“Aha, Miiro’s sunshine. Today, you came to kill me with laughter.”
“I told you Grandfather is easy. Tom, I mean my father, is the same: they don’t put barriers against me. It is Grandmother, it is always other women, apart from you, who put up barriers against girls and on themselves. I know men can be tyrants, but a lot of women are nasty to women—everybody says it, unless you have not met Jjajja Nsangi, Grandfather’s sister.”
“Kirabo, have you seen God come down from heaven to make humans behave?”
“No.”
“That is because some people have appointed themselves his police. And I tell you, child, the police are far worse than God himself. That is why the day you catch your man with another woman, you will go for the woman and not him. My grandmothers called it kweluma. That is when oppressed people turn on each other or on themselves and bite. It is as a form of relief. If you cannot bite your oppressor, you bite yourself.”
For a while Kirabo was silent. Then she blurted out, “But Grandmother does not police herself; she—”
“Did you know Alikisa has a beautiful voice?”
“Who is Alikisa?”
“Your grandmother; you did not know her name?”
Kirabo twisted her lips. All she knew was Muka Miiro.
“Alikisa Lozi Nnanono. Those were her names before she married.”
“Grandmother’s voice is gruff.”
“No, child, Alikisa has the most beautiful voice in this world. Deep like the humming drum, yet soft. When we were young, I wanted a voice like hers. Unfortunately, since we have grown up, she tries to make it thin and it comes out gruff.”
“And did all the women shrink?” Kirabo steered Nsuuta away from Grandmother.
“With that kind of perversion, who would not shrink? Who would want to be huge, or loud, or brave, or any of the other characteristics men claim to be male? We hunched, lowered our eyes, voices, acted feeble, helpless. Even being clever became unattractive. Soon, being shrunken became feminine. Then it became beautiful and women aspired to it. That was when we began to persecute our original state out of ourselves. Once we shrunk, men had to look after us, and it was not long before they started to own us. Fathers sold daughters; husbands bought wives. Once we became a commodity, men could do whatever they wished with us. Even now our bodies do not belong to us. That is why when they need it, they will grab it. Things were so bad in some cultures, women had to be hidden away to protect them, in separate spaces where no men were allowed. Soon, they had to be spoken for by men.”
Kirabo kept quiet. An air, heavy like a warning, had sucked the light-heartedness of storytelling out of the room.
“And no one has seen our original state since?”
“I suspect Kabaka Muteesa Mukaabya did. His Amazons were in our original state. He must have put out a search for them before they were crippled. He nurtured their original state for his army. That is the last I heard.”
Kirabo went silent. For a while she blinked. It was a gross injustice Nsuuta had told her. But she was not sure she wanted to nurture a state which had been erased out of women.
“But the Bible says that God created Adam and Eve in his own image.”
“If he created them in his own image,” Nsuuta snapped, “then afterwards Adam re-created Eve in his own image, one that suited him.”
“But which image is that, Nsuuta? You will burn in hell for saying things like that.”
“The state we are now, the shrunken one.” Nsuuta sighed dramatically. “Kirabo, all this time I have been telling you the stories ancients used to change women. Did you hear me at all?”
Kirabo scratched her head. This was the problem with Nsuuta. Sometimes, when you challenged her, she became ruthless. Sometimes it seemed she did not care that Kirabo was twelve.
“Look, Kirabo. Creatures belong to their creators, not so?”
Kirabo nodded.
“In this shrunken image we are in right now, we are the creatures of men. And creatures worship their creator. But the original state in you gives us hope.”
Kirabo kept quiet but thought Who wants to be an ancient woman who everyone has rejected? But she could not argue with Nsuuta, not when she still hoped to use her to take her to her mother.
Hearing Kirabo’s silence, Nsuuta sighed as if she had overestimated Kirabo’s intelligence. “Okay, Kirabo,” she said. “Forget everything else. Remember one thing—when it comes to persecuting women, we are most vicious to ourselves.”
Kirabo rolled her eyes. As if I need to be reminded.
“By the way, how often do you visit your grandmother’s people in Timiina?”
