A Girl is a Body of Water

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

  Alikisa was so stung by Nsuuta’s doubt she exploded—“I won’t!”—and their hands shook, but the little fingers held.

  “Hmm hmm,” Nsuuta accepted, “because the first person to break the pact dies.”

  “I know. Or if you don’t die, the person you love most dies.”

  There was nothing to add. The girls watched the little bubbles pop and pop as the spittle shrank. When it dried, they untangled their fingers. That was when they realised what they had done. It was kutta mukago, a men’s ritual where friends became siblings by chewing coffee beans coated with each other’s blood, making their families related. For a long time the girls were silent, until the drum sounded for the end of break time and they started down the slope. The gradient of the escarpment was so steep it was impossible to walk down. It so hastened Nsuuta down and out of control she almost fell into the trenches of the new school block being built. Alikisa squatted and, holding the ground with one hand, negotiated where she put her feet, one by one, until she got to the bottom. They headed towards the shade of the tree beneath which their class was held.

  2

  At the time, Alikisa and Nsuuta thought they were eleven years old because of faulty counting. Their parents were not counting, because “Does counting the years make you live longer? When your time comes, it has come, counting or not.” The Ganda did not celebrate birthdays—“What nonsense. Children do absolutely nothing on their arrival that warrants presents every year. If anything, they should give presents to their mothers, who come close to death.”

  The first time the girls considered their age was in 1931, when they had to produce their dates of birth before baptism. Alikisa’s mother thought her daughter was born two years before the British forced Sir Apollo Kaggwa to resign as Katikkiro of Buganda, which was in 1926. That meant Alikisa was probably born in 1924. But which month? To the best of her mother’s memory, it felt like Alikisa was born in the later months of the year. She counted the European months—Sebutemba, Okitoba, Novemba. It could not be Desemba because by the time they ate Ssekukkulu that year, Alikisa could sit—or was she crawling? Whichever way she looked at it, Alikisa was at least three months old by the time they ate Christmas. She counted back from December and landed on September. She decided that Alikisa was born in September 1924. The day was easy; she picked randomly—What is the difference? It is the same month. She picked the eighth. Wondering why the church was so hung up on the exactness of numbers, she gave 08/09/24 as Alikisa’s date of birth. But she was the catechist’s wife; she had to show that she was a proper Christian. The date was entered into the church records.

  Because Alikisa’s mother had an exact date, Nsuuta ran home to get hers. Her mother, who had twelve children at the time and had never heard of the European calendar, sucked her teeth. “Do I look like I have nothing better to do?” Nsuuta tried her father. He was perplexed. “Was I there when you were being born? Tsk, children of nowadays.”

  If Nsuuta told her parents that she could not be baptised without a date of birth, her mother would huff Was I baptised? Don’t I eat, don’t I sleep? and threaten to withdraw her from school: That kachurch is beginning to own our lives. Thus, by the time Nsuuta arrived at school the following morning, she was the same age as Alikisa. After all, they were in the same class and the same size. But because she was slightly taller, she had to be older. The date of 2 January 1924 was presented to the church. This was the earliest she could have been born without raising Alikisa’s suspicions.

  Nsuuta was baptised Bibiyana, while Alikisa was named Lozi in Christ.

  In 1931, when the girls first counted their age, they counted their year of birth as well. Thus, they were both eight. Recently, with both hands folded into fists, Nsuuta had counted again by unfolding a finger at a time and touching it on her chin. Once again, she counted the birth year—“1924, 1925, ’26, ’27, ’28, ’29, ’30, ’31, ’32, ’33 …” She ran out of fingers. She turned to her feet and stuck out the male toe on the right. “We are in 1934?” she asked Alikisa.

  “Yes.”

  “I am already eleven, walking my twelfth year because I was born in Janwari. But you will have to wait until Sebutemba.” Seeing Alikisa’s fallen face, Nsuuta added, “Don’t worry, this is Juuni,” and counted on her fingers: “Juuni, Julaayi, Agusto, Sebutemba: four months and you will be walking your twelfth too.”

  “Kdto,” Alikisa clicked. She was fed up of being behind Nsuuta in everything.

