7.

MAKINDYE HILL, KAMPALA

December 1988

Inspect the house: make sure everything is perfect before they return. Dishes washed and put away in the pantry, the sink is empty and dry, lunch is ready, and the floor is spotless. Close the kitchen door behind you. The dining table is laid for lunch—tablemats, glasses, cutlery, plates—everything is in place. Ah, peace and quiet when they’re not here: this becomes your home then. When there is no one to remind you who you are, then you belong. It’s a great feeling. This could be your home, they your mother and father, they your siblings. You’re younger than Katama and Kula. Their father calls you Kaama: nice of him. Close the dining-room door behind you.

Perhaps because they are my parents returned from London?

No, no Suubi, don’t start that!

Ssanyu Babirye had started whispering to Suubi when she arrived at the beautiful house in the long Volvo six months ago. It was a vast house surrounded by a tall hedge of fir. Suubi had only seen such beautiful homes in white people’s magazines. When she stepped out of the Volvo and into their house, three delicate children had stared at her as if she were a rat crawling out of a pipe. Their eyes languid, their skin pampered, they had never seen ugliness, never known foraging. Their father had glanced at her and quickly looked away. Their mother smiled a lot. The house was quiet as if there were no children. Suubi had never known air in a house to be so weightless. Everything was clean. The family spoke in delicate tones, whispers almost. That day, Suubi’s tongue could not move. At night, she was dazzled by the beautiful curtains flowing to the floor in the sitting room, by the bright lights that left no shadows in the rooms, by the food that smelled like restaurants she had walked past, by the clinking of cutlery that sounded so civilized, by how everyone ate with a fork and knife so efficiently while her fork chased her food around the plate. The family ate such tiny portions yet the food was so tasty. And the way the children were indifferent to it all! Suubi felt the urge to roll on the soft carpet in the opulence surrounding her because, to her, to be rich was to be spoiled and to be spoiled was to roll on the soft carpet with no care at all.

Ssanyu whispered the following morning when Suubi started working. She told her what to say and what to do.

You’re getting absentminded again, Suubi!

Suubi carried on inspecting the house. That curtain is askew, use the tieback. Run, the player is chewing the cassette. Press STOP, now EJECT. Take the cassette out slowly.

Suubi had been listening to UB40.

Use a pen to roll the tape back into the cassette: it is that rewinding of “Red Red Wine” over and over that made the player chew the tape. Turn off the player. Close the dining door behind you. The hallway is silent and clean. The toilet mat is straight, straighten the hand-towel. The bathroom is perfect . . . Who strangled the toothpaste? Squeeze it upward, there. Close the bathroom door behind you. Five months you’ve been living in this place but I still have to remind you to close the doors! The girls’ bedroom is clean. No, you’re not going to try on Kula’s dresses: she smelled your sweat on them last time. Katama’s bedroom is neat and tidy. The master bedroom is locked: nothing you can do about that . . . the horn! They are back. Run to the gate.

Suubi opened the gate and a picture of a Westernized family in a maroon Volvo Estate—Dad driving, Mum in the passenger seat, three children in the back looking fed up and a boot weighed down by shopping—drove through. Suubi locked the gate. The car parked outside the garage, which meant that the family or the parents would be going out again. Mr. Kiyaga stepped out, then his wife, Muwunde. The children, Katama, the eldest, a boy of fifteen, Kula, a girl of fourteen, and Katiiti, a girl of ten, scrambled out of the back seat. Kula and Katiiti were squabbling over who should sit next to the car doors.

“You’re the youngest and must sit in the middle,” Kula shouted at Katiiti.

“But I booked first. Mummy said I can if I book fir—”

Stop staring, Suubi. They would not take you along because you’re a servant. There are only three seats in the back of the car. That’s why they have three children only. Now open the boot and take out the shopping.

“Welcome back,” Suubi started but the children ran past her.

They’re excited. Try again when you get to the house.

When she had brought all the shopping into the kitchen Suubi asked the children, “Where have you been this morning?” She had put lightness into her voice but the children glanced at each other and scampered off to their parents’ bedroom giggling.

