Poonah held her breath.
Kayla turned to her, mouth open, hands on cheeks, eyes wild. ‘He didn’t! Tell me he didn’t just say what I think he said.’
‘Kdto!’
Kayla had turned to the ASO. ‘Did you just say that that passenger, because he’s African, could be a cannibal?’ She turned to Poonah again. ‘Holy shit, I can’t believe he’s just said that. Who says things like that any more? Wow.’ She held her head like it was exploding. Then she turned back to him, pointing her finger in his face. ‘Those are the disgusting lies white people put about to dehumanise black people in the past, so they could ensla—Oh my days—’ She burst into tears. ‘My children are black. I can’t bear the thought of what people like him put them through.’
Poonah was laughing inside—Yerere, that’s the shit I put up with—but on the outside she said, ‘I’m just numb me,’ because when someone helps you to cry for your dead, you cry louder.
By the time Kayla was through with him, the ASO had lost his job, managers were sufficiently horrified, training on ‘racial intolerance in the workplace’ was rolled out across all terminals and counselling put in place. From then, Poonah became aware that when they worked together, Kayla was on the alert for any whiff of racism. Did Kayla feel this kind of anxiety too? She looked through the window: they were in Kajjansi. She wondered how Kayla and the boys saw those shops, the inadequate lighting, the people. But the boys were busy identifying stars in the sky.
• • •
Wakhooli had arrived in Uganda two weeks earlier to prepare for his family and to liaise with local authorities about the programme in Mbale, where imbalu would take place. The family planned to stay in Uganda for six weeks. Two weeks in Kampala while Masaaba learnt imbalu dance and songs and did the interviews Jerry the agent had arranged with the local media. Then two weeks in Mbale—the first five days would be for the rites, the rest would be for Masaaba’s post-op seclusion. The last two weeks, while Masaaba healed, the family would do touristy stuff. Such was the plan, but you know our Uganda. You can plan all you want but, in the end it will impose its will. Like the ngeye, the headdress and back gear for Masaaba’s regalia which should have arrived in Uganda a week earlier, had not.
For decades the Ministry of Culture had banned the wearing of even imitation colobus monkey skin for fear it would become endangered. Then came Masaaba, a mixed-race boy from Britain, whose agent had a slick tongue and international media attention. The Ministry of Culture caved in but insisted that Masaaba’s crown should be visibly fake. Preferably a change of colours. Luckily, sample pictures sent from a fur company in China were more ornate and more beautiful than the real thing. The ministry made approvals and the family chose the colours. That had been three months earlier.
• • •
At first, the dare spread only among Masaaba’s school friends, their friends and friends’ friends. That was in 2016, when a Facebook account and a website introducing ‘Masaaba, the British Mumasaaba’ were set up. Anyone who wished to join paid a minimum of £5 into the dare. But then the following year Africans joined the conversation and scoffed at the muzungu who thought circumcision was a joke. The dare stagnated at £20,175. In June 2017, panic that it was a scam spread online. Poonah prayed that Masaaba would come to his senses and pull it. He did not. Said he was not doing it for the dare. Poonah wondered whether someone had questioned the boy’s masculinity. He loved the gym too much lately. Maybe it was a publicity stunt. Masaaba wanted to pursue a career on stage and kids these days were sharp.
Then in December 2017 Jerry the agent came along.
Jerry was a Chuka Umunna lookalike down to the shaven head to hide nature’s merciless razor. Spoke as smooth, too. He wore three-piece suits beneath long winter coats. Carried a large umbrella like a walking stick, like he was lord of the manor. But unlike Chuka, Jerry was so muscle-bound beneath the suits Poonah suspected a neurotic relationship with the gym. He said his name was Jerry Stanton, but on his business card he was Jeremiah Were Stanton. When Masaaba read it as a sentence, Jerry corrected him: ‘Weh-reh, not were. My father was Ugandan, Jopadhola clan,’ he smiled. ‘Dad died when I was young.’ As if it explained why he had opted for his British mother’s name and middle-named his Ugandan father’s. By now the irony that Poonah’s name was Mpony’obugumba Nnampiima Ssenkubuge, whose ex-husband was Carl Mpiima Watson, had lost its sharp edges. She had become wary of people who hid their African roots.
