My memory of Mbirizi Town is etched in a permanent orange hue, like the glow of a sun that hangs too late in the sky when the cloud is lifted after a day of incessant rains. The memories themselves are more fleeting; some vivid, others randomly beaming at the most inconceivable of times only to retract back like they were a simple sliver of my imagination.
Those days, which consumed my youth, can be summed up in a single sentence — work, evenings with comrades, a couple of Christmases, a single smile, and one particular story.
The events appear to warp and blend into each other so that they all seem condensed into a few hours, and the town itself seems even more compressed; a few streets that awkwardly sat on the upper side of a single hill along the highway.
I arrived in Mbirizi from the city on a dark, cloudy and windy Saturday afternoon in the April of 1994, aboard an age-defying rickety bus en route to the country’s West. The bus having spent twice the time it ought to have taken to arrive, I had abandoned all hope and expectation of what life after teaching school had in store for me, and had resigned myself to the confines of personal thought.
Mr. Mayanja Peter.
The name sounded foreign to me as I passed it through my lips. I smiled at the idea that my name would carry a title. A feeling of achievement washed over me.I did not feel old enough for titles yet, but knew I would get used to it. I hadn’t paid any attention to the town as we passed through it, and would have missed it too had the bus conductor not informed me that this was Mbirizi. By then we had arrived at the very end of the town.
“Gwe didn’t you pay for Mbirizi?” The conductor’s voice hovered through the wind that was blowing from my open window, waking me from my wandering thoughts.
“Ye— Yes…” I answered, after a moment of hesitation.I had just realized he was actually talking to me.
“Anti some people feel clever. Tebagala kusasula ezibatuusa,” he said, seemingly to himself, as he knocked hard on the roof in a manner I was sure had contributed to the bus’ aging — a signal for the driver to make a stop, after which the bus came to a screeching halt.
I carried my briefcase in the left hand and the kikapu of luggage in the right, and headed to the town. I had just disembarked when a strong wind blew a whiff of dust that momentarily blinded me, settling its specks on the new checkered suit I had received as a graduation present. I was sure that I wouldn’t need directions to find the school I had been posted to.From the onset, the town looked small.
What stood before my eyes was more like an artistic plan for a town than an actual town. All the houses were an aged-cream colour that could have been anything between a faded yellow and weather-beaten white. Mbirizi sits by the highway that links the western region of the country to the city. Its scattered, yet somewhat aligned, same-styled houses are unimaginatively tucked in the more leveled plain between two indistinct hills.
Some claim the town preceded the road, and despite the rumour’s limited probability — given the town’s size and population — that can be held to be true. For some reason, livelier towns often mushroomed around Mbirizi. Just the construction of a petrol station, or the opening of a guest house, was usually enough to spiral a place into the next big stop along the highway.
In all this Mbirizi remained almost unchanged, almost forgotten, except by its residents who took pride in talking about how bigger towns were built before their own eyes. They always complained about being left behind but seemed inwardly thrilled by this. They would grumble about the leaders neglecting their old town but come election season; they would all rally in a rage behind the same politicians they complained about. After a time, opposing parties simply skipped the town altogether during the campaigns.
Such is the town that I got to live in. It consumed my youth and marked my life in a way only a few events ever do in a man’s life.
I know this particular story better than other stories from Mbirizi because it occurred during my years there. It would have remained a whisper in the gossip vines that filled the dull hours of town life had I not chosen to tell it to you; because like most small towns, Mbirizi lived by a tell-no-tales tradition which erected an invisible wall that kept the town’s secrets within its boundaries. Why do I choose to tell it to you now? Well, some tales must be told.
It all began with a rumour. In the sterile routine of life in Mbirizi, its residents often felt the need to blow life into the dullness, so every couple of weeks a new rumour would break out; two ladies would breakup their friendship and yell all kinds of untrue profanities against each other, and that would keep the town winds blowing all manner of words until a new scandal erupted. If the break was too long, it was generally known that the currents would soon deliver a worthwhile sensation — like a fight involving men.It was during such a streak of unpredictable harmony that the winds blew in a call for Eseza.
In all truth, it must have been simple boredom that led to the unfurling of a fight so trivial, but, I must say, there was some jealousy at play.
For anyone who knew Eseza, she could simply be described as beautiful. Beauty comes in many forms, and hers was the unremarkable kind. It wasn’t a stunning pulchritude that left one motionless, but the kind that grew on you until you realized that she was the most amazingly beautiful woman you’d known —the kind of beauty that lasts ages.
I have to admit that she made little impression on me the first time I saw her. We met in church, during the Easter mass that fell a week after my arrival, and there was nothing extraordinary about the encounter.
