by Davina
Philomena Kawuma
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It
has just occurred to me that, in all the time I’ve used taxis, and I’ve used
taxis for a very long time, I’ve never sat in one in which a passenger has
farted.
has just occurred to me that, in all the time I’ve used taxis, and I’ve used
taxis for a very long time, I’ve never sat in one in which a passenger has
farted.
Remarkable,
isn’t it?
isn’t it?
It
is not as if our Members of Parliament passed a law against farting in taxis.
(And where there’s no law, there’s no transgression.) People fart everywhere
else—in classrooms, in restaurants, while queuing in a bank, next to the
photocopier—all the time. I expect them to fart in taxis, as well.
is not as if our Members of Parliament passed a law against farting in taxis.
(And where there’s no law, there’s no transgression.) People fart everywhere
else—in classrooms, in restaurants, while queuing in a bank, next to the
photocopier—all the time. I expect them to fart in taxis, as well.
Consider
this:
this:
At
any time T, I am probably thirty minutes away from my destination and there are
thirteen people in the taxi with me (not counting the driver and his
conductor). Still, no one farts. I’ve sat next to people whose mouths smell
like sewers, whose armpits smell like fish out of water, who haven’t brushed or
bathed in at least a month. I’ve sat in taxis that smell like abattoirs.
However, I’m yet to sit next to someone who smells like intestinal gas.
any time T, I am probably thirty minutes away from my destination and there are
thirteen people in the taxi with me (not counting the driver and his
conductor). Still, no one farts. I’ve sat next to people whose mouths smell
like sewers, whose armpits smell like fish out of water, who haven’t brushed or
bathed in at least a month. I’ve sat in taxis that smell like abattoirs.
However, I’m yet to sit next to someone who smells like intestinal gas.
Amazing!
If
Sweetheart were older, I’d share my amazement with her, as discretely as
possible, now-now. But she’s five, and touching everything—
Sweetheart were older, I’d share my amazement with her, as discretely as
possible, now-now. But she’s five, and touching everything—
The
window, the worn fabric on the car seats, the spare tire on which she’s resting
her shoes, the tips of her shoes, the smiley face on the 91.3 Capital FM
sticker, the—
window, the worn fabric on the car seats, the spare tire on which she’s resting
her shoes, the tips of her shoes, the smiley face on the 91.3 Capital FM
sticker, the—
‘Don’t
TOUCH that!’ I smack Sweetheart’s hand away from the empty yoghurt container on
the floor. ‘What’s WRONG with you? Can’t you see how DIRTY that thing is?’
TOUCH that!’ I smack Sweetheart’s hand away from the empty yoghurt container on
the floor. ‘What’s WRONG with you? Can’t you see how DIRTY that thing is?’
‘Oh
man,’ Sweetheart says. ‘I mean “oh woman.”’
man,’ Sweetheart says. ‘I mean “oh woman.”’
Under
different circumstances, I’d have said ‘Hah! Only five but already politically
correct. Brilliant!’ and applauded. Under these
circumstances, I’m grabbing my bag and looking for the hand sanitizer I bought
(two for the price of one; how could I resist?) from Mega Standard (the new
supermarket in Aponye City Mall). Then I’m whipping out the small bottle,
squirting sanitizer into Sweetheart’s tiny hands, asking her to rub, RUB—no,
not like that! like this—her hands
together. Above these circumstances,
I’m thinking she probably heard that on TV and wondering if I should applaud
unoriginality.
different circumstances, I’d have said ‘Hah! Only five but already politically
correct. Brilliant!’ and applauded. Under these
circumstances, I’m grabbing my bag and looking for the hand sanitizer I bought
(two for the price of one; how could I resist?) from Mega Standard (the new
supermarket in Aponye City Mall). Then I’m whipping out the small bottle,
squirting sanitizer into Sweetheart’s tiny hands, asking her to rub, RUB—no,
not like that! like this—her hands
together. Above these circumstances,
I’m thinking she probably heard that on TV and wondering if I should applaud
unoriginality.
‘Smells.’
Sweetheart is sniffing the blobs of sanitizer on her hand. ‘Laik ba bo gam.’
Sweetheart is sniffing the blobs of sanitizer on her hand. ‘Laik ba bo gam.’
Because
this is what it comes down to for children, right?—the smell of bubble-gum?
this is what it comes down to for children, right?—the smell of bubble-gum?
I
close my eyes, take a deep breath, and will myself to find the patience, the
goodwill, to get through this week of babysitting. I wonder if wanting to slap
her, right now, makes me a bad relative.
close my eyes, take a deep breath, and will myself to find the patience, the
goodwill, to get through this week of babysitting. I wonder if wanting to slap
her, right now, makes me a bad relative.
‘RUB
your hands. Like so.’
your hands. Like so.’
‘Laikso,’
Sweetheart says, and then giggles.
Sweetheart says, and then giggles.
‘Do
that until all the sanitizer disappears.’
that until all the sanitizer disappears.’
‘Dotha
tuntil ol thas anitaz these are pears.’
tuntil ol thas anitaz these are pears.’
‘That’s
not what I sound like.’
not what I sound like.’
‘Tha
snot watasound laik.’
snot watasound laik.’
‘That’s
not what I said.’
not what I said.’
‘Tha
snot watasaid.’
snot watasaid.’
‘Stop
imitating me.’
imitating me.’
‘Stopimi
tetin me.’
tetin me.’
‘You
think this is funny?’
think this is funny?’
‘Youth
ink thisis funny?’
ink thisis funny?’
—Why
do children have to touch everything?—or make a game out of things one has no
business making games out of? I’ll ask Becky. She’ll probably have the answers
to those questions. Becky’s pharmacy is at least forty minutes away, if I
adjust for the traffic jam at Queens Way and the time it’ll take this taxi to kujula.
Meanwhile, I will entertain myself with mental lists.
do children have to touch everything?—or make a game out of things one has no
business making games out of? I’ll ask Becky. She’ll probably have the answers
to those questions. Becky’s pharmacy is at least forty minutes away, if I
adjust for the traffic jam at Queens Way and the time it’ll take this taxi to kujula.
Meanwhile, I will entertain myself with mental lists.
List
of things I haven’t yet seen in taxis (but which I always expect to see):
of things I haven’t yet seen in taxis (but which I always expect to see):
Cockroaches
Bedbugs
Lice
Fleas
Ticks
Curled-up millipedes
Lizards
List of unexpected
things that have happened to me in taxis:
things that have happened to me in taxis:
Been vomited on. Twice. (Too long a
story to get into right now.)
story to get into right now.)
Had a thirty minute discussion about the
success of Zuma—the game, not the president—with a fourth year Makerere
University software engineering student (subsequently been hit on by the same).
success of Zuma—the game, not the president—with a fourth year Makerere
University software engineering student (subsequently been hit on by the same).
Been preached to by a man whose breath
reeked of Uganda waragi.
reeked of Uganda waragi.
Received a lecture, from a random
elderly man, on why many couples of my generation will divorce after five
years.
elderly man, on why many couples of my generation will divorce after five
years.
Been rained on (there was a hole in the
roof)
roof)
Lost a sandal (there was a hole in the
floor)—
floor)—
Sweetheart cuts into my edutainment
with, ‘Anti, weya ah we gowing?’
with, ‘Anti, weya ah we gowing?’
‘It’s
a surprise,’ I say.
a surprise,’ I say.
‘Watsa
sup rice?’
sup rice?’
‘SurpRISE.
Something sudden and unexpected.’
Something sudden and unexpected.’
Sweetheart
opens her mouth to say something, but then closes it again. After a while, she
reopens it. ‘Anti, I wanto susu.’
opens her mouth to say something, but then closes it again. After a while, she
reopens it. ‘Anti, I wanto susu.’
See? See
why I dislike travelling with children? See how they always choose the most
inopportune time to want to susu? When you tell them to susu, they are always
too engaged in a world-changing activity (the proper burial of a dead sugar ant
or the correct arrangement of a doll’s hair) to be bothered.
why I dislike travelling with children? See how they always choose the most
inopportune time to want to susu? When you tell them to susu, they are always
too engaged in a world-changing activity (the proper burial of a dead sugar ant
or the correct arrangement of a doll’s hair) to be bothered.
‘My dear,
do you see a toilet here?’
do you see a toilet here?’
‘I yam
not mai deeya. I yam sweet hat.’
not mai deeya. I yam sweet hat.’
‘Whatever.
Didn’t I tell you to susu before we left? Didn’t I?’
Didn’t I tell you to susu before we left? Didn’t I?’
Sweetheart’s
face falls. She turns away.
face falls. She turns away.
What was
I thinking?—Urgh, I should never have brought her along. Now where am I
supposed to find a child-friendly toilet? Someone needs to invent foldable and
disposable toilets ASAP!
I thinking?—Urgh, I should never have brought her along. Now where am I
supposed to find a child-friendly toilet? Someone needs to invent foldable and
disposable toilets ASAP!
I take
another deep breath, manage what I hope is a softening of my face, and nudge
Sweetheart. ‘Let me think of where we can find a toilet, OK?’ I say.
another deep breath, manage what I hope is a softening of my face, and nudge
Sweetheart. ‘Let me think of where we can find a toilet, OK?’ I say.
Sweetheart
nods.
nods.
Now,
where to find a toilet?—where? The
cleanest toilets I know are on the second floor of the building opposite
Maria’s Galleria. The best thing is that the man who manages them doesn’t skimp
on toilet paper. The first time I used his toilets, I blew close to five
minutes on effusive compliments.
where to find a toilet?—where? The
cleanest toilets I know are on the second floor of the building opposite
Maria’s Galleria. The best thing is that the man who manages them doesn’t skimp
on toilet paper. The first time I used his toilets, I blew close to five
minutes on effusive compliments.
We’ve become something of friends, since then;
sometimes, he lets me pay two hundred shillings (instead of three hundred
shillings). Every time I’m in town and need to pee, I use his toilets. It
usually takes five to ten minutes to walk there, from here. With Sweetheart,
it’ll probably take thrice as long.
sometimes, he lets me pay two hundred shillings (instead of three hundred
shillings). Every time I’m in town and need to pee, I use his toilets. It
usually takes five to ten minutes to walk there, from here. With Sweetheart,
it’ll probably take thrice as long.
