After that first encounter with Nnakku in Jinja, thinking about her became too painful. Kirabo’s mind took mercy on her and stored the memory away in the subconscious where, unfortunately, it festered. Even after her A-level exams, when she was working at the Ministry of Finance again, Nnakku did not emerge. It was not just that Nnakku had rejected her; the fact that Nnakku looked so like Nnambi made it hard to handle. There was no way she would ever look at Nnakku and not see Nnambi. However, the Monday after the last rites, when family went back to the graveyard to clear weeds, plant new flowers and commune with the ancestors, the thin skin that had grown over the rawness of her pain peeled away.
Before they started digging, Grandfather indicated each grave in turn, introducing the ancestors, ‘This is Father Nsubuga, he was a singer – I hope you are resting well, Father Nsubuga. That is Father Piitu, he pinched the ndingidi harp… This one here is my aunt, Baagala, Luutu’s sister. She never married. I am not slandering you, Aunt, but you were quarrelsome… That is Mother, Kirabo Nnabbanja. Father so loved her he called her “my gift”, Kirabo kyange. She was very dark; that smooth-like-glass dark skin that seems to reflect light. But only Gayi and my kabejja’ – he pointed at Kirabo – ‘inherited it… That is Grandfather Sserwanja, the last barkcloth-maker. Until Luutu’s generation, all our ancestors dressed the nation…’ Miiro was not just introducing ancestors to new members of the family, he was explaining family traits, behaviour, talent and looks, the idea that no one was original.
They had been working for more than two hours when porridge was served and digging halted. Conversation found its way to Batte. Someone said, ‘Haa, but Tom’s death was so momentous it hauled Batte out of his slumps… He has forgotten the smell of alcohol.’ Batte put down his Tumpeco mug. ‘Eish,’ someone added as if Batte was not there. ‘He has stopped feeling sorry for himself.’ But then Batte he clicked and talked back: ‘I had no alternative,’ he said, ‘not after how you harangued Mulamu Nnambi.’ Batte was the first person Kirabo had heard recognise Nnambi as an in-law. ‘I said, someone needs to feed Tom’s widow until she gets back on her feet.’ And everyone agreed that Batte had a good heart. ‘Me, I would not throw a coin at that woman if she was starving,’ a woman said. ‘Can you believe Batte sends maize, beans, sweet potatoes, cassava, sometimes matooke every weekend to her?’
After everyone had thanked Batte, an aunt, one of the many cousins who had grown up in Miiro’s house, turned to Kirabo: ‘Forgive me, Kirabo, but let me talk about that woman, your mother, Nnakku. Yii yii? What did Tom do to her, hmm?’ Her tone said that if Tom’s death had hauled Batte out of feeling sorry for himself, it surely should have jolted Nnakku out of her stupidity.
‘It is Kirabo,’ another aunt explained. ‘To acknowledge that she is her mother makes Nnakku seem old.’
‘Me, if Nnakku ever comes here – mbu I have come to apologise, mbu thank you for bringing up Kirabo – I swear, she will stumble on me.’
The men were silent; it was the women promising Nnakku hell and fire.
Kirabo did not contribute to the chatter: no one expected her to. Thus the women had no idea of the fire their conversation was stoking within her. Nnakku emerged from wherever she had been festering and consumed Kirabo again. But it was not the self-righteous anger or self-pity that had consumed her before; it was the different ways she would make Nnakku know what rejection felt like. Her absence, first at Tom’s burial and now at his last rites, was indefensible. You cannot sleep with a man, have a child with him and not bury him when he dies. Yes, she did not want her husband to know, but all she had to do was nip in as Nnambi’s sister, say hello, acknowledge that Tom had passed on and nip out.
By the time she and Aunt Abi returned to the city, Kirabo had decided that confrontation would not work; Nnakku would be prepared. Perhaps she had been preparing for as long as Kirabo had been dreaming. Kirabo found a telephone directory and looked for Nile Breweries. She found Jjumba Luninze’s number and dialled. It was an old directory; she did not expect it to go through.
It did.
Before she could put it down, a woman answered, ‘Mr Jjumba Luninze’s office, Leeya speaking.’
