3.

The party was now on its fourth day of travel. They had stopped for the third break and changeover of tasks. The men refreshed with water and fruit they had collected along the way, while Nnondo briefed them on the remaining part of the day’s journey. They were to watch out for anything bright-colored and slithering, especially monitor lizards and snakes.

Kintu took a swig from his gourd, the smoked flavor reminding him of home. He scanned the horizon for any dark cloud that would shield them from the sun but the sky was a sterile blue. He cut a slice of mango and ate: unripe but soft, it was tangy. Normally, mango was fruit for children but Kintu and his men were eating dried meat and roasted seeds. Meat was light in the stomach and it kept hunger away, but it was obstructive to bowel movement. Mango kept the stomach in motion.

After refreshing, the men stood up. Pacesetters at the head of the convoy took over the migguggu of Kintu’s sheets of barkcloth, his regalia, skin robes, ceremonial wooden slippers, and other personal effects. Others carried food—especially meats hunted on the way and dry-roasted, as they were soon coming to regions without game or fruits. They now walked in the middle of the retinue, while men who had been at the back took over pacesetting at the top of the convoy. The ones that had been carrying loads now took the rear. As they set off, Kintu ignored the nagging ache in his feet.

Soon the scenery gave way to huge cone-like hills covered in stone gravel. Rising off a flat plain, the hills were so close to each other that there were no valleys between them. The convoy walked around them through the narrow corridors. There was only a smattering of vegetation at this point. The hilltops were totally bare. The grass, only inches off the ground, was dewy, soft and wet, refreshing to the men’s aching feet. For a while, the hills were a welcome distraction as they interrupted the horizon and kept Kintu’s mind off the discouraging distance. But then a burning sensation—as if the air he breathed grated his nose—gripped him and tears came to his eyes. To ease the pain, Kintu held his nose and breathed through his mouth until they had left the hills behind.

Kintu married other women besides Nnakato. The women were brought to him as tributes: some from ambitious parents, others were daughters of fellow governors. His wives’ homes were scattered all over the province for his convenience when he toured. The families, especially in far-flung regions of the province, were also a reminder to the local populace of his presence. Nnakato was in charge of the wives. When a bride arrived, she named and allocated her a role within the family—there were those good with children, creative ones who concentrated on crafts; those with a lucky hand in farming and who produced more food. When Kintu was away on kabaka’s duties, Nnakato visited the wives, checking on the children and the state of the land they lived on. When the children were older, she rounded the age groups up and brought them to Mayirika for instruction. She also garnered, informally, local moods and major incidents, reporting back to Kintu. Nnakato made sure that the wives met and visited each other regularly. The children visited each mother to meet their siblings. But to Kintu, the women were a duty.

At the thought of his wives Kintu gnashed his teeth. He felt bound. He was a prize bull thrown into a herd of heifers. He was Ppookino: Why did he have to mount every woman thrown at him? On the other hand, how could he not? He was a man, a seed dispenser. It was natural: he should enjoy it. For the ba kabaka, women brought to them were put away to entertain envoys, dignitaries, and other guests. Unlike a kabaka, Kintu was not above culture. Women given to him had to become his wives. In any case, Nnakato was an effective head-wife. She put in place a roster: every wife would have a child at least once in three years, ideally, once in every two years.

Kintu did his rounds; he spent a week with each wife. However, this sexual journey through his wives, ebisanja, was more arduous than the trek to the capital. Women waited moons to see him. Most were young with high expectations. They drained him. Despite Nnakato’s potions, Kintu never felt fully replenished. In any case, Nnakato brought the wives who failed to conceive to Mayirika and asked him to double his efforts. Kintu winced at the thought of the potions. They were enslaving. Once you tried them, they confiscated what was naturally yours so that you depended on them. Probably, men envied him every time someone arrived with a shivering virgin, but he was not interested, not even in Babirye who writhed and made noises like Nnakato. He was no Ppookino, Kintu decided. He was a slave to procreation and to the kingdom.

Just as the eldest twins Kintu had with Babirye were about to get married, Nnakato conceived. Kintu could not travel to the capital because Nnakato’s pregnancy was jittery: several times, it threatened to fall through. She became emaciated and haggard. Kintu cut down her duties and Babirye took over. Finally, Nnakato gave birth to a son, Baale.

That is when trouble started.

While to the family Kintu’s love for Baale was mere indulgence of himself and his youngest son, Babirye saw it as Kintu wedging a distinction between her “own” children and Nnakato’s son, that he never loved “her” children the way he loved Baale. Babirye, still living with her parents, threatened to tell the older children the truth. After all, Nnakato had her own child now. Nnakato was frightened, not of Babirye telling the children, but of the possibility of being partial to her son. She swallowed her hurt and asked Kintu to tell the children but Kintu would not hear of it.