If we
leave now, we’ll have to wait another thirty minutes or so for a different taxi
to kujula. If you count the three teenagers at the front (who requested the
driver to turn up the volume when Mafikizolo’s Khona started playing), the man
(who has just sat down) and the woman (who entered about five minutes ago),
there are now seven passengers in this taxi. (At this rate, it’ll take until
midday for the fourteenth passenger to show up.)
leave now, we’ll have to wait another thirty minutes or so for a different taxi
to kujula. If you count the three teenagers at the front (who requested the
driver to turn up the volume when Mafikizolo’s Khona started playing), the man
(who has just sat down) and the woman (who entered about five minutes ago),
there are now seven passengers in this taxi. (At this rate, it’ll take until
midday for the fourteenth passenger to show up.)
One of
the teenagers is wearing a fiercely colour-coordinated outfit. I wonder what
she bought first. The shoes? The hairclip? The earrings? The belt? Perhaps she
bought the shoes first and then scoured shops for everything else in the same
colour (a rare shade of purple; the purple you see when someone says something
that hurts the front of your brain). The man is reading a sheaf of papers with
a title carved in bold:
the teenagers is wearing a fiercely colour-coordinated outfit. I wonder what
she bought first. The shoes? The hairclip? The earrings? The belt? Perhaps she
bought the shoes first and then scoured shops for everything else in the same
colour (a rare shade of purple; the purple you see when someone says something
that hurts the front of your brain). The man is reading a sheaf of papers with
a title carved in bold:
MyChineseLanguage
My
Chinese language, indeed! Ugandans are learning Chinese like a problem. David
was telling me, the other day, that the university for which he works is (in
partnership with the Chinese embassy) offering free Chinese language lessons to
staff members. Heh! We might not have been around to witness the colonisation
of Africa by Europe, but we are definitely set to witness the colonisation of
Africa by China. Every single step-by-freaking-step of it.
Chinese language, indeed! Ugandans are learning Chinese like a problem. David
was telling me, the other day, that the university for which he works is (in
partnership with the Chinese embassy) offering free Chinese language lessons to
staff members. Heh! We might not have been around to witness the colonisation
of Africa by Europe, but we are definitely set to witness the colonisation of
Africa by China. Every single step-by-freaking-step of it.
The
woman, seated on my left, has a baby. One of my favourite things to do in
taxis, when mothers aren’t looking, is to make faces at their babies. Usually,
the baby laughs or makes faces. This one, with her (I’m assuming it’s a she)
sickle-shaped eyebrows, is a tough customer; all she’s done, despite my hard
work, is stare at me. Sweetheart is dying, just dying, of laughter. I don’t
know if she’s laughing at my failure to amuse the baby, or at the faces I’m
making (or both).
woman, seated on my left, has a baby. One of my favourite things to do in
taxis, when mothers aren’t looking, is to make faces at their babies. Usually,
the baby laughs or makes faces. This one, with her (I’m assuming it’s a she)
sickle-shaped eyebrows, is a tough customer; all she’s done, despite my hard
work, is stare at me. Sweetheart is dying, just dying, of laughter. I don’t
know if she’s laughing at my failure to amuse the baby, or at the faces I’m
making (or both).
The woman
has no idea what’s happening, since I make faces at her baby only when she
looks out the window. She hasn’t said anything to me, though she’s turned to
look at me twice. Braids frame her proud forehead. Her eyes are soft, and there
are freckles of sweat on her pudgy nose. She has the generic face of someone
you’ve met before. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover that people regularly
confuse her for someone else. I bet people frequently stop her on the street
and say ‘Hi, Julie!’, even though she’s probably a Doreen, a Sarah or a Diana.
I bet when they get close enough to realise that she isn’t Julie, offer an
apologetic smile, say ‘Sorry, you look like someone I know’, she merely shrugs
and walks away. It seems unlikely that she would fuss, stand with her arms
akimbo, demand to know why you’ve mistaken her identity.
has no idea what’s happening, since I make faces at her baby only when she
looks out the window. She hasn’t said anything to me, though she’s turned to
look at me twice. Braids frame her proud forehead. Her eyes are soft, and there
are freckles of sweat on her pudgy nose. She has the generic face of someone
you’ve met before. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover that people regularly
confuse her for someone else. I bet people frequently stop her on the street
and say ‘Hi, Julie!’, even though she’s probably a Doreen, a Sarah or a Diana.
I bet when they get close enough to realise that she isn’t Julie, offer an
apologetic smile, say ‘Sorry, you look like someone I know’, she merely shrugs
and walks away. It seems unlikely that she would fuss, stand with her arms
akimbo, demand to know why you’ve mistaken her identity.
‘Stop
laughing and look out the window,’ I say to Sweetheart, who wouldn’t let me
have the window seat. The least she can do, after arm-stronging, I mean
strong-arming me into the middle, is look out the window.
laughing and look out the window,’ I say to Sweetheart, who wouldn’t let me
have the window seat. The least she can do, after arm-stronging, I mean
strong-arming me into the middle, is look out the window.
Sweetheart’s
laughter eventually subsides into downslurred giggles. But she takes one look
at me and her shoulders resume their violent up-and-down movement. I smile.
Children! Who can understand them? They’ll laugh at anything. I could lay a
skirt out in the dirt and Sweetheart will find a reason to laugh at that,
too.
laughter eventually subsides into downslurred giggles. But she takes one look
at me and her shoulders resume their violent up-and-down movement. I smile.
Children! Who can understand them? They’ll laugh at anything. I could lay a
skirt out in the dirt and Sweetheart will find a reason to laugh at that,
too.
‘Are you
done?’ I say, when she collapses against me. Her body is limp, as if laughing
has drained her of all strength.
done?’ I say, when she collapses against me. Her body is limp, as if laughing
has drained her of all strength.
‘I yam
not Dan. I yam sweet hat.’
not Dan. I yam sweet hat.’
That is
the corniest thing I’ve heard in a long time; I’m not even going to honour that
with a simulated yawn (or eye-rolling). ‘If you say so.’
the corniest thing I’ve heard in a long time; I’m not even going to honour that
with a simulated yawn (or eye-rolling). ‘If you say so.’
Soon,
Sweetheart is curling up and kneading her stomach. ‘Anti Roni. I yav ova
laft. Naw mai stoma chis peyee neeng.’
Sweetheart is curling up and kneading her stomach. ‘Anti Roni. I yav ova
laft. Naw mai stoma chis peyee neeng.’
I’m not
going to say sorry, she brought this pain on herself, but I’m going to try and
distract her. I roll my tongue. ‘Can you do this?’
going to say sorry, she brought this pain on herself, but I’m going to try and
distract her. I roll my tongue. ‘Can you do this?’
‘Yes.’
I roll my
tongue again. ‘Waaaaah!’
tongue again. ‘Waaaaah!’
‘Anti, I
can. Se ngwe.’
can. Se ngwe.’
‘Ngwe.’
Sweetheart
rolls her tongue. Then she crosses her arms in front of her chest and smiles.
rolls her tongue. Then she crosses her arms in front of her chest and smiles.
Dammit!
All this time, I thought I was the only Ssagalabayomba who had the
tongue-rolling gene. Now it turns out there’s a five year-old who will share
that spot-light. Un-freaking-believable! Is there nothing in the world I can
claim for myself?
All this time, I thought I was the only Ssagalabayomba who had the
tongue-rolling gene. Now it turns out there’s a five year-old who will share
that spot-light. Un-freaking-believable! Is there nothing in the world I can
claim for myself?
The
woman’s head jerks. She turns, suddenly, and looks at me. (For a moment, I
worry that she has extra-sensory perception—access to my thoughts! Is she going
to answer my question?) She looks away just as suddenly, stares at her baby’s
head with what seems, at least to me, to be wonder. I stare at her staring at
her baby’s head and wonder if every woman is destined to do this—stare at her
baby’s head as if she can’t believe something that big-headed came out from
between her legs. She adjusts her baby’s head so that it’s now nestling between
her large breasts. After a while, she looks out the window again (to think,
presumably, about things only mothers think about).
woman’s head jerks. She turns, suddenly, and looks at me. (For a moment, I
worry that she has extra-sensory perception—access to my thoughts! Is she going
to answer my question?) She looks away just as suddenly, stares at her baby’s
head with what seems, at least to me, to be wonder. I stare at her staring at
her baby’s head and wonder if every woman is destined to do this—stare at her
baby’s head as if she can’t believe something that big-headed came out from
between her legs. She adjusts her baby’s head so that it’s now nestling between
her large breasts. After a while, she looks out the window again (to think,
presumably, about things only mothers think about).
‘Anti Roni.
Anti Ronii. Anti Roniii.’
Anti Ronii. Anti Roniii.’
‘Speak.’
‘See!’
Sweetheart is squirming in her seat and gesturing wildly at something. ‘A camo.
A camo!’
Sweetheart is squirming in her seat and gesturing wildly at something. ‘A camo.
A camo!’
‘Calm
down.’ I peek through the window. Well, well, well. There is, indeed, a camel
on the other side of the road. A man is leading it by a rope tied loosely
around its neck. The camel is walking (wait!—do camels merely walk?—or is there
a special name for what their limbs do?) at a leisurely pace. On one of its
humps is a multi-coloured blanket-ish thingie (the kind the Karimojong and
Masai drape over their shoulders).
down.’ I peek through the window. Well, well, well. There is, indeed, a camel
on the other side of the road. A man is leading it by a rope tied loosely
around its neck. The camel is walking (wait!—do camels merely walk?—or is there
a special name for what their limbs do?) at a leisurely pace. On one of its
humps is a multi-coloured blanket-ish thingie (the kind the Karimojong and
Masai drape over their shoulders).
‘What is
a camel doing in this part of town?’ I hear myself say.
a camel doing in this part of town?’ I hear myself say.
‘It’s
going to attend the Kampala Street festival,’ the woman says.
going to attend the Kampala Street festival,’ the woman says.
I’m so
shocked to hear her speak that I almost ask if she’s talking to me. I don’t
know if she’s being sarcastic or not, so I’m not sure what to say. I’m hovering
between saying ‘I just found out that camels chew cud’ or ‘when does the
festival start?’ or ‘desertification is a real and present danger’—trying to
decide, from what I can remember reading in How To Make Friends And Influence
People, which of the three is more neutral—when she says, ‘They say she’s
bringing dancers all the way from Brazil, you know.’
shocked to hear her speak that I almost ask if she’s talking to me. I don’t
know if she’s being sarcastic or not, so I’m not sure what to say. I’m hovering
between saying ‘I just found out that camels chew cud’ or ‘when does the
festival start?’ or ‘desertification is a real and present danger’—trying to
decide, from what I can remember reading in How To Make Friends And Influence
People, which of the three is more neutral—when she says, ‘They say she’s
bringing dancers all the way from Brazil, you know.’
