A Girl is a Body of Water

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Look after my grandchild.”

  “And you, Kirabo?”

  “Yes, Jjajja?”

  “Stay here with your aunt, child. You will not manage to live among these educated marriages of nowadays. As for you, Tom, this is free advice. Never let your Maama Muto find out you called your wife a mujinni. She might pull your cheeks.”

  Both Aunt Abi and Tom stood up, then looked at each other. “I will drive Mother home,” Aunt Abi offered.

  “Did you bring me? I will find my own way.”

  Tom threw his arms up in defeat. Grandmother stormed out, her black plastic sandals slap-slapping her feet. Aunt Abi, then Kirabo, ran after her and opened the back yard gate. They walked behind her through the alleyway, but when they got to the front yard, Aunt Abi realised it was no use walking with Grandmother. She said, “See everyone for us, Mother, especially Father.”

  Grandmother relented. “I will see them for you.” She paused. “Don’t worry, Abisaagi. I don’t see why you should drive me to Nattetta and then drive back, wasting fuel, when the Baganda buses are down the road. Be well, Kirabo.” She walked away.

  When Aunt Abi and Kirabo got back into the house, Tom exploded. “What is wrong with Mother?”

  “Old people,” Aunt Abi sighed, “they are incomprehensible.”

  “What did I do wrong? Nnambi left me no choice.”

  Aunt Abi shrugged.

  “I don’t know what to do. Really, I don’t.”

  “Maybe Mother feels guilty that she has loved you too much.” Aunt Abi tried to lighten the mood. But Tom had lost his sense of humour.

  “So you set her on me?”

  “Look, Tom, all I did was send a message home that your marriage is dying. The next thing I see, Mother is at my office. She says, ‘Take me to Tom’s house, right away.’ I thought she was going to tune Nnambi straight. If I kept quiet and she had heard it in rumours she would have said, And you, Abi—to keep quiet while your brother’s marriage died?”

  “Did you tell her what actually happened?”

  “I did, but she didn’t say a word. I thought, hmm, that is old people for you. When something is too much, they keep quiet.”

  “Nnambi is going to grow tentacles all over the place.”

  “No one is going to step into your house again.”

  “Kirabo,” Tom said, turning to her. “You will stay here for the time being, while we sort things out.”

  Kirabo did not look at him. There was no “for the time being” about the situation. She would never return to his house.

  “My house is your home. You know that.”

  “I know,” she lied. She could not help feeling sorry for him. His home was Mwagale’s, little Tommy’s, and their mummy’s. Even Nnaki belonged there more than she did. Life in the city was upside down. In Nattetta, a woman daring to throw a man’s child out of his house? How? It made Tom look weak. In her childhood bragging contests, Kirabo would claim that Tom would knock out Lance the Spearman with his hands tied behind his back. And if Ntaate insisted his father would lick James Bond, she would say Tom would take Bruce Lee, James Bond, and Lance the Spear at once while lying on the ground. But now, looking at him so defeated he could not protect his child from a mere wife, Kirabo felt her heart twist.

  “If I were you, Tom, I would write my will right now.”

  “That is morbid, Abi. To write a will is to invite death.” He turned to Kirabo. “Home is a funny thing, is it not? I might call that place in Bugoloobi home, but when people ask me where my home is I say, ‘Nattetta with Miiro.’ All these are places we live at, but Nattetta, where our kin alive and asleep are, is our true home.”

  Kirabo wondered what he was talking about. In Kampala, a child belonged in her parents’ home. The way she saw things, she could never have a home in that sense. She had no mother, and Tom was a part-time dad.

  That night Tom drove back to his house to collect the clothes he would wear to work during the week. He came back to Old Kampala to spend the rest of the week with Kirabo and Aunt Abi. He would drop in at Bugoloobi to check on Tommy and Mwagale and then drive back to Old Kampala. As the weeks passed and the wider family found out what had happened, there was such anger that Kirabo wondered whether Nnambi slept at night. Relatives, however distant, cousins who had once lived in Miiro’s house, came to Aunt Abi’s asking, “Is it true? I came to hear it for myself.” Aunt YA said, “For me, it will take something huge to drag me to Tom’s house again.” Even quiet Uncle Ndiira shook his head: “Of all the women in the world, Tom married a mujinni.”

