One Man Dancing

by Patricia Keeney

  Kanyunya is bereft. No power left to help anyone.

  Charles feels the ice of anger in his veins.

  “They did their dirty work and crept off into the forest like hyenas,” says Kekinoni.

  Silence.

  “She will never be Debra again,” mumbles Charles. “I know she will not.”

  “Part of her has died and has gone to Jesus,” says Mother. “We must take care of what’s left.”

  Charles has never seen Father cry like this before.

  In the dusty compound behind the house, Charles and Samuel watch the cows, their ragged tails twitching at flies under the dry, gnarled branches of winter trees.

  “Is that all cows can do?” demands Charles, seething. “Can they think? Or feel? Or figure things out? Are they happy or sad? Do they only move when they are prodded? Squirt milk when they are pulled? Bawl when they are hungry or thirsty? Are they half dead or just stupid?”

  Samuel has no response.

  Cows used to give Charles comfort. He could tell Suna everything. She seemed so wise, taking it all in through her big brown eyes, absorbing it into her bulk, through her eyes and hide. But they now seem so useless, expressions blank as wooden posts.

  He wonders what good it has done him to descend from the people of the cow. We have no long horns curving out of our heads, no crowns of strong white bone to part the air. We cannot even produce milk. Cannot nourish. We cannot help anything, change anything.

  “She misses you, my son.” It is Mother in her white robes pulling old Suna towards him. Dust puffs up around them filtering sunlight. “Milk her. Let her know you are here again.”

  Samuel stands and pets her.

  Charles is soothed by Suna’s strong smell, the way her great head rolls towards him, as if acknowledging his presence, still listening to him.

  “Suna, Suna,” he whispers, “what do you know?”

  “Whatever she knows,” says Mother, “she will not tell. She will keep your secrets.”

  Over her shoulders, Mother balances a slender rod dangling two precious milk bowls at either end. They rest easily in the rope netting. She bends to lay them on the ground the way a servant would.

  Shiny and black. He looks at the bowls’ design, shooting beads of white fire through him. Debra’s bowls. Suna does not move. Under her, feeling the pulse of milk and blood, Charles finds his strength.

  “Confide in her,” Mother says. “I have already told her that Debra is not dead. Somehow, Suna is keeping her alive. Let her do the same for you and Samuel.”

  A week later, Debra wakes up. Broken and fearful as she will be for the rest of her life. She cannot speak to her brother, or even look at him, recalling mutely the shameful way she was used.

  The next day Charles returns to Mengo. Before he leaves, he and Father hug. Kanyunya says nothing.

  At the school, classes remain suspended. A few teachers come by. Charles meets Joro near the Headmaster’s office. Joro looks around and then whispers, “There is something I must tell you.”

  Charles will listen carefully to anything Joro has to say now because Joro has proven himself smart. One who is always right. He admires Joro. Perhaps not yet a real teacher but, as an assistant at Mengo, he is much more than a student. Helping those doing important things. Adult things. Like Headmaster. Like Mr. Makuba.

  Joro seems to know so much. And it makes him strong. Charles trusts what Joro knows. “Amin and his army are starting to kick out the Asians. All those Indian business people. The ones who run so much of the country. ‘Africa for Africans,’ he says. ‘Uganda for Ugandans.’ It’s nonsense. He has already named a Supreme Council which will re-allocate Indian property to the army.”

  “Can he really do that?”

  “I just saw it on television. The Indians are already leaving. I saw them boarding buses with their baggage. Some of them have lived here a hundred years. Can you imagine? It’s a huge mess at the airport.”

  “I suppose,” says Charles in confusion, “I suppose it’s right somehow that Uganda is for Africans. Isn’t it? You know Indian students. Forever being picked up in fancy cars. Never give us rides. They always felt they were better than us.”

  “They went too far, but Amin has gone even farther. Uganda needs their money and their expertise. You can’t just throw business people out of a country and take their property.”

  “What about the British? Can’t they stop it?”

  “I don’t think the British are safe either. Headmaster and his family are preparing to leave.”

  “Leave? They can’t leave.”

  “Well, they are. And it’s not just foreigners who are in trouble. Yesterday, a handful of soldiers came to the school and shoved everyone who was here onto a bus. We argued. Screamed and pushed back. But they had guns.

  “On the bus, they told us we were going to see what happens to people who question Amin.”

  “Who was questioning him? Where did you go?”

  “A public execution,” says Joro. “They took us to an execution.”

  Charles barely comprehends what he is being told.

  “When we got to the main square, someone was already tied to a tree. His arms handcuffed around it. His back to us. Other buses were arriving with students on them. Teachers too.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I couldn’t see his face at first. But they were beating him. He never knew when the next blow was coming. They kept hitting him and shouting that he was a traitor, a traitor to Uganda. That he had been speaking against the general. That he was infecting students with his words.”

  “Was he an Indian?”

  “No. He was one of us. Very much one of us.”

  “Who was he? Did you find out? Did they kill him?”

  “The soldiers said he was harbouring guerillas.” Tears were rolling down Joro’s face now.