They don’t play with servants.

“Lunch’s not yet on the table, Suubi?” their mother asked.

“I’ll get it.”

Put matooke on the big plate, rice in a dish, greens in a small dish, and meat in the large dish. Put the dirty pots away. Now go and call them.

“Food’s on the table.”

The family came out and headed toward the table. As they sat down, Katiiti observed, “There’s no juice?”

“Oh sorry, I forgot! I’ll get it.”

“Can’t you get the juice from the fridge, Katiiti?” their mother’s voice came. “Suubi’s made it, surely you can get it.”

As she sat down again, Katiiti started, excited, “Uhh, I can’t wait to go—” she gasped the rest of the words. Eating stopped. Spiky eyes tore into Katiiti. They each stole a glance at Suubi, then darts at Katiiti again.

All right, something is going on and they can’t talk about it because you act like you’re their abused stepsister. You’re making them nervous.

“Are you all right, Suubi?” Kula was observant.

“Yes, why?”

“You’re staring at your plate like you’d break it.”

Laugh, roll your eyes.

“That’s funny.”

“She scares me.” That was Katiiti. Katama, the boy, never talked to Suubi at all.

Your jealousy is showing!

After lunch, the children went back to their parents’ bedroom but their father stayed in the sitting room, reading the newspaper. Suubi knew as she cleared the table that something was going on—a party somewhere, a trip to Nairobi, a sleepover somewhere—otherwise the children would have been sent off to bed to have their mandatory afternoon siesta. Rather than start to wash the dishes, Suubi went outside and sat in the frog, the old Citroën. Ssanyu pleaded, Suubi, you’re not Cinderella. Go back and wash the dishes.

Something in Suubi refused to do the dishes. She did not know why she chose to sit in the old abandoned car, but it felt right. It smelled of oil, there were nuts and bolts in the foot wells, the leather on the seats was cracked, and the speedometer, clock face, and glove compartment had all been pulled out from under the dashboard: it was a shell. The grime and the dirt and smell calmed her down. When she lay down on the cold leather on the back seat, she felt at home.

Next she heard, “Mummy, she’s here. She’s sleeping in the frog.”

Suubi sat up.

The sun is setting.

“Why are you sleeping in the car, Suubi? Don’t you have a bed?” Mrs. Kiyaga asked.

“It was so quiet and cool in here. I sat down for a while. I must have fallen asleep.”

“We’ve been looking for you for hours.”

“I am sorry. I fell asleep.”

“Come with me,” said Mrs. Kiyaga.

Now you’re in trouble.

“The rest of you stay here. I want to talk to Suubi alone.”

Close the door behind you. Sit down on the carpet.

“Suubi, you seem unhappy with us,” Mrs. Kiyaga started. “Often, you forget that you came to work. It’s as if you’re here on holiday. You’re how old?”

“Thirteen.”

“Children younger than you run homes larger than this, but you’re struggling. Because you’re young, we share everything with you, which we never do with other servants. Maybe that is the problem.”

“No!” Suubi was alarmed.

“If someone came and found you sleeping in the abandoned car, they’d think you’re being abused. Suubi, I can’t take you everywhere we go. I don’t mind living with you until we find proper servants, but your behavior worries me. Let me know if you want to leave.”

Don’t even cry. Do you want to go back to the Palace? You’re not their child. Is not being part of them the worst thing that has happened to you? Like you had a car, like you had a bed, like you’ve ever belonged. Close the door!

“Mummy, why does she live with us?” Katiiti asked.

“Shhhh, she’s helping us.”

“Then she must sleep in the annex. All servants sleep in the annex. We’re crowded. There’re only four bedrooms.”

“She’s young.”

“What if she dies in our house?” Kula whispered.

“Yeah, Mummy: she looks like she’s about to die.” Katama’s voice seemed to embarrass him. When he spoke, it started deeply but ended in a squeak.

“I don’t want to hear that talk again.”

Focus on the beautiful things like their bathtub, rich food, and they do Christmas like in films. But you can’t be their child.