Moses Isegawa - Abyssinian Chronicles

Every weekend, a car came and took her to the city, where she joined the brigadier and his friends for drinks till late in the night. That way she met quite a few of the people at the top. They asked her what women really thought of the government, and what they expected from it. This did not surprise her, because she knew that many of these people were surrounded by yes-men and now and then needed frank opinions.

Like an army of vultures and marabou storks, the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank swooped down on the Ugandan carcass with drawn talons. Not that they were newcomers; no, they had been surveying the skyline for years and had been around even during the last regime. But now they moved with lethal determination. The climate was better. They had a list of conditions as long as the river Nile. The government, eager to fight inflation, stimulate production and inject cash into the economy, obliged them. The IMF tweaked the tail of the new government: if it wanted money, it had to return the property of departed Indians. Thus, the Indians had to return and claim their property after more than fifteen years. The rumors created a buzz in Uganda, especially in the city.

To begin with, old currency was made non-legal tender and had to be exchanged for new. Schools served as currency exchange centers, and for once SIMC was used for something directly relevant to the community. The good reverend went around boasting about the indispensability of his school. In the morning, people with bulky bags of cash stood in line in front of the two-story building to hand in their old money.

I dodged getting involved in the program. I had never liked the look or the smell of the old notes, and neither was the smell of new money something I wanted to douse my senses in. I came to school only to exchange Boom-boom Brewery proceeds which had not been in the bank, then went home. The allotted time for the currency exchange passed before the job was completed. There was panic that people’s money would be nullified in the name of fighting inflation, but an extra week was allocated. For people used to the large denominations of the old money, it was horrifying to receive the puny new bills they were given in exchange for their worthless millions.

A fortnight after the money-exchanging exercise, I was at school teaching when the deputy called me outside: “There is somebody waiting for you in my office.” I thought Lwendo had returned. However, it was a man sent by Aunt.

“There has been an accident,” the scruffy, sad-eyed man announced.

“What kind of accident?” I asked, getting goose bumps.

“She did not say. She just told me to inform you to come as quickly as possible.”

There was a crowd outside Aunt’s house, and among them some very angry people. It turned out that one of my brewery employees had been burned by the cooking drum. He had not died, but the skin had peeled off the front of his body like a banana skin, and he looked as yellow. The bastard. He was not supposed to brew that day — I had suspended all work pending the stabilization of new-currency prices — but the bastard had gone ahead and done it behind my back. He had started the fire, gone to sleep and not seen that the copper tubes were blocked. He was awakened by a massive explosion. The drum had risen in the air like a space capsule and burst open like a dry pod. If it had stayed on the ground, it would have killed him right away. Instead, he got scalded by part of the contents, the rest spreading in all directions.

Aunt had organized transport to take him to the hospital, and she had also accepted the responsibility for the accident. That had cooled some tempers, but not totally. She promised to foot the medical bills and to help as much as she could. She thought the matter was settled, but the brother and brother-in-law of the victim went down to the brewery and destroyed the equipment and burned down the shed. I went there, and the fire reminded me of another fire fifteen years before. I decided right then that I had had enough of the business. Lwendo had won.

The accident made me look at my relationship with Jo a bit more closely. Who was this girl? I did not know any of her people except her grandmother. As we sat eating supper one evening, I told her that I wanted to meet her mother. She did not seem too happy about it.

“If you are really serious about me, the lady is supposed to know me, and I should know her.”

“I will think about it.”

“There is nothing to think about,” I said.

“How will I introduce you?”

“As Mr. Muwaabi, secondary school teacher and future lawyer.”

“As who?”

I repeated my full name casually, a smug smile on my face. I never used the name Muwaabi. Everybody called me Mugezi, and even the government knew me as such.

“The lady would then ask about your parentage.”

I was too excited to sense the danger in her tone of voice. I proceeded to talk about Grandpa, the village, Serenity.… She suddenly stopped eating, put her palm across her mouth and closed her eyes. I thought a fish bone had lodged itself in her throat.

“Katonda wange!” she exclaimed. “My God!”

“What is the matter?”

“I always suspected something. Now I know.”

“Know what?” I said irritably.

“We are related. You are my brother, or as the English say, half-brother.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“My biological father’s name is Muwaabi, and he comes from the same village and went to Ndere Primary School. You are his son. I now see that there is a slight resemblance between you. He got rid of my mother in order to marry in church. And after that, he did not pay much attention to my welfare. It was the reason I always said that he was dead, but I know that he works and lives in the city. I resolved to keep out of his way for the rest of my life.”

I could not eat anymore. I felt myself sinking into a big hole full of howling ghouls. I looked at the girl with new eyes. I could see Aunt Tiida in the upper part of her face. I could see a bit of Kasiko too, and Grandma in a very faint way. Maybe it was the presence of all these familiar features that had made her so attractive to me. I was no staunch exogamous traditionalist, but something had gone out of our relationship. It did not feel the same anymore. We drank a lot but said very little that night, and for many more nights. I never touched her again. The magic candle was dead.

It struck me one evening that this was a God-given chance for revenge on Serenity, my chance to repay him for that near-death beating. I should look him up and tell him that I had found somebody to marry and then introduce Jo. Yes, I would do that, as a piece of theater. Sadness permeated all this, because I felt I would never find another girl like Jo. I already was jealous of whoever would marry her.

“Will you do something for me?” I asked her.

“What is it?”

“I want to introduce you to my father, our father, as my fiancée.”

“What do you want to do that for?”

“I have my reasons.”

“You do not believe that I will marry you, do you?”

“Well, of course not,” I said irritably.

“Then what are you up to?”

“Let us say there is some unfinished business between me and my father.”

“Why bring me in?” Her directness made me cringe. She was doing her best to look into the future; I was reluctant to abandon the mires of the present and the past.

“There is much unfinished business between you and him too,” I answered.

“Why would I want to meet him that way?”

“Are you not angry at how he treated your mother, and you in particular?”

“Of course I am. But that is not how I want to play it.”

“How do you want to play it?”