  “Just when I thought he had already given up his life, his knees buckled and his whole body sagged as though each single bone had been broken. The soldiers came with ropes and tied up every part of him that was dangling or drooping. Then they allowed a Muslim holy man to pray for him. Another mockery. He was an Anglican! I watched the blood pour down his arms and legs.

  “Suddenly one of the soldiers said something about a black hood for his head.”

  “Why did they need a hood? ”

  “Because they were going to shoot him. That’s how they do it. Well, they couldn’t find a hood and so the soldier in command grabbed some young guy in the crowd and ripped his shirt off. When he struggled, they started hitting him too.

  “They tied it over their victim’s head and … and they shot him. Each bullet stood him straight up. Then someone started screaming. Ran straight toward the same tree yelling like a maniac. The soldiers clubbed him with their guns before they finally understood what he wanted. His bloody shirt back. It was the guy with the shirt. So they tore it off the face of the executed man and threw it at him. That’s when I saw who it was.” Joro stops, overcome.

  “He must have seen that tree every day of his life. He lived on that street. When he came to school each morning, he could never have imagined he would die there.”

  “When he came to which school Joro? Here? To Mengo? He came here? Who was it Joro? Tell me. Who was it?”

  “Mr. Makuba.”

  “Mr. Makuba?”

  His teacher. The man of masks.

  “Yes. Mr. Makuba. Our friend.”

  “But he was just a teacher. Wasn’t he?”

  “Was he, Charles?” The two young men stare at one another. A new question hanging in space.

  Who was he when he died?

  3. ABAFUMI

  “I KNOW HOW YOU CAN HONOUR Mr. Makuba’s memory.” A week has passed. Charles and Joro have spent time in each other’s company. Talking. Sharing. Trying to understand what has
happened. These two young men stand together now, looking up at a blank sky where they once read their future.

  Charles feels uncomfortable. For some days, Joro has been watching him closely, almost testing him. Slowly they are becoming friends but also something more. They talk of art. “Do you love your theatre classes as much as football,” Joro asks him one day.

  “As much, yes,” says Charles.

  “Will you become a football star?”

  “Not now.”

  “Then I shall invite you to honour Mr. Makuba. Come with me.”

  “Where?” asks Charles.

  “Just trust me. We will walk together.”

  It is a month since the coup but Kampala still lies in ruins around them as they head down the big hill into the town. Past squawking chickens. Past charred trees and torn lives. They are silent.

  Suddenly Charles recognizes their destination. It is the large shady portico entrance to the National Theatre. After days of harsh heat, cool shadow engulfs them. Charles has not been back since Mr. Makuba took the class to see Hamlet. Joro is right. His beloved teacher is now a spirit in this house of plays. This is where they can come to find him, to honour him.

  They enter the building and creep quietly into the back row of the huge theatre. A rehearsal of some sort is going on. Charles looks at the polished wood and velvet all around him. The air crackles with a magic. It buzzes and hums. Something is happening.

  “Do not come in here empty,” booms the director’s voice from the house. A Ugandan voice. “Don’t just take. Bring me something. Find it inside yourself. Find who you are. Don’t tell me. Show me. Show me how you move. Show me how you walk. Show me how you love.”

  The actor tries again. And again the director is not satisfied. “Everything you are doing is on the outside. Show me who you are from inside your skin. This is not a European television show. Be African. Be who you really are. Show me the mask behind the face I see. Tell me your real name. Show me what is really going on outside this theatre. In your life.”

  Such passion, such anger rivets Charles. Mr. Makuba, too, believed in what he called the interior mask. Believed it protected and revealed you. But he was gentler, kinder than this man, this director.

  And Mr. Makuba was dead. This man was very much alive.

  “This is the Abafumi company,” whispers Joro. “They will be great. Mr. Makuba recommended me to them. And the director is Robert Serumaga. He came back from Europe last year to make money for his family business. But his family is starting to realize that this is his business. That theatre is his business. They will be great.”

  Charles looks up at the stage and studies this Robert Serumaga. Solidly built and very sure of himself, Serumaga clearly comes from money and privilege. But the things he is saying are extraordinary. Masks. Dance. Inner self. Africa. Drums and colours and chanting. Charles is thrilled that Joro has brought him here, to Abafumi, to Robert Serumaga.

  They sit silent for many hours. It is a Baganda story that Abafumi is telling with their bodies, with their bead skirts and elaborate hairstyles, with their headdresses and knives. It is a story Charles knows. The story of Nakayaga, demon of storms and whirlwinds, who demands the limbs of many victims before being appeased. The story of a victim who pleads for mercy, pleads with his song and his drum to be spared, pleads because he is a father and a husband, because his family needs him.

  The intensity of the rhythms stops Charles cold. His heart hammers and he breathes hard. This is not an imitation of life. It is larger than life. Not just a story, but the imaginative inside of a story. “Where understanding begins,” Serumaga is saying.

  Charles and Joro have moved closer. When they take a break, Joro introduces Charles. “Robert, you said we needed another player. This is Charles. The young man I told you about.”

  Serumaga’s eyes quickly turn, beam deeply into Charles. For a moment their gazes join and lock. Robert recognizes sleeping strength in this tall intense young man. Unmasks him silently.