Kirabo stretched her legs and yawned. “I have never been. Maybe Grandmother took me when I was young, I don’t know.” She was not particularly curious. “I will ask Grandfather for permission.”
Nsuuta’s blue eyes looked at Kirabo for a long time. Then she said, “It is time for you to go home—now.”
“What, already?”
“Go, now!”
Kirabo jumped up and out of Nsuuta’s house. Once outside, she turned and looked towards the darkened doorway, wondering if Nsuuta’s evil self was back.
•
There was little improvement the next time Kirabo visited. Nsuuta was in another one of her foul moods. She sat deep inside her diiro, listening to the radio. When Kirabo announced herself, she waved for her to sit down and keep quiet. Nsuuta sat as if coiled into herself.
It was a live broadcast. There was a lot of static. Nsuuta kept touching the antenna, bending it, turning, straightening it, pulling out all the segments, but the static persisted, and the voices that echoed out of the radio sounded distant. From what Kirabo could gather, a big conference was going on in Mexico. It was in English. But it was for women only.
Kirabo gave up on the radio; the static was too much. “Can I look at your magazines, Nsuuta?” Nsuuta nodded briefly.
From the dates on the issues on top of the pile, the magazines were very old, some dating back to 1942. Yet they looked almost brand new, no film of dust. Kirabo imagined the hapless ghost, Nsuuta’s slave, dusting, doing the chores. She flicked through the pile looking for DRUM magazine, specifically for The Adventures of Spearman, a pull-out comic that came with it. Its hero, Lance the Spear, kicked crooks better than James Bond, better even than Bruce Lee, all while swigging whisky or smoking a cigar. When she got to the bottom of the pile and there was no DRUM, she put them away.
Kirabo turned to the radio again. But this time, two men were talking over the conference in Luganda. Their voices were crisp and clear. Apparently, the women at the conference were getting greedy: “Have they seen us go into their kitchens? Or their maternity wards?” The other replied rather sarcastically, “Have you not heard of mwenkanonkano? My sister started to talk about that nonsense and I told her that the day children will start to belong to their mothers is the day men and women shall become equal.”
Nsuuta sucked her teeth long and loud. When the men finally stopped talking, it was possible to make out the voice of one of the conference delegates. Nsuuta increased the volume. She seemed to hang on every word out of the radio. There was a round of applause, but it was soon overpowered once more by static. The Luganda speaker interrupted again and Munnamasaka, the programme for the Masaka region, came on. Kirabo held her breath. Nsuuta stared at the radio as if she wanted to hit it. Then she snapped it off.
Kirabo apologised for the rude men. “It is terrible those men spoke over your programme.”
Nsuuta made a gesture that said the men could not help themselves. As if to blame them was to blame a child for being childish. “But the women too were—”
“The women on the radio?” Kirabo was baffled.
“They think that we all think the same.”
“Was it wrong what they said?”
“Not wrong. But this is the wrong start. If your roof leaks, what do you do?”
“Find the hole, plug it, and then mop.”
; “Those women”—Nsuuta pointed towards the radio—“have started with mopping. I don’t even know whether there was a Ugandan who took our voice there. And if there was, I don’t know whose voice she took.”
Kirabo sucked her teeth at the women’s brand of blindness. Even she who was only walking her thirteenth year knew better.
“Even though we are all women, we stand in different positions and see things differently. The first thing should have been for our representative to rally us and say You know, people, aren’t you tired of this leaking roof, to make certain everyone—young, old, servant, mistress, educated or not, willing, unwilling—is aware. Humans are funny; some may claim not to see the leak. Some may say Don’t disturb us, we don’t mind a little bit of damp, or a roof leaking is normal; that is the nature of roofs. Other women, who sell mops, might even encourage the leak. There would be some who would be afraid that once you start repairs you will open up new holes. There are all sorts of people in this world. But when you have involved everyone and heard their reactions, then you know how to proceed.” She made to walk away but then turned around. “Soon, and I am telling you it will be soon, those women will find out that the women they are trying to save are an obstacle.”
“What about my story?”
“What story, child?”
“Our original state.”
“Not today, Kirabo. Come back another day.”
