7.

Easter Monday, April 12, 2004

It was ten in the morning and the sun was sweetness. Paulo was walking down a narrow trail. The tall bushes on either side leaned into the path so that sometimes he had to push branches out of his face. The skin on his arms was burning: he suspected he had come into contact with a fiery shrub. He was on his way to meet a local lad who had promised to take him to the other side of Nnakato’s hill and show him the no-man’s land between Uganda and Tanzania. So far, the reunion had been a long weekend of nature walking for him. He had been to all the places fabled for Nnakato’s sighting and had been to see abakomazi of barkcloth at work. Now he was on his way to Tanzania.

Presently, an elderly man came toward him and Paulo stepped aside to let him pass. The man looked at him curiously then asked authoritatively, “Why aren’t you with your clan at this critical moment?” Paulo started to explain that he was not one of them but changed his mind.

“There was nothing wrong when I left a few minutes ago.”

“Ah, the elders are hushing it.” The man sucked his teeth. “Did you really think that you would come here and in a weekend undo a taboo that took hold hundreds of years ago?”

“What are you talking about?”

“A demon has gripped your medium. He tried to separate the Tutsi father and son—these educated people! Apparently, he learned his trade in Britain.”

“What does it want?”

“Blood, what else do demons demand?”

“Have they found it?”

“It wants Tutsi blood but the interpreter would not share his in case the evicted demon needs another host.”

“So they’re still looking?”

“Mhm.”

Paulo ran back. He would share his if the demon would have a half-blood Tutsi. He remembered Bweeza saying that he was significant: this could be it. But when he got there, there was no urgency in the air. All around, people looked relaxed. Nonetheless, Paulo asked for an elder. One came and introduced himself as Kityo. Kalema stated breathlessly, “I am Tutsi. I can give you some blood.”

“Calm down, young man. Are you sure?” Kityo whispered.

“Ask my grandfather, Kanani, he will tell you. Bweeza knows me as well.” Paulo was forced to whisper too.

Kityo led Paulo to an isolated place and asked him to wait there. He went into the shrine and returned with two other men. He pointed at Paulo. “He claims to be Tutsi. Apparently, Kanani is his grandfather.”

“At the moment, we will try anything. Call the assistant.”

After listening to the story the assistant said, “A Tutsi with Kintu’s blood is perfect. Find Bweeza while I get my instruments.”

The assistant returned with a metallic bean-shaped bowl. Kityo, seeing the sealed needle and syringe, nodded his approval. “Sealed—very good.”

“We are not the uncouth type,” the assistant said tightly.

He asked Paulo to make a fist while he unsealed the needle and syringe. The assistant then tapped at a vein in Paulo’s arm until it stood out. He wetted a cotton swab in disinfectant and started cleaning the spot.

“Why don’t I draw the blood for you? I am a doctor,” Kityo offered.

The assistant stood up. “I am a trained nurse—would you like to see my certificates?”

Just as Nsimbi inserted the needle, Kanani ran out of his tent shouting.

“Leave my grandson out of this! He’s not one of us.” But Nsimbi continued to draw blood as if he had not heard.

“Keep still,” he said to Paulo.

“My grandfather is mad,” Paulo smiled.

“Aren’t they all?” The attendant pulled the needle out and pressed the spot with cotton. “Hold it,” he said while he peeled a strip of plaster to cover it.

“Jjaja, I offered,” Paulo explained to his grandfather.”

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Kanani shouted at him hysterically. “Bring that back,” he shouted at the assistant who disappeared into the shrine with the blood. Kanani ran after him.

“It won’t work, it won’t work,” but the attendant did not return. “He’s not Tutsi. He’s Ganda. Don’t do it, please,” Kanani pleaded but the attendant did not return. “I am telling you my grandson has no Tutsi blood in him whatsoever, don’t use his blood, you could bring danger to him.” By then, Kanani’s hysterics had caught the attention of the rest of the clan.

The attendant returned. He held an urn. In it were herbs and coffee beans.

“Is he Tutsi or Ganda?” he asked Kanani.

Paulo said, “My name’s Kalemanzira, but the family calls me Kalema.”

A hush fell over the clan. Even the assistant froze. A man, close by, shivered. An elder who had so far stood apart came over and peered at Paulo. Kanani sat down like a sack of charcoal. The assistant walked back into the shrine triumphantly.

“He thinks he is Kalemanzira,” Kanani’s voice was hollow, “But he is the kind of child our culture calls mawemuko.”

The assistant flew out of the shrine, tossing the coffee beans and herbs.