By Goretti Kyomuhendo
(also known as Waiting: A Novel of Uganda’s Hidden War)
The birds’ morning conversation woke me up. Father was already in the bathroom enclosure, and he shouted his greetings to us.
“You use so much water,” Mother commented, looking down at the soapy water, forming rivulets as it ran out from the enclosure into the compound. “Don’t you have any mercy on the people who fetch it?”
Kaaka made her way towards us, leaning her body on her walking stick. Her big stomach was visible through the long, loose dress she was wearing, and she seemed to be pushing it in front of her as she walked. She used her walking stick to hit a banana- fiber ball out of her way, and it rolled towards us before falling into the water streaming out of the bathroom enclosure.
Father came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, and inquired about Kaaka’s night.
“I slept well,” Kaaka replied. “But why are you bathing so early in the morning?” she asked him.
“I’m going to the Center to try to get some news,” he replied. “I want to know what’s happening in the city.”
“But so early in the morning!”
“It’s not that early,” Father protested. “Look, the sun is already up.”
“But won’t you eat first?”
“When I come back. I want to catch people before they go their separate ways.”
“But what ways can they go? Today is Sunday, and the churches are not open. All the priests are in hiding.”
“They go to the beer clubs,” Father laughed briefly.
We had learned about the details of the war a month before, when Father returned from the city where he had worked at the Main Post Office as a clerk. He told us that President Idi Amin was about to be overthrown by a combined force of Ugandans who lived in exile and the Tanzanian soldiers who were assisting them. The soldiers were advancing quickly, heading for Kampala from the southwestern border that Uganda shared with Tanzania. The districts along that route were already in the hands of the Liberators.
Amin’s soldiers were looting shops, hospitals, banks, and private homes in the city. They wanted to seize as much as they could before the Liberators
arrived. Some were fleeing towards the West Nile and Northern Ugandan regions, their home areas. People had vacated the city in fear of both the
advancing Liberators and the fleeing soldiers. No one knew what each group was likely to do to civilians.
Our district was situated on one of the highways that led, via Lake Albert, to the West Nile and northern regions, and so, Amin’s soldiers were using it as their exit route. And they had come in large numbers, invading the town of Hoima, looting, and killing people at night. The bush and banana plantations
were the safest places to sleep, and during the day most homes posted a sentry in a tree to watch out for the soldiers. All shops, churches, schools, banks, hospitals, and police stations were closed, and most people had retreated to the villages, which were much safer. The soldiers, who felt they had nothing more to lose as the Liberators approached, had taken over Hoima town and had set up roadblocks from which they attacked people trying to move from one location to another.
Riding his bicycle at breakneck speed, Father sped back from the Center.
“We must dig a pit immediately,” he informed us. “Last night they invaded five homes near the Center and stole everything of value. Luckily, the families were sleeping in the bush, otherwise they could have killed them too. But everything was taken—everything. Now we must hide whatever we own that’s of value.”
He was speaking breathlessly and gesturing like an actor. He asked Tendo to fetch the spade and the pick, saying that they would dig the hole a little
distance from the sleeping area where the trees and shrubs were thicker.
By midday, the red soil that Tendo had scooped out from the pit as Father dug had formed a large mound like an anthill. Kaaka lit a big fire to soften
the banana leaves that would be used to line the pit.
By evening, we were ready to take our most valuable possessions to the pit: the bicycle—which Father had dismantled—our mattresses, the radio, the saucepans, and our best clothes. We covered them with mats and goatskins, then we placed two old corrugated iron sheets on top.
That night we did not go to the sleeping place. Mother’s back was hurting badly, and the balm did not soothe it. Father did not want to leave her alone in the house. He would go out every now and then to scout for soldiers before returning to his foldaway chair beside Mother. I had been sent to tell Nyinabarongo that she should come and sleep at our house; the Lendu woman was to go to Uncle Kembo’s house.
Nyinabarongo and I walked back to our house together. I carried the little girl, and Nyinabarongo carried her sleeping things.
