8.
Up on top of Lubya Hill, Kintu could see a column of smoke rise steadily up the sky, indicating that the sovereign was at home. His heart turned slowly but he ignored the apprehension. Just this one last climb and the journey will be over, he thought. He asked for his leopard skin and draped it over his barkcloth. Nnondo passed him his ceremonial spear and shield. Kintu summoned all the energy he had left and holding his spear and shield in combat position—one never knows where the kabaka might be—he performed his allegiance and intention to protect the kabaka. Holding that position, Nnondo fell behind him and then the men. They marched up the hill.
The road to the lubiri was twice as wide as a commoner’s courtyard. The periphery was lined with neat reed fencing. Kintu was sweating under his regalia but he held his warrior stance. As the retinue approached the summit, Kyabaggu’s ambitions became clear. From what he could see, the palace under construction promised to be larger than anything Kintu had ever beheld.
At last they reached the summit. Kintu wanted to stop for a moment to catch his breath but the bakunta were hurrying ahead. Still he held his posture but looked around. The hilltop was vast and level. Perhaps this is why Kyabaggu chose it. Men were working everywhere—on gates, on the kisaakaate, the fencing, and on other structures. Kintu stood at the wankaki, the main entrance to the lubiri, and gritted his teeth. He stood right leg in front and his spear poised and performed fighting motions with the spear and shield reiterating that he was strong, he was fearless, he was loyal, he would serve and protect the kabaka. Then, without letting his guard down—even though his arms were quivering with pain—he led his men through the wankaki. The gatehouse for the royal drums was ready and the attendants stood in place. Behind him his men gasped at the size of the drums, the enormous gourds in the brewery, and the gigantic boats where banana juice was made. Before him, at the center of the lubiri, a sprawling reception area was ready. Two pillars ran along its face like a man’s sideburns, curving back gently at the fringe. Men were smoothening the thatch, which ran from the top of the roof to the ground, covering the sides and the back of the building. Kintu’s men walked, mouths open, turning around looking everywhere.
“Watch where you are going lest you turn your backs to the kabaka,” Nnondo hissed at the men. “We’re in the lion’s den.” The men fell back in line, quiet, wary. To Kintu, there was no doubt now that Kyabaggu had planned his ascension long before Namugala “abdicated.” With the brevity of his brothers’ reigns, one would expect Kyabaggu to commission something less elaborate, Kintu thought cynically.
The provincial governors’ quarters, built on the western slope, had already been completed. A courtesan girl, Nnanteza, met Kintu at the arched entrance. Nnondo rushed to take the shield and spear from him and whispered, “You’re still strong, Governor. You did not waver.” Kintu smiled his relief. He wondered whether Kyabaggu had even seen his performance. The bakunta handed Kintu over to Nnanteza and Nnondo and Kintu’s men were led away. Before Nnondo left, Kintu reminded him to procure the special Bwaise purple yam tubers that Nnakato loved and the medicinal enkejje fish powder for children.
When he walked into his lodgings, Kintu caught his breath. The walls were finished with the finest red earth only found on new anthills. The floor was underlaid with a soft layer of hay and then carpeted with white-and-black goatskins. The touch of goatskin under his feet was so smooth it was almost slippery. Kyabaggu was saying, “The real kabaka has arrived.”
As he sat down, Kintu sighed. Starting all over again, getting to know Kyabaggu, negotiating his moods and whims, seemed like a mountain to scale. Then there were the “Worms” to watch out for —governors who would ingratiate themselves to the kabaka at the expense of others. No doubt, some had already brought virgin daughters for Kyabaggu to choose wives from.
There was also the tricky issue of explaining himself to Nnanteza: why he would not lie with her. Namugala had understood. He took no offence when he heard of Kintu’s abstinence. Kintu had assured him that he was not averse to sex: just that o Lwera wrung the last liquid out of him. But then again, Namugala was always drunk.
Kintu looked at Nnanteza fussing over him and felt sorry. She had not made it to Kyabaggu’s bedchamber as her parents had dreamed. Rejected, she would content herself with the casual use of royal guests. Nnanteza caught him staring and smiled. She was of the classical beauty: a long ringed neck, gapped front upper teeth, dimpled cheeks, large happy eyes, an aubergine skin, a wasp waist, and a firm earthen-pot bottom, all well assembled.
Now Nnanteza brought water in a calabash and knelt before him. Two tutus, short sturdy breasts, as if swollen, came close. Even when she leaned forward they refused to bow. Kintu stole a closer look: she had those rare breasts that are so wide at the base that there was almost no space between them—yet, they don’t glut out. Five sons would knock them up and down and those breasts would bounce back, erect, Kintu thought.
“You know you’re not only beautiful, Nnanteza, but you’re blazing,” Kintu said quietly.
Nnanteza looked up in disbelief.
“True—you belong in the arms of the kabaka.”