  Even before this incident, the wider family had nursed a grudge against Nnambi. Apparently, before their wedding, Nnambi was a nice, sociable girlfriend:

  “So beautiful you looked at her and agreed that Tom had made the right choice.”

  “Kdto, what you didn’t know was that something sinister lurked underneath that beauty.”

  “Indeed. Then Tom married her and brought her home. In that instant, Nnambi changed.”

  “That woman came with an agenda, to isolate Tom from his family.”

  “She commenced torturing him immediately.”

  Apparently, no sooner had Nnambi’s aunt led her out of the honeymoon bedroom than she grabbed a broom and swept out all the I am Tom’s brother, sister, cousin-sister, cousin-brother, village-mate, and I live with him because he is paying my school fees and he has a big empty house hangers-on. “Bugoloobi is not Nattetta,” Nnambi told them. “We don’t have a matooke plantation in the back garden. Food costs money.”

  When reports about Nnambi’s behaviour reached Nattetta, Miiro told them, “Get out of there; leave them alone.”

  But for the young generation, a grudge brewed. Beneath the smiles, they kept a hostile eye on Nnambi. Now the whole clan was simmering.

  •

  Soon after she left Tom’s house, Kirabo’s PLE results came out. Two weeks later, a letter of admission to St. Theresa’s Girls’ School arrived. From that point on, Kirabo’s mind was focused on St. Theresa’s. Everyone said she was lucky to go to a girls’ boarding school. St. Theresa’s, run by women, was renowned as a haven for girls. It was a ticket to success. Her future was secured.

  The list of things to take was ridiculous. St. Theresa’s had apologised for the amount of provisions they asked students to bring, but they were afraid in the current economic conditions the school was no longer able to supply necessities like soap for the laundry or the bath, toilet paper, mattresses and other bedding, flat irons, peeling knives, forks, spoons, plates, and the like. Luckily, Tom’s sense of guilt indulged Kirabo. Every day, Aunt Abi came home with more items. Kirabo’s bedroom looked as if she was moving house. Tom spent most of his evenings with them. Some nights as well. For Kirabo, whenever they went out together for a meal, she imagined they looked a bit like that family in the OMO-Kimbo-Blue Band-Colgate-Jik-Vim advert.

  •

  After twenty minutes of driving, they came to the Busega roundabout and Tom took the road to Mityana. The world outside the car, the towns of Bulenga and Buloba, looked like Nazigo—a few shops half asleep on either side of the road; tiny market stalls selling jackfruit, sugar cane, mangoes, and spinach varieties; children walking barefoot; goats tethered at the roadside. Then stretches and stretches of bush. Once in a while there were swamps covered in papyrus and yams. Like most routes, the drive was a careful negotiation between potholes. On the car radio, Prince Nico Mbarga crooned about his sweet mother and how she suffered for him. Tom and Abi chatted about a cousin involved in magendo, the black market. It was from him that they got things like sugar, margarine, and biscuits. They were worried he was getting too rich too quickly, too visibly. But Kirabo was restless. One moment she contemplated the kind of life waiting for her at St. Theresa’s, the next she was thinking about Sio. She had immunised herself against the pain of him, but sometimes it still broke through. Had he returned to St. Mary’s for his A levels? How was he? Did he miss
her? She was sure Nattetta missed her. She imagined how proud her mother would have been when she found out Kirabo had made it to St. Theresa’s, but the next minute her outrage at Nnambi’s wickedness came flooding back. Oh, her heart stopped. Her mother could be a teacher at St. Theresa’s. Or her mother might have a younger sister studying at St. Theresa’s. One day the younger sister would say, You look familiar—are you Kirabo, my sister’s daughter? You look just like her.

  2

  After two hours of driving they arrived at Zigoti. It was a tiny trading centre, but St. Theresa’s signpost, towering over even the buildings, promised that the school was anything but rural. Mangled local signposts squatted around it. They attempted English: GOD REMEMBERED ME CLINIC. ZIGOTI TRUSTFUL TAILOR. DDEMBE RELIABLE DOBBI. EVEN COCKERELS WERE ONCE EGGS COBBLER.

