PREFACE TO THE HARLEM MOON EDITION

It has been about three years since I finished Tropical Fish, and since then I have been asked what inspired me to write this work of fiction, whether it is autobiographical or not, and what its po-Utical and social context is. I hope my answers here do not over-influence the reader's engagement with the stories. I believe that once a writer has sent her work out into the world, it takes on a life of its own. The writer should let go. The work becomes what each reader perceives it to be, irrespective of the author's intentions, including those I express here.

All but one of the tales are set in Uganda, a small, landlocked country in Eastern Africa that has had a turbulent history since its independence in 1962. The novel occurs during the aftermath of the military regime of the notorious president Idi Amin, who ruled from 1971 to 1979. He led by decree, ordering summary executions of his enemies and mandating laws bent on destroying civil society. His unruly army was left free to murder,

torture, rob, and in other ways terrorize the population, which pushed many into exile.

One of Amin's most despicable acts was to give the Ugandan Asian community seventy-two hours to leave the country in 1972. The Indians had lived in the country for more than three generations and were the backbone of the economy. This rash and inhumane move led to the almost total collapse of the economy, which was made worse by international sanctions. The result was extreme deprivation at all levels, including major shortages of basic goods such as sugar, salt, and medical supplies. Only the black market thrived. The situation remained almost the same in the early eighties through numerous regime changes. As the political climate stabilized in the late eighties, however, Uganda was hit by another catastrophe: HIV/AIDS. Yet again, we were completely at the mercy of an immense force, a hurricane, a plague.

Apart from HIV/AIDS, I do not deal directly with the other disasters. Rather, they are a backdrop for the story of three sisters taking separate and distinct journeys of self-discovery. I was interested not merely in depicting the horror but in exploring what kinds of lives, interior and otherwise, were created amid or despite the difficult circumstances beyond the issue of survival. I, not always deliberately, posed certain questions and suggested possible answers. What, for urban Ugandan girls and young women, is normal? How and why do individuals who start out in the same milieu make different choices and thus follow different destinies? My girls navigate family love in all its imperfection, fall in love, take up religion or rebellion, and chase their

curiosity and need as far as they can take them, whether to foreign shores, a dead end, or deeper inside themselves.

Fiction provides personaHzed takes on universal questions. It does not provide The Answer, since it does not exist. This work, therefore, should not be read as representations of African womanhood but as possibilities, instances, imaginings. And, no, it is not an autobiography. Rather, I used some of my experiences and observations as clay, added all kinds of water and paint, and shaped and molded this into varied pots: these stories. I aim for the "emotional truth," that element that makes fiction ring true and carry meaning. The stories are linked like sisters, forming a family that is stronger than its individual parts.

I hope that reading Tropical Fish is as much a journey of discovery for the reader as it was for me to write it.

—Doreen Baingana,

January 2006, Entebbe, Uganda

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Some of these stories originally appeared, in slightly different form, in the following journals.

"Green Stones" in Chelsea 73 (May 2003) "Hunger" in The Sun, no. 327 (March 2003) "First Kiss" in Meridian, no. 10 (Fall/Winter 2002) "Tropical Fish" in African American Review 37, no. 4 (Winter 2002) "Lost in Los Angeles" in Glimmer Train, no. 48 (Fall 2003) "Questions of Home" in Callaloo 27, no. 2 (Spring 2004)

I am deeply grateful to the University of Maryland Creative Writing Program for giving me the time and space to write, and to my teachers Joyce Kornblatt, Merle Collins, John Auchard, and Howard Norman for their excellent guidance. Special thanks to Do Hee Kim and Steven Thomas, and to my inspiring sisters-in-writing, Stephanie Allen, Angel Threatt, and Donna Hemans,

for their friendship and great advice. Thanks also to Douglas Mpuga, who edited the Luganda and Runyankore phrases, my editors Amanda Heller and Carol Betsch, and my agent, Christina Ward. I am most grateful to E. Ethelbert Miller for encouraging me early on.

Much thanks to the Association of Writers and Writing Programs, the District of Columbia Commission on the Arts and Humanities for an Artist's Grant, and the Special English Department of the Voice of America for keeping a roof over my head.

I could not have done this without the support of my family and friends in the United States and Uganda (you know who you are), especially my sister Florence Baingana. Thank you.

Abagyenda bareeha. Those who travel, see.

KINYANKORE PROVER

P

TROPICAL ft FISH

Green Stones

I was once a child, growing up in Entebbe, spending most of my time with Rusi, the housegirl, especially during the holidays, while my older sisters were away at boarding school. I followed Rusi around the house in the mornings as she cleaned up. It was a fun way to idle away the time. Rusi talked incessantly to herself or to whoever was around. She spoke Luganda only. She complained that I disturbed her, didn't help at all, that I just followed her around like an irritating little dog. Couldn't I find something useful to do, she would moan. Oh, when would school start again so she could have her quiet house back. I spoiled everything. Don't touch that, or that, she yelled, as if the clothes or plates or pictures were hers. You'll break it, you little rat! She'd swipe at my bare feet with a broom or bedsheet, which I'd dodge, giggling, and continue to follow her through the house.

The room I loved most was my mother and father's bedroom, mostly because we were not allowed into it. The room was kept

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dim, its thick curtains patterned with blood-red roses closed to keep the heat out. This red glow added to its sacredness, as if it were a quiet, empty cathedral or mysterious fortune-teller's den.

At night in bed, sucking my thumb furiously, I went over imaginary fears; they were an irresistible itch I scratched again and again. What if I was caught sneaking around the forbidden room opening drawers, reading letters, sniffing the faint mysterious smells of Maama andTaata; cigarettes, polish, powder, perfume, sweat, and more? I imagined suddenly hearing Taata's heavy ringing footsteps. They got louder as he came down the corridor. I was trapped! I froze, then as I hastened to hide, tripped over a chair and fell. Down crashed the wooden chair right on top of me. Maamas bright jewelry flew out of my hands and colored the air like fat butterflies, before cascading down and shattering repeatedly, spreading tiny cutting shards all over the floor. Precious beads rolled under the wide bed, joining lost brushes, coins, and dust, never to be found again. The door creaked open . . . delicious terror. Why did I dread and dream about this? Why did I fear Taata?

When Rusi bustled in to clean my parents' room, however, with me trailing behind her, the room became ordinary. Rusi pushed the huge mound of her breasts like pillows ahead of her as she energetically marched in. She pulled back the thick curtains and flung open the windows to the startling sunshine outside, the squawk and trill of birds, the shouts and the escape of raggedy kids surprised to be seen stealing mangoes from the tree nearest my parents' bedroom. With Rusi there and the dark red glow gone, the solemn church became a rowdy marketplace. My

parents' huge throne of a bed, still unmade, was just a bed, ruffled and somehow smaller. Sprinklings of dust floated in the sunlight as Rusi shook out the sheets and dusted the coffee-colored bedside tables and mirror. Her talk and laughter filled the air, offending me. Had she no sense of the room's sacredness? But when I lay down on my parents' bed, Rusi chased me off with a wild swing that was meant to miss. I couldn't help laughing at her flabby underarms flapping like wings.

Rusi was easy to laugh at. I teased her about the neighbors shamba-boy, Paulo, who bought her a hand mirror, gave her old calendar pictures, and even a pair of shoes. He used a mirror himself every morning, right outside his one-window boys' quarters. His daily ritual was to wet, oil, comb, and pat his hair into shape. He combed and patted, combed and patted, admired the round Afro shape from all sides, and then came to the kitchen door to ask Rusi for tea and her time. She didn't get angry when I teased her; rather, she called Paulo a fool and joked about his big head and floppy ears, then joined me in laughter.

Rusi's laugh was special, a spectacular performance. First a grunt, deep in her chest, ggrrumph, as if she was mad about something, then a louder guffaw, once, paced out. More silence as she gathered her breath and energy, grimacing as though she had a bellyache, as if the joke was killing her, and then, just when you thought it wasn't going to happen this time, she really was mad, the volcano erupted, the tornado, the hurricane! There was nothing else to do but giggle as I watched her with awe and some apprehension. What if she choked? But no, she moved through louder, shriller laughing stages. She couldn't be stopped or helped.

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Any word would send her deeper into the vortex of sound and painful glee as she clutched her trembling breasts, bent over like an old woman, held her back for support, roaring, then bent backwards, her breasts reaching up into the air—you just had to laugh in applause. Finally, she would wipe tears off her face, sighing, eeh-eh, ahhhh, Katonda wange! My God! to calm herself down. When she turned back to her broom, dust cloth, or washing, I felt I had been through a religious experience and had landed exhausted, but safe and sane, on the other side.

Once Rusi recovered and was back at work I had to stop giggling, or she would turn on me sternly. "Are you laughing at me? Who are you laughing with? Not me, for sure, get out, ggenda! Let me work, take your teeth somewhere else," she'd grumble, as she swept me furiously out of the room. Her mirth left her joyless, angry almost, as if she had exhausted all her resources of humor.

Much as I loved Rusi's company, after lunch was my time alone, in the heavy heat of the afternoon, when the only sound was the droning of a bumblebee caught in a window net somewhere. I was supposed to sleep off my lunch after Maama and Taata returned to work. Rusi cleared up the meal and left dishes sparkling with clean water in the kitchen, then she too went to her room in the boys' quarters at the back of our compound. I lay in bed rereading the adventure stories of Enid Blyton or the Narnia books until all was quiet, then crept off for my own adventure.

My parents' door always creaked open, as if there was some-

one calling me in, another naughty child like me, my invisible counterpart in the netherw^orld. Yet again, to my surprise, the glowing, mysterious room was real. The rosy air was thick with secrets. This forever twilight, hidden from the hard stare of the afternoon sun outside, was a presence I breathed in deeply. Ah, those silent, hazy afternoons, when even the birds took a siesta; it was too hot to flit around squealing and trilling. The silence became louder as another heavy, buzzing bluebottle fly knocked itself senseless behind the blood-red curtains, trapped blindly between glass and net.

I left the door slightly ajar to clearly see Maama's forbidden treasure. In the dim light two tall mahogany wardrobes looked like huge dark priests silently disapproving of me. Luckily, they were too fat to move, so I stuck out my tongue at them. There! Up on the wall above the bed was a photograph of my father's parents, but I wasn't scared of them either; they were much too old to count. Still, just in case, I greeted them silently in Run-yankore: Agandi, basebo. Taata's mother, Omukikuru, was still alive, but lived far away in the village, Rusozi, so she wouldn't know what I was up to. She never smiled, and when she visited, which was rare, thank God, she refused to eat Rusi's food because she is a Muganda. Maama had to leave work early and cook special dishes for her: black beans prepared with ghee, or steamed biringanya. Despite Maama's efforts, Omukikuru's mouth got tighter and tighter with disapproval. I really didn't like it when she visited.

Taata's father died long before I was born. He had the fiercest

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face I had ever seen, possibly because of a life spent with my grandmother. In the photo, his face was wrinkled into a tight scrawl. He held his kanzu firmly straight down with huge hands wound over and over with prominent veins. Was his kanzu about to spring open and show his legs? I covered my giggle with my hand because even I knew one shouldn't laugh at the dead, especially at your own relatives, who are looking out for you. But I did every time, and so far nothing had happened. Maama said such things are true only if you believed them, so I didn't. The same with jujuy which I did want to believe in sometimes, especially when a school friend dropped me for someone else, or a teacher mocked me before the whole class.

Even after my respectftil greeting, my grandparents continued to stare down at me balefully, as if they already knew I would come to no good. I didn't dare stick out my tongue at them, so I saluted, then bowed deeply. I whispered, "Dear Taata's daddy, if you are in heaven, please pray for me. I know we aren't Catholics; I should only pray through Jesus, but all the same, don't let me get punished. I'm just looking at God's beautiftil creations, okay? Amen." I felt much better. I always did. My grandfather felt closer to me in heaven than my grandmother in the village.

A huge oval mirror hung in between two columns of chocolate-brown drawers. The mirror turned on its axis, attached to the drawers, and I was always careftil not to move it, not to leave any tracks. I dragged a chair up and climbed onto it. The tingliest moment was just before opening the top drawer. Oh, what if there was no brilliance of disorganized rainbow colors as smooth

as beach stones, or as rough as sand, and in all shapes possible? But time after suspenseftil time, there they were; a confirmation that beauty was magically real. As I slowly opened the drawer, color burst out like flashbulbs popping.

There lay heaps of gold and green, like a strange spicy Asian or Arab dish. The place the jewelry took me to was better than heaven. They were rainbow shells washed up on a fantasy shore. The bead necklaces with matching earrings and bracelets were from Kenya, Nigeria, India, and other countries only traced on maps. The teeny-tiny round colored ants wandered up and down long paths of string in designs of blue and white, or strong red, shiny black, burning yellow; colors of the Uganda flag. There were trembling, see-through, water-blue thick globs of glass. Shiny stones of black and purple that slithered through my fingers like thieves. Pearls of an ivory magnificence that spoke of something deeper than white, something older. Royalty. Angels' tears.

I took it all in as slowly as I could. First with my eyes only, closing them for a moment, then opening them again for the surprise of wild color. Then I passed my hands and arms through the cold stones, slowly turning over the careless heaps, watching them catch the dim light and throw it back in a conversation I understood but couldn't translate. The stones rattled like feisty tambourines, or gurgled low and heavy as they knocked against one another, good luck. I worshiped the color with both hands, rubbing each bead as one would a rosary, then lifted the necklaces up and watched them ripple through my hands like silvery water. My hands warmed them, and then I held them to my

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cheeks. The smooth stones caressed, the rough beads scratched and tickled. Was this what it was Hke to be kissed? I breathed in deeply. Ah, Maamas perfume.

That wasn't enough; I had to taste them. I placed one black bead necklace in my mouth and sucked, enjoying its texture and tastelessness. I could hear Maama say, far away in my head. Get that out of your mouthy you II fall sick! That made me suck even harder. What if I swallowed one and choked to death! I would be a princess dying for beauty.

