11.

BULANGE VILLAGE

Saturday, March 13, 2004

Bulange was built up. The houses along Nabulagala Road, designed in the 90s style of crannied tile roofs called the French Cut, made it look like a new village. But the main road through the village was covered with murram. Suubi looked at the house that Opolot had brought her to see. Its 70s extended porch made it stand out from the rest. From across the road, the building looked similar to her home in Makindye. The fencing around it was a redbrick wall at the bottom with metallic bars on top of the wall. She walked close to the gate and looked through the bars. The house was beautiful and neat with a whitewashed porch and pebble-dashed walls. Suubi looked to the left. A narrow drive led further along to the neighboring houses. On the other side of the feeder road was a hedge. Suubi took the road, walking along the fencing, toward the back of the house. Opolot followed from behind.

Suubi’s mind was focused on the house when a woman wearing a busuuti with a headscarf on her head came toward them. She was either in her forties or fifties. She looked at Suubi intently. There was a hint of hesitation on her face, then she smiled broadly. Suubi smiled back politely but there was no recognition in her eyes. The woman’s smile turned to apologetic embarrassment, as if she had mistakenly smiled at a stranger, and she walked past them.

“Do you know her?” Opolot whispered.

Suubi shook her head, her face screwed up in a scowl.

“She seemed to know you.”

Suubi shrugged her shoulders.

She had been reluctant to come to see the house but Opolot had insisted. He held the traditional view that everyone must know where they come from, no matter where it was, that to know where one comes from was to know one’s full self and where that self was going.

Suubi was skeptical. To her, it was a worn-out view passed down through generations by people who could not be bothered to question things readily embraced. What difference would a good or bad past make? Everyone wants a bright future regardless of their past. But she would not say to Opolot that he was better off coming up with his own views than slotting into the lazy and tired views of the past. What she told him of was the foreboding she felt about going back to look for her past. If her family had wanted her they would have found her.

“To go looking for them is to go looking for heartbreak.”

“They don’t have to love you, Suubi, and you don’t have to love them. All we need is to know. It will give you peace in your heart. Get rid of this, ‘I am Nnakintu, ati, I am Kayiga, ati, I don’t know who I am.’ It’s not good for your well-being.”

“You are so traditional for someone whose first language is English.”

“I speak English on principle. Otherwise, Luganda would be my first language. There are those that imagine that Uganda is synonymous with Luganda and that, to us non-Gandas, is infuriating.”

“Except in the markets and shops.”

“English is costly in markets.”

They came to a side entrance to the house. It led straight to the garage. While there was a lawn in the front yard, the rest of the compound was covered in concrete slabs. The annex was at the back. Suubi stopped and turned to Opolot.

“You are sure this was once my home?”

“Apparently.”

Suubi stared at the house again. There was nothing familiar about it.

“Keep looking,” Opolot encouraged. “You might recognize something.”

Suubi shook her head apologetically.

“I don’t remember living here at all.”

Opolot was disappointed that nothing had jolted Suubi’s memory. It was such a beautiful house to forget. He had seen nothing in her body language to suggest that she was hiding anything. Now Suubi stopped and said,

“Maybe we should go inside. I might recognize something.”

“We can’t,” Opolot explained as they made their way back to the car. “The widow who owned the house died and her sons sold it to an army general.”

“I must’ve been very young, no more than four or five perhaps,” she said casting a final look at the house.

“According to the couple I talked to, it was a long time ago. The village has changed since.”

Just then, someone tapped Opolot’s shoulder. He looked back. The old woman who had smiled at them beckoned him quietly and slipped back into the hedge. Suubi did not see her and carried on walking. Opolot said to her, “Just a moment, Suubi,” and ran back.

Suubi stopped to wait. She stared at the hedge where Opolot had disappeared.

“Sorry to disturb you, son,” the woman said as soon as Opolot arrived. “Is that Suubi you are with?”

“Yes, do you know her?”

“Oh, Katonda watu!” she clapped her hands.

“Wait here,” Opolot said. “I’ll go and call her.”

“No, wait, maybe we should talk first.”

“Then I’ll go and open the car for her, she’s waiting by the roadside. I’ll be back.”

Opolot ran back to Suubi.

“I’ve just seen the couple I talked to over there,” he pointed beyond the hedge. Why don’t you wait in the car while I go back and ask them some more questions?”

Thankfully Suubi did not suggest coming along with him.

“I won’t be long,” he said as he clicked open the central lock.

The woman stepped out from behind the hedge as soon as she saw Opolot coming and led him down the road to a small unpretentious house tucked behind its more affluent neighbors. The house was new. The burned mud bricks used to build it were bare. It had small glass windows and a corrugated iron roof. The woman was tall and might have been very light-skinned had she led a comfortable life but right now she was sunburned. When they turned into her walkway, she stopped and looked at Opolot.

“Sorry to bother you like this,” she apologized again. “I couldn’t talk in front of your companion.”

“Yes?”

