The first one.
It happened in a hospital.
When she was just 13.
Under the watchful eye
Of a doctor
Who said
That her body was too young.
To handle the rigours of childbirth.
He saved her from the man
Who had put her in family’s way.
Because he was married anyway.
The second time.
At 19.
Was her classmate at college.
He told a friend.
Who told another friend
Who knew a doctor friend.
Who put something inside her.
That cruelly ejected
The life growing inside of her.
The man, her classmate.
Called her spoiled goods
He couldn’t deal
And he left her.
For...
Another classmate.
Number three.
In a little backroom.
Of a dingy house
That called itself
A clinic.
In the front they
Did medical work.
But at the back
Was the devil’s workshop.
In a few hours.
She was freed.
Of that which
Had threatened to
Ruin her future.
He left her soon after.
Called her a whore.
Who couldn’t keep
Her legs shut.
Fourth time unlucky.
The condom broke.
After a party.
He was drunk
She had two glasses.
A one-night stand.
He had declared.
A crush on her.
Three months later.
He didn’t wanna know.
That must be one of
Your many men.
I cannot have babies.
I am young
Leave me alone.
This time she was stuck
Afraid that.
Her body could not
Take any more.
But when she walked.
Into that place
The one that was famous
For these kinds of things.
They welcomed her.
The fee was reasonable.
It would be clean
Free of pain
And so
Painlessly,
a life was cut short.
An innocent life.
But then one day.
She met a friend.
And they talked.
The friend said.
I cannot have bastards.
Because their fathers.
Just wanted.
Some fun with me.
Gave me money.
I got pregnant for them.
Then flushed their babies.
I’ve done seven so far.
The silence hangs heavy
The room is cold
Cold like her heart.
Friday 26 April 2019
#officelomance
The conductor in the taxi to work was brash. “Fare to Kampala is 2,500
shillings, Kalerwe 2,000!”
Of course he was overcharging but he didn’t give a damn.
It was a take it or leave it affair.
I couldn’t afford to be late so I hopped on.
“2,500 to K’la, 2,000 Kalerwe!” he stated to everyone who moved towards the car, slamming the door in the face of anyone who dared to haggle.
At one point, a passenger who had not “properly” heard the fare attempted to argue.
The way he put up his two fingers to show its 2k, or the door!
You could think he was going to beat her.
Fast forward to Mpererwe.
Two young ladies got on.
One took a seat at the back, the other next to him.
After a few minutes the neighbor struck up a conversation.
Her voice, and closeness, must have had an immediate effect- like a wonder-drug of sorts, because he dropped his slouch to adopt a straight back, his brow un-creased, and the line that was his mouth broke out into a smile as he cocked his head towards her, listening attentively.
He even forgot to call out to potential clients as the taxi, filled with empty seats, sped towards town. Ah! The power of a woman. It can soften even the toughest of edges (and egos).
At Kalerwe, his interest got off and gave him two 1,000 shillings’ notes - for her and her girlfriend. He dropped his eyes.
Like a shy schoolgirl.
I did not hear but I definitely saw him mouth the words- “Zino genda onywemu soda.”
It was so soft.
And he handed back her money.
Stealthily.
Then we sped off.
It did not take him long to return to his former ways, threatening one passenger that if he didn’t “add 500 shillings he would find somewhere else to pass, but definitely not through the main door!!”
Of course he was overcharging but he didn’t give a damn.
It was a take it or leave it affair.
I couldn’t afford to be late so I hopped on.
“2,500 to K’la, 2,000 Kalerwe!” he stated to everyone who moved towards the car, slamming the door in the face of anyone who dared to haggle.
At one point, a passenger who had not “properly” heard the fare attempted to argue.
The way he put up his two fingers to show its 2k, or the door!
You could think he was going to beat her.
Fast forward to Mpererwe.
Two young ladies got on.
One took a seat at the back, the other next to him.
After a few minutes the neighbor struck up a conversation.
Her voice, and closeness, must have had an immediate effect- like a wonder-drug of sorts, because he dropped his slouch to adopt a straight back, his brow un-creased, and the line that was his mouth broke out into a smile as he cocked his head towards her, listening attentively.
He even forgot to call out to potential clients as the taxi, filled with empty seats, sped towards town. Ah! The power of a woman. It can soften even the toughest of edges (and egos).
At Kalerwe, his interest got off and gave him two 1,000 shillings’ notes - for her and her girlfriend. He dropped his eyes.
Like a shy schoolgirl.
I did not hear but I definitely saw him mouth the words- “Zino genda onywemu soda.”
It was so soft.
And he handed back her money.
Stealthily.
Then we sped off.
It did not take him long to return to his former ways, threatening one passenger that if he didn’t “add 500 shillings he would find somewhere else to pass, but definitely not through the main door!!”
#milk'emdry
Nostalgia drove me back to the village church I last attended 13
years ago. The longing was borne from a sudden flash of memory- a Sunday
morning and I am carrying my young son on my hip while the other
toddled beside me, to church.
My grandfather donated the bricks for the building over 40 years ago, and it was a place that gave me some sense of peace and sanity from the troubles of life.
Sometimes I carried a small kiti moto because there were only three benches and a dusty papyrus mat, occupied by hyperactive children at the back.
I remembered how I woke up early to sweep the floor and stared out of the pane-less windows asking God to look down on me with favor.
Last Sunday, I made up my mind to relive the experience, only that this time there would be no baby on my hip and I would not be carrying a kiti moto.
Unfortunately, I reached nearly 15 minutes late, parking in the shade next to a Prado (13 years ago, cars outside this building were a myth!) opposite the entrance of the building.