I heard her voice first — a smooth alto that rose behind me in steady crescendo, singing Alleluia— and turned only out of reflex. It was the kind of voice you might hear on radio but never in person — one laced with confidence and restraint, and which felt like warmth. I turned to see who the owner of such perfection might be and found a tall young woman staring back. Her face was more plain than anything.Nothing to note, save for a glint in the eyes that hinted at an even more radiant spirit within.
On commenting about the beautiful singing, I learnt from a workmate, Nakku, on the way home from church, that Eseza was a thing of mystery in the town. She was a girl of reserved disposition, with surprising humour and charm to those that knew her, but she could also be bigheaded, as Nakku knew well, being her former teacher. She was born on the fringes of Mbirizi, to a farmer who had only three daughters,Eseza being the second.
Life, more often than not, gives us a basic manual to live by growing up. It is dictated by the circumstances of our surroundings, except for the special few who are thrown to the ends of the spectrum to serve as fuelers of hope or examples of unwise decisions, but Eseza was no such exception. She was raised by the dreary growing-up manual of Mbirizi, and she lived by it.
The interesting bit of her story starts with her finishing Senior Four, a kind of rare occurrence for the small town in the late 80s. Nakku says this wasn’t the result of stellar intellect, but the mere misfortune that she was a head taller than the girls and boys around the village. Boys seemed to show no interest in her beyond simple teasing, and without the welcome distractions of their attentions, she stayed in school while her contemporaries got pregnant, or were married off to any man with some good income or some prospects of it.
After Senior Four, however, she was lucky to get the attention of one very eligible bachelor. Kato, whose father was one of a handful of traders in the town, had just returned from school in the city and was set to take over his aging father’s business. Being from a family of prominence, he became the subject of numerous calculations and schemes — business deals with people who had ripe daughters, and seductions from every girl who thought herself beautiful, abounded.
His time in the city had, however, put ideas in his head that were everything the elders warn against. He not only passed over every single recommendation his uncles put forth, but went on to declare that he would only marry an educated woman worth presenting to his friends in the city. As it happened, only a handful of women could meet those credentials, and Eseza was at the forefront. He seemed not to mind her height, or that she did not support his father’s business which sold the bleaching creams all fashionable and unfashionable women around Mbirizi used.
On Eseza’s part such attentions were long overdue, so they soon got married in the way events took place in Mbirizi; with a flare exaggerated by the attendees to one another — as if the whole town had not been there —and the ensuing heap of praises and prayers for twins.
The tongues did not start to wag until after, a couple of years into her marriage, Eseza had nothing to show for the generosity of her husband — a man who had let her dress the way she did before she got married; who put up with her leanness even though it gave the town cause to accuse him of not feeding her well; who never gave currency to the whispers that his pride had landed him a bad deal.
Some said it was due to Kato’s frequent traveling. But others insisted that if her Senga had taught her better, she would make use of the time they had together. The couple, in all this, seemed mostly happy.
One Monday lunch a story reached me from the mathematics teacher, Mr. Kawalya — a big burly man who took it upon himself to know everyone’s business by striking friendships with nearly every citizen of the town. Mr. Kawalya, whose thick, broad frame did not seem designed for such a vice, spoke in a deep baritone that couldn’t master a whisper, coupled with unfitting theatrics. His passion, though, lent his stories some interestingness.
According to Mr.Kawalya, not everyone was comfortable with the sad situation the couple seemed not to mind, and that Babirye Nayiga, Kato’s elder twin, had decided to make her feelings known. For Eseza, it was an ideal day to visit the market. With the afternoon sun lying low, she embarked on the journey with her omniscient mulamu, Babirye, whom she knew would help her catch up with the events of the town.
Whatever triggered the outburst is unknown, but on reaching the second stall in the market, Nayiga suddenly stopped and began to spew a tirade of revolting insults in Eseza’s direction that made the whole market stand still
Nayiga was well known for having an unfiltered mouth during verbal fights. Women generally avoided any confrontation with her because she always won such fights, not on any merit of argument, or justice, but with a shrill voice that yelled the most embarrassing of things. One never got a chance to put in a word, let alone come back from the obnoxious mixture of hurtful truths and untruths.
In full audience of the whole town — for most of the women had come to the market that day — she accused Eseza of witchcraft.Apparently, she never grew any fatter no matter how much food the former’s brother fed her.
“It’s only witches and people with bad hearts that eat without growing any bigger. Go and ask for forgiveness from whoever you bewitched, I’m telling you as your sister and mulamu,” Nayiga opened.
A certain woman selling cassava dared claim to be a victim; her cassava had become bitter and stunted from the time Eseza passed through her garden a few years back. Luckily for Eseza, the woman was known for having a mouth and brains in greatly imbalanced proportions, so no one paid her any attention.
Mr. Kawalya went on to narrate how Nayiga told Eseza that her debauchery with underage school boys wasn’t a secret anymore since everyone now knew, and of how the whole town was talking about her stealing from Kato’s shop to send her family money. These latest revelations left everyone, including Eseza greatly stunned.