‘Who is?’
‘The
Earthquake.’
Earthquake.’
‘The
Earthquake?’
Earthquake?’
‘Musisi.
Jeniffer Musisi. The Mayor?’
Jeniffer Musisi. The Mayor?’
‘Right.
Of course.’
Of course.’
‘Musisi
is Luganda for earthquake.’
is Luganda for earthquake.’
‘No, I
know that. I mean yes, I know that.’
know that. I mean yes, I know that.’
The woman
stares at me for a long time, during which I swear to myself that she’s
wondering if I’m a worthy co-conversationalist. She decides against engaging me
any further, surely, because she turns away and resumes her contemplation of
the world beyond the window.
stares at me for a long time, during which I swear to myself that she’s
wondering if I’m a worthy co-conversationalist. She decides against engaging me
any further, surely, because she turns away and resumes her contemplation of
the world beyond the window.
Well, that was weird! I think.
‘Anti, a
camo! A camoooo!’
camo! A camoooo!’
‘Yes. OK.
Fine. Relax. What is a camel in Luganda?’
Fine. Relax. What is a camel in Luganda?’
‘Engamiya!’ Sweetheart says.
I look at
the woman through the corner of my eye, half-expecting her to turn—to show some
interest in the Luganda-speaking child in my custody, but she doesn’t.
the woman through the corner of my eye, half-expecting her to turn—to show some
interest in the Luganda-speaking child in my custody, but she doesn’t.
‘Good
girl!’ I say.
girl!’ I say.
Wow,
Sweetheart knows the Luganda word for camel. (I didn’t know the Luganda word
for camel until about a year ago!) Perhaps this thematic curriculum business is
yielding fruit, after all. Perhaps her mother told her. Perhaps someone else
told her. Whatever the case, however she learnt, I’m proud of her. (I should
probably buy her ice-cream, for purposes of positive reinforcement and
what-have-you.)
Sweetheart knows the Luganda word for camel. (I didn’t know the Luganda word
for camel until about a year ago!) Perhaps this thematic curriculum business is
yielding fruit, after all. Perhaps her mother told her. Perhaps someone else
told her. Whatever the case, however she learnt, I’m proud of her. (I should
probably buy her ice-cream, for purposes of positive reinforcement and
what-have-you.)
If she
keeps this up, she will soon find out where the New Taxi Park is, will learn
how to use a needle and thread to reattach a button, will cross a busy road without
help. She will start to know things worth knowing—the capital city of every
country in Africa; the name of the currency used in Papua New Guinea; that, if
you regularly scrub your heels with a pumice stone, you won’t get enkyakya;
that a woodpecker can peck twenty times a second; that, in some parts of the
world, people eat camels.
keeps this up, she will soon find out where the New Taxi Park is, will learn
how to use a needle and thread to reattach a button, will cross a busy road without
help. She will start to know things worth knowing—the capital city of every
country in Africa; the name of the currency used in Papua New Guinea; that, if
you regularly scrub your heels with a pumice stone, you won’t get enkyakya;
that a woodpecker can peck twenty times a second; that, in some parts of the
world, people eat camels.
‘Did you
know,’ I say, ‘That, in some parts of the world, people eat camels?’
know,’ I say, ‘That, in some parts of the world, people eat camels?’
‘Wheech
pee po?’
pee po?’
‘People
like you.’
like you.’
‘Chood
ren?’
ren?’
‘Children.
Brothers. Sisters. Mothers. Fathers. Aunties. Uncles. Everyone.’
Brothers. Sisters. Mothers. Fathers. Aunties. Uncles. Everyone.’
‘Wai do
they eet camos?’
they eet camos?’
‘Who
knows?’
knows?’
‘Ah camos
sweet?’
sweet?’
‘Who
knows?’
knows?’
‘Do they
poot solt on camos wen they ah gowing to eet them?’
poot solt on camos wen they ah gowing to eet them?’
The
putting of salt on the things people eat is, I have noticed, something to which
Sweetheart attaches great importance. The other day, I spied her sprinkling
salt on a slice of pineapple. I wonder if I should have mentioned this to the
doctor.
putting of salt on the things people eat is, I have noticed, something to which
Sweetheart attaches great importance. The other day, I spied her sprinkling
salt on a slice of pineapple. I wonder if I should have mentioned this to the
doctor.
‘I’m sure
they do,’ I say.
they do,’ I say.
Sweetheart
turns to the window. ‘Anti, eez that man gowing to eet that camo?’
turns to the window. ‘Anti, eez that man gowing to eet that camo?’
‘I
wouldn’t know.’
wouldn’t know.’
She
waves. ‘Bai camo.’
waves. ‘Bai camo.’
The camel
does not wave back.
does not wave back.
When she
turns to me, I interpret this as a cue to continue our conversation. ‘People
eat all sorts of things. Camels. Crocodiles. Dogs.’
turns to me, I interpret this as a cue to continue our conversation. ‘People
eat all sorts of things. Camels. Crocodiles. Dogs.’
Her eyes
widen. ‘Sam pee po eet Gad?’
widen. ‘Sam pee po eet Gad?’
Guard, my
dog, is the only dog in Sweetheart’s life.
dog, is the only dog in Sweetheart’s life.
‘Sadly,
yes. Some people eat Guard.’
yes. Some people eat Guard.’
‘Wai? Ah
dogs sweet?’
dogs sweet?’
I ignore
her question. ‘I’ve heard of people eating snails, and caterpillars.’
her question. ‘I’ve heard of people eating snails, and caterpillars.’
Sweetheart
plugs her mouth with her fist. She looks fit to vomit.
plugs her mouth with her fist. She looks fit to vomit.
Call me
perverse, but I’m enjoying her horror. ‘Even rats,’ I say.
perverse, but I’m enjoying her horror. ‘Even rats,’ I say.
‘Oso you,
Anti! Rats, they ah not fo eeteen!’
Anti! Rats, they ah not fo eeteen!’
‘Aren’t
they?’
they?’
‘Noooo.
Rats ah fo kee peeng unda tha bed. They geeve you mani wen you geeve them
teeth.’
Rats ah fo kee peeng unda tha bed. They geeve you mani wen you geeve them
teeth.’
‘I see.
Though I can’t imagine why they’d want our teeth. Don’t they have teeth of
their own?’
Though I can’t imagine why they’d want our teeth. Don’t they have teeth of
their own?’
I can
tell from the size of Sweetheart’s eyes that my question has caught her
flat-footed. She bites her lip. ‘Anti, samov tha rats…’
tell from the size of Sweetheart’s eyes that my question has caught her
flat-footed. She bites her lip. ‘Anti, samov tha rats…’
‘I’m
listening.’
listening.’
‘Anti,
samov tha rats…’
samov tha rats…’
‘Ehe?
Some of the rats, what?’
Some of the rats, what?’
‘Anti,
samov the rats, wen they growap…they wanto be taigaz…beeeg taigaz…so they need
mo teeth.’
samov the rats, wen they growap…they wanto be taigaz…beeeg taigaz…so they need
mo teeth.’
I suck my
teeth. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
teeth. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
Sweetheart
giggles. ‘Tha dazent mekene sens.’
giggles. ‘Tha dazent mekene sens.’
‘Now,
where were we? Ah, yes, weird things people eat. Grasshoppers are an excellent
example. In Uganda, we eat grasshoppers.’
where were we? Ah, yes, weird things people eat. Grasshoppers are an excellent
example. In Uganda, we eat grasshoppers.’
‘Grasso
paz ah sweet! Laik chee ken.’
paz ah sweet! Laik chee ken.’
‘I agree.
But I talked to a Kenyan who thinks eating grasshoppers is disgusting.’
But I talked to a Kenyan who thinks eating grasshoppers is disgusting.’
‘Wats
distgusing?’
distgusing?’
‘Disgusting.’
Sweetheart
lifts her eyebrows. ‘Dis gussing?’
lifts her eyebrows. ‘Dis gussing?’
‘Disgusting.
Dis gus TING.’
Dis gus TING.’
‘Dis GUS
ting.’
ting.’
‘That’s
right.’
right.’
‘Wats DIS
gus ting?’
gus ting?’
‘Remember
when you had malaria, and you vomited on me on the way to the hospital?’
when you had malaria, and you vomited on me on the way to the hospital?’
Sweetheart
gives me her droopy-eyelid look.
gives me her droopy-eyelid look.
‘Well, that was disgusting.’
‘Anti,
grasso paz ah not dis GUS ting.’
grasso paz ah not dis GUS ting.’
‘Grasshoppers
are the furthest thing from disgusting.’
are the furthest thing from disgusting.’
Ah, I
can’t wait for grasshoppers to be in season again. I’ll go to Nakasero Market
and buy those fried-until-crispy ones. Then I’ll sprinkle chilli on them and
eat them, in bed, while watching reruns of Gossip Girl. Oh, just thinking of
that moment is making me salivate.
can’t wait for grasshoppers to be in season again. I’ll go to Nakasero Market
and buy those fried-until-crispy ones. Then I’ll sprinkle chilli on them and
eat them, in bed, while watching reruns of Gossip Girl. Oh, just thinking of
that moment is making me salivate.
‘Anti,
whata bout nswa?’
whata bout nswa?’
‘What
about them?’
about them?’
‘They ah
oso sweet.’
oso sweet.’
‘White
ants are OK, but I prefer grasshoppers.’
ants are OK, but I prefer grasshoppers.’
‘What’s
to prefer?’
to prefer?’
Soon, I
will have to re-think my
children-are-not-halfwits-so-talk-to-them-exactly-as-you’d-talk-to-an-adult
policy; it costs more patience than I anticipated. ‘It means I like
grasshoppers more than I like white ants.’
will have to re-think my
children-are-not-halfwits-so-talk-to-them-exactly-as-you’d-talk-to-an-adult
policy; it costs more patience than I anticipated. ‘It means I like
grasshoppers more than I like white ants.’
‘But
Anti, nswa ah sweeter than nsenene.’