I hoped I could slip in and find somewhere to sit at the back when the congregation finished the hymn.
The back bench was full but there was an empty seat somewhere in the middle.
The papyrus mat was still tucked in its corner, filled with little children who cared nothing about adult things.
“Nnyabo, jjangu o'tuule wano!” The Mubuulizi cut short her announcement for the first reading.
Eh, was she suggesting I sit at the front?
I cringed, because from memory, that front place was usually reserved for big big people and for me I was here for the experience.
It was for those people who only surfaced at Christmas and pulled out purple, red and orange-brownish notes.
“Vvaawo mwana gwe!” She shooed a teenage boy off the bench.
Bannange, what was with this woman?
Her face transformed into a smile, “Tusanyuse okukulaba nnyabo!”
I mumbled a quick, “Kale nnyabo,” as I squeezed in, embarrassed by this uncalled-for importance I was being accorded.
“Abagenyi baffe abakulu tubaaniriza nnyo!” She was happy to see important guests.
This was turning out to be a really hard paper.
Two readings, a lengthy sermon and about 17 hymns later, the baskets came out.
Collection time.
The two-base-three- soprano choir led the song and money began to pour into the baskets.
When that ended, we sang another hymn.
Another basket came out. The Mubuulizi announced that it was collection for the choir. We moved forward again. Another hymn.
The vestry needed refurbishment and that required money.
Of the 700,000 shillings that is needed, only 30,000 had been collected.
Someone had pledged two bags of cement.
More cash and pledges please.
Another basket.
Hymn.
We would have to fund-raise for the Mothers Union as it was their day to celebrate.
The lady stood at the front, basket in hand, waiting, waiting.
Three women came forward, also dressed in the white busuuti and the blue sash.
They dropped something into her basket.
Hymn please.
The youth choir had qualified for the championships, which were three weeks away.
They needed 800,000 shillings for the two days they’d be there.
One person approached the basket.
The youths said they had some packets of fruit on sale outside.
Each pack was for 5,000 shillings.
Song.
The discussion on the church’s seed project was brief.
There must be money to be enable the planting of the forest to earn it some revenue.
Luckily the church has a huge chunk of land, still untouched by the land dealers.
Choir please?
The Mubuulizi took her seat and the Church Chair took over.
With the niceties aside, he jumped right in.
“Now, bassebo n’e bannyabo, our Mubuulizi you see here, has not been paid her salary for the last seven months. You all know how she lives- hand to mouth. We need to help her. That money is supposed to come from you. Shake out your pockets, reach deep into your bags for those notes and coins you had forgotten about. Let us all contribute kindly towards this cause. The church owes her 210,000 shillings. I will be passing a basket round."
The basket started on our line. I pulled out 5,000 shillings.
“Abalungi mu Yesu, muddize eri Mukama! Mukama mulungi!”
There was exactly 5,500 shillings in the basket when it returned to the chair.
Hymn number 26.
Someone had brought a tray of eggs to be auctioned.
“Abalungi, the church needs money, we need to make our contribution to the diocese. The auction for the tray of eggs starts at 50,000 shillings. 50,000 shillings! Anyone? Who is adding, who is adding?
He came towards us, handing the basket to my neighbor, the owner of the Prado.
It was my cue to leave.
Hopes of reliving any memories had been dashed.
My grandfather donated the bricks for the building over 40 years ago, and it was a place that gave me some sense of peace and sanity from the troubles of life.
Sometimes I carried a small kiti moto because there were only three benches and a dusty papyrus mat, occupied by hyperactive children at the back.
I remembered how I woke up early to sweep the floor and stared out of the pane-less windows asking God to look down on me with favor.
Last Sunday, I made up my mind to relive the experience, only that this time there would be no baby on my hip and I would not be carrying a kiti moto.
Unfortunately, I reached nearly 15 minutes late, parking in the shade next to a Prado (13 years ago, cars outside this building were a myth!) opposite the entrance of the building.
I hoped I could slip in and find somewhere to sit at the back when the congregation finished the hymn.
The back bench was full but there was an empty seat somewhere in the middle.
The papyrus mat was still tucked in its corner, filled with little children who cared nothing about adult things.
“Nnyabo, jjangu o'tuule wano!” The Mubuulizi cut short her announcement for the first reading.
Eh, was she suggesting I sit at the front?
I cringed, because from memory, that front place was usually reserved for big big people and for me I was here for the experience.
It was for those people who only surfaced at Christmas and pulled out purple, red and orange-brownish notes.
“Vvaawo mwana gwe!” She shooed a teenage boy off the bench.
Bannange, what was with this woman?
Her face transformed into a smile, “Tusanyuse okukulaba nnyabo!”
I mumbled a quick, “Kale nnyabo,” as I squeezed in, embarrassed by this uncalled-for importance I was being accorded.
“Abagenyi baffe abakulu tubaaniriza nnyo!” She was happy to see important guests.
This was turning out to be a really hard paper.
Two readings, a lengthy sermon and about 17 hymns later, the baskets came out.
Collection time.
The two-base-three- soprano choir led the song and money began to pour into the baskets.
When that ended, we sang another hymn.
Another basket came out. The Mubuulizi announced that it was collection for the choir. We moved forward again. Another hymn.
The vestry needed refurbishment and that required money.
Of the 700,000 shillings that is needed, only 30,000 had been collected.
Someone had pledged two bags of cement.
More cash and pledges please.
Another basket.
Hymn.
We would have to fund-raise for the Mothers Union as it was their day to celebrate.
The lady stood at the front, basket in hand, waiting, waiting.
Three women came forward, also dressed in the white busuuti and the blue sash.
