The door on the right opened and a woman in a blue satin nightdress and a matching gown floated in. Her hair was done in the latest Zairois plaits—chunks wrapped tightly in black thread until they stood like spikes. When she reached the partitioning shelf-cupboard, she saw Kirabo and stopped.
“Who is this?”
Kirabo was too shocked to reply. She noticed that the hairdresser had pulled the woman’s hair so tight it had formed ebisuko bumps along the hairline.
“That is Kirabo,” Tom said without looking up.
“Which Kirabo?”
“How many Kirabos do you know?”
The woman slumped on to the sofa. For a while, she held her head in both hands as though it was too heavy for her neck. She looked vaguely familiar, but Kirabo could not place where she had seen her before. The woman lifted her head and asked, “Why was I not told?”
“This is her home.”
The woman seemed to deflate. “How long is she staying?”
Tom turned away, his body saying Don’t be tedious. But then he said, “I thought I said this is her home, or was I munching myself?” He got into some house slippers and walked through the door on the right. The woman was momentarily speechless. Then, gripping her nightie, she stormed after Tom. Nnaki, who had stopped feeding the child, stared as if she was paid for it. The little girl scrambled off the sofa and marched through the door her parents had passed through just moments before. Nnaki lifted the baby out of his high chair and they too went through the same door.
Kirabo’s isolation was complete. Her head buzzed. She looked up and saw, on a pelmet above a window, a long black-and-white wedding portrait. Tom, in a dark suit, his body slightly angled towards his bride. He looked straight at the camera, his lips pulled back in a wry smile. Kirabo felt so betrayed she could not bring herself to look at the bride.
She stood up and went to the window, noticing as she parted the curtains that her hand shook. Outside, she could not see beyond the light on the porch. She needed to step outside the house and breathe.
“What are you doing?”
Kirabo jumped. Tom had returned.
“It is not polite to peek through windows.”
She moved away. Nnaki came back without the child. She retrieved a bundle of table mats from a chest of drawers and set the table, then disappeared through the other door and came back with food in dishes and then on wide plates. When she finished, Tom asked Kirabo to join him for supper. She shook her head. Even if Tom’s wife had been welcoming, the idea of cutlery was off-putting.
“Looks like only Nnaki and I have an appetite tonight.” He turned to Kirabo. “Your mother is not feeling well.”
He ate a forkful, chewed at leisure, swallowed. Forked again, chewed, oblivious to the riot within Kirabo compounded by the statement he had just tossed at her so insouciantly: “Your mother is not feeling well.” Kirabo’s head swelled as anger piled on top of the shock and hurt and confusion. This was not what she had expected when she felt her mother draw closer. Had Nsuuta not cured her of flying, she would be raging in the winds up and down Nattetta’s road. Of course, if the witch was Tom’s wife then she was, by tradition, her “mother.” But this was too sudden, too insensitive; so unlike the way she had imagined the first moment with her mother. If the woman had been human, Kirabo would have thought maybe in time she could consider her as a mother, but not this witch of a stepmother straight out of a folk tale.
After eating, Tom thanked Nnaki and said, “Come with me, Kirabo.”
Kirabo stood up. She could not bear to look at him. His betrayal—marrying that woman and having two children with her behind Kirabo’s back—was too raw. All this time she had thought Tom was hers.
The door on the right opened into a corridor. Tom pointed to the left. “That is the toilet, that is the bathroom. The water heater is behind that door. Further down the corridor, the door on the left is our bedroom.” He turned to the right and opened the first door. “This is your bedroom. The one opposite our bedroom is Mwagale and Nnaki’s. Now, go to bed.” And with that, he disappeared down the corridor.
Kirabo stood there uncertainly. She would have preferred to sleep in the same room as Nnaki. Somehow, even though they had not spoken much, Kirabo related to the maid. Not just in age; Nnaki seemed like she too came from a village like Nattetta.
She opened the door. The bedroom was twice as large as her grandfather’s, and the bed was made like one in a hotel. On the right was a chest. She walked to it and pulled out the drawers for no reason. They were empty. She went to the wardrobe in the wall and opened the double doors. Naked hangers.