Anti, nswa ah sweeter than nsenene.’
Freaking
hell! How am I related to someone who thinks white ants taste better than
grasshoppers? I can’t believe I’m about to launch into a debate about why white
ants are inferior to grasshoppers (reminds me of those pitiful but
well-intentioned ‘mother is better than father’ and ‘fire is better than water’
debates we used to organise in primary school).
hell! How am I related to someone who thinks white ants taste better than
grasshoppers? I can’t believe I’m about to launch into a debate about why white
ants are inferior to grasshoppers (reminds me of those pitiful but
well-intentioned ‘mother is better than father’ and ‘fire is better than water’
debates we used to organise in primary school).
‘Look
here, grasshoppers taste better. Much, MUCH, better. Everybody knows this. It’s
a no-brainer.’
here, grasshoppers taste better. Much, MUCH, better. Everybody knows this. It’s
a no-brainer.’
‘Anti,
wats a nob rainer?’
wats a nob rainer?’
I’m tired
of correcting her, so I just say, ‘Something that’s obvious.’
of correcting her, so I just say, ‘Something that’s obvious.’
‘Ovyass
stats weeth o.’
stats weeth o.’
‘Yes.’
‘O eez fo
oneeyons. V eez fo van. Ass eeza natha nem fo don kee!’
oneeyons. V eez fo van. Ass eeza natha nem fo don kee!’
‘Hold it.
How do you know ass is another name for donkey?’
How do you know ass is another name for donkey?’
‘O V
YASS.’
YASS.’
‘Obvious.
Straightforward. So easy, everyone should know it.’
Straightforward. So easy, everyone should know it.’
‘Az eezee
az eeteeng matooke.’
az eeteeng matooke.’
‘More or
less.’
less.’
‘Mo
roless.’
roless.’
‘Yes.
Now, as I was saying, people in different parts of the world eat different
things. Here, we eat matooke. But, out there, somewhere in the world, some
people eat other people.’
Now, as I was saying, people in different parts of the world eat different
things. Here, we eat matooke. But, out there, somewhere in the world, some
people eat other people.’
‘Anti, olimba!’
‘Ate ggwe
oli matama.’
oli matama.’
‘Siri
matama.’ She giggles, and then pinches her cheeks. ‘Nze ndi sweet hat.’
matama.’ She giggles, and then pinches her cheeks. ‘Nze ndi sweet hat.’
I make
growling and burping sounds. ‘If you’re sweet, I have no choice but to eat
you!’ I nibble her earlobe and pretend-bite her cheek.
growling and burping sounds. ‘If you’re sweet, I have no choice but to eat
you!’ I nibble her earlobe and pretend-bite her cheek.
She
pushes me away, covers her face, and squeals.
‘Anti, donteet me.’ She screams. ‘Donteeeeet me!’
pushes me away, covers her face, and squeals.
‘Anti, donteet me.’ She screams. ‘Donteeeeet me!’
‘Sshhh!’
I say, and then remind her that we are in a taxi.
I say, and then remind her that we are in a taxi.
She looks
around, sidles towards me, and cups her hands around my ear. ‘Anti, ah pee po
sweet?’
around, sidles towards me, and cups her hands around my ear. ‘Anti, ah pee po
sweet?’
Valid
question. But how would I know anything about that? Wait! I know! I read
somewhere—I don’t know where I read these things, or how such books find
me—that human flesh tastes like horse meat. Yet, for some reason, perhaps this
is what I wish to believe, I tell Sweetheart that people taste like fish.
question. But how would I know anything about that? Wait! I know! I read
somewhere—I don’t know where I read these things, or how such books find
me—that human flesh tastes like horse meat. Yet, for some reason, perhaps this
is what I wish to believe, I tell Sweetheart that people taste like fish.
She
scratches her head and curls her lower lip. ‘Laik mukene?’
scratches her head and curls her lower lip. ‘Laik mukene?’
I’m
thinking Nile Perch, but, what the hell, let’s go with mukene. ‘Yes. Like mukene.’
thinking Nile Perch, but, what the hell, let’s go with mukene. ‘Yes. Like mukene.’
I can
tell from the way she continues to scratch her head that Sweetheart isn’t
convinced. However, I don’t think the fish/people angle is a stretch.
tell from the way she continues to scratch her head that Sweetheart isn’t
convinced. However, I don’t think the fish/people angle is a stretch.
No, hear
me out.
me out.
Consider
that time, in primary school, when my classmates and I swore off fish from Lake
Victoria. Because we’d heard stories about the war. Because we knew Rwandese
were killing each other, even though we weren’t entirely sure why. Because we
understood the relationship between River Kagera and Lake Victoria—recognised
its similarity to the relationships we had with our pen-pals (Ragnhild in
Sweden; Alistair in Britain; Inez in Portugal); internalised the principal
difference, which was that we didn’t send dead bodies to Ragnhild and Alistair
and Inez (while, of course, River Kagera did). We were determined not to be the
Ugandans who ate the fish that fed on Rwandese.
that time, in primary school, when my classmates and I swore off fish from Lake
Victoria. Because we’d heard stories about the war. Because we knew Rwandese
were killing each other, even though we weren’t entirely sure why. Because we
understood the relationship between River Kagera and Lake Victoria—recognised
its similarity to the relationships we had with our pen-pals (Ragnhild in
Sweden; Alistair in Britain; Inez in Portugal); internalised the principal
difference, which was that we didn’t send dead bodies to Ragnhild and Alistair
and Inez (while, of course, River Kagera did). We were determined not to be the
Ugandans who ate the fish that fed on Rwandese.
OK, I
guess what I am trying to say is that it is entirely possible that people taste
like fish. Rather that fish tastes like people. Is that why I’ve never liked
Nile Perch?—because it tastes like the people it eats? I’m asking a silly
question, based on a crackpot idea, I concede, but I’m feeling brave and
whimsical—perhaps as brave and whimsical as Sweetheart, who is currently
addressing herself in public.
guess what I am trying to say is that it is entirely possible that people taste
like fish. Rather that fish tastes like people. Is that why I’ve never liked
Nile Perch?—because it tastes like the people it eats? I’m asking a silly
question, based on a crackpot idea, I concede, but I’m feeling brave and
whimsical—perhaps as brave and whimsical as Sweetheart, who is currently
addressing herself in public.
‘Sweet
hat, lis ten to me,’ she’s saying. ‘Anti sed sam peepo eet atha pee po. Sweet
hat, ehe? Wat ah you se ying? That pee po test laik mukene. Mukene, mekene! Mekene, mukene. Ehe? Pee po test laik mekene. Sweet
hat, don tok wen I yam to king. Ah, you lis ten. Lis ten! Sam pee po eet atha mukene mekene…sam pee po eet atha mekene mukene…’
hat, lis ten to me,’ she’s saying. ‘Anti sed sam peepo eet atha pee po. Sweet
hat, ehe? Wat ah you se ying? That pee po test laik mukene. Mukene, mekene! Mekene, mukene. Ehe? Pee po test laik mekene. Sweet
hat, don tok wen I yam to king. Ah, you lis ten. Lis ten! Sam pee po eet atha mukene mekene…sam pee po eet atha mekene mukene…’
‘Cannibals.
People who eat other people are called cannibals.’
People who eat other people are called cannibals.’
Sweetheart
stops talking to herself. ‘Can eee boolls.’
stops talking to herself. ‘Can eee boolls.’
‘Cannibals.’
‘Ca fo
can. Nee fo nee leeng. Bo fo boolls.’
can. Nee fo nee leeng. Bo fo boolls.’
‘Yes.’
‘C fo
crestet cren. E fo egg. B fo boolls.’
crestet cren. E fo egg. B fo boolls.’
‘Everyone
says b for balls. Dare to be different, honey.’
says b for balls. Dare to be different, honey.’
‘I yam
not hani. I yam sweet hat!’
not hani. I yam sweet hat!’
‘How
about b for buffet?’
about b for buffet?’
‘Anti,
teecha sed b for boolls.’
teecha sed b for boolls.’
‘If
you insist. Me, I was just trying to save you from sounding common.’
you insist. Me, I was just trying to save you from sounding common.’
‘C fo
crestet cren. E fo egg. B fo boolls. C fo crestet cren. E fo egg. B fo boolls.
C fo crestet cren. E fo egg. B fo boolls…. ’
crestet cren. E fo egg. B fo boolls. C fo crestet cren. E fo egg. B fo boolls.
C fo crestet cren. E fo egg. B fo boolls…. ’
This is
getting irritating. ‘Cannibals, is where we were. Focus.’
getting irritating. ‘Cannibals, is where we were. Focus.’
Sweetheart
looks down at her fingers and then appears, for a while, to be counting something
off them. She looks up and pinches the tip of her nose. ‘Can eee boolls ah pee
po hoo eet atha pee po!’
looks down at her fingers and then appears, for a while, to be counting something
off them. She looks up and pinches the tip of her nose. ‘Can eee boolls ah pee
po hoo eet atha pee po!’
‘Precisely.’
‘Anti, do
they eet weeth hands or do they uza fok?’
they eet weeth hands or do they uza fok?’
Does it
matter what you use? Food is food, and how it gets into your mouth shouldn’t
matter. Well, that’s MY opinion. I have friends who insist that cocoa drunk
from a porcelain mug tastes better than cocoa drunk from a tumpeco. It’s not something that keeps me awake at night, so I
haven’t given it much thought. I can see, though, how someone who prefers to
drink porcelain-mugged-cocoa might insist that eating with hands ‘sweetens’
food. But, as I said, before, I haven’t given it much thought.
matter what you use? Food is food, and how it gets into your mouth shouldn’t
matter. Well, that’s MY opinion. I have friends who insist that cocoa drunk
from a porcelain mug tastes better than cocoa drunk from a tumpeco. It’s not something that keeps me awake at night, so I
haven’t given it much thought. I can see, though, how someone who prefers to
drink porcelain-mugged-cocoa might insist that eating with hands ‘sweetens’
food. But, as I said, before, I haven’t given it much thought.
I come
this close to telling Sweetheart about the cannibal (I think he was German)—the
one I saw on National Geographic, or Crime and Investigation, or whichever
channel it was; this close to discussing the possibility that the people he ate
might have tasted different when he used his hands. I think better of
discussing the German cannibal as soon as I realise that she will ask questions
that’ll oblige me to explain why he killed people and kept their flesh in his
fridge. I’ll have to explain necrophilia and other related philias to her. OK,
I won’t have to, but I’ll want to.
