African Quilt : 24 Modern African Stories (9781101617441) (7 page)

“We are here.”

“Don't let's get out. Let's just sit inside and talk.”

“Talk?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. But what is it, my darling?”

“I have told my sister about you.”

“Good God. Why?”

“But I had to. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer.”

“Childish. It was not necessary at all. She is not your mother.”

“No. But she is all I have. And she has been very good to me.”

“Well, it was her duty.”

“Then it is my duty to tell her about something like this. I may get into trouble.”

“Don't be silly,” he said. “I normally take good care of my girlfriends.”

“I see,” she said, and for the first time in the one month since she agreed to be this man's lover, the tears which suddenly rose into her eyes were not forced.

“And you promised you wouldn't tell her.” It was Father's voice now.

“Don't be angry. After all, people talk so much, as you said a little while ago. She was bound to hear it one day.”

“My darling, you are too wise. What did she say?”

“She was pained.”

“Don't worry. Find out something she wants very much but cannot get in this country because of the import restrictions.”

“I know for sure she wants an electric motor for her sewing machine.”

“Is that all?”

“That's what I know of.”

“Mm. I am going to London next week on some delegation, so if you bring me the details on the make of the machine, I shall get her the motor.”

“Thank you.”

“What else is worrying my Black Beauty?”

“Nothing.”

“And by the way, let me know as soon as you want to leave your sister's place. I have got you one of the government estate houses.”

“Oh . . . oh,” she said, pleased, contented for the first time since this typically ghastly day had begun, at half past six in the morning.

Dear little child came back from the playground with her toe bruised. Shall we just blow cold air from our mouth on it or put on a salve? Nothing matters really. Just see that she does not feel unattended. And the old sea roars on. This is a calm sea, generally. Too calm in fact, this Gulf of Guinea. The natives sacrifice to him on Tuesdays and once a year celebrate him. They might save their chickens, their eggs, and their yams. And as for the feast once a year, he doesn't pay much attention to it either. They are always celebrating one thing or another and they surely don't need him for an excuse to celebrate one day more. He has seen things happen along these beaches. Different things. Contradictory things. Or just repetitions of old patterns. He never interferes in their affairs. Why should he? Except in places like Keta, where he eats houses away because they leave him no choice. Otherwise, he never allows them to see his passions. People are worms, and even the God who created them is immensely bored with their antics. Here is a fifty-year-old “big man” who thinks he is somebody. And a twenty-three-year-old child who chooses a silly way to conquer unconquerable problems. Well, what did one expect of human beings? And so, as those two settled on the back seat of the car to play with each other's bodies, he, the Gulf of Guinea, shut his eyes with boredom. It is right. He could sleep, no? He spread himself and moved farther ashore. But the car was parked at a very safe distance and the rising tides could not wet its tires.

James has come home late. But then he has been coming back late for the past few weeks. Connie is crying and he knows it as soon as he enters the bedroom. He hates tears, for, like so many men, he knows it is one of the most potent weapons in women's bitchy and inexhaustible arsenal. She speaks first.

“James.”

“Oh, are you still awake?” He always tries to deal with these nightly funeral parlor doings by pretending not to know what they are about.

“I couldn't sleep.”

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

So he moves quickly and sits beside her. “Connie, what is the matter? You have been crying again.”

“You are very late again.”

“Is that why you are crying? Or is there something else?”

“Yes.”

“Yes to what?”

“James, where were you?”

“Connie, I have warned you about what I shall do if you don't stop examining me, as though I were your prisoner, every time I am a little late.”

She sat up. “A little late! It is nearly two o'clock.”

“Anyway, you won't believe me if I told you the truth, so why do you want me to waste my breath?”

“Oh well.” She lies down again and turns her face to the wall. He stands up but does not walk away. He looks down at her. So she remembers every night: they have agreed, after many arguments, that she should sleep like this. During her first pregnancy, he kept saying after the third month or so that the sight of her tummy the last thing before he slept always gave him nightmares. Now he regrets all this. The bed creaks as he throws himself down by her.

“James.”

“Yes.”

“There is something much more serious.”

