The physical pain and worry about ruining Nicko’s father’s suit is nothing compared to the thought that Karen is already in another man’s embrace.
You are pushed into a three walled unpainted cubicle with a single metallic door, a wooden bench in one corner and old newspaper cuttings rest uncomfortably on the walls. The door slams behind you, you fold your mighty thieving right hand into a fist that you ram into the walls and hiss through false teeth like a puff adder, ‘I’ll get out of here, damn it.’ Depression sets in as you try to deal with reality.
Denial follows.
You convince yourself it will only be a matter of time, maybe a week and then you will be set free. You put off the coat and place it on the bench. You affix your hands to Nicko’s father’s trouser pockets trying to analyze your situation in your mind and bang! The gem is still in the pockets. You wonder who is fooling who! You? Them? Juju? also. ‘Does it matter anyway?’ You ask yourself. You are locked in a cell, neither you nor the gem has a sense of freedom at the moment. You move to the door that was harshly slammed behind you and wrap both your hands on its bars still trying to deal with reality. A certain electrifying feeling runs through your whole body instantly, exerting such a force on the heavy metals bars that the door lets off a cry. You stare thunderstruck - the door completely wide open. Freedom?! ‘Who’s fooling who?’ Perhaps your dreams are not ruined after all! 17 Hash Tag Davina Kawuma Headphones edged with brio, bulging over skirted sofas. Sport is the new sex. Dogs versus coyotes on the tight
I still recall its sweetness when he gave it to us. Uncle Tom found us playing in the banana plantations. We were searching for nsenene, the grasshopper which appeared seasonally when it rained in our village. We searched for them on the ground and in the folds of the banana leaves. The first time we tasted it was when aunt brought it back from Kampala, “Nakato and Kato come and get some sweets,” she’d cried. We were plucking the legs and wings off nsenene in the backyard of our grass-thatched hut. The sweets were different colours. I unwrapped the white vuvera, polythene paper, from one and threw it in my mouth. I felt the sticky honey sweetness fill my mouth and I swallowed. We ran past Joe’s house to reach Katumba’s house so that he could taste the nsenene. Kato was panting. We wanted to tell Katumba the news quickly and run back home. Mummy didn’t want us playing with Katumba. She said he had bad manners; he liked playing with his male part in front of us.
“Katumba, our aunt came from Kampala,” Kato told him, from the cool shade where he was seated.
He was plucking the wings and the legs of nsenene. The wind was blowing the bananas leaves lightly, swaying them from side to side. “She brought for us some sweet.” Katumba dropped the saucepan he was holding. Kato broke the sweet, which looked like a small stone, into two halves with his teeth and gave one to Katumba, “Eat.”
They had been good friends in spite of mummy’s restriction. Katumba threw his half into his mouth. Then he opened his mouth, his lips moulded, formed to look like a hallway. He was missing two lower teeth which left a path for us to see his tongue rotating.
It made us laugh. “It’s sweet, like ripe banana,” said Katumba laughing. “Yes, Aunt Janet said it makes children’s teeth grow,” said Kato.
When Katumba heard this he started rubbing a small remnant of the sweet on his pink gums which made us laugh more. We ran through the long trail of the banana plantation which connected our home with that of Katumba’s. It was owned by Mr.
Mukasa the old man.
He planted oranges and pawpaw trees at the side of his plantation. We always stole from his trees when we emptied our fruit trees.
Mummy didn’t encourage stealing so we only did it when she was away. When we reached home, we found aunt was telling mummy about the city. She told mummy that Uncle Tom’s business had made him one of the richest men in the city.
He had so much money he could buy the whole village and its contents. That morning aunt brought out the metal she brought from the city. It was for piercing ears. Aunt insisted for our ears to be pierced so that we did not fall prey to child sacrifices. But daddy was against the piercing of the boys’ ears, he said it made them look like rouges. So aunt and mummy pierced my ears and not Kato’s. It was painful, but aunt said when it heals,
I would put on glittering earrings which would dangle to my shoulders which would make me look beautiful.
When Katumba and Joe came home, we sneaked into Mr. Mukasa’s plantation to steal some pawpaw. After getting the pawpaw, we ran to our backyard, where no one would see us. The plantation was situated by the road which ran from our village to the school we attended – it was the same road that aunt used to come from Kampala. In our playground, we would sit for hours competing with each other to see who could throw stones the furthest. Sometimes we would fight over something small. We would then reconvene in the same place. In the playground we would 19 dream of becoming somebody big in future. Kato dreamt of becoming president, Joe dreamt of becoming a driver, Katumba, the head teacher of our school. I too, dreamt of teaching in our school,
I wanted to be a class mistress and wear transparent spectacles like Miss John our class teacher. Uncle
Tom came down that road. He waved, beckoning us to come over. We ran in his direction. We were already imagining what he might give us. When we reached his car, he pulled the sweets from the black vuvera and gave it to us. We were very happy and we began eating the sweets immediately. He drove off and we ran after his car. He lowered his panel and gave something to the men who were playing cards in the shade.
He left them cheering, ‘mukulu, mukulu, big man, big man.’ We kept on running after him until he disappeared down the village where we couldn’t see him. We stood there watching the dust raised by his car. Katumba said the smell produced by the car was very nice and he felt like eating it with bread. When we were coming back from school the next day, we followed the marks left by Uncle Tom’s car tyres. Katumba and I were on the right side, while
Joe was on the left. Kato didn’t come to school that day, he was not feeling well. Mummy decided to leave him at home and went to tend the garden. We missed his company on our way back. But we kept on playing as usual. Reaching our backyard,
Katumba saw something red mixed in with the sand. “It’s blood,” he said. “No, that is Mr. Mukasa’s pawpaw,” said Joe and we laughed.
“My mum has cooked chicken today,” I said. In that same spot, our lovely playing ground, whenever mummy wanted to prepare chicken soup,
she slaughtered the chicken there. She was skilled at it. She stepped on the chicken’s wings with her feet then on the legs of the chicken with the other, holding the knife with her right hand and the head of the chicken with her left. She sliced the neck of the chicken with one stroke
. Then she let the chicken fly headless and it flapped about repeatedly, blood jetting from its neck. Kato and I would stand there watching the chicken struggle until it stopped and mummy would submerge it in hot water and pluck its feathers.
When we returned to the compound we found people had gathered. Every space in the compound was occupied. Men sat in silence with their heads bent
. Most women were inside, tears flowed from their eyes.
One voice came from inside the house. It was a familiar voice to me.
I squeezed through the bodies and rushed to the door, I wanted to see mummy and ask her why people were everywhere in our compound. But the doorway was congested; I could not access the house. Aunt came and carried me from the door and went with me to the edge of the compound, she was
crying. I put my fingers into my mouth and could not ask her what had happened. I imagined mummy and daddy were no more and decided
I would find Uncle Tom and beg him to take Kato and me with him to the city, for I could not stay without mummy and daddy in this village.
In the distance I saw Mr
. Mukasa coming to join the crowd. His face looked like he was either laughing or crying, I couldn’t tell which.
He was stooped over with one hand on his waist, while the other held his walking stick. It was the posture Kato liked imitating when we played. “It is Kato,” aunt said amidst tears. I looked into her eyes to make her tell me what had happened to Kato, but she bent down her head and I felt warm tears on my arms. “Where is Kato?” I ask
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