Abyssinian Chronicles (51 page)

The forlorn drama of death was highlighted by the head-shaving ceremony. Aunt Tiida turned this banal ritual into a spectacle. According to custom, the heads of all the orphans had to be shaved stone-bald. Tiida saw her brothers’ and her sister’s hair collecting at the shaver’s feet and decided to rebel. When her turn came, the old man with the razor blade did not even look up. He just extended his arm, beckoning her to come forward.

“I am keeping my hair.”

“What!”

“You heard me,” she said, laying on more authority than she really commanded. “I am not mourning my father with a bald head. If you want, I will cover my hair, or even dirty it, but it is not going to be shaved off. Dad never cared for such scruples.”

“Do not hold up the ceremonies, woman. Come here and get it over with,” the old man, now surrounded by a phalanx of supporters, commanded.

Serenity and Kawayida, both red-eyed with grief, seemed about to explode. They looked at their sister with vehemence, waiting for her to change her mind. Angry voices were gathering volume. Dr. Saif Ssali, a man who knew how small things could cause big problems, moved forward to forestall trouble. He led Aunt Tiida out of the circle of mourners and talked to her. Crestfallen, she returned and offered her head to the razor.

News of the incident circulated quickly, feeding the thirsty gossip machine that ground incessantly to lighten the prevailing mood of doom and gloom. Another popular topic of conversation was the recent looting spree which had occurred in the towns and in some rural areas. Survivors from the youthful section of the village who had attacked the barracks and brought back army bunk beds, tents, boots, biscuits, corned beef, fridges, incubators and bullets joined the mourners and told their stories. Now and then we heard explosions from their end of the village. Idle youths put live bullets on lighted coals and cheered the explosions.

Serenity had looked at me with a mixture of envy and anger when he learned that I was responsible for the discovery of his father’s remains. There I was, once again, weakening his position as first son. He felt particularly defeated because on three separate occasions, Kawayida and he had passed through Owino Market on their way to the cathedrals. He could not figure out how they had missed those bodies, which had been so near the road. I was not in the least preoccupied with his concerns. I was only interested in seeing his first child, the daughter who was one year older than me. I pictured her as endowed with the elegance of Aunt Tiida, the mild temperament of her mother and Grandpa’s ambition. My hopes were dashed by Aunt Nakatu, who revealed that the girl would not attend the burial. She had boycotted all family functions attended by Serenity. It was clear now that Serenity had not been much of a parent to her. I suspected that he might have offered occasional financial help, say, when the child was sick, but no more. My feeling was that he did not hate her, but he simply did not know what to do with her, what to offer her. As a man brought up by female wolves, he must have assumed that all females had the wolfish capacity to take care of themselves, an assumption backed by Padlock’s independence and Nakibuka’s confidence.

I had already met Kasiko, the girl’s mother. She was far better looking than Padlock. She carried her years well, and compared with Padlock, time had been very kind to her. I liked her. She had not treated me like an enemy, her supplanter’s offspring, the way Padlock would have done. I would have liked to know her and to meet her daughter, but I did not know how to proceed. Ours was a family trapped in decay, the fibers binding us corroded by lack of contact, the dislocations of modernism and the vagaries of undigested Catholicism. If Serenity had not estranged this woman, there would possibly have been a way in which she would have enriched my life. There was something accommodating, sweet and mild about her, a grace in defeat, a glowing inner strength I would have liked to investigate.

Yet there was something ugly in the way Padlock and Kasiko avoided each other. They sat miles apart, eyeing each other warily like scavenging birds. If Kasiko were to fall into a pit, I was sure the ex-nun would not help her out. On the other hand, if Kasiko found Padlock in a pit, I was sure she would pull her out, if only to enjoy the revenge of being her savior. To me, the two women seemed two sides of the same coin: Padlock had strong principles, but as sole role model, she was defective, in need of a balancing element, somebody with heart like Kasiko. Kasiko in turn needed something of Padlock’s independence. Serenity knew this, but it was too late. He also knew that Hajj Gimbi’s children had better female role models than the shitters, who had to do only with the reclusive Padlock. “She is the mother of my children,” I heard Serenity say to Nakibuka several times.

