15.

Musenene’s drizzles were relentless. The sun was in hibernation. The sky had dripped all morning, took a breath at midday, and started again. It had not stopped since.

It was beginning to get dark when men, including elders, governors, and friends of Kintu, started to assemble in the kitawuluzi, the large building set aside for meetings, consultations, and settling disputes. The kitawuluzi was circular. At the threshold, the thatch fell in such a fringe that there was hardly any headroom. But inside the hall, the ceiling of patched barkcloth was high. In one corner, embers smoldered. Kintu sat adjacent to the door, saluting guests as they arrived. Men who had arrived on time sat leaning against the walls. Governors sat close to Kintu. The women were in the guesthouse packing gifts for the bride’s family. The rest of the villagers were in the tent making merry.

When Baale entered, the men clapped and cheered. He was adorned, on top of his cloth, with a black-and-white rhesus monkey fleece. On his upper arms, bands of bright, multicolored beads enhanced his biceps. His head was shaved except for the large crowning braid near his forehead, like all Ganda men. But Baale’s braid, because he had been growing it for a long time, fell down the side of his face to below his cheek. The pampered glow he had acquired in Mazzi’s service had not worn off yet. Kintu gave Baale a basket of smoked coffee beans to pass around among the men in welcome. As every man chewed on the coffee beans to reaffirm their brotherhood, Gitta leaned over to Kintu and asked, “Have we started pampering grooms for the wedding day? What’s the world coming to?”

“It’s not pampering—juices of anticipation have washed over him.”

At that moment, women brought baskets of roast goat and jugs of akaliga brew. Nnakato stood at the threshold and called out the homecoming song, Nyini muno mwali? Is the head of the house home? And the men answered, He knows not to discriminate relations, all these children, in this place, they are home. As the song caught on, Nnakato withdrew.

When they stopped singing, Kintu thanked everyone for coming.

“Our son Baale wants to join the league of married men. Tomorrow, while his mothers and I will stay here anxious, you will accompany him to get him a wife. However, you will not bring the bride with you: she will be collected two weeks later. Apparently, only paupers combine the dowry day and the wedding these days.”

“Wasteful,” old men scoffed, while younger men nodded sympathetically.

“Before we send him into marriage, I’ve invited you tonight to help me enlighten him about manhood and marriage. We and Kiyirika have prepared him for the mundane aspects of life, but there are details to which we cannot get. Tonight, feel free to edify and share your experiences. As his father, I recently asked him if he has been with a woman and he answered: Everyone knows, I have a reputation . . .”

“Reputation? Did you ask him why only boys have a reputation?”

“They think that once they’ve pushed a girl upon the bark of a tree and heard her whimper then they know women.”

Kintu realized that the introduction to the session had been plucked out of his hands. He sat back and let the talk flow spontaneously.

“Talk about cluelessness—recently we were talking about prowlers in our village when this young man said, that’s why my wife keeps waking me up. Three times this week she has woken me up. I checked outside, but there was nothing. I asked him, how long has your wife been waking you up? Two weeks maybe three, the fool replied.”

“For three weeks the buffoon has woken up but heard nothing outside his house and still went back to sleep?”

“I tell you by the time a woman starts ‘hearing things’ it’s been a lot longer.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, young men, I am not saying don’t check. There could be a prowler. Listen with her, you hear nothing, go close to the door and listen again. You hear nothing, come back to bed, ask: Have prowlers disturbed your sleep, my good one? Yes, she says. Then you give her something to put her to sleep.”

“Baale, women don’t ask for sex but it doesn’t mean they don’t want it. There will be times when you touch Ntongo and she yields. There will be times when she will pretend to be asleep, or kick you outright. Then there will be times when she will be restless. If you’re the clueless type, she might burst into tears for no reason or become quarrelsome. I say to young men, watch the turning of the moon. Every woman has a pattern.”

“Until you marry a second and a third and can’t keep up with the patterns.”

“Baale, if Ntongo makes you happy, why bring a second wife?”

