16.

Friday, April 30, 2004

When Kusi, her mother, and aunt arrive at Kiyiika, Miisi’s mind is at home. Two days earlier, when the Elders Kitooke and Kityo arrived at Kande with the news that Miisi had been found at Kiyiika, Kityo had prepared them for the worst. “Sometimes his mind is there but most times it’s not.”

The family had mulled over the information silently. Then Nnamuli had asked, “How is he fed?”

“A cousin turned up saying that he had been instructed by the spirits to come and take care of the custodian—Miisi is believed to be the custodian. Apparently, the ancients have hauled him back to take his rightful position.”

Kityo had paused as if expecting Miisi’s family to marvel at the power of the ancients and how they had hauled Miisi, in spite of his education, back to Kiyiika. The family stared their dismay. Kityo continued, “Those who know the legend well claim that Miisi, in his disturbed state, is the very image of our Kintu when he lived in o Lwera. We’re trying to make the shrine as comfortable as possible. Cousins are still coming for ablution. They leave money. There is food. But Miisi prefers raw food anyway. He sleeps outside among the trees.”

For Miisi’s family the idea that he was chosen by the ancients lost its novelty at that moment. His being forced back to Kiyiika—because Miisi would not have gone willingly—was cruel and selfish. Loss of mind was death. Miisi had always claimed that to have a mind was to be alive.

Now as they drive up the hill, Miisi sees them and hurries toward the car. The way he moves suggests that his mind is in sync with his body. He is relaxed, as if he is at his house in Kande. It is clear that he does not realize anything is amiss. There is a benign smile on his face. It is only three weeks since he disappeared but his hair is thick and gray. It is matted with dirt, rain, and dust. His beard and moustache, entirely gray, shroud his mouth. His kanzu is filthy. On top of it, he wears a red waistcoat and a purple coat.

“Where did the coat and waistcoat come from?” Kusi whispers, but before anyone answers, Miisi stands before her. He bends and places both his hands on the driver’s window. His smile is wider and his eyes are shining. He stinks of smoke. Kusi opens the car door and Miisi steps back. She gets out of the car and hugs him. Miisi asks, “How is my little army?”

“Asking for you.”

“Are they in school?”

“I’ve moved in with them temporarily.”

“Kusi, you are my heir, kdto.” Miisi clicks his tongue with triumphant defiance. “I am the first Ganda man to elect a daughter for an heir. Put that down in history!”

Kusi laughs without saying a word. She is not sure whether it is her father speaking or the madness.

“I had to lose all my sons to realize that my daughter is a better heir than all of them. Now I understand why they died.” Now Miisi raises his voice like a preacher on a pulpit. “My sons had to die so I could see!”

Again Kusi smiles uneasily.

“Tell them. If anyone ever changes my will, the entire Kintu wrath will come down on them.”

“OK. I’ll take the responsibility.” Kusi has realized that the sooner she agrees with her father the sooner he will drop the subject.

“I know who I am,” Miisi smiles but he is now a different person.

“What about coming home with us?”

“This is home, I am the lamb, the chosen one,” he speaks in English.

“The lamb? You don’t even believe—”

“All the clan’s curses I carry on my head.”

At that point, the caretaker comes to Kusi and whispers, “When he starts to speak in English, then you’ve lost him.”

“I named him Ham and sealed his fate. What you don’t realize,” Miisi closes one eye, “is that children’s heads are a space upon which parents inscribe texts. A Hutu gave his child a name translating, ‘Tell the world I am not impotent,’” he laughs raucously. “Selfish don’t you think?”

The caretaker shakes his head at Kusi but Kusi is not giving up yet.

“Mzei, I want to take you home.”

“We are not even Hamites. We are Bantu,” Miisi continues.

“You’re lucky, he is rarely around for that long,” the caretaker whispers.

“He’s rarely around for that long, my good friend tells them as if I am not here.” Miisi whispers to himself. “It is a sad situation, isn’t it? Average IQ: 70—enough to eat and shit. Fourteen years old at most. They call me mad. But Africans are born to burden others but they’re not even apologetic.” Now Miisi raises his voice and speaks as if to a crowd, “Mend your ways, you sons of Ham! Turn away from your imbecilic ways and be grateful!” Now he whispers to himself, “But then prophets never know respect in their hometowns. They say to me: Easy, Mezraim, don’t worry, be happy.”

“He goes on and on. There is no subject under the sun that he has no theory about,” the caretaker whispered to Kusi.

“He goes on and on, says my good friend, my companion apparently.” Miisi clicks his tongue in contempt. “That’s all the companionship I have, Kusi. A man so frightened of living that he came to hide behind my back. I might as well talk to the trees, at least they won’t patronize me. Kusi, you used to listen to me. He patronizes me,” Miisi points at the caretaker, childlike.

“I’ll have a word with him.”

“What I need is an exercise book, a pencil, and a rubber. A proper writer writes in pencil. That’s the first thing you learn. Have you read my column, Kusi? I’ve received a few compliments on it lately.”

The caretaker walks away. Miisi points at him and whispers, “He’s beyond salvage, mercy upon us.”

“We’ve got to go, Mzei.”

“We’ve got to go, Father, she says,” Miisi turns away and laughs. “She thinks she is going somewhere, poor child, when in actuality she’s waiting to die. I would recommend Waiting for Godot but it’s another waste of time, isn’t it?”

“We’re leaving, Mzei.” Kusi starts to leave but Miisi does not turn around. He rubs his face with both hands, up and down, up and down. Something in his stance suggests that he understands that Kusi is leaving but that he does not want her to. Kusi touches his hand and says, “Father?” Miisi brushes off her hand and turns his back on her. Kusi stands still for a moment and then breaks down. The realization that her father hovers in the middle world between sanity and insanity is hard to take. Still, Miisi does not turn around. He looks up in the sky whispering to himself. When Kusi is composed, she asks the caretaker, “How is his health otherwise?”

“He is fine.”

“When he gets a temperature or anything you don’t understand, ring these numbers.” She gives him her contacts. “It’s important to make him feel normal. When he talks to you listen politely, make the right noises, and look like you are following his argument.”

“I understand.”

“And thank you for everything.”

“Duty is duty.”

Miisi’s wife, who has been crying behind the shrine all along, comes out and tries to bid him farewell but Miisi refuses to acknowledge her or his sister.

“He pushed the gods too far. He kept prodding and prodding until they snapped,” his wife says as they pull away.

No one responds. Kusi drives down the rough track until they come to the kitawuluzi. She looks back. Miisi is still staring at the sky. She says, “Kamu’s death snapped the last cable in his mind.”

“Maybe, but still he dug too deep. This knowledge of ours, you just be, but not him,” Miisi’s wife sniffs. “He pursued knowledge for the sake of knowing. In the end, it ran his mind down.”

“It’s nothing to do with too much knowledge.” Miisi’s sister is exasperated. “Miisi was endowed with both cerebral knowledge and a non-cerebral way of knowing. But every time ours popped up, he squeezed and muted. He worshipped cerebral knowledge.”

“So he was sacrificed at the altar of knowledge?” Kusi tries to reconcile her mother and aunt.

“For knowing and refusing to know,” her aunt says confidently.