  Charles staggers back from the fire of Robert Serumaga. It is not random, this burning. It wants to scorch him.

  “Tell me Joro, tell me everything about this man,” whispers Charles urgently when they are alone in the clammy coolness of the theatre.

  “His father was rich and served the British as County Chief.”

  “An official, like my father,” says Charles.

  “His father died early. Serumaga went to university in Ireland. Learned his theatre there. Became a playwright.”

  “With the eyes and that voice,” says Charles, “he could have been a priest.”

  “Except that he loves women too much.”

  “Why did he come back to Uganda?”

  “To run the family business. Make money.”

  “So he’s really a businessman,” says Charles admiringly.

  “He finally realized how he could use his commercial connections to make theatre.”

  “What kind of plays did he write?”

  “Angry plays,” says Joro.

  “What was he angry about?”

  “Injustice. Victimization. The abuses of colonialism.” Charles rolls these words around in his head. Small sharp rocks, they tumble and scrape.

  “Eventually he turned away from realistic theatre and began a professional group which he called Abafumi. The Storytellers.”

  “They’ve given a few performances around Kampala, performances with dancers and drummers.”

  “He writes the scripts?”

  “No real scripts in this work. It’s improvised. They enact it mostly through movement. Serumaga calls it ‘total theatre,’ because it uses everything from stillness to frenzy, from silence to screams.”

  “But no dialogue?”

  “No dialogue.”

  Charles stops to consider. Sound. Movement. The world is composed of sound. Moving sound. The pounding of grain in wooden bowls. The bawling of cattle. Mother’s crooning at night. Rain.

  “How much time do you spend rehearsing?” asks Charles.

  “He wants sixty hours a week. I give can only him twenty because I really want to write plays. But I’ve learned so much from Abafumi. And I help him find talented young actors and dancers right in the high school. People like you.”

  “Like me? You think I can do this? Really?”

  “Make no mistake, Charles. You are talented, but this is not a game for him. It is hard work. And know you cannot deceive this man. He demands commitment.”

  “Yes. I want to give myself,” says Charles.

  “It has to become your life. He will accept nothing less.”

  Somewhere in the depths of his being, Charles needs that. To be pulled by something larger, moving and changing, unstoppable. Like the dance. Achieving his own shape. “Yes,” he says to Joro again. “I want Abafumi.”

  Charles is determined to remain in Kampala. Abafumi, he is told, is a communal venture. Room and board are offered. His first workday starts at six a.m. He has not yet eaten. His wide eyes are red and tired. But his mind is on fire, his nerves and his heart, taut with apprehension. Hotter than morning sun.

  He is given a tracksuit by Beth, one of the company members. Silver. He puts it on and joins the others. Serumaga leads the pack as they jog around a steaming oval at Makerere University. Charles sprints up to him.

  “Good morning Robert,” says Charles. “Thank you for inviting me to join you.”

  “No speaking during exercises,” says the director without turning to him. “Save your energy.” And he speeds effortlessly away from the apprentice.

  A bad start, thinks Charles.

  But soon, he is racing, unable to stop. Controlled by another force. Yet, he feels free. Free of guns and violence, free of guilt and responsibility. And pain. He sprints over gravel and brick. Around bend and curve. Alcoves and arbours encourage tho
ught. Low buildings entice him with their woven arches and vine-covered porches, calm and soothe him.

  Four miles. Around and around. With Joro and Kasa, with Kiri and Beth and Obusi, with Bita, Mara, and Susi, with Willy, Joseph, and Monday.

  And Robert. In black. Silvery black. Shining like the night moon over water. Older by ten years than most of them, he keeps up a fast pace not allowing even one to fall a step behind.

  “Sweat!” he cries. “Sweat. Clean out the poisons.” The regimen is intense.

  When the run is finished, they huddle together in the still early morning sun, panting and glistening, bending and dripping, their bodies stretched and thrumming. At some invisible cue, after breath returns, they execute a communal leap, accompanied by an awesome shout of a word unfamiliar to Charles.

  “Sardinia.”

  After showers in the gymnasium, the group scrambles into the van and charges toward breakfast — a Chinese restaurant across from the National Theatre that knows them all. Its name, Charles comes to understand, is Sardinia.

  Sudden as a dust storm, they whirl in, scraping chairs up to a large round table. The waitress, a small Chinese woman named May, greets them familiarly. “The usual today, my dear artistes?”

  “Of course,” says Robert warmly. “We had a fine workout this morning. We’ll devour everything you throw at us.”

  “I know,” says May. “Eggs. Bacon. Bread. Onions. Potatoes. And you’ll follow that with meat and Chinese vegetables.” Robert, her favourite customer, looks every inch the proud and generous father here, beaming beneficently at his hungry brood.

  Happy to attend her faithful clan of precocious performers, squat little May shuffles into the back on her red and green satin slippers, barely noticing the blue and white mural of Mediterranean waves which ripple through her apparently Italian-Chinese dining emporium.

  In the streets after breakfast, Kampala is another story. The watchful soldiers — arms braided with insignias, chests clanking medals — are still everywhere. But here, near the university, this gang of civilians is allowed.