Nakibuka was also present. Had Serenity ever had so many women with him at the same time and yet looked and felt so lonely? Kasiko, Padlock and Nakibuka seemed to be three hot pebbles in his boot. Hajj Gimbi would have called the women together and made them do things whether they liked it or not, but Serenity was walking a tightrope, doing his best to avoid the trinity, as if by ignoring them publicly, he was honoring some old agreement or diluting the gossip about the fact that Nakibuka, his mistress, was his wife’s aunt.

I was impressed with Nakibuka’s charisma and stage presence. She acted like the first wife of Serenity’s wifely trinity. She was oblivious to backbiters and moved confidently among the mourners. She organized a cooking brigade, sent loafing youths to fetch water and made sure that nobody had more than their fair share of food. She was back
in her role as the bridal aunt, taking care of both the uptight bride and the nervous groom, welcoming relatives and visitors, making sure that everything was running on schedule. She had first come to this village eighteen years ago. Now she was back as a conqueror, going straight to Serenity when she needed something, helping out Aunt Tiida where necessary, moving with the consummate ease of a fish in water.

I could not get enough of watching her. I was mesmerized. I could see what self-love had done to her: she looked at everyone, friend or foe, as if she were on the verge of breaking a secret or reciting for them a love poem. She looked at the mourners with friendly eyes, ready to welcome the wandering stranger, reassure the weary of heart and send off the hopeless with a smile. She was so good that even Aunt Tiida got irritated. “Who does she think she is?” I heard her say to Aunt Nakatu. In a sea of grief-stricken mourners, Nakibuka stood out, but so would she in a crush of joyful celebrants. There was something flirtatious about her, the very reason her husband used to beat her: she used to make him tremble to the core with insecurity, too aware of his own inadequacies. Serenity’s insecurities and discomforts were not exacerbated by Nakibuka, and neither would they be cured by her. It was the reason that, despite having this powerhouse in his corner, he still had the manner of an animal with caustic grease up the ass.

I did my best to keep out of Nakibuka’s way, because I did not want to become a messenger boy delivering messages to Padlock, Serenity or whomever else she wanted to contact. I kept out of Padlock’s way too. She looked pathetic, with her pouty, pinched-faced nun look. I disappeared whenever I could, returning only at mealtimes.

Sleeping arrangements caused a stir. Uncle Kawayida wanted Serenity’s “wives” to occupy his bachelor house. Nakibuka and Kasiko moved in, joined later by Aunt Lwandeka. Padlock, however, asserted her position and refused to enter the house with Nakibuka and Kasiko. Uncle Kawayida, assisted by Tiida, carried out negotiations with Padlock which ended in a stalemate. Serenity tactfully kept away. Padlock won the day, sleeping on the bed on which she had lost her virginity. Nakibuka and Kasiko, like allies in a trench war, slept outside, as though planning to storm the house at the crack of dawn.

I slept outside under the tree of Grandma and Grandpa’s afternoon
arguments. I listened to the howls of dogs in heat, the snores of sleepers and the calls of nocturnal creatures. I remembered the night I was confronted by Dorobo, the seminary watchman, the power saboteur. I could see him towering like a tree, wide as a wall. Fr. Gilles Lageau had left the country. Fr. Kaanders had died and was buried at the seminary. Lwendo was still pursuing his priestly vocation. Where was Cane? I remembered the two clean, stenchless bodies he had shown us so long ago. Memories of Grandpa lying in the shadow of the market office came back. The stench too. The slimy finger of nausea crept up my stomach and I retched, thinking about the bullets that had killed him. I could not sleep again. Tomorrow was the burial. The grave was dug, the last nail in the coffin of the past ready to go in. I became very restless. I walked to the youthful end of the village. The “restaurant,” “hotel” and “casino” were wrapped in darkness. The youths with their bullet-on-coals games were asleep. The coffee-smuggling business had died a natural death after the fall of Amin. The place where joyrides, card games and drinking bouts used to be held was strewn with plastic wrappers coming off new mattresses, radios, shirts and other goods looted from the barracks. The looting spree was over now. In its place was a lacuna of inactivity. People seemed to be waiting for oracles to pronounce on the future of post-Amin Uganda.

