Let's Tell This Story Properly

by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

  Wakhooli introduced him as Dr Wafula, the man who would perform the cut. Now Poonah realised; he had been chosen because he was a medical doctor.

  ‘I’m your man.’ He shook Masaaba’s hand. ‘Me and you alone in that moment, no one else.’ He took a breath. ‘We thought it would help if the umusinde, that’s you, and the initiator, that’s me, get to know each other so you learn to trust me. I understand on Thursday you start to learn the kadodi?’

  Masaaba nodded.

  ‘Kadodi is the fun part; you’ll love it.’

  As Dr Wafula left, Julie the producer ran to him and introduced herself. She asked, ‘Is there a way you can give us an interview and perhaps walk our viewers through imbalu?’

  ‘Ah.’ Wafula looked her over like Do you realise imbalu is manly business? He said, ‘Maybe certain things, but the cut itself is out of bounds.’

  ‘So you won’t be able to demonstrate how the cut is done? I mean…er…using a prosthetic or something.’

  Wafula realised what was being asked of him and turned away. Had it been a Ugandan woman she would have been put in her place there and then, but Julie was not just white, she was BBC. ‘Er…no, absolutely not. You’ve got to realise that though imbalu is done in public, it’s a secret ritual. By the way, you won’t see a thing.’

  ‘That’s exactly the kind of thing our viewers would like to know. The contradictions, this public but secret rite, perhaps the history, the changes it has undergone and its significance to your people. Your view, the view of the initiator who performs the cut, will be critical.’

  ‘Perhaps you can prepare your questions in advance and I’ll let you know what I can and can’t answer.’

  ‘That will be fantastic, sir, thank you, we appreciate it. And if you don’t mind’—Poonah closed her eyes like Journalists don’t know when to stop—‘could we have one interview before Masaaba’s imbalu and another afterwards to talk us through your feelings in that moment and how you prepared yourself?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Wafula started to walk away. Julie thanked him and hurried back to her crew.

  At around seven, the family drove to Hotel Africana—Masaaba wanted to find a gym. As the boys swam, Poonah asked Kayla about her first impressions of Uganda.

  ‘It’s not what I expected at all, but I suppose I haven’t seen much. So far, I’m loving it and Wakhooli’s family is super.’

  ‘What did you think of his sisters?’

  ‘They’re way too kind; I mean, I’m not surprised. Everyone is so polite.’ Then she frowned. ‘I hope this is the way they treat all in-laws, not just the Mzungu.’

  Poonah laughed. ‘It’s the way sisters-in-law are welcomed into families, but they might fuss a little because you’re not Ugandan.’

  ‘Oh no, I…I don’t want to be treated—’

  ‘Relax, Kayla, they would do the same if you were black British or Nigerian.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ She smiled. ‘This is exactly why I need you here.’

  ‘And the initiator?’

  She gasped. ‘What a lovely, lovely, man. I’m so relieved. He’s a real doctor, not that I care, but when he said he’ll walk Masaaba through everything I saw the worry fall off my boy’s face like ah.’ She made a gesture of a falling face.

  • • •

  Masaaba’s schedule in Kampala began the following day. First Kayla and Wakhooli dropped Napule off at Khalayi’s and then they went to the Ministry of Culture to collect the permit allowing Masaaba to wear the fake colobus monkey skin. Poonah suspected Wakhooli took Kayla along to put the bureaucrats on their best behaviour, especially as the BBC World Service was filming everything.

  Poonah travelled with the older boys to Ndere Troupe’s studios in Kisaasi for Masaaba’s kadodi practice. The BBC4 crew came with them. First, Masaaba picked out his regalia. He tried on the bead sashes. Two wide ones, multicoloured beads sewn on a cloth that dropped down to the hips. Wakholi had them made especially for him. Now Poonah understood why Masaaba had been keen to find a gym. For all his rituals he would be shirtless save for those sashes crisscrossing his chest. Then he picked out a flywhisk and mock-danced with it. The thigh rattles were not a problem; they were adjustable.

