“I want you to try reading certain characters in my play,” says Mr. Makuba. “Charles, you will play the Sub-County Chief. You should be able to do that well.”
“But, sir, it is disrespectful. I do not want to mock my father.”
“Why would you mock him, Charles? Acting is respectful. It is a way of honouring people if it is done seriously. And it is not your father. My character is only one example of a Sub-County Chief.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” says Charles, “but I’ll try.”
“If it makes you uncomfortable, then I will not insist you do it, but you know best the world of a Sub-County Chief and I thought you might enjoy the role.”
“Yes sir,” he repeats. “I will try, sir.”
Charles begins to sense that acting, as Mr. Makuba has told them, is more than just pretending, more than just learning lines and avoiding the scenery. Rehearsals begin. Improvisations.
“Imagine,” says Mr. Makuba, “that the Sub-County Chief is holding audience and one of his petitioners comes with a complaint about a neighbour’s cow which has been trampling on her garden.”
Julia, as the complaining woman, pleads that her husband is ill and she cannot repair the cow’s damage. The cow’s owner says that he does not have time to watch the cow. The garden is very close to his property. The petitioners turn to Charles, the Sub-County Chief. He must decide what is to be done.
Charles creeps his way into the character, timidly at first, slowly trying on the idea of control, of making decisions for others. It is new to him. It is what adults do. And not even all adults.
“Imagine you are sitting on your special judging chair,” says Mr. Makuba, pushing his own teacher’s chair towards Charles. Once seated, Charles feels different, taller, more visible. When he opens his mouth to speak, he realizes he is someone else. “Your people are listening to you,” whispers the teacher to him. Charles likes that.
Sub-County Chief Charles makes a decision that will benefit both petitioners. Everyone in the village will be asked to help build a fence to keep out the cow. How could the village not want to help Julia? Both neighbours are satisfied with Charles’ improvised decision and Julia’s character, before backing away, sends a special little ray of thanks from her angel face, directly to her benefactor. A light that only he can see.
“That,” says Mr. Makuba,” is effective performance. You both used your heads and your hearts. We all have instincts. They can help us in our improvisations, in our role playing. ”
The possibility of playing anyone, of living any kind of life, thrills Charles.
Mr. Makuba now brings them the play itself, the first in what he says will be a weekly series about young people growing up in Uganda. The Drama Club is excited. Radio Uganda agrees to broadcast the student performances. Charles is now heard from one end of the country to the other. For many Sunday nights.
Everyone in school listens to the radio sitcom — based on the life of a Sub-County Chief and his endless tribulations, his struggles to keep the younger generation in line.
Kanyunya and Kekinoni listen as well and laugh at the comic comings and goings of the petitioners and their problems. They recognize themselves in the agitated voice of their son and raucous arguments, in the songs, in the drums.
With this work, Charles also begins to make money for the first time in his life. The equivalent of what would be a month’s pay for most people. Honoraria the radio station calls it. He sends it back home in the form of gifts — an expensive shirt for his father and a Swiss watch. A special pot for his mother.
For thirteen weeks, Mr. Makuba’s plays are done live from the stuffy studios of Radio Uganda in downtown Kampala.
The group is so absorbed in their paid acting, that they barely notice how the dark blue walls of their protected sound booths are quickly disappearing behind dozens of political posters. The Uganda People’s Congress has a key as its symbol. The Democratic Party is represented by trees.
Charles does not follow the political arguments himself but, living in an overcrowded city, he knows instinctively he wants trees and so he paints trees on his bicycle. He has often ridden through the muddy streets of Kampala after a downpour, through dirt and poverty, his wheels thickening with muck.
As he peddles now, unintentionally splattering people who do not know he is a radio star, he shouts at those he passes “Fight for trees. Fight for trees.”
Charles is beginning to learn the names and the players in Uganda’s first political struggles. It has been almost six years since the British left. Obote, a socialist, is running the country amidst growing opposition. Foreign governments watch with keen interest.
At school, Charles and his class are given one of Obote’s speeches to study. It has come to them directly from the Ministry of Education. It talks about African Socialism for Uganda. The speech advocates free education. Charles thinks of the many sacrifices Father has made for the education of his children, sacrifices he is still making. If education had been free.…
The speech also refers to free medicare. And to the nationalizing of certain businesses.
In drama class, Charles asks Mr. Makuba what he thinks of it all. His teacher is, evidently, not impressed. “Obote has his hands in everyone’s pockets just like every politician,” says the impassioned teacher. “Look at nationalization. He has given control to the millionaire who has been bankrolling his own party. Is this the kind of socialism we want?”
Charles listens, unsure of his responses. He thinks of his own people and how they share cattle within the extended family where wealth and position are based primarily on the size of the herd. How would this socialism work in a village like his?
“You are right Charles,” says Mr. Makuba. “There are cultural and community concerns to be considered, not just economic ones.” Then after a moment, he adds, “Why don’t you join the National Union of Students and fight for the changes that you think are more appropriate.”
“Join a union? I don’t know, Mr. Makuba. I’ve never really thought about politics. I’m more interested in doing plays.”