Whether out of wisdom, or fear of Nayiga’s talents, Eseza went silently on about her shopping, even stopping to bargain a couple of times. But that seemed to provoke Nayiga even more.
“Kalabe, konnakawuubabusikaatibwekasiiba kawanise.Lengeraobugulubumulinga obutookeobwakonna. Obwenzibumukozzezza, bumumazeewonaye atambula mubantu.”
“She just came to bring her curse of barrenness to our family. For us we even have twins. No wonder her mother could only get daughters.”
Nayiga’s last remark must have been the spike that poked the sleeping lioness, for Eseza suddenly stopped, then walked back in a trance to the same spot she had left her. Nayiga had by now gathered a cohort of onlookers who were giving testimony of Eseza’s hidden evils. All she could see was Nayiga’s blue kitenge.
In a lightning craze, Eseza jumped on Nayiga and ripped the blue kitenge from the left breast to the waist. As Nayiga hurried to protect her modesty, Eseza shoved her into a tomato stall that crumbled behind her weight. She fell with a heavy thud, but Eseza descended on her before a sound could escape her mouth. A wind of punches, slaps, and kicks stung Nayiga like a swarm of bees whose hive had been disturbed. All Nayiga could do was scream like a headless chicken.
The stunning suddenness of Eseza’s attack left the entire market suspended, and Nayiga’s punishment might have gone on for forever hadn’t an itinerant fishmonger arrived just then. Eseza felt the strong arms of the fishmonger encircle her with their foul smell and pull her away, but she was still kicking and punching even after they had been fully separated.
“Wulululue… ekitabadde wano!” One woman exclaimed, clapping her hands and bringing them to her chin,“Aaahaa! Amaanyibabiryeyagamalira mubigambo.”
“Eeh! You’ve finished her today. Aaahaa!”
“Oyo wakubira omulamu we, nnotagenze kutta anazaala….Hmm?”
The different voices of the market people around her evoked in Eseza feelings of relief and renewed anger all at once. Only a moment ago they were ululating at the vitriol Nayiga was throwing at her, and now they were congratulating her.
She left the market with stifled tears, and Nayiga’s words flying overhead, but when she got home, Eseza went about her duties normally, even making sure to include Nayiga in the evening tea.
Nayiga obviously hadn’t been forgiven, but marriage often demands tolerance of another’s burdens — which often included promiscuity by men, overbearing in-laws, boredom and nagging by women; and many times a penurious family to take care of. Eseza, in looking forward, laid her part in this sacrifice.
The beating, however, hadn’t exactly taught Babirye much. On reaching home, Eseza’s sister-in-law gave her brother a version so overwhelming that Eseza couldn’t bother to rebut. Infuriated, Kato came at Eseza in a manner she had never seen before.
“Woman!You dare to beat my own sister?” He growled, eyes bulging and veins popping on his head.At one point he banged the cupboard and sent the porcelain cups and saucers shaking like they too were afraid of his fury.
“Next you’re going to beat up my mother and seduce my father. Is this what I married? Tell me Eseza. Do you know how that makes me look? Why are you acting like these uncultured imbeciles! You’re just another senseless ignoramus it seems!”
One secret to a woman’s heart, which has been shouted on mountain tops and valleys deep, is that it’s the small things that matter.
The small matter that Kato had sided with his sister over his beloved wife left a small mark on Eseza, which she soon forgot was even there, but it lingered uninvited in the periphery of her mind. Soon enough a faultfinding mission unconsciously started, and her husband quickly followed suit.
Eseza noticed the downward spiral and sought counsel from her mother, who instead assured her that it was simply a taste of the marriage broth that would characterize their next thirty years.If they were blessed, a life-giving friendship would be born, stronger and wiser than the affection a bride enjoys on her wedding day.
It’s good to be king; it’s often said. Such words hadn’t been told to Kato, so he continued taunting his wife, pushing the envelope wider with each complaint.Kato found this new streak of overt dominance quite thrilling, pushing his commands at every displeasure as Eseza, in turn, kept her eyes on the everlasting friendship to be born in thirty years.
But life doesn’t want to be planned. It always imposes its own will on how things will be, and Kato’s overbearing manner intumesced as Eseza’s overridden patience waned. Something inexplicable soon unfolded. A single cup of tea would set these plans to a grinding halt.
One day as ordinary as any other, Eseza brought her husband a cup of morning tea which, sticking to his script, he found unsatisfactory in taste.
“Gwe! Come here!” Kato commanded.
Eseza gingerly approached.
A certain bitterness in her guts made her feel suddenly angry this time; an emptiness or fullness inside that couldn’t get any deeper or fuller.
“Don’t I buy sugar in this house, or are you also rationing it to send to your poor excuse of a family?” he said, then spat out a mouthful of the tea at her feet.