The burial took place early in the afternoon. There were two puke-yellow Postal Service trucks filled with Serenity’s trade-union members. Hajj Gimbi was there, together with many other people I did not know. The only thing I remembered was the two trucks coming and going. The rest of the day was wrapped in a sickly yellow film full of fading images. I kept wondering whether they had finally removed the bullet Grandpa had carried with him for thirteen years. I wanted to keep it as a souvenir. I remembered Grandma’s dream of the buffalo and the crocodile. I wondered where I fit in the past and the future.

The political picture eventually became clearer. Tanzania’s gray-haired leader, President Nyerere, was calling the shots. A coalition government incorporating old political forces and many diffuse new ones was in power. Nothing was getting done because of the infighting and interference from Tanzania. Aunt did not like her colleagues’ chances. She had discovered that the National Reform Movement was
small compared with the giants roaming the political arena. The brigadier had got only a small post: he was one of a team in charge of repairing military barracks and recruiting soldiers. Already there was talk of elections. Nyerere’s old friend Obote was free to participate. It was clear that Tanzania was finally ending his exile and using him to guarantee payment of war costs. Inside the country, expectation was low, disillusionment surging. Democracy built on old forces promised to be no bed of roses, and even at this early point there were rumors of impending civil war. The tidbits Aunt got from her colleagues pointed to a murky future as the infighting in the government mounted. For the moment, people eased doubts about the future with actions to improve the present. Parent-teacher associations sprung up and opened schools while the government dithered. It was evident that getting rid of a tyrant was one thing, setting the house in order quite another. I was kept from political musings by the string of tragedies that struck the family.

Female liberators were the latest sensation; they now controlled most roadblocks. I had seen them, behinds bulging in tight military pants, breasts bouncing in green army bras, hair peeping out from under sweaty caps. They were the direct response to the growing complaints about harassment at roadblocks manned by their male counterparts. The honeymoon between the populace and the liberators was over. Calls to remove all roadblocks were made daily, because the liberators too had succumbed to the temptation of ransoms. Plans were under way to send the Tanzanians back. In the meantime, many tried to acquire material things they could not get in Communist Tanzania. Roadblocks stayed because there were still people with guns used in armed robberies, a few of which got impounded at checkpoints.

For some, though—Aunt Kasawo, for one—the introduction of female personnel had come too late. Kasawo lived in a strategic little town between Kampala and Masaka. They called it the Cervix. It was taken by the liberators after a fierce battle and was used as a base for forces marching to Kampala. At the height of the campaign, a large contingent of Tanzanian forces was stationed there, waiting to be sent to the front line or back to base in Masaka.

Discipline was high among the soldiers, courtesy toward civilians was of the type Ugandans had never seen in their soldiers, and the harshness of punishment for defaulting soldiers was chilling in its severity.
Two Tanzanian soldiers had been shot soon after capturing the town for raping a sixty-year-old woman. The local citizens witnessed the shooting and could not believe their eyes. Amin’s men would not have lifted a finger against the rapists; they might even have promoted them, to spite the people. From then on, the citizens relaxed, leaving their doors unlocked, because nobody stole or robbed anymore. For three months, the people lived in a sort of utopia, which they hoped would outlive the fall of Amin.

In the morning, people went to watch army drills and to listen to the soldiers singing as they panted and sweated. Afternoons passed colorfully as civilians put their dreams for the future into words while they waited for news about the progress of the liberation war. In the evening, they gathered in groups and listened to Guerrilla Radio and cheered as Amin was called names, and sang along as popular tunes aired, and broke into discussion at the end of the broadcasts. Some of the programs were made in that town: Guerrilla Radio personnel came over and interviewed people about life in liberated areas. Local people heard their own voices on the air for the first time and enthused over the peace and the good relations between the liberation forces and the populace. Top military personnel also visited, and people saw with their own eyes the individuals who held the future of the country in their hands. Army personnel carried out light politicization campaigns, stressing the importance of self-help projects.