Someone knocked on her door. It was Nnaki with Kirabo’s bag. She had left it in the sitting room. Nnaki gave it to her with a “Sleep well.”
Kirabo looked at her belongings inside the bag and wrinkled her nose. The white linen Grandmother had given her, her dresses and knickers wrapped up in a green cotton kitambaala crocheted with flowers, were so rural she flung them into the wardrobe and closed the doors. Tom appeared at the door and gave her his T-shirt: “You will have to use this as a nightdress tonight.”
When he had gone, she took off her dress and put on his T-shirt. Then she stopped. What if she dreamt and wet the bed? She opened the door and ran to the toilet. For a long time, she sat on the toilet squeezing out every last drop. Finally, when noises in the house had ceased, she tiptoed across the corridor to her bedroom and turned out the lights. But the security light on the porch would not let proper darkness into her room. She lay on top of the bed and stared at the ceiling. In one evening, she had acquired a daddy, an evil stepmother, and two brats, Mwagale and Junior, for a sister and a brother? She began to understand Miiro’s warning, “We don’t want to hear choking later.” She thought back to his abrupt manner when he bade her goodbye, thought back to Nsuuta’s worry.
The money! Kirabo jumped out of bed. She turned on the light, pulled her bag out of the wardrobe, and searched it. She could not find it anywhere. She removed the tablecloth, undid the knots, picked out the items, and shook them one by one. No money. She opened the door and tiptoed to the dining area. The light was on but there was no one about. She went to the couch where she had sat. There, in the tight space between the cushions, was the money, folded. She prised it out and opened it. It was all there, in twenties and fifties. She turned to leave and there, on the settee, was Tom’s wife, staring at her. Her eyes were huge and red and puffy. Kirabo ran out of the room, jumped into her bed, covered her head, and shivered.
5
“Slept well?”
Kirabo woke up to Tom standing in the doorway, his collar up, knotting his tie. She squinted: Does he work on Saturdays? The world was too bright to be waking up. It had to be at least two hours of day. Everything was wrong. Too much space in the bedroom, the paint on the walls too bright, the silence in the house. Outside, no weaverbirds, no cockerels calling or animals bleating, not even a warble from the Zungu chicken barn. Just too many cars going too fast, too close to the house. In Nattetta you heard one car every two hours. And you did not have to see it to know which car, whose it was, unless it was a stranger.
“At around midday, your Aunt Abi will collect you to go shopping.” He adjusted his coat.
Kirabo rolled out of bed and knelt on the floor to bid him good morning, but when she looked up he was gone. She got up and sat on the bed to reorient herself. She was in Kampala. She was in Tom’s house. There was an evil stepmother outside her door with a couple of spoilt brats. And Tom, who had brought her to this place, had just abandoned her to them. For a moment she felt weak, as if she might fall asleep, but she snapped out of it. Still, she wanted to jump out of the window and run down the road to Nsuuta’s house and scream Real evil stepmothers exist; I have one. She sighed. What now? Venturing outside her door was scary. Going back to bed was lazy. Sunlight, through the window, had spilled beneath the curtains, down the wall.
She made the bed. Then lay on top of it. Then sat up. The air in her
room was tired and limp. Had Tom said Aunt Abi was coming? She looked to the window in anticipation. Aunt Abi was her favourite. She was Miiro’s second-born. Tom came after her. Aunt YA was the eldest. Uncle Ndiira was fourth and Gayi was last. In the past, whenever Kirabo had come to the city for school holidays, she had stayed with Abi in her flat in Old Kampala. Tom and Aunt Abi were very close. As close as Miiro and his horrible sister, Nsangi.
Kirabo walked to the window and peered between the curtains. The compound looked less daunting in daytime. The lawn was level; dew glistened like tears. Are those kuule shrubs? she thought, peering. Someone had just planted the tiny shrubs—some reddish, some yellow, some green—to edge the lawn and perhaps camouflage the grey kerb. Kirabo clicked. In Nattetta kuule shrubs were such a bad omen it was reckless to bring them into your home.