“Did you hide all your valuables in a pit?” she asked, as we walked along the small path from her house to ours. The dew from the spear grass felt cold on my legs. Threads of smoke rose from the grass thatch of the Lendu woman’s house.
“Yes, almost everything. What about you?”
“I hid only the mattress and a blanket. I dug a shallow pit. I hope they will be safe. The termites could eat them, you know.”
We reached the house. I undid the cloth I had used to tie the child on my back and she slid down to the ground. She seemed weightless! Like a waif. My shoulder felt damp where she had rested her head.
After we had eaten, we went to bed. Kaaka came to sleep in our house in case Mother needed her during the night, and slept in the small bedroom I usually shared with Maya. Nyinabarongo laid her sleeping things on the floor there too. She placed the child on the mat and covered her with the piece of cloth that I had used to carry her. Tendo slept in the sitting room, and Maya and I slept in his room. We could hear Father moving about—going out—and coming in again. He did not sleep much, though he had said he was very tired from digging the pit.
Kaaka was calling my name. I opened one eye. The yellow light from the lantern blinded me. Mother was whimpering softly. Her head was raised, and she seemed to be looking down over her stomach. “It’s almost here,” Kaaka was saying. “I can see the hair now. Big head.” She called my name again, and I responded.
“Where are the baby things your father brought from the city?”
“In the pit,” I replied.
“Go and get them, quick,” she said, urgently.
“I’m afraid of the dark,” I told Kaaka.
“It’s almost morning! The cocks are already crowing. Your father is out there. Ask him to take you to the pit.”
Mother let out a prolonged groan, pushing. Kaaka turned her attention to her and urged her to push harder. I stood up and wrapped Mother’s dress around my shoulders. Then I moved to the door and opened it. Quickly, I stepped outside. I walked swiftly, noiselessly, the soft grass beneath my feet muffling the sound of my footsteps. The gentle light from the breaking dawn made the banana trees look like the silhouettes of soldiers standing to attention.
“Who is it?” Father’s voice called out quietly but loudly enough to make me jump.
“It’s me,” I replied.
“How is your mother?” he asked anxiously. “Has the baby arrived? Is she all right?” He was whispering.
“The baby is almost out. I’ve come to fetch the baby clothes from the pit,” I whispered back.
“Why ever did you put them in the pit? At times, you can be very stupid. You knew the baby was going to arrive soon.” He sounded both excited and fearful. He removed the two corrugated iron sheets gently in order to make as little noise as possible. “Now, where are the clothes?” he whispered hoarsely, “I hope they’re not right down at the bottom.”
Silently, I pointed out the plastic bag, which was sitting on top, where Mother had told me to put it. Father picked it up and handed it to me; the soft light and the silence was broken only by the croaking sound of the frogs.
We had begun moving towards the house when we heard the gunshots. Their harsh barks sounded very close. Father pulled me to the ground, and I crouched beside him. More shots rang out from all sides. Father beckoned me to crawl closer to where the banana trees were at their thickest and would shield us from the light of the dawn. Heavy boots ran towards the house.
“God have mercy,” Father whispered.
My heart was beating so loudly I thought the soldiers would hear it. I raised my head a little and saw six men in army uniforms walking towards the house. They were speaking loudly, and one of them raised
his gun and shot into the air. I started to scream, but Father clamped his hand over my mouth and choked the scream back.
“I have to go and save your mother and Kaaka,” Father whispered. He crawled a few paces forward. I crawled behind him, the plastic bag tight under my arm.
Father looked back and made an impatient gesture for me to stay where I was. He crawled a little further ahead. Daylight had now broken, and we could see the soldiers clearly. They were shouting, but I could not make out their words. It sounded as if they were speaking in another language.
Kaaka came out of the house. She seemed unafraid. Father had stopped moving. Kaaka asked the soldiers loudly what they wanted. They all started talking at once, pointing their guns at her. More soldiers came. Kaaka told them urgently that she was in the process of delivering a baby, and she was needed back in the house.