Finally, I put on as many of the necklaces as I could, moving them over my head in worshipful dance movements, head bowed solemnly, then up with secret ritualistic pleasure. My chest grew heavier and heavier as the beads and stones and glass trailed down to my knees. Maamas ears were not pierced, so I could wear her clip-on earrings too. I put on two pairs, feeling them hold on to each earlobe with a sharp, sweet bite. Carefully, I climbed down the chair, necklaces and bracelets and earrings swaying, moved the chair away, and faced the mirror. I leaned forward slowly, sedately, and turned on the lamp covered in red brocade and fringe to match the curtains. I stared at the girl in the orange-reddish glow. Who was she? The rows of glittering color made her beautiful. She could be anyone: a queen, a bishop, a rich loved wife. I passed into blessed existence, where one lived to be beautiful, soft, and rounded out, with red lips, red nails, and glowing stones all over. I was decorated, celebrated, a Christmas tree, here to make the room shine, to turn the world to happiness. I lifted the jewelry and covered my face. I couldn't stay solemn; laughter bubbled up inside. I peeked through the shiny

stones and stuck out my tongue. My twin did the same and we giggled. Then I practiced my poses; now a young shy princess, or Cinderella at the ball, up on one foot because of the lost glass slipper. A cardinal waving the sign of the cross through the air, then spraying incense all over. What about a multicolored starfish swirling deep through the azure water of Atlantis? Now, a Paris model posing for flashing cameras, smoking a long cigarette, sending out flying kisses. I could hear the crowd cheer. The jewelry jingled with delighted laughter.

The final act was the best one of all: being my mother. When I grew up, I would use lots of cool white cream like she did: Ponds, Venus de Milo, cocoa butter, perfumes called Lady, Chanel, Essence. I'd paint my fingernails and toenails with designs in glaring red, and fling my hands around dramatically like a conjurer. Wear lots of lacy panties, petticoats, bras, and stockings, all in frilly white and pink, with flowers and sequins, and become Maama. Women were nice and pleasant and sweet, like a bowl of fruit or fresh flowers. Men smelt of cigarettes and beer and wore dull dark colors. The choice was clear.

What would I do then, as a grown-up? I would become real. I definitely wouldn't go back to the village, oh no. An actress on TV, perhaps? I'd have to speak good Luganda, though. Or I'd untie my plaits and pile my long hair up into a glossy crown; it would have grown long, really long, by then. I practiced being a white actress in the mirror, my voice squeaking in a high, fake accent. No, not that; I'd be a president's wife, a good president, not an army man, of course! I'd give money to orphans with beriberi, advise them to eat beans and peas, not justposho, which

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is corn starch and nothing else. In the mirror I ordered my maid, Bring me some sweets. Demanded sternly, Why didntyou wash my panties properly? I wouldn't go to work, like Maama did; instead, I'd spend the whole day preparing my body, and wait patiently and beautifully for my husband, the president. No, no husband; I'd go to bars every night, like Taata, or to parties!

Maama didn't go out at night, not to parties. Her jewelry was left in the drawers, neglected. Every time Taata went on a trip, he brought Maama beads and pearls as gifts. We didn't mind his traveling; we were freer then, and Maama was ours. And yet, the day he was to come back, the air itself felt different. Maama wore a special dress, usually flimsy, pale pink or blue, and bolder lipstick. Rusi cleaned out their room thoroughly, and made our supper early so they could eat alone. Sometimes we witnessed the ceremony, the giving out of gifts, if we were quiet and well behaved. Otherwise Taata quickly sent us out of the room. He was like that. He greeted us, me and my older sisters, as a group. "Are you being good at school?" Then we were forgotten. Our new shoes and Christmas dresses were passed to Maama to give to us. He held on to one or two glossy patterned jewelry boxes.

I remember the green stones especially. Taata, an accountant, had come from an international conference in Egypt. The very word, Egypt, spelled magic. I told my school friends every day he was away, "My father's in Egypt," until they got fed up and said, "Stop boasting, you, as if it's you who's there! Why don't you go there and stay!" They were simply jealous, I thought smugly as I flounced away.

Taata brought back maroon tuffets with golden designs of

pharaohs' heads, angular and regal. He brought framed pictures of palm trees and pyramids. But the real Egypt was hidden in the emerald box in my father s hands. I held my breath as he opened it and pulled out, for miles and miles, a dark green snake: grass green, bottle green, lime, first leaves, old leaves, every other shade of green. My breath slowly escaped as the stone trail unwound forever upward like a snake possessed, wooed by my father. Our eyes followed it, worshiping the lacquered stones' dance with the lamplight. Taata walked over to Maama's chair. She was looking at his face, not at the necklace. He placed the box down, held the green rosary in both hands, and said, "For you."

She bowed her head and he gently passed the heavy green stones over her hair and neck, then arranged them carefully on her bosom. We watched as though we didn't know who they were, as though it was a movie. She was crowned; he was her humble subject. She accepted his adoration with a smile in the silence.

We were soon sent off to bed, where I went over the scene, savoring it like an exquisite piece of chocolate slowly melting in my mouth. For you—^just like that—for you. He had chosen her. They didn't kiss in front of us, or touch each other, or say dear, unless Taata was drunk. That was embarrassing TV behavior. But who, who would put a string of fire, red, purple, or green, round my neck and say. For you, Christine?

I was glad when Taata went on his trips. The house became lighter, and I could shout and run about freely without Maama

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saying, "Don't disturb Taata, he's watching TV." He's reading, he's sleeping. Don't exist so loudly. We wouldn't have to rush to bed when he came home late in the evening, when he had been drinking, when he became the other Taata, the uglier, noisier one.

Normally, Taata didn't speak to us; he spoke to Maama. If we had something to tell him—school grades, a school trip we needed money for, a telephone message—we told Maama. Sober, he was stern, silent, immobile. How was he moved to buy presents for Maama? What did she do to transform him to warmth, to melt him.**

Late at night, when I was already in bed, I sometimes heard the other Taata, the drunk, dancing, rowdy Taata; the one who cried. I rarely saw this opposite of him; that was Maama's private show. He put a blues record on the player and wailed along with it. "My baby's goooone ..." Could that really be my father? I heard, or did I imagine, the shuffling as he tried to grab Maama and dance. Her muffled protests always ended in silence. I listened, knowing I was far outside their drama. Taata held himself in all day like an ever-present threat, and then at night unleashed himself and his whole tight day on Maama.

As my parents' voices receded toward their bedroom, an argument inevitably began. Taata grunted a word or two, low commas to Maama's continuous sentence of complaint, a wail, a plaintive song. Her voice choked with tears. She seemed to be forcing them back while letting streams of anger pour out. Cowering under my sheets, wide-eyed, I could tell she was trying to keep her voice down, but Taata's short snarls of avoidance made

her voice rise and rise like water angrily boiling. "I'm doing everything on my own, everything, while you run around with your friends. Do you know what the children eat, what they wear? Omukikuru, your own mother, is sick, but who are your cousins calling? Me! This roof needs repairs; the Rwashibingas need their taps fixed; we have to decide whether to sell that house or not, and what do you do? Drink, drink, drink! I can't do everything, I can't."

Taata woke something up in Maama that drenched her voice with feeling. With us, she was quiet and tired; we worked hard to get her attention. When we told her about school adventures, she simply smiled and nodded absentmindedly. With Taata, Maama was alive—^with anger and frustration, yes, but alive. Her voice was rich blood pouring out of a cut vein. Her pain filled my head with all sorts of unnamed feelings, not happiness or sadness but something deeper, sweeter, more horrible. Desire? I wanted to keep on hearing her voice because it was so real. This was who she was, and not just our mother.

We children knew we were an afterthought, outside this world of their own. A heavy door banged shut, sometimes with a sweet word, a gifi:, but more ofi:en with a harsh question, an answering mocking laugh. There they remained; locked in the room of marriage.

Once, I had to get up and use the bathroom near the sitting room because ours wasn't working, I had to. I crept barefoot down the corridor, hoping to slide past the open light of the living room unseen. I did, and saw Taata crying. He was saying,

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"Sorry, sorry." I hid behind the long curtains, I just couldn't move away. Maama said, "Stop it, I don't believe you. Stop drinking, or just drink and stop pretending you're sorry."

His heaving pleas rose. "Never again, never, never!" "Please, Yakobo," my mother whispered to make him stop shouting. "Please, the children are asleep."

"Fuck the children." Loudly, gutturally, as if he wanted us to hear. I did. "Fuck them." So slow he said it, frothing at the mouth, with a drunken swing of his heavy head, as if fuck could not come out easily, as if he had to use each syllable fully to get the meaning out. I didn't know what fuck meant, but the sound of it, the frothy "fff," the relish he added to the "uck" as he said it again, cutting it up, made it dangerous and evil, yet desirable, powerful, eatable, a magical chant against sainthood, guilt, against daylight itself Ffuuucck. The word hypnotized. It spelled out the need to shock, to be free. To shed daytime silences, restraint, professionalism, pretense. The freedom to drink till he puked. Fuck. As extravagant as the outrageous brilliance of Maama's gold gifts. Fuck as heavy as the green-gold stones. The choking weight of their relationship. A love wrapped in insults and complaints, drunken nights, slobbery sorries, and silent mornings. A strong secret bedroom smell that was very beautiful, and adult, like knowing and using and meaning the word fuck. I was repelled, fascinated, trapped.

After these bitter evenings, the next time I sneaked into their room, I acted out their play as both Maama and Taata. After the

first blinding instant of the jewelry drawer opening, I passed my hand through the treasure, sighing. It was safe. Then I put the necklaces over my head, saying, "for you, for you." In front of the mirror I mimicked Maama's high cries, pointing a ringed finger at the mirror. "You bad man, you beer-drinker, you go to dungeons of sin, bring your friends home late at night, and then you refuse to eat your supper. Bad man! We don't see you for days and days. Why don't you take the children for rides or come to Parents' Day at school? If you buy me more necklaces, maybe I'll forgive you. Maybe!"

I turned full circle and faced myself again as Taata, grunting. "I'm so sorry. Beer is sweet and the house is boring. Don't point your finger at me—I'm a man."

Giggling, I fell backwards on their wide rose-covered bed, and the colorful beads and stones jingled. I finally calmed down to silence, let my mind wander through the dim red darkness, and watched the thin arrows of light cut through the curtains. Sparkling dust weaved slowly through the air. I held myself tight and breathed deeply. It was all wound up together, a sweet and pain-fiil push and pull, pull and push.

When did they stop talking to each other? Stop trying? When they stopped fighting. When Taata gave up the struggle and got drunk every morning, not just at night. We all got used to it; found it fianny even, this dedication to his drinking duties. We had our duties too. They fell on me when my sisters were away. To go pick Taata up from the street when he collapsed on his way

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home. Answer the door to his fellow drunkards who had lent him money and now wanted it back. Light his cigarettes because he couldn't do it anymore; his hands trembled too much. Wash him when he was ill. He was still our father; we did what we were told.

One day, I came back from school early because I had a cold. I had lost my voice and my nose was blocked, so the RE. teacher sent me home. I entered the house through the kitchen door. Rusi wasn't there; perhaps she was back in her room I thought. It was very quiet, just like most afternoons. But then I heard murmurs from The Bedroom. No one was supposed to be home. I wasn't afraid, but something made me tiptoe over. The door was ajar, one curtain half open, letting in shafts of light. There was Taata with no shirt on. What was he doing home? I could see he was drunk because his face was an oily brown and he had on a slack silly smile. He was sitting on the bed with no shirt on, no trousers. Rusi was sitting on the floor below him, smiling.

When Taata was drunk he said empty things, talked about himself, about all the great things he had done once, but not anymore, the countries he had traveled to, the awards received, on and on. He needed an audience, but we had got tired of humoring him. That, maybe, was what Rusi was doing, what she was forced to do, to listen to his ramblings. He must have called her into their room, I guess. She had to smile, to pretend to listen to him, to act servile. He had studied in Rome; did she know where that was? He had traveled to Moscow, oh, but what did she know; she had never even seen snow, let alone left Uganda.

How could Rusi refuse to listen? How could she leave? She was the housegirl. She couldn't stand over him; her place was there, on the floor. Rusi couldn't sit on their bed, so she sat on the floor and smiled. She who spoon-fed him when he was weak and delirious after severe drinking bouts. She probably had saved his life more than once. But there she was, not free, like Maama, to unleash anger. Taata still was the boss.

I was stuck at the door, looking at his naked chest, hairless, the light brown color of weak tea. Rusi close by, his knee touching one of her heavy breasts. They both turned to the door; Rusi's smile got stuck in a grotesque grin. Taata raised his arm weakly, slurring, calling, "Patti, I mean . . . Christi ... is that you . . . Christine, no—you, who are you anyway? Rosa? Come here!" His rising voice woke me up, and for the first time I disobeyed him, ignored him, and walked away. That wasn't my bedroom after all.

My father died fifteen years ago. I moved to the United States, where ftick is an everyday word. I am a woman now, I guess, but so unlike my mother. I don't wear lipstick or makeup or long flowing skirts. I feel silly in them. I don't wear jewelry either. Bright colors look gaudy, cheap, and tasteless in real life. Fake pearls, of course, are fake.

I went home last summer for a visit. My mother is still in the same house. Rusi was sent back to her village after Taata died. Maama said she was missing things, one by one, and who else

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needed to steal blouses, shoes, but Rusi? I found that hard to believe, after all those years she'd been with us, but didn't say anything. I had never told Maama what I'd seen in their room.

Maama is so much more at ease, and now looks after her grandnieces, children of my cousin who died. She lets them run through the house, even into her bedroom, muddy shoes and all. Is this the same Maama?

One day I found the girls, Nyakato and Kengoma, playing with the magical stones I carried in my mind like recurring dreams.

"Maama! Your jewelry..."

She said, "Well, it's old, now."

"Yes but, but—Taata gave it to you!"

"Eeh—Christine, calm down. I never wore it that much, anyway."

I wanted to cry. The glass and stones and beads were much smaller than they used to be. The pearls were a ghastly plastic, peeling even, like children's garish toys. The bead necklaces had hundreds of my lovely little ants missing, the dull bare string hung limp, and the uneven pattern of the remaining beads was like a gap-filled evil grin. My nieces spread them out on the floor and asked me to play with them. Counting games, shooting games, marbles, money games. Not "I am a beautiful princess from under the sea." The secrets the beads shared with me— were they all lies? Who had struck the living stones dumb?

I ran my hands over my favorite, the green and gold necklace from Egypt. It was, surprisingly, still whole. But no longer was it made of the royal stones that charmed King Tutankhamen's

daughter, me. No, the stones were the dull, empty shells of dead insects, gray cockroaches, coarse and scratched and old. Faded, the color of dried grass. My nieces didn't mind. "Auntie Christine, those are our coins, worth only one cent each, 'coz they're so ugly."

Maama's room, without Taata, was just like any other. Nice, light, untidy. Where was my father's presence, so guilt-ridden and drunkenly passionate? My grandparents looked old and weak, even though they still stared hard at the camera. Now they looked like they feared the strange instrument rather than disapproved of it.

I blurted out to Maama, "Do you miss Taata?"

She looked at me, mildly incredulous. "What's wrong, Christine?"

"Just asking."

She shrugged and turned to my niece Nyakato, who had come in. What had passed was gone. Why was I searching through ashes? I had lived off his love for her, like a leech. That should have been enough.