9
It would be Kirabo’s last day of consultation with Nsuuta. Grandmother had returned from Timiina two days earlier. Kirabo went early to Nsuuta’s, so that by midday she would be home again.
After the previous meeting, when Kirabo told her that Grandmother had returned, Nsuuta told Kirabo to go in search of stories about men. Nsuuta, on the other hand, would collect stories about women. Then they would declare whoever had more stories the winner. Afterwards, if Kirabo still wished, Nsuuta would get rid of the original state. Then they would devise ways to keep in touch in case Nsuuta had to pass on news about Kirabo’s mother.
Kirabo arrived worried. She had chosen stories about men because this would give her an advantage. During storytelling Kirabo would nominate a story about a man and Nsuuta would tell it. If Nsuuta failed, Kirabo would tell it to get ten points. If Nsuuta told it, they would both get five points. The way she saw it, all she had to do was collect as many titles about men as possible. After all, Nsuuta would tell them. And since she knew most of the stories about women, she would snatch away points from Nsuuta.
But after scouring the villages, including asking grown-ups, Kirabo had found only two stories about men, the one about Luzze whose wife buried their daughter in an anthill and another about Tamusuza, a widower. No one had stories about evil stepfathers, horrible stepsons, conceited handsome men, or ugly spoilt sons to share. Her chance of winning lay in snatching every five points Nsuuta presented to her. If Nsuuta did not know either of Kirabo’s two stories, she had a chance at winning.
Nsuuta went first. She challenged Kirabo to tell the story of the lukokobe. Kirabo snapped her fingers and danced. She knew it.
“The Lukokobe was an old, old woman who lived alone—”
“She was a widow,” Nsuuta interrupted.
“Was she?” Kirabo was not bothered because it did not affect the story. “At dusk, the lukokobe crept out of her lair and sat by the roadside. Along came a young man. She asked, ‘Yii Grandson, will you carry an old woman home?’ Every young man would hurry to help a broken old person: they are a well of blessings. But the moment he put her on his back, ba ppa, her ropy legs locked around his waist and her wiry arms around his chest. Then talons drew out and sunk into his flesh. The lukokobe ordered him to start walking. ‘Faster,’ the lukokobe demanded. The young man kept going around and round in circles. At dawn, she vanished off his back. People found him passed out by the roadside, bleeding.”
Nsuuta grinned like she had won.
“What?” Kirabo was alarmed. “Did I not tell it properly?”
“Oh, you did; take your five points. I was thinking that if you insist on marrying young virgins when you are old, don’t be resentful if they outlive you.”
“Hmm, hmm.” Kirabo did not fully understand what Nsuuta meant, nor did she care about the young virgins who lived too long. “My turn now, Nsuuta. Tell the story of Tamusuza.”
“I beg to tell you, Kirabo, that the story of Tamusuza is about the evil stepmother who abused his little girl—”
“Nsuuta, you will try to take a story from me even when I could find only two folk tales about men?”
“Maybe it is because your precious folk tales were used to persecute our original state.”
“How?” Kirabo did not wait for Nsuuta to respond. “It is wrong to mistreat stepchildren.”
“Who makes women stepmothers … ?”
At that moment, Grandmother stepped through Nsuuta’s door. Kirabo held her breath for so long that she felt herself breathe through her skin. Grandmother standing inside Nsuuta’s house was like the cardinal standing in the middle of your traditional shrine. You know he has come to burn down your gods.
When she started to breathe again, Kirabo gulped such large chunks of air she could not speak. Meanwhile, Nsuuta knew exactly who had walked in. But instead of shock, she clapped in happy surprise, “Ha, finally, Alikisa drops in on us.”
Kirabo’s “Ha” escaped involuntarily. Otherwise she would have choked on Nsuuta’s lack of remorse.
“Look here, Nsuuta,” Grandmother said unkindly. “Stay away from her. You will not fill her head with nonsense. Did you warn her that you say this but do that?”
Nsuuta’s eyes looked at Grandmother calmly. As if she loved her. “How was Timiina?”
Grandmother faltered. She had not anticipated this. “I said, stay away from her.”
“I would like to visit. I am sure Timiina asked about me.”
“Timiina does not like witches.”