They dropped something into her basket.
Hymn please.
The youth choir had qualified for the championships, which were three weeks away.
They needed 800,000 shillings for the two days they’d be there.
One person approached the basket.
The youths said they had some packets of fruit on sale outside.
Each pack was for 5,000 shillings.
Song.
The discussion on the church’s seed project was brief.
There must be money to be enable the planting of the forest to earn it some revenue.
Luckily the church has a huge chunk of land, still untouched by the land dealers.
Choir please?
The Mubuulizi took her seat and the Church Chair took over.
With the niceties aside, he jumped right in.
“Now, bassebo n’e bannyabo, our Mubuulizi you see here, has not been paid her salary for the last seven months. You all know how she lives- hand to mouth. We need to help her. That money is supposed to come from you. Shake out your pockets, reach deep into your bags for those notes and coins you had forgotten about. Let us all contribute kindly towards this cause. The church owes her 210,000 shillings. I will be passing a basket round."
The basket started on our line. I pulled out 5,000 shillings.
“Abalungi mu Yesu, muddize eri Mukama! Mukama mulungi!”
There was exactly 5,500 shillings in the basket when it returned to the chair.
Hymn number 26.
Someone had brought a tray of eggs to be auctioned.
“Abalungi, the church needs money, we need to make our contribution to the diocese. The auction for the tray of eggs starts at 50,000 shillings. 50,000 shillings! Anyone? Who is adding, who is adding?
He came towards us, handing the basket to my neighbor, the owner of the Prado.
It was my cue to leave.
Hopes of reliving any memories had been dashed.
#Finding.Myself.Again
“I’m lost”.
Disappeared in a maze of confusing complications
Many times I nearly succeeded in finding my way
And when the mouth of the cave that swallowed me
Came into view
The huge jaws opened again and gobbled me up
Took me past the throat
And into the belly of
Nothingness. Self-doubt. Unworthiness.
In the maze are signs that read
“At Six Years- sitting under Mummy’s sewing table
making doll’s clothes.”
Another says “12 Years- Gazing out of window
To stare at the people
on the other side of the fence.”
And this one stands out boldly,
“14 Years - When you found your voice
And crept out of your quiet reclusive shell.”
The next is rather fun.
“16 Years - When nothing could stop you.”
“20 Years - when you brought forth life
To become a mother, a nurturing spirit.”
But I’ll admit, though grudgingly,
That it was the first time I experienced
The loss of innocence
It could have been the youth in me
That quickly kicked away the doubt,
That tore at the bush of despondency,
The forest of fear.
The sticky web of indecision, utter bewilderment
A deep mess of ignorance about life
In a state where I believed what I believed
Stuck on the thin line between girl and woman.
For 18 years, I stumbled through the mesh
of growing up and responsibility
Juggling motherhood, work, daughterhood
Walking deeper into the wood.
“God help me,” I cried every night
Not believing that He would.
You see, it took me quite some time
To figure out that life is a process.
And certain things do not fall into place
Just at the snap of your fingers.
My mantra quickly became
“I do not know”, “I am tired”, “I’m so done”.
I know now,
That that was the climax of my hopelessness.
And that from that point on,
Things could only get better.
Slowly by slowly, I found the strength
to start the climb
out of the abyss of self-deprecation
The pit of hopelessness,
The black hole where I lost Me.
And then, in the quest for more meaning
I lost my grip,
slipped and slid several feet down
Landing smack into another cavity.
Here, things grabbed at me
Held me tight in their claws
And began to suffocate me
Long hours of slaving, lethargy of ideas
The life drained out again,
Creativity was stifled, beliefs crumbled,
Self-esteem fled, morale was crushed.
And once again, I returned to the empty shell
I had so tried to escape.
The metamorphosis was slow
But the results were glaring.
They saw it, I felt it
Too worn out to fight this time
I let myself go.
Maybe I would find peace as a nobody.
But in my dog-tired state, I heard a sound
Like a whisper at first.
I refused to lift my head but it persisted
Becoming louder and louder with time
Until it became a voice
In my head, a voice that said
“Get up! Lift yourself!”
And then the words of the US’s black President
He who married Michelle, came to me,
“Yes we can! Yes we can!”
And the chorus grew, and grew
Rising in volume each time it was repeated
And I leaned on my forearms, sat up.
Another voice murmured,
“You gotta get your groove back!”
And God, with his might,
gave me the push I needed
To get back on my feet.
And though I toddled a bit,
Floundered like a fish out of water,
I got stronger by the day.
And now, even if I can’t yet run,
I walk with my head up straight
The mist is clearing,
I just saw my goals wave at me
Life gave me a thumbs up
And I am ready
To. Find. Myself.
Again.
Disappeared in a maze of confusing complications
Many times I nearly succeeded in finding my way
And when the mouth of the cave that swallowed me
Came into view
The huge jaws opened again and gobbled me up
Took me past the throat
And into the belly of
Nothingness. Self-doubt. Unworthiness.
In the maze are signs that read
“At Six Years- sitting under Mummy’s sewing table
making doll’s clothes.”
Another says “12 Years- Gazing out of window
To stare at the people
on the other side of the fence.”
And this one stands out boldly,
“14 Years - When you found your voice
And crept out of your quiet reclusive shell.”
The next is rather fun.
“16 Years - When nothing could stop you.”
“20 Years - when you brought forth life
To become a mother, a nurturing spirit.”
But I’ll admit, though grudgingly,
That it was the first time I experienced
The loss of innocence
It could have been the youth in me
That quickly kicked away the doubt,
That tore at the bush of despondency,
The forest of fear.