“That is Suubi, really?”

“Suubi Nnakintu.”

“Suubi Nnakato,” the woman corrected. “Not Nnakintu, though it is also our name.”

“A twin?”

“Identical.”

Opolot sighed and then walked around but came back to the same spot.

“Yii yii, who would have thought?” The woman clapped her hands and then held her chin. “I knew my eyes were not lying.” Now she threw up her hands in disbelief, “Suubi lived!” She shook her head. She talked to Opolot as if she had sighted Bikra Maria herself. “I saw the image and I said to myself: Hmm, isn’t this my real child? So I smiled and when she smiled all the other images, all of them came—her mother, her father—they were all there! And she’s a real person now. Who would have thought? And so accomplished-looking!” Now she lamented, “But, maama, she did not recognize me. I don’t blame her though.” Now tears came to her eyes. “It is such a long time,” she sniffed. “When I last saw her she was this tall,” she indicated the height of a ten or eleven-year-old. “Yii yii, this Suubi child! Her mother named her well. Whoever saw the dying little mouse?”

“You knew Suubi’s parents?”

“Knew them? He asks! Suubi is my very own child: one who came out of me, bbe nghi!” She made a pushing motion as if giving birth. “My brother Wasswa was Suubi’s father. I came after the twins: that is why I am Kizza. Nnyonyi, her mother, was my best friend.”

“Then why don’t you come and meet her?”

“My child, there are all sorts of reasons in this world. Where do you start to explain and where do you stop? But tell me, is she all right properly?”

“We were trying to find her family. Someone said she once lived here so we came to look.”

“Yii yii?” Kizza clapped her hands again. “If yours was a cry for help, you screamed right at the police station. I am her family.”

“So should I go get her and introduce you?”

“Not yet. As I said before, these are things you don’t rush. If she forgot maybe it is not wise to shock her too much like that. There are reasons for her forgetting, traditional reasons. You’re sure she is all right: it is just this forgetting?”

Opolot spread his hands to show that he was not aware of anything else wrong with Suubi.

“Then that is fine.” Now Kizza became pensive. “But if you notice something not right, if she appears disturbed or restless, bring her to me. For me, this is where I sit.” She pointed to her house and smiled. “You want to see me; you just walk in and call Ssenga Kizza. That is me.”

“OK, I shall bring—”

“Oh, I had forgotten, child. Isn’t this good luck or is it providence?” Now she was talking to herself. “Because where would I have found Suubi to tell her?” Now she looked at Opolot. “Child, next month is Apuli isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“We’re in Maachi now?”

“Yes.”

“This is serious because I don’t know how we are going to do it. I think we just have to tell Suubi the truth because during the Easter weekend, that is Good Friday, Saturday, Easter Sunday, and Easter Monday, our whole clan is going back for a reunion and Suubi must come. We hope to sort out the clan. Suubi’s forgetting could be helped there. And it is important that she comes to meet the rest of the family. But you and I, we need to do this gently so we don’t frighten her. When you find a good moment, tell her about me. Tell her I want to meet her, then bring her. I will tell her about everything myself. What do you think?”

“It is a good plan.” Opolot smiled. “I am happy you are going to take her home.”

“We’re all happy to go home. Here is my phone number,” and she proceeded to spell out the digits while Opolot keyed them into his phone. When he finished she said, “Now call me.”

Opolot rang the number. The phone rang somewhere in her breasts and she giggled.

“That is where I hide it! No one can steal it from in there.”

Opolot looked away as she reached into her bra and scooped out the phone. She looked at the screen and smiled.

“Eh, even yours. I have it now.”

Opolot nodded.

“Now go before Suubi comes back looking for you.”

As Opolot walked away the woman called, “Wait, son, how,” now she made her voice sound mellow. “How are we related to you?”

It was a direct question. Opolot knew what the old woman was looking for. He tried to find a way of putting it delicately.

“Me? I am with Suubi,” and he looked at her directly.

“Oh,” the woman laughed shyly. “That is very good!” and she gave him both hands to shake and bent her knees in a gentle curtsey. “Very nice. Good to see you, son. I can see already that you are a good person.” Now she talked to him like he was already an in-law.

Opolot smiled. Kizza was a typical Ganda aunt. She finds out you are dating her niece and she treats you like you’re an in-law already so you marry her girl.

“Son, one last little thing.”

Opolot looked at her.

“Where do you come from?”

Opolot smiled.

“Soroti, I am Atesot. My name is Opolot.”

“Haaa, Atesot! That is why you are exceedingly handsome! Your Luganda is good,” she said as if it were a compliment. “But there was slight skidding here and there,” she added with a knowing smile. After a pause, as if she were remembering she blurted, “Ejakait.”

Opolot smiled politely but did not return the greeting. Tell the Ganda that you are Atesot and they will fling Ejakait at you as if it summed up the whole of being Atesot. Some of them cannot even be bothered to learn your name. They will just call you Ejakait.