//

Hunger

My PRIVATE Diary

Patti Mugisha

Gayaza High School

Kampala, Uganda, Africa, the Universe

SUNDAY, APRIL lO, 2 P.M.

Boarding school is like purgatory, or prison—being sent away to wait. That's mainly what I do: wait for time to pass. There are five more hours to supper, and I'm hungry already. I'm up here in an empty classroom, writing in my diary when I'm supposed to be studying, 'coz it's one week till finals. Three more long weeks, then home, home at last. Please, God, help me concentrate on this stupid history book. I don't want to study in the dorm with the others. I prefer to be alone with the leftover scribbles on the blackboard and the disorderly desks and chairs abandoned by the last class of girls on Friday. The scratched and beaten-up furniture looks like wreckage after a riot, it's so old.

Hunger

We had sweet potatoes and peas for lunch: not as bad as the usual mash, but not enough. It's never enough. There is no privacy in the dining room, nowhere to hide. That's what I hate about school. No moment to myself. Even my thoughts feel exposed. We are squashed fifteen girls to a table, girls from all grades, so that we can learn from our "elders." Thank goodness for the wide windows along both sides of the room with their wooden shutters flung open for air and light. At least I can take in the flourishing trees outside.

There is a mural at one end of the room, which I have stared at for three long years now to avoid looking too hungrily at the food being served. I need to disguise my greed. Nobody remembers which art class painted the mural or when. It's one of those paintings that shows every activity under the sun: a church with musical notes sailing out the window to heaven; a school (ours) with classes full of round, dark heads; an airplane flying over cows in a field; a red-orange (but fading) fire in an office building with fire engines and ambulances and running figures around it; a street with small children crossing, holding hands; angels flying in place, stuck in the sky; and the yellow sun above it all. Only the sun isn't shining yellow anymore. All the colors have faded to a grayish-creamish brown that matches the dining room smell of burnt beans, rotting cabbage, oily plastic plates, and about two hundred sweaty girls. I study the busy picture's comic details while wishing and praying for enough food to satisfy my stomach.

Today at lunch it was Joyce's turn to serve my table. As usual,

she gave each of us so Uttle I could have cried. After we quickly cleared our plates, there was a long wait while the seniors gabbed on forever about nothing, when they knew very well that the rest of us were waiting for seconds. The dishes are placed at the head of the table where the older girls sit. So even though they are fat enough already, they get second helpings first and finish up all the food, leaving us younger ones staring at our empty, dirty gray dishes that look like shapeless open mouths. Even now, after lunch, my stomach is growling. Oh, God, I pray for something good today instead of all this suffering. You promised to fill our cups to overflowing, told us to "bring your vessels not a few." Amen!

Worst of all is watching Linette not eat because back at the dorm she can slowly munch down a whole packet of biscuits or a loaf of bread. Her father is minister of agriculture; she can afford to play with her dining room food, mashing it into a creamy mess that she stirs round and round her plate. I can't stop staring. Linette brings hot sauce, margarine, or mashed avocado to the dining room—anything to make the weevil-infested beans and posho taste like food. Even then, she doesn't eat much of it and makes disgusted faces as we gobble ours down. Oh, I wish I could eat her leftovers. I'd lick the avocado right off her plate. No, no. My Father in heaven fills me. He satisfies my every need. Yes, Lord, I do believe.

I think I'll stay in class. There's no point in going back down to the dorm for tea at four. That sugarless, milkless so-called tea is just bitter black water.

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Hunger

5:30 P.M. It's so hard to believe in God sometimes, when I think about what He puts me through. And He says He loves me. I went back to the dorm at teatime anyway, because I was so hungry. I trusted God for a miracle. Why not? I am His child, His chosen one. Maybe I could ask Linette to lend me some money, I thought. Just five shillings to buy a few oily kabs.

I was going to get my tea when Linette asked me to fetch her some too, because she was busy getting her hair done. She was sitting down between Mary's legs on a sisal mat on the floor, surrounded by the bright black metal frames of our bunk beds. Every week Mary plaits Linette's hair in complicated biswahili, and Linette gives Mary grub, hair oil, Cutex, even Colgate.

Mary is basically a koty, a servant who works for food, though she would never admit it. Her family never comes to see her; she's from some village deep in Busoga. The teachers give her shoes and clothes and money to get home at the end of the term. You would think Mary would be a nicer person, you know, grateful and humble, but no, she refuses to tie anyone else's hair but Linette's and acts as if her father is a minister too. She even talks fake like Linette and tries to walk like her, throwing her bum this way and that. But Mary has none to throw; she is as flat as a table and tall as a stick, not like Linette, who is short and plump, with the soft, round cheeks of the pampered, as if her mouth is stuffed fiill of bananas. Together they look ridiculous, although I shouldn't say so, since that's how God made them. I'm sorry. Lord Jesus. Actually, I pity Mary because Linette pre-

tends to be her friend only when she needs her clothes washed and ironed and her shoes polished. Linette's real friends are the posh girls of Sherbonne House; who doesn't know that?

Anyway, as I went to fill my cup, Linette asked, "Patti, fetch me some tea, please?" As if I was her koty too.

Then, of all things, Mary reached for her old, stained plastic cup and chimed in, "Me too, Patti?"

"But I've only got two hands!"

They both made faces, then Linette said to Mary consolingly, "We'll share mine; it's okay." She gave me an ugly look, as if I, who was getting her tea, was the mean one.

But I'm a child of God, so, even though I didn't want to, I picked up Linette's cup. It wasn't plastic, of course, but a hard, shiny white decorated with Mickey Mouse figures. Heavy, too, with a handle that burned when the cup was full. But we will be known by our good deeds. Amen.

When I got back with the tea, I decided, in desperation, to shame myself "Please, Linette, can you give me just one spoon of sugar?"

Mary smugly watched me beg, knowing she was going to get sugar and dried milk and bread and bananas and everything.

Linette didn't even look at me. She just took her cup of tea from my hand and went outside our room to her locker, which is always bursting with grub. She called back, "Mary, bambi, my bread has gone stale. Do you mind just having biscuits? Oh, wait, here are some groundnuts."

My stomach growled cruelly, like a dog. "Please, Linette?" My voice squeaked.

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She turned around, annoyed, as though I was a dirty fly she couldn't shrug off her shoulder. "Patti, you're always begging. Am I supposed to look after the whole dorm?"

She spoke intentionally loud, right there in the corridor, while girls passed by, going to and from their rooms and lockers. Everybody heard her, and she knew it. My head suddenly clogged up with hate, but I was trapped by my own groveling need. I couldn't look at Linette. Mary's high mocking laughter trilled out of our room. Why didn't I just walk away? I couldn't. More than anything, I wanted the sugar.

"Just a spoon?" I pleaded.

Linette took my cup ftom me roughly, spilling some of the tea and exclaiming, "Eh! Now look what you have done!"

"Sorry, Linette."

"Don't sorry me. Here's your sugar."

She poured four spoons into my cup, not bothering to stop the precious silvery grains from trailing down to the floor. That was pure malice. She knew I could have put some of it away for tomorrow, at least. I climbed onto my top bunk and buried my face in my history book. I still feel it. The shame. The frustration. I have no energy for anger.

My tea now was lukewarm and so ghastly sweet it hurt my throat, but I forced it down. I wasn't reading, but thinking, Ohy God, how unfair You are! How can You give someone this evil all the food and things she has? Why had I tortured myself by going back to the dorm for tea? I should have stayed in the empty classroom till supper, chewing on my tongue, swallowing saliva.

I wanted to cry. I couldn't ignore those two, who were eating.

talking, and laughing as if nothing had happened. Linette usually did all the talking while Mary listened and applauded, acting amazed and impressed by everything Linette said. Being a koty wasn't easy. Or did it come naturally to her, the—no, please, God. No bad words. But Mary was the one gobbling down handfuls of groundnuts, not me. Dear God, what sort of lesson am I supposed to learn from this?

I walked back to the classroom, past the dining room and the other dorms, where clusters of girls sat on the verandas, eating all sorts of nice things— kabsy roasted maize, biscuits—as they talked and laughed. The cement path up the slope to class was bordered by severely chopped, stifled grass that moved me to pity. It was too neat to be natural, like a newly pressed army uniform.

God says we suffer for a reason. What reason? Maybe, just maybe, God will answer my prayers and Maama will come see me this evening. Or what if Jesus comes back? I mean, what if? Oh, the promised Rapture! I would be lifted up with the holy ones, leaving Linette and Mary behind to burn in hell as they screamed and pleaded for mercy. No, that's silly. And evil. Forgive me. Father. Give me a heart to love them no matter what, because right now I don't; I don't love them. All I can think about is my stomach.

I'd better get back to history, which to me sounds like lies: the past reheated as moral tales of good versus bad, strong versus weak. "Shaka Zulu was a man of humble origin," and so on and so forth. It's all about how he fought and killed everybody and became king. All I have to do is quickly cram it in for exams, and then I can just as quickly forget it. But I can't concentrate;

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Vm so hungry, so empty. What do I want? I wish a prefect would come running in right now and announce that Maama is here. A miracle! Please, God, please.

7 P.M.

There goes the supper bell, breaking the silence of this long, dreary evening. The clanging means food at least, as bad as it is. And I've finished with Shaka; he's dead. The bell also means the end of visiting hours for the week. That's it. Another five long days of hunger without hope. My Jesus, You alone know what's best for me, but it's getting harder to wait for Your will. It really is.

8 P.M.

We had cas-kat for supper: starchy white cassava cooked with fat brown beans. The cassava was hard to chew, but there was a lot of it. Thank you, Jesus! I ate it hungrily. Everyone stared, but what did I care? Shame disappears when hunger arrives. The bell rang before I finished eating, but I wasn't going to leave my food behind. I pretended to ignore the gaggle of girls as they scraped back their benches and streamed out into the cool evening air: carefree and confident, comfortable in the company of their friends. They had nothing to worry about except maybe a few pimples popping up.

Only two other girls remained in the huge, darkened dining room. We silently bent over our plates and our private hungers. It is only the most maalo girls who stay behind: the villagers, the greediest ones, the ones who desperately and completely clean

their plates of the so-called food. Everyone else stares and snickers at us as they walk out. Us versus them. Maalo versus posh. How can we not care what they think of us as we expose our poverty and greed? We are ashamed of having no shame.

The worst of it is, I think I'm better than the villagers. I'm not really maalo, not from the village. I grew up in Entebbe. My father used to be a senior accountant with Standard Bank. Taata went to England and Europe many times for work and bought us dresses and shoes you couldn't find in Uganda. I mean, we used to have a Benz! But when his drinking became a day-and-night obsession, he lost his job. It was announced on TV that he'd been retired "in public interest." I don't want to describe that shame.

Now Maama has to dig in the evenings after work and on weekends. She plants beans, maize, doh-doh —anything to save money. Poor Maama. She doesn't have a car or the time to come and visit, or the money. Sure, everybody's worse off after Idi Amin's regime, but we shouldn't have been. Anyway, why am I writing about this? I'm tired of thinking about these things, chasing what might have been round and round in my head, looking for someone to blame. Why can't I be happy and chatty and simple, like the other girls? Life would be so much easier. Maybe because I am a child of God. He says we are different; we are not of this world. We should not want to be part of it. But I can't help it; I do.

Hunger

10:30 P.M. It's after lights out, but I have to stay up and write this. Everything is just Uke it was before, but different. How can I explain?

After supper, I decided to go up to the chapel for a fellowship meeting. I was tired of pretending to study, tired of the dorm, of the silly talk about nothing, of Linette, Mary, and everyone else. Tired of my own thoughts.

As I walked up the hill through the dark, the chapel glowed weakly in the distance. The cassava sat like a rock in my belly, but still there was an emptiness, and the dull ache of disappointment. Maama had not come. I know she has to do everything herself, and I'm not the only one she has to think about: there are three of us children. God, help Maama, I prayed. Please be good to her. I looked up to the sky, hoping to find . . . what? A sense of God, perhaps, from whence my help would come. Oh, God, please help me, I pleaded. The night answered with a cold silence.

We usually held our meetings in the front part of the chapel, before a large, bare wooden cross hanging high on the whitewashed wall. The only pieces of furniture up in the front are a long, empty table and two benches along each wall. That is the altar: simple, clear, and clean. Down a couple of steps, the rest of the chapel is filled with rows of lean brown benches. For our meetings, we move a few of these into a semicircle. We begin with prayers, then sharing. After three girls' joyous testimonies, I got up.

"Praise God!"

"Praise Him!" tlie girls chorused back.

"I prayed today for my family to come see me. They didn't. But I am trying to understand that my plans are not the Lord's. His solutions are not my solutions, and I have to be thankful at all times. Even if I am laughed at or mocked or I go hungry or—"

I stopped, confused. What was I saying? I didn't want to talk about the begging incident and shame myself all over again in public. I ended lamely with "Praise God" and crept back to my seat.

The girls murmured with pity, but it didn't feel real to me. What a fool I was. My testimony was pointless and had ended abruptly, unlike the other girls' victorious, God-affirming flourishes. Why couldn't I see the glory of God, instead of concentrating on my stomach? I tell you, hunger is like a child crying and crying: you can't think about anything else.

Intense prayer followed the testimonies. Those already anointed by the Holy Spirit quickly fell into that blessed state; some spoke in tongues. I knelt down, closed my eyes, and waited, tired of pleading. The holy girls' cries rose to a frenzy around me. As usual, I felt separate from everyone else. The light above glowed red through my closed eyelids as I struggled to concentrate on God. Subdued, not anointed, and always hungry: for food, for the Holy Spirit, for a sense of myself as part of this group, my sisters in Christ, or the circle of girls in my dorm, or part of a normal family. To be part o^something.

For comfort, I started to recite as many promises from the Bible as I could remember: "Do not be afraid; I am with you. . . .

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Hunger

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. Thy rod and staff shall comfort me." But I could not erase the bitter sugar scene from my head. The humiliation, the need gripped me.

One girl's voice rose reedy and high in song:

Even so, Lord Jesus, come In my heart that I may feel your love. Though at times I've betrayed your trust. Even so. Lord Jesus, come.

Everyone joined in, singing and wailing. I remained silent and waited—for what, I don't know. All around me the girls swayed in sweet suffering, relishing the pain of being outcasts on earth, but chosen by God for heaven. Only Jesus could see them through. Only Jesus.