And I shouldn’t. Sweetheart is a child, dammit! I should let her enjoy her
childhood.
this close to telling Sweetheart about the cannibal (I think he was German)—the
one I saw on National Geographic, or Crime and Investigation, or whichever
channel it was; this close to discussing the possibility that the people he ate
might have tasted different when he used his hands. I think better of
discussing the German cannibal as soon as I realise that she will ask questions
that’ll oblige me to explain why he killed people and kept their flesh in his
fridge. I’ll have to explain necrophilia and other related philias to her. OK,
I won’t have to, but I’ll want to.
And I shouldn’t. Sweetheart is a child, dammit! I should let her enjoy her
childhood.
OK, OK,
it’s settled: I’m going to let sweetheart enjoy her childhood.
it’s settled: I’m going to let sweetheart enjoy her childhood.
‘You look
like a monkey,’ I say.
like a monkey,’ I say.
Sweetheart
tries to protest. I tickle her. She nearly chocks on
her laughter, but I don’t stop tickling her until she admits to resembling a
monkey. After we establish which species of monkey she most closely resembles
(the black-and-white colobus monkey; Anti, wat eez colo bus?—eez eet oso
sweet?), she changes the topic back:
tries to protest. I tickle her. She nearly chocks on
her laughter, but I don’t stop tickling her until she admits to resembling a
monkey. After we establish which species of monkey she most closely resembles
(the black-and-white colobus monkey; Anti, wat eez colo bus?—eez eet oso
sweet?), she changes the topic back:
‘Anti, the
pee po hoo eet atha pee po…do they cook them een soss pans?’
pee po hoo eet atha pee po…do they cook them een soss pans?’
Dear
heaven! I should never have said anything about cannibals. She’s never going to
let this go, is she?
heaven! I should never have said anything about cannibals. She’s never going to
let this go, is she?
I saw a
documentary, about a year ago, about Kony and some of the children he abducted (well,
the ones escaped). A girl of about eight said she discovered her parents’ heads
in a pot (LRA rebels beheaded her parents and then boiled their heads). Another
child, a boy of about nine, said the rebels gave him a hoe and instructed him
to behead his dad. The boy also discovered his dad’s head in a pot. They didn’t
say what happened to the rest of their parent’s bodies, but it is possible that
the rebels ate them.
documentary, about a year ago, about Kony and some of the children he abducted (well,
the ones escaped). A girl of about eight said she discovered her parents’ heads
in a pot (LRA rebels beheaded her parents and then boiled their heads). Another
child, a boy of about nine, said the rebels gave him a hoe and instructed him
to behead his dad. The boy also discovered his dad’s head in a pot. They didn’t
say what happened to the rest of their parent’s bodies, but it is possible that
the rebels ate them.
I’ve
heard stories about cannibals boiling human flesh in strong-bodied and
heavy-lidded saucepans (there was a story about this in the papers, recently,
although I can’t remember in which district this happened; we have so many new
districts these days that it’s hard to keep track of all the names). I can’t
say any of this to Sweetheart, of course—can’t compare earthenware and steel
pans, as far as the suitability of cooking human flesh is concerned.
heard stories about cannibals boiling human flesh in strong-bodied and
heavy-lidded saucepans (there was a story about this in the papers, recently,
although I can’t remember in which district this happened; we have so many new
districts these days that it’s hard to keep track of all the names). I can’t
say any of this to Sweetheart, of course—can’t compare earthenware and steel
pans, as far as the suitability of cooking human flesh is concerned.
‘I think
to cook anything, whether or not the thing in question is meat, you need a
cooking utensil,’ I say.
to cook anything, whether or not the thing in question is meat, you need a
cooking utensil,’ I say.
I await
Sweetheart’s reply in vain. She doesn’t even ask me what a utensil is. She’s
staring at the woman who has appeared on the other side of her window, whose
hair is hidden behind a scarf, and whose forehead is lined with dust. There are
bottles of mineral water and soda in the green bucket she’s holding. Most of
the ice in the bucket has melted. The bottles are sweating. The woman avoids my
eyes. She reserves her tired, dry-lipped smile for Sweetheart.
Sweetheart’s reply in vain. She doesn’t even ask me what a utensil is. She’s
staring at the woman who has appeared on the other side of her window, whose
hair is hidden behind a scarf, and whose forehead is lined with dust. There are
bottles of mineral water and soda in the green bucket she’s holding. Most of
the ice in the bucket has melted. The bottles are sweating. The woman avoids my
eyes. She reserves her tired, dry-lipped smile for Sweetheart.
‘Anti, I
want Fanta.’
want Fanta.’
‘OK. But
not now,’ I say.
not now,’ I say.
The woman
makes eye contact. She pleads with me to buy something from her, says she
hasn’t sold anything this morning. I break eye contact and focus on the back of
the head of the man whose Chinese language might soon become our national
language.
makes eye contact. She pleads with me to buy something from her, says she
hasn’t sold anything this morning. I break eye contact and focus on the back of
the head of the man whose Chinese language might soon become our national
language.
‘Anti, I
want Fanta.’
want Fanta.’
Well, we
can’t always have what we want, when we want it, now, can we? I want to be
Lewis Hamilton’s girlfriend. I want a boss who isn’t threatened by the fact
that some of her subordinates’ smart phones are more expensive than hers. I
want to lose two kilos without actually doing any exercise. But am I going to
get all these things now, today, any time soon? Nope.
can’t always have what we want, when we want it, now, can we? I want to be
Lewis Hamilton’s girlfriend. I want a boss who isn’t threatened by the fact
that some of her subordinates’ smart phones are more expensive than hers. I
want to lose two kilos without actually doing any exercise. But am I going to
get all these things now, today, any time soon? Nope.
‘I said
not now!’
not now!’
The woman
slinks away. A boy who can’t be older than ten approaches the window as soon as
she leaves. He balances a kibo on his head. I’m so impressed by the thoughtful
and intricate arrangement of the plastic packets of banana crisps in the kibo
(if the packets were coloured, they would be florets on a sunflower!) that I
buy three packets—two for Sweetheart, one for me.
slinks away. A boy who can’t be older than ten approaches the window as soon as
she leaves. He balances a kibo on his head. I’m so impressed by the thoughtful
and intricate arrangement of the plastic packets of banana crisps in the kibo
(if the packets were coloured, they would be florets on a sunflower!) that I
buy three packets—two for Sweetheart, one for me.
As soon
as I give Sweetheart one packet of banana crisps, she starts to bite a hole
into the plastic.
as I give Sweetheart one packet of banana crisps, she starts to bite a hole
into the plastic.
‘Wait!’ I
say. I squeeze sanitizer into Sweetheart’s hands. She spends more time sniffing
the sanitizer than she does rubbing her hands together. ‘Eet smells laik choco
let.’
say. I squeeze sanitizer into Sweetheart’s hands. She spends more time sniffing
the sanitizer than she does rubbing her hands together. ‘Eet smells laik choco
let.’
First
bubble-gum. Now chocolate. Whom is she trying to con? ‘No it doesn’t. Stop
hallucinating.’
bubble-gum. Now chocolate. Whom is she trying to con? ‘No it doesn’t. Stop
hallucinating.’
‘Wats
hallucitating?’
hallucitating?’
‘I’ll
tell you when you’re fifteen,’ I say, and then rub her hands together until the
blob of sanitizer disappears. ‘OK. Now, you can eat.’
tell you when you’re fifteen,’ I say, and then rub her hands together until the
blob of sanitizer disappears. ‘OK. Now, you can eat.’
Sweetheart
is not a noisy eater, but she has a peculiar habit of examining whatever she
intends to put into her mouth. I want to joke about how Uganda is a
banana-going-on-an-apple republic, but she won’t get it. I settle for, ‘You
should apply for a position at the Uganda National Bureau of Standards.’
is not a noisy eater, but she has a peculiar habit of examining whatever she
intends to put into her mouth. I want to joke about how Uganda is a
banana-going-on-an-apple republic, but she won’t get it. I settle for, ‘You
should apply for a position at the Uganda National Bureau of Standards.’
She
doesn’t get the UNBS thing, either. She simply carries on with her
investigation of every banana crisp that makes it out of the packet. I am just
about to say ‘Stop that’ when my thigh starts vibrating.
I extract my phone from my jeans-pocket and swipe the screen.
doesn’t get the UNBS thing, either. She simply carries on with her
investigation of every banana crisp that makes it out of the packet. I am just
about to say ‘Stop that’ when my thigh starts vibrating.
I extract my phone from my jeans-pocket and swipe the screen.
‘David.’
‘Mantrap.’
‘Yet
another endearment. Yay.’
another endearment. Yay.’
‘How was
your night?’
your night?’
‘Noisy.’
‘Lucky
you. Didn’t get any. Had to work through the night.’
you. Didn’t get any. Had to work through the night.’
I don’t
correct David; don’t tell him I wasn’t referring to that kind of noise. David has many erroneous ideas about me. Yet,
for some reason, I never correct him. ‘Haven’t you heard of hand jobs?’
correct David; don’t tell him I wasn’t referring to that kind of noise. David has many erroneous ideas about me. Yet,
for some reason, I never correct him. ‘Haven’t you heard of hand jobs?’
David
laughs. ‘Heard of handsome.’
laughs. ‘Heard of handsome.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Handsome.’
‘I’m
lost.’
lost.’
‘OK.
Let’s count from threesome going
down.’
Let’s count from threesome going
down.’
‘Why?’
‘Do you
want to know what handsome is or not?’
want to know what handsome is or not?’
‘Okay.
Threesome.’
Threesome.’
‘Twosome.’
‘Uhm…onesome.’
David
laughs. ‘You’re close.’
laughs. ‘You’re close.’
‘Close to
what?’
what?’
‘…’
‘Oh. Oh! I get it now! Handsome. As in—’
‘—yup.’
‘Handsome? That’s really bright. I would never
have—’
have—’
‘No,
you’d never have. But yes.’
you’d never have. But yes.’
‘Wow! Can
I borrow that word? I’ll return it after a month.’
I borrow that word? I’ll return it after a month.’
‘Have
peace.’
peace.’
‘Handsome. Wow. I’m really impressed, David. That’s
brilliant.’
brilliant.’