The sticky web of indecision, utter bewilderment
A deep mess of ignorance about life
In a state where I believed what I believed
Stuck on the thin line between girl and woman.
For 18 years, I stumbled through the mesh
of growing up and responsibility
Juggling motherhood, work, daughterhood
Walking deeper into the wood.
“God help me,” I cried every night
Not believing that He would.
You see, it took me quite some time
To figure out that life is a process.
And certain things do not fall into place
Just at the snap of your fingers.
My mantra quickly became
“I do not know”, “I am tired”, “I’m so done”.
I know now,
That that was the climax of my hopelessness.
And that from that point on,
Things could only get better.
Slowly by slowly, I found the strength
to start the climb
out of the abyss of self-deprecation
The pit of hopelessness,
The black hole where I lost Me.
And then, in the quest for more meaning
I lost my grip,
slipped and slid several feet down
Landing smack into another cavity.
Here, things grabbed at me
Held me tight in their claws
And began to suffocate me
Long hours of slaving, lethargy of ideas
The life drained out again,
Creativity was stifled, beliefs crumbled,
Self-esteem fled, morale was crushed.
And once again, I returned to the empty shell
I had so tried to escape.
The metamorphosis was slow
But the results were glaring.
They saw it, I felt it
Too worn out to fight this time
I let myself go.
Maybe I would find peace as a nobody.
But in my dog-tired state, I heard a sound
Like a whisper at first.
I refused to lift my head but it persisted
Becoming louder and louder with time
Until it became a voice
In my head, a voice that said
“Get up! Lift yourself!”
And then the words of the US’s black President
He who married Michelle, came to me,
“Yes we can! Yes we can!”
And the chorus grew, and grew
Rising in volume each time it was repeated
And I leaned on my forearms, sat up.
Another voice murmured,
“You gotta get your groove back!”
And God, with his might,
gave me the push I needed
To get back on my feet.
And though I toddled a bit,
Floundered like a fish out of water,
I got stronger by the day.
And now, even if I can’t yet run,
I walk with my head up straight
The mist is clearing,
I just saw my goals wave at me
Life gave me a thumbs up
And I am ready
To. Find. Myself.
Again.
#44days
The pain, oh the pain. What am I going to do? What will I do? God, how do I move on from here? How do I? How, O Lord? Help me, help me, help me!!
The cry of a man in anguish.
A man who has been betrayed.
A man who for eight years has loved a woman.
A man who has been through it with her.
A man who has heard countless times how the woman is not good for him.
But a man who has said that, in spite of it all, he will love her.
But today, the truth has unfolded.
The truth that has caused him to be in this situation.
It is the truth no man wants to hear.
That the child the woman has been carrying and has delivered, the child that he was so happy to have, the child he went home to every night and woke up to every morning, is not his.
Eight years. Eight blasted years.
That was how long they had been together.
In those eight years, he had wooed her, she had accepted him, with a bit of reluctance at the time.
He was a young man, still in school, he had nothing much to offer except love.
And he was broke.
Campus life was not easy, he depended on the government allowance and the little he made off a side business, burning and selling movie CDs, while he juggled with attending lectures, doing tests and examinations.
He had left campus with a second-class upper degree in Social Studies. He would take what life threw at him.
What am I going to tell my family?
What will my mother say?
My people know this is my child.
I told them when she got pregnant.
I shared my journey with them.
They have supported me all through.
Yes, my brother had his doubts about this relationship four years ago, and he told me, but …. Oh, God, what am I going to do? What?
22nd January 2019.
Time: 2pm.
He sits in the doctor’s room across from the mother of his child.
The child is not sick.
She’s not sick.
He’s not sick.
The doctor is saying something but all he hears is, “excluded” over and over again.
“Too many unnecessary technical terms”, he thinks, “this guy needs to cut to the chase. I’ve got stuff to do.”
And midway through the doctor’s droning on and on, “Doctor, you’re using the word excluded over and over, and it’s making me rather uncomfortable. What do you want to tell us?”
“Well,” the doctor hesitates, and shifts in his chair, adjusting his glasses. “That…”
“That what?” His hands have started shaking uncontrollably. That word ‘that’ was heavy, laced with a lot of meaning.
“That you are not the father!”
Bam! Something hits him hard in the chest, like a battering ram, and he falls back.
His eyes are swimming.
His head is pounding.
Thunder in his ears.
Huge black birds coming at him, their sharp yellow beaks wanting to peck him.
His heart is threatening to burst out of his rib-cage.
Then he thinks, ‘I have to be a man!’
“What do you mean I am not the father?” He has regained his composure.
“Exactly that Mr. Buwembo. That you are not the father of this child. That he is not your son.”
And the pain makes a second landing.
This time he feels like something has been ripped from his body, a huge piece of flesh.
He stands up and pats his chest.
Then his head.
Then his legs.
And then he becomes aware that this is beginning to look, and feel extremely dramatic.
The mother of his child, Anna has bowed her head.
Oh, scratch that -- his former child!
She does not hear the baby gurgle as he calls for attention, wanting someone to play with.
Buwembo looks at her and hate fills his heart.
She starts weeping, and she reaches into her bag for a hanky.
"Take the baby."
He cannot.
He will not touch the child.
He does not know what to feel for this little innocent being.
A being for whom he had so much love.
The one who made him smile as he sat through the heavy traffic from work every evening.
The one whose eyes melted his heart.
The little thing who kept him awake for hours in the night, wanting to play, waving his limbs about, and causing him to feel sleepy during the day.
But just for 44 days.
It is indeed a rude realization, an impolite breakaway.
She is now crying uncontrollably.
Huge heaves, blowing loudly into her hanky.
