The day Kirabo saw Giibwa again was the day she showed Sio what a woman really looked like down there. It was just before Christmas 1979. Sio had passed his exams and had been accepted into the University of Dar es Salaam. Because of the war, he had sat his A levels in July. The results had come out in November. Since Tanzania had brought the war to Uganda, the University of Dar es Salaam had made provisions for Ugandan students to join a term late with remedial classes. Sio was travelling to Dar the following day. He would spend Christmas with his mother before starting his course in the new year. Kirabo would not see him again until next April.
As promised, Sio showed her his ssebukuule first.
They were in a lodge, the one on Clement Hill Road where men escaped to with pinched wives, where good girls lost their virginity. Such an air of depravity hung in the room that Kirabo could not help but feel a sense of guilt about all of the women in her life who had worked so hard to keep her safe from men. She thought of Grandmother and all the women in Nattetta, especially Widow Diba, Nsuuta, Aunt Abi, Aunt YA and Sister Ambrose. They had no idea she was in a disreputable lodge with Kabuye’s son.
Sio sat her on the bed, and then proceeded to peel off his clothes as if it was an art form. At first, Kirabo held her mouth in shock, giggling, unable to believe how much Sio enjoyed his own nakedness. You know that superb male bird of paradise doing a courtship dance? That was Sio.
Now that he was naked, save for his Caterpillar boots, he performed a military parade, whistling the police band tunes. From the wall across the room, quick march, quick march, to the end of the room, abouuuut turn. Then he came back doing the goose-step, singing, ‘Okello, talina mpale…’ At the wall he stopped, stomped and swivelled on his heel. He saluted, put an imaginary baton under his arm and started the slow march. Kirabo fell back on the bed, ribs aching with laughter. When she sat up, Sio was kneeling at the side of the bed.
‘Your turn.’
For some reason Kirabo’s confidence deserted her. Forget Aunt Abi’s assertion that the vagina was a flower bud unfolding, forget all the pride St Theresa’s had given her in her body. At school, she was just another girl. She could walk about naked. In this room, Sio’s pale body reminded her that her breasts were not supposed to be charcoally, that her vagina was foul. If it was a flower, why did nature tuck it out of sight?
‘I am not taking my clothes off to model boobs and bums.’
‘Come on.’
‘Hmm, hmm.’
‘You promised…’
‘To show you my flower.’
‘But the flower does not come in isolation.’
‘That is what you asked for.’
‘Okay.’ Sio gave in unhappily. ‘Take off your knickers.’
She pulled them off and lay back on the bed but kept her knees closed.
‘You know what?’ Sio pulled the pillow from under her head. ‘Cover your face if you are nervous.’
Kirabo held the pillow over her face.
‘Lift your legs, bend them at the knees.’ He sighed, like a man in charge of a delicate operation. He prised her knees apart. A brief silence. Then, ‘Whwo, ho.’
She snapped her knees closed. ‘What, is it disgusting?’
‘No, it is floral glory… Lie back, I need to see more.’
Kirabo lay back and opened her legs properly.
‘You elongated your labia?’
‘Of course. Why?’
‘Nothing; lie back.’
This time, Sio touched something and Kirabo screamed. Sio backed away, laughing. He put a finger to his lips. ‘Shhhhh, you screamed.’
‘What was that?’
He pulled a feather from behind his back. ‘One of my hens gave it to me this morning. She said, I understand Kirabo is going to unfold herself for you. Why not try one of my feathers to help her along? I can do it again, but don’t scream.’
Kirabo lay back. This time someone banged on the door. They fell silent. After a while, footsteps walked away. Sio whispered, ‘I am going to stop. You cannot scream like that.’
‘I didn’t even realise. I won’t, I swear.’
‘Take the pillow and bite into it, because this feather is rampant.’
Next thing she knew, Sio was holding her mouth. The banging on the door did not stop this time. They held their breath. Then Sio got off the bed and pulled on his trousers, his Bob Marley belt buckle chinking. He opened the door a crack and a middle-aged woman said, ‘Stop that noise.’ She tried to peer past him into the room but Sio kept moving his head, blocking her view.
‘What kind of children are you?’
‘Give me back my fucking money and we’ll fucking leave your fucking room.’ Sio spoke British English when he wanted to intimidate.
‘But, son, that girl is a child.’
‘Did you birth me?’ Kirabo called from the bed.
‘Wangi? What did you say, child?’
Kirabo did not repeat it.
‘Kdto.’ The woman turned away. ‘Children of today, misege, misegula,’ she clapped as she went.