  They turned into a murram-covered feeder road. Cars to and from the school had maddened the dust into a cloud. Kirabo rolled up the window. Five minutes on the feeder road and traffic came to a standstill. Kirabo became restless.

  “Why is the school in such a remote area?”

  “To minimise escaping.”

  “Missionaries believed cities are corrupt … morally.”

  The car crawled up a steep hillside until they finally came to the school gate, which sat at the very top of the peak. A hedge of old fir trees. The school motto welded above the gate claimed YOU EDUCATE A WOMAN, A NATION IS EDUCATED. Now Kirabo realised. The fir hedge was a facade; behind it was a high wall, topped with jagged glass shards, then barbed wire.

  They drew up to the gate and a guard waved them in.

  Kirabo tried to look excited, but her heart was tremulous. The school rolled down the hill, vast and strange, all around her. It was mostly old buildings, no-nonsense and ugly. The few modern ones seemed frivolous. Aunt Abi was turning her handbag inside out looking for Kirabo’s admission letter, pass slip, and fee payslips: “I had them in my hand, now-now.” Tom shook his head at her and lifted Kirabo’s wooden trunk out of the boot. Then her cardboard suitcase. Kirabo still gawked at the school. Aunt Abi found the forms. They were in the glove compartment. She smiled: I knew I had them. They started towards the queue, past an ancient building labelled SANATORIUM. A plaque on the wall said

  This school was opened by Sister Superior Ste Foi

  (Missionary Sisters of Our Lady of Africa)

  On this day, the 16th February 1909 Anno domine.

  “Mending BUganda’s Broken Arm”

  At the top of the registration queue a nun in a blue dress and coif registered the students. Kirabo watched mothers fussing over daughters. In the car park, parents drove sleek cars and lifted out posh pieces of luggage, undermining the nuns’ attempt to muffle class differences through uniform. Even things like a watch or an English accent stuck out.

  Their turn came. Tom handed over the admission letter. The nun consulted a list on her desk and ticked off Kirabo’s name. She got out a form and started filling it in: “Name, please?”

  “Kirabo Nnamiiro.”

  “Christian name?”

  Silence.

  Then Tom answered, “Kirabo.”

  The nun looked up. “Sir, there are Christian names without biblical roots, but ‘Kirabo’ is not one of them.”

  “That is all she has.”

  “Baptised?”

  “Yes.”

  “Religion?”

  “Protestant … Anglican.”

  The nun stole a No wonder look at him.

  “Family name?”

  Kirabo had never heard of such a thing. Everyone had their own name. Tom’s reply astounded her.

  “Miiro.”

  Kirabo glared: That is a masculine name.

  “Father’s name?”

  “Tomusange Piitu … Miiro.”

  “Mother? Is she Miiro as well?”

  “Nnakku.”

  Kirabo froze.

  “Mother’s Christian name?”

  “Lovinca.”

  Kirabo almost choked from holding her breath. The nun glanced at Aunt Abi. Then at her naked ring finger. Aunt Abi smiled. “He is my brother.” The nun glanced at Tom’s wedding ring. Tom glared: Don’t you start.

  Nnakku Lovinca, Lovinca Nnakku. Kirabo inhaled. Lovinca Nnakku Catholic? Nnakku Lovinca. Her heart beat so fast she was quivering. Nnakku was of the Ffumbe clan like Nnambi. Tom must have found sweetness in Ffumbe women. Then her heart ruptured—Sio was not of her mother’s clan—and she almost wiggled her bottom in glee. This was a promising start to the new school. Finding her mother had just become easier. Her mother’s face even began to take form in her mind.

  “Kirabo Miiro,” the nun smiled, “welcome to St. Theresa’s. Take your luggage to Sister Mary Francis for checking.” She pointed at another nun dressed like her but European.

  As they walked away Kirabo whispered, “Won’t our feminine names die away?”

  “Even boys’ will dwindle,” Tom said. “Can you imagine if Father’s generation was called Luutu, our generation Luutu, your generation Luutu? But that is being international for you.”

  Aunt Abi was upbeat. “On the other hand, with a masculine name, it is not immediately clear you have failed to get married.”

  Kirabo smiled.