Nnanteza’s eyes fell to the floor. “Hmm,” she said cynically.
“Kyabaggu will notice eventually,” Kintu said softly.
“I didn’t even get a royal viewing!”
“You did not?”
“I didn’t make it past the king mother. Nnabulya decides who goes into his presence.”
Kintu could only marvel at Nnabulya’s shrewdness. She chose girls who would never threaten her position. “I’ll not touch you, Nnanteza. In case Kyabaggu changes his mind.”
Nnanteza smiled gratefully as she started washing Kintu’s feet. Given the chance, he would mention her to Kyabaggu: a royal poking or two, a prince, become a namasole, who knows?
Among provincial governors, Kintu had the notoriety of failing to partake of the “fruits of the throne.” He had had no esteem in Namugala’s harem or the ones before. But Kintu was content with this reputation. To him, it was unwise to display sexual agility in the lubiri. His father had warned him that there was only room for one man in a palace, the kabaka. Besides, after his ebisanja through his wives at home, Kintu refused to perform in Kyadondo. After all, feeble performances were derided as well. As long as there was no concrete evidence, his “flaccid situation” could only be speculated upon, unlike those governors whose mediocrity was well established.
It was midmorning when Kintu stepped out of his quarters. The day was warming and he felt slow. He had been at the palace fifteen days but Kyabaggu had not summoned him yet. He spent the days catching up with other governors. Kintu yawned and considered visiting Kangawo of Bulemeezi. He had already seen Kaggo of Kyadondo and Ssebwana of Busiro. Because their provinces were closest to the palace, they arrived first and had already met Kyabaggu. Both men claimed Kyabaggu’s graciousness, but offered no further information. Kintu had not expected it: governors guarded their thoughts on sovereigns.
Kintu decided to visit Ssekiboobo of Kyaggwe first, but as he set off, nature called and he took a detour to the back of his quarters. As he watered the back of an acacia, a cobra rose on his left. In the corner of his eye, he saw it spread its neck, brandishing a thorny tongue. Kintu’s leak died. The cobra rose higher, and shiny black scales glistened in the sun. A pattern, cube-like, on its throat wavered from left to right as it moved its head. Kintu waited until it stopped dancing. He then lifted his right foot and sat it softly on top of the left foot to keep still and look like a tree. The snake swayed belligerently again. Kintu closed his eyes and remained still.
Kintu did not know when the serpent lost interest. When he opened his eyes, it was gone. He went back to the house but Nnanteza was not in. He went to the royal guards and asked whether Kyabaggu kept pet snakes. They said he did not.
That night Kalema returned. He was much younger though. He stood shy, at a distance, his thumb in his mouth. His cloth had faded.
“You’re dead,” Kintu rebuked. “What have you come back for?”
Kalema crossed his hands across his chest and shivered.
“I am cold. It’s chilly out there, especially at night.”
“Nonsense, o Lwera is never cold.”
“But I am, I am.” Kalema was close to tears.
“But you’re dead, you must stay dead.”
“I am lying on my hand. It’s numb. My leg is twisted. It hurts really bad. Won’t people pile dead dogs on top of me? I am too close to e Jirikiti.” Then he became excited: “Did you see me today, did you see me? Haaa, I was tall.” As if realizing his father’s lack of enthusiasm, Kalema added miserably, “People say I am not your son.”
“You are my son but you are dead. Stay dead.”
Kintu started to walk away but when he turned Kalema was standing at a distance, his arm was stretching out toward Kintu. It kept coming and coming regardless of how fast Kintu ran.
Kintu woke up, then froze. The snake was in the room: he could smell it. He lay still. He tried not to think about returning home, about breaking the news to Baale, to Nnakato, which language he would use to tell Ntwire. The thought made him hot and his skin grew wet with perspiration. The problem was not that Kalema had died—that is what people do—the problem was that he had killed him. It kept him awake through the night.
When day broke, he could not find the snake. Though the smell lingered, Nnanteza did not smell it. Kintu sent for Nnondo the headman.
“Did you bury the boy properly?”
“We tried our best, but it was as if in death he grew taller,” Nnondo explained. “We misjudged him.”
“What happened to the sheet I gave you?”
“We thought you’d need it.”
“Did any of you see e Jirikiti?”
“E Jirikiti?” Nnondo was horrified that they had missed it.
Kintu sat cross-legged. His cloth covered most of his body apart from the right shoulder. He gnashed his teeth making his jaw dance frenziedly.
“Go away then,” he whispered.
Nnondo walked a short way off, stopped and hesitated.
“The men and I can go back and bury Kalema properly, sir. We won’t be long.”
“Kalema is buried at the other end of o Lwera; you might as well go home.”
Nnondo kept his eyes on the ground.
“I’ll supervise it on our way back,” Kintu whispered, realizing it was his fault for not overseeing Kalema’s burial.