Kirabo hesitated. The thing with plotting someone’s downfall is that it is impossible to envisage exactly how things will pan out. The humanity on the other end of the phone took her by surprise. She introduced herself and explained that she was a student at St Theresa’s. She was doing a project on Nile Breweries: how they had survived the economic crisis of the 1970s. Could she consult with Mr Luninze? The woman asked her to hold while she checked Mr Luninze’s schedule. There was whirling on the other end, probably paper rustling; it sounded like a storm. Then it went silent. In that silence Kirabo realised that her mind must have planned all of this unconsciously. It had come naturally.
‘Could you make it for three o’clock tomorrow afternoon?’ the voice came back. Leeya now spoke in Luganda.
‘Tomorrow, Wednesday?’ Kirabo was startled.
‘The next appointment will be in two months.’
‘I will take tomorrow.’
‘Name again?’
‘Mirembe, Mirembe Nnamiiro.’
She put down the phone and listened to the silence. She heard her internal organs trembling. Jjumba Luninze was real. Her mind said You have gone too far, Kirabo, but her heart disagreed: You need to heal.
At around midday the following day when she stepped through the tiny gate in the back yard, Sio stood under the mango tree. He stood like he had been there since she poured water over him. The time he spent with Atim at the last rites must have given him courage. The way Kirabo’s heart was gyrating brought her to the sad realisation that she was one of those contemptible women whose men cheated, but who would take them back over and over again.
She tried to be severe. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Seeing if I can talk to you.’
‘How long have you been standing there?’
Sio shrugged like a man reconciled to his pain. ‘I don’t care.’ As if standing there, not knowing whether Kirabo would come out or not, was nothing compared to what else he suffered.
‘We cannot talk now. I have an appointment with my stepfather.’ Kirabo walked past him.
‘Your what?’ He followed her.
‘My stepdad,’ Kirabo said over her shoulder. ‘I am on my way to introduce myself.’
‘But your mother did not come to the rites.’
‘That is why I am introducing myself.’
‘You found her?’
‘Dad’s death exposed her.’
‘Will you not wreck her marriage?’
‘I don’t know. What I know is that I’m going to announce that I exist.’
‘Can I come along?’
‘To Jinja – and who will I say you are?’ She stopped. ‘I know, I will say, I am fornicating with this one. Like my mother did when she was thirteen.’
‘Kirabo—’
‘Come along if you don’t fear the sight of blood. What I am going to do to my mother today—’ She demonstrated war. ‘Can you imagine – she told Dad, and her own father, that she never wants to see me?’
‘I am sorry.’
She stopped. ‘I, Kirabo Nnamiiro, refuse to be stuffed into an anthill. I have a mother. Her name is Lovinca Nnakku. I did not come out of nowhere.’
‘You are very angry.’
‘Really?’
‘I mean, you have a temper.’
‘Am I in the wrong here?’
‘No, of course not. Just saying that sometimes you are a hard person.’
‘Must have got it from her. Dad was easy.’
Kirabo, walking in front, stomped like a scorned woman. Sio, seeing a chance to wedge himself back into Kirabo’s favour, hurried after her.
‘Shouldn’t you meet her first?’ he asked.
‘I did.’ And she told him about the time she went to Jinja. ‘By the way, she and my stepmother look so alike it is disgusting.’
‘Really?’
‘They are sisters.’
Sio gasped, then suppressed a smile. He gasped again. ‘That is why.’
‘Why what?’
‘Your stepmother, the way you look like her.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Maybe I exaggerate. What is going to happen to your sister and brother?’
‘They are in boarding school already.’
‘I heard your family wish your stepmother could find another man and go.’
‘No one said that to her face, but that is the feeling. Her children, however, stay.’
‘My mum could not take me with her. It was worse for her being non-Muganda, and Tanzanian. They wanted to keep me in the clan. There was a will – Mum and I were to inherit everything – but the clan refused.’
‘Can they do that?’
‘You are joking. Me being an only child, my grandparents and my uncles are clingy. They feared Mum would make me Tanzanian. They told her quite bluntly, “You want our son, you come back and live in your husband’s house. You leave, you forfeit the son and property.” The fact that Dad was killed because of her did not help. They also blamed her for having just one child. So everything was given to me, everything. That is why I went to the University of Dar es Salaam: to be with her.’
