You are a boy of ten again. You are on the bus, and the trees seem to be going faster than the bus you are seated in. You are on the Kampala–Masaka
Highway. first time there. The excitement darts through your body like grasshoppers jumping from grass blade to grass blade. You keep standing to catch a glimpse of the speeding trees, and then sitting down heavily onto your mother’s lap as if you are falling into a chair padded with cushions. “But Vincent, why don’t you settle down?! You will even break my bones!
Now see...” Your mother points down to the heavy lemon green sash of her gomesi. Its tassels are trailing on the bus floor, covered in red soil. “You see how you have dirtied my musiipi? You know gomesis are very hard to clean!” You look at her attire covered in bright greens, blues and oranges. Mzee bought it for her last Christmas. It is the newest of all her attires and that is why she has chosen to wear it for the journey to the big city. “Sorry Mama!”
You sit on her, as carefully as a butterfly perching on a flower and so that you remember to remain seated you cross your legs. The bus stops at the roadside.
A swarm of men balancing baskets of gonja race towards it, covering the bus’ windows. Your mother buys ten
fingers for two hundred shillings. They are yellow and soft, but crusted brown in some places. As your mother hands you one, its aroma fills your nostrils.
You open your mouth to sink your teeth into it, but the gonja disappears! You start to ask your mother about it, but stop because she is not there anymore.
Yet, you are still on the bus. You touch your chin and it is rough with a beard. You look down at your feet and they have grown so long. Your shorts are gone and you’re wearing trousers. “Vinnie, Vinnie ...”
It’s Chantal’s sweet voice. But she sounds so far off...You let her voice get carried away in the loud swish of the speeding trees...And you still have to find your mother... You follow her through the narrow bus corridor and call out to her but she does not stop.
You continue to follow her, until all the faces on the bus meld into a smooth blackness. But her bright gomesi creates a shining path for you and you keep going till you reach her and pull at it. But when she turns she is as still as stone and before you hear the villager mourners wail, “Woowe, Woowe”, you know there is not one breath left in her... “Maama, Maama...” “Vinnie, Vinnie! Wake up! It’s just a bad dream!” You open your eyes.
Chantal is staring down at you. “You were dreaming,” she says. Her voice soothes you. She strokes your ear and says, “Good morning, love?” She heard you whimpering like a puppy in agony.
You turn away, you don’t want her to see the fear in your eyes.
But she snuggles close to you and you have no choice but to kiss her. She is weak and yielding and you are no longer the scared twelve year old boy staring at your mother’s lifeless body. The vibration of the telephone under your pillow tears you away from
Chantal. Even as you pull away from her you wonder who could be calling you at six in the morning. Early morning calls usually convey very bad news. You wish the superstitious streak in you could be thwarted by reason. But your fingers tremble as you grip the cell phone.
Quickly, you glance at the caller
ID. It’s your father. At this time of the morning, what could be the matter? 7 “Hello, Mzee?” “Hello Mutabaani, how is Kampala?
How is work?” “It is Ok. Is everything at home fine?” “It would be Ok. But some things are not so good.” Your heart pounds in your ears.
“Has anyone died? Are the twins fine?” “It is nothing like that, they are all fine. No one has died.” Your breath comes out in a low whistle and it’s only then you realised that you’ve been holding it in. “It is just that I had to catch you before you went to work, that is why I called so early.” He sounds apologetic and you are too relieved to blame him for giving you a scare. “So what has happened?” “Netaaga obuyambi, mutabani.” Your father’s voice suddenly sounds small. You immediately know it’s about money. If he is asking you, he must have run out of options. “Yes Mzee, what kind of help?” Damn! That only sounds like you are waiting for him to beg you for money. You wait for him to say something, but the silence between the lines stretches on.
“Yes Mzee…” You let your voice trail off like you are waiting for him to complete your thought, but you’re really thinking he will not become less of a father just because he is about to ask you for money.
It works because he finally fills the space.
“Nze mbade ngamba...” “Yes Mzee...” “Joel ne Genevieve, badayo kusomeero.” It has to be about that.
Your siblings are going back to school. On more than one occasion, you have ‘topped up’ their school fees. Your father does the best he can. But he is a retired primary school teacher and does not have much income. “How much is the balance?” “Millioni taano,” your father says.
“Five million!” the shock in your voice rings out loud in your own ears; your father hears it too. “Naanti my son, you know how things have been. The pension has still not yet come. Even if it had, it would not have made much of a difference. And the crop has been bad since last year; this banana wilt destroyed at least three quarters of the plantations.” You shake your head. Five ma? Where are you going to get that much money?
Chantal wraps her arms round your waist and puts her soft lips on your cheek in a silent peck. You know your father is up against the wall. Ten years into retirement and his pension is still held up because the social security official said he was not one and the same person – just because his name has two different spellings. You know the banana wilt must be as bad as the
Ministry of Agriculture had announced. There was an outbreak in the country, it spread easily and was hard to contain. It has eaten up many plantations in Masaka, Mzee’s being among. But five million! Who is going to give you that much at such short notice?
You could take a loan. “When do you need the money?” “By Friday, son. Joel and Genevieve will be reporting on Monday, and they’ll not be allowed to register unless they have paid full tuition.” Today is Monday. You have only four days to get the money together, a loan approval would take more than a week. “Eeh! I wish you had told me earlier.” “Our SACCO was supposed to lend me some money, but I just got the news that they can’t afford to lend so much money to one person when money is so scarce.”
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