10.

As soon as the trekkers reached their home territory and servants met them to take their loads, Kintu realized that Kalema had not made contact. For any traveler returning home with news of death, this was the first opportunity to disclose. But Kintu hesitated. He had hoped that the family would at least have an inkling that something had gone wrong on the journey so he would not break the news fresh to them. Anyhow, the furor over the safe return of the party so swept the urgency of a belated funeral away that even when Kintu set his first foot onto his courtyard, another moment to make the call of death, he did not. As moments right to disclose passed—he did not call Kalema’s death as he stepped past the threshold of the main house either—Kintu realized that he would never muster the courage. When he sat down in his private lounge, he knew that he would never hold funeral rites for Kalema. He also knew that while Kalema’s death was a tragedy, not holding funeral rites for the lad was reckless.

Before he even settled down Nnakato asked, “How was my boy when you left? I bet he—”

“Is he the most important thing in your life?”

“This tongue,” Nnakato, though taken aback, cursed herself. “Such perils, o Lwera, Kyabaggu. Ddunda has been merciful.”

Kintu leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He felt Nnakato hesitate, as if she were weighing her words.

“Are you still with us?” she whispered.

“Why not?” Kintu did not open his eyes. “After all, trekking from one arm of the kingdom to the end of another is blowing air through a basket.”

Nnakato knelt before him. For a long time, she sat in silence. Her silence said she knew that something was wrong and she was waiting for him to tell her. Kintu did not open his eyes. Nnakato leaned forward, bringing her forehead closer until it touched his. Normally, this worked: either he smiled and whispered the problem or he pushed her away. Kintu did not open his eyes. He did not push her away either. Nnakato felt locked out. She sighed and stood up but then Kintu said, “I am not dying in case you’re preparing to cry.” Nnakato laughed because he expected her to. “But this journey will be my death,” he added quietly. Still Kintu did not open his eyes.

“Kyabaggu might understand,” Nnakato came back. “Instead of quarterly visits you could go twice a year.”

“Governors twice my age still turn up all year round.”

“But none crosses o Lwera. You trek across three provinces.”

“Maybe I should get a wife that end,” Kintu smiled.

Nnakato looked around to make sure that there was no one nearby. Then she whispered, “You could take Babirye and keep her there.”

“Now you kill me,” Kintu smiled and opened his eyes.

Nnakato fussed. The task of rehabilitating Kintu after trekking was hers. In order not to drown him in provincial and domestic issues immediately, she alone went into his presence. To help him recover, she had steamed small portions of bitter vegetables, which were good for repairing the body after a bad diet. Not to overwhelm his stomach, she had prepared juices, which he started with. Then she gave him ripe pawpaw, beaten to a pulp, to hasten his stomach and flush out the old food—later she would give him the medicines to drink for pain and muscle rubs for aches. Then she prepared his bath of crushed pawpaw leaves, tough on dirt, to scrub his body. After the bath, she massaged his muscles with crushed bbombo leaves. She dried him and laid him on the bed with his legs dangling. As he rested, she soaked his feet first then pressed them gently with fleshy banana fibers mashed into a spongy froth. When she had dried and oiled his feet, she laid them on the bed and propped hay pillows beneath them to ease the swelling. As Nnakato stood up to take the dirty water out, Kintu said, “Ssentalo didn’t make it.”

“Oh.” Nnakato sat down. “I knew something was wrong; I knew it as soon as I saw you.”

“Kyabaggu beheaded him.”

“Ddunda!” Nnakato swore. “How did Ssentalo offend him?”

“Who knows?”

“All that bravery, all that beauty thrown away just like that?”

“He brought Ssentalo’s head along to the lukiiko.”

Nnakato shivered. “What a shock for you, my one! You must have been paralyzed,” Nnakato caressed his feet. When Kintu did not respond she added, “Maybe Kyabaggu asked Ssentalo to assassinate Namugala—”

“But he refused?” Kintu sat up. “You’re quick, Nnakato. I see it now,” Kintu said. “Ssentalo was stuck; either he killed Namugala, Kyabaggu becomes kabaka and kills him anyway—the obligation to kill his brother’s murderer—or Ssentalo refuses to assassinate Namugala but Kyabaggu still gets his royal buttocks on the throne and Ssentalo has nowhere to hi–” Kintu was gripped by a fit of sneezes.

“Evening hay fever; I’ll cover you,” Nnakato fussed again.

Kintu poked a finger into his right ear and shook it violently. Then he rubbed his nose, clearing his throat.

“Funny though, hay fever never bothers me on a trek.”

“Perhaps I should have used warm water to soak your feet.”

“No, my feet were on fire when I arrived. It’s the arrival of the night breeze. I’ll soon adjust.”

“Ssentalo was asking for it though,” Nnakato carried on. “Displaying his magnificence like that? Only a sovereign should be that tall, that strong, that imposing. I hear Kyabaggu is short on royal looks.”

“You read my thoughts exactly. Ssentalo reveled in the reputation of taking his four wives one by one in a single night, of being so manly women were not enough.”

“You said he wore just a loincloth?”

“Or a skimpy skin, except to meet the king. Apparently, as a warrior the less he wore the better.”

“Reckless.”

“Now that you know what’s been eating me tell me, any news?”

“Nothing but quiet since Kalema left. Kiyirika’s not the same. Baale’s drained of life.”

“Baale’s growing. Boys lose weight as they grow.”

“You’d think they are proper twins. What am I saying? Of course they’re proper twins.”

“Hmm.”

“I think Ntwire regrets sending Kalema away,” Nnakato whispered.

“Has he said this to you?”

“A week after you left. He said he should have come along to see how Kalema settled in.”

“Hmm.”

“Funny though. I doubt Kalema knew of their true relationship.”

Kintu pretended to be asleep. Nnakato sighed and stepped out.

Kintu did not sleep properly that night or the nights after. His failure to disclose haunted him. He should have announced the funeral as soon as he arrived; he should have gone up to Ntwire’s house and told him, he could have sent one of the men ahead to break the news to the family. After all, there were all sorts of truths: snakebites, convulsions, truths that could have been more merciful than the truth, but it was now too late. How would he start—Oh by the way I had forgotten: our son Kalema died? Before the party arrived home, Kintu had told his men that word about Kalema’s death should come from him first. Now it crossed his mind that perhaps he had said that because he had no intention of disclosing all along. Nnondo had said that they did not have to say anything at all. If the governor did not mention it, then none of his men would breathe a word.