Nsuuta turned on her pretty smile. “Tsk, my witchery. Our Kirabo here has been trying to turn me away from my wickedness, have you not, Kirabo?”
Kirabo nodded vigorously.
“God will burn you in hell, Nsuuta, that sort of thing. You have brought her up well, our grandchild. I hope you will not turn her head into a battleground.”
“Let’s go, Kirabo.” Grandmother held her shoulder. At Nsuuta she spat, “If my father was not a reverend, I would have asked you to share the craft you use on my family.”
Nsuuta’s hand shot out faster than a chameleon’s tongue catching a bug. She gripped Grandmother’s wrist. Grandmother, taken by surprise, stood still, startled. Kirabo held her breath.
“What happened to you, Alikisa? Why all this poison?”
Grandmother must have been too shocked to react. Her head turned slowly, slowly, and she looked outside through the window—maybe to regain self-control. She looked down at Nsuuta’s hand grasping her wrist. The wrist shook. She turned to Kirabo. “Step outside, Kirabo.” It was a whisper, but Kirabo ran. When Grandmother whispered like that, you did not wait for her to repeat herself. “Let go of my hand,” she heard Grandmother’s voice choke. Kirabo wanted to shout Let go of her hand, Nsuuta, but Grandmother’s voice came again. “Kirabo?” She knew Kirabo would eavesdrop. Kirabo ran to the road and called back, “I am over here by the road, Jjajja.”
At first, no noise came out of Nsuuta’s house. But then voices, harsh whispers, rose and fell. Then Grandmother tore out of Nsuuta’s door. Nsuuta appeared after her with the satisfied look of a family cat which had hissed the nosy dog out of the house.
“That heart of yours, wrapped in hate, is taking you to hell, Alikisa.”
“It is Muka Miiro to you.”
“Ha,” Nsuuta laughed scornfully. “You have turned that name into a song—Muka Miiro, Muka Miiro, Muka Miiro. As if you were the first bride ever. Go Muka Miiro yourself somewhere they don’t know the truth.”
“What did you say, Nsuuta?” Grandmother’s voice caught. Nsuuta kept quiet. Gra
ndmother grabbed Kirabo’s hand; her grasp was handcuffs. When they stepped on to the road, Grandmother looked back. “I am going to send this child away to the city.”
“Oh, go swallow a lake,” Nsuuta said, dismissing her.
Nsuuta’s verbal flourishes confounded Grandmother, who was not quick with words. Nsuuta concluded with, “I recommend ash, Alikisa. It is good for selfishness. Go lick some ash.”
Grandmother walked hard, her steps pummelling the ground, her busuuti flapping. She said nothing to Kirabo. No rebuke, no How could you do this to me, your real grandmother? Kirabo wanted to bite and flog herself for the pain she had caused. She did not deserve her grandparents, or her mother. Nsuuta’s audacity had reached the beyond.
She was thanking God for the empty road when the ugly nose of Kabuye’s Morris Minor came around the corner. Kirabo deserved any punishment, but not Sio. Let that boy not be in the car, please God, not today, she prayed. But she could see his head, like a shadow, in the back. She felt her feet go cold. Then the coldness climbed up her legs. The car came down. Slowly. Sio saw Grandmother drag her as if she was about to flog her, and his jaw dropped. The car crawled. Sio turned and stared through the back window. Kirabo expected him to make the praying mantis sign—You deserve what is coming to you—but his mouth remained open until their car disappeared.
•
Grandfather was standing by the poultry barn of the Zungu chickens when they arrived. Instead of asking what was going on, his face fell as if he had been part of Kirabo’s plot to visit Nsuuta all along. Grandmother dragged Kirabo into the kitchen, but instead of getting a stick to whip her bottom, she let go of her hand. Kneeling before the hearth, even though the fire cooking supper burned steadily, Grandmother blew and blew, and the fire roared and roared until she ran out of breath. Then she stood up, stormed out of the kitchen, across the yard, past Grandfather. She picked a pan off the dish-draining katandalo constructed on the side of the kitchen. As she whizzed past Grandfather she said, “Kirabo’s going to the city.”
A Girl is a Body of Water Page 7