“My father told me to watch my back if my two wives get on too well.”

“When they turn against you—”

“Then don’t cross them. My two wives live together in the same house. There is no boundary between the children. One has breastfed the other’s children when she’s unwell or has traveled. But of course when you fall out with them, you want to run out of your own house. But I am not about to marry a third because I am frightened of them. My children are happy and that is what matters.”

“Three women living in the same house turning against you: there’s a frightening prospect.”

“Don’t put women in the same house.”

“And separate my children? Allow my sons to grow up under a woman’s influence?”

“You hear them, Baale? They can’t even agree. As I said before, if one woman makes you happy—”

“A young couple I know suffered the ‘restless’ problem,” someone interrupted. “However, it manifested differently. The woman hit the children.”

“She did what?”

“One word to a child and the next was a blow. All of a sudden, the children had their father’s ugly head and his vacant eyes. One time, she told a child to fetch something but before he stood up, she accompanied the request with a blow. I said: Woman, stand up, but before she stood up, I hit the ground so hard she jumped. I said, I am not your husband, but hit a child again and I’ll give you something else to hit. She burst into tears.”

“Ahaa!”

“I asked: What is it? She whispered: Nothing. I said: Something is, but she just wept. I took the husband aside and asked: When was the last time you touched her? He started: You see, I’ve been clearing a virgin land. You see, the rains are coming. You see, I need to start planting . . . I said, Shut up. I see your home crumbling. Can virgin land cheat on you? Now go in there and fuck the steam out of her. I took the children with me and handed them over to my wife. I told the husband to collect them the following day. When I saw the woman next, she whispered, Thanks for your words—they were good.”

“Imagine if he had three women and virgin land to clear!”

“I look at young men these days and shake my head. He’s just married his first wife but before she’s even pregnant, he’s looking for a new one. You ask, how do they manage two young women?”

“Half their children belong to the village.”

“I’ll share a secret with you, Baale,” whispered Kintunzi of Gomba. “Most marital disputes brought to us, the bottom line is sexual.”

“True,” agreed Kayima of Mawokota. “A sexually satisfied woman is a good wife, that’s all I am saying.”

“Baale, I’ve found it useful to listen to the noise she makes when we’re in our moment—”

“The noisier, the phonier.”

“Don’t start me on noisy women!”

“It means you don’t know what you’re doing. Trust me, Baale: when you take a woman there, there is no way she’s going to sing: Oh, you’re the pharaoh in my Misr—I mean, she can hardly breathe.”

“Often, the noise is a ploy to get you there quickly so she can go to sleep.”

“Do aunts teach them how to sing?”

“I can’t stand the noise, me. Sometimes I want to shout: Shut up and let me get on with it.”

“Silence? Aaah, it’s like fucking a mattress.”

“Same here, I need music to dance to.”

“No one’s talking dead silence. We’re talking false noises.”

“Noise or silence, Baale, the most important thing is for you to know how your woman behaves when she’s actually into it. Learn to knock for as long as it takes for her to open up. However, if you can tell that she’s not in it with you and still carry on just because she’s screaming, that’s entirely up to you. But I recommend that you hold her hand so that you both get there.”

“Haa, there are some clever women; when she is not in the mood, she does not say no. Instead, she touches you here and there and before you have even started you have come. She turns around and faces the wall.”

“Don’t let her rush you—say, don’t touch that.”

“As long as Baale knows that women are innate actresses.”

“Until they get pregnant.”

“Where do I start on pregnant women?”

“With the crazy cravings and bizarre—”

“My Nnabakka . . .” a man lowered his voice as if there were women nearby, “has the oddest craving when she’s pregnant. I return from digging, sticky and stinking of sweat, but she wants me. I lie down and she buries her head into places and sniffs. If I take a bath and lie next to her, she throws up. At first, I thought, what sort of child is coming?”

“I thought sex stops when a woman’s pregnant?” Baale asked.

There was a chorus of groans.

