Poonah was at the Civic Centre in Oldham when Kayla rang. Not to ask her to babysit little Napule as usual, but to meet up. Poonah said she could do three o’clock. Kayla suggested they meet at the Town Hall, in the Sculpture Hall Cafe on the ground floor. Before she put down the phone, Poonah asked, ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Kayla said, ‘We’ll talk.’ That had made Poonah’s heart race. The Ugandan woman in her imagined the worst – Wakhooli was playing up. She would kill him if he wrecked their marriage.
When Poonah arrived at the cafe, Kayla had already ordered. They hugged.
‘How’s social work?’
Poonah shrugged: same old, same old, and instead commented on the Town Hall. ‘Wow, this is one handsome building.’ She looked up. ‘That’s some serious craft on the ceiling. Very olde England.’
‘Not that old, 1800s. You should see the first floor, dead stunning.’
‘Really?’
‘Me, me mum and dad and me sisters, Freya and Athol, used to come here when we was little. It’s open to visitors on certain days of the week if you’re interested.’
‘I’ll definitely visit.’ Poonah was fascinated by European architecture, from prehistoric to contemporary. Whenever she got a chance to go to London, she spent a day on those hop-on hop-off tour buses just to ogle the buildings in central London. ‘Before I return home, I’ll travel across Europe just to see buildings – can’t wait to see those great Russian palaces.’
She ordered a tuna sandwich and tea, then asked Kayla what the matter was.
‘It’s Masaaba.’
Poonah sat back. If it was the son playing up, that she could handle. But Masaaba was not playing up like normal British teenagers – he wanted to be circumcised traditionally.
Poonah threw back her head and laughed. A helpless rib-hurting laugh. When she took a breath, she saw Kayla’s eyes and stopped. ‘You’re kidding me, Kayla.’
Kayla shook her head.
‘But how did he even know about imbalu?’
‘YouTube?’
‘Does he know what actually happens – I mean, what really happens?’
‘Wakhooli’s told him. But he had already told his frickin’ friends at school and there’s this dare and one of them’s gone and put it online.’
Poonah pictured Masaaba – basketball, manga comics, huge afro, KFC, metrosexual. He would collapse at the sight of the knife. ‘Tell him it’s done in public, the entire world watching. Tell him, you’re covered in a paste of millet flour, standing still, no blinking, no shaking. Tell him they don’t just cut the foreskin, there’s a second layer: they don’t like it either.’
‘He’s like, If Ugandan boys can do it, so can I. Now the dare’s spread online.’
‘Pull it, say it was a hoax.’
‘He won’t.’
‘Tsk.’ Poonah was dismissive. ‘Don’t worry; he’ll change his mind.’
‘What if he doesn’t? What would you do?’
‘Me? Girdle myself like a woman.’ Poonah started to laugh but stopped. ‘Sorry, Kayla, I’m laughing because I can’t see it happening. But in case he’s serious and I were you, I would say, Baby, if this is what you want, you have my support.’
‘You’re joking me.’
‘I wouldn’t be the one to discourage him. Let Wakhooli do it; it’s his culture.’ Poonah bit into the sandwich and sat back. Then sipped at tea. As an afterthought she added, ‘Talk to the family back home; what do they think? Masaaba is what, fifteen? Next imbalu season will be in two years, he’ll have changed his mind.’
That was then.
For the first time, as they drove from the airport, Poonah was mortified that Entebbe Road had no street lights. Even in Britain, she had become sensitive to things that embarrass ‘us’ – the loud man holding up the bus, arguing with the driver in an African accent, the woman angry on the phone in her language as if she is alone on the train, the secondary school girls fighting their invisibility by being disruptive in libraries and on buses. Right now, Kayla’s silence was putting her on edge. Was she frightened of the dark? Was it the imbalu? But when did Uganda start to embarrass her? Is this how Kayla had felt when she had protected her at the airport?
It must have been 2008. An African came through Security. Kayla stood with Poonah because her group had come over to Terminal 4 to help with a high volume of passengers. On the X-ray, the African’s bag showed five round objects of organic material. The bag was pulled. It was food. He worked in Amsterdam but flew back every weekend. His wife cooked and froze five meals for him. The containers were packed in plastic bags. The ASO removed one container, opened the cover and brought it to his nose. Poonah clicked: few Africans tolerate the sniffing of their food. The ASO explained that he was going to open them all. The passenger asked him to wear gloves before he touched his food. The ASO did, but he went to town opening each container, smelling it, and Poonah was disgusted. The ASO must have seen her disgust because when he let the passenger go, he came to where she and Kayla stood and said: ‘I had to check; he said it was his food, but you never know – could’ve been human heads.’
Poonah held her breath.
Kayla turned to her, mouth open, hands on cheeks, eyes wild. ‘He didn’t! Tell me he didn’t just say what I think he said.’
‘Kdto!’
Kayla had turned to the ASO. ‘Did you just say that that passenger, because he’s African, could be a cannibal?’ She turned to Poonah again. ‘Holy shit, I can’t believe he’s just said that. Who says things like that any more? Wow.’ She held her head like it was exploding. Then she turned back to him, pointing her finger in his face. ‘Those are the disgusting lies white people put about to dehumanise black people in the past, so they could ensla— Oh my days—’ She burst into tears. ‘My children are black. I can’t bear the thought of what people like him put them through.’
Poonah was laughing inside – Yerere, that’s the shit I put up with – but on the outside she said, ‘I’m just numb, me’, because when someone helps you to cry for your dead, you cry louder.
By the time Kayla was through with him, the ASO had lost his job, the managers were sufficiently horrified, training on ‘racial intolerance in the workplace’ was rolled out across all terminals and counselling put in place. From then, Poonah became aware that when they worked together, Kayla was on the alert for any whiff of racism. Did Kayla feel this kind of anxiety too? She looked through the window: they were in Kajjansi. She wondered how Kayla and the boys saw those shops, the inadequate lighting, the people. But the boys were busy identifying stars in the sky.
Wakhooli had arrived in Uganda two weeks earlier to prepare for his family and to liaise with local authorities about the programme in Mbale, where imbalu would take place. The family planned to stay in Uganda for six weeks. Two weeks in Kampala while Masaaba learnt imbalu dance and songs and did the interviews Jerry the agent had arranged with the local media. Then two weeks in Mbale – the first five days would be for the rites, the rest would be for Masaaba’s post-op seclusion. The last two weeks, while Masaaba healed, the family would do touristy stuff. Such was the plan, but you know our Uganda. You can plan all you want but, in the end, it will impose its will. Like the ngeye, the headdress and back gear for Masaaba’s regalia which should have arrived in Uganda a week earlier, but had not.