One day, as Babirye prepared to return to her parents after a long visit, she took Nnakato aside and asked, “Nnakato, do you ever think about me?”

“Why, Babirye, how can you ask?”

Babirye was silent for a moment. Then she counted questions on her fingers. “Who carried those children for nine moons? Who labored on her knees to bring them into the world? Who nursed them for seasons? Who gives them up as soon as they are weaned? Have you ever wondered what happens to the mother in me as I pack to leave?”

When Nnakato did not answer Babirye said, “These breasts, they weep.”

Nnakato choked. She had Mbuga—Nnakato called Kintu Mbuga affectionately—she had Mayirika and nine children. Babirye had nothing. Nnakato pleaded with Kintu to tell the children, but he threatened to keep Babirye away from his family. He felt that Nnakato fell too easily under Babirye’s spell.

“Why didn’t she bring her concern to me? Why ask you?”

“She is frightened, Mbuga. I am the one who asked for her kindness.”

“But the children are mine: not yours, not hers. Mine.”

“They are, Mbuga.”

“When my children occupied her body, it was temporary. I’ll pay for her services if that is what she wants. Tell all the other wives who might want to cordon their children off with a ‘my’ and ‘mine’ attitude that I will take them away from them.”

“They know it, Mbuga. No one has cordoned her children off.”

“That includes your sister. She’s not special.”

On learning Kintu’s decision, Babirye screwed her face in tears and Nnakato cried with her. Before she left, Babirye whispered to Nnakato savagely, “Those children belong to Kintu because I said they do; if I change my mind they would not be his, would they?”

Nnakato held her mouth in shock. Babirye returned home enraged by the emptiness of her maternal embrace. Nnakato’s guilt was exacerbated by the lethargy of her womb. After a while, she found a happy compromise and went to Kintu. “I’ve been thinking, Mbuga,” she started. “Now that we’re getting old, couldn’t Babirye move in with us? She’s given us the ultimate gift: why not share the rest with her? She will be mother to the children, Mayirika is vast, you’re away most of the time and we’ll keep each other company.”

“You’re asking me to marry her.”

“You’ve already married her in every sense except in ceremony.”

Kintu agreed to marry Babirye on condition that she kept quiet about the children. For Nnakato’s sake, he married Babirye in a big wedding. The community applauded. “It was not right abandoning Babirye like that. After all, he’s only a man. There’s enough of him to go round. Whoever thought of separating twins in the first place?”

Kintu wanted to house Babirye away from his main home like the rest of his wives, but Nnakato insisted on sharing Mayirika with her.

There had been peace for a long while until recently. This time, Babirye accused Kintu of planning to make Baale next in line in spite of his older children. On this charge, Kintu was in a dilemma. All his sets of twin sons were identical. To make one twin governor was to ask for trouble: What would he do with the other? The Ganda never made identical twins heirs to an office; one could not be sure who was who exactly. Besides, with Babirye’s disposition, who knows what she would do to Nnakato if he died and one of her sons became governor? Yet, there was no question of making another woman’s child heir to the chieftaincy. That left him with one option: Baale.

Babirye had another complaint. Apparently, when her turn came to cook for Kintu, when he spent a week in her quarters, Kintu only came at night. He barely managed to stick a finger in her cooking, lick it and fall asleep. Babirye suspected that Kintu only visited her when Nnakato pushed him.

To Kintu, this complaint was immaterial. He never chose which wife to lie with and he did not visit his other wives more often than he visited Babirye. To him, while Nnakato continually worried about Babirye’s welfare and begged him to spend more time with her even during Nnakato’s own turn, Babirye complained incessantly.

Kintu made up his mind: One, he was going to build a house for Babirye away from Mayirika and move her. Two, Baale was his heir. It was time to start molding him. First, he would apprentice him and present him as his next in line to whoever would be kabaka. And when the time was right, he would get Baale married. Now Kintu adjusted the knot on his barkcloth decisively. The relief he felt was similar to that time when, after the long period of mourning his father as custom demanded, his hair had grown thick on his head. On the morning of his father’s last funeral rites, his aunt shaved his head and Kintu had felt such relief.

Looking over the horizon, Kintu was grateful for the distance and space the journey had put between him and his home. Because of the recent royal turmoil, he had not traveled beyond his province for a long time. Such proximity to domestic politics clouded his judgement, he thought. Now that he had stepped away, everything stood in crisp clarity.