The doctor is quiet.
It is an uncomfortable situation, but he has seen some.
Actually, Buwembo is one of the calmer types.
Mothers have walked in here, saying all sorts of things, swearing in all sorts of languages about how children belong to the man and asking how he can subject her to such a test.
Many times, the children have turned out to be someone else’s and men have broken down and bawled like babies after the realization that the boys and girls they have loved and cared for, are not theirs.
Others have charged at the mother of the children, wanting to throttle or beat the hell out of her.
Some have ranted.
Others have punched the air and celebrated the fact that they are washing their hands of the wretched woman and her equally wretched brats, happy to be able to start a new life without the burden of school fees and break money.
“Well,” he says as he regains his composure, and when it dawns on him that there will be no more theatrics.
“Yes, Mr. Buwembo. So you need to sign this form.”
“No Doctor. I will not sign anything. Let her sign. I’m out of here!”
She raises her head, looks at him with pleading eyes.
He is not moved, and averts his gaze.
God, he cannot stand her!
He needs to leave this space.
How can he be sharing the same oxygen with Jezebel?
Thank God she had left his place temporarily.
She must have known all along because she didn’t hesitate when he asked for the DNA test.
Of course her lack of hesitation meant something was amiss.
God, how could he be so stupid!
Now he asks himself if anything about the baby resembled him.
There had to be something at least.
The nails?
The hair perhaps?
What about the feet?
The words of his friend, and brother echo in his head.
He hears them again, but even as they sound so far away, they are clear.
“You should have left that girl four years ago!” his brother had told him.
Upon the persistent urging of his friend when the child was born, Buwembo had decided to postpone the baptism ceremony and do a paternity test.
“Just check and see, something is not right.” His friend put it down to a sixth sense.
Men do not say much.
When they do, there is much meaning.
This time, he had listened.
And now the worst has come to pass, his fears have been confirmed.
The baby is not his.
Pain. Pain. Pain.
He has spent so much on the whole process.
From the time she told him the good news.
Hospital prenatal visits.
Cravings in the night.
Driving to her parents' house.
And it’s not even about the money, which hovers in the range of nearly four million shillings.
It is the feelings he has put into this relationship, the love he invested, the time, the care, the trust.
‘What will I do, oh Lord? What am I going to do? How will I go on from here? How will I tell my parents? How will they look at me? They will surely judge me! Oh God! I do not know what to do! Will I be able to work? What kind of man am I? Do I even have the capacity to love or be loved? Eight years I have given to this woman. Eight bloody years. I have cared for her with the little that I have. And when she got pregnant, I said I would look after her, to ensure that nothing happens to her and the baby. And this is what she does? Oh, okay.'
His mind is racing, but he cannot find the tears.
They. Just. Will. Not. Come.
He leans forward, head in his hands, feeling the headache coming on strong.
Suddenly he gets up from the chair and walks to the door.
He is a man and he has work to do.
But as he touches the door handle, a big tear slides unbidden, down his cheek, and he breaks down and sobs like a baby, collapsing in a heap, his body wracked with raw pain.
The cry of a man in anguish.
A man who has been betrayed.
A man who for eight years has loved a woman.
A man who has been through it with her.
A man who has heard countless times how the woman is not good for him.
But a man who has said that, in spite of it all, he will love her.
But today, the truth has unfolded.
The truth that has caused him to be in this situation.
It is the truth no man wants to hear.
That the child the woman has been carrying and has delivered, the child that he was so happy to have, the child he went home to every night and woke up to every morning, is not his.
Eight years. Eight blasted years.
That was how long they had been together.
In those eight years, he had wooed her, she had accepted him, with a bit of reluctance at the time.
He was a young man, still in school, he had nothing much to offer except love.
And he was broke.
Campus life was not easy, he depended on the government allowance and the little he made off a side business, burning and selling movie CDs, while he juggled with attending lectures, doing tests and examinations.
He had left campus with a second-class upper degree in Social Studies. He would take what life threw at him.
What am I going to tell my family?
What will my mother say?
My people know this is my child.
I told them when she got pregnant.
I shared my journey with them.
They have supported me all through.
Yes, my brother had his doubts about this relationship four years ago, and he told me, but …. Oh, God, what am I going to do? What?
22nd January 2019.
Time: 2pm.
He sits in the doctor’s room across from the mother of his child.
The child is not sick.
She’s not sick.
He’s not sick.
The doctor is saying something but all he hears is, “excluded” over and over again.
“Too many unnecessary technical terms”, he thinks, “this guy needs to cut to the chase. I’ve got stuff to do.”
And midway through the doctor’s droning on and on, “Doctor, you’re using the word excluded over and over, and it’s making me rather uncomfortable. What do you want to tell us?”
“Well,” the doctor hesitates, and shifts in his chair, adjusting his glasses. “That…”
“That what?” His hands have started shaking uncontrollably. That word ‘that’ was heavy, laced with a lot of meaning.
“That you are not the father!”
Bam! Something hits him hard in the chest, like a battering ram, and he falls back.
His eyes are swimming.
His head is pounding.
Thunder in his ears.
Huge black birds coming at him, their sharp yellow beaks wanting to peck him.
His heart is threatening to burst out of his rib-cage.
Then he thinks, ‘I have to be a man!’
“What do you mean I am not the father?” He has regained his composure.
“Exactly that Mr. Buwembo. That you are not the father of this child. That he is not your son.”
And the pain makes a second landing.
This time he feels like something has been ripped from his body, a huge piece of flesh.
He stands up and pats his chest.
Then his head.
Then his legs.
And then he becomes aware that this is beginning to look, and feel extremely dramatic.