For decades the Ministry of Culture had banned the wearing of even imitation colobus monkey skin for fear it would become endangered. Then came Masaaba, a mixed-race boy from Britain, whose agent had a slick tongue and international media attention. The Ministry of Culture caved in but insisted that Masaaba’s crown should be visibly fake. Preferably a change of colours. Luckily, sample pictures sent from a fur company in China were more ornate and more beautiful than the real thing. The ministry made approvals and the family chose the colours. That had been three months earlier.
At first, the dare spread only among Masaaba’s school friends, their friends and friends’ friends. That was in 2016, when a Facebook account and a website introducing ‘Masaaba, the British Mumasaaba’ were set up. Anyone who wished to join paid a minimum of £5 into the dare. But then the following year Africans joined the conversation and scoffed at the Muzungu who thought circumcision was a joke. The dare stagnated at £20,175. In June 2017, panic that it was a scam spread online. Poonah prayed that Masaaba would come to his senses and pull it. He did not. Said he was not doing it for the dare. Poonah wondered whether someone had questioned the boy’s masculinity. He loved the gym too much lately. Maybe it was a publicity stunt. Masaaba wanted to pursue a career on stage and kids these days were sharp.
Then in December 2017 Jerry the agent came along.
Jerry was a Chuka Umunna lookalike, right down to the shaven head to hide nature’s merciless razor. Spoke as smooth, too. He wore three-piece suits beneath long winter coats. Carried a large umbrella like a walking stick, like he was lord of the manor. But unlike Chuka, Jerry was so muscle-bound beneath the suits Poonah suspected a neurotic relationship with the gym. He said his name was Jerry Stanton, but on his business card he was Jeremiah Were Stanton. When Masaaba read it as a sentence, Jerry corrected him: ‘Weh-reh, not were. My father was Ugandan, Jopadhola.’ He smiled. ‘Dad died when I was young.’ As if it explained why he had opted for his British mother’s name and middle-named his Ugandan father’s. By now the irony that Poonah’s name was Mpony’obugumba Nnampiima Ssenkubuge, whose ex-husband was Carl Mpiima Watson, had lost its sharp edges. She had become wary of people who hid their African roots.
Wakhooli’s family fell under Jerry’s spell, especially as they did not need to worry about paying him. He would charge 15% commission on deals he arranged in Britain and 20% on foreign ones. ‘If anyone from the media gets in touch,’ he told the parents, ‘send them to me. My job is to free up your time so you focus on what is important, your son.’
Little did the family know that Jerry’s intention was to whip up media attention and harvest his commission. He started small. BBC4 did a documentary on adult circumcision in Eastern and Southern Africa. That was his springboard. He arranged for a feature, ‘Meet Masaaba, the British Mumasaaba’, in Metro. He briefed the family on what aspects to talk about. One paper did a piece on how Masaaba and his brothers found out about imbalu; another on Masaaba and Zoe, his girlfriend; another on how Kayla and Wakhooli met; another on Kayla (‘On Being the Mother of an Initiate’). The dare skyrocketed to £100,000.
In February 2018, Jerry asked for dates. The circumcision window in Uganda was small compared to the number of initiates – from August to the end of the year. At the end of February, the announcement went up on the website – Masaaba would be circumcised on 18 August 2018 – and a countdown began. Unbeknownst to the family, Jerry was already in talks with TV channels for documentary rights to the rituals. In March, BBC4 started shooting the documentary, inexplicably called Love Made in Manchester.
For all her apprehension, Poonah was too Ganda to pass up an opportunity to travel home all expenses paid. And you know about taking Western spouses back home – the special arrangements you have to make for them, the cleaning up and painting, the need to make sure everything and everyone is civilised. You have to be careful what you say. Your partner hears you and your siblings laugh at how your mother used to whip you raw when you were up to no good, stops talking to your mother entirely, but you so love your mother the earth is not enough. Then you have to be with them all the time, explaining things, holding hands, kiss-kissing, honey-honeying all over the place. And you know our Uganda: it sees that stuff, it sucks its teeth: Spare us. Wakhooli asked Poonah to come along and keep Kayla and their sons company while he ran around organising things.
Kayla must have sensed their anxiety, for she said, ‘Look, Poonah, I married Wakhooli knowing our cultures are different. The last thing I need is to get to Uganda and be treated like I am fragile.’
‘Of course not!’
But a nervous condition is a nervous condition. Wakhooli whispered to Poonah, ‘Wamma, you’ll take care of her for me: you understand?’
‘Of course, leave her to me.’
By then Poonah and Wakhooli had become siblings in their Ugandanness even though she was Ganda and he was Masaaba, even though she was closer to Kayla than to him.
They pulled up to a gate in Nagulu. Wakhooli hooted. As they drove in, the security lights flooded the car and Poonah caught Kayla giving Wakhooli that stern look women give their men. She got out first and motioned to Wakhooli. In the back, the boys were peering: Is this it?
The BBC crew van pulled in. Two cameramen jumped out – BBC4 had been joined by the World Service in Uganda – and started filming. Poonah opened the door and as she stepped out, she heard Kayla say, ‘We agreed not to spend money on posh accommodation.’
‘This is Wetaya’s house.’
‘You mean this is your brother’s house?’
Poonah ducked, at once proud and indignant. What did you expect, huts?
As Kayla and Wakhooli came back to the car, Poonah lifted sleeping Napule off the seat and held him over her shoulders. She heard the boys ask, ‘Dad, is this Uncle Wetaya’s house?’
‘It is – grab your bags.’
Poonah walked to Wakhooli. ‘Show me where to rest, Napule; he’s gone.’
Wakhooli took him off her and told her to get her luggage. ‘Come on, boys.’
By the time she came back with her bags, a camera operator was at the door filming as they walked in. Poonah hung back until he finished.
In the sitting room, Julie the producer arranged the family for a quick interview for the arrival shots. Masaaba had become dexterous at answering Julie’s sappy questions, like: ‘Help us understand how it feels to travel to a world so different from your own…to do something out of this world like adult public circumcision. It’s mind-boggling.’
Masaaba talked about being tired but was not one bit scared. ‘My father did it; boys younger than me routinely do it.’
The crew told them that a clip of their departure at Manchester airport had made the six o’clock news. Mwambu, the second son and the family nerd, rummaged through his bag for his tablet to see whether Jerry had uploaded it to the website. He had. But as he opened the link, his battery died. Poonah sat out of shot watching. When the interviews were done, the BBC crew told them what time they would arrive the following day and drove away. Poonah’s bedroom was on the ground floor, while the family went upstairs.
As she showered, Poonah remembered Kayla’s surprise at Wetaya’s house and thought of ways to get Kayla and the boys over to her house. It was not as grand as this one, but compared to their council house in Hyde, it was luxury. She imagined Kayla going back to the airport with pictures on her phone, showing ASOs in the search area: Remember Poonah who worked on Terminal 4? This is her house in Uganda, I kid you not. She’s got two. Dead posh, innit? But then again, she is a social worker for Oldham Council now.