“My Nnamale would claim: I’ve not felt the child move all day, why don’t you check and see? At first I asked, Check how? She quipped, How did you put him there?”

“Mine cannot stand the sight of me. I walk past, she spits. She sees me coming in, she walks out.”

“Baale, Ntongo will fall pregnant and you may not recognize her. Don’t be alarmed. She’ll return to normal as soon as the baby comes out.”

“I went to a wedding fifteen years ago,” Kintu started, and the room fell silent. “A friend’s son was marrying. The lad had a ‘reputation’ like our Baale here. Dowry was paid, the bride was brought, the wedding went well until ‘real marriage.’ Just before midnight, the bride retired to the bedroom and soon afterwards, the groom joined her. The drummers signaled consummation and you know those drums won’t stop until the groom comes out to signal that it’s a deal.”

“In fact, Baale—sorry to interrupt, Kintu—those drums are for you, to urge you on and give you rhythm. If the bride is erratic, as virgins normally are, ask her to respond to them, it helps with the nerves as well. Carry on, Kintu.”

“When the fellow got to the bedroom, he fell asleep.”

“He did what?”

“Fell snoring-asleep beside his bride.”

An elder turned and knocked his head on the wall, “No, no, no.”

“The girl, having been prepared for the wedding night, shook the groom’s hand shyly, Husband, husband; aren’t we supposed to be doing something?”

“I can’t take this!”

“Don’t hide your head, Baale. This is manhood under pressure.”

“An hour later, in comes the girl’s aunt to check on the couple.”

“What about the drums?”

“Still going, presuming that the groom’s stamina is phenomenal.”

“Wowe!”

“First, the aunt listens at the door; no noises. She imagines it’s done. She walks in to check the bed sheet. What does she see? The bride’s sitting on the bed bemused, the groom’s snoring.”

“Wololo,” a man cried.

“God knows the women people pick to be grooming-aunts: this one was evil. She woke the groom up and asked: Do you imagine my girl came here to admire your backside? Whose girl do you think you’re going to starve? Before the groom could explain, she had reached for his manhood.”

“Who reached for his manhood?” Baale hissed.

“The aunt. As you can imagine, the member had not stirred. What is this—she flapped him like a straw—Have you ever got ‘this’ up?”

“Women are ruthless.”

“Before long, she was manipulating him, telling the girl to strip.”

“Is it allowed for the aunt to touch him there?” Baale was alarmed.

“Is it allowed? Baale, it’s decreed in Ganda law that when a groom fails to get it up, the aunt must get him going, that when a bride’s having problems, the aunt must show her what to do. What do you think they have her there for?”

“Baale, most aunts will not let you make the mistake in the first place. Before they call you into the bedroom, she’s stationed under the bed.”

“Under what?” Baale stood up. “Do you mean her aunt will be under our bed?”

“Sit down, Baale. Nothing to be frightened of.”

“My wife’s aunt was under the bed on our first night. When I came into the bedroom, I gestured to my wife and she nodded. On the contrary, the idea turned me on. I thought, let me knock her girl so hard that by the time she gets from under our bed, she will be drenched. As I left the room, I said: I am still running you know, can I have your aunt as well?”

“The hag was under our bed too, but as I left afterwards, I called: Aunt, how did you like that? She was mute.”

“That’s the attitude. If her aunt is the nosey type, by all means give her something to remember.”

“Mine could not fit under the bed. The bed-stands had been dug so deep into the floor that she could not slip underneath. I don’t know whether I would have taken the pressure.”

“I can ‘ask’ Ntongo’s aunt not to be under your bed, Baale, as long as you won’t fall asleep,” Kintu laughed.

“I’ll not fall asleep!”

“Either way, she will come in afterwards to check the bed sheets. You can’t get out of that one.”

Baale’s hands were locked between his legs.

“I don’t advise it, Kintu,” one of Kintu’s brothers said. “To bribe an aunt is to sow suspicion.”

“Where did the reluctant groom end up?”