The light seemed to darken behind my eyes. The day's humiliation, hunger, and deep loneliness crept through my body, rising like a dark river, as if to drown me. I was overcome by a strange sadness, as though touched by the sorrow of Jesus Himself I started to cry and hid my face in my hands, bowing low. I couldn't control myself, didn't want to. The tears came slowly, painfully. I gave up all resistance and let them flow free. Wave after heaving wave washed away my strongly built dam of false hopes and pretensions, my anxious pleas and desperate beliefs. Out flowed the dirt of resentment, bitterness, and blame for my suffering at school. My family's proud history gone horribly wrong. Maamas criticisms, complaints, and endless scraping for

money. Taata's hopeless cycles of drinking and trying to stop and failing, then drinking even more in disgust. My family's disgust with him, our shame, our pity. Out poured my own self-absorption and self-pity, which had bound me down, kept me from soaring high into the spiritual, pure and free. All my longings welled up and flooded over. The noisy chapel and its group of greedy saints disappeared as I cried and cried, completely wetting my hands, my face, and the front of my uniform.

After how long, I don't know, I stopped. I was now empty, flat, like a dead fish washed up after a driving storm. Then, a quiet calm crept over me. Sensing silence around me, I opened my eyes and sat down slowly, sniffling a little. The girls next to me fidgeted uncomfortably. I wasn't supposed to cry. I should have spoken in tongues, praised God, and sang, not cried uncontrollably. But that didn't matter. I felt like a newborn baby: simply there.

There were two unsaved girls sitting at the edge of our group. They had come for the Christian show, since there was nothing better to do on a Sunday evening here at this boring boarding school. The two girls stared at me openly, incredulously. Then they began to giggle. I didn't mind. In fact, I wanted to laugh with them. Why not? My mind was a ripple on a calm lake. God had taken me and moved me to some other better place.

At the end of the meeting, we all held hands and said "The Grace." Some girls shot curious glances at me. I couldn't help but smile back. As we walked out, one of the unsaved girls asked loudly, "What's wrong with her? Has she gone crazy?"

Some of the group usually stayed behind after the fellowship,

Hunger

milling and talking and hugging one another outside the chapel. Before today, I would have walked away like a lonely leper, fearing the slightest brush of human contact. But now I stayed, standing at ease in the warm dark air, under the faraway but friendly sky. I could taste peace and it was sweet. I felt warmth for my sisters as they moved through their routine, but I had no need to do so. I felt part of the sky's endlessness and mystery, which flickered down in the long-ago light of the stars, God's messengers. I slowly walked back to the dorm, to all that was waiting, just like it was before.

tit

First Kiss

Christine's romance was one day old. She was going to meet Nicholas again this afternoon. It was a hot empty Sunday in Entebbe, so bright you couldn't see. She didn't want anyone to know, but wondered how her sisters, Patti and Rosa, could not sense her excitement. The air itself felt different. Christine lay in bed late into the morning, plotting her escape. Her first date! With a boy! She was fourteen. Nicholas was older, eighteen maybe? Not Nick, or Nicky, but Nicholas. That was classy, she thought.

Having older sisters made Christine feel and talk older. She learned a lot that her school friends didn't know, like the words to more than four Jackson Five songs, and that the fashionable narrow trousers were called "pipes." Christine couldn't wait for adult things to happen. To wear a bra for a good reason, dance at parties, talk to boys nonchalantly, then giggle over them with her girlfriends. Move to Kampala instead of dying of boredom in

First Kiss

Entebbe. But however much she copied her sisters, she still felt smaller, thinner, inadequate.

Anyway, what would she wear? How would she escape the house without anyone knowing? They would poke their noses into her business, ask her this and that. She had met him, Nicholas, the day before. He was as tall as a windmill. As foreign and familiar as one, too. A boy. No, a man. Help! Christines world had been made up of women even before Taata died three years ago. He had been quiet and remote or drunk and to be avoided. Her sisters, mother, and aunts had converged protectively over and around her. In primary school it had been a scandal even to talk to boys; they were alien creatures.

Nicholas wasn't a stranger, though; she knew the whole Ba-jombora family. They had all gone to Lake Victoria Primary School—Lake Vic—once the best school in Entebbe. Back before Uganda's independence, in the early sixties, it had been for whites only. Some textbooks still had the stamp "The European School." But by 1973, with Idi Amin's regime in full force, there were about two bazungu left in the whole school.

Nicholas's youngest brother had been in her class. Even though the Bajomboras were always last in class, they were the best dressed in the whole school, with sharply ironed khaki shorts, shirts new and dazzling white, and black shoes so shiny you could see your face in them. Not that she got that close; they were boys! Rough and rude, or should have been. Their shoe heels were never worn down to one side like most of the others'; that was a sign of money. The dumb, handsome Bajombora boys, six of them. They were a deep, dark, smooth black and

were all prizes. Although they belonged to Christine's ethnic group, the Banyankore, they were Catholics, which made them completely different, at least in her mother's Protestant opinion. To Maama, Catholics were misguided fools, though she never said this, of course, but clearly let it be known by turning down her mouth, raising her eyebrows, and hurrmphing heavily. Don't even bring up Muslims.

The day before, when Christine's sisters were dressing up to go to the Bajomboras' party, she had asked jokingly, "Can I come?" She was bored. She had spent the whole day in bed reading a Georgette Heyer romance. They were best read all the way through, at once, to keep up the excitement. To keep believing, hoping, fantasizing. Fantasy was so much better than real life. Christine became the plucky heroine waving her fan, singing, 'my ship sailed from China I with a cargo of tea . . .," as she strolled through spring gardens or the drafty halls of Rossborough Castle. She inevitably fell in love with the hero, the tall, dark (African?) Lord Wimbledon, long before he won the heart of the rebellious witty heroine, Lady Thomasina. She imagined his shapely thighs in tight white knickerbockers, his ponytail long like a pirate's. No, not a pirate; he was an aristocrat. No one could resist him, not even Lady Thomasina, who had a mind of her own, but no fortune, alas. It was a fun read, but left Christine with a vague feeling of disgust, the same sick satisfaction she felt after eating too many sweet oily kahs.

Christine was on holiday, which was better than starving at school, but flat. She listened and watched her sisters talking on the phone, going out, working on their figures, doing sit-ups,

First Kiss

drinking endless glasses of lemon juice that supposedly were slimming, walking with books on their heads to learn grace, wrapping their hips tight to stop them from growing too big. Rosa and Patti were seventeen and eighteen. They had purpose. Christine read romance novels and napped.

Rosa brushed away Christine's plea the way she usually did, as though her sister was a bothersome fly. "Don't be silly, the party is not for kids. Me, I won't have time to look after you."

Patti, as expected, took Christine's side. ''Bambiy you want to come with us? Why not? But ask Maama first."

"Don't waste your time; she won't agree. Bannange, who last used the hot comb, and left their bi-hairs in it! Eeeh!"

Christine found Maama in the sitting room watching a TV play. Ensi Bwetyo —"Life's Like That"—had run forever. Maama was drinking her usual black tea. Christine's voice squeaked nervously. "The Pattis said I could go with them to the Bajombora party."

"Since when, at your age?" Maama talked to the children in Runyankore, but for some reason they answered her back in English. Probably because they would have been punished at school for speaking their own language.

"It's for all ages."

"Are you sure?" Maama's attention was on the TV show; she didn't want to miss a word. Patti came to Christine's rescue. ''Bambi, let her come. She'll stay with me ftiU-time."

Maama slowly turned her eyes away from the TV and swept her gaze over the two of them, down, up, and back down again, as if she was trying to figure out who they were. She shrugged

her shoulders and turned back to the TV, torturing them with time. "Don't come complaining to me about her afterwards," she said. Maama never came right out and said yes. That would be too kind; she might get taken advantage of.

Patti quickly hot-combed Christine s hair in the kitchen while Rosa complained that the baby would make them late. The heat of the comb close to Christine's scalp caused delicious shivers of fear down her neck and back. Anticipation felt like a mild fever. She was going to a real party. Katondest! she said over and over again silently. Christine's feet were already Patti's size, so she borrowed her sister's pair of red high heels, with long straps that criss-crossed up the calves. She became Lady Thomasina preparing for a ball. She put on a corduroy pantsuit her aunt brought her a year ago from London. It was getting too small; it pressed into her crotch and squeezed into the crack of her bum, but what else could she wear? At least it was the latest, sort of She almost twisted her back trying to see her behind in the mirror. Rosa laughed. "No one's going to notice you, silly!"

Patti came to Christine's defense, ''Wamma you look good, grown-up."

Rosa jeered back, ''Kyoka, Patti, you can lie!"

"How come the Senior Fours borrowed it for two socials last term? It's still in." Christine posed dramatically in front of the mirror, one hand on her nonexistent hips.

"Lie yourself, then! It's not the trousers that are the problem; it's your stick figure. Anyway, let's go!"

Christine and Patti were used to Rosa's taunts; they simply ignored her. Patti drew dark eyebrows over Christine's own and

First Kiss

painted her lips deep crimson. Christine was startled by her reflection, and Rosa laughed hysterically. "Don't let Maama see you!"

"No one will know she's fourteen." Patti was proud of her artwork.

Forget her face; Christine s worry was falling off the high heels, since they were walking to the party. It had just turned dark when they set off. The air was bluish, mysterious, and the crickets shrilled urgently, but the girls did not hear them. Each of them dwelt on her own separate excitement. Rosa was going to see Sam, her boyfriend, again. She preferred being with him in public, showing off their love, rather than when they were alone, which time she spent fighting off his roaming hands. That wasn't romantic. As for Patti, she was saved, but didn't believe dancing was a sin. She danced for the Lord, she said, like David in the Psalms. Okay, David hadn't danced "squeeze" with women, but neither did Patti with boys. Nor did she drink. Patti was a little worried about Christine, however, who was more like Rosa, in Patti's opinion, or at least wanted to be, which could be worse.

Christine almost fell a number of times in the high red shoes. The tarmac road, which had not been repaired since the late sixties, before Amin took over, was more like a dry riverbed. Most of the tarmac was gone, leaving huge potholes to be skirted around. Luckily it hadn't rained recently, so there were no pools of muddy water, only empty craters and dusty flyaway soil and stones. Cars that circled off the road to avoid the potholes had widened it, creating yawning mouths with no teeth, only gaping dirty-brown holes. It was safer to walk down the middle to avoid

the cars that bumped and swerved along the roadside. It would have been better with no tarmac at all. The girls walked with heads bowed down out of habit, picking their way through unthinkingly. They did not see the solemn indigo beauty of the sky, now glowing with far-off dots of light.

When they got to the party, Christine hung close to Patti shyly until she saw Betty, the Bajomboras' cousin, who lived with them. She was two years older than Christine but had repeated classes in primary school, and so had ended up in P. 7 with Christine. Betty already had full breasts by then, when everyone else had nothing or only tiny protruding plums that stretched their school uniforms tight across the chest. One year later, at fourteen, Betty got pregnant and had an abortion. It was a major scandal. She was sent to her village, Ibanda, for a year. She came back subdued, fat, and very shera^ you could tell her tribe right away. She said mwana all the time, and walked as slowly and as heavily as a cow. Well, that was considered graceful among the village Banyankore. Christine had seen Betty only twice since that time, by accident, but was so glad to see her now, especially since she didn't want to trail after Patti like a five-year-old. Betty looked like a woman, but, thank goodness, she didn't brush her off

Betty gave Christine whisky mixed with Mirinda to cut the sour taste and hide the alcohol. Christine didn't say she had never drunk whisky before. She was surprised by how it burnt going down, not like pepper, but like glowing warm fire. The two girls danced together; they could do that, they were young enough. But then some strange boy called Betty outside, point-

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ing with his head, and off she went. Too wiUingly, Christine thought. She was alone again. She was supposed to be having fun with other people; that's what parties were for. Luckily or unluckily, Patti saw Christine and asked one of the Bajombora boys, Nicholas, to dance with her. He looked drunk, and smiled at Christine like he was doing her a favor. It was a Congolese song, and it seemed to last forever. The dance was simple, dull, and repetitive: one step left, then back, another right and back, left, right, with an accompanying jiggle of the hips. Nicholas danced in his own stiff way, frowning with concentration. It made her smile. He noticed and smiled back, then said, "You're a good dancer," leaning over her as if he was about to topple. He was tall, tall. The Leaning Tower of Nicholas. She smiled at her own joke and stumbled on his foot. "Enough," he laughed. "Let's have a drink."

"Not in front of my sisters."

"Outside, then."

They sat on a low branch of a huge old mango tree. It wasn't mango season, but the leaves were heavy and reassuring, a dark green umbrella for everyone, a rich auntie. Christine wondered where all the ants that crawled the craggy bark of every mango tree went to at night. Nicholas had put more whisky than Mirinda into Christine's drink. It burned her throat and brought tears to her eyes. She forced it down with a cough. Then it seemed like a bright light turned itself on in her head as they sat in the warm clear dark. The stars, which she usually didn't notice, twinkled in an exaggerated way through her tears. Christine stopped herself from showing him the sky; that would be silly, but she bet Lady

Thomasina would have. What next? Nicholas lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He didn't say anything. But somehow, casually, his arm went over her shoulder. He put out his cigarette on the branch, then his face closed in and his lips were on hers. "My lipstick!" she thought, as he chewed away at her lips, then snaked his tongue into her mouth and ate some more. His smoky smell reminded her of her father. Soon, she couldn't breathe, didn't know how to, but just in time, he broke away. "Nice," he said, as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She jumped off the branch. "Wait, don't go," he said.

"Patti will be looking for me."

"Okay, why not meet me tomorrow? Christine?"

She cleared her throat. The whisky, or something, was bubbling in her brain.

"Where?"

"How about at Lake Vic? The school, not the hotel. In front of the Assembly Hall, okay? Around two?"

"Okay."

So that W2is kissing. That was it? She couldn't decide if it was yucky or nice. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Would Lady Thomasina be this confused? Would Rosa? Christine had been kissed before Patti, she was sure. Her head felt foggy. Was it the whisky, Nicholas, or both? What if Maama smelt her breath? But he wanted to see her again. To kiss her some more!

So there was Christine the next morning daydreaming in bed, and panicking too. It was already eleven, but staying in bed was

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about the only way to be alone in the shared room. What would she wear? Should she put on lipstick again? Nicholas must have liked the red. Her lips' natural color was a pinkish brown, which just wouldn't do. And what if she looked completely different without her eyebrows drawn over? Should she wear her blue jean skirt, or the yellow lace dress? No, it was too frilly; she'd look like a baby. But she couldn't borrow clothes from Rosa or Patti without being asked a million questions. Imagine, she had a date, and with an older man! Well, okay, a boy, but still a date. Look at her fingernails, bitten short and ugly. Had he noticed them yesterday? She hoped not.

One could never tell what was going to happen. The future, the not-yet. It was like reading a book. But with a book, the delicious end was right there in your hands; all you had to do was read and not peek ahead, and you'd get to it. Of course, with romance novels you already knew that the Lord would get the Lady, or was it vice versa? How, was the question, the thrill. In real life, the fiiture didn't exist. You could try and make it up as you went along, like how you put on makeup deliberately, but when other people were involved, there was no way you could tell what they would do. You couldn't control them. They might turn away, or prefer sad endings.

