Bannange, what is this I hear? That the minuscule MC Kats was nearly ran over. By his girlfriend who weighs twice as much as him. That she was angry. Over what? Only they know. Era, the William Congreve line comes into play again—“Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned.” Mbu at the time she was ferociously revving the engine, putting pedal to the metal, she was blinded to the possibility that she could end up behind bars, and he, the father of her young child, dead and cold in Mulago mortuary. The “fight” left him looking like an unwashed little lost dog with his mouth full of dirt an his upper lip looking like it took a good upper-cut. Anyway, the theories are many, but whatever it was Fille Mutoni munnange, you are still young, your one-year old daughter still needs you and she can’t have people whispering about her “Mum murdered Dad”.
Violence, domestic violence to be exact… is real. You forget these our people who sit in air-conditioned hotel halls and discuss figures and percentages, and 'ooh!' and 'aah' when they hear that men are also battered. We all know that some men are slapped around on a daily basis. Domestic violence is REAL.
Like the case of that man, my neighbor, who had been standing under the mango tree outside the gate for about an hour after the rain stopped. He seemed aimless. I knew I could not avoid him and I needed milk from the shop, so at about 6:30pm I ventured out.
You know, he is usually not around. He has been doing some sort of trade in Juba. Tomatoes and bogoya which, in spite of their delicate nature, he has made some money off of. Enough to maintain his wife and two kids, and a mistress --- with twins on the way.
After we exchanged greetings, me feigning surprise at his presence, Taata Rachael said to me in a low tone, “Leero nsula Luzira!” (I will spend tonight in Luzira prison!)
“Wanji?” Now I was truly surprised. This man knew how to get my attention. “Kiki?”
“Nkubulire neyiba, omukazi wange antamye. Buli lwenzira awaka, abeera antulugunya! Omukazi ammazeeko emirembe. Ndi mukoowu!! Leero n’genda kukuba mukazi oyo!!!!” (I tell you neighbor, I am so fed up with this woman! Whenever I return home, she is out to torture me. I have no peace, I am tired!! I will beat that woman black and blue today!!)
He spoke through gritted teeth. I was taken aback. Like being hit by a wave of heat. I did a mental stagger.
“Eh, nga kibi ekyo!” (That’s not good) I didn't want to say much. I mean, Mama Lecho was my neighbor. Did she know she was in for the beating of her life tonight? Should I alert her?
I hurried on my way. The kids would still need their milk for breakfast.
When I returned, Taata Lecho had left his post.
True to his word, Taata Lecho acted on his promise. At about 10pm, I heard commotion from my bedroom. Loud voices carried by the night air. “Tomanyiira ssebo! Wano tolinaawo maka! Nawe weeyita musajja? Tomanyiira!!” (Who do you think you are, you man? You do not have a home here. Do you also call yourself a man???)
Taata Lecho must have dealt her a hot slap then. Or was it a karate kick?
“Wuuuuiiiii! Wuuuuuiiiiiiii!!!!! Omusajja anzita, mujje munyambe!!” (Yelling. The man is killing me, come and help me!)
This was not a matter for peeping out of windows. I had to see the action. Taata Lecho making minced-meat out of Maama Lecho.
The commotion as the padlocks on their front door were slammed into place was for World Cup. The din, with children wailing. The racket as Maama Lecho and Taata Lecho’s voices competed for superiority, uttering expletives that would make Donald Trump blush. The clamor as cups and plates crashed noisily to the floor. The dull bumps and thumps as flesh and bones collided with walls.
That racket went on for close to twenty minutes. All the while, the ear-piercing yelps and shrieks could be heard as the two kids and the maid ran from room to room to escape the thrashing from Taata Lecho who it seems, had gone quite mad, and was striking any living and non-living thing within his reach.
A crowd of lugambolists (gossips), women with their hands held to their mouths, others holding their heads like they were in mourning had gathered outside the house. Others were pacing around like they were in the labor ward. No one dared go near the sitting room window.
“Agenda ku mutta leerooooo! Maaaaaammaaaaa! Agenda ku mutta yaaaayeeeeee!! Tufudde! Mama Lecho leero bamumaze!” (He will surely kill Maama Lecho today. She is finished!) Loud whispers.
Suddenly, there was a clanging on the door. The women scattered like chicken in all directions. The maid and the two bawling kids bolted out of the house like rats running from a fire.
It seems they had made a quick getaway as Taata Lecho pounded Maama Lecho in one of the many rooms in the house.