“I’ll tell you three things I learned that day, Baale,” Kintu started again. “One, our culture does not joke with sex. Two, being a man is no privilege because when things don’t work you can’t hide it—women are lucky: they can. Three, don’t ever take your erection for granted. That aunt knew a few tricks. The groom finally rose to the task and she showed him what to do. But as he mounted the bride, he threw up.”

“Threw up?”

“Emptied his stomach onto the bride.”

“Kintu, must you tell this story?”

“Baale must know that sometimes manhood malfunctions.”

“Was the groom drunk?”

“He does not touch alcohol.”

“Oh.”

“Draw the picture of that moment,” Kintu stretched his legs. “The aunt steps out of the house and summons the father of the groom. Luckily, the bride’s family has gone home and the rest of the revelers are drunk. The father calls me to help and the first thing I do is to tell the groom to step out and signal that it’s a deal. Meanwhile, the bride is crying. The aunt, now packing the bride’s bags, huffs: We’re going home child, there is no man here. The father, as you can imagine, is speechless. I try to calm the aunt down: Let’s not be hasty. Let’s talk like grown-ups, but is she listening? I tell you fellow men: never negotiate with a woman. Their sense is not our sense. This woman looks me in the eye and says: Before we talk, Ppookino, two bulls on the table for wasting our time. I say: Two bulls? For what? She looks at me and laughs: Then I’ll return home with my child and that clean bed sheet. She holds the bride in one hand, luggage in the other and walks to the door. I say: Fine, fine, you have two bulls. To cut the story short, we gave her two extra cows.

“Why?”

“She threatened to bring a cockerel to the groom’s family in broad daylight, because he was a virgin.”

“What humiliation!”

“Even then, after talking like grown-ups do, the aunt demanded that for the bride to stay, she would choose from among the groom’s brothers whom she would have children with.” Kintu shook his head helplessly. “Can you imagine a girl ticking off your sons one by one: Not that one, no, I don’t like that one, noo, yeah, that one! Given a chance, women will kick you straight in the seeds. The shy bride chose the best-looking brother.”

“Aha!”

“Give respect where it is due though, that aunt was thorough.”

“The poor lad who was chosen—not yet married—was summoned and informed about the arrangement. Still, as if to make us feel her, the aunt insisted that the marriage be consummated that night. You can imagine, the young brother going in with a woman he had not anticipated for family honor. But as you know young men, he said: Prepare her, I am ready. So we hid the groom while his brother took over. The aunt got her bloodied sheet, and a goat, and left. She threatened that if the bride was not pregnant in two seasons, she would be back.”

“I would rather die.”

“The funny thing is that the couple is still together and had seven children the last time I checked. He’s wealthy, the wife seems happy: no trace of contempt or anger.”

“So what was wrong?”

“Who knows? Maybe the groom was asexual, maybe he was frightened of the dark depth or he walks the male path.”

“That’s what we brothers do for each other, Baale. After all, the most important thing, the children, are still blood,” Kitunzi of Ggomba said quietly. “A brother will come and say there’s a problem. He asks you to help with his wife. If his woman does not mind, then we do it. Men by nature don’t have thin lips. We don’t discuss each other with our wives. Even when you fall out with your brother, what must be kept from the tongue stays off the tongue. You don’t say to a fellow man: After all, I fuck your wife for you. There, right there, you cease to be a man. We see you coming, we spit; we cross the road. The good thing about a woman: she will not disgrace her children by disgracing you.”

“Baale, there are men born that way. They can get it up but they will not stick it into a woman. Others want a woman but it can’t be bothered to get up. Sometimes, one that used to be enthusiastic loses interest. That is no reason to commit suicide. There are medicines.”

“Baale looks crestfallen. Do you still want to marry?”

“Of course—it’s just that no one ever told me any of this.”

“Would you go back and tell your unmarried friends what you learned tonight?”

“Oh, that would be childish,” Baale laughed.

“That’s why no one ever told you.”

“You’ll be fine. If you treat Ntongo well and if you don’t try to be perfect, things will work out in time.”