Sio closed the door and they laughed soundlessly. Then he picked Kirabo’s knickers off the floor and tossed them to her. ‘Get dressed.’
‘Why? You paid for the entire day.’
‘Get dressed.’
Kirabo grabbed her knickers. ‘So you know, Sio, I cannot get pregnant from a feather.’
He finished getting dressed and stared at her. Kirabo, realising that playing with feathers was over, got off the bed and slipped into her knickers. As she brushed her hair in the mirror on the wall, Sio said, ‘Did you know there is a belief that when a man finds himself alone with a woman he is not related to, he is obliged to say a word to her?’
‘A word?’
‘Yes, to seduce her, to show he is a real man.’
Kirabo shot Sio a sharp look. ‘Now what kind of stupidity is that?’
‘Apparently, women expect it. If you don’t, they lose respect for you.’
‘That is not stupidity, Sio, it has no name.’
‘And since all girls are supposed to say no, it is okay. After all, a girl can tell when a boy is serious.’
Kirabo deflated. ‘Sio, are you trying to tell me something?’
‘No,’ he sighed, ‘it is just…it puts pressure on us.’
Kirabo shrugged.
‘Apparently, some girls, if you don’t say a word, they feel insulted, that they are ugly. Then they go around telling people that you are not a man, that you are dead in the pants. That is why boys hiss at any girl, often without interest.’
Kirabo sat down on the bed next to him. ‘Tell you what, Sio. Throughout time, men have created all sorts of myths about women. In the past, the belief was that if you looked deep down there, as you did mine, you would go blind. Some cultures even believed there were teeth down there which could bite your ssebukuule off. The idea that girls expect a word from a man to make them feel good about themselves is another myth, perhaps to justify men’s bad behaviour.’
Thinking she had answered his question, Kirabo suggested they go to find Giibwa. It was only midday, but they had nothing else to do.
Sio stood up irritably, went to the door, opened it then closed it and came back. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Kirabo, but that thing, that…erm, elongation, is wrong. It is genital mutilation.’
‘Genital what? Tsk, of all boys in the world I fell for a Zungu. Sio, we Africans do it. Mutilation is when they scoop out the bean then cut the inner labia out and when it is just a shell they sew everything like shut up. Bruhu.’ She shuddered. ‘On the contrary, we enhance.’
‘Same thing. And not all Africans do it.’
‘Okay, Bantu Africans.’
‘Not all Bantu.’
‘Okay, Bantu Ugandans; what is your problem?’
‘Not all of them. It does not contribute to pleasure.’
‘Not yours, mine. Tsk! You men imagine that everything we do is for you. We elongate because some men do not know how to get a woman ready. Wait for your groom session, your uncles will teach you.’
‘But that does not mean you disfigure your body.’
‘Sometimes, Sio, you are so Zungu I don’t even know. Not all men borrow feathers from their chickens. Chances of marrying one of those are very high. Don’t worry, one day I will show you what to do with them.’
‘As long as you don’t tell my daughters to…no one is going to tell my daughters to do that.’
Her hmm was cynical because she knew there would be no one to tell his daughters about this kind of thing. Fathers’ sisters prepared their nieces for sex. Sio had no one.
‘As I said before,’ Sio was saying, ‘I believe in mwenkanonkano. It is wrong to disfigure your genitals.’
The first time Sio had said he believed in mwenkanonkano, he had used the English word feminist. Kirabo ignored it because as far as she knew, feminism was for women in developed countries with first-world problems. But this time he had used the Luganda word, mwenkanonkano. She asked, ‘What makes you say you believe in our mwenkanonkano?’
‘I know women have suffered throughout time. I would not want my daughter to go through that. I think it is time we stopped it, I try not to contribute to women’s suffering. Dad does too. He said I should treat women the way I would want to be treated. But Mum is too Christian. Apparently, God created Adam from earth, but Eve was made from Adam’s rib. To her how can a rib be equal to a whole person?’
‘Wow, you don’t realise how dangerous those myths are until you meet someone who believes them.’
‘But what Mum does not realise is that mwenkanonkano would set us men free too.’
‘Set men free, free from what – superiority?’
‘Scoff all you like, but I want things to change. We pay too high a price for something superficial. And why? Just so women can kneel before us? Do you know how expensive dating is? On top of paying bills, girls expect you to give them your money, just like that, because you fancy them. And their entitlement is unbelievable. If you don’t give them money, they tell people He has glue in his hands…’
Kirabo was dying of hilarity. Since they had started dating, they were both always so broke they asked each other, ‘How much do you have?’ on the phone before deciding to meet up. Often, Sio only had enough money to pay for one way. When Kirabo got money out of her father or aunt, she rang him to say, ‘Come, I have enough for your return journey.’
