1.

KIYIIKA, BUDDU

Saturday, March 6, 2004

When the elders parked a plush Mitsubishi Pajero Turbo at the local kitawuluzi in Kiyiika Village, residents materialized out of the vegetation and stared. When they announced that they were Nnakato, the village spirit’s descendants, and that they wished to talk to the local councillors, there was a stir. But when they proclaimed their homecoming intentions, the villagers laughed. To them, the three men and their car oozed the fragility born of a cushioned city life and ineptness in matters of a spirit like Nnakato. The woman did not count.

Kiyiika was a shy hamlet. It perched on a hillside teetering on the border with Tanzania. Camouflaged by foliage, it reminded Miisi of the 40s when remote villages were demure, often hidden behind dense shrubbery, barely touched by the wider world. In Kiyiika, vegetation still soared. Trees, shrubs, and bushes were lofty. The hilltop was capped by a wooded area known as Nnakato’s little forest. Human inhabitants were few. They slipped in and out of the flora unobtrusively. For a moment, Miisi felt like he had gone back to childhood.

Waiting outside the kitawuluzi for the local councillors, Miisi had never heard nature’s sounds so distinctly. Bird songs were so varied it felt as if he were on an island for birds. When the wind came, large banana leaves in the distance whirled like waves on a lake, then the flat coffee leaves flapped. As the wind drew closer, the tiny leaves of a muvule above them shivered. Then it blew past the kitawuluzi picking up dust and dry leaves, only to dump them a few meters away. The rustling of reed shrubs across the road came last as the wind died into the distance.

The houses, the ones Miisi could see, were roofed with corrugated iron but the walls were built traditionally of wood, reed, and mud. Homes were surrounded and often obscured by large gardens of matooke and coffee shambas cut through with tiny paths. The posture of the residents was that of a life without haste, as if there was nothing exciting about the future. Miisi put this preserved state of Kiyiika Village down to the local legend: a community that treated village lore as fact was bound to be frozen in the past.

This was the initial journey by the elders’ council to Kiyiika. It was made to locate their place of origin—where Kintu of old had lived. The elders had set off at three in the morning from Kampala. Kiyiika was over seven hours from the city and the roads were deplorable. Miisi had traveled with three other elders—Dr. Kityo Kintu, a retired dermatologist; Kitooke Kintu, a retired civil engineer; and Bweeza, who was not part of the elders’ council but turned up for the meetings anyway. Bweeza claimed to have come in place of Kanani Kintu, the head of her branch of the clan, who had declined. The young man, Isaac Newton Kintu, who represented his father, had not secured leave from work to join them.

The elders’ council, convened by Miisi, had been meeting weekly for a month now. For Miisi, gaining so many relations overnight was overwhelming. He was planning, after the reunion, to invite the elders’ council to his village in Kande so that they could meet his neighbors. It was important to him that the residents back home knew that he came from a large clan.

The journey to Kiyiika had not been without incident. Earlier, as the elders drove through the region, their car had stopped to make way for a herd of cattle when Miisi heard bells tinkling. Moments later, a troupe of hunters emerged with game slumped on their backs, dogs in tow. Miisi had leapt out of the car and pumped the hunters’ hands, praising them for keeping tradition alive. Seeing the hunters’ confusion, he had said, “I hail from here. This is the home of my ancestors.”

“Oh, who do you hail from?” the oldest man had asked.

“Kintu Kidda.”

“Kintu Kidda?”

“Kintu, husband of Nnakato.” Kitooke stepped out of the car to explain.

“Oh, our Nnakato.” The old man was not about to be corrected by a stranger in a car.

“That’s the one. Her husband was Kintu Kidda, a Ppookino.”

“In that case, welcome home,” the old man had said. “None of our families is that old. All we know is our Nnakato.”

“Kintu died in o Lwera, you see,” Kitooke explained.

“We thought Kintu was just a story.” The old man’s words were tinged with sarcasm. “A child of Nnakato is our child. She is the constant feature in this region; the rest of us are wind.”

When Miisi got back in the car, Kitooke sighed, “When do these people hope to join the rest of the world?”

“Are you happier for it?” Miisi asked. “I hope there’re no Christians or Muslims here. Religion is toxic.”

“By the time Kanani is through with them, Kiyiika will be singing Hallelujah Amen,” said Kityo.

“Kanani should not go anywhere near the residents.”

“Who knows? Maybe they would like a local takeaway.”

Soon after, the elders had come to Nswera Swamp and driven down into a deep valley. That is when it became clear why they had been advised to take a turbo-engine car: the narrow track in the swamp was muddy and slippery. In the middle was a large stream bridged with nkoma tree logs. Kitooke, driving, looked at the logs uncertainly and stopped the car. Bweeza asked what was wrong and Kitooke answered, “I doubt that bridge can take the car.”

“Those logs are nkoma,” Bweeza said as if nkoma made the sturdiest bridges in the world.

“Bweeza, they are logs.”

“Then you’ve never heard of nkoma.”

Just then, locals, concerned that something was wrong, came along. When the party asked them whether there was an alternative route because the bridge seemed unsound, the locals sucked their teeth and walked away.

“Compared to the loaded lorries our bridge carries every day, your car is a toddler,” one of them said, clearly offended.

“These kaperes from the city!”

So as not to lose face and not to alienate the locals before their mission had begun, Kitooke drove the car onto the logs. The men held their breath. The bridge was sound. Bweeza rolled her eyes.