“Besides, we shall be looking out for you. All of us here.”

“And your mothers, they will be looking out for the girl. All you have to do is listen, watch, and learn. Soon, you’ll work out what suits you.”

“May I ask?”

“Sure, Baale. It’s your night.”

“I heard that . . . my friends say that a man must attempt at least three trips in a night—”

The session was thrown into uproar. Everyone spoke at once: some clicking their tongues in derision, some sucking their teeth.

“This is irresponsible—” but Kintu struggled to control his own mirth. “Our son wants to know whether three is the minimum journeys in a night. Who wants to take this one on?”

“Depends how long each journey is. If you’re only going across the road like a rabbit—”

“If he’s walking on his fingers—”

“Three trips? In your wet dreams, Baale.”

“On the wedding night maybe.”

“Get this, Baale—by the time you work out each other’s rhythms you can’t keep it up that long.”

“But there are men like that: three hours later the bed is still creaking.”

And the men went on into the night, remembering, laughing, sharing and disagreeing. They cited women’s weird ways, feuding wives, keen mothers-in-law and all those issues that men considered their lot.

It was now a week since Ntongo’s dowry day and another week until her arrival. Kiyirika was gripped with anticipation. Women and girls speculated on Baale’s Ntongo—how beautiful she was. Men had put their own work on hold and were putting final touches to Baale’s house. Unlike his older brothers who were scattered all over the province, Baale’s house was close to Mayirika. Apparently, Nnakato needed to keep an eye on Baale’s home—Ntongo was coming from so far; she could get lonely; Ntongo was very young; she needed to be inducted into the family; the family was large: it could be daunting—all Nnakato’s reasoning. Babirye, rather than ask why the same was never done for the older boys, rolled her eyes but kept her peace.

She knew the truth: Baale was being groomed to become Ppookino.

Baale came to the back of the house carrying a number of bales. One by one, he threw them up to the men reinforcing the roof. When he stopped, his hand flew to his face. His index finger skirted around a pimple. A sensation, pleasurable and tingly, threatened to turn into pain if he moved his finger closer. Gingerly, he placed the finger on the tip of the pimple and pain shot through the back of his head. He pulled the finger away.

Now Baale carried a pot of water inside the house. Men were plastering the walls with clay. With the roof on, the house was dark. It smelled of freshly dried hay. Soon, the warmth of his wife would wear the sharp edges of newness off the walls and round them into the familiarity of home. Baale looked at the floor. The hay carpeting was thin. He had opted for the scented kisubi hay. However, the rains would not let it dry. Now, he would probably leave the carpeting to Ntongo. Baale was happy. A whole moon of not working would be his to spend with Ntongo after the wedding: just the two of them on their own, in their home getting to know each other. They would wake up to be fed by his twin mothers and bask in the sweet morning sun. They would take lazy strolls at sunset. Then for another moon Ntongo would officially be allowed to move outside the bedchamber, but still she would not do chores. By then she would have morning sickness. Baale smiled. Nnakato and Babirye would fuss over Ntongo. He shook himself up and walked out of the house.

Before Baale realized, his finger flew back to the pimple, touching the tip. A sharp pain pierced his eyeballs and his head fell back. He had never had acne. For a huge pimple to grow right on the edge of his nostril, just before his wedding, was malicious. He turned to Kayima, his close friend, and said, “Look at this pimple for me.”

Kayima tipped Baale’s head. “Bend a bit, I can’t see.” Baale squatted. Kayima turned Baale’s head toward the sun to get a better view. “Hmm hard: still raw,” he said.

Three days later, work on the roof was finished. The bed-stands were dug into the ground and cemented in. Two men wove the flat of the bed using straps made from the bark of a muvule tree. Nnakato stuffed a sewn sheet with dried cow dung carefully fluffed out to get rid of the smell. Soon, the mattress would be done too. The men working on the bed were the only ones still in the house. The rest were out brewing. Drinking had already started. In the evening, after the chores, the villagers helped themselves to the brew before retiring.