Luckily for Christine, Maama had gone to the neighbors; Mrs. Mukasa was sewing her a dress. Patti had been sent to line up for sugar. Rumor was that one store in Kitoro had some; the owner's son was in the army. Rosa had refused to go. She spent her afternoons "borrowing books," which they all knew meant seeing Sam. That day, Christine was supposed to clean the living

room, which she did quickly. She ate leftover cassava and beans for lunch, enjoying the rarely still, empty house, then bathed and dressed up, slowly, deliberately. She chose the blue jean skirt; it was casual but looked good. She wore a red top to match Patti's red shoes, which she borrowed again for good luck. There. Christine went out through the back door to the boys' quarters, where Akiki, the housegirl, was resting. Christine called out through her closed door. "Akiki, the house is empty. I'm off to Betty's," and rushed away before Akiki could get up and see her all dressed up.

Christine slowed down once she got to the street. She was sweating already. Why did Nicholas choose the afternoon? It would have been cooler later on, and the evening light more romantic. Christine giggled and practiced a womanly sway. The high heels definitely made her more feminine, though unbalanced. She smoothed her jean skirt over her still small hips. Was it the heat or this escapade that was making her leak sweat like a broken tap? Under a jacaranda tree by the side of the road, she got a small mirror, Patti's, from her bag, rubbed on Patti's lipstick, then walked on.

Everything was asleep; the road was dead, even the flies were too lazy and drunk with heat to do more than flop around. The sun was Christine's relentless witness. She reached the huge roundabout in front of Lake Vic, but had to walk around it because the grass was overgrown. Back when she and her school friends passed by every day on their way to school, they would find groups of five or six women hired by the Entebbe Town Council cutting the grass with long thin slashers. The women

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were always busy because the grass grew back as fast as ever. Poor women; during Amin's "economic war" they were paid next to nothing. It now looked like the council had long given up the fight with nature. The grass, ignoring the emergency situation, kept on growing.

Christine could almost see those early morning scenes: most of the slasher women had babies tied onto their backs, who slept peacefully even as the women swung up and down, up and down with labor. The women wore old, faded busutis and head scarves wrapped shabbily over their hair. They were barefoot or wore thin rubber sapatu. They didn't speak English, of course. Christine and her friends didn't greet them, even though they looked just like their aunties back in the village, whose close, sticky hugs smelt of sweat and kitchen-fire smoke. They were comforting and discomforting all at the same time. But here in town, the lesson these women gave was so clear no one even said it: Study hard, speak English well, get into one of the few good high schools, go to college. Onward and upward. You are not these women. Do not become them.

It was now half past one. Christine was rarely early for anything, but this time she was almost at the school. Past the roundabout was a giant tree that seemed to have retained its immensity even as the school buildings ahead shrank as she grew older. It was an olive tree, though she didn't know that when she was at Lake Vic. The fruit, empafu, were green, hard, and bitter, or black, a little softer, but just as bitter. Christine grew to like their chewy texture; it was like an interesting thought to be turned

over and over. The fruit left her tongue and inner cheeks rough, as though her mouth had become someone else's. That was the taste and feel of walking home from school all those years ago. The sound of the past was of the small hard fruit falling. They would drop on her head, plop! or just miss her, startling her out of her daydreams of being first in class; of how she would show them, whoever they were, after whatever slight; dreams of visiting an aunt in Kampala; of going somewhere even farther away, England perhaps. America! As her mind roved, she climbed on the curb, carefully balancing, her arms stretched out wide like wings, one foot straight in front of the other. She was a ballerina, a flying airplane, then plop! The hard nut's sudden fall surprised her into tripping. On other days, when she walked home with her friends Carol and Karen, they would playfully push each other off the black and white curb. Christine could almost hear the laughter, the running, the joking shouts of abuse. All those days merged into one carefree moment in her mind.

Now, the curb's paint had faded to gray and its edges crumbled to dust. All the same, Christine stepped up onto it, stifling a giggle. In Patti's red high heels, she felt like a chicken clumsily trying to fly. Her laughter rang out in the silent hot afternoon, making her catch herself Nicholas would think she was crazy!

Here was the Upper School Assembly, another faded apology of its former imposing blue and white state. It was now ten to two. Christine was early, oh no, a sign of desperation. Coming on time was bad enough. This was a date, not a school appointment. She wished she had asked Patti or Rosa for advice. No,

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not Patti, she didn't go out with boys; she would have stopped her from going, called up the Bajomboras or something! Rosa wouldn't be much help either; she would have laughed at her and kept bringing it up forever to embarrass her. So much for big sisters. Well, she had the time to cool down, wipe off the sweat, check her lipstick.

Christine sat in the shade on the cement ledge in front of the Assembly Hall. She doubted the toilets were open or clean. She wouldn't look at her watch again. The Assembly had long glass doors all along one side to keep it cool, and long windows on the other. Some of the panes were cracked or empty. She looked into the darkness of the hall. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the forms inside took on recognizable shape. Wliat a mess. The curtain on the stage was torn; a piano's dark bulk squatted awkwardly to one side on only two feet, its lid broken and askew. A few small chairs were scattered around the huge dusty floor, and on one of them was a pile of neglected, ragged-looking exercise books. It was hard to believe this was the same school that had performed so well once that even Amin's children had joined it for two terms when they lived in Entebbe State House. It was only three years since Christine had left P.7; how come she hadn't noticed this mess? This we-have-given-up-why-hother state. Things must have started falling apart years ago. She hadn't noticed it then, probably because she was here every day. The change was gradual and the result normal, like many other things about Amin's time, including the everyday fear in the air. She remembered how everyone had laughed in astonishment, then got used

to it, when Amin by decree banned minis and wigs. He made Friday, the MusUm day of prayer, a day off and Saturday a workday. Everyone adjusted to the upside-down week, the upside-down hfe, including other unbehevabie and ugly things she didn't want to think about. The bad smell became familiar.

In this very hall, Christine had been through five years of morning hymns, prayers, and announcements. She remembered the cheerful routine of singing "We Wish You Many Happy Returns of the Day" for different students every week. The word "returns" had puzzled her; it still did. The headmaster, fat round Mr. Mubozi, had led assembly since Christine's first year in the Upper School, when she was eight. He looked kind and jolly, like Father Christmas, but he wasn't, oh no! She remembered him shouting at a kid once, "Wipe that grin off your face!" Everyone looked around in astonishment for a green face. Christine had gone to his wife's nursery school. She was white. She too was fat and round, but kind, giving them homemade toffee every week. The nursery school was a room at her house, with children's colorful drawings up on every wall. Most of the other kids were Indian. The lasting impression of that year was of their heavy black hair and spicy smell, and how they jostled up to the front, not afraid to seek the teacher's attention, while Christine hung back, waiting, as she had been taught to do. But in one week that year, 1972, the Indian kids disappeared; Idi Amin sent them all away. Christine remembered busloads of frightened faces heading down Circular Road past Saint John's Church to the International Airport, and the piles of comics and all sorts of

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toys she, Rosa, Patti, and so many others got for almost nothing. Those Indians were rich! Where were all those kids now? Christine wondered.

It was now ten past two. Okay^ calm down, Christine told herself. At least she was in the shade. Out in the sun, two yellow butterflies chased each other round and round. At the corner of the school building was a huge flower bed with three plants. Someone had planted only three of them. Strange, this neat flower bed next to the dilapidated hall. God, it was quiet. Well, private too, which was good. How come there was a cooling wind in the shade and none in the sun? she wondered distractedly. She should have brought a book. She remembered the dirty book she had seen peeking out of Rosa's suitcase, about a year ago. There was a naked woman on the cover, her body twisted in a weird position. Christine's face went hot as she peeked through the pages. How could Rosa read this? People didn't really do these things! But Maama and Taata must have, at least three times! Christine now giggled at the thought, then guiltily murmured, Taata, rest in peace.

Goodness, two-thirty. Should she leave? Christine heard a clamor of voices and froze. A group of rough-looking kids came running by, boys chasing girls, dark round heads bobbing, all of them screeching and yelling as they ran past, wove round the corner, and, just as suddenly, went out of sight. Silence rose up and took over again. What was she doing there? Christine de-

cided to walk around the school once. Nicholas would have to wait. She would not think past that.

Christine peeked into the P.3 classroom. The chairs were so tiny. Innocent looking. This was where her class had done experiments with beans, to see what made plants grow. They tried to grow one plant without light, one without water, one without soil, and one that got everything. It was science in a bean shell. A guided experiment about life that you could control and be sure of the results. How simple. A few years later in P.7, as a prefect, Christine had stood sternly like a policeman in this very class, tapping the end of a stick on one of her palms slowly, threateningly, barking silence! at the smaller kids. It had been a serious game.

Here was the P.4 classroom, where one of the Bajombora boys, not Nicholas, had jumped through a window because of a fire. It wasn't a real fire; someone had shouted Fire! 2S a joke, and he got scared. He jumped and broke his leg and became a mini-hero, even though the whole incident was laughed at. Girls didn't talk to boys, oh no, but they gossiped about boys all the time. How stupid he was, they said, as they secretly admired him. Christine would never have dreamt she'd be here waiting for his big brother.

Christine came to the steps where she had fought with Karen and Carol, her two best friends. It was a game at first: the person in between the other two was the queen. They playfully pushed at one another to get into the center, but gradually the game turned from playful to rough to mean. Before long Christine,

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the smallest, was pushed to the ground crying, while the other two ran home separately. She was left there sniffling, wiping off the mud. The next day they pretended nothing had happened, but were shame-faced and awkward with one another. They didn't speak about it ever, but now they knew that friendship was envy, admiration, anger, and longing all mixed together. Three years later, Carol's parents retired and the family moved to their village in Toro. Karen went to a different high school. The flow of letters between them gradually dried up. Had all that emotion been for nothing after all? Time passed by and stole it away.

And now, now, time was moving too slowly. Christine circled back to the huge silent Assembly. No Nicholas. A part of her couldn't believe it. So he actually wasn't going to show up. Had he even planned to? Anyhow, had she really, really expected him to come and see her^. That would have been the shock. She should leave. But she wanted to sit there and wait. Just sit there. Not go on. Tear out the end of this book.

Christine's feet in borrowed grown-up shoes hurt her. She undid the long red straps. She was tired of this place, the whole of Entebbe, in fact, filled with buildings that had been alive in the past, but now were small and irrelevant, ruins, almost. The three flowering plants, the only sign of new life around, now looked so stridently and annoyingly red and perky. She glanced over her shoulder then went and pulled at the plants roughly. The stems were tougher than she was; taut, elastic. She tore at the tender petals. The flyaway pollen made her sneeze. She used her hand to wipe her nose and cleaned it off on her skirt, staining her nice tight jean skirt. That made her even angrier. Christine pulled

harder at the green stems, leaning her body back. Aaaah, she felt the roots tearing, the dark brown earth moving, loosening, the plant breaking free. The release made her stumble back, almost fall, and she laughed through her tears, holding the limp, useless plant in her hands. Now there was soil all over her borrowed open-toed shoes and her feet. She threw the plant carcass back onto the soil, disgusted and feeling silly. Childish. Christine wiped her tears with the back of her hand and cleaned it on her blouse, smudging it red and brown with lipstick, tears, and dirt. What a mess. Nicholas should see her now. She had better go home; they would all be back, asking for her. Maybe there would still be some cookies left for tea.

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You know how we're taught to throw superstition aside and move forward into the modern world? Or maybe you don't, but for us here at Gayaza it's a recurrent theme. Gayaza High School, Kampala, Uganda, for your information. The world's center of boredom. We are forced to find ways to entertain ourselves; it's no wonder a rather fantastic y«/V/ experiment conjured its way into my head and took over. I was irritated by all the propaganda against "black magic," and the way it was insistently pounded into our supposedly still-soft heads. I mean, why insist so strongly against juju if it doesn't exist? If it really has no power? I know, I know, Livingstone or someone said something declaratory against disease, superstition, and backwardness in Africa. I've heard it one too many times.

Anyway, I decided, after listening to yet another Sunday sermon on the topic (yes, we get lectured on it both in class and in church), that I simply would not accept this. As if I had a choice. Let's just say I did have a choice. I would, at least, first find out

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for myself whether y«/« worked or not. Logical, no? So this is my story about an exploration into our darkest heritage. The womb of knowledge perhaps. Ready?

I should start with who, what, and where. Okay, my name is Rosa. I am seventeen years old and in Senior Five, that's H.S.C.— High School Certificate—or A-levels, at Gayaza, a girls' boarding school that used to be a missionary school way back in the colonial days. You would think it is still one now, what with all the "savedees," i.e., born-again Christians, running around, and the old white British women who won't relinquish power because they can no longer go back home after more than forty years here. What would they do there, poor women? One winter would kill them, and they wouldn't have anyone to lord it over except aides in nursing homes. You should see the bazungu here, so know-it-all and steely-gracious before wide-eyed, frightened, and secretly-glowering-with-anger "natives," namely us. Really, this is not meant to be a tirade against the hardy old ladies, who faced army men with guns for our sakes during the Amin days and each coup thereafter, and are still alive to tell the harrowing tales. Their y«/« must be stronger, ha ha.

A little bit of gossip may be necessary at this point. Miss Straw, the headmistress, is said to have lost her betrothed in the Second World War, when she was just eighteen. This explains her vacant blue stare: it is the faraway dreamlike look of lost romance; her eyes as blue as the vast ocean her young soldier drowned in. No one knows who started this rumor; it's so old it has become true. In a minute, though, she can turn those ojts on you with chilly hostility and hiss like a plump white snake: "This just will not

do!" No lover would have dared woo her then, let alone a trembling student appeal for mercy.

Okay, on with the story. I just wanted to show you what we are dealing with here. So, in Higher, as it's called, we have this extra duty in school and as privileged young women in Uganda, a third world country, don't you forget, because we are getting this excellent, government-subsidized (white) education. We must represent all the impoverished throngs who are not as lucky as we are, especially the women. We must be graceful, hardworking, and upright; disciplined enough to withstand the hordes of lusty men at university, in offices, or on the street who will try to "spoil" us—unless, of course, they want to marry us. Then, as educated, faithful wives, we will work alongside our Christian husbands in our modern civilized homes (bedsheets folded to make perfect hospital corners), while serving our country in a lauded profession. I won't forget Miss Straw at our first assembly in Higher saying, "You must not disgrace Gayaza, this great school that very few have the privilege of joining. The ''privilegey "she repeated sternly, as if saying 'punishment,'' as she slowly swept her glassy blue eyes over our sea of black heads. Like she was the queen or something!