‘Clans have this tight grip on everything.’
‘Mum owned our home as much as Dad. Who knows which brick she bought, and which one Dad did? But then he dies and Mum’s reduced to a tenant, given conditions by some random clan head.’ He paused again. ‘Problem was, Mum’s people agreed with Dad’s people; she did not fight it. But she was not coming back to this country.’
‘But you are lucky: your mother would die for you.’
‘That is true, but you are lucky you buried your dad.’
‘Oh?’
‘You have a grave and your father will always be there. Every time you come to Nattetta, anytime you miss him, you just skip down the road and dig around him, say hello and plant flowers. I would give anything for that.’
Kirabo touched his hand. ‘I am sorry; sometimes I am so thoughtless.’
‘I thought we could talk now that we both have no dads.’
‘Who would have known all those years back – that evening we danced Wafula’s kadodi – that this time now we would be fatherless?’
The taxi took a long time to fill. It was already one o’clock when they drove out of Kampala. Sio was most attentive. If Kirabo so much as winced, he fell over himself to find out why. Mourning Tom was over, but he treated her as if she was in a fragile state. He kept asking whether she was all right, whether she wanted to talk about it.
Kirabo assured him that she was fine apart from the lingering sense of guilt. ‘I have made peace with him dying; it is the burial bit I cannot seem to get over. I know this is irrational, but’ – she twisted her lips – ‘I should have stayed a little longer by his graveside. It is as if I threw him away, as if I did not love him. Sometimes I fear he was not totally dead and woke up too late in the grave.’
‘That is because you did not see him dead. Same with me, still to this day I expect Dad to come home. I have even caught sight of him in town. Sometimes I’m sleeping and I hear the Morris Minor pull up at the gate.’
‘Oh God, that is so true. One time, I heard Dad messing with the gears, reversing the car and I was sat in the back of the car and it was so real. Then I realised I was falling asleep.’
She relaxed. There was comfort in making this journey with Sio, unlike the first time she saw Nnakku, when she had needed to hide her tears on the way back. That day she did not see her journey home because she had been floating in Grandfather’s house, hovering beneath the ceiling, counting squares, looking for calm. She did not fall back into the taxi until a passenger called to alight. That night, she flew up the road across Nattetta, swinging on the church steeple, then came down the road, checking on each resident. The landscape was exactly as it had been when she was twelve. Sleep found her in the Nattetta skies and took her.
They got out in Njeru. The entrance to Nile Breweries was a short walk from the road. They came upon the double gate, huge, metallic. Above it, a green lion sat in the middle of the archway which stretched over the gates. They wrote down their names and handed over their identity cards to the security man, who showed them where to find Jjumba Luninze. As they walked through the side gate, Kirabo was overwhelmed by the vastness of the complex. Massive silos, huge storage tanks, large pipes overhead disappearing into the ground, machinery grinding and humming, chimneys bellowing steam into the air, indeterminate smells, beautiful gardens and an immaculate compound. But to her, everything was Mr Jjumba Luninze – concealment, indifference, rejection.
When they reached the reception, they were directed to the end of the corridor on the first floor. A youngish woman, early thirties or late twenties, sat at a desk. She looked up and smiled. When they got closer, she frowned at Kirabo, as though she knew her. She said hello and Kirabo said, ‘We have an appointment with Mr Jjumba Luninze.’
‘You are a relative?’
‘No, a student. I talked to his secretary on the phone yesterday.’
‘Yes, I remember.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure you are not a relative?’
‘Yes, madam,’ Kirabo nodded. ‘I have come to consult Mr Luninze on my school project.’
As the woman found the appointment book, Kirabo turned to Sio. His eyes pleaded with her not to do it. She leaned back and whispered, ‘You are lucky: you know your mother.’
‘Name, please?’ the woman asked.
‘Kirabo Nnamiiro.’
Her finger slid down the page. ‘But I have Mirembe Nnamiiro.’
Kirabo pretended not to see Sio start. ‘That is me. Mirembe is my other name.’
‘Your appointment is at three.’
Kirabo glanced at the clock on the wall: it was 2.30. She shrugged by way of apology. ‘We thought the journey would take longer. We have come from Kampala.’ She pointed at Sio. ‘This is Sio Kabuye: he is doing a similar project.’ She flashed the clipboard to reinforce the image of a high-school student doing research.