Who would have known, the way they met, that one day Poonah would escort Kayla to Uganda? It was 2005. Poonah’s group had been sent to Terminal 5 to process a flight from Lahore bound for New York. At the time, the airport had a contract with JFK for flights from Pakistan to be rechecked in Europe before arriving in New York. Poonah was doing bag search when she saw Kayla come towards her smiling as if they knew each other. Poonah looked behind to see whom she was smiling at. She did not return the smile, but this did not faze Kayla. She came to her and asked: ‘Are you Poonah from Uganda?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I am Kayla Wakhooli. My Wakhooli is Ugandan.’
Kayla brushed Poonah’s handshake aside: ‘Let’s hug properly.’ When she let go, she added, ‘When British people first hear my name, they imagine I’m African, which I am in a way…by marriage.’ She tried and failed to tuck a stray lock behind her ear. ‘Whereabouts in Uganda do you come from?’
‘Central.’
‘Kampala?’
‘Close, Buwama.’
‘Muganda?’
‘Yes.’
‘My Wakhooli is from the east.’
‘I know, Mugishu.’
‘Not Mugishu!’ Kayla went red in the face as if Poonah had said something racially insensitive. ‘Mumasaaba. It’s not even Mugishu, it’s Mugisu.’
‘Oh!’
‘Gisu is just another name for Mwambu, the ancestor of the Badadili.’
‘Who?’
‘I forgive you.’ Kayla smiled. ‘You’re Muganda.’
Poonah wanted to ask How long have you been Ugandan, Nambozo?, but said, ‘Badadili, you even know the Budadili region?’
‘Of course! The Badadili are northern Bamasaaba.’
‘Wow, this is awful! Here I am in Manchester being schooled by an English person about my culture.’
‘Scottish.’
‘Corrected; have you been?’
‘Not yet, but it’s not my fault; it’s Wakhooli’s. He seems to think he needs to save a lot of money before we go. I said, “I’m family, don’t fuss”, you know what I mean?’
Poonah nodded, thinking, how can you even begin to know?
‘But his parents, Mayi and Baba, have been to visit.’
‘Have they?’
‘Three times now.’ Kayla waggled three fingers. ‘First, for our wedding, then for Wakhooli’s graduation. Lovely, wonderful people. Couldn’t have married into a nicer family.’ She whispered, ‘Like Wakhooli, they’re softly spoken. My parents said, “Do his parents realise how gobby our Kayla is?”’
They laughed so hard Kayla wiped away a tear.
‘Wakhooli’s parents lived in Kampala for a long time. Baba was a surveyor, Mayi a high-school teacher, but they’ve retired now and gone back to Mbale.’
‘Okay.’
‘I would like to see Mount Masaaba and the caves and the cursed rivers.’
‘Mount Masaaba? Oh, Elgon.’
‘I know we – I mean we…British’ – she flushed red again – ‘named it Mount Elgon, I apologise.’
‘You know your Masaaba region well.’
At that point, Kayla, perhaps realising she had stayed away from her post too long, tapped Poonah on the hand. ‘What shift are you on?’
‘Finishing at two.’
‘Good, I’m finishing at midday. I’ll see you before I go.’ She made to leave. ‘You must meet my boys: we have three.’ She flashed three fingers. Little Napule was not yet born then. ‘Our oldest is called Masaaba…’
‘Wow,’ said Poonah, thinking, But this Wakhooli is intense on his Masaaba culture.
‘Mwambu is our second, then Wabuyi. So happy to meet you.’
Poonah watched Kayla hurry away and clicked. She suspected Kayla was one of those people you meet in the West who knows too much about your culture and tries to show you up. Yet she had seemed genuinely happy to meet her, like she had married her Wakhooli, his culture, country and continent. Had they met back home, Poonah would have been awed, but Britain had made her suspicious.
At 11.45, when Kayla came to say goodbye, she asked, ‘Do you know where I can buy Ugandan food? My Wakhooli is suffering white people’s food.’
Poonah suppressed a smirk. That disarming moment when a person you gossip about owns the things you say behind her back. She smiled. ‘That’s not true, Kayla. I’m sure he loves it, but I know a few Asian shops that sell matooke—’
‘Yes, matooki! Now you know what I am talking about. Every time Wakhooli goes to Uganda he brings matooki.’ She whispered, ‘Between me and you, I find it’s absolutely tasteless; don’t you?’
Poonah frowned. ‘Are you taking the mick out of ethnic food?’
Kayla burst out laughing. ‘No, just doing what Wakhooli told me: be straight with Ugandans.’
‘Ah, tell you what, why don’t we get together and I’ll show you where to get Ugandan food.’
‘Yay,’ Kayla clapped. ‘I knew we would be friends.’ And they hugged. ‘Oh my God, you’re so kind, wait till I tell my Wakhooli!’ They exchanged numbers and Kayla ran off.
At around 4 p.m. the BBC arrived to shoot the British family meeting the Ugandan one for the first time. Wakhooli had two sisters and three brothers. They all had children. They started to arrive at five. As blood relationships were established, Poonah’s position started to wobble. When Kayla said, ‘This is Poonah. She’s auntie to the boys’, Wakhooli’s siblings smiled. When she added, ‘Poonah so kindly agreed to come and help us with the culture and language’, Nabwiile, Wakhooli’s eldest sister, shot Poonah a look like Which culture? Others weighed her up and down like Only a Muganda would be that deceitful.
Poonah reverted to being Kayla’s best friend rather than Wakhooli’s sister. But even that was undermined by her Ugandanness. Like you’re only her best friend because you’re Ugandan. She retreated into herself. Kayla kept pulling her into the conversation, but she didn’t want to intrude. Besides, it was intriguing to watch the families interact. The cousins, especially the teenagers, were most interesting. They had none of the finesse of the grown-ups. Perhaps it was the Britishness and biracialness of the Wakhooli brothers; some cousins were uneasy, some were downright awkward, some showed off, some hogged the attention. They asked questions about the royal family, Man United, Lewis Hamilton and serial killers. Poonah had never seen Wakhooli’s sons so patient and polite. Like Kayla, their Mancunian twang had been dropped.
Napule had no such problems. There was only one cousin for him, Khalayi, a bossy little girl. When Poonah noticed them, Khalayi was issuing orders and Napule, malleable as a cat’s tail, was taking them. He called her Car Lye. Khalayi spoke Ugandan English like a six-year-old does, Napule spoke Mancunian English, but they understood each other perfectly. The only time there was trouble was when Khalayi had to leave and they both sulked and refused to say goodbye to each until Wakhooli promised to drop Napule off to his other sister’s, Nambozo’s, the following day. Still, when Khalayi wailed as they drove away, Napule lost his bravery and hid his face in his mother’s skirts. The camera rolled.