Eggs were frying. Kirabo’s stomach stretched noisily. She walked across the room and listened at the door. Silence. She opened the door a little. Listened again. Nothing. She opened it further, put a foot outside, and waited. Silence. As she walked towards the toilet, a woman’s voice exclaimed, “He sprung her on you without telling you?”
Kirabo held her breath.
“Like a car accident.” Tom’s wife’s voice. “I made it clear right from the start; I’m not bringing up children who are not mine, full stop. Look at Mother. Every time Father took a walk, he came back with a child. Mother reared them all. But what has she gained besides ingratitude? Me, I’m not. Besides, you accept one child today, tomorrow he brings another. Not me. It is me, my children, full stop.”
“But this one was born before—”
“It does not matter. If I had had a child, would Tom have married me?”
“It is not the same; he is a man.”
“It is the same to me.”
“The child belongs to him, this is his house, it is the clan system, you will get in trouble—”
“Is his clan running this house? I said I am not bringing her up, full stop.”
“But it is not the child’s fault.”
Kirabo edged to the door and peered into the room. A woman sat on one of the dining chairs. They must be sisters: they looked ridiculously alike. As if their parents were too lazy to make new faces. Life had not been as generous to the visitor, though. She had bleached her face, but since Amin had outlawed bleaching, the sun had reclaimed it. The new black was like a scar. Now Kirabo remembered where she had seen Tom’s wife: at Aunt YA’s wedding. She had been pregnant then. Must have been with Mwagale. Why had her grandparents not mentioned that she was Tom’s wife? Normally, they would introduce her: “Kirabo, look at this person carefully. She is your …” Why had the woman not visited Nattetta all this time? Or brought the children to see their grandparents? But then again, if Tom’s wife had made it clear that it was her and her children alone, she would not be welcome in Nattetta.
“By the way, does Nnakku visit?”
Tom’s wife snorted. “People say I have a stone for a heart, but compared to Nnakku I am an angel.”
Kirabo smiled. This Nnakku had to be ultra-wicked to make Tom’s wife an angel in comparison.
“Nnakku’s heart is the same as her mother’s.” The sister’s voice was high-pitched. “That Jjali, everybody says it. By the way, where is she?”
“Who, Nnakku or her mother Jjali?”
“Kirabo.”
“Still in bed. Probably she is used to being woken up by Miiro. Nnaki?” Tom’s wife called, “Can you wake that girl up? We don’t want her dying in bed.”
Kirabo ran back to the bedroom, jumped into bed, and closed her eyes. The door opened. Nnaki hurried in and shook her. “Kirabo, Kirabo, breakfast is ready.”
“Oh.” Kirabo sat up. “I am sorry I overslept. What time is it?”
“Coming to four hours of morning.”
Kirabo gasped shame.
“You went to bed late.” Nnaki drew back the curtains and opened the shutters. The morning air was cool and fresh. Kirabo rushed to the bathroom to wash her face, then changed. When she could not put it off any longer, she opened the door to the dining room. The women turned towards her. Tom’s wife looked away, as if her husband’s mistress had just walked in. Kirabo knelt to bid them good morning.
“Oh, Kirabo,” the visitor gushed, “how you have grown.” She turned to her sister. “She has taken after Tom’s height, has she not?”
Tom’s wife ignored her. Kirabo’s smile started to hurt.
“I see happy times in the future.” The woman winked. “That is all we old women think of. Happiness that our children are married.”
Kirabo’s smile vanished. As she stepped into the kitchen, she heard the visitor whisper, “She got the eyes?”
“She has everything—the heart too, I suspect.”
“Maama, they are grown-up eyes. If they could kill, I would be lifeless on the floor right now.”
“See what I will have to put up with?”
“I was going to take your breakfast to the table,” Nnaki said, bringing Kirabo’s mind back to the kitchen.
“Like I don’t have hands?” Kirabo smiled. She was eager to show Nnaki that she had rural etiquette.
As Nnaki put her breakfast on a tray, Kirabo looked around the kitchen. Everything sparkled so clean and white you could eat off the floor. Forget smoke, soot, and ash in Grandmother’s kitchen. There was no going to the well in this home, no firewood. Life in Tom’s house seemed so lazy; Kirabo imagined a people who woke up, laid their hands on their laps, and yawned I think I am hungry. Grandmother would have a fit.
