“This is when they choose to bring the old woman home!” his grandmother exclaimed walking through the door leading to the bedrooms. The phone in his hands said it was a few minutes past 9:00 pm.
Turning to where she stood behind him, Elijah noticed her headscarf was askew. She must have been asleep. Her hands were wrapped tightly around her short, plump frame. They held her long black sweater firmly in place over the brown and black kitenge dress she had changed into. Her usually soft face drawn.
“They” were his paternal grand aunt, Jjaja Stella, and her mother, Elijah’s 91yr old great-grandmother everyone called Maama.
A surprise call from Jjaja Stella as his grandmother was on her way to the 10:00 am service had sent the household into hours of frenzied cleaning amid rushed food preparations. Attempting to understand why the visit was happening, he had pressed for more details when he was woken up. She had responded in exasperation, “How should I know? Your people never tell me anything!” Most of his questions were answered as chairs were moved out of the way so he could reach long-forgotten corners with his broom. “They” would be arriving perhaps later or maybe the next day depending on how well Maama was to travel. They would be spending a night or two. Jajja Stella thought it best for them to stay in Uncle James’ house during that time, something his grandmother railed against, “Nga amanyira!” “Is this her house? Where does she come off telling me where to put her?”
Jajja Stella who was expected to call back and confirm their itinerary called shortly before 3:00 pm. They were just driving into Kampala and would be over in a short while.
“Naaye Stella!” His grandmother exploded when she’d hung up. “Never considers other people, only what she wants. What if I hadn’t cooked? Then you would hear stories of how they starved in my house!”
When they hadn’t arrived within the hour, she took to pacing the living room, checking her phone constantly, swinging from worry, “Did they have car trouble? I hope they didn’t end up in the hospital!” to frustration and anger, “Kale, I am here turning myself upside down for people who don’t care! I should have said no! Next time I will say No! Then you would hear them talk,” she had snorted.
He had been ready to call it a day an hour into the cleaning but there was no way to escape her words nor her determination to have everything spick and span. As the hours rolled on though, she settled on anger. “What am I killing myself for?” She had asked before stomping off to her room. No one, not even Aunt Sarah had dared go after her.
To his surprise when he opened the gate to let the long-awaited guests in they had morphed into an indiscernible number of relatives pouring out of three cars. They milled around in the parking lot under the light pouring out the front door. No one made an effort to walk into the house. His grandmother stood on her verandah, hands deep in her sweater pockets watching, waiting.
“Victoria tulude okulaba”, someone said.
“Yes it has been a while”, she responded to no one in particular.
“We won’t be staying long,” another offered. “We only came to make sure Maama arrived safely and was taken care of.”
“Oh!” his grandmother replied sharply.
He heard her clucking behind him, a little louder when the final departures an hour later revealed Jajja Maliza and her two teenage daughters would be staying too. She let them past her and slowly followed into the living room.
His people indeed!
***
His grandmother’s living room was a portal to the 90s, furnished with low, thin-frame chairs that sat in a U-shape around a 5-piece oval coffee table and had removable cushions overlaid with white chair backs knit by a long-forgotten relative. A TV stand bearing the newest addition to the room, a 32-inch flat-screen TV ─a gift from his father─ stood across the room. All these furnishings were in an annoying dark wood stain that he felt was more about conformity than style. An opinion he had shared repeatedly with his grandmother only for her to shut him down each time with her default, “It’s my house!”
“Victoria, the house looks lovely,” Jajja Maliza said loudly, spinning round to take it all in. Her gaze lingered on the photos covering the top half of one of the walls.
Victoria mumbled her thanks distractedly, she was doing her best ─the best one could from a respectable distance─ to make sure Maama, was comfortable. Pleasantries dispensed with.
“Look at Matayo’s smile”, Maliza was saying. Everyone turned to see what she was on about.
“Stella, ojukira how that smile got us into trouble with Maama?” Maliza asked turning to look at her older sister. The two women started to laugh as they recounted more tales and soon Maama was smiling along.
Matayo! Victoria’s breath caught at the sound of his name. She thought of him every day but it had been a while since another had said his name out loud. She knew which photo Maliza was pointing to. The center of it all. Struggling to feign disinterest she kept her gaze on the hands she clasped on her laps. She had stood in front of that photo every day, soaking it in for years. Matayo’s smile had never seemed wider more so against hers, which was hesitant not quite capturing how happy she was standing next to him celebrating their union flanked by their two closest friends, Maliza and Matiya. Their futures had seemed so bright. How naïve she had been.