Poonah was shocked when Masaaba’s initiator arrived. Initiators are a secret cult. Absolutely no contact between the initiator and the initiate until the final moment of the knife blade. But then this was no ordinary imbalu. The initiate was British, half-white and spoke English. The fact that the rite would be conducted in English was already disrupting the ways of imbalu. The initiator did not wait to be introduced; he went straight to Masaaba: ‘You must be my man Masaaba, I recognised you immediately, been following you on social media. I am your number one fan.’ They hugged. ‘Ah, but your father named you well. You’re a true Mumasaaba!’ The camera rolled.
Wakhooli introduced him as Dr Wafula, the man who would perform the cut. Now Poonah realised: he had been chosen because he was a medical doctor.
‘I’m your man.’ He shook Masaaba’s hand. ‘Me and you alone in that moment, no one else.’ He took a breath. ‘We thought it would help if the umusinde, that’s you, and the initiator, that’s me, get to know each other so you learn to trust me. I understand on Thursday you start to learn the kadodi?’
Masaaba nodded.
‘Kadodi is the fun part; you’ll love it.’
As Dr Wafula left, Julie the producer ran to him and introduced herself. She asked, ‘Is there a way you can give us an interview and perhaps walk our viewers through imbalu?’
‘Ah.’ Wafula looked her over like Do you realise imbalu is manly business? He said, ‘Maybe certain things, but the cut itself is out of bounds.’
‘So you won’t be able to demonstrate how the cut is done? I mean…er…using a prosthetic or something.’
Wafula realised what was being asked of him and turned away. Had it been a Ugandan woman she would have been put in her place there and then, but Julie was not just white, she was BBC. ‘Er…no, absolutely not. You’ve got to realise that though imbalu is done in public, it’s a secret ritual. By the way, you won’t see a thing.’
‘That’s exactly the kind of thing our viewers would like to know. The contradictions, this public but secret rite, perhaps the history, the changes it has undergone and its significance to your people. Your view, the view of the initiator who performs the cut, will be critical.’
‘Perhaps you can prepare your questions in advance and I’ll let you know what I can and can’t answer.’
‘That will be fantastic, sir, thank you, we appreciate it. And if you don’t mind’ – Poonah closed her eyes like Journalists don’t know when to stop – ‘could we have one interview before Masaaba’s imbalu and another afterwards to talk us through your feelings in that moment and how you prepared yourself?’
‘We’ll see.’ Wafula started to walk away.
Julie thanked him and hurried back to her crew.
At around seven, the family drove to Hotel Africana – Masaaba wanted to find a gym. As the boys swam, Poonah asked Kayla about her first impressions of Uganda.
‘It’s not what I expected at all, but I suppose I haven’t seen much. So far, I’m loving it and Wakhooli’s family is super.’
‘What did you think of his sisters?’
‘They’re way too kind; I mean, I’m not surprised. Everyone is so polite.’ Then she frowned. ‘I hope this is the way they treat all in-laws, not just the Mzungu.’
Poonah laughed. ‘It’s the way sisters-in-law are welcomed into families, but they might fuss a little because you’re not Ugandan.’
‘Oh no, I…I don’t want to be treated—’
‘Relax, Kayla, they would do the same if you were black British or Nigerian.’
‘Oh, okay.’ She smiled. ‘This is exactly why I need you here.’
‘And the initiator?’
She gasped. ‘What a lovely, lovely man. I’m so relieved. He’s a real doctor, not that I care, but when he said he’ll walk Masaaba through everything I saw the worry fall off my boy’s face like ah.’ She made a gesture of a falling face.
Masaaba’s schedule in Kampala began the following day. First Kayla and Wakhooli dropped Napule off at Khalayi’s and then they went to the Ministry of Culture to collect the permit allowing Masaaba to wear the fake colobus monkey skin. Poonah suspected Wakhooli took Kayla along to put the bureaucrats on their best behaviour, especially as the BBC World Service was filming everything.
Poonah travelled with the older boys to Ndere Troupe’s studios in Kisaasi for Masaaba’s kadodi practice. The BBC4 crew came with them. First, Masaaba picked out his regalia. He tried on the bead sashes. Two wide ones, multicoloured beads sewn on a cloth that dropped down to the hips. Wakhooli had them made especially for him. Now Poonah understood why Masaaba had been keen to find a gym. For all his rituals he would be shirtless save for those sashes crisscrossing his chest. Then he picked out a flywhisk and mock-danced with it. The thigh rattles were not a problem; they were adjustable.
Next, he was introduced to the young dancers who had been hired to dance kadodi with him on the streets like sisters and cousins. His cousins were typical middle-class Kampala kids. Everything traditional embarrassed them. Wakhooli did not expect them to join in. The previous day, faced with their biracial British cousins who treated imbalu as something sacrosanct, Poonah had seen their predicament. While the British wanted to hear their cousins’ imbalu experiences or plans, the Ugandans were uncomfortable, preferring to chat about computer games or something British. Yet, this morning the teenagers, who were off school, were at the studio eager to show off their kadodi dancing while Masaaba was filmed learning to dance. When the dancing started, the dance floor was crowded. Everyone wanted to see themselves dance in the large mirror on the wall. Because the camera was focused on Masaaba, they stood as close to him as possible. Until Wanyentse, the choreographer, stopped the music and said, ‘If you’re not going to take part in Masaaba’s kadodi in Mbale, step out please.’
Silence. Masaaba looked at the floor. No one moved. Poonah sucked her teeth in: Get rid of them; they’re wasting time. Wanyentse spread them out across the floor and they resumed.
Masaaba was a peacock. With girls and boys dancing for him, him learning the steps while watching himself in the mirror, kadodi music filling the room, he was loving himself too much. He couldn’t believe that once he learnt the steps he would have a live band, that he would lead his dancers, that the dancers would do his will, that the band would watch his steps and play accordingly, that sometimes he would be carried shoulder high so as not to tire himself out. This being Masaaba, a Mumasaaba was fate. That he should come to Mbale to do imbalu was inevitable.
Mwambu, the second brother, had to be asked to put the iPad away and get on the floor. All the years Poonah had known the family, Mwambu, now fifteen, had never looked her in the eye. Was it coyness, was it haughtiness; she was not sure. He was polite, said hi, but by the time you looked up he had looked away. All this time, he had hidden behind the iPad, taking pictures for uploading, pretending not to see the drama on the dance floor. Now he put the tablet away and joined Masaaba at the front. He was a quick learner but painfully self-conscious. In all his interviews, he had made it clear that under no circumstances would he even contemplate doing imbalu. He would be circumcised now that he was aware, but in hospital under general anaesthesia like most of his cousins. Why? Because it’s my roots, obviously. While I am British, I am also Mumasaaba, and this is what we do…I am going to learn the dance and the songs, but I’ve not decided whether I’ll join in the kadodi yet…I love my brother and I am here to support him but we’re different, I mean…We’ll see. Since their arrival, Mwambu had been moaning about the sluggish internet even though Wakhooli had bought him a high-powered modem. You’d find him eating breakfast mid-morning because he stayed up late when internet speed improved.