Breakfast was maize-meal porridge with milk and sugar. Then TipTop bread with Blue Band margarine. Sugar so thrilled Kirabo’s tongue that had she been in Nattetta she would have asked for more porridge. She could not remember when they had last tasted sugar or bread or margarine in Nattetta. It was as if the disappearance of necessities from the shops had not affected people in the city. In Nattetta you ate sweet potatoes with tea to render it sweet. Soap and cooking oil had to be rationed. Now, it seemed as if European embargoes on Uganda had not affected everyone equally. Breakfast was so lovely Kirabo dismissed not having the fried eggs which she saw Mwagale eating.
From the vantage of the dining table, Kirabo studied Tom’s wife. She was probably beautiful if you liked chiselled features—chin, nose, and cheekbones—and pale skin. But tiny beads of sweat had formed on the bridge of her nose: a sign of a quarrelsome disposition. She and her sister had large eyes, but Muka Tom’s were slanted like a snake’s.
After eating, Kirabo took her tray to the kitchen and began to wash the dishes. Mwagale brought her cup and plate. Kirabo smiled. Whatever their mother’s faults, the children were blood. And Kirabo, being the eldest, had to act it. But as she reached for the cup, Mwagale threw it into the sink and ran. Then she came back to the door and shouted, “You are not my sister. Go back where you come from.”
Kirabo stood still, then bit into her lower lip.
Nnaki clicked in disgust. Then she drew close to Kirabo and whispered, “She may deny all she wants, but the two of you are like two ten-cent coins.”
Kirabo was too vexed to pay attention to Nnaki’s comment. In Nattetta, she would have gone after the imp and put her in her proper place with a wagging finger and a few sharp words.
“Mwagale,” Muka Tom called. “What are you provoking that girl for? Do we not have enough trouble as it is? If she hits you, don’t come crying to me.”
That settled it. After the dishes, Kirabo went back to her bedroom.
•
When Kirabo saw Aunt Abi’s yellow Fiat drive in, she ran out of the house screaming, the way she used to in Nattetta. For the first time, she noticed that Aunt Abi looked like Grandmother did in her wedding picture. Apart from her big Afro, she was as skinny, with the same skin tone. Only her voice, so much higher than Grandmother’s, was different. She wore an Amin, leave me alone maxi dress, the fashion after the president had banned short skirts. After hugging Kirabo, Aunt Abi a
sked, “Where is your mother?”
“Which one?”
“You know who I mean—Nnambi.”
“Nnambi?” Kirabo looked at Aunt Abi incredulously. “That is Muka Tom’s name. What blasphemy.”
“I tell you, child.” Aunt Abi humoured her.
“Maybe,” Kirabo laughed, “she missed the class about Kintu ne Nnambi in primary school …”
“Maybe she is rebelling against the name.” Aunt Abi talked to Kirabo as if they were the same age.
“She went to town with her sister.”
“Thank God. Get in the car.” As she drove away Aunt Abi asked, “So, how did Muka Tom take your arrival?”
“Like swallowing live soldier ants.”
“Good. Let her see the sun. She is possessive, that woman. Finally, Tom is being a man—”
“But you people,” Kirabo interrupted heatedly, “where is my mother? I ask this one—I don’t know, I ask that one—I don’t know. Who knows?”
“You are asking the wrong person, Kirabo. Me, I saw nothing. I was in boarding school when Tom arrived home with a baby. When I came home and saw you, I said, ‘This one is mine.’ I bathed you, washed your clothes, fed you, everything. Until Mother insisted that YA and I take turns. But you have always been mine—everyone knows it.”
Kirabo leaned over and put her head on Aunt Abi’s hand to say I love you too. But she realised she would never ask Aunt Abi again.
“Tell me,” Aunt Abi asked, “how was Nattetta when you left: Is Widow Diba still Widow Diba?”
“That woman has an axe for a tongue.”
A Girl is a Body of Water Page 12
