On Saturday the eighteenth it rained. A loud, gusty rain that brought everything to a standstill. By the time Poonah got downstairs for breakfast, the hotel lobby was packed. People stood everywhere, some fretting because preparations were held up, some waiting to escort Masaaba to face the knife. For the first time Wakhooli was not running around. He and his brothers sat with Masaaba plus some other elders. A bunch of men, suspicious and menacing, stood around them, watching. Dr Wafula had warned them back in Kampala that on the last day, things would turn dark. Masaaba would not be left on his own in case he bolted. Mwambu and Wabuyi sat away from everyone. They stole worried glances at their brother, then at the menacing gang.
Poonah’s eyes fell on Jerry. He had gone to whisper with Masaaba, but the menacing gang pushed him away like he would help Masaaba escape. Thankfully, he had left his lord-of-the-manor look in England. As he walked away, two white men approached him, shook his hand and he led them to a table. Poonah wondered what they wanted. The day before, Jerry had arrived at the hotel with three items in his hands. First, there had been film offers. ‘But I said to them, it’s early days. Let’s wait and see how Masaaba’s circumcision pans out and then decide who will do my man here’—he shook Masaaba by the shoulders—‘justice.’ The second item was a project with CNN, something to do with the spectacular landscape in Eastern Uganda, bringing it to the attention of the world. ‘It’s in the future; if Masaaba is interested, let me know.’ However, the major issue was the dare money. ‘It’s become toxic. Public opinion has changed. It was about £625,000 last time I checked—’
‘£642,545,’ Mwambu corrected.
‘There you go. It’s too much money. Ugandan kids get circumcised all the time without money or fanfare. The presumption is that because you’re British you’re rich and privileged and shouldn’t make money out of an African ritual.’
‘Let me speak for once.’ Poonah stood up, gesturing Ugandan. ‘This has nothing to do with Ugandans. Masaaba, Ugandans don’t begrudge you your money. They don’t care because it’s not their money. It’s the rich, white middle-class people in the West who, disgusted with their own wealth, are trying to guilt-trip everyone—’
Mwambu joined in: ‘Bloody leftists; they do my head in.’
‘We call them We Are the World,’ Wakhooli laughed. ‘They consider themselves the conscience of the world regardless of the circumstances. And they impose their conscience ruthlessly.’
‘We’re not touching that money,’ Kayla interrupted. ‘End of discussion.’ But her outburst said You’re not the white ones; all that shit will be aimed at my face. She turned to Jerry. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘I was thinking of perhaps a clinic for imbalu initiates here in Mbale. Somewhere they can go for seclusion with good medical facilities, good meals, peace and quiet. The circumcision season is very small and happens every two years. The rest of the time, the hospice would serve the community. Any profit would fund the initiates’ wing. I think Dr Wafula might be useful. We must be seen to be doing something.’
Silence fell as the performance of We must be seen to be doing something sunk in. Images of Western celebrities, The X Factor and shows which had been ‘seen to do something in Africa’ flashed in Poonah’s mind and she clicked.
‘We’ll discuss it when we return home,’ Wakhooli said softly. ‘There’s no hurry.’
Now, Poonah’s eyes travelled to where Kayla sat playing Scrabble with her sisters. Kayla could win an Oscar so far.
• • •
Rain stopped like god had plugged it. Bang at midday. People rushed outdoors. Men carrying tools, others loading plastic chairs onto a lorry, mops drying the entrance. Thirty minutes later, reporters were setting up in the garden, some speaking into mics, staring into cameras and pointing at the hotel. Next time she looked outside, a crowd had built up outside the gate. Poonah’s heart fell into her stomach. Then she chided herself: You’ll jinx the boy if you don’t stop worrying. She walked to her room and picked up a Bible from next to a table lamp. The Old Testament. Psalms. She thumbed to 23 and read. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…’ She put it down, closed her eyes and recited in Luganda, ‘Mukama ye musumba wange, seetagenga…’ It was still as calming as it had been when she lived with Mutaayi. When she finished she sighed, ‘Masaaba, you’re in god’s hands now.’ She reached for the TV remote control. Rice screens. CNN. A religious channel. Football. She settled on a Nollywood film.
A band struck up and she woke.
Masaaba’s kadodi band had come to the hotel? She jumped out of bed. The music filled the place. She had heard that Masaaba’s band was a combination of two bands—one that Wakhooli had paid for before the politicians got involved and the biggest band in Mbale, which the politicians had hired. Poonah ran through the corridors. Kadodi music is like that: you hear it, you can’t stay away. She ran across the foyer to the main entrance. The band filled the garden. People beyond the gate were dancing. Kayla and her sisters were taking pictures. Poonah ran to them.
‘Is this what the boys have been dancing to?
‘Isn’t it just great?’
‘We’ve missed the fun part,’ Freya moaned.
‘That’s being a mother for you.’
‘I’m glad the boys have had fun,’ Athol added. ‘I wish it lasted a week instead of three days.’
Kayla wiped her tears away.