  Next, he was introduced to the young dancers who had been hired to dance kadodi with him on the streets like sisters and cousins. His cousins were typical middle-class Kampala kids. Everything traditional embarrassed them. Wakhooli did not expect them to join in. The previous day, faced with their biracial British cousins who treated imbalu as something sacrosanct, Poonah had seen their predicament. While the British wanted to hear their cousins’ imbalu experiences or plans, the Ugandans were uncomfortable, preferred to chat about computer games or something British. Yet, this morning the teenagers, who were off school, were at the studio eager to show off their kadodi dancing while Masaaba was filmed learning to dance. When the dancing started, the dance floor was crowded. Everyone wanted to see themselves dance in the large mirror on the wall. Because the camera was focused on Masaaba, they stood as close to him as possible. Until Wanyentse, the choreographer, stopped the music and said, ‘If you’re not going to take part in Masaaba’s kadodi in Mbale, step out please.’

  Silence. The camera rolled. Masaaba looked at the floor. No one moved. Poonah sucked her teeth in: Get rid of them; they’re wasting time. Wanyentse spread them out across the floor and they resumed.

  Masaaba was a peacock. With girls and boys dancing, him learning the steps while watching himself in the mirror, kadodi music filling the room, he was loving himself too much. He couldn’t believe that once he learnt the steps he would have a live band, that he would lead his dancers, that the dancers would do his will, that the band would watch his steps and play accordingly, that sometimes he would be carried shoulder high so as not to tire himself out. This being Masaaba, a Mumasaaba was fate. That he should come to Mbale to do imbalu was inevitable.

  Mwambu, the second brother, had to be asked to put the iPad away and get on the floor. All the years Poonah had known the family, Mwambu, now fifteen, had never looked her in the eye. Was it coyness, was it haughtiness; she was not sure. He was polite, said hi, but by the time you looked up he had looked away. All this time, he had hidden behind the iPad, taking pictures for uploading, pretending not to see the drama on the dance floor. Now he put the tablet away and joined Masaaba at the front. He was a quick learner but painfully self-conscious. In all his interviews, he had made it clear that under no circumstances would he even contemplate doing imbalu. He would be circumcised now that he was aware, but in hospital under general anaesthesia like most of his cousins. Why? Because it’s my roots, obviously. While I am British, I am also Mumasaaba, and this is what we do…I am going to learn the dance and the songs, but I’ve not decided whether I’ll join in the kadodi yet…I love my brother and I am here to support him but we’re different, I mean… We’ll see. Since their arrival, Mwambu had been moaning about the sluggish internet even though Wakhooli had bought him a high-powered modem. You’d find him eating breakfast mid-morning because he stayed up late when internet speed improved.

  Wabuyi, the third brother, would follow Masaaba to the moon. Right now, he was dancing, proper tribal, blowing a whistle, flicking a flywhisk, wowing the dancers who thought he was too cute for life. Out of the four boys, he looked more like Wakhooli but had his mother’s open disposition. Too trusting. Self-consciousness had not occurred to him. He was still at that beautiful age when his parents were superheroes and his brothers were cool. Right now, he was dressed like Masaaba because there were extra pieces of regalia. They were oversized on him, but he did not care. He wanted facial paint, leaves around his head, waving branches, the whole shebang. In his interviews he said he was waiting to see what the physical circumcision was really like before he committed to doing imbalu when he came of age.

  By the end of the second week, Masaaba was saying things in his interviews like I’ve even been to Dad’s former school…Now Mum is talking about buying a house
here…England is green, but this place is out of this world. The soil is red; never seen anything like it…I grew up with images of a barren Africa like sheer poverty, you know, in those humiliating charity organisation ads of skeletal children drinking dirty water cows are pooing in and people are washing in at the same time, or fat mothers holding starving children, that made you think what is wrong with these people? Until you realise the nature of editing. I mean there is poverty, obviously, but I’ve seen poverty in New York…I know what I signed up for…

  By the time the family set off for Mbale, Masaaba’s ngeye crown and the monkey skin to drape over his back had arrived and he had learnt to dance with them on. A picture of him in full regalia had been put up on the website. And then the Ministry of Culture had casually informed the family that dignitaries from other countries might be coming to what they had dubbed the ‘Imbalu Special’: Don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything.

  • • •

  It had been such a busy fortnight that Masaaba only started to catch up on social media on the way to Mbale. Mbale was 120 miles from Kampala but the boys were so busy on chats with friends back in Britain, they did not see the journey. Occasionally, they broke out in laughter as they shared a comment on social media. An academic had somehow connected Masaaba’s imbalu to Trump. Mwambu read out the title: ‘Masaaba’s Imbalu and the Rise of Traditional Masculinities in the Trump Era.’ He passed his tablet to his mother, who could not believe it and afterwards passed it to Poonah. The article was illustrated with an image of Trump, chin up after shoving the Montenegran president out of the way.