So now in Higher our uniform is a skirt and blouse, not those O-level dresses that billow out like parachutes unless held down by belts. Cotton belts that have to be starched hard every week simply as a form of torture. And their colors! The brightest, most frightfijl blue, green, purple, and yellow. You would not believe that the Kiganda "traditional" dress was designed at Gayaza; that's why it's called a bodingi, for boarding school, or gomesi, after an

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enterprising Goan tailor named Gomez. So much for tradition. But where was I? Oh yes, we Highers are now considered adults; we have to show the younger girls how to lead Uganda into its (we hope) glorious future. We do this by walking with digi — dignity—slowly swaying from side to side, now that we have breasts and hips to carry, as well as huge black files full of notepa-per that show we are clearly above and beyond the exercise books the Senior Ones to Senior Fours use.

Another of Miss Straw's feature lectures is that the "A" in "A-levels" does not stand for apathy. That's her attempt at a joke. She even once slouched across the front of the assembly, showing us how our slow sway was a sign of lack of purpose in life. How we laughed that day. "Shoulders back! Behind and stomach in! Walk like you mean it!" Someone should have told her to stick her nonexistent butt out.

Enough of that. Here comes the juicy part. Have you heard the myth about safety pins and men? I didn't think so. Let's see, who first told me about it? It must have been Nassuna. We have shared dorm rooms since Senior One, so we've been through everything together. She's Muslim, but doesn't use her Muslim name, Halima; she prefers her Kiganda name. There we were, back in Senior Three, I believe, in Kennedy House, donated by the "People of the United States of America," as was written on a little plaque stuck to one of the walls of the laundry room.

It was afi:er lights out, which is the best time to gossip. Sometimes the teacher on night duty would come around with a torch and quickly open the door to try and catch us talking or giggling in bed. In the dark you couldn't see who it was, all you saw was

a glimmer of torch light, unless it was one of the bazungus, Miss Hornbake or Miss Simpson (Miss Straw wouldn't lower herself to stalking). In that case you saw a ghostly pale face, wrinkles and white hair gleaming, and that would shut you up with fright pretty fast. Whoever it was would threaten us with being entered into the Red Book, which usually meant standing under the Punishment Tree right in front of the staff room. It sounds like a joke, but imagine the cutting words of all the teachers coming in and out of the staff room, while you stood there exposed, looking foolish. As if you had asked their opinion. Of course, you were not allowed to sit down; it was a punishment, not an afternoon off. As the sun blazed away (it always did), two or three classes would pass by on their way to the labs or the sports fields for RE. That meant about sixty girls gawked and giggled at you as they ambled past, as if they had never seen anyone stand under a tree before. Ask me if I had been there. I preferred the afternoons at the farm digging or clearing up pig poo, however much more I sweated and stank.

My point is that it was important not to get caught as we learned about real life from our roommates. In the dark, in bed, we stuffed our mouths with sheet and blanket to hide our laughter or gasps of fright, but as soon as the teacher left, we continued on in excited whispers. As voices and giggles streamed through the dark, we listened to stories about ghosts and powerful juju, and learned what's what about sex, imagining all the gory details. How men were strange, illogical in their cravings; so this was what you had to do to get them. Never answer back, and have no less than three boyfriends: one for love, another for

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money, and the third to marry. But what was best: looks, money, or brains? These debates raged on night after night; they never lost their intensity and flavor. How many abortions did you say Miss Konkome had before she got saved? Noooo! It's true, I swear. Konny, the one who acts like she's been in deep prayer since she was born? Ah-haaa! People get saved out of despa — desperation—nothing else!

My good friend Nassuna always had something to say. She's the one who brought up the story of men and safety pins, claiming that they made men "react." We all went, "What?" "How?" "What do you mean, react?"

"Well, you know, get excited."

"Excited?"

''Bannange, do you want me to—okay, they expand, swell. . . you know."

We shrieked, then remembering it was lights out, whispered, "Ee-eeh, Nassuna, naawe\ Stop lying. Safety pins?"

"Yes, I swear to God." She licked her pointing finger, slashed it across her throat, then pointed up to heaven. God slice her dead if she was lying! "This girl, Namata, remember her? She finished S.4 last year. We both did housework in the classrooms together; that's when she told me. She said men have this problem of wanting women too much, and they can't control it, so we have this power over them."

"What power?"

"Well, it's easy, actually," she whispered confidently, as if she had done it. "You secretly, secretly^ mind you, rub a safety pin

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while looking directly at the man you like, and you'll get him excited. Just like that. Then he will do anything for you."

''Kyoka, Nassuna! Men aren't that weak or stupid!"

"I'm telling you."

Another girl said, "Okay, they do what you want, but they also want something, am I wrong?"

We all squealed and shouted, "Whaaaat?" "Something?"

"But of course!"

We laughed in shock and exhilaration. Oh my God, sex! That unmentionable, dirty, shameful, and most fascinating thing. Something men wanted from us that we could give out, or not, at will. Something to bargain with. Imagine that. Slowly, eventually, we calmed down. It was late, almost eleven. We had to get up at 6:30 for housework or RE. before breakfast and class. Most of the girls might have forgotten this juicy bit of talk, but I hadn't. I stored it away, even as I thought, what rubbish!

Well, three years later the idea popped into my head one day during English Lit. class. Guess who was teaching? The one and only Mr. Mukwaya, the Walking Wodo. He is the hero of this tale, actually. The other hero, I mean. For those of you lucky enough not to have come to Gayaza, Wodo is short for "wardrobe," which is what Mr. Mukwaya looks like. He is tall, straight, stiff, and thick. Our teachers are picked out at circuses or museums, I swear. I could describe them all and you'd think I'm adding supUy soup, but I'm not exaggerating, they really are God's experiments at unique human shapes. God says, "I am bored. Let me make a ball of a woman," and Miss Okello appears, as short as

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she is wide, fat, and dark, dark black, shiny black, a black so deep you dream of disappearing into it. You can't, though; she doesn't keep still long enough. She runs everywhere. If you see her far off down the path, you may think a huge wheel has escaped off a car and is careening on its own wild way. Despite all her weight, she is so fast. Okello, dukal Okello, run! girls call out and duck as she swivels around to chase after the mischief maker, shooting pieces of chalk like bullets. As she runs, she throws sharp words at anyone on her path. All this, surprisingly, makes her a thrilling history teacher. Once you get used to the rapid tat-tat-tat as she spills out words, sentences, ideas, dates, you enjoy how she spins tales out of the past while moving roly-poly round the room. Your eyes and mind blink and move just as rapidly to keep up with her. It's exhilarating. Exhausting, too, by the end.

Oh, sorry, sidetracked again. She's just one example, though. Another that's more to the point is Walking Wodo. He teaches Uterature, which I love. Well, some of the books. No teacher can spoil novels for me; I soak them up like blotting paper. I wish I could say the same about plays and poetry. Don't make me read poems so clever and chock-full of words they mean nothing. I can make up something to say in class, though. Literature papers? Easy. Just write something about character and theme, whatever the teacher wants to hear. Mr. Mukwaya shares my delight in stories, but he is more extreme. He completely forgets about us, forgets himself. You should see him; he enters a trance. He gazes out the window as if inspired by heaven itself, or turns to the blackboard, his back to us, and traces over what he has al-

ready written, looking like a huge insect trying to crawl up the board.

It's not Wodo's fault, though, that we're assigned books that bore most of us to tears. For example, we have to do one Shakespeare play for the A-level national exams. Ours is King Lear. But who wants to read about the travails of a stupid old man who gives everything away? Serves him right, I say. And why in this ancient, unclear so-called English? You wouldn't believe it, but the language sends Wodo into raptures, especially when Lear is running around naked in the rain abusing his daughters! ''BloWy windy crack your cheeks!. . . Rumble thy belly full, spit fire, spout rain . . ." Wodo quotes whole passages and then starts arguing, first with us, then with himself, getting more agitated by the minute. Could King Lear have acted any other way? Wodo asks. Was Lear "more sinned against than sinning"? We turn to one another, roll our eyes, and sigh heavily.

That was the scenario the day the safety pin idea came back to me. I was wondering whether anything at all could distract Wodo from his King Lear fantasy and bring him back to this world, right here to us. Did he have a personal life apart from books? This would be a perfect way to find out! And remember, I wanted proof for or against the power ofjuju. I giggled to myself at the thought of the experiment. It was ridiculous, so much so that it refiised to leave my mind. I spent the rest of that class plotting ways and means.

Later that evening, Nassuna and Mary and I met for our study group. This is another good thing with Higher, we don't

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have to go up to class for prep time anymore; we can stay in the dorms and fool around or study, as we wish. We are supposedly mature enough to use our time properly. The pressure of preparing for national exams to enter the only university in the country is supposed to force us to be serious. It works for most of us. I confess I'm lazy, so I rely on study groups, where I can milk others while enjoying the kabooziy good sweet talk, which is my specialty.

That evening I made bushera for the three of us. One of the advantages of coming from western Uganda is that we have a lot of millet, which we eat or make into a porridge called bushera, or bush, as we Gayaza girls call it. It is so filling, which always helps at school, what with starve and all. All you do is add boiling water, but you've got to stir the mixture frantically or it will "die." Thank goodness, in H.S.C. starve dotsnt hit us so badly because we are allowed to go home one weekend a month and bring back more supplies of sugar, groundnuts, mberenge, and any other grub that wouldn't go bad. The suffering of O-levels was in the past, for the most part. I know, I keep getting sidetracked, but I'm trying to give you the whole picture, okay?

Anyway, there we were talking, our books neglected on our laps. We had heard that Jolly, one of our classmates, had gone to Makerere University to see some guy instead of going home for her day off. To make things worse, she had stayed one night! The only way you could do that was if your parents, and only your parents, asked for permission in advance, in writing, or had really good reasons like a death or something. And your parents, not anybody else, had to bring you back to school. It was serious.

Mary asked, "How could Jolly do something so stupid? Now she'll get expelled."

Nassuna answered in her usual know-it-all way, ''Munnange, its love. It makes you do crazy things. Her campus boy must have convinced her."

Mary, ever the strong-willed iron woman, scoffed, "/wouldn't do it just because some campus hoy asked me to. Destroying my future just like that. I mean, what is she going to do now?"

"Finish her A-levels somewhere else, Kampala S.S.S., or someplace like that."

"And fail."

"Eee-hh, Mary, are you saying all those in city day schools fail? In fact, they probably have an advantage since their teachers cheat and get them the exams early."

We laughed. "Nassuna, stop lying," I said. "No, I think the real problem is we girls are weak. Anything a man says, we obey."

"Aaa-ahh, not me!"

"Not you, of course, Mary, you have never done anything you don't want to do, right?"

"Not with a boy; she hasn't had the chance."

We laughed as Mary made a mock-angry face and turned away. I went on, "Listen, women have power over men, too. Remember, Nassuna, what you told us, was it in S.2 or S.3, about a trick some girl told you that makes men weak."

"What?"

"Don't you remember? The safety pin thing?"

''Kyoka, Rosa! Did you really believe that? And you stored that all these years?"

fob ft

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"Her head is empty, there's space for such!"

I waved down their laughter. "No, seriously, think about it. We have physical power over men 'coz of sex, even though they are supposed to be stronger than us, physically."

"Ya, sure, if you believe in witchcraft!" More laughter.

"You laugh now, but wait till I try it."

"What?" Nassuna and Mary together.

"You heard. I'm going to test to see if it works or not. We're here at school to study and observe and draw conclusions, right?"

"And there'll be an exam afterwards, I suppose?" That was Mary, Miss Comedian, or so she thinks.

"By the way, who will you test here, in this female-only zoo?"

"I know, I know, men are as scarce as ... as meat. No, worse, as snow! Really, they should hire a few more male teachers. Just for us to look at, at least."

"You can count the men here on one hand, and even these few don't really count. Let's see, Mr. Karugonjo, who is about, what, fifty?"

"With gray steel wool for hair and the shuffle of an eighty-year-old. Thank God he is taken!"

"What about Mr. Dawan?"

We burst out laughing again.

^'Kyoka, Nassuna, you're not serious. The poor Indian? Have you seen the way he walks? I mean, who cut off his bum?"

Mary stood up to demonstrate, pushing her bum in and her hips forward and sliding across the floor. We almost died of laughter. Girls did that to poor Dawan as they walked behind him from class. They exaggerated his walk and then fell into gig-

gling fits, hands over mouths, fingers pointing. Bambi, I pitied him, even though I laughed too. What was he doing here all alone? How come he didn't leave when Idi Amin kicked out all the Indians years ago? He must have been quite young in '72, no more than a teenager. Was he a citizen or what? For us girls, he was just a laughingstock.

"Rosa, he would be great for your experiment; you could find out if African witchcraft works on Indians."

Mary followed. "Next, you could try it on Miss Straw. A white and a woman." We howled and rocked back and forth as if in pain.

"You people, please! Stop being silly. I'm serious. I don't think Dawan is a prime candidate for my experiment on the honored traditions of our ancestors that you have been taught to call witchcraft,' okay? Now control yourselves. Who's left?"

"How about the men on the farm and in the dining room," Mary suggested with a faint sneer.

"What if the experiment works, what would I do with one of them?"

"Oh, and what exactly are you planning to do with any other 'suitable' man, may I ask?"

"At least it should be someone I can talk to."

"Why are we wasting time?" Nassuna butted in. "We know who you want: Mr. Mukwaya, the Wodo himself You want us to say it for you, don't you?"

"What! No, of course not. But yes, Wodo is the only suitable one."

"And your first choice, admit it."

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"The only logical choice. Haven't you seen how he is in class, completely taken up by King Lear or Devil on a Cross, or whatever we're reading? It's impossible to tear him away from his first love, literature."

"Oh, you're jealous of books!"

I ignored Nassuna. "If the spell can distract someone like him, then it can work on anybody, don't you see? We would get husbands just like that!" I snapped my fingers.

Mary was now utterly disgusted. "Husbands! You've never even had a boyfriend and you're talking about husbands!"

Not Nassuna; the word "husband" made her salivate. "Hm-mmm. But, the power to excite a man is not the same as getting him to marry you."

"This would be the first step. Then you simply refuse to give him what he wants, see? You make him suffer and plead until he is almost crazy and has nothing else to do but propose." Wasn't I brilliant?

"This is the most stupid and . . . pathetic idea I have ever heard. Are we going to finish with the Songhai Empire tonight or not? We've wasted enough time." Mary was no longer amused. Her strict and sensible side was never far away, and she always chose the best moment to ruin our fun.

Nassuna and I groaned. "Songhai?"

"It's too late to get back to books; let's continue tomorrow, please?"

Mary gathered up her books. "You two just aren't serious," and huffed out of the room, as if she hadn't been laughing with

us just moments before. I swear, she'll end up like one of these rock-hard spinster teachers here if we dont keep working on her.