Wakhooli’s family fell under Jerry’s spell, especially as they did not need to worry about paying him. He would charge 15% commission on deals he arranged in Britain and 20% on foreign ones. ‘If anyone from the media gets in touch,’ he told the parents, ‘send them to me. My job is to free up your time so you focus on what is important, your son.’
Little did the family know that Jerry’s intention was to whip up media attention and harvest his commission. He started small. BBC4 did a documentary on adult circumcision in Eastern and Southern Africa. That was his springboard. He arranged for a feature, ‘Meet Masaaba, the British Mumasaaba’, in Metro. He briefed the family on what aspects to talk about. One paper did a piece on how Masaaba and his brothers found out about imbalu, another on Masaaba and Zoe, his girlfriend, another on how Kayla and Wakhooli met, another on Kayla (‘On Being the Mother of an Initiate’). The dare skyrocketed to £100,000.
In February 2018 Jerry asked for dates. The circumcision window in Uganda was small compared to the number of initiates—from August to the end of the year. At the end of February 2018, the announcement went up on the website—Masaaba would be circumcised on 18 August 2018—and a countdown began. Unbeknownst to the family, Jerry was already in talks with TV channels for documentary rights to the rituals. In March BBC4 started shooting the documentary, inexplicably called Love Made In Manchester.
• • •
For all her apprehension, Poonah was too Ganda to pass up an opportunity to travel home all expenses paid. And you know about taking Western spouses back home—the special arrangements you have to make for them, the cleaning up and painting, the need to make sure everything and everyone is civilised. You have to be careful what you say. Your partner hears you and your siblings laugh at how your mother used to whip you raw when you were up to no good and get works up, stops talking to your mother entirely, but you so love your mother the earth is not enough. Then you have to be with them all the time, explaining things, holding hands, kiss-kissing, honey-honeying themselves all over the place. And you know our Uganda: it sees that stuff, it sucks its teeth: Spare us. Wakhooli asked Poonah to come along and keep Kayla and their sons company while he ran around organising things.
Kayla must have sensed their anxiety, for she said, ‘Look, Poonah, I married Wakhooli knowing our cultures are different. The last thing I need is to get to Uganda and be treated like I am fragile.’
‘Of course not!’
But a nervous condition is a nervous condition. Wakhooli whispered to Poonah, ‘Wamma, you’ll take care of her for me: you understand?’
‘Of course, leave her to me.’ By then Poonah and Wakhooli had become siblings in their Ugandanness even though she was Ganda and he was Masaaba, even though she was closer to Kayla than to him.
• • •
They pulled up to a gate in Nagulu. Wakhooli hooted. As they drove in, the security lights flooded the car and Poonah caught Kayla giving Wakhooli that stern look women give their men. She got out first and motioned to Wakhooli. In the back, the boys were peering: Is this it?
The BBC crew van pulled in. Two cameramen jumped out—BBC4 had been joined by the World Service in Uganda—and started filming. Poonah opened the door and as she stepped out she heard Kayla say, ‘We agreed not to spend money on posh accommodation.’
‘This is Wetaya’s house.’
‘You mean this is your brother’s house?’
Poonah ducked, at once proud and indignant. What did you expect, huts?
As Kayla and Wakhooli came back to
the car, Poonah lifted sleeping Napule off the seat and held him over her shoulders. She heard the boys ask, ‘Dad, is this Uncle Wetaya’s house?’
‘It is; grab your bags.’
Poonah walked to Wakhooli. ‘Show me where to rest, Napule; he’s gone.’
Wakhooli took him off her and told her to get her luggage. ‘Come on, boys.’
By the time she came back with her bags, a camera operator was at the door filming as they walked in. Poonah hung back until he finished.
In the sitting room, Julie the producer arranged the family for a quick interview for the arrival shots. Masaaba had become dextrous at answering Julie’s sappy questions like
‘Help us understand how it feels to travel to a world so different from your own…to do something out of this world like adult public circumcision. It’s mind-boggling.’
Masaaba talked about being tired but was not one bit scared. ‘My father did it; boys younger than me routinely do it.’