The sudden laughter drew her gaze up, to Maliza. The sisters were still recounting a childhood they insisted on excluding her from, experiences they never drew her into.
Matayo had never excluded her. She remembered the big mango tree the two women were going on about now, the one that once stood at the back of the family home in Masaka. This tree had belonged to Matayo and her. She still had the scars, pale reminders on her knees and down her legs from the many times, she fell out of it as a little girl, desperate to keep up with him as he climbed on higher, daring her to keep up. She and Maliza had played under it, waiting for their brothers Matiya and Matayo, best friends too, to return from whatever escapades their 5-year seniority allowed. With the passing years, there had been less playtime around the tree. She had become increasingly caught up in one house chore after another more so during the holidays. Maliza who had been sent off to school in Kampala just as the boys had come home less and less. She had missed them all greatly and when she could she had sat under the tree which was close to the path leading to the well, thinking on happier times.
Shortly after her 18th birthday, there had been a flurry of meetings between Matayo’s father and her family, her long-dead father represented by her paternal uncles. Her mother was happy they had found favor with such a wealthy family. They were all tenants on Mzee Kiwanuka’s vast land. What better fortune for them than his oldest son choosing their orphaned niece to be his wife, his first wife at that? Only her brother Matiya seemed to understand she didn’t care for any of that. He was the first to bless the union, saying he couldn’t imagine a better suitor for her. She had loved Matayo and was deliriously happy he had chosen her. Her happiness was short-lived. As the wedding day had drawn closer, Matayo’s mother had gone from referring to her as Victo –a childhood nickname the old woman and everyone used─ to “that woman.” She had hoped once they were married, living a few meters from the main house, this animosity would wane. Matayo had promised it would reminding her she had Maliza as a shield but Maliza was preparing for her University studies and would soon completely disappear into that. Half a century later and she still felt as much of an outsider as she did that first Christmas, overwhelmed, hungry, nursing her one-month-old baby, while everyone else gathered around the dining table in the room next door. Matayo had found her long afterward. It was months before she forgave him. He never left her like that again when they were at family gatherings. Well until he decided to die, silly man! Time proved Maama’s tongue most feared and to be avoided at all costs.
“… toria, Victoriaa…”, Maliza was saying
“Mmmm, Yes?” She looked up to find the room watching her.
“I was asking, how is Matthew?” Maliza repeated loudly, reaching forward to touch one of the photos taken the day of Matthew’s graduation. “Afanana Taata. The resemblance is so uncanny in this photo.” Maliza continued taking the photo down and passing it on to Maama.
Taata! How she missed her father-in-law, Victoria thought to herself. “Matthew is fine,” She said instead.
“I was sad he couldn’t make it today. I really hope we can see him on this trip. Stella, do you think we will have enough time?” Maliza asked.
Matthew. Always Matthew! Next to his photo were numerous others marking the events of her life, photos taken when she and all her children graduated, of the 5 weddings they had celebrated to date, the births and birthdays of her 20 grandchildren four of whom had recently graduated too. The markers of her happiest and proudest moments eclipsed by Matthew yet again. Her joy at conceiving soon after she was wed was overshadowed by the birth of a daughter and the birth of a second daughter, a year later. Suddenly there were counts of the male progeny in her family, an attempt to verify her genetic disposition to birth an heir. Thinly veiled taunts culminated in a sit down with Maama to discuss the issue of a family heir, “it was time to consider options for a second wife for Matayo” Maama had said. Distraught she had turned to Matayo who called his mother’s idea absurd but he was distracted with work, away often. Her own mother (God rest her soul) insisted she return home and accept her lot, recounting the misfortunes of women with no sons which was just as bad as those without any children. In despair, she went to Stella. Everyone knew Maama listened to only three people. While asking for Taata’s involvement would have been impertinent, as the eldest child and a recently graduated Nurse ─the first in her extended family─ Stella seemed the safest bet besides in previous family matters, Maama had sided with Stella over Matayo.
“What do you want me to do?” Stella had asked, barely covering her displeasure at Victoria accosting her in the kitchen. Stella was home on a rare visit back. Even rarer, she was preparing a meal for Maama.
“I beg you, please talk to Maama.” Victoria had begged, voice choking.
“And tell her what? Maama is only trying to do what’s best for the family. As heir Matayo needs one too. You know that!” Stella had thrown at her before walking off. The smell of burning groundnut sauce putting an end to that talk.