“That’s okay. But be aware, even plays are political. You may not want to be in my plays for too much longer. You have to be sure before you take certain steps.” He adds, almost as an afterthought, “Anyway, think about the problems that Obote is causing. There are other ways to be a socialist. There are some alternatives out there.”
“Out where? Who?” Charles asks, genuinely baffled.
“There’s one in particular. He’s a little crazy.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s an army man from the north. His name is Idi Amin. He’s advocating a Uganda run for and by Ugandans, a Uganda where foreign influence is reduced. That can be dangerous, but if we are careful it might be a direction to follow.”
“Isn’t he the one who wears the funny T-shirts? Everyone knows about Amin’s clowning.”
“We should look at him,” says Mr. Makuba. “He is strong. He inspected his troops wearing a T-shirt with Obote’s picture on it. That’s a piece of theatre right there.”
“But what does it mean?”
“I don’t know yet, Charles. I don’t know.”
The conversation drifts away from the political to the upcoming Mombasa school trip. “You will love Kenya,” says Mr. Makuba. “Truly. But the political has seeped in there too, altering the very air they breathe.”
For Headmaster Hermitage, education means life learning as well as book learning, trips and experiences that one cannot get at home. He brings his whole family on this particular grand excursion. Along with sixty of his senior students.
This is Charles’ first trip outside of Uganda. He has travelled from village to town to city. Now that he is about to leave his country, he cannot contain his excitement.
They set out in slanting late afternoon sunshine to begin the twenty
-four hour, eight-hundred mile journey. Overnight by train. For Charles it is a house on wheels with its own indoor toilets, a dining car, foldout beds, small shiny sinks, and running water.
He is enraptured by this long writhing metal snake, chugging down a steel track, windows wide open, trees and houses flying by, sloped fields flattened in a rush. Headmaster has booked his students second-class passage with meals so that when they stop at stations, they are not bothered by the food vendors but can simply watch them swarming against the third-class carriages — plastic buckets, blue and green bowls, garbage bags tied up tight around goods to sell.
Charles watches passengers spill out, arms flailing, shouting orders for food. Or, more often “Hey, you forgot me, you forgot me” at each stop. So many hungry people clinging to doors and window frames, balancing one foot on the movable step, over brick sidings, skimming precariously above puddles.
This class of eighteen-year-olds is truly graduating.
Mombasa itself is a coral island lying on a bay, its waters spinning out goods from east Africa to India, to China, and even to Europe. As Mengo’s high-spirited party train winds slowly into the city, the students notice a different architecture, one that seems to hover in wind and water, causeways packed with lorries and cars. In the port are huge metal ships and slow wooden dhows, the latter floating like thick shadows under gentle beige sails breathing with the current, looking like giant birds landing to rest after long flight. The whole city, thinks Charles, feels poised to lift off and fly away.
The group checks into a student hostel, utilitarian but clean, one set of bathrooms for the boys, another for the girls. There is excited talk among the boys of spying and sneaking into the “forbidden” dorm. But it is only talk. There are sufficient adults on hand — including Joro, Mr. Makuba’s young assistant — to insure that nothing untoward takes place. They have enough time that first night only for a dinner in the next-door cafeteria.
But in the morning, Mombasa lies all before them, humming energetically. As their rented tour bus drives under white concrete half moons in the shape of elephant tusks that arch over its main traffic artery, Charles begins to understand difference. Past and present. Country and city. Uganda and Kenya.
“You cannot ignore the Kenyan elephant,” says the Headmaster, “even in the city.”
Mr. Makuba adds, “You can’t trample down the ancient ways just because you are in a hurry to get to the future.”
In the old town, narrow and intricately winding streets intrigue Charles. If he weren’t with the group he would get happily lost. “This maze of shops is the Arab style,” says Headmaster. “The old medina, the market. It has grown up over the centuries. It is living history. It just keeps adding to the pattern, increasing the complexity as it goes.”
Charles follows Julia’s mass of golden hair, lighting his way through a labyrinth of older women rustling by in their long bui-buis. Suddenly she stops. “Look.” Julia is pointing up, her eyes fixed on the elegant shuttered balcony and fanciful railing of a mashrabia house. “It is like lace.”
“I want to buy it for you,” says Charles, suddenly the teenage braggart.
“And if it isn’t for sale?” she queries with a smile.
The next day, they visit fine old mosques that gleam white and green in the sun. “I can breathe here,” Charles remarks.
“Yes, Allah seems to need a lot of space,” agrees Headmaster.
They are peering through a small opening in the medina that reveals one of the holy places, like a garden of tiles and quiet light in the middle of a jungle. Old men are praying. There is hushed whisper.
Headmaster has booked a bus and ferry trip for them one hundred and twenty kilometres outside the city to a place called Fort Jesus. On the ferry, he points toward a pile of rock as the boat splashes forward and announces flatly, “It is officially known as Malindi.”
“Essentially a Portuguese stronghold,” explains Headmaster. “The oldest fort in Africa. Fort Jesus was constantly fought over. It changed hands between the Arabs and the Portuguese many times.”
Charles rolls the word “Arab” around in his head and realizes he knows very little of its meaning. He asks Headmaster.