“You want people to start saying Kato’s house serves tea without sugar?” He mocked. “It’s even cold.Is this tea, or bathing water?”
At that, he tossed the remaining tea at her, and the hot liquid scalded her skin.
Eseza screamed.
She grabbed the cup from his hand and flung it at him with all the fury of her piled-up anger, but Kato ducked just in time to dodge it.
Some say that what ensued was an exchange of slaps and kicks. Others claim it was a thrashing and whipping such as that inflicted upon thieves and robbers. I personally know it was both, and that it was equally shared between husband and wife.
Everything they had built within those three years — the glamorous wedding by Mbirizi’s standard; their aloof stance as the modern, educated couple of the town; the play of rich husband and patient, obedient wife — all came crumbling down that morning.
Eseza left her husband.
The scandal tore through every segment of life in Mbirizi, and possibly crossed even its secretive borders. Women considered to be of substance gave testimonies of how they had endured worse beatings and stayed to keep their marriages. What Eseza had done was an abomination.
“Look at the butcher’s wife — always limping but she has endured in her marriage.”
“Mukayala Musawo says she is always falling down with those swollen cheeks, but her children even study in the city!”
“It’s only a husband who loves you that can discipline you.Others just leave you to rot in your mistakes and then they neglect you.”
“Who does this woman think she is?”
“It’s only because she failed to get children.If she were a mother, she wouldn’t do that to her children.”
Efforts at reconciliation were futile. Either the fight’s magnitude had extinguished all kind feeling for his wife, or being the subject of an unseen precedent wounded his pride beyond measure; but nothing could convince Kato to take his Eseza back. By going back to her parent’s home, she had made her stance very clear.
One proven element of time is its ability to heal, lending in its passing a staleness and normalcy to any kind of situation; untilit’s completely forgotten or loses its luster. A year and some months after the event, Eseza’s scandal was all but forgotten.All that remained of it was made-up proverbs issued to warn spirited daughters.
It was about this time that I formally met Eseza, a few weeks to the start of the second school term of 1997. By good fortune, I had just been promoted to Dean of Studies, replacing an elderly teacher who had retired after numerous decades at the school. His longevity in the service was such that he had taught even the oldest people in the town. And because it was hard to separate the man from the office, the position I now held was accorded a great deal of unwarranted reverence.
My new office had initially been a classroom. It was now too small to accommodate the massive classes that had been since shipped-out to the new classroom block, but was also too big to be an office for a single individual.
Most people who came in — be it parents or students or visitors — often found the void intimidating. They would stare at the blank, whitewashed walls as if there were pieces of art which were visible only to the vigilant eye, but not Eseza. She sat in front of me with a seriousness that came off as habitual confidence, or expectant desperation, and acted as if the extravagant space did not exist.
I was sipping my break tea in the office when she came in. I placed my cup down on the simple table that was in place for a desk, and invited her to take a seat. The seats were hard-backed wooden chairs placed perpendicular to the desk, so that visitors sat facing the wall and had to twist their necks to address to me. Eseza turned the chair around and faced me directly.
“Why do you want to teach? Can you actually teach?” I asked.
“What I need is a job,” she told me frankly, “and I think I can teach. I can really teach. I can show you that I can.”
I still couldn’t place her tone between confidence and desperation. The musical alto in her voice caught me off-guard. It amused me so much that I giggled as I lifted the cup to my mouth, shaking slightly and spilling tea onto my white shirt.
“Let me help you with that,” she offered with puerile honesty, standing up and then quickly sitting after realizing she couldn’t do a thing about it.
Her language was decent, and it being customary for former students to come back and work as teaching assistants, I figured she might as well get the chance since she was already recognized as one of the few female graduates of the past generation. She had expressed interest in teaching mathematics and physics in her application letter, so I assigned her to assist a teacher in the lower classes.
Eseza turned out to have a natural flair for mathematics. She taught it with so much ease that she soon became a student favorite — though this may also be attributed to her leniency and soft hand when it came to discipline.However, students whose performance had previously been average began to excel under her tutelage, and this in a subject many considered a predestined talent. By the time she counted her third term in the school, she was already one of the most popular teachers on the compound.
“Do you know your nickname?” She asked me suddenly one day. We were having lunch in the staffroom, which was merely of a collection of desks crammed in one area sealed off from the main hall with plywood.
“No I don’t have a nickname.Maybe back when I was still studying.”
She cut me off with a hearty laugh. I hadn’t intended to make a joke. I was puzzled.
“I mean here, among the students.”
“Oooh… I don’t know.Could it be some smart twisting of Peter in any way? It’s always along those lines.” I told her.
One of the worst sins a student could commit was called a teacher by their nickname. Only new students who fell for pranks made the mistake of calling a teacher by their nickname, but none had been tried on me so far.