The crew told them that a clip of their departure at Manchester Airport had made the six o’clock news. Mwambu, the second son and the family nerd, rummaged through his bag for his tablet to see whether Jerry had uploaded it to the website. He had. But as he opened the link, his battery died. Poonah sat out of shot watching. When the interviews were done, the BBC crew told them what time they would arrive the following day and drove away. Poonah’s bedroom was on the ground floor, while the family went upstairs.
As she showered, Poonah remembered Kayla’s surprise at Wetaya’s house and thought of ways to get Kayla and the boys over to her house. It was not as grand as this one, but compared to their council house in Hyde, it was luxury. She imagined Kayla going back to the airport with pictures on her phone showing ASOs in the search area: Remember Poonah who worked on Terminal 4? This is her house in Uganda, I kid you not. She’s got two. Dead posh, innit? But then again, she is a social worker for Oldham Council now.
• • •
Who would have known, the way they met, that one day Poonah would escort Kayla to Uganda? It was 2005. Poonah’s group had been sent to Terminal 5 to process a flight from Lahore bound for New York. At the time, the airport had a contract with JFK for flights from Pakistan to be rechecked in Europe before arriving in New York. Poonah was doing bag search when she saw Kayla come towards her smiling as if they knew each other. Poonah looked behind to see whom she was smiling at. She did not return the smile, but this did not faze Kayla. She came to her and asked: ‘Are you Poonah from Uganda?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I am Kayla Wakhooli. My Wakhooli is Ugandan.’
Kayla brushed Poonah’s handshake aside: ‘Let’s hug properly.’ When she let go, she added, ‘When British people first hear my name, they imagine I’m African, which I am in a way… by marriage.’ She tried and failed to tuck a stray lock behind her ear. ‘Whereabouts in Uganda do you come from?’
‘Central.’
‘Kampala?’
‘Close, Buwama.’
‘Muganda?’
‘Yes.’
‘My Wakhooli is from the east.’
‘I know, Mugishu.’
‘Not Mugishu!’ Kayla went red in the face as if Poonah had said something racially insensitive. ‘Mumasaaba. It’s not even Mugishu, it’s Mugisu.’
‘Oh!’
‘Gisu is just another name for Mwambu, the ancestor of the Badadili.’
‘Who?’
‘I forgive you.’ Kayla smiled. ‘You’re Muganda.’
Poonah wanted to ask How long have you been Ugandan, Nambozo, but said, ‘Badadili, you even know the Budadili region?’
‘Of course! The Badadili are northern Bamasaaba.’
‘Wow, this is awful! Here I am in Manchester being schooled by an English person about my culture.’
‘Scottish.’
‘Corrected; have you been?’
‘Not yet, but it’s not my fault; it’s Wakhooli’s. He seems to think he needs to save a lot of money before we go. I said, “I’m family, don’t fuss,” you know what I mean?’
Poonah nodded, thinking, how can you even begin to know?
‘But his parents, Mayi and Baba, have been to visit.’
‘Have they?’
‘Three times now.’ Kayla waggled three fingers. ‘First, for our wedding, then for Wakhooli’s graduation. Lovely wonderful people. Couldn’t have married into a nicer family.’ She whispered, ‘Like Wakhooli, they’re softly spoken. My parents said, “Do his parents realise how gobby our Kayla is?”’
They laughed so hard Kayla wiped away a tear.
‘Wakhooli’s parents lived in Kampala for a long time. Baba was a surveyor, Mayi a high-school teacher, but they’ve retired now and gone back to Mbale.’
‘Okay.’
‘I would like to see Mount Masaaba and the caves and the cursed rivers.’
‘Mount Masaaba? Oh, Elgon.’
‘I know we, I mean we…British’—she flushed red again—‘named it Mount Elgon, I apologise.’
‘You know your Masaaba region well.’
At that point, Kayla, perhaps realising she had stayed away from her post too long, tapped Poonah on the hand. ‘What shift are you on?’
‘Finishing at two.’
‘Good, I’m finishing at midday. I’ll see you before I go.’ She made to leave. ‘You must meet my boys: we have three.’ She flashed three fingers. Little Napule was not yet born then. ‘Our oldest is called Masaaba…’
‘Wow,’ said Poonah, thinking, but this Wakhooli is intense on his Masaaba culture.