Wabuyi, the third brother, would follow Masaaba to the moon. Right now, he was dancing, proper tribal, blowing a whistle, flicking a flywhisk, wowing the dancers who thought he was too cute for life. Out of the four boys, he looked more like Wakhooli but had his mother’s open disposition. Too trusting. Self-consciousness had not occurred to him. He was still at that beautiful age when his parents were superheroes and his brothers were cool. Right now, he was dressed like Masaaba because there were extra pieces of regalia. They were oversized on him, but he did not care. He wanted facial paint, leaves around his head, waving branches, the whole shebang. In his interviews he said he was waiting to see what the physical circumcision was really like before he committed to doing imbalu when he came of age.
By the end of the second week, Masaaba was saying things in his interviews like: I’ve even been to Dad’s former school…Now Mum is talking about buying a house here…England is green, but this place is out of this world. The soil is red; never seen anything like it…I grew up with images of a barren Africa, like sheer poverty, you know, in those humiliating charity organisation ads of skeletal children drinking dirty water cows are pooing in and people are washing in at the same time, or fat mothers holding starving children, that made you think, what is wrong with these people? Until you realise the nature of editing. I mean, there is poverty, obviously, but I’ve seen poverty in New York…I know what I signed up for…
By the time the family set off for Mbale, Masaaba’s ngeye crown and the monkey skin to drape over his back had arrived and he had learnt to dance with them on. A picture of him in full regalia had been put up on the website. And then the Ministry of Culture had casually informed the family that dignitaries from other countries might be coming to what they had dubbed the ‘Imbalu Special’: Don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything.
It had been such a busy fortnight that Masaaba only started to catch up on social media on the way to Mbale. Mbale was 120 miles from Kampala but the boys were so busy on chats with friends back in Britain, they did not see the journey. Occasionally, they broke out in laughter as they shared a comment on social media. An academic had somehow connected Masaaba’s imbalu to Trump. Mwambu read out the title: ‘Masaaba’s Imbalu and the Rise of Traditional Masculinities in the Trump Era.’ He passed his tablet to his mother, who could not believe it and afterwards passed it to Poonah. The article was illustrated with an image of Trump, chin up after shoving the Montenegrin president out of the way.
Critical material had accumulated on the internet. The most worrying came from animal lovers. Someone had taken Masaaba’s image in full regalia and written: ‘Another colobus monkey dies in vain!’ Another wrote: ‘This nobbit did not cringe at wearing an imitation of the barbaric killing of beautiful defenceless animals.’ In another place, CENSORED had been stamped across Masaaba’s picture. Mwambu uploaded everything; Jerry had told him not to discriminate among material. But Wabuyi was angry. He found the article and typed a response: ‘Shaka Zulu’s leopard prints are in vogue, mate.’ He attached Theresa May’s shoes and tapped Enter. Then he went to another item, typed, ‘The rug in our living room is a zebra skin’, and attached an image from some website.
Previously non-existent consultants – university professors and researchers – on adult circumcision in Africa had popped up online, offering insights, promoting their blogs and vlogs. Then there were the anti-circumcision groups – especially the one with the imagery of blood-soaked crotches – preaching doom and gloom. They accused Masaaba of gentrifying genital mutilation. They brandished statistics of deaths from adult circumcision each year. They called it MGM, an acronym quickly acquiring the notoriety of FGM. They talked about how boys in Africa were coerced, how women were used to spy on uncircumcised men who were captured and forcibly circumcised. Then this headline: Conservatives fail to confirm they would ban imbalu if it happened in Britain. Mwambu uploaded everything.
Napule had become a stranger. Occasionally his Aunt Nambozo brought him to visit the family, but he lived across town in Bunga with Khalayi. Kayla had surprised Poonah. She did not bat an eyelid at being separated from him, even when Napule chose to stay in Kampala with Khalayi while they travelled to Mbale.
The earlier plans to hold the rites at Masaaba’s grandparents’ home had been thrown out. Anticipating international attention, the mayor of Mbale, the Ministry of Tourism, Wildlife and Antiquities, and regional MPs had remapped the route for Masaaba’s kadodi, taking in the major features of the city. Wakhooli’s Ugandan family was all for it; the bigger the better.
Meanwhile tension was building between Poonah and Nabwiile, Wakhooli’s eldest sister. To her, Poonah was a hanger-on. Her attitude sneered We can ease Kayla into our family, thank you very much. She had started by arranging visits to all Wakhooli’s siblings’ homes. Then she hijacked a visit to Nakivubo. Poonah had arranged to take Kayla shopping for bitenge gowns when Nabwiile said she knew someone who had the best and cheapest on Kampala Road. Apparently, her someone brought lovely shirts from Ghana too; Wakhooli and the boys would love them. Poonah kept quiet; she had planned to give Kayla a local market experience, besides, she knew how expensive shops on Kampala Road were and Kayla and Wakhooli were not exactly rich. Kayla sensed the tension and asked what was going on.
‘It’s me arriving into their world to ease their sister-in-law into their family and their culture like they can’t do it.’
Kayla gasped. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘Neither did I! Add to that, I am Ganda: don’t even speak Lumasaaba.’
She held her mouth. ‘Do you want to leave?’
‘Wakhooli paid my fare for a reason. You carry on being you and I’ll be discreet.’
They arrived at Hotel Elgonia around six and checked in.
Poonah did not join the family until midday the following day. By then the boys had gone to meet Masaaba’s kadodi band and check out the dance route. Local MPs, the mayor and people from the government had been to welcome the family to Mbale and talk about the programme on the eighteenth. In the afternoon the family went to Wakhooli’s parents’ house. They had supper there.
Kayla’s sisters, Athol and Freya, arrived in Kampala that night. So did Masaaba’s British friends. Wakhooli had arranged for them to be picked up at the airport at the same time and be taken to the Kabira Hotel in Kampala, then to Mbale the following day. But he had put his foot down against Zoe, Masaaba’s girlfriend, coming to Uganda for imbalu. ‘It’s common sense,’ he said. Jerry the agent was staying in Tororo with his grandmother and would commute to Mbale. He was to handle post-op interviews, and he had handled the insurance in case Masaaba needed emergency repatriation to England. Masaaba, his dancers and the cousins who had arrived spent the following day rehearsing with the band.