‘That’s
me. Impressive and brilliant. How’s Sweetheart?’
me. Impressive and brilliant. How’s Sweetheart?’
‘Better.’
‘What did
the doctor say?’
the doctor say?’
‘Antibiotics.
Then we see him after two weeks.’
Then we see him after two weeks.’
‘And the
sneezing?’
sneezing?’
‘The
sneezing. Hmn. He thinks she’s allergic to something. But we’ll know for sure
after two weeks.’
sneezing. Hmn. He thinks she’s allergic to something. But we’ll know for sure
after two weeks.’
‘Sawa, sawa. Called to ask how she was.’
‘She’s
fine.’
fine.’
‘Got your
text, by the way. Would have called earlier but you know how things are.’
text, by the way. Would have called earlier but you know how things are.’
‘I know
how things get.’
how things get.’
‘I said I
was sorry.’
was sorry.’
‘It’s
fine. Don’t worry about it.’
fine. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Are you
sure?’
sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will I
see you Saturday?’
see you Saturday?’
‘I don’t
think so.’
think so.’
There’s a
silence. Then, ‘Why not?’
silence. Then, ‘Why not?’
‘Just.’
Another
silence. Then, ‘You’re punishing me.’
silence. Then, ‘You’re punishing me.’
Of
course I’m punishing him—duh?—but I’m not about to tell him that he’s right.
‘Why would I punish you?’
course I’m punishing him—duh?—but I’m not about to tell him that he’s right.
‘Why would I punish you?’
A
sigh. ‘Can I call you on Friday?’
sigh. ‘Can I call you on Friday?’
‘If you
want.’
want.’
‘Will you
pick up?’
pick up?’
‘Maybe.
Another
sigh. ‘Put Sweetheart on the phone.’
sigh. ‘Put Sweetheart on the phone.’
‘Sweetheart.’
I press the phone to her right ear. ‘Uncle David wants to talk to you.’
I press the phone to her right ear. ‘Uncle David wants to talk to you.’
‘Halo
Unco Deveed,’ Sweetheart says.
Unco Deveed,’ Sweetheart says.
‘…’
‘I yam
fayin.’
fayin.’
‘…’
‘Me, I
dont no. Anti eez tha wan hoo noz.’
dont no. Anti eez tha wan hoo noz.’
‘…’
‘Yes.’
‘…’
‘No.’
‘…’
‘Yes.’
‘…’
‘No. Me,
I yam ah beeg gal. I don crai eneehawly.’
I yam ah beeg gal. I don crai eneehawly.’
‘…’
‘Eh nee
haw.’
haw.’
‘…’
‘Choco
let and icream and yo gat.’
let and icream and yo gat.’
‘…’
‘O ke,
Unco Deveed.’
Unco Deveed.’
‘…’
Sweetheart
says ‘Bai, Unco Deveed’ and then hands me the phone.
says ‘Bai, Unco Deveed’ and then hands me the phone.
‘What did
Uncle David say?’
Uncle David say?’
‘Heez
gowing to bai fo me icream—‘
gowing to bai fo me icream—‘
‘Ice
cream. You can’t have the cream without the ice. ICE cream. ’
cream. You can’t have the cream without the ice. ICE cream. ’
‘—aiise
cream and yo gat. And choco let.’
cream and yo gat. And choco let.’
‘Eh,
maama. Lucky you!’
maama. Lucky you!’
‘Anti.’
Sweetheart cleans her mouth. ‘Wen ah we gowing to see Unco Deveed?’
Sweetheart cleans her mouth. ‘Wen ah we gowing to see Unco Deveed?’
‘I’m not
sure.’
sure.’
‘Wen ah
we gowing to see Anti Biotics?’
we gowing to see Anti Biotics?’
I laugh
and laugh and laugh. At first, Sweetheart laughs with me, because that’s what
children do—they laugh with you, even when you’re laughing at them. After a
while, though, she stops laughing and stares at me. She asks if I’m fine. I
find a handkerchief and wipe tears from my eyes.
and laugh and laugh. At first, Sweetheart laughs with me, because that’s what
children do—they laugh with you, even when you’re laughing at them. After a
while, though, she stops laughing and stares at me. She asks if I’m fine. I
find a handkerchief and wipe tears from my eyes.
‘Sweetheart,
Auntie Biotics isn’t a person. An AN TAI BIOTIC is medicine. For your cough. So
you don’t get an infection.’
Auntie Biotics isn’t a person. An AN TAI BIOTIC is medicine. For your cough. So
you don’t get an infection.’
‘Medi
seen. Fo yo cof. Soyoo don’t getaneen fection.’
seen. Fo yo cof. Soyoo don’t getaneen fection.’
‘No,
not for my cough. For YOUR cough.’
not for my cough. For YOUR cough.’
‘Mai
cof?’
cof?’
‘Yes.’
Halfway
through texting David about the ‘Auntie Biotics’ business, Sweetheart says,
‘Anti, mai colo-colo eez peyee neeng.
I wanto susu.’
through texting David about the ‘Auntie Biotics’ business, Sweetheart says,
‘Anti, mai colo-colo eez peyee neeng.
I wanto susu.’
I
have never understood why Sweetheart refers to her vagina as colo-colo. I don’t expect that I ever
will. I must admit, though, that colo-colo
is extremely creative. I have friends, adult friends moreover, who can’t manage
much more than ‘purse’, ‘State House’, ‘HQ’, and ‘Parliamentary Avenue.’
have never understood why Sweetheart refers to her vagina as colo-colo. I don’t expect that I ever
will. I must admit, though, that colo-colo
is extremely creative. I have friends, adult friends moreover, who can’t manage
much more than ‘purse’, ‘State House’, ‘HQ’, and ‘Parliamentary Avenue.’
‘OKAY.
Okay.’ I half-stand-half-bend, grab Sweetheart’s hand, push past the woman’s
knees, and dismount the taxi. ‘We are going. See, this is us going. Just hold
on a bit, okay?’
Okay.’ I half-stand-half-bend, grab Sweetheart’s hand, push past the woman’s
knees, and dismount the taxi. ‘We are going. See, this is us going. Just hold
on a bit, okay?’
Outside-the-taxi
is warm. The air is thick with the smell of—
is warm. The air is thick with the smell of—
OK,
let’s say you contracted a Urinary Tract Infection, maybe from the men’s
toilets at work, because whoever designed the building in which your office is
located assumed, for whatever reason, that no women would ever access it. Let’s
assume you did the right thing and bought antibiotics. You’ve noticed, throughout
the week, that your urine smells like unchanged-by-your-liver ampicillin. Now,
let’s say you’ve just peed, but haven’t flushed the toilet, and you’ve now
covered the toilet bowl with a thick cotton jumper which you haven’t washed in
three months. Imagine that that toilet
bowl, along with its unwashed cotton jumper of a cover, is outside your house,
fully exposed to the sun’s rays. Try to imagine that smell—
let’s say you contracted a Urinary Tract Infection, maybe from the men’s
toilets at work, because whoever designed the building in which your office is
located assumed, for whatever reason, that no women would ever access it. Let’s
assume you did the right thing and bought antibiotics. You’ve noticed, throughout
the week, that your urine smells like unchanged-by-your-liver ampicillin. Now,
let’s say you’ve just peed, but haven’t flushed the toilet, and you’ve now
covered the toilet bowl with a thick cotton jumper which you haven’t washed in
three months. Imagine that that toilet
bowl, along with its unwashed cotton jumper of a cover, is outside your house,
fully exposed to the sun’s rays. Try to imagine that smell—
Because
that’s what the air smells like today.
that’s what the air smells like today.
It’s
as if the woman who tried to plough the sky this morning was interrupted by
news of her favourite child’s sudden sickness. She dropped the hoe and rushed
to attend to her child, leaving clods of greyish-brown clouds
on one side of the sky.
as if the woman who tried to plough the sky this morning was interrupted by
news of her favourite child’s sudden sickness. She dropped the hoe and rushed
to attend to her child, leaving clods of greyish-brown clouds
on one side of the sky.
Sweetheart-on-her-feet
is slow, so I hoist her onto my hip. I dodge bonnets and bumpers, get out of
the way when I hear ‘faaaaas, faaaaas!’, hold my breath when passenger service
vans expel their versions of intestinal gas, look straight ahead when a man
says ‘size yange’, skim what’s written on windshields and emergency doors:
is slow, so I hoist her onto my hip. I dodge bonnets and bumpers, get out of
the way when I hear ‘faaaaas, faaaaas!’, hold my breath when passenger service
vans expel their versions of intestinal gas, look straight ahead when a man
says ‘size yange’, skim what’s written on windshields and emergency doors:
Try
Jesus
Jesus
The
Rich Also Cry
Rich Also Cry
Allah
yagera
yagera
God’s
judgement
judgement
Man
United
United
Rash
Hour
Hour
Bismillah
Respect
Your Job
Your Job
Look
before you act
before you act
Lusaka
Buthery
Buthery
Never
lose hope
lose hope
Kisa
kya Maria
kya Maria
Tommalira
budde
budde
Don’t
hunt what you can’t kill
hunt what you can’t kill
Shida
za duniya
za duniya
Patiency
pays
pays
Merci
Mon Dieu
Mon Dieu
Drivers-conductors
interrupt their discussions of quarter panels, English premier league football,
and the Jeniffer Musisi-Erias Lukwago standoff to ask where I’m going. They
shout fares at me, touch me, attempt to convince me that I am going to ten
different places at once (Mukono, Jinja, Iganga, Munyonyo, Nsimbiziwoome,
Nalukolongo, Kibuye, Zzana, Rubaga, Makerere), and offer to carry Sweetheart.
interrupt their discussions of quarter panels, English premier league football,
and the Jeniffer Musisi-Erias Lukwago standoff to ask where I’m going. They
shout fares at me, touch me, attempt to convince me that I am going to ten
different places at once (Mukono, Jinja, Iganga, Munyonyo, Nsimbiziwoome,
Nalukolongo, Kibuye, Zzana, Rubaga, Makerere), and offer to carry Sweetheart.