“You have heard about my newest affair?”

“Yes, but that is not what I am referring to.”

“Jesus, is it possible that there is anything more important than that?”

And as they laugh they know that something has happened. One of those things which, with luck, will keep them together for some time to come.

“He teases me on top of everything.”

“What else can one do to you but tease when you are in this state?”

“James! How profane!”

“It is your dirty mind which gave my statement its shocking meaning.”

“Okay! But what shall I do?”

“About what?”

“Mercy. Listen, she is having an affair with Mensar-Arthur.”

“Wonderful.”

She sits up and he sits up.

“James, we must do something about it. It is very serious.”

“Is that why you were crying?”

“Of course.”

“Why shouldn't she?”

“But it is wrong. And she is ruining herself.”

“Since every other girl she knows has ruined herself prosperously, why shouldn't she? Just forget for once that you are a teacher. Or at least remember she is not your pupil.”

“I don't like your answers.”

“What would you like me to say? Every morning her friends who don't earn any more than she does wear new dresses, shoes, wigs, and what-have-you to work. What would you have her do?”

“The fact that other girls do it does not mean that Mercy should do it, too.”

“You are being very silly. If I were Mercy, I am sure that's exactly what I would do. And you know I mean it, too.”

James is cruel. He is terrible and mean. Connie breaks into fresh tears and James comforts her. There is one point he must drive home, though.

“In fact, encourage her. He may be able to intercede with the Ministry for you so that after the baby is born they will not transfer you from here for some time.”

“James, you want me to use my sister!”

“She is using herself, remember.”

“James, you are wicked.”

“And maybe he would even agree to get us a new car from abroad. I shall pay for everything. That would be better than paying a fortune for that old thing I was thinking of buying. Think of that.”

“You will ride in it alone.”

“Well . . .”

That was a few months before the coup. Mensar-Arthur did go to London for a conference and bought something for all his wives and girlfriends, including Mercy. He even remembered the motor for Connie's machine. When Mercy took it to her she was quite confused. She had wanted this thing for a long time, and it would make everything so much easier, like the clothes for the new baby. And yet one side of her said that accepting it was a betrayal. Of what, she wasn't even sure. She and Mercy could never bring the whole business into the open and discuss it. And there was always James supporting Mercy, to Connie's bewilderment. She took the motor with thanks and sold even her right to dissent. In a short while, Mercy left the house to go and live in the estate house Mensar-Arthur had procured for her. Then, a couple of weeks later, the coup. Mercy left her new place before anyone could evict her. James never got his car. Connie's new baby was born. Of the three, the one who greeted the new order with undisguised relief was Connie. She is not really a demonstrative person but it was obvious from her eyes that she was happy. As far as she was concerned, the old order as symbolized by Mensar-Arthur was a threat to her sister and therefore to her own peace of mind. With it gone, things could return to normal. Mercy would move back to the house, perhaps start to date someone more—ordinary, let's say. Eventually, she would get married and then the nightmare of those past weeks would be forgotten. God being so good, he brought the coup early before the news of the affair could spread and brand her sister . . .

The arrival of the new baby has magically waved away the difficulties between James and Connie. He is that kind of man, and she that kind of woman. Mercy has not been seen for many days. Connie is beginning to get worried . . .

James heard the baby yelling—a familiar noise, by now—the moment he opened the front gate. He ran in, clutching to his chest the few things he had bought on his way home.

“We are in here.”

“I certainly could hear you. If there is anything people of this country have, it is a big mouth.”

“Don't I agree? But on the whole, we are well. He is eating normally and everything. You?”

“Nothing new. Same routine. More stories about the overthrown politicians.”

“What do you mean, nothing new? Look at the excellent job the soldiers have done, cleaning up the country of all that dirt. I feel free already and I am dying to get out and enjoy it.”

James laughed mirthlessly. “All I know is that Mensar-Arthur is in jail. No use. And I am not getting my car. Rough deal.”

“I never took you seriously on that car business.”

“Honestly, if this were in the ancient days, I could brand you a witch. You don't want me, your husband, to prosper?”