‘What is so funny?’
‘You tried to date another girl, didn’t you?’
‘No, but I have seen it. A guy takes a girl out, spends his transport money on her and walks miles and miles back home. Then, after all of that, she dumps him. You know what some guys believe?’ Kirabo shook her head. ‘That women pretend, that some perform inferiority to give us a false sense of superiority.’
‘Sometimes it is safe for us to pretend to be inferior. Some men love it. They hate clever women. We have learnt to make it pay for us. Perks of being inferior. Look, sometimes a man, instead of saying I fancy you, just gives you money. If you take it, it means yes; you don’t take it, it means no. But of course, some girls take it and say no anyway. Poor seduction skills are costly.’
‘Then don’t complain when men treat you like property. You cannot have it both ways. If men invest money while dating, dress you, feed you, pay your rent, transport you, and then pay dowry on top, then after the wedding husbands are still called upon, time after time, to take care of financial problems in your families, then men own you the way you cannot own them. We can have affairs; we can throw you out of our houses, because we bought you.’
‘But it is what you men want. Ganda men feel insulted when you attempt to split the bill.’
‘We pretend to want it because we are expected to.’ He opened the door. ‘Come on, let’s go and find Giibwa.’
Kirabo followed him out. She could not believe her luck. Where in Uganda do you find a man who believes in mwenkanonkano? She did not know what she had done to deserve Sio. If she had held anything of herself back from loving him up until then, she had now passed the point of no return. She reached for his hands, then wrapped her arms around him and kissed his ear and neck. She rubbed her nose on his cheek as she said, ‘I think you are intelligent about our mwenkanonkano.’
‘It is just common sense.’
At the reception desk in the lobby sat the woman who had banged on the door, her eyes waiting to tell them off. But then she smiled as Sio handed her the key. When she saw Kirabo, she dry-spat on the side, but Kirabo was too happy to feel the insult. She had been transported on the lightness of a feather to a place beyond shame. She looked at the woman and felt sorry for her. She has no idea what she is missing. Her man would probably have a fit at the thought of mwenkanonkano. Reaching for Sio’s hand, she swung on it and skipped down the steps into the sunny courtyard. Sio stole a guilty glance at the woman and shook his head at Kirabo’s giddiness. All the way to Nakawa Market, where Giibwa’s aunt’s friend worked, Kirabo was giddy. Sio kept calming her down.
‘Don’t hold my hand, Kirabo, people are frowning.’
‘Where? I don’t see them.’
‘They look at me like I am a hyena that snatched a chick.’
‘Ignore them.’ She turned and walked backwards facing him. ‘They are backward. You are only slightly taller.’
Giibwa’s aunt’s friend directed them to Kyadondo Road in Nakasero, and they walked back through the Lugogo swamp. The rugby pitch had flooded. Their route took them past the rows of huge, ancient mango trees, across the Lugogo bypass and over to Lugogo Indoor Arena. Soon they were in Lower Kololo. Once they crossed the golf course and Kitante Road, Kyadondo Road was just above the Fairway Hotel. Giibwa’s home was easy to find; there were plot numbers on the gates. A tarmacked driveway, then a paved walkway led to a side door. Kirabo knocked on the door, wondering how Giibwa had adjusted to the incredible wealth around her.
The door opened. Giibwa stood there. A Giibwa with a posture like she had grown up in that house and the demeanour of someone newly arrived from Switzerland. This Giibwa knew she was beautiful, Kirabo realised. It was there in her eyes. That entitlement that light-skinned girls had to beauty, to being the centre of attention. Kirabo reached for Sio’s hand. How had Giibwa got even more light-skinned? Her hair was enormous and dark. She had lost weight and stretched at the waist. This was no longer the innocent beauty of childhood; this was sharp and malignant. You saw it for the first time, you looked away. Then you stole small, secret glances until you got used to it. It was the kind of beauty that made you hate a girl who had done nothing to you.
‘Giibwa, happy to see you.’
Giibwa should have been the first to greet them, open her arms and hug Kirabo, but she had not. She did not respond to Kirabo’s greeting, so Kirabo said the next thing that came to mind.
‘You have lost weight but you are looking so well. Being small suits you.’