The woman looked suspicious. ‘You can wait there.’ She motioned them to a seat. ‘Mr Luninze will see you as soon as possible.’ Kirabo realised too late that Sio was too old to be doing A levels.
Without looking at them again, the woman lifted the receiver off the cradle and started to dial. As she waited for the other end to answer, she twirled the receiver’s coiled cord around her forefinger. Then she bent a bit and whispered something like ‘Call me back.’ As she put the phone down, she stole another look at Kirabo. Kirabo saw suspicion in her eyes and wondered. The phone rang and the woman said in an officious voice, ‘Nile Breweries, Mr Luninze’s office, Leeya sp—’ Her head fell forward, she turned to the wall and she switched to Luganda. But then the door to the main office opened. The woman put the phone down too quickly. A man who could only be Jjumba Luninze stepped out carrying some files. He wore a dark Kaunda suit. Maybe because his name implied that death was waiting, he looked quite tragic. Her was neither bald, nor did he wear a beard, as Kirabo had anticipated. He put the files on the secretary’s desk and asked her to find some others, then went back to his office without noticing Kirabo or Sio. The woman went to a chrome filing cabinet across the room and pulled out a long drawer. She started to riffle through the files. The phone rang again and she was torn between answering it and continuing to search. Mr Luninze stepped out of his office with yet more files and picked up the phone. ‘Hello…hello…hello…’ He took the receiver off his ear and frowned at it. He put it back against his ear and said ‘Hello’ again, before turning to his secretary and shrugging. ‘No answer.’
‘Perhaps it has cut off.’
As he put the phone back on the cradle, he saw Sio and Kirabo. He stepped away from the door and walked towards them.
‘Your three o’clock appointment,’ the secretary said, before Mr Luninze spoke. ‘They were early.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He smiled at them. Sio was on his feet, arm outstretched. Mr Luninze liked that. He ushered them into the office. Kirabo looked back at the woman, but she was distracted by the phone ringing again. She heard her whisper, ‘I don’t know; I am not sure, she…’ Mr Luninze closed the door.
Jjumba Luninze was deplorably ordinary – paternal and quietly spoken. At first, Kirabo was happy Tom was more youthful, more handsome. But then she remembered that Tom, who had only been thirty-five, was gone, while this old man, well into his forties, was still walking the earth.
‘You are Mirembe Nnamiiro?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your friend?’
‘Sio Ssekitto Kabuye.’
‘Which Kabuye?’
‘Dr Elieza Kabuye.’
He whispered, ‘The surgeon?’
When Sio nodded, Mr Luninze stood up, walked around his desk and hugged him. Then he sat down and smiled at Kirabo as if he had not just hugged Sio.
‘You look familiar,’ he said. ‘Where does your family come from?’
‘Nattetta – my father and my grandfather were born there.’ To distract him from asking how she and Sio were related, she added, ‘We descend from Bulasio Luutu of Nattetta.’
‘Oh, Luutu the reader. My parents called him Luutu Omusomi because he was well read.’ But Luninze was still sceptical. ‘Do you know anyone called Kaye Ssemwaka of Mityana?’
For a moment, Kirabo was suspended between fright and delight. It was an eerie sensation, and she wondered if people always felt like this before they exacted revenge. ‘Kaye Ssemwaka is also my grandfather – from my mother’s side.’
His eyes lit up. ‘I knew it. Your eyes sold you. That family has such strong blood that any child descending from their house cannot be mistaken. Who is your mother?’
Kirabo heard Sio catch his breath, and she almost said that Nnambi was. She paused for a moment and plunged the knife.
‘Lovinca Nnakku.’
‘Lovinca Nnakku? But Lovinca is my wife.’
‘Really?’ Kirabo overdid the surprise. ‘It cannot be.’
The confusion on Luninze’s face made Kirabo wish she could take back the words. She realised too late that it was not just Nnakku who would be hurt by her revelation. Mr Luninze, and perhaps his children, would also suffer. ‘I have never met her, though,’ she said, ‘but apparently she is my mother.’ When there was only silence Kirabo added, ‘Does your wife work for Save the Children?’