Poonah looked back in the foyer for Masaaba. He was being led away from his lunch table, but the food was untouched. She followed them with her eyes. An uncle found a space in a corner and motioned to the rest to join him. Poonah hurried and grabbed a chair close by and draped her sweater over it. She went to the water fountain, filled a glass and came back to the seat. By then, Masaaba was surrounded by his relations. The menacing gang formed the outer ring. Someone was saying:
‘I can’t say the merrymaking is over because you still have your band, your crown and people are going to dance for you, but it’s serious business now. As you can see, only men surround you and not all of them have good intentions. Some are here to provoke your f
ear, to make you stumble, to frighten you so they can say you are not ready to become a man. We won’t stop them because we know our son is strong. In fact, we’ll be laughing because your bravery will be even sweeter when you shame them…’
‘Bring it on…’
‘Did you hear that, haters?’
The gang did not bother with English as they jeered making derisive noises.
‘Okay, Wakhooli, take Masaaba and get him ready.’
As they led him away, the gang broke out in celebration, brandishing sticks, clubs and branches: He’ll shake and tremble… yeah, he’ll cry for Mummy… he’s been showing off on the internet and whatnot!Let’s see what he is made of. Even folks watching the kadodi turned as the haters made a show of the savagery they would mete out to Masaaba if he dared tremble. They followed him to the lift.
• • •
The Masaaba who stepped out of the lift was subdued. In the foyer, apart from the camera clicks, silence fell. Forget the abs and biceps and all the handsomeness his parents gave him, it was all covered under a layer of white millet flour paste. No amount of clowning could break through. Just then the gang—they must have given them the slip—were heard coming down the stairs shouting, ‘Where is he? Where is he?’ When they saw him covered in millet flour, looking like a squirrel, they laughed, clapped, celebrating like finally the stage was theirs to show off bad blood. Masaaba’s British friends joined the haters in laughter. But all the laughing and clowning in the world could not lift the heaviness in the air. Outside, the band played, people danced. As they led him out, Masaaba waved to his mother. ‘When you see me again, Mum, I’ll be a man.’
‘You’ll always be my baby.’
He waved to his aunties but Poonah called, ‘You have made us proud and—’
‘Not yet, Auntie, not yet. See you on the other side.’
Wakhooli stepped out and got on one knee, Masaaba mounted on his shoulders, and he rose, hoisting his son. The crown on Masaaba’s head almost touched the ceiling; the skin on his back came down to Wakhooli’s shoulders. Wild airiririri rang out and Kayla answered with Ayii. Even her sisters joined in this time. They took a few more pictures as a family. Then Wakhooli stepped out of the front entrance. A roar rose and the band’s drumming became critical. When Wakhooli twirled and did a jig, the crowd went wild. After a while, Masaaba raised his hand. The band, the dancers, onlookers, everyone stopped. Then, punching the air, he called:
‘Bamusheete?’
‘Eh!’ everyone answered.
‘Bamusheete?’
‘Sheet’ omwana afanane babawe!’
The band joined in and Wakhooli danced down the stairs, Mwambu and Wabuyi dancing beside him like Behold, we bring the hero. Masaaba flywhisked the cobwebs out of the sky and then low, each swat swishing Out of my way, then eyes closed he nodded casual as you like, and the crown did its magic.
As Wakhooli danced down the driveway, the hired dancers and cousins joined him, then the band fell in step, the crowd joined at the back pulsing, singing, blowing whistles. By then, all you saw was the back of Masaaba’s crown, the fur bouncing. Poonah, Kayla, her sisters and other guests followed them down to the gate. They stayed there until the last of the dancers disappeared.
• • •
For some time, Poonah, Kayla, her sisters and Julie, who, because she was a woman, could not follow Masaaba to certain points, rode on the euphoria of the crowd and the band that had escorted Masaaba. Without it, the effort not to think about five o’clock would have failed them. They played Scrabble. When 4.30 came, none of them was keen to get into the van. Eventually, as it 5 p.m. approached, they were driven to the venue. You realised the gravity of the occasion when you saw Mbale’s streets quieter than Sunday mornings.
Cars, bicycles, boda boda, pedestrians; all roads led to Manafwa High School. The school’s games pitch was covered with three large tents and a small one at the head. In the quadrangle at the centre was a dais, where the cut would take place. Now it was occupied by traditional performers. The tents were full. Tourists occupied one tent, dignitaries another. Then the miscellaneous. The van drove past all that to a white tent further away at the edge of the pitch.
The tent was carpeted, a sofa set and a low table in the middle. A waitress asked if anyone wanted a drink. Kayla and her sisters asked for wine. Poonah opted for Bell lager. They resumed their game of Scrabble, but Julie had disappeared. Poonah had started to appreciate Freya and Athol’s presence. It was a relief to have them occupy Kayla after all.
It was quarter to six when the waiter ran into the tent breathless; she had seen Masaaba sprint to the dais. They listened. Outside was total silence. Someone clutched Poonah’s hands. Poonah did not breathe. Then a cry cut the air, Airiririri. Everyone looked at everyone else.