  Critical material had accumulated on the internet. The most worrying came from animal lovers. Someone had taken Masaaba’s image in full regalia and written ‘Another colobus monkey dies in vain!’ Another wrote, ‘This nobbit did not cringe at wearing an imitation of the barbaric killing of beautiful defenceless animals.’ In another place, CENSORED had been stamped across Masaaba’s picture. Mwambu uploaded everything. Jerry had told him not to discriminate among material. But Wabuyi was angry. He found the article and typed a response: ‘Shaka Zulu’s leopard prints are in vogue, mate.’ He attached Theresa May’s shoes and tapped Enter. Then he went to another item, typed, ‘The rug in our living room is a zebra skin,’ and attached an image from some website.

  Previously non-existent consultants—university professors and researchers—on adult circumcision in Africa had popped up online, offering insights, promoting their blogs and vlogs. Then there were the anti-circumcision groups—especially the one with the imagery of blood-soaked crotches—preaching doom and gloom. They accused Masaaba of gentrifying genital mutilation. They brandished statistics of deaths from adult circumcision each year. They called it MGM, an acronym quickly acquiring the notoriety of FGM. It talked about how boys in Africa were coerced, how women were used to spy on uncircumcised men who were captured and forcibly circumcised. Then this headline, CONSERVATIVES FAIL TO CONFIRM THEY WOULD BAN IMBALU IF IT HAPPENED IN BRITAIN. Mwambu uploaded everything.

  Napule had become a stranger. Occasionally his Aunt Nambozo brought him to visit the family, but he lived across town in Bunga with Khalayi. Kayla had surprised Poonah. She did not bat an eyelid at being separated from him, even when Napule chose to stay in Kampala with Khalayi while they travelled to Mbale.

  The earlier plans to hold the rites at Masaaba’s grandparents’ home had been thrown out. Anticipating international attention, the mayor of Mbale, the Ministry of Tourism, Wildlife and Antiquities, and regional MPs had remapped the route for Masaaba’s kadodi, taking in the major features of the city. Wakhooli’s Ugandan family was all for it; the bigger the better.

  Meanwhile tension was building between Poonah and Nabwiile, Wakhooli’s eldest sister. To her, Poonah was a hangeron. Her attitude sneered We can ease Kayla into our family, thank you very much. She had started by arranging visits to all Wakhooli’s siblings’ homes. Then she hijacked a visit to Nakivubo. Poonah had arranged to take Kayla shopping for bitenge gowns when Nabwiile said she knew someone who had the best and cheapest on Kampala Road. Apparently, her someone brought lovely shirts from Ghana too; Wakhooli and the boys would love them. Poonah kept quiet; she had planned to give Kayla a local market experience, besides, she knew how expensive shops on Kampala Road were and Kayla and Wakhooli were not exactly rich. Kayla sensed the tension and asked what was going on.

  ‘It’s me arriving into their world to ease their sister-in-law into their family and their culture like they can’t do it.’

  Kayla gasped. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Neither did I! Add to that, I am Ganda: don’t even speak Lumasaaba.’

  She held her mouth. ‘Do you want to leave?’

  ‘Wakhooli paid my fare for a reason. You carry on being you and I’ll be discreet.’

  They arrived at Hotel Elgonia around six and checked in.

  Poonah did not join the family until midday the following day. By then the boys had gone to meet Masaaba’s kadodi band and check out the dance route. Local MPs, the mayor and people from the government had been to welcome the family to Mbale and talk about the programme on the twenty-second. In the afternoon the family went to Wakhooli’s parents’ house. They had supper there.

  Kayla’s sisters, Athol and Freya, arrived in Kampala that night. So did Masaaba’s British friends. Wakhooli had arranged for them to be picked up at the airport at the same time and be taken to the Kabira Hotel in Kampala, then to Mbale the following day. But he had put his foot down against Zoe, Masaaba’s girlfriend, coming to Uganda for imbalu. It’s common sense, he said. Jerry the agent was staying in Tororo with his grandmother and would commute to Mbale. He was to handle post-op interviews, and he had handled the insurance in case Masaaba needed emergency repatriation to England. Masaaba, his dancers and the cousins who had arrived spent the following day rehearsing with the band.