Time in Mbale ran too fast. After lunch on the first day of the kadodi, a group of elders came to whisper with Masaaba. It was excitement, happiness and pride. By 1.30, members of the press had started to lurk. At 2 p.m., Masaaba came down dressed. You heard the rattles first as he walked and turned. That ngeye crown would transform a toad into a prince; Masaaba was killing it. And those bands enhancing his biceps! A woman went Airiririri over him and there were answers of Ayii. He posed for pictures, answered some questions for BBC4 and got into the transport to meet with the band and the dancers. At the gate, locals had collected; kids chased the car as it disappeared. Poonah felt constrained by her maternal aunt status. She would have liked to go along and watch the kadodi, perhaps dance a bit.
Meanwhile, Wakhooli’s family was expanding. Earlier, before the kadodi started, there was confusion. Rumour had it that you had to be vetted before you joined Masaaba’s kadodi carnival. People arrived, introduced themselves, reminding Wakhooli or his siblings how they were related, demanding that their children be included in Masaaba’s procession: ‘We understand that you hired English-speaking dancers, that you have to speak English to be a part. Since when?’ And Wakhooli denied that he would ever think of doing such a thing. He had presumed they would not want to be part of it. ‘Really, how? Because we even heard you hired men to carry our son when he danced on the shoulders.’ Wakhooli explained and apologised.
The new relations were impressed by Kayla. They shook her hand – Thank you for holding our tradition dear – then they would turn to Wakhooli: You chose well. No doubt Masaaba’s love for his culture was down to good parenting…You see, some of our own people here are not encouraging it any more. But a Musungu, coming all the way from England, ah. Kayla would go red in the face and Poonah would nudge her to smile.
Later, Kayla would be like, I hate it when people say terrible things about Ugandans and make me out like I’m some sort of angel. I want to say, I’m not, I’m just like you. Poonah would twist her lips. How would she say But you’re not like everyone else, that the British had no idea that the white exceptionalism they worked so hard to inculcate in the colonies would one day become a burden, but she said, ‘They’d say the same if you were Jamaican.’
That evening, the boys came back at around seven, exhausted and excited. Mwambu was laughing: ‘Mum, Masaaba’s gonna start a farm in Manchester.’
Kayla was shocked. ‘They’ve given him live animals?’
‘Not yet. But so far they’ve promised him four goats, I don’t know how many chickens and a baby cow, and that’s just the first day! We saw them. They asked Masaaba to touch them. If he’s – I mean, when he’s brave, they’re his.’
‘Oh my God, Poonah, what do we do?’
Auntie Nabwiile stepped in. ‘We’ll give them to your grandparents to rear for you, Masaaba. But the chickens and goats will be used for the party when you come out of seclusion.’
Silence as ‘used’ sank in.
It was Wabuyi who asked, ‘You mean we’re gonna eat them cute goats?’
‘Yes, Wabuyi,’ Auntie Nabwiile smiled. ‘Cute animals are where meat burgers come from.’
Poonah expected him to run to his mother demanding they rescue the animals but Mwambu had given him a warning eye. Wabuyi smiled. ‘Of course, Auntie.’
As Mwambu uploaded pictures of Masaaba touching the animals, Masaaba explained, ‘Mum, in the past, Dad should’ve built me a hut already; the animals would be a kind of wealth to start adulthood with.’
‘Yeah,’ Mwambu sniggered, ‘like getting a council flat and an uncle gives you a sofa, an aunt gives you pans and pots, another gives you a telly, a bed, whatever.’
‘Well then,’ Kayla laughed, ‘time to kick you out of our house.’
It happened on the second day when the boys were out for the kadodi carnival. Kayla’s two sisters, Athol and Freya, monopolised her now even Nabwiile had eased off. They had this kind of protective aura as if Kayla were going through the mother of all trauma. When they arrived, interviews of them with Kayla picked up. Twice now, Kayla had come out upset. Poonah, who had noticed in Britain that when there was a mixed-race couple on TV – parents of a sports, musical or dance hero, or of a child protégé – cameras focused more on the white half of the parents, became suspicious. The second time, Poonah went up to Kayla and asked what was wrong.
‘Nothing,’ she said, and stormed off to her room.
Poonah went after her, but Athol stopped her: ‘Can’t you see she wants to be left alone?’
But she opened the door anyway and went in. Freya joined them.
Don’t beg to help, pack your bags and go back to Kampala. If she needs you she will call. Then she relented. Kayla is British; brushing you off does not mean she’s being rude. Poonah walked back to her room. But it hurt. All the years she had known Kayla, she had never known the sisters to show interest in their nephews. At the boys’ birthdays they tended to nip in and nip out, but now that there was a camera they were displaying concern. She sent Wakhooli a text: We need to talk. Urgently. Give me a call.
When they got together, Poonah told him, ‘Something’s been going on with Kayla since her sisters arrived. I don’t know why, but twice…you know that BBC woman?’
‘Julie?’
‘Twice she’s interviewed them, and both times Kayla’s come out upset.’
‘Why were you not with her?’
‘Her sisters are here.’
‘I know what they’re doing. Ever since they started this documentary business, Julie’s been trying to tear-jerk her and Masaaba. Like, Oh, it must be terrifying for you as a mother, knowing your baby is going…? They need her to cry. That’s what they do. With Masaaba I had to step in and say, “Do not introduce fear into my boy’s mind.” Now they’re trying to milk Kayla through the sisters.’
‘Problem is showing Kayla crying on TV. They’ll edit it to seem like she’s regretting…You know what they’re like. They edit their programmes to show this fragile white woman who married an African now traumatised by his barbaric culture. Can you imagine the backlash online when Africans see it?’
Wakhooli sighed exhaustion. ‘I’ll talk to Julie.’
‘Also tell them you want to see the final edit. Tell them you don’t want your wife to be shown crying.’
On Saturday the eighteenth it rained in the morning. A loud, gusty rain that brought everything to a standstill. By the time Poonah got downstairs for breakfast, the hotel lobby was packed. People stood everywhere, some fretting because preparations were held up, some waiting to escort Masaaba to face the knife. For the first time Wakhooli was not running around. He and his brothers sat with Masaaba plus some other elders. A bunch of men, suspicious and menacing, stood around them, watching. Dr Wafula had warned them back in Kampala that on the last day, things would turn dark. Masaaba would not be left on his own in case he bolted. Mwambu and Wabuyi sat away from everyone. They stole worried glances at their brother, then at the menacing gang.
Poonah’s eyes fell on Jerry. He had gone to whisper with Masaaba, but the menacing gang pushed him away like he would help Masaaba escape. Thankfully, he had left his lord-of-the-manor look in England. As he walked away, two white men approached him, shook his hand and he led them to a table. Poonah wondered what they wanted. The day before, Jerry had arrived at the hotel with three items in his hands. First, there had been film offers. ‘But I said to them, it’s early days. Let’s wait and see how Masaaba’s circumcision pans out and then decide who will do my man here’ – he shook Masaaba by the shoulders – ‘justice.’ The second item was a project with CNN, something to do with the spectacular landscape in Eastern Uganda, bringing it to the attention of the world. ‘It’s in the future; if Masaaba is interested, let me know.’ However, the major issue was the dare money. ‘It’s become toxic. Public opinion has changed. It was about £625,000 last time I checked—’
‘£642,545,’ Mwambu corrected.