Kayla turned to Poonah. ‘What does that mean?’
Before she could say I don’t know, Kayla emitted a scream like it had escaped. She stopped like she had transgressed. Outside, more airiririri rang out. Someone said, ‘It’s done.’ But no one attempted to run out and look.
Kayla set off an airiri. Then, as if she had not screamed, she asked, ‘Does it mean he was brave?’
Now they ran out of the tent but stopped outside. They could see people jumping up and down but still they dared not celebrate. Then Jerry came running, waving.
‘He’s legend, Kayla,’ he waved, ‘Your son is legend.’
Kayla exploded like a well-shaken bottle of Coke, releasing all the emotion she had bottled up. She screamed, leaping in the air shaking her head like a British schoolgirl at a One Direction show. Jerry went to her and they held each other, jumping up and down. ‘I swear to god…I mean…I didn’t doubt him…but heck, Masaaba’s got balls the size of Tororo Rock.’ Athol and Freya were crying.
Poonah ran towards the tent area. A white man in shorts lay flat out on the ground being fanned. Further down, Julie stood alone wiping tears away. In a gap between two tents three white men were bent over throwing up. Kids were laughing at them. Then she saw Masaaba sat in the wheelchair. His crown was still on his head.
She ran back to the tent. ‘He’s wearing his crown, it’s the first thing they pull off if you tremble.’
But Mwambu had reached his mother and she was holding him and everywhere was crowded with women and it was hard to get to Kayla. Next Mwambu was pushing his way out. He sat down beside the tent and held the bridge of his nose to hide the tears. His face was so red the freckles had disappeared. Poonah asked, ‘Did you see it?’
‘I did,’ he sniffed. ‘I mean, I didn’t. He was surrounded by so many men you couldn’t see. I saw him run to the podium, saw him steady himself with the pole. Then that dude, the surgeon. Next the knife flashed with blood, then again and men screamed, and I sat down ’cause I couldn’t stand. Next, they had wrapped a sheet around him and he was helped into a wheelchair. It happened too fast. I wanted to go and hold him, but I couldn’t get up.’ Now he looked at Poonah. ‘I was afraid I might hurt him and spoil everything.’
Wakhooli came running. ‘Kayla, Kayla, where’s Kayla?’
‘Dad’s bonkers.’ Mwambu attempted to laugh.
Wakhooli grabbed Kayla and kissed her bang on the lips like it was an imbalu ritual. They were mobbed. Before she realised, women had lifted Kayla, carrying her towards the tents. The sheer anxiety in her glance screamed Put me down: can’t you see I am a white woman, put me down. Poonah pointed at Wakhooli. ‘Relax, they’re carrying him too.’ Kayla tried to smile but history was stalking her. Poonah turned back to Mwambu. She pulled him off the ground and held him. For a while he was still. Then she felt his stomach crunch and hold, then blew out as he sucked air; it crunched again, then distended. After a while, he pulled away and wiped his face. Then he smiled like his bravado had returned.
‘Didn’t even take any pictures. Been recording the most mundane stuff but not the one most important moment.’
‘Someone did—Jerry, the World Service, BBC4, other journalists.�
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‘He didn’t flinch, Auntie Poonah. Bastard stood still like it was nothing.’
‘Of course he didn’t!’ After a while she asked, ‘You’re okay now?’
He nodded. ‘Cheers, Auntie.’
‘Let’s go see him before the ambulance takes him to seclusion.’
When they got to the tent area, people had broken into groups. The mayor, MPs and dignitaries were saying goodbye to Masaaba and his parents. Photographers peered at camera screens, scrolling through pictures: Did you get it? Haters were dancing like they had forgotten themselves. People dropped money like leaves at Masaaba’s feet. Mwambu broke away and ran to his brother.
Masaaba’s wheelchair sat between his parents. Kayla held Wabuyi, but her face was white. She seemed suspended between this world and another. Women still aiririried around them. Masaaba sat manspreading. He was covered from waist to above the ankles with a kanga. Too many people congratulating him for Poonah to get close. She looked on the ground between his feet. A little patch of the soil was soaked. Then a drop. Another. Another. She was thinking of the symbolism when she began to feel lightheaded. She was thinking of sitting down when she heard, ‘Hold that woman.’ When she came to, the concerned faces of Freya, Kayla, Athol and Julie were bent over her.
• • •
When he emerged from seclusion, Masaaba had lost so much weight he looked fifteen again. He wore a kilt. He must have noticed everyone’s shock and, ever the clown, he twirled and the kilt blew out. The twirl went wrong and came to an excruciating end. Bending to limit the damage, he bit back a scream. His brothers ran to him, but he held up his hand. Ugandans were in stitches. He inserted a finger in a hole on the front of the kilt and held it away from his wounds. He waddled to his seat, sat at the edge, spread his legs out and arranged the kilt. Kayla smiled as if to say Oh, he’ll be fine. Wakhooli, still laughing, said, ‘Now you understand why Zoe couldn’t come.’
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