“I will tell you when…” she started, then burst into laughter and shook her head as if to say — I can’t. Not now.
But the other teachers would not allow it.A few shoves from those seated next to her made her give in.
“They call you Long Jaw.”
She dropped it with a gritted smile, awaiting my reaction.But when the staffroom laughed out in chorus, she joined in their trite excitement.
“But my jaws are ordinary” I protested.
“They say it’s the way you sip your tea…you elongate your jaw somehow.”
Students’imaginations can be overworked at times. I let it pass. It was a good thing I never found it offensive, because the other teachers enjoyed it so much that they started using it around the staffroom in moments of banter.
Like most genuine friendships, I cannot tell exactly how, or when, my association with Eseza crossed the line from acquaintance to friend. It could have been the professional proximity, or the great company she offered.All I know is that we struck the best of friendships, and in her I found a freshness I hadn’t encountered in a long while — she had a blending of honesty, politeness, and humor rarely found in a single person.
Perhaps it was the way she laughed, throwing her head back a little to the left and carelessly effusing muffled spasms through a smile that never went past the limits of dignity. Or maybe the sudden brightness in her eyes that made you feel like she was experiencing deep joy and not mere laughter.
It was the longing for such moments with her, which made me walk her from church or from school; or invite her home for evening drinks. I soon forgot how to peel matooke. She would come home and help me do it.
All the difference in the affairs of the heart — the profound joy, but also the immeasurable sadness — is in the question of requited feelings.
My fate walked the line between without much need to throw me over to a single side. I therefore enjoyed the perks of her friendship with my hopes resigned.
It was the most unexpected of times. One of those random nights where we sat with friends by the veranda at the back of my house, talking about nothing and joking about everything. Friends arrived and friends left. We talked-on as time flew by, unheeded. That night we made love.
We started spending more time together, seeing each other. More often than not we somehow found ourselves in the same place, whether it was during lunch or lesson breaks.
I admit that I grew greatly fond of Eseza. We were all past first loves so we knew better than to throw it all in the face of our small town, but we were happy.Eseza on her part was doing great with her teaching. We both were, having fallen in rhythm with the pattern of our daily lives.
Around this time, the younger students that Eseza had started with had advanced, and for continuity’s sake, she proceeded with them into the upper classes; mostly by the students’ own demand.This however did not sit well with Mr. Kawalya — the teacher she had been assigned to assist — who felt he did not need any further help with his students.
The students protested.
After meetings with the Parents–Teachers–Association, the Headmaster and the School Board decided that Eseza would stay on with her students since they were already excelling under her guardianship. When she heard the news, she came to my office, hugged me, and then silently left.
It made me very happy.
I did not see the signs: the long stares from strangers, the excuses from friends, or the giggles when I entered the classroom…
It was only when, several weeks later, Teacher Nakku came to my office in that manner in which one delivers bad news — where the bearer reeks of a sadness that would leave them unscathed, but the receiver in turmoil — that the cataracts were finally lifted from my eyes.
“Peter, I think you know this already, but I’m asking what you are going to do about it,” she said in a grave voice.
What ensued was a roll of staggering news about happenings in my life that left me in disbelief.Apparently, Mbirizi was buzzing with talk of the DOS being involved with a married woman. It was said that I gave Eseza the job only because we were lovers,and that I was one of the men she was involved with when was still with Kato. Some even claimed it was I who had talked her into leaving her husband. Apparently, I was under a potent spell — it was the only logical reason a young, respectable gentleman could frolic about with a marital failure.
“But I barely knew her then; you should know that!” I protested.
“I don’t know what to think Peter. There is no smoke without fire.”
I did not feel that my relationship with Eseza was anyone else’s business, but I ended up giving Nakku my side of the story. I was disappointed that she had taken the same line as the villagers. Nakku was a close friend and a confidant of sorts.
Alas, when a theory has made its rounds, the only counter that could contradict it is a juicier, more interesting theory, and mine lacked the sparks to spice it up enough. It only served to confirm the allegations.
“They even say a teacher found you engaging in sexual acts on school grounds, here in your office.”
She looked around with raised eyebrows, as if she might just find a lingering speck of evidence that would support her story. I was astounded.
Nakku left with the contentment of one who had accomplished a mission, parting with a proverbial warning I couldn’t decipher. Barely was she out the door when a student came knocking. The Headmaster wanted me in his office.
I found Eseza waiting for me outside. We had both been summoned.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. It was break time and students were scattered all over the compound.The teachers too were everywhere: marking books along the veranda to the HM’s office — adjacent to the staff room — or having small talk under the trees.
The school being atop the hill, Mbirizi Town could be seen lying down below, to the east side of the school. The school’s blue and cream buildings were scattered about. My office was at the end of one of the oldest structures while the HM’s was at the opposite end, in a new modern structure that boasted of green iron sheets.It also housed a science lab, and was where students took their annual class picture since it was erected.
