1.

MMENGO, KAMPALA

Monday, January 5, 2004

At six o’ clock in the evening, the door of Mulago Hospital mortuary opens and an attendant steps in. It is not a new arrival—it’s a collection. Kamu has been in the mortuary for the last five hours. He was lucky to have been checked in, especially as he did not die in the hospital. Normally corpses like his, the ones that are brought by the police—car accident, collapsed on the road, murdered but no one has claimed them—are dumped outside at the door until there is space inside.

The attendant leads a group of three men and a woman into the gwanika. However they don’t come in with him; they stay close to the door. The attendant slips a plastic apron over his neck and ties the strings at his waist as he walks toward the refrigerator. Then he pulls on a pair of gloves. He steps on a pedal in the wall, close to the floor, and a huge shutter rises like a curtain on a theatre stage, revealing large shelves inside the wall. The attendant tugs at one shelf and a tray with no fewer than ten corpses, like massive loaves out of a giant oven, slides out. The woman, seeing so many dead bodies with all kinds of expressions, holds her hands up to her mouth in shock.

The attendant walks around the corpses, checking the tags. He does not bother to read Kamu’s. He knows who he is. Finally, he stops at the feet of one corpse and consults his clipboard. He checks the toe tag again and then the clipboard. Then he hooks the clipboard on the trolley, rolls the body onto it, and wheels the corpse toward the door.

There is something almost privileged about a corpse being sought like this—loved ones distraught, crying even, as they receive you on the trolley and their “thank-you-so-much” to the attendant, even though they have paid him a lot of money so that he does not lie to them that he cannot find you—it shows that you have lived a life worth the effort, that you’ll be missed.

As the lucky corpse is wheeled toward its loved ones, the other corpses seem to stare forlornly as if waiting for someone, anyone at all who once loved them, to come and take them home. In three days, the haulers will come to clear out the old bodies and make room for new ones. First, they will inject the bodies with embalming fluid—the luxury of being unknown—identified corpses do not get this special treatment, unless their relatives pay for it, which is expensive, and they say that embalming keeps you intact for at least twenty years! Then they will be put into black plastic bags, which are tied at the legs, piled on a trolley, and taken out to be buried.

“Check and make sure he is your one,” the attendant says as he stops the trolley in front of the men.

“He is our one: those are his pajamas,” the woman says from the door where she stands.

“Other people have similar pajamas too,” the attendant is impatient. “Check. I don’t want to get out there and then be told: Oh, he is not the one.”

One of the men steps forward and looks. That one glance breaks him; he can only nod. The attendant goes back, pushes the trays back into the wall, steps on the pedal, and the shutter comes down.

Kamu’s right eye stares.

Meanwhile at that moment in the city center, Suubi stood leaning against a pole outside the shops in the New Taxi Park. A glut in passengers had led to taxi frenzy. Brokers, who normally begged passengers to travel with them, now looked at commuters as if they were beans strewn on the ground. Vans drove in, brokers jumped out barely mentioning their destination and pshooo—the vans were full. Drivers then rushed to make as many trips out of the glut as possible while stranded passengers gnashed their teeth. Suubi watched the space where her taxis—Bakuli, Mmengo, Lubaga—normally parked. It was crowded with frustrated commuters. She would wait until the shoving and pushing abated.

Just then the cold breeze, the one that heralds the night, swept over her skin and she sneezed. When she stopped, her nose was blocked. That was it. Her hay fever would not wait for the fighting to stop. She wore the longer strap of her handbag across her chest and placed the bag on her belly where it was hardest to snatch. She then stepped out into the crowd. A van drove in and came toward the Lubaga crowd. Judging from its speed, Suubi anticipated where it would come to a halt and shoved toward that space.

“This ka-woman! She is small but the way she shoves!”

Suubi bit back her usual retort that thinness was not illness; she was focused on getting in that taxi. The van arrived and she maneuvered herself to the entrance.

“But this woman also!” The door opened.

“She has elbows as sharp as spears, I swear.”

Suubi decided to show them what her “sharp as spears” elbows could do. She grabbed both sides of the entrance, blocking everyone else from entering, and climbed in.

“Nyabo; we’re also going home!” She was the first inside.

“As if we came to spend the night here!” She sat next to a window.

“Aha, some women!” She checked her handbag.

“We’re full: no more, no more.” There was no tell-tale slash of pick-pocketing on her bag. The door slid and banged shut. “Wait for the next one.” The driver swung the van toward the exit.

Suubi closed her mind to the ehhu, the ahhaas, and the You can stand there until grass grows around your legs that the passengers were lamenting to each other. She stared through the window thinking about how she was going to alight at Balintuma Road first, to pick up smoked fish, and then on to market for matooke. Opolot, her boyfriend, was spending the night and smoked Nile perch, cooked in thick groundnut sauce served with matooke, was their favorite.

The taxi stopped below Bakuli but Suubi was only half-aware. Her grandmother’s story had intruded on her again. All day at work, the story, like an incessant song, had kept coming and going. Now that she was on her way home, Suubi gave in and her grandmother’s voice flooded her mind.

In the beginning Buganda was serene. Our ba kabaka ruled the kingdom with wisdom. Buganda was huge; its borders touched Buule on one hand and Bweya on the other, reaching all the way into Tanzania! We had everything—rivers, lakes, mountains, animals, good climate, fertile land. Everything. There was food everywhere: matooke ripened in the gardens and was eaten by birds and monkeys. We did not eat cassava—we planted it on the borders of our gardens, in case of famine. There were no wars, people lived in such harmony that no one emigrated.