‘There you go. It’s too much money. Ugandan kids get circumcised all the time without money or fanfare. The presumption is that because you’re British you’re rich and privileged and shouldn’t make money out of an African ritual.’
‘Let me speak for once.’ Poonah stood up, gesturing Ugandanly. ‘This has nothing to do with Ugandans. Masaaba, Ugandans don’t begrudge you your money. They don’t care because it’s not their money. It’s the rich, white, middle-class people in the West who, disgusted with their own wealth, are trying to guilt-trip everyone—’
Mwambu joined in: ‘Bloody leftists; they do my head in.’
‘We call them We Are the World,’ Wakhooli laughed. ‘They consider themselves the conscience of the world regardless of the circumstances. And they impose their conscience ruthlessly.’
‘We’re not touching that money,’ Kayla interrupted. ‘End of discussion.’ But her outburst said You’re not the white ones; all that shit will be aimed at my face. She turned to Jerry. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘I was thinking of perhaps a clinic for imbalu initiates here in Mbale. Somewhere they can go for seclusion with good medical facilities, good meals, peace and quiet. The circumcision season is very small and happens every two years. The rest of the time, the hospice would serve the community. Any profit would fund the initiates’ wing. I think Dr Wafula might be useful. We must be seen to be doing something.’
Silence fell as the performance of We must be seen to be doing something sunk in. Images of Western celebrities, The X Factor and shows which had been ‘seen to do something in Africa’ flashed in Poonah’s mind and she clicked.
‘We’ll discuss it when we return home,’ Wakhooli said softly. ‘There’s no hurry.’
Now, Poonah’s eyes travelled to where Kayla sat playing Scrabble with her sisters. Kayla could win an Oscar so far.
Rain stopped like God had plugged it. Bang at midday. People rushed outdoors. Men carrying tools, others loading plastic chairs onto a lorry, mops drying the entrance. Thirty minutes later, reporters were setting up in the garden, some speaking into mics, staring into cameras and pointing at the hotel. Next time she looked outside, a crowd had built up outside the gate. Poonah’s heart fell into her stomach. Then she chided herself: You’ll jinx the boy if you don’t stop worrying. She walked to her room and picked up a Bible from next to a table lamp. The Old Testament. Psalms. She thumbed to 23 and read. ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…’ She put it down, closed her eyes and recited in Luganda, ‘Mukama ye musumba wange, seetagenga…’ It was still as calming as it had been when she lived with Mutaayi. When she finished she sighed, ‘Masaaba, you’re in God’s hands now.’ She reached for the TV remote control. Rice screens. CNN. A religious channel. Football. She settled on a Nollywood film.
A band struck up and she woke.
Masaaba’s kadodi band had come to the hotel? She jumped out of bed. The music filled the place. She had heard that Masaaba’s band was a combination of two bands – one that Wakhooli had paid for before the politicians got involved and the biggest band in Mbale, which the politicians had hired. Poonah ran through the corridors. Kadodi music is like that: you hear it, you can’t stay away. She ran across the foyer to the main entrance. The band filled the garden. People beyond the gate were dancing. Kayla and her sisters were taking pictures. Poonah ran to them.
‘Is this what the boys have been dancing to?’
‘Isn’t it just great?’
‘We’ve missed the fun part,’ Freya moaned.
‘That’s being a mother for you.’
‘I’m glad the boys have had fun,’ Athol added. ‘I wish it lasted a week instead of three days.’
Kayla wiped her tears away.
Poonah looked back in the foyer for Masaaba. He was being led away from his lunch table, but the food was untouched. She followed them with her eyes. An uncle found a space in a corner and motioned to the rest to join him. Poonah hurried and grabbed a chair close by and draped her sweater over it. She went to the water fountain, filled a glass and came back to the seat. By then, Masaaba was surrounded by his relations. The menacing gang formed the outer ring.
Someone was saying: ‘I can’t say the merrymaking is over because you still have your band, your crown and people are going to dance for you, but it’s serious business now. As you can see, only men surround you and not all of them have good intentions. Some are here to provoke your fear, to make you stumble, to frighten you so they can say you are not ready to become a man. We won’t stop them because we know our son is strong. In fact, we’ll be laughing because your bravery will be even sweeter when you shame them…’
‘Bring it on…’
‘Did you hear that, haters?’
The gang did not bother with English as they jeered, making derisive noises.
‘Okay, Wakhooli, take Masaaba and get him ready.’
As they led him away, the gang broke out in celebration, brandishing sticks, clubs and branches: He’ll shake and tremble…yeah, he’ll cry for Mummy…he’s been showing off on the internet and whatnot! Let’s see what he is made of. Even folks watching the kadodi turned as the haters made a show of the savagery they would mete out to Masaaba if he dared tremble. They followed him to the lift.
The Masaaba who stepped out of the lift was subdued. In the foyer, apart from the camera clicks, silence fell. Forget the abs and biceps and all the handsomeness his parents gave him – it was all covered under a layer of white millet flour paste. No amount of clowning could break through. Just then the gang – they must have given them the slip – were heard coming down the stairs shouting, ‘Where is he? Where is he?’ When they saw him covered in millet flour, looking like a squirrel, they laughed, clapped, celebrating like finally the stage was theirs to show off bad blood. Masaaba’s British friends joined the haters in laughter. But all the laughing and clowning in the world could not lift the heaviness in the air. Outside, the band played, people danced. As they led him out, Masaaba waved to his mother. ‘When you see me again, Mum, I’ll be a man.’
‘You’ll always be my baby.’
He waved to his aunties but Poonah called, ‘You have made us proud and—’
‘Not yet, Auntie, not yet. See you on the other side.’
Wakhooli stepped out and got on one knee, Masaaba mounted on his shoulders, and he rose, hoisting his son. The crown on Masaaba’s head almost touched the ceiling; the skin on his back came down to Wakhooli’s shoulders. Wild Airiririri rang out and Kayla answered with Ayii. Even her sisters joined in this time. They took a few more pictures as a family. Then Wakhooli stepped out of the front entrance. A roar rose and the band’s drumming became critical. When Wakhooli twirled and did a jig, the crowd went wild. After a while, Masaaba raised his hand. The band, the dancers, onlookers, everyone stopped.
Then, punching the air, he called, ‘Bamusheete?’
‘Eh!’ everyone answered.
‘Bamusheete?’
‘Sheet’ omwana afanane babawe!’
The band joined in and Wakhooli danced down the stairs, Mwambu and Wabuyi dancing beside him like Behold, we bring the hero. Masaaba flywhisked the cobwebs out of the sky and then low, each swat swishing Out of my way, then eyes closed he nodded, casual as you like, and the crown did its magic.