The mother of his child, Anna has bowed her head.
Oh, scratch that -- his former child!
She does not hear the baby gurgle as he calls for attention, wanting someone to play with.
Buwembo looks at her and hate fills his heart.
She starts weeping, and she reaches into her bag for a hanky.
"Take the baby."
He cannot.
He will not touch the child.
He does not know what to feel for this little innocent being.
A being for whom he had so much love.
The one who made him smile as he sat through the heavy traffic from work every evening.
The one whose eyes melted his heart.
The little thing who kept him awake for hours in the night, wanting to play, waving his limbs about, and causing him to feel sleepy during the day.
But just for 44 days.
It is indeed a rude realization, an impolite breakaway.
She is now crying uncontrollably.
Huge heaves, blowing loudly into her hanky.
The doctor is quiet.
It is an uncomfortable situation, but he has seen some.
Actually, Buwembo is one of the calmer types.
Mothers have walked in here, saying all sorts of things, swearing in all sorts of languages about how children belong to the man and asking how he can subject her to such a test.
Many times, the children have turned out to be someone else’s and men have broken down and bawled like babies after the realization that the boys and girls they have loved and cared for, are not theirs.
Others have charged at the mother of the children, wanting to throttle or beat the hell out of her.
Some have ranted.
Others have punched the air and celebrated the fact that they are washing their hands of the wretched woman and her equally wretched brats, happy to be able to start a new life without the burden of school fees and break money.
“Well,” he says as he regains his composure, and when it dawns on him that there will be no more theatrics.
“Yes, Mr. Buwembo. So you need to sign this form.”
“No Doctor. I will not sign anything. Let her sign. I’m out of here!”
She raises her head, looks at him with pleading eyes.
He is not moved, and averts his gaze.
God, he cannot stand her!
He needs to leave this space.
How can he be sharing the same oxygen with Jezebel?
Thank God she had left his place temporarily.
She must have known all along because she didn’t hesitate when he asked for the DNA test.
Of course her lack of hesitation meant something was amiss.
God, how could he be so stupid!
Now he asks himself if anything about the baby resembled him.
There had to be something at least.
The nails?
The hair perhaps?
What about the feet?
The words of his friend, and brother echo in his head.
He hears them again, but even as they sound so far away, they are clear.
“You should have left that girl four years ago!” his brother had told him.
Upon the persistent urging of his friend when the child was born, Buwembo had decided to postpone the baptism ceremony and do a paternity test.
“Just check and see, something is not right.” His friend put it down to a sixth sense.
Men do not say much.
When they do, there is much meaning.
This time, he had listened.
And now the worst has come to pass, his fears have been confirmed.
The baby is not his.
Pain. Pain. Pain.
He has spent so much on the whole process.
From the time she told him the good news.
Hospital prenatal visits.
Cravings in the night.
Driving to her parents' house.
And it’s not even about the money, which hovers in the range of nearly four million shillings.
It is the feelings he has put into this relationship, the love he invested, the time, the care, the trust.
‘What will I do, oh Lord? What am I going to do? How will I go on from here? How will I tell my parents? How will they look at me? They will surely judge me! Oh God! I do not know what to do! Will I be able to work? What kind of man am I? Do I even have the capacity to love or be loved? Eight years I have given to this woman. Eight bloody years. I have cared for her with the little that I have. And when she got pregnant, I said I would look after her, to ensure that nothing happens to her and the baby. And this is what she does? Oh, okay.'
His mind is racing, but he cannot find the tears.
They. Just. Will. Not. Come.
He leans forward, head in his hands, feeling the headache coming on strong.
Suddenly he gets up from the chair and walks to the door.
He is a man and he has work to do.
But as he touches the door handle, a big tear slides unbidden, down his cheek, and he breaks down and sobs like a baby, collapsing in a heap, his body wracked with raw pain.
Wednesday 24 April 2019
#pastsins
We had been talking for hours, catching up on old times. She had spent the last two years and seven months in Nairobi and Mombasa doing business. And though she didn’t say exactly what business she was doing, some of the advice that peppered our conversation raised my suspicion that she had been involved in something sinister.
‘God, am I judging her?’ I thought. After all, she was okay giving an account about the three abortions she had procured just so she could keep her relationship going.
“No way was I returning to Kampala with other men’s children!”
The first was a one-night stand. With a guy she met at the market where she’d gone to buy fabric from the heavily- bleached Congolese women who smuggled them into Kenya.
He was the one at the stall, the Madame was away for a few hours.
And when they got talking, both in broken Kiswahili, she fell for the few French words like ‘oui’ and ’s’il vous plaît’ that he mentioned unconsciously.
He followed her to her the rooms she shared with two other young women.
They ended up in bed.
A month later, she discovered, to her dismay, that she was with child.
She did not see or hear from him again.
Madame told her that he was her cousin.
He had flown to Belgium three weeks ago.
That marked the end of that baby.
In a back-end clinic where the fetus had been thrown into a red plastic bucket with two others.
The next two kiddos were with the same guy.
They had dated on and off for five months.
And she had flushed the babies.
No qualms.
Well, she was happy to be back. Life in Nairobi was hell. And all the while she missed her two boys. Surprisingly, their father, that fat, sloppy, good-for-nothing thing of a man was glad to see her.
Even though he’d never wanted to marry her or show any love, he cared for the kids and gave her money for food and school.
But that didn’t take away the fact that he was a slob.
He only came to her occasionally and when he was done, he slid off her and returned to his room. Yes, they slept in different rooms.
It had been like that for some time.
She had grown tired of the charade - her slipping back into their bedroom at 5am, just to give the boys the picture that things in the home were good.