“The Arabs brought many important things to Uganda and Kenya,” says Headmaster, “including firearms and Islam, a whole new religion, but they were also responsible for some of our early martyrs. Boys about your age.” The students are all listening now.
“You remember Kabaka Mwanga from your history book?”
They do because Kabaka Mwanga, it has been joked widely, bears a striking resemblance to the very fat General Idi Amin. And Amin has even named one of his own sons after him.
“Well, Mwanga had rather a liking for young boys and so he persuaded the Arab traders to bring village youths to him so that he could inspect them and select some for himself to keep as a sort of harem.”
“Isn’t a harem for women?”
“Usually, but not always.”
“Did he treat them well?”
“Oh very well. But in return, they had to do certain things for him.”
“What kind of things?”
“Pleasing things. Love favours.”
“You mean like husbands and wives?”
Headmaster knows their giggles. “Indeed many boys objected to this treatment and refused to cooperate.”
“What happened?”
“They were thrown into a pit for days and finally asked to choose the Kabaka or death.”
“Did they all die?”
“The strongest boy, Kizito, defied Kabaka. He inspired the others to refuse. Kabaka had them burned alive.”
They stare up at the flat, crenellated wall. Walking around inside Fort Jesus, Charles is struck by its angles and might. Soaring up from the harbour, it boasts gun turrets and battlements and houses within.
“Who owns this?” Charles asks Headmaster.
“The State owns it,” he is told.
“Ah, but who owns the State?” asks Charles, not quite sure himself what he means.
“No one,” says Joro.
Headmaster brings him abruptly back. “Malindi, which many call Devil’s Island, is a part of Fort Jesus that nobody talks about because it is a place of shame,” he explains, “where many actually were kept in chains before being sent on ships to be sold as slaves to Arabs at auction.”
The word “sell” is terrible to Charles. It conjures up the marketplace, full of fruits and vegetables, pawed over, squeezed and prodded and thrown back. He hears their laughter and loud voices. “Look, this bunch is bruised. These are too thin, too green.” Slaves?
Saleswomen sit among baskets, squinting in the sun, their eyes alert for a customer. He recalls bargains made over cows or goats, a staff pointing to flank and legs, a finger feeling nostrils and gums.
People selling people?
For Charles, this is another new beginning. Black history. Arab history. This part of the island is crumbling stone, tumbled and dark on white foam the sea throws up. Water rinses and drains here, again and again. Like the women of his village washing clothes, never satisfied, never able to get the stains out. And what about those people who were being sold? Charles wonders. Were they told to be careful or did they just slip and fall? Were they rescued?
They scramble up over jagged outcroppings, panting audibly and chilled by spray. Then they see it. Like the entrance to a palace with a wide painted porch and steps curving up, pink in sunshine. Other steps plunging blindly down. But what is it?
“This nice shaded house is where the Arab slave traders lived,” explains the guide. “The slaves themselves were kept in dark cells underground,” he says.
As they descend the stone stairway, the students breathe in dampness and dimness. Mr. Makuba shines a flashlight on the wall of a tiny cell, picking out a hand scrawled sign: “Who will write
of our holocaust?”
Charles walks by disturbed and unsure.
The bars divide darkness from darkness. “These tiny rooms held thirty people each,” continues the guide. “They had to take turns sleeping. Some were chained to the walls.” Charles observes the iron rings in the plaster, their rusted loops dangling heavily. “They had nowhere to relieve themselves.” He goes silent for a moment before adding, “They probably thought they were going to be killed here.
“Outside the door, you will find a list of all the slave centres like this in Africa, the number of ships carrying slaves each year, and some of the tribal groups that were preferred. From this part of Africa: the Kikuyu, the Acholi, the Masai.”
People like me bought and sold, thinks Charles. Weighed and inspected like bunches of bananas. He looks at the shackles that bound hands and feet, the empty necklaces of heavy iron and feels them tightening around his own body.
“A teenage girl was worth a barrel of oil; a strong man two barrels; a child, a mirror.”
“Why didn’t the new government destroy this place?” someone asks.
“So we can remember. History must not be destroyed. It is our only saviour.”
Outside, fiery heat thickens the silence that has grown among the students now, as they labour slowly back over rocks to the waiting ferry. Mr. Makuba has one more thing to add, stopping for a moment on drenched stone. “You are walking where they walked,” he says. “Where they walked onto the slave ships. But you are also walking where some of them jumped into the sea.”
They wanted to die, thought Charles.
“They would rather be eaten by sharks than leave their homeland in chains,” says Mr. Makuba.
Their ferry speeds away from Malindi, from Devil’s Island, cleaving its urgent track through the sea. Teacher and pupils lean over the rail. Happily pulling away. Then drawn back.
“This is the last glimpse of their land the slaves would ever see.” A pile of jagged black rocks.
Back in Mombasa, a Sound and Light show tells the city’s long story. Five centuries of triumph and tragedy with history and religion all mixed up together. Fine steeds speeding around the sturdy walls in front of them; cannons firing and swords flashing; singing and drumming, crescendo and crash. Blue and scarlet robes lighting up the arena, whirling with victory, writhing in defeat.
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