I didn't wait. The very next day I was ready with my plan. Our heavy green H.S.C. skirts have two big front pockets. I found a medium-sized safety pin that was keeping up the hem of another of my skirts, removed it, and slipped it into my pocket. Our last class that Wednesday afternoon was literature. Afternoon is when time moves the slowest because the heat makes us sleepy, especially if we've had something starchy like cassava for lunch. Our classroom is nice, though, with large open windows on both sides that let the cool breeze sweep through. The welcome distraction of bumblebees, flies, millipedes, and such, which we make a big ftiss about, pretending to be frightened, helps use up chunks of class time. Also, there are tall jacaranda trees with overhanging branches on either side of the building, so it's mostly in the shade. When in bloom, the trees throw perfumy purple flowers into the class. I sit near the windows because it's like sitting outside right under the trees. A window creates space for the mind to wander; you can stare at the sky, the farthest thing ever, and think of nothing, especially during economics.

That day, if all went as planned, I would save us all from King Lear. If the trick worked, that is. The spell, I mean. In class, before I sat down, I put my hand deep into my pocket and curled my fingers over the safety pin. My pocket was beneath the desk; I could move my hand without anyone noticing. As we waited for Mr. Mukwaya, I wondered what I should think about as I concentrated on him. His nose or eyes? Love songs? When he

Passion

walked in, my heart gave a little thump; would I be able to go through with this? I had not told Nassuna or Mary because I knew they would fidget and giggle and spoil the experiment. I didn't want to get caught, of course, but also, everything had to be as normal as possible so I could be sure that any change in Wodo was caused by the spell, nothing else. I should have studied the sciences, chemistry perhaps, don't you think?

My hand warmed up the thin piece of metal, and then it got wet; my palms were sweating. I hoped Mukwaya wouldn't notice any difference in me. The best thing would be to start the spell-study, or whatever it was, when he was deeply immersed in the play. We were at the point in King Lear when his two older daughters are spiraling deeper into evil. Act 3, scene 7. We called Goneril "Gonorrhea," and Regan "Reggae." God, what evil women! Mukwaya says the best way to feel the poetry of Shakespeare's language is to read it out loud, so he picked three girls to take on different parts. They cleared their throats and began. Some of us followed, reading our copies, while others merely looked down, lost in their thoughts. This scene actually is interesting, horribly so. Goneril stamps her heel into one of Gloucester's eyes and Regan does the same to his other eye. As if this is not enough, one sister stabs a servant who tries to help Gloucester. Can you imagine? Some of us giggled in shock; it was too much. After stumbling over mispronunciations, "thees," "thys," and "therefores," it was discussion time. I was ready.

Mukwaya asked, "So, why were some of you laughing?" There were more stifled giggles, shifting in seats, then silence. Now, since everyone was looking up at Wodo, I too could stare directly

at him. I realized it wouldn't be enough to concentrate on his wide shiny nose, which took up most of his rectangular face. I had to look directly into his eyes. Mukwaya pressed on. "Come on, you can tell me what you think. With art, true art, there are many ways one can respond." He always talks about "art, true art, real art!" No one is impressed. Well, maybe I am, sort of The others exchange bored looks and turn down their mouths. To help Wodo out, I started to put up my right arm, hesitated, then put up the left. I hoped no one noticed.

"Well, Rosa?"

"It's sort of funny; I mean, how can these two princesses act like this.^ It's . . . it's, well, not primitive, but. . . no, in fact, it is primitive and hard to believe."

Mary added, "Imagine. They are in a castle, dressed up in fine clothes and all. Couldn't they take Gloucester to court or something—"

Another girl, Dorcas, interrupted, "—Or at least get their ser-vants to hang him, shoot him, whatever." We all laughed.

Wodo waved us down. "Well, then, we have to ask ourselves why Shakespeare wrote such a bloody, graphic scene. Don't you think he knew what he was doing?"

After a pause, a few hands went up. "Yes, but—"

"Even Shakespeare can write badly."

"Maybe he loved violence, some people are like that."

"People in power, mostly." That was Nassuna. The others murmured agreement.

I was busy rubbing the moist safety pin, softly at first, then harder. I looked into Wodo's eyes. No change. I kept on rubbing,

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but the mistake I made was not joining in the discussion. I am vocal by nature; those who know me know I cannot keep quiet, especially not in literature class. But I was concentrating deeply, repeating to myself, stare, stare, stare. God, I hadn't realized how often one blinked. But something was distracting me. I felt eyes on me on my left. It was Nassuna. She sat next to me, and had turned to me after her comment. She must have noticed that I hadn't reacted at all; no nod, no laughter. I reftised to return her look of curiosity. If I gave her even just a quick glance, she would read me and guess something was up. She knew me too well. Focus, Rosa, focus.

Wodo now was answering Dorcas. It was hard to keep staring into his tyes because he kept shifting his face. When he turned my way mid-sentence, I started to sweat. It tickled my armpits. I was dying to scratch, but it would be awkward with my left hand. I did anyway, quickly. Focus, Rosa. On what? I didn't know his face was so pimply. I wished I had a chant or something.

Nassuna nudged me. I ignored her. She nudged harder. I wanted to strangle her. There was no way I could continue. I turned and gave her the most irritated look I could. She frowned in question. Annoyed but resigned, I slipped my hand out of my pocket and showed her the safety pin in my open palm, below my desk. Nassuna breathed in sharply and widened her eyes. She gave me a shocked look, glanced up at Wodo, then back at me. Her face broke into a wide cheeky grin as I slipped the pin back into my pocket. Thankftilly, she had the sense to hide her giggles in her copy of King Lear.

I mouthed, "Leave me alone," and turned back to Wodo. He was looking at me. Had he seen us? I wasn't going to give up so fast, but I knew I should say something about the play before he became too suspicious. "Um, this is not real life; it's drama. It has to be dramatic." Okay, I admit, this wasn't my best idea ever.

Nassuna came to the rescue. "I agree. The scene is exaggerated to provoke the audience. Then everyone can feel great pity for Gloucester even though he has acted like a fool. The same goes for King Lear."

Some girls protested, "Eeeeeh, no!"

Wodo raised both hands, palms open, to stop us. "Please. One by one."

Dorcas again. "There are other, more believable ways to make us feel pity. The action here is too extreme, too cruel for words!"

Wodo wrote "catharsis" on the board, and went on to define it. I knew he would go on for some minutes; it was time to try again. This time I would do it, I had to. He talked, I stared, he talked, I stared even harder. My eyes seemed to glaze over. His face expanded, his eyes became glowing black orbs. Still, I rubbed the pin furiously. There was a soft: giggle beside me. Nassuna again! God, why couldn't she control herself? Forget her. I decided to imagine Wodo . . . kissing, yes. Not me, of course, no way. Kissing Miss Bakunda. She had finished Senior Six last year, and was back here teaching Si. until her university classes started in September. I could see her having an affair with Wodo. Like I said, there was no one else here.

Okay, so Wodo and Bakunda were kissing. The more I concentrated, the wetter my armpits got. Sweat now trickled down,

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my blouse was damp. The staring, Wodo's deep drone of words, my own nervous heat, something was making me feel woozy, but I didn't dare shake my head to clear it. I felt the girls around me fidgeting. What was going on? Concentrate, ignore them, concentrate, I repeated desperately. Had Nassuna let the other girls know? Oh God, no! Focus, focus. I couldn't stop now. With my free hand I wiped drops of sweat from my forehead. I could see Wodo and Bakunda, mouth to mouth, he had her in his arms . .. he bent her over, oh what was he doing! I squealed.

Wodo stopped talking and looked at me, then moved his eyes from face to face. I was transfixed. I couldn't stop staring at him, at them, mesmerized. The girls' stopped their shuffling and giggles in startled silence.

Wodo said, "Do you find my explanation of cathartic action in King Lear funny?" And he scratched himself right there\ A quick move, but one I had never seen him do before. Okay, I had never watched him this keenly before, but still. Strangely enough, I too wanted to scratch myself Sweat was leaking out of me, and yet the classroom wasn't that hot.

Nassuna, who I am going to kill one of these days, put up her hand. "I have a question."

"Go ahead."

"Do you think Shakespeare had something against the female sexV She stressed the word, knowing the effect it would have on everyone. "You see, sex, sorry, the female sex in this play acts like men, evil men."

"You've moved on to another point, Nassuna, but let's talk about that. What about Cordelia?"

Wodo usually could handle tricky words like "sex" in a classroom full of giggling girls; he was an expert at smoothing over uncomfortable moments. But this time, I swear, he was physically uncomfortable. He leaned his hips back against his desk and faced us with what was clearly a false air of ease. I was still rubbing my now hot secret, my eyes glued to his face. Abruptly, Wodo stood up again, smoothed down the front of his pants, then half-sat back on the edge of the desk. Did I dare continue? Push him further? I confess, I could not stop. My mind and body were an out-of-control machine manufacturing fantasies. I don't know how I managed to say, in a high breaking voice, "Cordelia really isn't a woman—"

Someone added, "Yes, she is more of a child. Very innocent."

Nassuna jumped in. "You mean she is not of the female sexT' Everyone gasped, fighting back hysterical laughter. Wodo stood up again and shifted himself you know where! He contemplated his shoes for a second, and then looked up directly at me. "And you, Rosa, are you a child or a woman?"

Stunned silence. A bird outside yelped three notes repeatedly. Loudly. Wodo had never asked such a direct personal question before. He stared hard at me. I couldn't turn my eyes away. "M-me?"

"Well, Cordelia might have been about your age, Rosa, seventeen, sixteen, maybe even younger."

"I—I don't know."

We waged a battle of the eyes, of stares, mine shocked; had he found out? His were questioning, insistent, mocking. A come-on? No! He wouldn't. But he had just kissed . . . no, he hadn't.

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What was wrong with me? Suddenly, he turned away, walked around the desk, and said, "One shouldn't say or do things one doesn't know about." His tone was both kind and menacing, but I knew exactly what he meant. The trance broke.

Tears crept out of my eyes and I bowed my head. The hand in my pocket went limp. I was drenched in sweat, which was now cold. It was difficult to breathe. What had just happened? I needed to get out of there, out into the fresh air, take in gulps of it. Fading images of Wodo and Bakunda, their mouths still stuck together, swirled in my brain then out, like dirty water down the drain. I pressed my eyes tightly shut.

The class seemed to let out a collective breath as it turned back to King Lear. Mukwaya chose three other girls to read the next scene aloud. Thank goodness, now I could hide my hot face in my book. I stayed quiet until the end of class; my mind just wasn't working. Finally, much to my relief, the chapel bells rang out merrily and everyone sprang up to leave. The ordeal was over. As chairs scraped the floor and voices rose loud and free, Mr. Mukwaya called out, "Rosa, could I talk to you for one minute?"

Oh no! I looked up at him, then back at my books. What would I say? Everyone else streamed out happily; classes were over for the day. Nassuna said to me, loud enough for Mukwaya to hear, "I'll wait for you right outside, okay?" I nodded and walked warily up to Wodo.

He cleared up his notes slowly, thoughtfully, notes he hardly ever referred to anyway, until the last girl left. Then he leaned

one hip casually on the desk, as casual as his stiff body could allow, and said, "You know, Rosa, you are quite a good student."

"Thank you, sir." A "sir" wouldn't hurt at this point.

''Usually a good student," he amended. I kept silent. Praise was always a teacher's way to start criticism. But? He gazed out the window thoughthilly for a few seconds, stroking his copy o^ King Lear. I felt my armpits tickle again. Goodness, what was happening to me? I must smell by now, I thought. Could he smell me?

"You know, literature requires passion; you have to get involved, you have to care." He looked at me questioningly. "And you do care, I've always thought you do. Your papers . . . yes, passion is the word." He leaned his body earnestly toward me, then jerked it back in his stiff way, catching himself He turned back to the window. Girls poured out of all the classes and down the cement paths to the dorms for tea, to Ye Olde Shoppe for kabs, mherenge, bananas. They would spend the last daylight hours as they wished, before supper, prep time, and then bed. I had been here four years already. The rhythm of the days was in my bones. I should have been outside and free with the others.

"Of course, you could end up a teacher like me." What was Wodo talking about? He turned back to me suddenly. "What was going on today?"

I took a step back and looked at my shoes. They were Bata boys' shoes, made in Jinja, the kind most of us wore. "Today?"

"You know, the giggling, the shuffling, and you acting . . . strange."

"I—I don't know."

Passion

"Rosa, I am not a fool." I kept quiet, head still bowed. "And neither are you." He wagged a long finger at me. "Don't become one.

For one queasy moment, I knew he knew everything. The safety pin burned in my pocket; could he see its shape? Should I confess everything, just say—

"Passion, Rosa. Don't waste it." He paused, then gestured at the laughing girls outside. "You young women here, you are so protected from everything. Unlike Cordelia." He smiled. "But not forever. You will be forced to grow." He shrugged.

I was confused; where was he heading? I looked out the window, wondering if Nassuna could hear us. He wasn't mad at me; that I could tell. In fact he seemed to be taking me seriously, as a person, not just another student. "Mr. Mukwaya, I didn't mean to do anything wrong."

"No one means to make any mistakes, but make enough of them . . . ," and he gave a short laugh.

"It was just a game."

He shot me an almost angry look. "A game?" Then, lowering his voice, he muttered, "A game!"

"I'm sorry." How small, how silly I felt. I wasn't even sure we were talking about the same thing. He kept his eyes on me grimly.

"My mother was already married at your age. My sisters—" He broke off abruptly and shook his head.

What could I say? "I'm so sor—"

Wodo raised his hand to cut me off. "Rosa, I think I've said what I can." He stood up, a tall solid wall, a dam against the

rushing river of the future. He moved to the other side of his desk, then paused and suddenly smiled down at me. "You can go now." He turned to his copy of the play and opened it, and, without looking back at me, waved me out. "Go on."

"Thank you," I gulped and rushed out.

Just around the corner I bumped into Nassuna, who had such a worried look I giggled and took her arm.

"What was that all about?" In relief, we took the steps together, almost leaping off them. Digi was completely forgotten.

"I don't know. How do I know?"

"Passion? You and Cordelia? His mother^.''

"I know! I wanted to melt into the ground and disappear."

"Do you think he's crazy? Seriously. Maybe he's read too many books—"

"—and he's stuck here, poor him, with all that—"

"Passion!" we shouted together and burst out laughing.

"You see, my spell worked." I was so relieved I couldn't stop laughing.

"Of course it didn't, silly. He didn't stop thinking about King Lear for one second!"

"Didn't you see how he acted funny?"