The HM’s office was diagonally linked to mine through a crisscross of pathways made of aged, clay bricks that now had deep depressions in each stone. These were observations I made as I walked to his office, with Eseza at my side trying to match my strides.
I felt a guiltless shame.
Earlier in the walk, we had attempted to hold hands as a way of supporting each other, but this seemed to add a hanging drama to the situation.We silently agreed to let go. I’ve never walked faster, never moved slower.
At first, the entire school stood still, watching us in a way that made us feel like peculiar strangers in a foreign land. Then slowly, the murmuring started. Blurry bodies heaped into tiny clusters of whispers and arguments sprung up alongside spontaneous bursts of laughter. I oscillated from confidence to weakness to indifference in a never-ending cycle during that walk.
Eseza on her part cared very little. Her eyes listed a little wonder, then amusement, but nothing more. She seemed better prepared. The private smile behind her lips, that only I had come to know, provided enough confidence for the both of us. I was greatly relieved when we entered the HM’s office. We sat in two of three visitors’ chairs facing his own, where he waited behind a gigantic desk.
“Mr. Mayanja. Mrs. Kato.Good afternoon,” his booming bass greeted. “The reason you are here is that I have received disturbing information, and have reason to believe that the two of you have been behaving in an unprofessional manner,” He leaned back in his chair and peered at us through the thick-rimmed glasses that covered his fat, dark face.He was waiting for us to give an answer.
For some reason in the confines of this modern-furnished space, far removed from the roving eyes of the entire school, I felt confident to lay claim to my rights. But the moment I opened my mouth to speak, I realized his statement left no space for rebuttal.
“In what way Mr. Headmaster?” Eseza’s smooth voice unexpectedly rose like a cool breeze in the afternoon heat.
An uncertain pause ensued on the part of the HM. I counted this a small victory, and a smile unconsciously made its way to my face.
“Mr. Mayanja, do you mind sharing what’s making you so happy… Is there something I should know?” He rebuked.“Are you aware the code of conduct you signed on your first day here?”
My head felt heavy, as if in a drunken slur.
“Do you know what it says about sexual relationships between staff? Unless of course, you want to deny your relationship, in which case I would be mistaken.”
We both looked on idly, unable to deny or verify the allegation. Or apologize.
“Am I talking to myself?”
“Well, for that matter Mrs. Kato, you will not be able to work with us any longer…”
The words stung my ears.I looked at both the HM and Eseza to confirm if I had heard well. The look on her face said it all.
“…. As for you Mr. Mayanja, I must forward your case to the Ministry. They shall determine the course of action to be taken.”
At that moment, I had never seen anyone more disgusting than the man in the cushioned chair, parading his rotund belly like a pregnant pig lying in its soiled sty. I decided he wasn’t worth my anger and walked out of his office.
I went to back to my office and tried occupying my mind with unmarked scripts. After a while, I gave that up and went straight home. The ordeal had been too much for my untested spirit.
I found Eseza seated on the veranda at the back of the house — where we usually sat late in the evening, when night had fallen, telling each other stories of our past lives. I joined her, wondering how long she had been there.There was something strange about sitting there so early when the sun was still up. It seemed like a different place altogether.
“I used to wonder where those birds flew to,” she said, looking at a flock flying past the setting sun, “so one time I asked my dad where they go, and he told me they were chasing the sun… making home wherever the sun was… How I admired them — they did not know what night was; always living in freedom, flying above the wind and leaving the darkness behind. By then I feared the night, you can’t imagine….”
She finished off with a weak smile whose meaning was hidden in her recollection.
“Do you think they would ever find it, catch it?” I heard myself ask,“And if they could, wouldn’t they burn?”
“I was young,” she replied,“I never thought of that of course. Am I not allowed even to dream blindly?”
Her voice seemed to be cracking. I did not respond; and in silence, we watched the slow setting of the sun.
“What happened?” I asked, breaking the silence.
After a moment of continued silence, in which I thought she wouldn’t reply, she started talking, not speaking directly to me.
“He told me I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t… I’ve brought shame upon our household… I always believed he was different, you know. He refused to marry another woman when mom produced only daughters. But now he says men will shun my sisters if I do not make peace with Kato. He told me he only allowed me to stay because he hoped we would sort out our differences….That I’m lucky Kato hasn’t remarried yet. He said I shouldn’t be selfish.That this doesn’t concern me alone… But I could never go back, Peter. I can’t go back…”
I looked at her. Tears were flowing from her eyes.Her lips trembled, and a shiver ran through her body beneath the shawl she’d thrown over her shoulders, even though the evening was warm. I put an arm around her, and we sat there in silence again for a long, long while.
Night fell.The stars lit the open sky above us unobstructed in any way. And in the slow-moving night, under the gaze of the stars, we made promises to each other.We resolved to get together, to carry on with our lives as freely as we could.