‘Yes, that is my wife.’ The tragic air about Luninze deepened.
‘That does not matter, because she does not want to see me. But now that I’m here, can you tell her that my father died?’
‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘My wife is too young to have a nineteen-year-old. And if you don’t mind my saying, you are very dark. My wife is quite light-skinned. Of course, it can happen, but—’
‘I don’t know about that. But if her mother is Solome Jjali, then she is my mother. She was thirteen when she had me. My father’s family are very dark.’ And because the man had mentioned her dark skin she added, ‘Apparently, she rejected me because you would not marry her if you found out about me. But that is not why I came. I came to discuss my project.’
Mr Luninze pressed a buzzer on his phone and spoke into it: ‘Leeya?’
The secretary opened the door but did not come in.
‘Cancel the rest of my appointments.’
The woman shot Kirabo a savage look before closing the door.
Mr Luninze lifted the headpiece, and without listening for the tone dialled in a number. The winding and unwinding of the phone circle, krrrrr ha, krrrrr ha, krrrrr ha, filled the room. Kirabo stole a glance at Sio. His eyes said I told you. Mr Luninze turned away from them. Kirabo reminded herself that she was killing the stubborn hope that one day Nnakku would love her.
Mr Luninze caught his breath. ‘Lovi? It is me. Can you come to the office right away?’ He listened. ‘No, you have to come. Something has come up… No, I cannot discuss it over the phone… It cannot wait, you need to come… Okay, I will wait for you.’ He put the phone down and turned to face Kirabo and Sio. ‘She is coming,’ he said, forcing a smile, then, ‘She will sort this out,’ as if Kirabo had made a mess on the floor and his wife was bringing a mop.
‘Thank you, sir, but I did not have to see—’
‘Let’s wait and see what she says.’
Kirabo looked down.
‘Which school do you go to?’
‘St Theresa’s.’ Then she added, ‘But next month I will join Makerere to do veterinary medicine.’ Luninze had already seen through her lies.
‘Oh, well done.’ He was so impressed Kirabo wondered whether he would forgive Nnakku. Middle-class Ugandans loved nothing more than a teenager with middle-class aspirations.
‘And you, Ssekitto?’
‘I graduated in July. Agriculture.’
‘You did not follow in your dad’s footsteps?’
‘No, I have always dreamt of being a farmer…’
Sio was discussing his farming prospects with Mr Luninze when Nnakku arrived. Sio stood up to greet her, but she walked past him. She went to her husband’s desk without looking around. It was her undoing. For someone who did not know what was going on, she ignored Kirabo and Sio too stiffly.
Up close Nnakku was mid-sized, no skinny legs, average height, round-bottomed – nothing like Kirabo had seen in her childhood dreams, nothing like the woman she had constructed. She smiled to herself. Tom’s chase after a certain kind of beauty had landed him on two sisters. Ganda men loved nothing like a light-skinned woman.
‘You have visitors,’ Luninze said.
‘Have I?’ But Nnakku did not turn to see the visitors. Silence held as they waited for her to react. Instead, Nnakku picked up a small paper punch from Mr Luninze’s desk and pressed it between her hands. The lever arm folded and she held it down. But she let go and it sprung up. She pressed and held the lever down but she could not sustain the force and it sprung back. Silence was tight now.
Nnakku put down the punch and smiled at her husband. He looked at her in suspense, waiting for her reaction. When she picked up the stapler, Mr Luninze said, ‘The girl’ – he pointed at Kirabo – ‘says you are her mother.’ Again, Nnakku did not turn to look at Kirabo. Mr Luninze added, ‘Her father died.’
‘That I birthed her?’ Nnakku finally asked, then shook her head. ‘No.’ Still she did not turn to look at Kirabo. ‘Not me.’
Because Nnakku was blocking his line of sight, Mr Luninze leaned sideways to look at Kirabo. ‘Who was your father, Kirabo?’
‘Tom. Tomusange Piitu.’
Mr Luninze sat back and looked at Nnakku. She picked up a Nile Special brochure from his desk and flicked through it. She put it down. She folded her arms across her chest, lifted her head and sighed. She stared out of the window behind her husband. Kirabo pulled a She is unbelievable face at Sio. She had expected denial, but not this childishness.