Sneaking into each other's rooms was tiring.
And then she heard that Pato had been saying things to the girls that brought him food at the shop. Someone whispered that he had occasionally invited one to spend a few hours in the night when Nissy was away upcountry visiting her mother.
Then, the fact that she was the real definition of a housewife (only that she didn’t have the ring) was driving her up the wall.
That, and having to depend on a man for everything.
She had to do something for herself.
Leave the kids and go look for money, capital to invest.
Money that was hers.
But here she was.
Back.
Empty-handed.
With no idea where to even start.
****************
Lunch was delicious. A special meal for old friends. Matooke, rice, liver, doodo. The conversation flowed freely.
“Girl, something’s been bugging me for a long time. Years, actually.”
This chic had a lot going on.
“A huge, huge secret. Man, if only you knew! God! This is so hard!”
My quizzed look egged her on. Of course I wanted to know!
She looked at the floor.
“Ah, its okay. I’ll deal with it. I will. I came back determined to finish it, once and for all.”
“What is it Nissy?
She shook her head.
“No, lemme deal with it. Oh, God, why?”
“C’mon, let it out. It’s okay. Let it out. Hey.”
When she was 20, she had started an affair with a married man at work.
Being the naive intern then, she’d allowed Martin to take her out on dates, had giggled when he complemented her, and eventually ended up spending the night with him while on an upcountry trip. This was in spite of the fact that she was living with her boyfriend, Pato.
Before he fell off the wagon, to become the eccentric pig that he was now.
And when her son came, she was ecstatic.
However, when he was about three months old, she began to notice things about him that looked so much like Martin.
The shape of his head.
The extra little finger on his left hand.
Pato was glad to have a son. “My heir!” he boasted to friends and family.
And little Jonny grew more and more handsome every day.
Eyes like his father’s, the eyes that had bedazzled her.
The athletic build.
The broad forehead.
She had no idea if Pato noticed anything, but if he did, he was very diplomatic about it, and said nothing.
And then she had had another son and Pato doted on him as well. And all was good for some time until Pato had started to become more and more distant.
Martin called off the relationship when he realized she was pregnant.
And when her internship period ended, she had left and not seen or heard from him again. But one day, she and seven-year-old Jonny had stopped by a restaurant in town for a bite, and lo and behold, there was Martin, finishing up a late lunch.
They had talked for a few minutes and he took a special interest in Johnny.
“Maybe he saw the resemblance, the little finger, hmmm …”
But she had said nothing.
It was only after Martin left, that she confirmed.
There was no mistaking.
Johnny was Martin’s son.
******************
Now here she was, in the storm of a dilemma.
It hung heavy on her shoulders.
Jonny was 17, going on 18 next month.
Pato was always complaining about him, saying he was becoming a problem - that he didn’t clean his room, his grades were bad, he was moving with the wrong company.
What had happened in the time she had been away?
Yes, Johnny had grown.
He was now a young man, soon to be an adult.
It was obvious he felt his Dad’s disfavor and was glad to see his mother back.
He doted on her like he was six again.
But her heart was heavy.
And it had been like that for a long time.
Should she tell him the truth?
Was it a secret she should take to her grave?
She was torn.
"What do I do?"
I did not know what to say.
**************
She had recently discovered that Martin had been bedridden for four months.
She got up and went into her room and returned with an old picture.
He was tall and lean.
“That was when we had just started going out. This guy looked so good, oh! But, I recently met this chic who worked in his office and she told me he had been in hospital for a month, and that when he was discharged, he was still so sick to return to work.”
She feared that the worst could happen.
That he could die. She wondered where she could find him.
She wondered if he’d want to know that truth.
Even though he had never asked.
She figured that she could let Jonny know that Martin was his father, but Pato was his Dad.
Dad.
The one who had raised him, and bathed him and loved him.
Like his one son.
Dad.
Nissy reasoned that not fathering a child didn’t mean you could not love him.
Anyone can be a father, but being a Dad was special.
Pato was special to Jonny.
But again, she worried what Jonny would think about her.
That she was wild?
That she was a cheat?
Wouldn’t that lower his estimation of her?
Worry was tearing her heart apart.
Her thoughts tortured her.
She had become an insomniac, tossing and turning and turning and tossing every night.
She panicked at the mere memory.
And when she looked at Johnny, tears pricked her eyes.
Personally, I felt that she should hold her peace.
Why disrupt her son’s life at this stage?
It could leave him empty, devastated, disturbed.
Why open a can of worms, Pandora’s box, why not let sleeping dogs lie?
All the cliches and idioms sprang to mind.
But I knew deep down that the final solution was hers.
//////////
Nissy called me at 6am.
Pato had known all along, and he had told her so last night.
That he had done a DNA test while she was in Nairobi, and confirmed his suspicions but waited for the right time to tell her.
And now he wanted her to tell Jonny.
‘God, am I judging her?’ I thought. After all, she was okay giving an account about the three abortions she had procured just so she could keep her relationship going.
“No way was I returning to Kampala with other men’s children!”
The first was a one-night stand. With a guy she met at the market where she’d gone to buy fabric from the heavily- bleached Congolese women who smuggled them into Kenya.
He was the one at the stall, the Madame was away for a few hours.
And when they got talking, both in broken Kiswahili, she fell for the few French words like ‘oui’ and ’s’il vous plaît’ that he mentioned unconsciously.
He followed her to her the rooms she shared with two other young women.
They ended up in bed.
A month later, she discovered, to her dismay, that she was with child.
She did not see or hear from him again.
Madame told her that he was her cousin.
He had flown to Belgium three weeks ago.