  • • •

  Time in Mbale ran too fast. After lunch on the first day of the kadodi a group of elders came to whisper with Masaaba. It was excitement, happiness and pride. By 1.30, members of the press had started to lurk. At two o’clock, Masaaba came down dressed. You heard the rattles first as he walked and turned. That ngeye crown would transform a toad into a prince; Masaaba was killing it. And those bands enhancing his biceps. A woman went Airiririri over him and there were answers of Ayii. He posed for pictures, answered some questions for BBC4 and got into the transport to meet with the band and the dancers. At the gate, locals had collected, kids chased the car as it disappeared. Poonah felt constrained by her maternal aunt status. She would have liked to go along and watch the kadodi, perhaps dance a bit.

  Meanwhile, Wakhooli’s family was expanding. Earlier, before the kadodi started, there was confusion. Rumour had it that you had to be vetted before you joined Masaaba’s kadodi carnival. People arrived, introduced themselves reminding Wakhooli or his siblings how they were related, demanding that their children be included in Masaaba’s procession: ‘We understand that you hired English-speaking dancers, that you have to speak English to be a part. Since when?’ And Wakhooli denied that he would ever think of doing such a thing. He had presumed they would not want to be part of it. ‘Really, how? Because we even heard you hired men to carry our son when he danced on the shoulders.’ Wakhooli explained and apologised.

  The new relations were impressed by Kayla. They shook her hand—Thank you for holding our tradition dear—then they would turn to Wakhooli: You chose well. No doubt Masaaba’s love for his culture was down to good parenting…You see, some of our own people here are not encouraging it any more. But a Musungu, coming all the way from England, ah. Kayla would go red in the face and Poonah would nudge her to smile.

  Later, Kayla would be like, I hate it when people say terrible things about Ugandans women and make me out like I’m some sort of angel. I want to say, I’m not, I’m just like you. Poonah would twist her lips. How would she say but you’re not like everyone else, that the British had no idea that th
e white exceptionalism they worked so hard to inculcate in the colonies would one day become a burden, but she said, ‘They’d say the same if you were Jamaican.’

  That evening, the boys came back at around seven, exhausted and excited. Mwambu was laughing: ‘Mum, Masaaba’s gonna start a farm in Manchester.’

  Kayla was shocked. ‘They’ve given him live animals?’

  ‘Not yet. But so far they’ve promised him four goats, I don’t know how many chickens and a baby cow and that’s just the first day! We saw them. They asked Masaaba to touch them. If he’s, I mean, when he’s brave, they’re his.’

  ‘Oh my god, Poonah, what do we do?’

  Auntie Nabwiile stepped in. ‘We’ll give them to your grandparents to rear for you, Masaaba. But the chickens and goats will be used for the party when you come out of seclusion.’

  Silence as ‘used’ sank in.

  It was Wabuyi who asked, ‘You mean we’re gonna eat them cute goats.’

  ‘Yes Wabuyi,’ Auntie Nabwiile smiled. ‘Cute animals are where meat burgers come from.’

  Poonah expected him to run to his mother demanding they rescue the animals but Mwambu had given him a warning eye. Wabuyi smiled. ‘Of course, Auntie.’

  As Mwambu uploaded pictures of Masaaba touching the animals, Masaaba explained, ‘Mum, in the past, Dad should’ve built me a hut already; the animals would be a kind of wealth to start adulthood with.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mwambu sniggered, ‘like getting a council flat and an uncle gives you a sofa, an aunt gives you pans and pots, another gives you a telly, a bed, whatever.’

  ‘Well then,’ Kayla laughed, ‘time to kick you out of our house.’

  • • •

  It happened on the second day when the boys were out for the kadodi carnival. Kayla’s two sisters, Athol and Freya, monopolised her now even Nabwiile had eased off. They had this kind of protective aura as if Kayla was going through the mother of all trauma. When they arrived, interviews of them with Kayla picked up. Twice now, Kayla had come out upset. Poonah, who had noticed in Britain that when there was a mixed-race couple on TV—parents of a sports, musical or dance hero, or of a child protégé—cameras focused more on the white half of the parents, became suspicious. The second time, Poonah went up to Kayla and asked what was wrong. ‘Nothing,’ she said, and stormed off to her room.