She thought of going to the city, but I convinced her it wasn’t the place for a small-town girl. She had too much to leave behind. We would stay together, and with the passing of time, Mbirizi would forget about us
The next Sunday we went to church together. It was a decision we both pretended was light, but the tensions were high as we each chose what to wear, what time we would leave, even where we would sit.
I had gotten used to the stares, so I wasn’t fazed much by them until it was the priest’s turn. The readings were taken carried stories about an infant David and something from the Acts of the Apostles, but he decided a sermon regarding the 7thcommandment was best. Adultery was the lesson that day.And preach he did.
“As Jeremiah 13:27 testifies,”the priest bellowed, “Woe unto you: your adulteries and lustful neighings, your shameless prostitution, I have seen! That is the scripture, people of God! And as Jonah teaches, he will forgive us when we repent.Repent people of God, repent! Let’s not turn our town into a bedrock of evil… Even Hebrew 13:4 tells us, marriage should be honored, for God will judge the adulterer!”
I was being told indirectly that I was shamelessly lying with another man’s wife, but we endured the Mass as he made us examples of sin and the wrongs of our generation. Right there, I saw it — we were outcasts in the town I’d learnt to call home.
Scandal courted every single thing we did. We tried to live as normally as we could, but it wouldn’t go away. Life was getting hard for both of us. Eseza never seemed happy. I missed the naïveté I had. It could have ended then perhaps, but I was too far in now to walk away.
Life does eventually give us what we hope for, but its timing is, many times, hard to understand. One day I was quietly having break tea in my corner when Teacher Nakku approached me.
“You know she is pregnant?” She asked, or rather, said.
I stared at her.
“You mean you haven’t noticed? The signs have been showing for a couple of weeks now.”
This is the kind of news all men want to hear when they are ready. I wasn’t ready. I was neither sad nor gladdened. I just did not know how to react.
I slept on it for three days, albeit sleeplessly, and when I had gathered the courage, I asked her.
“Yes,” she said. “I did not mean for this to happen, Peter.”
“It’s a blessing,” I said. I almost added ‘in disguise,’ but as I said the first words, I came to believe them that instant.
We had by now come to expect the worst from Mbirizi, and anticipating a storm we decided we would keep it under wraps. She would visit her mom and inform her family, then go visit an aunt in a town some 200 kilometers away.
As we carried on with our lives, many people did not. Mediations between Kato’s and Eseza’s elders had been going behind our backs, and that very evening when Eseza confirmed the news to me, the negotiations had come to a head.
I was leaving the house to get something from the shops when a cohort of notables cut me off at the road. Nayiga, Kato’s notorious sister, was walking at their head, with the local council Chairman and Kato in tow, followed by the parish Priest and Eseza’s father. They had the same resolute look on their faces. I knew that instant that things had taken a different turn.
“We have come for our daughter,” the Chairman announced.
“Is OUR wife in that house of yours?” Nayiga added with a black eye, and a meaningful accent in the “our.”
Despite my confusion, I knew I should invite them in, so I did. I went into the bedroom and briefed Eseza, and we returned to the sitting room together, holding hands, and sat beside each other.
Eseza’s father had sat with Kato and the Chairman in the three-seater. The Priest and Babirye both sat in the single armchairs — but Babirye had dragged hers and perched herself at her brother’s right — and we sat in the two-seater, facing her father, Kato, and the Chairman.
“Mwana wange omwagalwa, bbawo akunonnye, akkuddidemu.” Eseza’s father opened the meeting with a heartfelt plea.They all stared at her.
A pregnant silence supervened.
The words confirmed Eseza’s worst fears. A mixture of dread and defiance danced in her eyes. Babirye could barely conceal her smirk. She was finding it all entertaining.
“Eseza,” Kato’s baritone rose with surprising steadiness. He looked at Eseza without once crossing my position.
“You are my duly wedded wife till death do us apart, and we can go through it all just like Sarah and Abraham. I have come to take you home. I’m willing to see past your transgressions so that we can rebuild our home on the new ground.”
Eseza’s eyes dropped to her laps. She carried her silence with a delicate grace.
“We have decided, together with your father and the elders on both sides, that you come back home with me today. However, you will be staying in the village house. It is the best way to handle the situation, given that your actions have left a mark on our lives here that we would all rather forget.”
Nayiga then cleared her voice.
“Mulamu, we welcome you back to the family. You see we persuaded my brother to be an understanding husband, not one that leaves his wife to loiter around the entire village laying herself before any trouser.”
“More so cheap trousers,” she added giving me a long stare concluded with an eye roll, “imagine leaving a feast to scrape for bones, hmm, some women surprise me…”
I felt my anger rise.I could entertain the looks of loathing and aversion, but to be openly disrespected under my own roof, I would not entertain.