That marked the end of that baby.
In a back-end clinic where the fetus had been thrown into a red plastic bucket with two others.
The next two kiddos were with the same guy.
They had dated on and off for five months.
And she had flushed the babies.
No qualms.
Well, she was happy to be back. Life in Nairobi was hell. And all the while she missed her two boys. Surprisingly, their father, that fat, sloppy, good-for-nothing thing of a man was glad to see her.
Even though he’d never wanted to marry her or show any love, he cared for the kids and gave her money for food and school.
But that didn’t take away the fact that he was a slob.
He only came to her occasionally and when he was done, he slid off her and returned to his room. Yes, they slept in different rooms.
It had been like that for some time.
She had grown tired of the charade - her slipping back into their bedroom at 5am, just to give the boys the picture that things in the home were good.
Sneaking into each other's rooms was tiring.
And then she heard that Pato had been saying things to the girls that brought him food at the shop. Someone whispered that he had occasionally invited one to spend a few hours in the night when Nissy was away upcountry visiting her mother.
Then, the fact that she was the real definition of a housewife (only that she didn’t have the ring) was driving her up the wall.
That, and having to depend on a man for everything.
She had to do something for herself.
Leave the kids and go look for money, capital to invest.
Money that was hers.
But here she was.
Back.
Empty-handed.
With no idea where to even start.
****************
Lunch was delicious. A special meal for old friends. Matooke, rice, liver, doodo. The conversation flowed freely.
“Girl, something’s been bugging me for a long time. Years, actually.”
This chic had a lot going on.
“A huge, huge secret. Man, if only you knew! God! This is so hard!”
My quizzed look egged her on. Of course I wanted to know!
She looked at the floor.
“Ah, its okay. I’ll deal with it. I will. I came back determined to finish it, once and for all.”
“What is it Nissy?
She shook her head.
“No, lemme deal with it. Oh, God, why?”
“C’mon, let it out. It’s okay. Let it out. Hey.”
When she was 20, she had started an affair with a married man at work.
Being the naive intern then, she’d allowed Martin to take her out on dates, had giggled when he complemented her, and eventually ended up spending the night with him while on an upcountry trip. This was in spite of the fact that she was living with her boyfriend, Pato.
Before he fell off the wagon, to become the eccentric pig that he was now.
And when her son came, she was ecstatic.
However, when he was about three months old, she began to notice things about him that looked so much like Martin.
The shape of his head.
The extra little finger on his left hand.
Pato was glad to have a son. “My heir!” he boasted to friends and family.
And little Jonny grew more and more handsome every day.
Eyes like his father’s, the eyes that had bedazzled her.
The athletic build.
The broad forehead.
She had no idea if Pato noticed anything, but if he did, he was very diplomatic about it, and said nothing.
And then she had had another son and Pato doted on him as well. And all was good for some time until Pato had started to become more and more distant.
Martin called off the relationship when he realized she was pregnant.
And when her internship period ended, she had left and not seen or heard from him again. But one day, she and seven-year-old Jonny had stopped by a restaurant in town for a bite, and lo and behold, there was Martin, finishing up a late lunch.
They had talked for a few minutes and he took a special interest in Johnny.
“Maybe he saw the resemblance, the little finger, hmmm …”
But she had said nothing.
It was only after Martin left, that she confirmed.
There was no mistaking.
Johnny was Martin’s son.
******************
Now here she was, in the storm of a dilemma.
It hung heavy on her shoulders.
Jonny was 17, going on 18 next month.
Pato was always complaining about him, saying he was becoming a problem - that he didn’t clean his room, his grades were bad, he was moving with the wrong company.
What had happened in the time she had been away?
Yes, Johnny had grown.
He was now a young man, soon to be an adult.
It was obvious he felt his Dad’s disfavor and was glad to see his mother back.
He doted on her like he was six again.
But her heart was heavy.
And it had been like that for a long time.
Should she tell him the truth?
Was it a secret she should take to her grave?
She was torn.
"What do I do?"
I did not know what to say.
**************
She had recently discovered that Martin had been bedridden for four months.
She got up and went into her room and returned with an old picture.
He was tall and lean.
“That was when we had just started going out. This guy looked so good, oh! But, I recently met this chic who worked in his office and she told me he had been in hospital for a month, and that when he was discharged, he was still so sick to return to work.”
She feared that the worst could happen.
That he could die. She wondered where she could find him.
She wondered if he’d want to know that truth.
Even though he had never asked.
She figured that she could let Jonny know that Martin was his father, but Pato was his Dad.
Dad.
The one who had raised him, and bathed him and loved him.
Like his one son.
Dad.
Nissy reasoned that not fathering a child didn’t mean you could not love him.
Anyone can be a father, but being a Dad was special.
Pato was special to Jonny.
But again, she worried what Jonny would think about her.
That she was wild?
That she was a cheat?
Wouldn’t that lower his estimation of her?
Worry was tearing her heart apart.
Her thoughts tortured her.
She had become an insomniac, tossing and turning and turning and tossing every night.
She panicked at the mere memory.
And when she looked at Johnny, tears pricked her eyes.
Personally, I felt that she should hold her peace.
Why disrupt her son’s life at this stage?
It could leave him empty, devastated, disturbed.
Why open a can of worms, Pandora’s box, why not let sleeping dogs lie?
All the cliches and idioms sprang to mind.
But I knew deep down that the final solution was hers.
//////////
Nissy called me at 6am.
Pato had known all along, and he had told her so last night.
That he had done a DNA test while she was in Nairobi, and confirmed his suspicions but waited for the right time to tell her.
And now he wanted her to tell Jonny.
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