The soldiers sounded agitated and dangerous, and I wished I could warn Kaaka to speak to them nicely. Father slowly rose to his feet. I could not believe it. Had we not been told that they would kill the men first? Fear seemed to freeze my mind. Again a soldier fired in the air. Father dropped to his knees. The soldiers advanced until about three or four of them stood in the doorway, shouting. Father seemed to understand what they were saying, and I heard him whisper something, his voice shaking.
“If you want food, I don’t have any. If you want . . .” Kaaka’s voice faded as the men simply pushed her aside.
The soldiers who had been standing in the doorway followed, and they all entered the house. Father cursed, regretting that Kaaka had talked him into sleeping in the banana plantation. I felt someone moving behind me and gasped. Uncle Kembo put his hand on my shoulder. “Shh,” he said, “It’s only
me,” and somehow I felt a little comforted that we were not quite alone.
One soldier seemed to be roughing up Kaaka. He shouted at her, and Uncle Kembo translated. “They want women, food, and money,” he said, “and they want to know where everyone else is hiding.” But Kaaka did not understand their language. Uncle Kembo said they were speaking in Kiswahili, a language mainly spoken by Amin’s soldiers.
Kaaka laughed loudly, scornfully. “Do you have no respect?” she called out. “No shame? Pushing around an old woman, who is trying to deliver a baby?”
One soldier kicked her hard in the stomach. Kaaka screamed. Father stood up again, ready to move forward, panga poised.
Uncle Kembo spoke. “Don’t be stupid. How can a man armed with a panga fight twenty men with guns?”
“But we have to do something!” Father hissed desperately.
Lying on the ground, Kaaka continued talking. “You want to kill an old woman like me? Go ahead then. What have I to fear?”
The soldier kicked her again. The three or four who had entered the house came out and started talking to those outside. Two had climbed into the mango tree, and its branches creaked under their weight. They began throwing the fruit down to their friends, who snatched them up and ate like monkeys. For a moment, the tension seemed to ease.
But the soldiers began to argue as they ate the mangoes and threw the seeds into the yard. Uncle Kembo translated. “Some say they must search and find the owners of the home. Others are arguing that the house is empty with nothing of value to steal, so they should move on.” Their loud voices sounded ugly as they echoed across the empty yard.
Kaaka slowly managed to sit up. The soldier who had assaulted her muttered something, and the other soldiers laughed as if they were drunk. Kaaka spoke again, “Go, you beasts! I have to attend to a woman giving birth to a baby who will be more useful than you. How can you beat a woman old enough to be your great-grandmother?
“Do you think you can scare me? Me, who used to beat my husband until he urinated in his trousers? Heeeeh,” she laughed. “If you are real men, go and
fight with your enemy, instead of coming here to terrorize a poor harmless old woman like me. Eh?”
“What’s wrong with her?” Father was beside himself. “Only one of them needs to understand her, and she’s dead!”
The soldier whom she had addressed pointed his gun at her and fired. Then he fired again, aiming at her stomach. The other soldiers had walked away; one who seemed to be their leader shouted at him to follow them. The soldier kicked Kaaka once more and she screamed loudly. Then he turned around and began to walk away. The sound of their footsteps beat loudly on the dry earth.
Father was standing, his arms lifted in despair and frustration. There was a movement behind me in the bushes, and the women joined us, Nyinabarongo’s child clinging to her back. We heard the soldiers laughing in the distance, and then, finally, they were gone. We all stood up and started talking, breathless with anxiety. Uncle Kembo silenced us with a curt movement of his hand.
Father rushed forward into the yard, something like a groan escaping from his lips. Kaaka was covered in blood. He bent over her.
I was still clutching the plastic bag that contained the baby’s things when I ran inside the house to find Mother.
Mother was gasping, and calling out softly for help. I saw a cushion of blood, and heard a baby crying. Mother told me to find a small bundle under her
pillow, which contained a razor blade and some cotton, wool, and gauze.
“Cut,” she commanded, when I told her I’d found it.
