On the way to Kampala, when the guerrillas started pushing government forces toward the city, Lwendo had seen some fighting, but only as a quartermaster, supplying ammo. The padre had put in a good word for him. Already that had caused some friction and accusations of favoritism, but Lwendo’s advantage was that he was educated, whereas most of the veterans, especially the child soldiers and ex-peasant farmers picked up from the Triangle, were at best primary or lower secondary school products. The movement needed brains in addition to brawn. He was among the most highly educated, and with his Latin expressions he caused much resentment. When annoyed by his fellow fighters, he would smile and say, “Non compos mentis.” They knew he was insulting them, but not how much, until one sneaked up on him and put a bayonet to his throat and asked for an explanation.
After the war, the padre sent Lwendo to the Triangle, where he fought retreating army forces passing through on their way to the north. He did not do much fighting, but did well the few times he saw action. That was how he had ended up a second lieutenant. Now his benefactor wanted him to keep an eye on goods destined for the devastated areas: iron sheets, cement, brick-making equipment, blankets and the like. Judging by the dedication with which he had handled ammunition and other supplies as a quartermaster, the padre believed that Lwendo could be trusted with larger things.
The post-guerrilla-war economy was in shambles, inflation was very high, there was a chronic lack of production and the thriving black market did not make economic planning any easier. Fighters used to the hard life and discipline of their bush days were now out in the world, open to temptations of quick money and personal enrichment. Many felt they deserved opportunity as a reward for facing death and hardship in the Triangle and elsewhere in order to liberate the country.
Lwendo made it clear to me that he did not intend to stay in the army for long: “I hate being cooped up in the barracks. I hate the lack of freedom, the power of the officers and all those drills. I want to get out early, but with something in my pocket. I have many plans for the future.”
“You mean …”
“I intend to get my cut of the action.”
“What is the padre’s attitude to that?”
“He is high up there; I am down here at the bottom. He can fire me if he does not like my modus operandi.”
“How about the hostility of your colleagues?”
“It is there, but it does not deter me from doing what I want. The sooner I get what I want, the sooner I quit.”
“This whole thing scares me. I am not a soldier. If things go wrong, I will be the bad guy.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“I already have a job …”
“Getting twenty, thirty dollars a month! Come on, man. How long will you stay in that rotten profession?”
“I have no intention of getting beaten and locked up by soldiers accusing me of corrupting you, Mr. Liberator.”
“I need you. The moment the padre appointed me, I knew you were the right person to work with. I need somebody I can trust, somebody who won’t stab me in the back.”
“What if we get caught?”
“Discretion will be paramount. We are not going to do things carelessly, you can take it from me. I am a different man now. I am systematic, patient, wary. You don’t have to worry about that,” he said earnestly. “Think about it and about your future and then come to me. I won’t accept the job unless you cooperate.”
The temptation was huge: the smell of adventure and daring, the exploration of unknown territory, the squaring off against bigger guys! The sense of danger had something magnetic about it, a feeling of beating the odds, a feeling of chopping heads off the hydras left in my garden by the Infernal Trinity. I was tired of teaching and achieving little in my profession. The seduction of piracy was like a lantern to a suicidal moth on a cold, dark night. I craved being on top, not in a little brewery where everyone called me boss, but in the larger world. The prospect awakened old seminary ghosts: the raids on Fr. Mindi and Fr. Lageau. I missed the adrenaline. I had done nothing like that in years. I felt that Lwendo and I could hold our own against security agents. It was a mind game, and my brain was afire with images, moves, feints which would bring us victory.
After a week, I forgot about it or, rather, shoved it to the back of my mind to cool off and gather a little dust before I chewed on it again. Had Lwendo really changed? Had he dropped his clumsiness and developed a more cunning, patient manner? Would he listen to me when necessary? How far was I ready to go? Most of us had imbibed the lawlessness, the everything-goes spirit of the seventies. The temptation to undermine some stolid, impersonal, bureaucratic force like the government was dazzling. Most of us were small gods, cuts above those bumbling government agents and stuffy authorities. The urge to test our omnipotence was irresistible.
I did not tell Aunt about Lwendo’s proposition. She had warned me long ago never to get involved with soldiers. In the meantime, things were going very well for her. Her women’s wing was expanding. For the first time in years, women felt validated, listened to and heard. She settled their disputes and presented their needs to her superiors. Her relationship with the brigadier was moving from strength to strength.
Every weekend, a car came and took her to the city, where she joined the brigadier and his friends for drinks till late in the night. That way she met quite a few of the people at the top. They asked her what women really thought of the government, and what they expected from it. This did not surprise her, because she knew that many of these people were surrounded by yes-men and now and then needed frank opinions.