A kindhearted neighbor called to them to her house. “Kale musirike. Musirike temukaaba!” (Shhhh! Quiet, quiet now. Don’t cry. Everything will be okay. Come!)
With the wails and sobs out of the way, our concentration returned to the popcorn inside the sufuria. The door had been flung wide open, and one brave lugambolist cautiously stepped on the verandah to see if she could get see more of the drama to supply to the other lugambolists.
Her bravery was short-lived. Taata Lecho came careering out the front door. In his haste he charged into the lugambolist throwing her to the ground.
“Munviire!!! Muve wano!!” (Get out of my way!!!) he roared, adding an expletive I cannot utter. But The women had already scattered.
I jumped to the safety of my verandah. From where I was, I could see blood. All over his tattered shirt. His right sleeve had gone missing. Most probably ripped off in the melee. His trousers were undone and he was holding them up as he strode up and down, breathing hard like a horse on a racecourse.
I must have probably been the sane one of the group, the one he had confided in about the mega thrashing he would deliver that night, because he suddenly bellowed at me, “Mpa amazzi, njagala’mazzi!” ( Give me water, I need water!)
I rushed to the kitchen and brought out a five-liter jerrican of water from the fridge.
He guzzled from the jerrican, sitting on the wet ground. I promised myself that it would not be returning to my house again. Sagala bisiraani.
Maama Lecho had bolted herself into the fortress. She was in there yelling about how she had chewed off Taata Lecho’s ear and thumped him to pulp, and that was why he had fled from the house.
Yes, the blood was dripping from somewhere on Taata Lecho’s head. His right ear. Maama Lecho had sunk her teeth in deep and given it a good bite, kind of like the one Mike Tyson showed Evander Holyfield in 1997.
She flung one of the front windows open, calling out to the maid who had deposited the children safely in the Good Samaritan’s house and had fearfully come to see if her boss had been finished off.
“Jjangu wano gwe Allieti (Harriet)! Genda ondetere ka airtime ka lukumi nkubire ab’ewange! Nze sisobola kubeera wano kugguundibwa nga nte!” (Come here you Harriet! Go and buy me some airtime for 1,000 shillings so I can call my relatives! I will not stay here and be flogged like a cow!)
Taata Lecho yelled something incomprehensible from his seat on the ground, like a warning that if Allieti even dared go to the window, she would be dead meat. She backed off, shivering and whimpering.
The lugambolists were now looking on from the safety of the dark. Somehow, one of them managed to send Maama Echo some airtime.
The storm had lasted for about an hour and we all eventually trooped back into our houses, the lugambolists speaking at the tops of their voices as they faded away.
“Bannange, obawulidde bwebadde beevuma. Hooo!”
“Kyokka Maama Lecho alidde okutu kwa Taata Leecho, takuleseewo!”
“Naye bambi, abakazi. Lwaki olwana n’e baawo?”
Taata Lecho spent the rest of the chilly night huddled uncomfortably in one of the unfinished houses in the next plot. He could not sleep as he suffered immense pain from the bitten ear, a piece of which was hanging down like a torn piece of cloth. The man was a sight to behold in his blood-spattered shirt, dirty feet, and equally dirty trousers whose legs he had folded to the knees.
The maid returned with the kids in the morning to clear the battlefield. The house was the definition of “MESS”. Cups, plates and cutlery strewn everywhere, food on the walls as well (the fight had happened right after supper). The TV had fallen on its face. One of the chairs of the Johnson set had a leg broken in two. The fight had even spread its vicious wings to the kitchen and the water pot lay on the floor shattered into a thousand fragments.
Maama Lecho’s brother and two sisters rushed to the scene of crime at dawn, hoping they could repair the relationship between the warring couple. This was not to be. Taata Lecho packed a few clothes in a black PIL kaveera and left.
I met Taata Lecho in town today. He looked well and recovered from his Saturday night ordeal. His ear was healing well, he said. It was covered in gauze and plaster. He told me he had moved to the mistress’ home in Kyanja and would not be returning to the kkomera (prison) any time soon. He said Maama Leecho was very unstable, always suspicious about his moves, insecure and commanding, controlling like an army general. She had smashed two of his mobile phones with a brick. Another time she had pinched his wallet, picked out his ATM card, broken it and thrown it into the jiiko (charcoal stove) to burn. She never gave him supper or breakfast. She said he had done nothing to earn it and yet he was the one paying the rent and the children’s school fees.
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