Of course, when a nation has plenty and peace reigns, foreigners start to flock in. And you know with foreigners: they bring their troubles with them. At that time, people from nations around Buganda had started to arrive, especially the Lundi, the Ziba, and the Tutsi.

Now, we Ganda were known the world over for our hospitality because we treated those who settled among us well. However, we asked for one little thing in return for our hospitality; one little thing—that everyone who settled among us became Ganda. You see, it was important that we were all one people—same language, same life, same everything—so that people don’t stumble on each other’s differences.

Then one day came a man who refused to integrate. He was Tutsi. His name was Ntwire. Ntwire stood away from everyone, from everything. He took part neither in the rites nor feasts, not even in funerals. He did not learn our way of life and he did not attempt to speak our language. Ntwire was a leopard, a loner with only one child. And what is a leopard with its cub like?

“Ohhhh, angry: always angry.” Suubi was feverish.

Exactly, because its entire world hinges on that one cub.

Suubi gasped, anticipating tragedy.

Then one day, Ntwire’s child misbehaved. When Kintu, our grandfather, saw him, he chastised him like any parent would do to his own children. In truth, Kintu did nothing much to the boy; he just nudged him like that. But the boy, ppu! He dropped dead—just like that.

“From a nudge?” Suubi was sure her grandmother had said it was a slap one time.

Who knows what ailment that boy suffered?

“And this was during the reign of Kyabaggu the Valiant? Tell me about Kyabaggu.” Suubi was more interested in the kabaka than in Kintu.

Kyabaggu was a fighter namige who fought a lot of wars. In fact, it is said that when the Nyoro heard his name—the Nyoro were our greatest enemies at the time—they cried out in fear. He wanted to make Buganda even bigger, to swallow Bunyoro and all those tiny little kingdoms around Buganda. He subdued the Ssoga many times but because of the Nile he failed to annex Busoga to Buganda.

“How did the Nile stop him?” Suubi knew the answer but she still asked. This was her favorite part.

It was treacherous and took a long time to cross. When it flooded, the Nile would yira-yira, rumbling like Kiyiraaaaa, Kiyiraaaaa, Kiyiraaaaa.

Suubi would join in singing, Bwowulira enyanja bweyira, yira, yira, nyabo!

So many times, her grandmother carried on, Kyabaggu subdued the Ssoga and appointed chiefs to rule them on his behalf, but as soon as he left to return to Buganda, the Ssoga would rebel and kill his chiefs. When he went back to Busoga, the cowards would disappear into the bush. As soon as he left they sneaked out and killed his chiefs again. That is why we say—as obstinate as the Ssoga.

“What did Ntwire do when his son died?”

Child, what does a leopard do when its cub is taken?

“Ohhhh! It will not stop until it gets its cub back!”

Exactly! Ntwire, in his anguish, decided to flee Buganda. But as he left, he looked back at Kintu and said, “Kintu, I am leaving Buganda. One day, you and your descendants will search for me to undo your suffering but you’ll never find me.”

Kintu, knowing how hard it is to break a foreign curse, apologized and implored and pleaded and begged, “Ntwire, please, stay. I’ll give you whatever you ask for.”

But Waa! You know how vindictive foreigners are—Ntwire was inexorable.

So when he left, Kintu visited a medicine man, you know, to protect himself and his family. The medicine man told him to make sure that any child that comes out of him should never be slapped on the head: that Ntwire was poised to play the same trick. That is why in our clan we do not slap children on the face.

“That is why?”

Yes, because of Ntwire’s curse.

“Then what happened to Kintu?”

Soon enough, his life unravelled. His children died. His wife committed suicide and he lost all his wealth. When Kintu died, he did not join the family spirits. He is still trapped here with us.

“But every story must end happily; Ntwire must be punished for being unforgiving and Kintu should be rescued and taken to the land of the spirits!”

Oh yes; you see, Ntwire thought that by trapping him on earth, Kintu would miss being a spirit—you know, not worshipped or offered sacrifices?

“Yes.”

But because Kintu is still roaming the world, he is able to see Ntwire’s wrath coming and often he protects his children.

“Ahhh! So Ntwire did not win?”

No, every time he tries to harm Kintu’s children, Kintu is there to protect and to soothe. Up to this day Kintu is still protecting us, his children.

Suubi smiled at the story. How she had lapped it up—imagining Kintu blowing restlessly in the wind on the lookout for his children. How she had hated Ntwire, a devil on the prowl, looking for ways to harm Kintu’s descendants!

Now she searched her mind for any other reminiscences from her childhood but there was only blankness. Her grandmother was a morsel of memory hidden in a crevice somewhere in her mind. It felt as though someone had come with a broom, swept away all her childhood recollections, but missed her grandmother’s voice. She could not even remember why she lived with her in the first place or when she left her. She could find no face, no house, no daytime activities, or even dreams from that life in her memory: just the voice telling that story and the tree they sat under when the sun glared.

Suubi jerked from the past and noticed that the taxi was not moving. Passengers were restless—some sucking their teeth, some scowling, everyone was peering outside to the back of the van. Suubi looked to see. A passenger had refused to pay the same fare as people traveling all the way to Lubaga because his was just half of the journey. The broker was blocking his way saying, “Me, you shall give me my money, sir.”

Suubi shook her head. There is always someone taking a stand and making everyone’s journey more miserable, she thought. Who does not know that taxis inflate the fare whenever there is a shortage? The driver turned off the engine, stepped out and banged his door as if to say: We are taking no nonsense from anyone. Seeing the driver coming around the van, the passenger handed over the money and everyone heaved a sigh of relief.