Giibwa’s eyes were a cave.
Kirabo feared that Giibwa had seen her envy. But whatever she had felt was gone. She was glad to see her again. It was almost three years since she had last seen her. Kirabo was sixteen and a half now and Giibwa was already seventeen, but she was still Kirabo’s first best friend.
‘Can you imagine, we walked first from Shimon to Nakawa, and then your aunt’s friend directed us here and we plodded all the way from Nakawa to here.’ In that inventory lay Kirabo’s appeal to Giibwa: Measure how long we have walked and gauge how much I love you. Then she walked up the steps and went to hug Giibwa. Giibwa was a tree. In the past, no matter how viciously they fought, Giibwa never tied anger around her heart. Kirabo would come back or Giibwa would come to Kirabo’s home and they would carry on as though they had not fought. This unsmiling Giibwa, the one looking at her with disdain, was new.
Kirabo pulled away and Giibwa smiled a bit. ‘Hello, Kirabo.’ She spoke English. ‘Nice to see you.’ But there was no sparkle in her eyes, just irritation, as if Kirabo was a smitten puppy.
Kirabo had imagined their first meeting as a succession of breathless hugs, girly exclamations, high-pitched nothings like Bannange ki kati, gesturing, exaggerating the greatness of the moment, like girls did.
When Giibwa turned to lead them inside the house, Kirabo thought Kdto, some girls can be slender and curvaceous at the same time. She decided to try again. After all, this was Giibwa. She had to let her know she was still the Kirabo she knew, Kirabo of Nattetta.
‘Eh,’ she started breezily. ‘I have been pushing this Sio’ – she punched Sio in the arm – ‘to find you, but he has been giving me excuses. Today I said, “Lazima, we must find Giibwa no matter what.”’
Giibwa stole a glance at Sio. Sio smiled at Kirabo.
Kirabo noticed and looked down. She blinked and blinked but then shook the suspicion out of her head. It was her fault; she had to reassure Giibwa that she was not jealous of her looks. She gave it a moment then tried again. ‘Remember our promise, Giibwa?’
‘What promise?’
‘All of us together again, bringing our Nattetta to Kampala?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, here we are.’
Giibwa did not respond.
They walked through the kitchen. The house belonged to a Zungu; the smells were not Ugandan. Neither were the utensils. The living room’s sparse furnishing confirmed it – Ugandans choked their living rooms with furniture. The curtains were kikoy prints – no Ugandan would do that. Instead of a carpet, the floor was covered with a traditional straw and banana-fibre kirago. There were African carvings, masks and Maasai art. Ugandans could not have enough European art.
Giibwa looked at Sio. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
Kirabo did not answer. She wanted to make sure she had been included in that invitation. When Giibwa did not ask her, Kirabo began to well up. Yes, she had felt insecure and held Sio’s hand possessively, but Giibwa treating her like this, after she had trekked across the city to find her, was too much. For a while she looked away, holding back the tears. Then she began to resent the ease with which Giibwa spoke to Sio. She looked up and asked, ‘Giibwa, you are so much lighter-skinned; are you bleaching?’
Sio caught his breath.
Giibwa looked at Sio: Do you see how nasty she is?
Sio looked down.
Kirabo could tell natural from bleached skin, but it did not matter. Giibwa was in love with Sio.
‘Giibwa is lighter because she is indoors most of the time.’ Sio shook Kirabo by the shoulders, imploring her to lighten up.
Kirabo did not look at him. ‘By the way, what happened to Wafula?’
Giibwa shot her a Shut up look.
‘Wafula is at Nabumali High,’ Sio explained. ‘Sometimes he comes home for holidays, but most times he stays in Mbale with his grandparents.’
‘Yeah, but hasn’t Giibwa heard from him?’
‘There was nothing between me and Wafula.’
‘Oh really?’
There is no pain like seeing a best friend, and a best friend whose beauty eclipses your own at that, as she itches for your man. Bugs ran through Kirabo’s veins, chroo, chroo, chroo, making her twitchy and impulsive. But she knew she had to act unconcerned. Giibwa and Sio kept talking. He spoke Luganda, she English. Sio must have sensed Kirabo’s turmoil because he put his hand on her knee, his thumb caressing it. Giibwa glanced at it then looked away.
As their conversation deepened, Giibwa’s grasp on English grammar started to slip. She had no sense of the past participle. Irregular verbs eluded her. Kirabo’s eyes lit up. What did Giibwa think, that living in a Zungu’s house was enough? You still need those dry and brittle grammar classes. If Sio had not been in the room, she would have corrected Giibwa’s verbs ruthlessly. But if you wanted to see Sio’s anger, laugh at ‘broken’ English. Colonial snobbery, he called it.