“If that is how you came to speak, get out of my house before I break someone’s jaw. Eseza is an adult. She can make her own decisions.”
“Hahaha,” the chairman passed a hollow laugh. “Is that how you treat a man whose daughter you’ve stolen? Mr. Mayanja, we actually expect you to leave this town at your earliest convenience, there is no space for you in our community,” the Chairman said in reply.
“I SAID GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
I was shocked by the volume of rage spewing out of my mouth, but now that the words had been spoken, there was little to do but stand by them.
“Young man, it would do you good to watch your mouth,” Kato spoke at last, after a long, hostile silence.
“Tell your sister to watch hers before you tell me to watch mine,” I retorted. I was ready to get physical if it came to it. The arrogance with which he addressed me had only served to push me further off the cliff.
“But Kato, why are you fighting over this barren piece of passed the time?” Babirye hissed,”just dump her in the farm and get yourself a real woman. Twakoowa obukazi obweteekawo ngatewalikyebuyina…”
Eseza rose slowly to her feet. I could swear there was fire issuing from inside her skin. I felt a wave of heat radiate from her body so strongly I feared she was going to kill Babirye.
Babirye retuned her glare, evidently forgetting the beating she had received in the market. Then Eseza turned to her father and spoke in a tone so happy I feared this time it was madness.
“Taata, I’m expecting. I’m pregnant.”
The words hit the room like a torrent, shattering the icy expressions on the faces across the board. Babirye was blinking rapidly as if lost for words. A look of surprise was plastered on her father’s face. The Priest and the Chairman wore identical reflections of shock. And Kato seemed frozen; but the veins on his face and neck bulged wildly, threatening to burst any minute.
“I have means, that shouldn’t be a problem,” Kato’s voice cut through, tinged with the coarseness of chocked emotions.
Eseza smiled — a strange smile somewhere between flattery and contempt — and a low, tired laugh rolled out of her body so slowly, there couldn’t be a worse way to torment a man in Kato’s position.
“Is it that hard for you to believe? Did you enjoy watching me being chastised for your misfortune? Is it too much for you accept that maybe the problem was with you? Believe it now; you were knocked by a sheep my friend.”
“Cheii!” Nayiga let out a long wail. “Wuuwiiii… nayeeseza…” she cried, “Ddala kubyetukoledde byonna bwoti bwoyogera? Just because you were sleeping around with all the men in town kati otandisse okwelaga because one got lucky? Haa…”
She rose up and strode into Eseza’s face, poked her forehead with a finger and taunted her, “Anti oyogerannyo. Tandika. Byogere…”
Eseza shoved her away.
Babirye stumbled backwards, nearly tipping over into her brother’s chair, and seething with fury, she charged at Eseza.
All the men jumped up in the same instant and rushed to Eseza’s rescue. Babirye was pulled away kicking and screaming obscenities, but Eseza’s temper had flared too.She charged at Babirye, but I managed to hold her back.
Babirye went on screaming obscenities as they dragged her outside.The Chairman suggested leaving the place for now, and the rest agreed. But once they were near the road, and Babirye had been freed, she picked up a stone and hurled it Eseza. It missed her and hit the wall.
“Just leave our home,” Eseza shouted uncharacteristically, “it’s not me that made you barren and impotent.”
Kato stopped in his tracks and turned, staring at Eseza.
“You will not talk gainst me like that you prostitute,” he growled.
I don’t remember what Eseza gleefully retorted. I was going back into the house when she said it, so I only heard the tone. I was so mad I couldn’t stand another look of the group. It was her panicked scream that brought me rushing back outside, but I arrived a little too late.
Whatever Eseza had said had burst Kato’s dam. All the raging emotions he had contained so far exploded, and he charged at her like a raging bull. The other men tried to restrain him but he was too strong, and he moved so fast. Eseza was retreating to the house when he landed on her, pulled her back by the arm and punched her full in the chest. The punch was so hard she staggered backward and lost her balance.
I arrived just as she had lost her balance. I leapt forward to break her fall, but I wasn’t near enough. Hopelessly, I saw her head dive towards the edge of the grey veranda, watched it land, heard the sound of something splitting on contact, and saw the blood spurt out where it struck.
I became transfixed.
Kato fell to her side in panic, calling out her name in vain. Her father let out a long, loud cry, and people rushed to her body from everywhere. But I remained transfixed. I had seen her eyes lock onto mine as she landed. I had seen the tear roll out the corner of her eye as her body convulsed; had seen her eyes glow as the blood seeped too rapidly out of her. I saw her mouth curve into an oddly happy smile, and when the light of life set in her eyes, I saw the reflection of the orange sunset in their stillness, and it reminded me of that evening when she told me about the birds.
I felt that now she was finally free. But I was empty. Dead. I remained transfixed.
The End