“Not out of my sister's ruin.”

“Ruin, ruin, ruin! Christ! See, Connie, the funny thing is that I am sure you are the only person who thought it was a disaster to have a sister who was the girlfriend of a big man.”

“Okay; now all is over, and don't let's quarrel.”

“I bet the coup could have succeeded on your prayers alone.”

And Connie wondered why he said that with so much bitterness. She wondered if . . .

“Has Mercy been here?”

“Not yet, later, maybe. Mm. I had hoped she would move back here and start all over again.”

“I am not surprised she hasn't. In fact, if I were her, I wouldn't come back here either. Not to your nagging, no thank you, big sister.”

And as the argument progressed, as always, each was forced into a more aggressive defensive stand.

“Well, just say what pleases you, I am very glad about the soldiers. Mercy is my only sister, brother; everything. I can't sit and see her life going wrong without feeling it. I am grateful to whatever forces there are which put a stop to that. What pains me now is that she should be so vague about where she is living at the moment. She makes mention of a girlfriend but I am not sure that I know her.”

“If I were you, I would stop worrying because it seems Mercy can look after herself quite well.”

“Hmm” was all she tried to say.

Who heard something like the sound of a car pulling into the drive? Ah, but the footsteps were unmistakably Mercy's. Are those shoes the old pair which were new a couple of months ago? Or
are they the newest pair? And here she is herself, the pretty one. A gay Mercy.

“Hello, hello, my clan!” And she makes a lot of her nephew. “Dow-dah-dee-day! And how is my dear young man today? My lord, grow up fast and come to take care of Auntie Mercy.”

Both Connie and James cannot take their eyes off her. Connie says, “He says to Auntie Mercy he is fine.”

Still they watch her, horrified, fascinated, and wondering what it's all about. Because they both know it is about something.

“Listen, people, I brought a friend to meet you. A man.”

“Where is he?” from James.

“Bring him in,” from Connie.

“You know, Sissie, you are a new mother. I thought I'd come and ask you if it's all right.”

“Of course,” say James and Connie, and for some reason they are both very nervous.

“He is Captain Ashley.”

“Which one?”

“How many do you know?”

James still thinks it is impossible. “Eh . . . do you mean the officer who has been appointed the . . . the . . .”

“Yes.”

“Wasn't there a picture in
The Crystal
over the weekend of his daughter's wedding? And another one of him with his wife and children and grandchildren?”

“Yes.”

“And he is heading a commission to investigate something or other?”

“Yes.”

Connie just sits there with her mouth open that wide . . .

D
OREEN
B
AINGANA

Doreen Baingana was born in Uganda, one of the nine children of a physician father and a mother who served as Permanent Secretary of the Public Service Commission. She earned a law degree at Makerere University in Uganda and an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Maryland, where she was a writer-in-residence. Her stories have appeared in
Glimmer Train, African American Review, Calladoo,
and
The Guardian.
Her short story collection,
Tropical Fish: Tales from Entebbe,
won the 2006 Commonwealth Writers' Prize for Best First Book and an AWP Short Fiction Award. An active member of FEMRITE, a Ugandan women writers' association, she currently lives in Rockville, Maryland.

First Kiss

(2005)

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

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

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

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

Nicholas's youngest brother had been in her class. Even though the Bajomboras were always last in class, they were the best dressed in the whole school, with sharply ironed khaki shorts, shirts new and dazzling white, and black shoes so shiny you could see your face in them. Not that she got that close; they were boys! Rough and rude, or should have been. Their shoe heels were never worn down to one side like most of the others'; that was a sign of money. The dumb, handsome Bajombora boys, six of them. They were a deep, dark, smooth black and were all prizes. Although they belonged to Christine's ethnic group, the Banyankore, they were Catholics, which made them completely different, at least in her mother's Protestant opinion. To Maama, Catholics were misguided fools, though she never said this, of course, but clearly let it be known by turning down her mouth, raising her eyebrows, and hurrmphing heavily. Don't even bring up Muslims.