  For eleven-year-old girls, marriage was three, four years away if you were pretty and wealthy people were watching you for their sons. Everywhere girls of the same age group had begun to discuss marriage, since, as soon as your moon arrived, time started to run against your market value. Once your breasts leaned on your chest, you were ready. One, two years of bleeding and you were married. Three, four years if you were not attractive and your parents had to negotiate with prospective husbands. Five years of bleeding in your parents’ home? Kdto. You were pawned to poor or old or disabled men to save face. At your wedding people danced more out of relief than joy. Fathers and their sisters sourced suitors, vetting for diseases, conditions, behavioural issues, or any potential blood relationships. When they were satisfied, the suitor paid a viewing visit. Nsuuta had seen it happen to her sisters. A month before a suitor visited, her sister would stop doing chores, was kept away from the sun, then pampered with herbal baths and ointments and then fed sumptuously to put some flesh on her bones. It was done on the sly in case the plan fell through. You did not want the world to know that three, four viewings had come to nothing. Then the suitor arrived, and you peered feverishly to catch a glimpse of him. Then you were called to the diiro full of aunts and uncles and told, This is the person we told you about. Look at him carefully.

  Some girls came out excited: “He has won me: he is the very one.” Some breathed fire: “He will have to bring a rope to drag me to his house …” “Did you see how wild his teeth are …” “I am not breeding that nose …” Some were unsure: “If grown-ups say he is the one, then he is the one.” Thus, if Alikisa and Nsuuta were going to step into the terrible rest-of-their-lives called marriage, taking a best friend along was a good strategy.

  3

  After school, the girls ran across the PE field and joined the deeply rutted track that ran through the villages to walk home. Two months ago, the track had been made wider because there was increased use by lumber trucks carrying ndodo logs from Busoga, and of course Nsuuta’s grandfather’s motorcycle. The frequency of lumber trucks was attracting other locomotive traffic travelling east. There was a sense that the region was awakening from national obscurity.

  As they passed the master’s house, the wind blew and Alikisa glanced at the sky. Rain was coming but the clouds were still far off. They carried on walking unhurriedly. From the look of the sky, Nsuuta would get home before the rain started. Then Alikisa noticed drips of black oil on the grassy island in the middle of the track.

  “Watch your legs, Nsuuta; there is oil on the grass.”

  Nsuuta stepped away: oil was hard to wash off. She frowned at the fresh-looking oil. “I did not see this truck go down the road. Did you?”

  “No; could be your Grandfather’s pikipiki.”

  “No, he has not travelled. Might have been a truck that went down in the night.”

  The girls did not see rain clouds gather. By the time the wind intensified, Nsuuta, who lived in Kamuli, would not be able to outrun the rain. She decided to take shelter at Alikisa’s home until the rain stopped. As they turned into the walkway leading to Alikisa’s home, Nsuuta caught a sound and grabbed her friend’s hand. They stopped and listened. Beneath the wind was a faint groan. The girls looked at each other, then screamed, “It is coming; the ndodo truck is coming!” Despite the threat of rain, they ran back to the road, and as soon as the head of the truck appeared, they jumped up and down, singing, “Gyamera gyene tema butemi, gyamera gyene tema butemi.” The truck was so slow the boys ran alongside, also sh
rieking, “Gyamera gyene, tema butemi.” The incline on Nattetta Hill was long and steep. It became a killer as you got closer to the top. Sometimes a lumber truck failed and died. One time, a truck failed like that and came down backwards without brakes. It overturned across the road and it took a whole week for the breakdown service to come and turn it over.

  The truck agonised, getting slower and louder. When the girls could see the whole truck, they turned and shook their bottoms at it: “Gyamera gyene tema butemi, gyamera gyene tema butemi.” When it got so close they could see the men in the cabin, the girls started to hurl English insults:

  “No senzi yu, no senzi atol.” Nsuuta pointed to her head.

  “Yeahshi, yeahshi,” Alikisa agreed, “no komonisenzi atol.”

  “Sile baaga yu.”

  “Taaf.”

  They had no idea what the words meant, but who cared?

  “Taafru yu.”

  “Fakini.”

  “Fakineelo.”

  “Bastade.”

  “Bulade.”

  “Bulade bastadde.”

  “Fuul.”

  “Buladefuul.”

  “Booyi, booyi.”