As Wakhooli danced down the driveway, the hired dancers and cousins joined him, then the band fell in step, the crowd joined at the back pulsing, singing, blowing whistles. By then, all you saw was the back of Masaaba’s crown, the fur bouncing. Poonah, Kayla, her sisters and other guests followed them down to the gate. They stayed there until the last of the dancers disappeared.
For some time, Poonah, Kayla, her sisters and Julie, who, because she was a woman, could not follow Masaaba to certain points, rode on the euphoria of the crowd and the band that had escorted Masaaba. Without it, the effort not to think about five o’clock would have failed them. They played Scrabble. When 4.30 came, none of them was keen to get into the van. Eventually, as 5 p.m. approached, they were driven to the venue. You realised the gravity of the occasion when you saw Mbale’s streets quieter than Sunday mornings.
Cars, bicycles, boda boda, pedestrians; all roads led to Manafwa High School. The school’s games pitch was covered with three large tents and a small one at the head. In the quadrangle at the centre was a dais, where the cut would take place. Now it was occupied by traditional performers. The tents were full. Tourists occupied one tent, dignitaries another. Then the miscellaneous. The van drove past all that to a white tent further away at the edge of the pitch.
The tent was carpeted, a sofa set and a low table in the middle. A waitress asked if anyone wanted a drink. Kayla and her sisters asked for wine. Poonah opted for Bell lager. They resumed their game of Scrabble, but Julie had disappeared. Poonah had started to appreciate Freya and Athol’s presence. It was a relief to have them occupy Kayla after all.
It was a quarter to six when the waitress ran into the tent breathless; she had seen Masaaba sprint to the dais. They listened. Outside was total silence. Someone clutched Poonah’s hands. Poonah did not breathe. Then a cry cut the air, Airiririri. Everyone looked at everyone else.
Kayla turned to Poonah. ‘What does that mean?’
Before she could say I don’t know, Kayla emitted a scream like it had escaped. She stopped like she had transgressed. Outside, more Airiririri rang out. Someone said, ‘It’s done.’ But no one attempted to run out and look.
Kayla set off an Airiri. Then, as if she had not screamed, she asked, ‘Does it mean he was brave?’
Now they ran out of the tent but stopped outside. They could see people jumping up and down but still they dared not celebrate. Then Jerry came running, waving.
‘He’s legend, Kayla,’ he waved, ‘Your son is legend.’
Kayla exploded like a well-shaken bottle of Coke, releasing all the emotion she had bottled up. She screamed, leaping in the air shaking her head like a British schoolgirl at a One Direction show.
Jerry went to her and they held each other, jumping up and down. ‘I swear to God…I mean…I didn’t doubt him…but heck, Masaaba’s got balls the size of Tororo Rock.’
Athol and Freya were crying.
Poonah ran towards the tent area. A white man in shorts lay flat out on the ground being fanned. Further down, Julie stood alone wiping tears away. In a gap between two tents three white men were bent over throwing up. Kids were laughing at them. Then she saw Masaaba sat in the wheelchair. His crown was still on his head.
She ran back to the tent. ‘He’s wearing his crown, it’s the first thing they pull off if you tremble.’
But Mwambu had reached his mother and she was holding him and everywhere was crowded with women and it was hard to get to Kayla. Next Mwambu was pushing his way out. He sat down beside the tent and held the bridge of his nose to hide the tears. His face was so red the freckles had disappeared.
Poonah asked, ‘Did you see it?’
‘I did,’ he sniffed. ‘I mean, I didn’t. He was surrounded by so many men you couldn’t see. I saw him run to the podium, saw him steady himself with the pole. Then that dude, the surgeon. Next the knife flashed with blood, then again and men screamed, and I sat down ’cause I couldn’t stand. Next, they had wrapped a sheet around him and he was helped into a wheelchair. It happened too fast. I wanted to go and hold him, but I couldn’t get up.’ Now he looked at Poonah. ‘I was afraid I might hurt him and spoil everything.’
Wakhooli came running. ‘Kayla, Kayla, where’s Kayla?’
‘Dad’s bonkers.’ Mwambu attempted to laugh.
Wakhooli grabbed Kayla and kissed her bang on the lips like it was an imbalu ritual. They were mobbed. Before she realised, women had lifted Kayla, carrying her towards the tents. The sheer anxiety in her glance screamed Put me down: can’t you see I am a white woman, put me down. Poonah pointed at Wakhooli. ‘Relax, they’re carrying him too.’ Kayla tried to smile but history was stalking her. Poonah turned back to Mwambu. She pulled him off the ground and held him. For a while he was still. Then she felt his stomach crunch and hold, then blew out as he sucked air; it crunched again, then distended. After a while, he pulled away and wiped his face. Then he smiled like his bravado had returned.
‘Didn’t even take any pictures. Been recording the most mundane stuff but not the one most important moment.’
‘Someone did – Jerry, the World Service, BBC4, other journalists.’
‘He didn’t flinch, Auntie Poonah. Bastard stood still like it was nothing.’
‘Of course he didn’t!’ After a while she asked, ‘You’re okay now?’
He nodded. ‘Cheers, Auntie.’
‘Let’s go see him before the ambulance takes him to seclusion.’
When they got to the tent area, people had broken into groups. The mayor, MPs and dignitaries were saying goodbye to Masaaba and his parents. Photographers peered at camera screens, scrolling through pictures: Did you get it? Haters were dancing like they had forgotten themselves. People dropped money like leaves at Masaaba’s feet. Mwambu broke away and ran to his brother.
Masaaba’s wheelchair sat between his parents. Kayla held Wabuyi, but her face was white. She seemed suspended between this world and another. Women still aiririried around them. Masaaba sat manspreading. He was covered from waist to above the ankles with a kanga. Too many people congratulating him for Poonah to get close. She looked on the ground between his feet. A little patch of the soil was soaked. Then a drop. Another. Another. She was thinking of the symbolism when she began to feel light-headed. She was thinking of sitting down when she heard, ‘Hold that woman.’ When she came to, the concerned faces of Freya, Kayla, Athol and Julie were bent over her.
When he emerged from seclusion, Masaaba had lost so much weight he looked fifteen again. He wore a kilt. He must have noticed everyone’s shock and, ever the clown, he twirled and the kilt blew out. The twirl went wrong and came to an excruciating end. Bending to limit the damage, he bit back a scream. His brothers ran to him, but he held up his hand. Ugandans were in stitches. He inserted a finger in a hole on the front of the kilt and held it away from his wounds. He waddled to his seat, sat at the edge, spread his legs out and arranged the kilt. Kayla smiled as if to say Oh, he’ll be fine. Wakhooli, still laughing, said, ‘Now you understand why Zoe couldn’t come.’