Months later, in a rare moment, Taata had weighed in commanding a stop to the interference in a matter private to two people. Maama didn’t speak to Victoria for months. Matthew was born the following year. At the boy’s fifth birthday, Victoria was just as surprised as her mother-in-law when Matayo announced his family would be moving from the ancestral home in Masaka to Kampala in a few months. She learned they would be settling on a piece of land in Mutundwe ─a few kilometers out of Kampala─ that Taata had gifted Matayo months prior. Construction of their new home was already underway. They moved into an incomplete structure 6 months later. His death a few years later would bring vultures quickly to her doorstep, clamoring for what they declared to be theirs; land, house and if she wouldn’t budge on these, their blood! Matthew was only 15 years. Taata’s intervention kept her children, especially Matthew with her. Even now Matthew was her only redemption with these people.
***
Watching from the outdoor kitchen Elijah was struck by how small the old ladies seemed through the window. Their voices carried an indiscernible conversation to him. They were as he had left them: Jajja Maliza’s restless movement from one photo to another and mimicked by her daughters, Jajja Stella huddled next to Maama, the older woman silently watching it all with the occasional nod. Across the room his grandmother sat, hunched forward, head bowed, alone. The room had been overhung with her silence. A silence brought on by the monosyllabic responses she received to her inquiries about Maama’s health and heightened by the incessant reciting of the details of the fun lunch her in-laws had had to celebrate Jajja Maliza’s visit home from S.A. He had hoped, prayed even, his grandmother would look up and once again engage with the room when her beloved Matayo came up, but no, she had remained still, hands tightly clasped on her laps. He couldn’t make out if her eyes were closed. He had fled the room desperate for air when the conversation moved on to an old family tree he had no recollection of.
It was strange hearing her addressed as Victoria. He rarely thought of her as Victoria, even less so as Victoria Kiwanuka, Daughter of Samwiri Mutebi and Dolotiya Mutebi, the only sibling to Matiya Mutebi. All deceased. She was married to Matayo Kiwanuka, son of Mzee Kiwanuka in 1970. Widowed at 38 years of age. Mother of 6 children. Graduated as a nurse in 1980. Retired for seven years now.
Maama ─who looked worse off than they had been led to believe─ had only been in this house a handful of times to Elijah’s recollection. The house a betrayal. Initially, it was something about “that woman” making Matayo abandon the ancestral home, only witchcraft could have ensured that. Matayo’s death a few months after he had commissioned the expansion of his modest 2 bedroomed house fomenting the conflict further. His paternal great-grandfather, lovingly named Taata, had been instrumental in protecting his grandmother’s ownership of her home. According to her, “the vultures had shown up quickly!” Thankfully his grandfather had had the foresight to will the property to her with Taata as a witness.
Most mornings his grandmother could be found a cup in hand, seated beneath or standing before her wall of photos. He’d caught her smiling up at them often. He suspected, these photos and the numerous others kept away in tightly wrapped albums in her room, were her most prized possession. He’d always seen them as monuments to her will and tenacity. Listening to the stories around each, Elijah often found himself nostalgic for the life therein. Of a time when this house was teeming with relatives an integral part of the flow of extended relations. Now only her youngest daughter Aunt Sarah, Aunt Sarah’s two young sons, Aisha the help, Elijah and his sister Martha lived here. Her youngest son, Uncle James was away for his Post-graduate studies while Elijah’s parents and his two younger siblings lived in Mbarara where his father worked. The rest of his paternal aunts lived close by with their respective families.
“Elijah, Elijah!” He heard his grandmother call
“Yes”
“Is Martha back? No? Ok, please show your Jajja’s where they will be spending the night.” She said walking across the courtyard to where he stood. She gave instructions on getting a flask of hot water to the guests’ room in the event the old woman needed something warm in the middle of the night.
“They aren’t eating?” He asked. His grandmother had had a meal ready since 4:00 pm.
“No! mbu they are too full from lunch.” She said resignedly.
A great fuss was being made helping Maama across the courtyard and up the three steps into Uncle James’ house. Leaving her, he went to them. He caught her roll her eyes as her sisters-in-law walked past without a word.
She waited till Maama was in the house before disappearing into hers, a fortress wrapping round her. The sprawling old house now flowed into two newer structures, homes for her two sons. Both had chosen to set down roots close to her, building two-storeyed houses on either side of hers in a bid to keep a sense of openness to the home.