Like an army of vultures and marabou storks, the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank swooped down on the Ugandan carcass with drawn talons. Not that they were newcomers; no, they had been surveying the skyline for years and had been around even during the last regime. But now they moved with lethal determination. The climate was better. They had a list of conditions as long as the river Nile. The government, eager to fight inflation, stimulate production and inject cash into the economy, obliged them. The IMF tweaked the tail of the new government: if it wanted money, it had to return the property of departed Indians. Thus, the Indians had to return and claim their property after more than fifteen years. The rumors created a buzz in Uganda, especially in the city.
To begin with, old currency was made non-legal tender and had to be exchanged for new. Schools served as currency exchange centers, and for once SIMC was used for something directly relevant to the community. The good reverend went around boasting about the indispensability of his school. In the morning, people with bulky bags of cash stood in line in front of the two-story building to hand in their old money.
I dodged getting involved in the program. I had never liked the look or the smell of the old notes, and neither was the smell of new money something I wanted to douse my senses in. I came to school only to exchange Boom-boom Brewery proceeds which had not been in the bank, then went home. The allotted time for the currency exchange passed before the job was completed. There was panic that people’s money would be nullified in the name of fighting inflation, but an extra week was allocated. For people used to the large denominations of the old money, it was horrifying to receive the puny new bills they were given in exchange for their worthless millions.
A fortnight after the money-exchanging exercise, I was at school teaching when the deputy called me outside: “There is somebody waiting for you in my office.” I thought Lwendo had returned. However, it was a man sent by Aunt.
“There has been an accident,” the scruffy, sad-eyed man announced.
“What kind of accident?” I asked, getting goose bumps.
“She did not say. She just told me to inform you to come as quickly as possible.”
There was a crowd outside Aunt’s house, and among them some very angry people. It turned out that one of my brewery employees had been burned by the cooking drum. He had not died, but the skin had peeled off the front of his b
ody like a banana skin, and he looked as yellow. The bastard. He was not supposed to brew that day—I had suspended all work pending the stabilization of new-currency prices—but the bastard had gone ahead and done it behind my back. He had started the fire, gone to sleep and not seen that the copper tubes were blocked. He was awakened by a massive explosion. The drum had risen in the air like a space capsule and burst open like a dry pod. If it had stayed on the ground, it would have killed him right away. Instead, he got scalded by part of the contents, the rest spreading in all directions.
Aunt had organized transport to take him to the hospital, and she had also accepted the responsibility for the accident. That had cooled some tempers, but not totally. She promised to foot the medical bills and to help as much as she could. She thought the matter was settled, but the brother and brother-in-law of the victim went down to the brewery and destroyed the equipment and burned down the shed. I went there, and the fire reminded me of another fire fifteen years before. I decided right then that I had had enough of the business. Lwendo had won.
The accident made me look at my relationship with Jo a bit more closely. Who was this girl? I did not know any of her people except her grandmother. As we sat eating supper one evening, I told her that I wanted to meet her mother. She did not seem too happy about it.
“If you are really serious about me, the lady is supposed to know me, and I should know her.”
“I will think about it.”
“There is nothing to think about,” I said.
“How will I introduce you?”
“As Mr. Muwaabi, secondary school teacher and future lawyer.”
“As who?”
I repeated my full name casually, a smug smile on my face. I never used the name Muwaabi. Everybody called me Mugezi, and even the government knew me as such.
“The lady would then ask about your parentage.”
I was too excited to sense the danger in her tone of voice. I proceeded to talk about Grandpa, the village, Serenity.… She suddenly stopped eating, put her palm across her mouth and closed her eyes. I thought a fish bone had lodged itself in her throat.
“Katonda wange!” she exclaimed. “My God!”
“What is the matter?”
“I always suspected something. Now I know.”
“Know what?” I said irritably.
“We are related. You are my brother, or as the English say, half-brother.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“My biological father’s name is Muwaabi, and he comes from the same village and went to Ndere Primary School. You are his son. I now see that there is a slight resemblance between you. He got rid of my mother in order to marry in church. And after that, he did not pay much attention to my welfare. It was the reason I always said that he was dead, but I know that he works and lives in the city. I resolved to keep out of his way for the rest of my life.”
I could not eat anymore. I felt myself sinking into a big hole full of howling ghouls. I looked at the girl with new eyes. I could see Aunt Tiida in the upper part of her face. I could see a bit of Kasiko too, and Grandma in a very faint way. Maybe it was the presence of all these familiar features that had made her so attractive to me. I was no staunch exogamous traditionalist, but something had gone out of our relationship. It did not feel the same anymore. We drank a lot but said very little that night, and for many more nights. I never touched her again. The magic candle was dead.