Finally, four councillors arrived and led the elders inside the kitawuluzi. Miisi guessed that on top of serving as the traditional court, the kitawuluzi doubled as the community hall. The doorway was a hole in the wall, the floor loose earth. A councillor blew dust off two benches, wiped them down with his hand, and invited the elders to sit.

Firstly, the elders introduced themselves by chronicling their genealogies down to Kintu Kidda whom they now prefixed with the words, “Husband of Nnakato the spirit.” This was received with relief and respect but when they stated the clan’s desire to reconnect with its roots, the elders were once again derided. Apparently, in the past, many people had come to Kiyiika claiming to be descendants of Nnakato and on a mission to revive the clan. Nothing but clowning came of these efforts.

“One time, a woman came,” a councillor explained, “And started doing things up in the forest. We didn’t know that she had a child with her. The following day we heard her screaming. When we got there, a python had gripped the child. By the time it let go, the child was dead. Now, there are no pythons in this village.”

There was silence as the elders digested this information.

“We’re not discouraging you,” another councillor broke the silence. “You’re welcome to explore both Nnakato’s forest and her hill. After all, if you are impostors, Nnakato can look after herself.”

For Miisi, listening to the councillors, it was amazing how the Kintu story had mutated over the centuries. Kintu Kidda, the essence of everything, had been erased from Kiyiika’s memory while Nnakato had flourished to divine proportions. When he asked the councillors what they knew about Nnakato’s legend one of them explained, “Nnakato was a powerful matriarch who gave birth to twins only, apart from her last and favorite son, Baale. But then her family suffered a great tragedy in which family members died, including Baale. Nnakato is said to have taken her life afterwards.”

“Some say that Babirye, Nnakato’s twin, killed Baale inadvertently and she disappeared: that is where the whole tragedy started,” another councillor interjected.

“What we’re sure of is that Nnakato is still searching: some say for Babirye, others say it is Baale she seeks.”

According to the villagers, the presence of Nnakato the spirit came with emizizo—dos and don’ts. It was taboo to cut trees or collect firewood in her forest.

“When you harvest anything—fruit, vegetables, or honey—leave half behind for her.”

When a resident was caught by rain in Nnakato’s forest, it was advisable to run because she strolled in the rain. At night, if one heard footsteps behind them, it was best not to look back: it could be Nnakato.

“She has a pet leopard, you see.”

The elders sat up.

“It’s harmless.” The eldest councillor waved their fears away. “You’ll be lucky to see it. But if you do, pretend not to have seen it. All it means is that Nnakato is close by.”

“Don’t keep fire burning in the night.”

Pressed by Miisi, the councilors confessed that none of them had actually ever sighted Nnakato the spirit themselves.

“Some people have seen her hanging like a bat on a tree.”

“Didn’t old Nnabayego see her at high noon bathing in that gorge?”

“There is a gorge?” Miisi asked.

“Yes, it watered the family in Nnakato’s time.”

The elders exchanged looks. Miisi was bewitched. Here was an ancient story kept alive by the breath of belief. And he, Misirayimu Kintu, was at the center of it. It did not matter that he did not believe the spiritual aspect of it: what mattered was that for some reason, tradition had preserved the history of his ancestry.

“If Nnakato has been calling then this is us answering,” Bweeza stated extravagantly.

The councilors still looked skeptical. Miisi expounded on their plans and gave the councillors the schedule for the family reunion. “We will hold the homecoming rites during the Easter weekend—from Good Friday the ninth to Easter Monday the twelfth of April. However, some cousins might arrive earlier and some might leave later. Before then, we shall return to tour both Nnakato’s hill and the little forest. There will also be other family members coming to prepare the place. However, any cousins that come will report to you first and inform you of their intentions.”

The councillors were happy with this.

“As you can see,” Bweeza added, “We are ignorant where Nnakato the spirit is concerned. Could you guide us on how to behave when we’re on her land?”

“That we shall do,” the councillors promised.

Before leaving, Miisi asked the councillors how far away the border with Tanzania was.

“Get to the top of Nnakato’s hill and roll down the other end. At the bottom you’ll be in Tanzania.”

Miisi whistled. “That’s what the British call a close shave. A slight wavering in the colonial pen and Nnakato would be Tanzanian.”

“Would the Tanzanians let us claim our heritage?”

“Ask Idi Amin what happened when he tried.”

The journey back to Kampala was easier. The elders arrived in o Lwera at about six thirty. Men displayed fresh fish and other foodstuffs by the roadside. Miisi reflected on the terrors o Lwera once held for travelers. Sayings and proverbs suggested that it was a daunting endless desert. Now, with the modern Masaka Road cutting across its center, o Lwera was just a harmless stretch of moorland. He looked through the window to the right; Lake Victoria was a gray line on the horizon.

“You know,” Miisi said aloud, “Sometimes I wonder who would name this lake Victoria and call Lutanzige, a tiny one with no relation to Nnalubaale, Albert.”

“They pissed on every landmark, these guys,” Kitooke said.

“I still can’t get over the councillors’ trust though,” Bweeza changed the subject. “They’ve handed over hundreds of acres of land and community heritage to us just like that.”

“They have not,” Kityo clicked his tongue. “Go build a private house on it and see.”

“We must put back something in the community,” Miisi said quietly. “We could rebuild the kitawuluzi or contribute to their schools.”

“There you go now thinking that they need our help,” Bweeza snapped. “That is how people start feeling inadequate. Soon Kiyiika will be begging. As long as they are not starving or sick I suggest we leave them alone.”

The car fell silent.