  Just then a priest, white, joined the nun at the top of the queue. He was very old but sprightly. He was the first male school official Kirabo had ever seen. He held his hands as if in a posture of prayer or apology: I am sorry I am a man, but you need a chaplain. He whispered to the nun and she whispered back. As he left, he greeted them: “Mulimutiya bbana bbangi?” Somehow the priest greeting and calling them his children melted the anxiety in the air.

  When their turn came, the nun ticked off the items as Tom showed them to her. The hoe and knife were put aside, not allowed in the dormitories. When they were done, the nun rummaged through a box and took out a card.

  “Nunciata?”

  A woman rushed from under a royal palm.

  “Take Kirabo to Muhumuza House, Dorm M1A.” Then to Tom she said, “I am afraid men are not allowed in the dormitory area.”

  Tom put down the trunk and glared at the nun. Her smile said I am used to that look, young man, but you’re going nowhere.

  Kirabo carried the wooden trunk containing her snacks. The trunk had belonged to Miiro when he was in college; he had sent it when he heard she was going to boarding school. Nunciata carried the foam mattress. Aunt Abi carried the cardboard suitcase. They walked down the hill. Here, the school was silent. Kirabo peered into the classrooms. The continuing students had started a week earlier. Opposite, a white double-storeyed building marked CONVENT was shrouded by a high hedge. She lugged the trunk again past a wooden barn marked CARPENTRY, past Harriet Tubman House, consisting of four blocks built around a square lawn. She rested the trunk outside Yaa Asantewaa House and blew on her aching fingers.

  “Here we are,” Nunciata called from down the hill. She and Aunt Abi had arrived at Muhumuza House. Kirabo heaved the trunk by its brass handles and lugged it down the hill. She rested it outside the door. “Your dorm: M1A.” Nunciata started to show her around the Muhumuza compound. “That building on the left is the A-level block. That one”—she pointed at a block across the quadrangle—“has the bathrooms, toilets, and laundry room. That one on the right is the O-level candidates’ block.” Kirabo stared at the long building where her dorm was the first room. “There are other new students here already,” Nunciata said, as she led them inside. “You can start making friends.” The room was packed with bunk beds. The floor was mosaic ceramics—those tiny-tiny ones in different colours. High roof, no ceiling. Arched windows like a church. The windowsills were so wide and low you could sit on them.

  “Choose any empty bed you want,” Nunciata said.

  The new girls perched on the top bunks, their anxiety palpable. Only one of them spoke, the one with an American accent. Others were half listening to her, half watching Kirabo. Kirabo noticed a very dark girl staring at her as if they had met
before. She looked away. Kirabo pointed at a bed. “There, that one.”

  “Next to a window?” Aunt Abi frowned. “It could get draughty at night.”

  “It’s the one I want.”

  Kirabo heaved her mattress on to the top bunk and Aunt Abi helped her make it. Afterwards, when she walked back up the hill to the car park with Aunt Abi to say goodbye to Tom, she tried to be brave. Tom kept a straight face. “Stay well and work hard.” Aunt Abi did the emotions. “You’ll be fine,” she fussed, as she buttoned Kirabo’s shirt higher. “The first day is the hardest, but you’ll soon forget us.” She patted Kirabo’s collar in place. “Handle your pocket money carefully. Keep your keys in your bag.” Then she smiled, “You are going to like this school, I can see it.”

  As he got into the car Tom called out, “A good report is all I ask for.” But Aunt Abi promised, “Visitors’ Day is on the last Sunday of the month: we will bring home-made food.”

  For the second time, Tom drove away leaving her alone to face the world. Only this time he would not be coming home in the evening.

  She waved until the car drove out of the gate. Then she was so alone her hand pinched her lower lip repeatedly. Tears started to well up in her eyes.

  •

  A wailing siren cut through the air. Kirabo sprinted down the hill until she came to the door of her dorm.

  “That is the end-of-classes hooter,” the American girl said. Before Kirabo could work it out, a buzz came, then the big girls appeared. They came down the hill shouting, “The Bunsens are here, the Burners.” Kirabo scrambled up her bunk and by the time she settled, the girls were inside the dorm, filling the aisle and spaces between the beds. They peered at the new girls’ faces as if they were pieces of art on the wall.

  “Which one of you is my Bunsen? I own you. You are my wally.” The voice stopped short of Kirabo’s bed.