It struck me one evening that this was a God-given chance for revenge on Serenity, my chance to repay him for that near-death beating. I should look him up and tell him that I had found somebody to marry and then introduce Jo. Yes, I would do that, as a piece of theater. Sadness permeated all this, because I felt I would never find another girl like Jo. I already was jealous of whoever would marry her.
“Will you do something for me?” I asked her.
“What is it?”
“I want to introduce you to my father, our father, as my fiancée.”
“What do you want to do that for?”
“I have my reasons.”
“You do not believe that I will marry you, do you?”
“Well, of course not,” I said irritably.
“Then what are you up to?”
“Let us say there is some unfinished business between me and my father.”
“Why bring me in?” Her directness made me cringe. She was doing her best to look into the future; I was reluctant to abandon the mires of the present and the past.
“There is much unfinished business between you and him too,” I answered.
“Why would I want to meet him that way?”
“Are you not angry at how he treated your mother, and you in particular?”
“Of course I am. But that is not how I want to play it.”
“How do you want to play it?”
“By ignoring him the way he ignored me.”
“Don’t you want him to squirm with embarrassment?”
“What use would it be?”
“It would be something to me.”
“Give it up. There is no future in it.”
“What is your idea of revenge?”
“Marrying a rich man in a stunning wedding ceremony, with a motorcade, ten flower girls, a long bridal train, a troupe of traditional dancers and a feast for days.”
The conventionality of it! How could a girl so mistreated by her father be this conventional? She wanted to make Serenity feel a pauper vis-à-vis his son-in-law. What if Serenity did not give a damn about such things? What if he saw it as a waste of capital? It all sounded so shallow. Would Serenity not pity this girl, because such rich men usually had other wives and she would have to wait for him for days?
“Do you want to be one of several wives?” I was thinking of Lusanani, wondering whether these two women had the same views. A Hajj Gimbi look-alike, potbelly and all, handling this cute girl! I could see him sweating over her and wheezing like a steam engine. I could see him fighting hard to maintain his erection in her super-tight cunt. I felt both sick and angry.
“As long as a man gives me freedom to do what I want, I do not mind about the rest of his business.”
I felt quite rootless now. I could only drift into Lwendo’s claws. How lucky Serenity was! Once again he had escaped.
I met Lwendo at the Ministry of Rehabilitation office on Kampala Road. Everything was in disarray. There were dusty file cabinets, a few sticks of old furniture, an overused typewriter and a black telephone that made a very loud screeching sound. He took me outside to the General Post Office building, and we sat on the railing and talked.
“You don’t know how relieved I am,” he said. “The man was getting impatient and was about to suggest somebody else. But now we can go ahead.”
“Where do we go from here?” I asked. “Do I have to meet him?”
“No. He only has to have your particulars. Write an application for a job in the ministry, which I will deliver to him. Leave the rest to me.”
“To whom do we have to report?”
“A certain rehabilitation officer.”
“And what are we supposed to do?”
“To double-check the applications, the sites and the relevance of the materials requested. After that, to make sure that the goods have been delivered. Don’t worry about the rest; I will be in charge.”
We went to a restaurant on Luwum Street and had a lunch of matooke, meat and greens, washed down with a beer. Good start, I thought. At SIMC, there had been no lunch. Lwendo talked about his present girlfriend, but I was not too interested. She was older than him, a nurse at Mulago Hospital, and they were having their ups and downs.
After lunch, we went to the shops and bought foolscap paper. These were the Indians’, those pirates’, old haunts, which the IMF wanted returned to them. Time had frozen the stores in stagnancy. The tenants, knowing that they were dealing with other people’s property, had not effected repairs, and the Custodian Board, intent on getting its piece of the
action, had not insisted on maintenance and repairs. The rust-streaked roofs, the cracked pavements, the grime-ridden windows, summed up the situation well.
Inside, a shop was shared by about twenty people, each with a small space at the counter. Many traders rented the space just to display their goods—imports from Dubai, sometimes from London—and when a customer came, they took him or her behind the shop, or to a place where the real stock was. A few people had made money here, but for most, it had been a question of improvising and surviving. Now the original owners were poised to return. The talk in town was what the traders in these shells were going to do about it. How were the Indians going to play it this time? Last time they had enjoyed complete monopoly, but now Africans had moved in on their turf. The whole thing was heating up.
The industrialists returned first. The small fry, the retailers and wholesalers, followed tentatively. You could see them in business suits or in light safari suits walking in groups, looking all over, trying to dredge up clogged memories, wondering how they were going to pick up old threads. The second generation, who were children at the time of the exodus and had grown up in Britain, were less impressed. You could see their parents desperately trying to kindle the dream in their skeptical hearts.
Abyssinian Chronicles Page 46