“Cut what?”
“The umbilical cord.”
My hands trembled, and I could not hold the razor blade steady. I could not see the cord. I feared to look at the jellied blood next to the baby. I thought I might vomit and tried hard to contain myself. Then I saw something like a fleshy string, coiling out of the bloody mess and winding its way to the baby’s stomach.
I severed the cord. Nervously, too quickly. Only half of it was cut. It was thick, thicker than I had imagined. The baby was crying loudly. It had lots of hair, but it was covered in caked blood. Mother was commanding me to cut. I put the razor on the cord again and cut. Slash! It fell off.
She asked me to bring the clean basin I had washed the previous night, and put the afterbirth in it. I touched it gingerly, my hands still trembling. I tried to get hold of the afterbirth, but it slipped through my fingers and fell back towards the baby. It danced around in the pool of blood still seeping from
Mother’s womb, swimming like an egg yolk.
“Give me the baby,” Mother told me. “Is it a girl?”
I was shivering so badly that I could hardly speak. I tried to hold the baby, but it was covered in slippery liquid. Mother pulled herself up into a sitting
position and reached for the baby. She picked up the dress I had used to cover myself, and wrapped the baby in it.
“Don’t throw the afterbirth in the latrine,” Mother was talking to me. Her voice seemed distant and weak. I could see her mouth opening and closing,
but I could not hear what she was saying. “Dig a hole and bury it there—deep, so the dogs don’t find it and eat it.” The words seemed to be falling from her lips.
Mother sings as she works. She is seated on a low stool, her legs crossed at the ankles. She is washing the plates and cups we used for last night’s supper. She is singing the song of the doves:
Kade efokere kisato
(The calico has turned into a goatskin)
Kade efokere kisato
(The calico has turned into a goatskin)
Mujungu agambire kugyokya
(The white man has said he is going to burn it)
Mujungu agambire kugyokya
(The white man has said he is going to burn it)
I am seated next to her, holding the baby. He has refused to take milk because his gums are covered with weals. He is crying silently, his mouth opening and closing like a baby bird when it wants to drink water. I stand up and put him on my shoulder and start rocking him back and forth. His head dangles from his soft neck, and I quickly place my right hand at his nape to support him. Saliva, mixed with blood, dribbles from the corner of his mouth onto my dress.
Maya comes back from the well carrying the big earthen pot on her head. She asks me to help her put it down. Stupid girl, can’t she see I am holding
the sick child?
“Ask Mother,” I tell her.
“Mother is not here!” Maya yells at me.
But I can still hear Mother singing the song of the doves, which we had baptized “Kaaka’s song” because she loved to sing it to us and narrate the story of its origin.
When the white people first came to our village, Kaaka was only a little girl, and small girls and boys never used to wear clothes. They would just cover their private parts with pieces of goatskin. The white men ordered that all girls should wear dresses to cover their breasts and buttocks, but their parents were too poor to buy the ready-made dresses sold in the shops. Instead, they used calico to make wraps that the young girls wore for
a long time. They never seemed to wear out—like goatskins. The white men became angry because the adults were not buying the ready-made dresses sold in their shops. One day, all the white men in the village gathered for a meeting and decided that the young girls should burn their calicos, so they would be forced to buy dresses.
A female dove was sitting in the branch of the tree under which the meeting was being held and heard this conversation. She started singing to the
young women as they passed by on their way to the plantations in the morning, warning them that the white man was going to burn their wraps:
Kade efokere kisato
Kade efokere kisato
Mujungu agambire kugyokya
Mujungu agambire kugyokya
I can’t hear Mother’s voice anymore. A mist is rising in thin strands, swirling around the top of Kakundi hill. I can vaguely see Maya’s figure moving about the yard. The mist begins to thicken, completely shrouding the mountain’s top with layers of cloud. The baby starts to cry again, making buzzing sounds close to my ear, like a mosquito. After a while, the mist begins to clear, and I can now see the hilltop again and Maya’s figure more clearly. But where is Mother?