  By the time they ran out of colonial insults, the truck was upon them. Three huge ndodo logs were fastened at the back. They could make out rings and rings of tree age, like waves, where the wood had been cut. Two lumberjacks sitting on the logs smiled and waved. The girls waved back, happy to have got a response. Soon the thick smoke from the exhaust pipe shrouded the view. More oil on the grassy island. When the truck reached the hilltop, the noise paused for a heartbeat. Then the engine made an explosion and a plume of black smoke blew into the air. The girls cheered and clapped. As if its agony was gone, the truck sped down the other side of the hill with barely a sound.

  Nsuuta turned to Alikisa as they skipped towards the house. “Do you know where the chant ‘Gyamera gyene’ comes from?”

  “No.”

  “It is from Busoga. After we Gandas had sold all our old trees to Europeans for timber, we went to Busoga. At the time, the Soga had no idea you could make money out of selling trees. Ganda men would spy old trees—mivule, mituba, and even nnongo—and approach the Soga who lived on the land: Sir, do you need that tree? No, the Soga would reply. Can we cut it down then? The Soga would wave them on with a Gyamera gyene, tema butemi, meaning the trees grew by themselves, just cut them down.”

  “What?”

  “For years Ganda men have paid the Soga for their old trees with laughter. But they have wised up. Now they call us thieves, Ebiganda biibi. By the way, never laugh at the Soga in my home.”

  “Why?”

  “Can you keep a secret?” Now that they were siblings, Nsuuta felt she could trust Alikisa with a bit of her innermost secret. But the wind had got so loud they had to shout.

  “Come.” Alikisa grabbed her hand and they ran.

  Alikisa’s home was quiet. Nsuuta looked around at the emptiness, marvelling at the silence. Such quiet would never happen at her home. Not with three mothers and so many siblings it felt like school. Then there were the regionals who camped in the courtyard for weeks waiting for their turn to consult with her father.

  “I think Mother and the boys have gone to the Mothers’ Union,” Alikisa explained, noticing Nsuuta’s surprise at the silence. “Father is helping the master to teach the big boys.”

  The rain started. The girls stood by the door watching it. Nsuuta began, “It happened a long time ago, before my father was born, when this entire region was wilderness. My grandfather was a warrior then.”

  “That Ssaza chief with a pikipiki?”

  “Yes, he and his bambowa used to carry out raids in Busoga. They raided animals and—please never tell—women.”

  “What?” To Alikisa, only foreigners raided humans. Even then they belonged in scary folk tales. She did not know what to say.

  “Whenever they returned from their raids, Grandfather would take his pick first, of animals, skins, tusks, and women he fancied. You know those wives he has?”

  Alikisa nodded.

  “There were a lot more many, many years ago.”

  “More than that?”

  “That is nothing. Father says that in his young days Grandfather had a harem. Most women were Basoga. In fact, most of my uncles and aunts have Soga blood.”

  “You mean some of your grandmothers were loot?”

  “Most of them have died. Only seven remain.”

  Alikisa clasped her mouth like a grown-up. To her, Nsuuta’s grandfather was like those brown tenna balls. Small and tight. He would bounce if you dropped him. The kind of man to sprout mushrooms on his back before he succumbed to senescence. By her reckoning, he was eighty but rode his motorcycle as if half his age.

  “But most were sold.”

  “Don’t say that, Nsuuta.” Alikisa was horrified.

  “Arabs took them to Buwarab. They preferred women and children slaves to men because they did not give them trouble. If you were beautiful and my grandfather or other warriors picked you, then you were lucky. But if you became troublesome and tried to escape, you were sold.”

  “Did Arabs marry the women they took?”

  “I have heard that some were taken as wife-slaves, but most were work-slaves.” Now she looked around to make sure no one was around. “Do you know what Arabs did to the boys?”

  “No.” Alikisa clenched against the horror she knew was coming.

  “They cut off their garden eggs, so they would not make children with their women when they grew up.”

  Alikisa wanted to say Nsuuta, you lie too much: we Ganda would never do that to a fellow human. But a small voice in her head reminded her that Nsuuta was the daughter of a Muluka chief and the grandchild of the Ssaza chief. She was privy to this kind of information. Still, she was not going to believe any Ganda had sold a human being. It was only the Nyoro, the worst humans in the world, who sold fellow humans.