‘Mwambu is our second, then Wabuyi. So happy to meet you.’
Poonah watched Kayla hurry away and clicked. She suspected Kayla was one of those people you meet in the West who knows too much about your culture and tries to show you up. Yet she had seemed genuinely happy to meet her, like she had married her Wakhooli, his culture, country and continent. Had they met back home, Poonah would have been awed, but Britain had made her suspicious.
At 11.45, when Kayla came to say goodbye, she asked, ‘Do you know where I can buy Ugandan food? My Wakhooli is suffering white people’s food.’
Poonah suppressed a smirk. That disarming moment when a person you gossip about owns the things you say behind her back. She smiled. ‘That’s not true, Kayla. I’m sure he loves it, but I know a few Asian shops that sell matooke—’
‘Yes, matooki! Now you know what I am talking about. Every time Wakhooli goes to Uganda he brings matooki.’ She whispered, ‘Between me and you, I find it’s absolutely tasteless; don’t you?’
Poonah frowned. ‘Are you taking the mick out of ethnic food?’
Kayla burst out laughing. ‘No, just doing what Wakhooli told me: be straight with Ugandans.’
‘Ah, tell you what, why don’t we get together and I’ll show you where to get Ugandan food.’
‘Yay,’ Kayla clapped. ‘I knew we would be friends.’ And they hugged. ‘Oh my god, you’re so kind, wait till I tell my Wakhooli!’ They exchanged numbers and Kayla ran off.
• • •
At around 4 p.m. the BBC arrived to shoot the British family meeting the Ugandan one for the first time. Wakhooli had two sisters and three brothers. They all had children. They started to arrive at five. As blood relationships were established, Poonah’s position started to wobble. When Kayla said, ‘This is Poonah. She’s auntie to the boys,’ Wakhooli’s siblings smiled. When she added, ‘Poonah so kindly agreed to come and help us with the culture and language,’ Nabwiile, Wakhooli’s eldest sister, shot Poonah a look like Which culture? Others weighed her up and down like Only a Muganda would be that deceitful.
Poonah reverted to being Kayla’s best friend rather than Wakhooli’s sister. But even that was undermined by her Ugandanness. Like you’re only her best friend because you’re Ugandan. She retreated into herself. Kayla kept pulling her into the conversation, but she didn’t want to intrude. Besides, it was intriguing to watch the families interact. The cousins, especially the teenagers, were
most interesting. They had none of the finesse of the grown-ups. Perhaps it was the Britishness and biracialness of the Wakhooli brothers; some cousins were uneasy, some were downright awkward, some showed off, some hogged the attention. They asked questions about the royal family, Man United, Lewis Hamilton and serial killers. Poonah had never seen Wakhooli’s sons so patient and polite. Like Kayla, their Mancunian twang had been dropped.
Napule had no such problems. There was only one cousin for him, Khalayi, a bossy little girl. When Poonah noticed them Khalayi was issuing orders and Napule, malleable as a cat’s tail, was taking them. He called her Car Lye. Khalayi spoke Ugandan English like a six-year-old does, Napule spoke Mancunian English, but they understood each other perfectly. The only time there was trouble was when Khalayi had to leave and they both sulked and refused to say goodbye to each until Wakhooli promised to drop Napule off to his other sister’s, Nambozo’s, the following day. Still, when Khalayi wailed as they drove away, Napule lost his bravery and hid his face in his mother’s skirts. The camera rolled.
Poonah was shocked when Masaaba’s initiator arrived. Initiators are a secret cult. Absolutely no contact between the initiator and the initiate until the final moment of the knife blade. But then this was no ordinary imbalu. The initiate was British, half-white and spoke English. The fact that the rite would be conducted in English was already disrupting the ways of imbalu. The initiator did not wait to be introduced; he went straight to Masaaba: ‘You must be my man Masaaba, I recognised you immediately, been following you on social media. I am your number one fan.’ They hugged. ‘Ah, but your father named you well. You’re a true Mumasaaba!’ The camera rolled.
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