Baale walked up to Kayima and asked him to look at his pimple again.

“It’s ready,” Kayima said. “Sit down, I’ll squeeze it.”

When he squeezed, a blinding pain gripped Baale. He pulled his head away and shook it. He blinked back the tears.

“The pain shot right through my eyes,” Baale explained.

“I don’t understand. It looks ripe but—”

“Try again,” Baale said. Kayima hesitated.

“Maybe we should give it more time.”

“No, it’s two days to the wedding. There’s no time. I’ll bring a thorn.”

Baale went behind the house to the lime tree and broke off a thorn. His friend started picking at the pimple’s mouth but instead of yellow fat bursting forth, it trickled blood and water.

Kayima shook his head. “I don’t understand: it looks all ripe on the outside, but it’s raw inside. Let’s leave it.”

Baale passed his index finger on the tip. It was wet. He looked at the wet on his finger and rubbed again. He resigned himself to it, but a dull headache started throbbing in his left eye.

The following morning, when Baale woke up, his head was so heavy he struggled to get up. When he did, intense pain shot through his left eye into his jaw. He fell back on the bed. Finally, he sat up. Holding onto the wall, he walked outside. The sun cut right into his eyeballs. He shielded them with his hands.

Nnakato saw him first and screamed. “What has bitten my child?” She ran up to him. “Is this a spider’s puff?”

“It’s that pimple,” Babirye caught up with her. “He wouldn’t let it alone yesterday.”

“What kind of pimple swells an eye?” Nnakato asked Babirye. “Look at the puffed face. I’ve seen acne before, this is not it.”

Nnakato sat Baale down and gave him breakfast. When Kintu saw Baale’s face, he made light of it.

“Do you reckon Ntongo will stay? One look at that face and she will be running home.”

For the rest of the day, people poked fun at Baale’s puffed face and he laughed with them. He did not manage to do anything at all. He blamed fatigue on the hectic weeks earlier.

The following morning, Baale did not get up. Nnakato went to check on him and found him in bed. His left eye had closed completely. He could not talk properly. The whole of his left side was dead. He could only move his right arm and leg. Nnakato was hysterical.

“This is more than a pimple.”

That is when Kintu knew—Ntwire had struck. It took him by surprise yet it was no surprise.

Nonetheless, Kintu sent for his healer. All day long, the healer called upon the winds of the family to intercede but in the end he confessed, “Whatever it is, it’s bigger than me. Only the dead can try now.” He burned all sorts of herbs to wake up even the laziest family spirits.

As Kintu watched Baale’s life ebb, the image of the shattered gourd that fell out of Kalema’s hand flashed in his mind. Ntwire had lulled him into a false sense of security.

At the dawn of his wedding, Baale departed.

Nnakato, delirious, was locked up throughout the funeral. When the mourners returned from escorting Baale to the underworld, Nnakato had stopped crying. Kintu opened the door to check on her. When she asked whether her child had been properly wrapped, Kintu let her out.

Nnakato walked to where Babirye sat and pointed at her while she counted on her fingers.

“Babirye, you wanted a piece of my marriage, I gave it to you. You wanted my man; I shared him with you. You had eight children with him; I never begrudged you any of them. All I had was that one boy, a single sprout, but you begrudged him. You complained that he would be heir instead of your sons. You said that our husband loved him more than he loved yours. I never wedged a line between your children and mine. Yet you found fault with him. You found fault with our husband. You have complained and complained all our life but this is it. You can have it all: man, marriage, home, and family.”

Kintu looked first at Nnakato and then at Babirye. The belligerent woman wore Nnakato’s cloth but had Babirye’s eyes. The woman sitting down, frightened, had Nnakato’s eyes yet she had been Babirye all day. Kintu did not know whom to rescue from whom. Babirye was never frightened. Nnakato was always meek.