"Ya, because I said 'sex' about ten times, you fool! And what about you? You should have seen yourself, your eyes as big as eggs. Why is your blouse damp—"

"Why were you messing up my experiment?"

"I was only trying to help you. To get you out of hot water! He obviously could tell something was up."

"Oh no, he felt me—I mean it. I'm convinced."

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"All that it proves is that he's crazy. Or maybe you are. Experimenting on a crazy man!"

"He thinks Til be a teacher, he said. Stuck in a place like this, just like him. He actually cares."

"He said that? Oh God, Rosa, Walking Wodo loooves you!" she sang out.

"Nassuna, please! Don't be silly."

"And you looove him to-oooT She raised her voice even higher.

"Shut up! Stop it. Stop."

"This secret romance! What are we going to do-oooT She flung her arms open dramatically, face raised to the sky, and then bent over laughing.

I slapped her arm, half angry, but she wouldn't stop. I just had to laugh too. But I knew she wouldn't let me forget this; she would milk it for weeks, months. We moved on down to the dorms, weaving our way through throngs of girl-women. They stared at two Highers losing their digi, laughing like they were possessed. Later, no doubt, this would swell into some dirty rumor: Wodo and who? No! My hand crept into my pocket as Nassuna and I slowly calmed down and tried to become grownups again. I would leave the safety pin there. Why not? Not as a game, but to remind me of what he called passion. I was caught in its spell.

A Thank'You Note

Dear David,

I can't just let this go without saying bye, to let you know I got what you gave me and I am sure it was you. I can't resist saying this: you shouldn't have! Not that it makes much difference who it was, but still. Maybe it does. Didn't you know? Is it too late to ask? Isn't everything too late? Because this slow invisible spread, like a harmless cloud from afar, has turned into an invasion of insatiable locusts, a cruel blanket covering us all.

David, my body has started to fail me, but my mind hangs on, watching, watching, like vultures circling a sick and dying animal, a hyena perhaps, as it drags its wounded, bleeding leg to some dark undergrowth to die in secret. The hungry vultures with ugly blood-red throats are up above watching me, David, circling closer, mocking me for living, for smiling, for being Rosa, the rose, as you called me. For swaying my hips deliberately.

AThank-YouNote

enticingly, as I danced with you, with others. For those jeans I bought that hugged my buttocks so tightly men turned to watch and whistle as I walked by. I am mocked for saying yes. I am guilty.

The vultures mock me, David, for not loving you; for not having that great romance we read about so many times until we believed it was supposed to happen, even as we mocked love as melodrama. Better to have loved and lost, right? We could have been the Romeo and Juliet of the tropics, with disease, not family, as the enemy of love. Maybe then I would accept this, as I did you entering me slowly and surely and perfectly. Accept this like all the food I have eaten, accept this like breath. The air may be dusty or fresh, but you still have to breathe, and you do, of course, until you stop.

This shouldn't come from sex. Like a pregnancy, it's so removed from the act itself I refuse the logical connection. Ten to fifteen minutes of heaving and pushing and a whole new other life is created, becomes alive, real. In this case, a slow death is born. Sex can change your life. But, David, I still don't believe it; the vultures must be wrong. I keep repeating to myself, this is a fact, a fact. I am going to die soon. I wish I had the courage to die before I feel too much pain. This body of mine only worships pleasure.

David, why are you living on and on, suffering? Yes, I'll be cruel and say it: you are already dead. Remember how you used to shout out, Onzita! You re killing me! as we rocked faster and faster. I lived off your shameless exuberance. I'm dying because

I

of it. Whole days in bed licking each other. We overdid it, trying to pass the point of need, to exhaust desire. I am so exhausted now. Wiped out. Dry, but still unsatisfied.

Okay, I accept: we should be dying. We are physical bodies reacting to physical truths, cause and effect. Laws of nature. This is how it should be. But what should doesn't always happen. One should have food on the table; one should not have to watch one s father being shot dead because he refused to hand over the video deck to the soldiers-thieves-kids-with-guns. The neighbor's son shouldn't have put his finger up into me when I was ten. I should have cried out loud and told someone. But when the same thing happened when I was seventeen, I should have liked it. Why shouldn't we die at twenty-three?

The knowledge of death lives in our bones. In all of us, David. Death reveals itself when your hair starts to thin out and fall off and your skin turns gray. Skin that was praised for its smooth brown softness is now patterned with scattered rash, sores that won't heal, yellow pus, itching that is no longer pleasurable to scratch, scars, scars. Your lungs sound harsh and shake you with dry coughs. Your organs, still so young, fail you one after another until you no longer can leave the hospital, except for that one last time, when you are sent home to the village to die. But not so quickly, first the liver failure, kidney failure, mysterious tumors, and of course, always, the streamy splatter of diarrhea. Your anus will never again feel the pleasure of firm feces slowly moving out.

David, there's no point in asking you this now, but after you

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A Thank-You Note

knew, couldn't you have kept it to yourself? I know, a stupid question; most likely it was too late by then. Have I kept it to myself, this organic, terrifying secret? No. Old habits die hard.

And, let me ask also, why should you use up all your fathers money in treatment after worthless treatment? Exotic drugs from Germany and India; that prophetess Nantambi who prays for a fee, dollars only, thank you. The medicine man from the Nyaka-sura area, I forget his name, who is growing rich by lying to people that his honey defies death. Honey is honey, but he charges enough to send his children to a posh boarding school in Nairobi. But people say how can you watch your child die and do nothing? So your father throws away his money knowingly because he has to do something, or they will say the miser killed his son. Why shouldn't he lose it anyway? You told me he got rich selling government equipment and land, cement, donated cars, you name it, and he got away with it. For a while, anyway. Now he is paying. Perhaps he is now buying you the zungv medicine that works, that no one but ministers can afford. But still, you are paying in other ways and so am I. If it was you who gave it to me. Does it even matter who gave it to whom?

Do you remember when exactly it got a name, became real? How did we first hear about it? Rumors, whispers of strange symptoms in villages far away from us. Rakai district was put on the map because of all the deaths. The rumors were messengers ahead of the steadily approaching army; warnings that couldn't protect us from the marauding attack. Before the newspaper articles and stories on the radio were the rumors, more true than

any recorded event. Stories of its power spread and grew like tree roots curling out of the ground; abnormal, ugly, strong.

First, they said the women became even more beautiful, enticing, their skin shone smooth as they carried it unknowingly, gracefully, and passed it on in quick short bursts. Then they slimmed down fast and mysteriously, and in every single village began dying like flies. No, flies are harder to kill, unless they are buzzing over a succulent, bloody carcass. The flies get drunk with blood as it clots all over their brilliantly blue, delicate wings, trapping them. They are killed by what feeds them, suffocated in already dead, smelly flesh. That may not be such a bad way to die: fiill, fed up, drunk.

Who is going to remember all the wiped-out young women and men of Rakai? Does it matter that they were alive once? I mean, really? Then why have they disappeared so easily? "Disappear" used to mean something just as bad, once. How many are left to keep alive the once bustling collection of kiosks, shacks, and market stalls piled high with rainbow-colored ripe and rotting fruit? The dusty pink, blue, or purple-painted hotels, motels, and happy bars, with thin faded curtains blowing in the dry heat, are empty. And inside them, perhaps one or two stray travelers find relief from the hard sun in the cool dark of the Happy Hotel, Tolinda Motel, Mohamed & Sons Express Chips, small rooms filled with smells of beer and beef stew. Can you hear the babies' wails, the children's shrieks, hollers from taxi drivers and bus conductors, women laughing or calling out their wares, chicken, goats, cows, all caught in the melee? And the haze, a sti-

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A Thank-You Note

fling hug around it all, tries to keep it all there, at home. Each one-street trading center, one just like the other, still exists along the main roads that snake across Uganda, but the people are missing, as if the towns have been cleaned out by war. It is a war.

What happened? They say truck drivers transported more than goods from the port at Mombasa, across Kenya, through here, and over to Zaire. I can see the action, feel the excitement as drivers stopped from town to town, met up with old girlfriends or new prostitutes, or both. Some girlfriends became prostitutes and vice versa. The truck drivers made good money, and so carried gifts from town to town: huge bunches of bananas; powdery sacks of maize flour; shirts, skirts, and schoolbooks for their various children here and there; a nice piece ofkitenge cloth for each mother and ten tubes of Ambi to keep her face as bright yellow as a ripe banana. Imagine the hot reunion as they unknowingly exchanged the sweetest, sweatiest gift. Their crime was that they were too friendly. They were punished for spreading love around.

No one could see the link forming and stretching across the country, a tightening chain that bound everybody together. The chain later stretched north and south, too. Wherever there was any frolicking, as we used to say, that is, everywhere. A huge microscope in the sky would have shown a crazily winding necklace of the most human of connections, circling again and again around the waist of Africa. Back then, it was just like the rash it makes around the waist, kisipi, another early, unmistakable symptom. God, or the devil, has a bitter sense of humor, loves cruel connections. Now, of course, it's everywhere.

David, we whispered these rumors about them, the villagers,

but didn't talk about us, did we? Now we know we are all connected: one big loving community. Back then, we thought we were different, separate from the Rakai kind; they were born suffering, after all, but not us, oh no. We were at Makerere University; we were the cream of the crop. We had dodged the bullets of Amin, Obote, all the coups, the economic war, exile and return, and here we were on the road to success. We were the lucky ones, the chosen few. No one said this out loud, of course, we just knew we were different, protected; our fate was privilege. We didn't consciously think it, but the knowledge sat at the back of our minds like a fat cat. We were intelligent, read books for fun, had worn shoes and socks to school while villagers went barefoot; we spoke proper English; listened to Top of the Pops rather than Congolese music; ate with forks, not our fingers. And, of course, we would one day leave this place to work in southern Africa, or go to Europe or America for further studies. Escape, but not by dying.

What went wrong, David? Do you ask yourself this all the time like I do? Who brought it to us? Perhaps it was the other way around. Was it already steaming in the slums of Katanga, that huge ditch between the multi-storied halls of Makerere University on one hill and once grand Mulago Hospital on the other? I'm sure you, like the other campus boys, went down to those slums to drink crude waragi and enjoy crude women, because you were too poor to entice campus girls with chips and wine and money to perm our hair and buy new shoes. And we campus girls were not entirely innocent either. Frustrated campus boys watched but couldn't stop their girls turning to the

A Thank-You Note

older, richer mafutas in town, or top soldiers, new ones for every regime, just like how new, prize girls joined campus every year. Pass it on, pass it oriy he generouSy hlindy willfully sOy was our unspoken creed.

I can hear you protest: we weren't careless; we didn't know. At least for a while. Or didn't want to know. As long as there were no symptoms, there was nothing to be ignored except what wasn't said. Hushy and we passed it around like village drunkards sharing reed straws steeped in boiling pots of bitter, fermenting brew. Sex as a community event, another old tradition to be shared. The one who hoarded the straw wouldn't be invited back to the beer party. Share, share, life exhorted us; there was always more to be had. Skin doesn't wear out, not vaginas, not penises. Have a good wash and you're ready for the next day, the next lay. It was like the kid's game, tip. Chase someone, catch him, catch her, tip and run for your life, unless you kept your fingers crossed, paxies. Older kids weren't allowed to do paxies, they had to run and run, or not play at all. What fian! Too much good fun. Do you regret it, David?

We were young, beautiful, careless, open, giving. We never talked about the games we played, overwhelmed by the fact of bodies, of desire, of willing flesh, so available, so sweet, so easy. We could do what we wanted, and did. These were our bodies. After the tyranny of boarding school, religious rules, and overbearing parents, we were free! We had such a lovely gift, how could we not use it? Why should we regret it now? After all, even the good ones are dying, that's the cruelty of it. Some of the prim and proper girls who got proposed to and married quickly, while

the rest of us were left floating, are being killed by their husbands. All that people say to that is, men are men, munnange^ what can you do? Shrug with heavy resignation.

Do you think about these things, David, as you lie in bed, too weak to sit up and sick of sleeping? Do you ask yourself over and over again why Nassuna slept with Kizza when she knew he had slept with Mary, whose former boyfriend, Yonah, once had a sugar mummy, one of those fat yellow Dubai women, and we all know what business they did in Dubai. Remember those blaring red and yellow shirts Yonah got from her, the fake gold rings and pointy plastic shoes? Scandal! we whispered behind his back and laughed. So, why on earth did you have that fling with Nassuna? I know, she was the "Prize of Gayaza," "Queen of the Night," and so on. Can you believe I'm still jealous?

David, I didn't tell you, but, well, it can't hurt now, can it? I slept with Kizza too. Just once. Yes, I know, once is enough. Remember the Nkrumah Ball, second year? That party where you left me stranded, said you were coming back and didn't, so why shouldn't I blame you? Kizza walked in after you left; he was looking for Mary. Had you left with her? He was kind enough to take me back to my room, all the while telling me Mary this, Mary that. I told him you had left me there, but I didn't care. I lied. In my room, we cleared a half-bottle of U.G. as we talked by candlelight. Power had gone again that night. I remember our black shadows moving along the yellow glow of the walls as we talked. Kizza was so miserable I was moved. Oh, the way he rubbed his chin nervously, looking down, so shy. The way he listened to my sob story, slowly rubbing my upper arm. What can

A Thank-You Note

I say? We comforted each other. Don't they say misery loves company? Yes, and I'll tell you how he took ofif my blouse tentatively, marveling at my small breasts as if they were the very first he had seen. He held them gently like they were new, fragile petals. He made me like them; made me feel precious, delicate. Why should we not have made love? Is that a reason to die?

Maybe there's no point in retracing what's gone, but I will. I don't want to lose that too, David. We must remind ourselves that this gray isn't everything. Once, life sparkled. It did. Like that time, about a year later, when Mary came by to take us to the beach one bright Saturday afternoon. Remember? She already was frightfully thin. She was with her latest, Mustafa, that fat old Indian businessman. Mary told us, flatly, that the Dubai woman had died. Just that. Her rival was gone, but she would take all of us with her. Instead of fear and dread, we reacted with recklessness.

We decided to go a beach in Entebbe. I had been to Lido many times as a kid, but had my family seen me that day, they would have been shocked to death. Mustafa was our free ride, and he bought us two crates of beer and three roasted chicken. We all piled into the back of his pickup, falling on and over one another accidentally-deliberately, laughing. We sang pop songs loudly into the wind as we chased the good times to Lido Beach. We screamed to the banana trees, the wooden fruit stands with mangoes, oranges, pineapples, sugarcane, whose colors blurred into a delirious rainbow as we rushed past. We sang to us: ''This is my life!" And: ''Take me higher. ''The wind captured our voices and laughter, and carried them over the bright green hills to peo-

pie we would never know, we didn't want to know: we were the center of the universe. We were fully alive and knew it. The unspoken threat made the moment sharper.