Sweetheart-on-my-feet
clings to me, presses her head against my chest, as we zigzag past hawkers
selling everything there is to sell to people on their way to someplace else
(The Seven Secrets Of Highly Effective People; vegetables; fruits; Super Max
razor blades; simsim; chocolate biscuits; airtime recharge cards; bread; SIMCA
ice-cream) and aproned women carrying plates of chips and fried eggs to their
driver-conductor customers.
clings to me, presses her head against my chest, as we zigzag past hawkers
selling everything there is to sell to people on their way to someplace else
(The Seven Secrets Of Highly Effective People; vegetables; fruits; Super Max
razor blades; simsim; chocolate biscuits; airtime recharge cards; bread; SIMCA
ice-cream) and aproned women carrying plates of chips and fried eggs to their
driver-conductor customers.
A
man carrying a turkey on his shoulder bumps into us. He shoves
Sweetheart-and-me towards the door of a van. Thankfully, I regain my balance
just in time for my back (and not Sweetheart’s head) to hit the door. It takes
me a while to recover from the shock of his stained teeth, earrings, and kavubuka.
Drivers-conductors berate the ear-ringed man. They jeer, ask if he’s blind;
can’t he see that I’m carrying a child? Is he a father? If so, what kind of
father? They volley expletives over his head—suggest, in Luganda, that he go
fuck his mother, because, apparently, this will make for better use of his
time.
man carrying a turkey on his shoulder bumps into us. He shoves
Sweetheart-and-me towards the door of a van. Thankfully, I regain my balance
just in time for my back (and not Sweetheart’s head) to hit the door. It takes
me a while to recover from the shock of his stained teeth, earrings, and kavubuka.
Drivers-conductors berate the ear-ringed man. They jeer, ask if he’s blind;
can’t he see that I’m carrying a child? Is he a father? If so, what kind of
father? They volley expletives over his head—suggest, in Luganda, that he go
fuck his mother, because, apparently, this will make for better use of his
time.
Drivers-conductors
apologise on the ear-ringed man’s behalf, ask if Sweetheart is hurt. I smile my
thanks and negotiate my exit from the Old Taxi Park. Because my bag is where I
can see it (its handle is wrapped around Sweetheart’s neck) and the most
expensive thing I’m carrying, which is my phone, is safely tucked into my
pocket, I don’t worry when people press their bodies into mine for longer than
they should.
apologise on the ear-ringed man’s behalf, ask if Sweetheart is hurt. I smile my
thanks and negotiate my exit from the Old Taxi Park. Because my bag is where I
can see it (its handle is wrapped around Sweetheart’s neck) and the most
expensive thing I’m carrying, which is my phone, is safely tucked into my
pocket, I don’t worry when people press their bodies into mine for longer than
they should.
Sweetheart
must think I have forgotten how to cross a road, because she says, ‘Anti, look
left, look rait, and look left agen.’
must think I have forgotten how to cross a road, because she says, ‘Anti, look
left, look rait, and look left agen.’
‘Thank
you,’ I say. She’s at that age where she’s sarcasm-impaired, otherwise she
might have appreciated what I say next (which is ‘That’s very helpful’).
you,’ I say. She’s at that age where she’s sarcasm-impaired, otherwise she
might have appreciated what I say next (which is ‘That’s very helpful’).
As
soon as we are on the other side of the road, Sweetheart asks, ‘Anti, ah we
gowing to susu?’
soon as we are on the other side of the road, Sweetheart asks, ‘Anti, ah we
gowing to susu?’
‘We
are,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry. There’s only one thing on my mind and that thing is
your susu.’
are,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry. There’s only one thing on my mind and that thing is
your susu.’
Sometimes,
I wonder if I live in this city. Because I’m looking at the names on the
buildings that rise above the rest, buildings I pass by every day, and
wondering why I’ve never looked up long enough to notice some of them. I’ve
seen Majestic Plaza, Gazaland, Temuseo Mpoza Plaza and Park View Shopping
Centre before. H&B Towers and Grand Corner House, I haven’t seen. As for
‘Astoria Hotel’, I have no words. For how long have we had an Astoria Hotel?
Urgh, nobody tells me anything!
I wonder if I live in this city. Because I’m looking at the names on the
buildings that rise above the rest, buildings I pass by every day, and
wondering why I’ve never looked up long enough to notice some of them. I’ve
seen Majestic Plaza, Gazaland, Temuseo Mpoza Plaza and Park View Shopping
Centre before. H&B Towers and Grand Corner House, I haven’t seen. As for
‘Astoria Hotel’, I have no words. For how long have we had an Astoria Hotel?
Urgh, nobody tells me anything!
Billboards advertising DSTV packages, Warid
Corporate Mega bonus, and Nokia Asha phones explode into the spaces between the
buildings. One billboard asks me to test my love by taking an HIV test. I smile
at the word play but decline to take the test. The largest billboard urges me
to ‘Buy online!’ at ‘cheapest price’:
Corporate Mega bonus, and Nokia Asha phones explode into the spaces between the
buildings. One billboard asks me to test my love by taking an HIV test. I smile
at the word play but decline to take the test. The largest billboard urges me
to ‘Buy online!’ at ‘cheapest price’:
We sell cars from Japan to your home
Hands A possibility
Guaranteed through insurance coverage
If
I don’t find another job, soon, I might never be able to afford a car sold from
Japan to my home, much less ‘Hands A Possibility’ (whatever that means). I
might have the fancy title (Dynamic Solutions Agent in charge of Direct
Division Designing and National Quality Assistance), but I’m sure most shop
attendants on this street, those selling fabric from India and phones from
China, earn more than I do.
I don’t find another job, soon, I might never be able to afford a car sold from
Japan to my home, much less ‘Hands A Possibility’ (whatever that means). I
might have the fancy title (Dynamic Solutions Agent in charge of Direct
Division Designing and National Quality Assistance), but I’m sure most shop
attendants on this street, those selling fabric from India and phones from
China, earn more than I do.
By
‘this street’, I mean Ben Kiwanuka Street (according to what I’ve read on
several signposts). I wasn’t aware Ben Kiwanuka Street extended all the way
down here. I can’t even remember what Ben Kiwanuka did (was he our first prime
minister?—a regent of the Buganda Kingdom?—what?), why we named a street after
him. I do know, though, that Ben is short for Benedicto. I also know that the
building behind me is Mukwano Arcade.
‘this street’, I mean Ben Kiwanuka Street (according to what I’ve read on
several signposts). I wasn’t aware Ben Kiwanuka Street extended all the way
down here. I can’t even remember what Ben Kiwanuka did (was he our first prime
minister?—a regent of the Buganda Kingdom?—what?), why we named a street after
him. I do know, though, that Ben is short for Benedicto. I also know that the
building behind me is Mukwano Arcade.
I
back up against an all-yellow MTN-Mobile-Money-Available-Here booth and
question the city clock (whose time-telling is sponsored by AQUA Sipi, which
means I can’t be sure that it’s really 11:06). Then I look down, at the girl in
a green kapere dress, seated, about two feet away from where I am standing, on
a stool. The toenails on her oversized feet are yellow. Spread out on a wooden
table, in front of her, is a potpourri of articles—a purple John tontuga; a
yellow Muzungu tapama; several pairs of leggings; wooden key holders; a handful
of pens; several packets of Orbit; toy cars; used Nokia phone jackets; sparkly
Miley Cyrus stickers; a plastic teenage mutant ninja turtle watch; 2011
diaries.
back up against an all-yellow MTN-Mobile-Money-Available-Here booth and
question the city clock (whose time-telling is sponsored by AQUA Sipi, which
means I can’t be sure that it’s really 11:06). Then I look down, at the girl in
a green kapere dress, seated, about two feet away from where I am standing, on
a stool. The toenails on her oversized feet are yellow. Spread out on a wooden
table, in front of her, is a potpourri of articles—a purple John tontuga; a
yellow Muzungu tapama; several pairs of leggings; wooden key holders; a handful
of pens; several packets of Orbit; toy cars; used Nokia phone jackets; sparkly
Miley Cyrus stickers; a plastic teenage mutant ninja turtle watch; 2011
diaries.
‘How
broke does one have to be to sell 2011 diaries in 2014?’ I want to ask
Sweetheart.
broke does one have to be to sell 2011 diaries in 2014?’ I want to ask
Sweetheart.
The
girl dubs at her homely face with a lesu. She pours water from a plastic
two-litre Coca-Cola bottle into an empty Nomi-Super-Foam container and washes
her face. I am tempted to tell her that her cornrows, which are caked with
dust, are in more need of water than her face is. Instead, I smile (because I
don’t know who this girl is, or where she’s from. I don’t want to risk
offending her. For all I know, her ancestors are witchdoctors. One wrong step
and I might wake up to find my colo-colo
on my forehead. Bw’oleka!) and look
away.
girl dubs at her homely face with a lesu. She pours water from a plastic
two-litre Coca-Cola bottle into an empty Nomi-Super-Foam container and washes
her face. I am tempted to tell her that her cornrows, which are caked with
dust, are in more need of water than her face is. Instead, I smile (because I
don’t know who this girl is, or where she’s from. I don’t want to risk
offending her. For all I know, her ancestors are witchdoctors. One wrong step
and I might wake up to find my colo-colo
on my forehead. Bw’oleka!) and look
away.
‘Anti,
susu eez peyee neeng me.’
susu eez peyee neeng me.’
Right!
I’m supposed to be looking for a toilet. I quickly approach a bodaboda man
idling on the sidewalk. I observe the usual protocol of pretending to be
interested in how he slept (wasuze otya, ssebo?) and acknowledging him for
whatever work he’s been doing before I showed up (gy’ebale ko, ssebo). Then I
tell him I’m going to Hot Loaf Bakery.
I’m supposed to be looking for a toilet. I quickly approach a bodaboda man
idling on the sidewalk. I observe the usual protocol of pretending to be
interested in how he slept (wasuze otya, ssebo?) and acknowledging him for
whatever work he’s been doing before I showed up (gy’ebale ko, ssebo). Then I
tell him I’m going to Hot Loaf Bakery.
‘Nkumi
ssatu,’ he says.
ssatu,’ he says.
I
tell him I’m not paying three thousand shillings to Hot Loaf. He shrugs
disinterestedly and continues reading his Bukedde newspaper. He doesn’t even
bother to negotiate. The nerve! If Sweetheart didn’t have to susu in such a hurry, I’d have walked. But I
need to find a toilet soon. Can I afford to be proud? No. But, still, three
thousand to Hot Loaf is madness.
tell him I’m not paying three thousand shillings to Hot Loaf. He shrugs
disinterestedly and continues reading his Bukedde newspaper. He doesn’t even
bother to negotiate. The nerve! If Sweetheart didn’t have to susu in such a hurry, I’d have walked. But I
need to find a toilet soon. Can I afford to be proud? No. But, still, three
thousand to Hot Loaf is madness.