  “But you said your grandmothers tell stories: How can they, when they are living in abduction?”

  “Maybe storytelling kills the pain; maybe they got tired of being in pain. They know things. If you are lucky and you catch them in the mood for talking, they will tell you things. They know all about humans, how we started to own the world, how women became property, how children came to belong to fathers even though they grow in our stomachs.”

  Alikisa glanced at Nsuuta, at her impossible beauty, and felt the familiar envy rise within her. Even in the worst moments of inhumanity, Nsuuta’s beauty would save her from savagery. Nsuuta would marry her abductor or her slaver and find refuge in her children. Alikisa, on the other hand, would be sold to the Arab animals. She stole another glance at Nsuuta. Was Nsuuta aware that her beauty had been plundered from somewhere? A gust of wind blew the rain where they stood and an idea occurred to her. “Let’s shower in the rain.”

  “Oh yes.” The idea dispelled Nsuuta’s gloom.

  “Wait here.” Alikisa ran to the bedrooms and came back with a tablet of blue Dimi lya Ngombe soap. She pulled off her clothes, flung them on the floor, and stepped out on the verandah. Reaching into the rain, she wetted the soap and rubbed some in her hair, and into her loofah sponge. She scrubbed her body until it was covered in soapsuds. Meanwhile, Nsuuta had stripped, folded her clothes, and put them away on a chair. In a crowded home like hers, if you threw your clothes anywhere it was impossible to find them again. The girls shared Alikisa’s loofah sponge. When Nsuuta was done scrubbing her skin, Alikisa called, “Ready?”

  Nsuuta’s “ready” was feverish.

  “Are you scared?”

  “No.” Nsuuta had never seen Alikisa’s eyes shine so.

  “I will count to three and we will jump.”

  Nsuuta still shrieked in agony, but the rain was too heavy for the shock to last. They ran around the compound squealing and yelping, soap from their hair running into their eyes, stinging and making them red. They sang and clapped, danced and skipped. Nsuuta had never known
the sheer joy and freedom of running naked, singing and dancing while rain washed her body under the open sky. When the rain eased, they ran back into the house.

  The cold was waiting. It said Now you are mine and held so deep in their bones they squatted, hands clasped, teeth chattering, goose pimples everywhere. Alikisa got one of her mother’s barkcloth sheets and they wrapped themselves, but the cold would not let go. In the end, they pulled on their school dresses and ran to the kitchen to rekindle the fire. As they warmed up, Alikisa asked, “Have you heard about Muka Kuuku?”

  “Which Kuuku?”

  “Ssa Alibati Kuuku”—that was the only way a Ganda tongue could say “Sir Albert Cook”—“the missionary at Mmengo Hospital. You have heard of him?”

  Nsuuta hesitated. She did not know any European missionaries. In their relationship, there were two areas where Alikisa was better than her—Bible knowledge and information about Baminsani, as the Christian missionaries were called.

  “Of course I know Ssa Alibati Kuuku.”

  “His wife, Muka Kuuku, is going to start training us Ganda girls to become Indian ward maids at Mmengo Hospital. Can you imagine a hospital with Ganda Indian nurses?”

  “Do you mean we can be Indian nurses as well?” Nsuuta’s eyes shone.

  “Apparently.”

  While Alikisa marvelled at the luxury of finally being attended to by Ganda nurses, as Indian nurses were notoriously nasty and Ganda men who worked as hospital assistants were worse, Nsuuta was marvelling at becoming one. “Can you imagine being an Indian nurse and making grown-ups lift their clothes, so you prick their buttocks? I wonder how many buttocks you would see in a day?”

  “Nsuuta”—Alikisa shook her head disapprovingly—“you are rotten.”

  4

  Alikisa and Nsuuta were in lower primary now. They had stayed in school this long after baptism because of their fathers. Alikisa’s father, being a catechist, had led by example. How do you preach education when your children are not in school themselves? Nsuuta’s father wanted to fit in with chiefs in the capital who sent their daughters to sinagoogi, as schools were known at the time. The girls’ mothers were happy about their Christian names, and after all, a bit of reading and writing would raise the girls’ value on the marriage market.