Sio stood up and went to Nnakku. He spoke British English. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, could you look at her, please? At least have the decency to look at her while you deny it.’ He pointed to Kirabo. ‘Your daughter’s sitting right there. She’s lost her father. She needs you.’ Nnakku looked at him and then back through the window. Sio’s demeanour changed. ‘What kind of woman are you? Her dad is dead. For heaven’s sake, be a mother.’ Nnakku did not turn. ‘You know what? You’re a monster, ma’am. A monster.’ Now he turned to Mr Luninze. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you’re married to a monster. She doesn’t deserve to be anyone’s mother. Kirabo is beautiful, intelligent and hard-working.’ He pointed at Nnakku: ‘You don’t deserve her.’ Sio was close to tears. Nnakku just stared ahead. ‘Come, Kirabo, let’s get out of here; she’s an animal.’ He held Kirabo’s hand and led her towards the door.
But Mr Luninze stood up faster and walked past them as if he did not want to be left alone with a monster. As he picked up a raincoat that was hanging by the door, he said apologetically, ‘Look, you are welcome to my house, Kirabo, if you ever want to meet…’ He did not complete the sentence and turned to his wife. ‘Lovi, she is obviously your daughter. Why would your father lie?’
‘I said, I did not birth her.’
‘I have proof.’ Kirabo withdrew from her pocket the medical chit Nsuuta had given her and handed it to Mr Luninze. ‘The hospital chit. She gave it to Dad the day she abandoned me.’
Mr Luninze read it and took it to his wife. Nnakku took it, looked at it and tore it into pieces.
Her husband recovered first. He opened the door and said, ‘I am going to pick up the children from school.’ He felt for his car keys in the jacket pocket, found them and said, ‘Kirabo, as I said, you are welcome to our house if you ever want to.’ He walked out of the office. Sio picked up the pieces of paper.
Now Nnakku turned to look at Kirabo. Kirabo braced herself for more spite, but instead tears streamed down Nnakku’s face. As Sio led Kirabo out of the office, Leeya rushed to Nnakku’s side, protesting, ‘I swear I did not know it was her.’ She paused. ‘But I am also thinking, now he knows, you can move on with your life.’
Kirabo stopped in the corridor and stared at Nnakku through the door.
‘How can a woman be so heartless?’ Sio asked, as if heartlessness was a male preserve. He held Kirabo the way he used to when they were alone. At first, fighting the tears, Kirabo was rigid. But Sio did not let go. Eventually she gave in and held on to him. He repeatedly kissed her hair, her forehead, and squeezed her arms as if Kirabo was falling apart. Kirabo was aware of the people staring in the corridor but she did not care.
Leeya was aghast. ‘Eh, eh. Look at these children. Eh, you, kale vva.’ She clapped at them and turned to Nnakku. ‘Do they think they are in New York?’
Kirabo pulled away from Sio and asked, ‘Where were you when she was getting pregnant at thirteen, hmm? Do you think she drank me in juice or caught me in bathwater as she washed her flower? At least we are not hypocrites.’
‘Leave them, Kirabo, let’s get out of here,’ said Sio, but Kirabo shrugged him off.
‘Look at you, Nnakku. Why are you still alive? Why didn’t you die instead of my father?’
Sio grabbed her. ‘You can’t say that, Kirabo.’
‘Why not? It is the truth.’
Sio hurried her through the corridor, past the people who had stepped out of their offices to stare, down the stairs and out of the building. By then tears were flowing unhindered.
Later, as they made their way back to Kampala, Sio coaxed her into talking about her feelings. Kirabo insisted that if she had to choose between Nnakku alive and Nnakku dead, she would opt for a dead one: ‘A dead mother gives you options. You can imagine and create and give yourself the perfect mother.’
‘Look, Kirabo, parents are designed to make us feel let down at some point, especially as we get older. That way we promise ourselves to be better parents. It is evolution. You are going to be the best mother ever.’
‘And how did your parents disappoint you?’
‘I will not die until my children are grown. But seriously, I will never have just one child; it is not fair. I will be friendlier to residents in the villages. Maybe stop, give them a lift or wave a hello. I know residents have this sense of entitlement that drove my dad mad, but I don’t want them to call me Zungu and isolate me.’