I
consider my options. There’s a public toilet in the building behind Mukwano
Arcade. I used it once—I was desperate—and contracted a Urinary Tract Infection
in the process. There’s no way I’m taking Sweetheart there. The other option is
for Sweetheart to susu on the
sidewalk! She’s a child; people will let her get away with it. Or, at least, I
hope they will.
consider my options. There’s a public toilet in the building behind Mukwano
Arcade. I used it once—I was desperate—and contracted a Urinary Tract Infection
in the process. There’s no way I’m taking Sweetheart there. The other option is
for Sweetheart to susu on the
sidewalk! She’s a child; people will let her get away with it. Or, at least, I
hope they will.
I
train my eyes on the road, but almost every bodaboda passing by is carrying a passenger. I am just about to give up and
walk further up the street when Sweetheart says, ‘Anti, wats that?’
train my eyes on the road, but almost every bodaboda passing by is carrying a passenger. I am just about to give up and
walk further up the street when Sweetheart says, ‘Anti, wats that?’
‘What’s
what?’
what?’
Sweetheart
makes a tiiiru, tiiiru sound.
makes a tiiiru, tiiiru sound.
I
listen. ‘Oh, that? That’s a siren.’
listen. ‘Oh, that? That’s a siren.’
‘Fo
wat?’
wat?’
‘Well,
what it does is warn road users, so they can get out of the way in time.’
what it does is warn road users, so they can get out of the way in time.’
‘Get
aut fo wat?’
aut fo wat?’
I
tell her about ambulances; explain that other road-users have to give way to
ambulances because they carry sick or injured people to hospital. I resist the
temptation to tell her that, these days, people, who have important
nation-building meetings to attend on the other side of town (people like
super-ministers, Super Members of Parliament, and tycoons), people who can’t
afford to waste time in traffic jam, hire police cars with sirens to lead them
through traffic jams. She doesn’t need that information. Not yet. Besides,
nation builders don’t use this road or frequent this part of town.
tell her about ambulances; explain that other road-users have to give way to
ambulances because they carry sick or injured people to hospital. I resist the
temptation to tell her that, these days, people, who have important
nation-building meetings to attend on the other side of town (people like
super-ministers, Super Members of Parliament, and tycoons), people who can’t
afford to waste time in traffic jam, hire police cars with sirens to lead them
through traffic jams. She doesn’t need that information. Not yet. Besides,
nation builders don’t use this road or frequent this part of town.
‘Anti,
I wanto susu.’
I wanto susu.’
I
try to keep my voice down when I say, ‘Kyana, relax. I’m working on it.’
try to keep my voice down when I say, ‘Kyana, relax. I’m working on it.’
Sure
enough, and while I am still looking for a bodaboda rider that isn’t going to
charge me three thousand shillings to Hot Loaf, an ambulance approaches Ben
Kiwanuka Street at high speed. It halts in front of a static queue of passenger
service vans. Then it wails and wails. (The person driving the ambulance must
be a newbie; otherwise he’d have known not to use this road. The only time
there’s no jam here is on public holidays.) Unfortunately, the
driver-conductors can’t manoeuvre out of the queue, to make way for the
ambulance, because there isn’t enough space between bonnets and bumpers. I
hope, for the sake of whoever is in that ambulance, that the queue starts
moving soon.
enough, and while I am still looking for a bodaboda rider that isn’t going to
charge me three thousand shillings to Hot Loaf, an ambulance approaches Ben
Kiwanuka Street at high speed. It halts in front of a static queue of passenger
service vans. Then it wails and wails. (The person driving the ambulance must
be a newbie; otherwise he’d have known not to use this road. The only time
there’s no jam here is on public holidays.) Unfortunately, the
driver-conductors can’t manoeuvre out of the queue, to make way for the
ambulance, because there isn’t enough space between bonnets and bumpers. I
hope, for the sake of whoever is in that ambulance, that the queue starts
moving soon.
Sweetheart
is bearing down on my hip like a sack of beans, but I am not putting her down.
I am this close to giving up and conceding to paying three thousand to Hot Loaf
when I hear a loud bang—the sickening and dizzying grind of metal against glass
against metal.
is bearing down on my hip like a sack of beans, but I am not putting her down.
I am this close to giving up and conceding to paying three thousand to Hot Loaf
when I hear a loud bang—the sickening and dizzying grind of metal against glass
against metal.
Running
commences commotion. Limbs fight other limbs for space. Fore and hind bodies of
drivers-conductors, shop attendants, and passers-by surge towards the bang.
Voices like shallow water sweep air into the middle of the road, until they
become something that is as distinctly separate as it is distinctly one—the gravelly
but non-metallic sound of a different kind of rain. I pull Sweetheart close to
me, retreat into a mobile phone shop. By the time I manage to calm the beating
of my heart, the sidewalk is empty and there’s no one to ask about what’s
happening.
commences commotion. Limbs fight other limbs for space. Fore and hind bodies of
drivers-conductors, shop attendants, and passers-by surge towards the bang.
Voices like shallow water sweep air into the middle of the road, until they
become something that is as distinctly separate as it is distinctly one—the gravelly
but non-metallic sound of a different kind of rain. I pull Sweetheart close to
me, retreat into a mobile phone shop. By the time I manage to calm the beating
of my heart, the sidewalk is empty and there’s no one to ask about what’s
happening.
I
shouldn’t follow them, the drivers-conductors, shop attendants, and passers-by,
but I do. I can’t see what they’re looking at, so I look at them looking. I
can’t find any music in the sounds they are making, so I try not to make a
sound. It’s unlikely that I will get the correct version of events from the
lady standing next to me, the one with one hand on her head, and the other over
her mouth, but I ask anyway.
shouldn’t follow them, the drivers-conductors, shop attendants, and passers-by,
but I do. I can’t see what they’re looking at, so I look at them looking. I
can’t find any music in the sounds they are making, so I try not to make a
sound. It’s unlikely that I will get the correct version of events from the
lady standing next to me, the one with one hand on her head, and the other over
her mouth, but I ask anyway.
She
says there’s been an accident. I say how can there have been an accident when
the cars were stationary. She says the man driving the ambulance tried to
reverse, and collided with a passenger service van in the process. Apparently,
he was in such a hurry to leave that he didn’t follow routine procedure, like
making sure there’s no car behind the car you’re reversing. I want to believe
her version, I really do, but I can’t see how anyone would manage to have an
accident on this road, here, now. The woman suggests that we leave before the
police arrive. I tell her I’m not leaving until I know, for sure, what has
happened.
says there’s been an accident. I say how can there have been an accident when
the cars were stationary. She says the man driving the ambulance tried to
reverse, and collided with a passenger service van in the process. Apparently,
he was in such a hurry to leave that he didn’t follow routine procedure, like
making sure there’s no car behind the car you’re reversing. I want to believe
her version, I really do, but I can’t see how anyone would manage to have an
accident on this road, here, now. The woman suggests that we leave before the
police arrive. I tell her I’m not leaving until I know, for sure, what has
happened.
Running
commences commotion. Limbs give other limbs space. Fore and hind bodies shun
the bang. Drivers-conductors, shop attendants, and passers-by appear with fish
so small that at first I think it is mukene. I’m confused. What does fish have
to do with any of this? Sweetheart is quiet, much too quiet, she hasn’t said
anything about susu in a while, but I
need to know what has happened.
commences commotion. Limbs give other limbs space. Fore and hind bodies shun
the bang. Drivers-conductors, shop attendants, and passers-by appear with fish
so small that at first I think it is mukene. I’m confused. What does fish have
to do with any of this? Sweetheart is quiet, much too quiet, she hasn’t said
anything about susu in a while, but I
need to know what has happened.
I
ask a boy, who is shoving fish into his pocket, where he got it.
ask a boy, who is shoving fish into his pocket, where he got it.
‘From
the ambulance,’ he says.
the ambulance,’ he says.
I
laugh, because I think he’s joking. He squints at me, shrugs, and then runs
away. I ask two adults where they got their fish. They say the same thing—‘From
the ambulance.’ They tell me the ambulance wasn’t rushing a sick person to
hospital, but fish to a market. I still think they are lying—fish in an
ambulance?—ku ddiiru ki? This would never happen, not even in a movie. I
instruct Sweetheart to hold on tight as I approach the bang.
laugh, because I think he’s joking. He squints at me, shrugs, and then runs
away. I ask two adults where they got their fish. They say the same thing—‘From
the ambulance.’ They tell me the ambulance wasn’t rushing a sick person to
hospital, but fish to a market. I still think they are lying—fish in an
ambulance?—ku ddiiru ki? This would never happen, not even in a movie. I
instruct Sweetheart to hold on tight as I approach the bang.
It
isn’t until I’m standing a few feet away from the bent-in back door of the
ambulance, until I’m looking at hundreds, thousands, probably millions of mukene–sized fish crammed into the back of the
ambulance, that I believe.
isn’t until I’m standing a few feet away from the bent-in back door of the
ambulance, until I’m looking at hundreds, thousands, probably millions of mukene–sized fish crammed into the back of the
ambulance, that I believe.
‘Oh
my God, this is tragic,’ I say.
my God, this is tragic,’ I say.
I
expect Sweetheart to ask me what tragic means but she doesn’t. I say,
‘Sweetheart, look. There’s mukene.’
expect Sweetheart to ask me what tragic means but she doesn’t. I say,
‘Sweetheart, look. There’s mukene.’
Sweetheart
says nothing.
says nothing.
When
I lift her face, I find that she is sobbing quietly. It takes me a while to
realise that she has susued on me.
I lift her face, I find that she is sobbing quietly. It takes me a while to
realise that she has susued on me.
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Davina was born in Lusaka and grew up in Kampala. She has participated in the 2013 African Writers Trust Uganda International Writers Conference, the African Writers Trust Poetry Workshop, the FEMRITE/British Council Performance Poetry Workshop, the 2013 Caine Prize Workshop, the inaugural British Council/African Writers Trust Mentorship Programme, and the 2013 FEMRITE Regional Residency for African Women Writers. In her idea of a perfect world, she writes novellas during her lunch break and publishes them shortly before she goes to bed. She has written articles and features for African Woman Magazine.
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