Nnakato walked away. Some mourners went after her. Clearly, her thoughts were in disarray. The things she said did not make sense. Babirye was childless; Nnakato had born nine children. However, Kintu called them back. He said that Nnakato needed to rage. Who else but her twin to take it out on? He did not want her locked up again. Instead, he asked Nnondo to keep an eye on her.

“Let her roam and scream everything out: then she will mourn. Locking her up will make her worse.”

Kintu went to Babirye. It was as if he were talking to Nnakato, “I know you didn’t kill my son, Babirye. Baale had to go. Your sister will soon be back with us.”

Babirye only stared, speechless.

That night, Nnakato returned home. She curled up in bed. Kintu sat on the bed opposite and sought out her eyes. It was Nnakato all right. Kintu sat silent, looking for words.

“Baale was a visitor,” he said finally, “A fleeting moment. Remember we waited a long time for him?”

Nnakato did not seem to hear the words. Kintu moved to sit on her bed. He touched her feet, lightly at first. They were cold. He rubbed them, blowing on them until they were warm. Slowly, Nnakato uncurled and yawned. When she fell asleep, Kintu stood up. He lifted the sheets of barkcloth and covered her up to the neck. Nnakato shivered. He put his hand on her arm to steady her. Gradually, she stopped and relaxed in sleep. Kintu lifted his hand and went outside to the mourners.

At dawn, Kintu came back to Nnakato’s chamber to check on her. She was not in bed. He checked Babirye’s quarters; her bed was empty too. He sent for Babirye.

“Have you seen your sister?”

“No.”

“She’s not in her bed and I can’t find her.”

Babirye went out calling. At daybreak, everyone joined in the search, scouring the village, but there was no Nnakato.

Early on the third morning after Baale’s burial, Zaya came down the hill howling. Kintu did not come out. He had become used to emotional theatricals in the aftermath of Baale’s death. But then, Nnondo came to him and whispered that Nnakato had been found. Kintu came out of the house and followed him. Nnondo led him up Mayirika Hill past the path that led to the gorge, past the barren mango tree. On the tree with the curious pink bark, Nnakato dangled, her head bent forward. She was swollen. Her skin was patched black and gray. The rope had disappeared under her swollen neck. Her tongue hung out on the side of her mouth. Kintu looked at the large rock: Nnakato had used it to climb the tree. He felt betrayed by the rock and the tree. He looked at Nnakato’s feet and walked forward. His hand reached out to touch them but Nnondo stopped him. Suicide was untouchable. Kintu turned and went back home.

As with Kalema, there were neither mourning nor funeral rites for Nnakato. Those who could not help crying heaved in hiding. Nnondo hired men, strangers from a faraway village, to bury Nnakato as custom mandated. They arrived late in the evening and worked into the night. They dug a deep hole beneath Nnakato’s dangling body. Then one of them climbed up the tree and cut the rope. Nnakato fell neatly into the hole and squatted. The rope, still around her neck, fell in after her. The men piled the soil on top of her as if she were a dog. When they finished, the men raced through the villages screaming to ward off the curse of suicide. Kintu wondered at Ntwire’s sense of retribution—why kill Baale and Nnakato who had loved Kalema most?

A week after Nnakato’s burial, Kintu came to Babirye’s quarters. Babirye’s eyes were distant but when he entered, she focused. Kintu squatted in front of her as if he were talking to his mother.

“Who are you?” he asked gently.

Babirye took some time to make out what Kintu had said. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, who, which one of you twins was buried?”

“Your wife.”

“I know, but which one?”

Babirye hesitated. Here was the moment. Kintu, the family, Mayirika, and even Buddu Province hung on this moment: she could hold it or she could let everything crash. She had been Nnakato before. If Kintu—the only person to tell them apart—doubted then no one could be sure. All she had to do was bury childless Babirye and resurrect Nnakato and life would go back to normal. Finally, Kintu would worship her. But why should she die so that he could have his Nnakato back? He had not only separated them but had sowed suspicion in Nnakato against her. He had refused to love her even when she gave him eight children. Yet she was going to kill herself to reunite him with Nnakato?

“I am Babirye.”