Kirabo stood up and stretched as if she and Sio were still in the lodge. ‘I am tired,’ she announced, looking at Sio intently. She spoke Luganda. She spoke Luganda as if she was above English, the language of desperate social climbers. ‘I am leaving.’ She walked across the room. She had got to the door when Giibwa asked, ‘Has your mother come to find you?’
Kirabo stopped, then recovered, ‘My mother? God, I had forgotten about her.’ She looked at Sio. ‘It is your fault, Sio. You have made me forget.’ She looked back at Giibwa. ‘No, she has not come. But I have been told she finished her education and has got a job. She is married and has two children. We are waiting until she tells her husband about me. Thank you for asking.’ She smiled, and walked out.
Sio must have said goodbye immediately because he caught up with her before she got to the gate. Kirabo exploded. ‘Who does she think she is? How can she be like that? Because she has acquired a handful of English words? Because she is a housemaid for a Zungu? I bet he is old and bald, I bet she is prostituting herself with him. That is what maids for Zungu men do. No wonder she looks so mature. Older than you, even. Perhaps she hopes to hook him. Otherwise, where did those airs come from?’
‘You are being cruel, Kirabo.’
‘Me? What about her? And I am telling you, Sio, that is what happens when you rise suddenly from dung-rolling to sleeping with your employer.’
‘I cannot believe you just said that, Kirabo. Giibwa is not a maid. She lives with her aunt; her aunt is the maid. Giibwa is studying tailoring or baking or both at YMCA. I saw how she treated you and I didn’t like it, but people can be awkward for all sorts of reasons. Maybe she had felt downtrodden all along in Nattetta, but now she feels emancipated and does not know how to handle it.’
‘How do you know all that?’
‘Back home everyone knows. When Giibwa visits her parents, she is haughty, dresses crazy, speaks English everywhere, at everyone. People shake their heads. That is why I was not so keen to find her.’
‘Sewing and baking: that is what she is studying? Typical: pretty girl, empty head.’
‘What is wrong with you, Kirabo? When Giibwa was “dung-rolling”, as you call it, you loved her. Now she is getting educated you are being nasty.’
‘Why are you defending her? She is the one who hates me.’ Kirabo stopped and suspicion came into her eyes. ‘You are in love with her, aren’t you? Have you slept with her?’
‘Ha.’ Sio stopped, speechless. Then he stormed past her. After a while of marching ahead he stopped and spoke English. ‘For your information, Giibwa came to Nattetta and I asked her where she lived because you wanted to see her. She said they were moving to a new house but did not know where. She said I could go to that lady in Nakawa to find out where. Perhaps she didn’t want you to visit her. Have you considered that? You were the one who wanted to visit her.’
Kirabo swept past him. She walked fast ahead so he would not overtake her.
He did.
Kirabo broke into a run and sped past him.
Sio fell back. He did not attempt to walk past her this time. As they came to Buganda Road Primary, Sio caught up with her. He grabbed her hand like I am going to hold your hand whether you like it or not. She did not shake him off. People giving them disapproving glances did not matter. They walked briskly but quietly. Kirabo’s feet were sore but it did not matter; Giibwa had hurt her worse. By the time they got to Rashid Khamis Road it was almost six o’clock. Kirabo crossed the road, but Sio hesitated. He remained on the other side near the house with a green roof. He waved once and turned away. The stale taste in Kirabo’s mouth became bitter, but she kept walking.
On her own that night, mortification ate at her. I should have… I should not have… Then she remembered Sio was travelling to Dar the following night. And you cannot hold anger against someone going on a long journey. Besides, it was not Sio’s fault Giibwa was being silly. After all, plenty of boys were attracted to Kirabo; it did not mean she would pay them any attention in return. Why would Sio listen to Giibwa? As soon as Aunt Abi left the house the following morning, she rang him. He was relieved. He told her to stay away from Giibwa and promised to call as soon as he got to Dar. Long after they had run out of things to say, they stayed on the phone, their silence interrupted only by the occasional sighs. But when Kirabo put the phone down, she could no longer lie to herself. She was relieved Sio was going to be far away from Giibwa. It was not that she did not trust him, it was just that Giibwa was the kind of girl a boy cheated with and the world sympathised with him – that he could not help himself – and then blamed you for asking him to find her.