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

Christine was on holiday, which was better than starving at school, but flat. She listened and watched her sisters talking on the phone, going out, working on their figures, doing sit-ups, drinking endless glasses of lemon juice that supposedly were slimming, walking with books on their heads to learn grace, wrapping their hips tight to stop them from growing too big. Rosa and Patti were seventeen and eighteen. They had purpose. Christine read romance novels and napped.

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

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

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

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

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

“It's for all ages.”

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

Maama slowly turned her eyes away from the TV and swept her gaze over the two of them, down, up, and back down again, as if she was trying to figure out who they were. She shrugged her shoulders and turned back to the TV, torturing them with time. “Don't come complaining to me about her afterwards,” she said. Maama never came right out and said yes. That would be too kind; she might get taken advantage of.

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

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

Rosa jeered back, “
Kyoka,
Patti, you can lie!”

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

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

Christine and Patti were used to Rosa's taunts; they simply ignored her. Patti drew dark eyebrows over Christine's own and painted her lips deep crimson. Christine was startled by her reflection, and Rosa laughed hysterically. “Don't let Maama see you!”

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

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

Christine almost fell a number of times in the high red shoes. The tarmac road, which had not been repaired since the late sixties, before Amin took over, was more like a dry riverbed. Most of the tarmac was gone, leaving huge potholes to be skirted around. Luckily it hadn't rained recently, so there were no pools of muddy water, only empty craters and dusty flyaway soil and stones. Cars that circled off the road to avoid the potholes had widened it, creating yawning mouths with no teeth, only gaping dirty-brown holes. It was safer to walk down the middle to avoid the cars that bumped and swerved along the roadside. It would have been better with no tarmac at all. The girls walked with heads bowed down out of habit, picking their way through unthinkingly. They did not see the solemn indigo beauty of the sky, now glowing with far-off dots of light.

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

Betty gave Christine whisky mixed with Mirinda to cut the sour taste and hide the alcohol. Christine didn't say she had never drunk whisky before. She was surprised by how it burnt going down, not like pepper, but like glowing warm fire. The two girls danced together; they could do that, they were young enough. But then some strange boy called Betty outside, pointing with his head, and off she went. Too willingly, Christine thought. She was alone again. She was supposed to be having fun with other people; that's what parties were for. Luckily or unluckily, Patti saw Christine and asked one of the Bajombora boys, Nicholas, to dance with her. He looked drunk, and smiled at Christine like he was doing her a favor. It was a Congolese song, and it seemed to last forever. The dance was simple, dull, and repetitive: one step left, then back, another right and back, left, right, with an accompanying jiggle of the hips. Nicholas danced in his own stiff way, frowning with concentration. It made her smile. He noticed and smiled back, then said, “You're a good dancer,” leaning over her as if he was about to topple. He was tall, tall. The Leaning Tower of Nicholas. She smiled at her own joke and stumbled on his foot. “Enough,” he laughed. “Let's have a drink.”

“Not in front of my sisters.”

“Outside, then.”

They sat on a low branch of a huge old mango tree. It wasn't mango season, but the leaves were heavy and reassuring, a dark green umbrella for everyone, a rich auntie. Christine wondered where all the ants that crawled the craggy bark of every mango tree went to at night. Nicholas had put more whisky than Mirinda into Christine's drink. It burned her throat and brought tears to her eyes. She forced it down with a cough. Then it seemed like a bright light turned itself on in her head as they sat in the warm clear dark. The stars, which she usually didn't notice, twinkled in an exaggerated way through her tears. Christine stopped herself from showing him the sky; that would be silly, but she bet Lady Thomasina would have. What next? Nicholas lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He didn't say anything. But somehow, casually, his arm went over her shoulder. He put out his cigarette on the branch; then his face closed in and his lips were on hers. “My lipstick!” she thought, as he chewed away at her lips, then snaked his tongue into her mouth and ate some more. His smoky smell reminded her of her father. Soon, she couldn't breathe, didn't know how to, but just in time, he broke away. “Nice,” he said, as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She jumped off the branch. “Wait, don't go,” he said.

“Patti will be looking for me.”

“Okay, why not meet me tomorrow? Christine?”

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