“It’s Nnakato in that hole then?”

“Hmm.”

“All right then,” Kintu stood up.

He vanished that night.

Once, Kintu was seen in o Lwera in the cave near Kalema’s grave, but his mind was in disorder. He said that Nnakato, Baale, and Kalema were in the cave with him, and that he could not abandon them. After that he was never seen again. Kintu would get neither a grave nor funeral rites.

Kyabaggu ruled Buganda for twenty more years after Kintu’s disappearance. But the Ganda saying that only character traits of the barren die with them came true for him. Nnanteza’s sons, Jjunju and Ssemakokiro, conspired and killed him. Jjunju, the eldest, became king. Nnanteza became king mother. Jjunju ruled for seventeen years. However, after becoming king, Jjunju fell out with Ssemakokiro. One day Ssemakokiro rebelled and, according to his version of events, he ordered the kidnapping of Jjunju. Unfortunately, the mission went wrong and Jjunju was killed in the scuffle. Ssemakokiro, unlike his father, was quick to appease his brother’s blood. First, he banished all the men he had sent to kidnap Jjunju, including their extended relations, from Buganda. Then he named his palace Jjunju. It worked for Ssemakokiro because he died of natural causes in 1814. Nnanteza lived as king mother for the rest of her life.

Three seasons after Baale’s death, Mayirika, Kintu’s main house, stood derelict because an heir to Kintu had not been chosen. The problem was that Kintu’s body had not been found. All the young children had been returned to their mothers. It was Nnondo who kept grass from creeping to the threshold. A hundred yards away, Baale’s house stood dark and silent. Bush had swallowed half of it. Babirye lived with Zaya in her wing. Like a witch, she spent her time gazing in space but Nnakato eluded her. She had not cut her hair for such a long time that the clumps had turned first into tufts and then they had formed ropes. Babirye had intentionally grown her hair before Baale’s wedding. She, like other women in the family, had planned to shave it off on the wedding morning—the scalp would look clean and soft, not yet darkened by the sun. Shaving hair not only accentuated the skin, eyes, and lips but it made the shortest neck look graceful. Only ugly women grew their hair. However, since Nnakato’s death Babirye had vowed to carry the burden of hair until Nnakato made contact. Nnondo had attempted to organize meetings with Kintu’s children to choose the new Ppookino but the meetings tended to end in arguments and fights. Everyone voted for their mother’s son. Babirye refused to take part. Wives had offered to take Babirye with them, but she declined. Zaya looked after her well, she claimed. When Babirye was asked about Nnakato’s claims that she had eight children with Kintu, Babirye got very angry.

“How dare you say such a thing? Did you not see how Nnakato’s head was confused when she lost her youngest son?”

In that, Babirye allowed Nnakato and Kintu to take the secret of her children with them.

One day when Babirye and Zaya had just had their evening meal and Babirye was settling into seeking Nnakato in the air, Zaya jumped. She held her stomach. Babirye looked at her enquiringly.

“Something moved in there,” Zaya pointed at her belly.

“Moved—how?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been bloated for a long time. But the last moon or so I am sure something moved in my stomach.”

“Do you see the moon?”

“Not for a long time. I thought the moon comes and goes?”

“Let me see?” Babirye touched Zaya’s stomach. “This is a child.”

“A child? In there?”

“Yes; who?”

“But it does not show!”

“The first one never does. Whose is it?”

“Must be Baale then.”

“Who?”

“Baale, the departed.”

“How?”

“Way back, he offered to teach me how to be with a man, in case I had to go back to Gitta.”

“Did he? How many times did he help you?”

“Once, ptsh,” Zaya spat. “We went to Ntwire’s hut. He told me to act like a proper woman: relaxed and patient but . . .” Zaya shook her head in regret.

“When?”

“Just before he was sent away for apprenticeship.”

Babirye counted her fingers. When she got to the eighth finger she said, “Get up child, pack your things; we leave tonight.”

Babirye looked at the sky and said, “I knew you would be back.”