Maggie Gee - My Cleaner

I’m not sure that the English will call him that. In any case, he was conceived in Kampala. I am happy to be having a Ugandan baby.

I always wanted a brother for Jamie, but it is too late for them to play together. I do not say this to my kabito . I shall not shed a tear on Christmas Day. I think he will know his brother in heaven. Perhaps I will see them run to each other. And all the trees will be in flower.

But now Charles is coming through from the kitchen. He is bringing the chicken, steaming hot. It smells of baked salt and lemons and spices. I learned this recipe from Zakira. After lunch we are going to see Abdul Trevor.

I am very hungry. The food is delicious. Charles opens a bottle of champagne. When I told him to take the wine from the fridge, he said “We shall buy our own wine, Mary, I have changed enough money, I am not a pauper,” and I agreed, we are not paupers, we have enough money, and so forth, et cetera. But still, Vanessa would want us to have it. On the phone, she told me to ‘help myself. I raise my glass to her: “Cheers, Vanessa.” (I hope Dom Perignon is a good make. I think she would not mind — it is old, it is ‘Vintage’, indeed the date on the bottle is 1990, so she will be glad that we have drunk it.)

And now the TV plays the national anthem. Charles starts to get up; he is fond of the Queen: but the plate on his lap spills a little gravy, and so he smiles and sits down again. They do not play all of it, just a little. Our minds turn towards the Ugandan national anthem. In our country, we play the whole anthem. “We are walking together down the road of education, marching towards a better Uganda…”

And now the Queen is talking and smiling. She has not got tiny and old, like Vanessa. She has tidy hair and a skirt and jumper.

“I like the cut of her jib,” I tell Charles. When he looks puzzled, I. laugh, and he laughs, politely. “Ha, ha. English English is amusing,” he says. But Charles likes the look of the Queen, as well, though he slightly prefers our own Nnaabagareka Sylvia Luswata, the young, pretty bride of our King Ronald.

We watch Queen Elizabeth meeting people. “There are a lot of African faces,” says my friend the accountant. He drinks more champagne. “The Queen has a lot of African friends.” He is pleased with this. He burps and chuckles.

“They show more Africans at Christmas,” I say, because I have drunk less than Charles. I think of the Ugandans in Forest Gate. They don’t spend their days at Buckingham Palace.

Then I think about the Bible teachings on slander. Christmas Day is a time to be happy. So Itry again, with a mouthful of chicken, which is plump and delicious: soon I’ll suck the bone.

“Maybe the Queen has grown tired of the English. I myself have had enough of them, for now. Soon we will go home again.”

“Perhaps the Queen will come and see us in Uganda.” And I think about Vanessa, who said on the phone, “I should like to come and see you in Uganda.” And I smile, and say to Charles, “Perhaps she will.”

THE END