One afternoon, after most of the Indians had gone and the bully had paid Serenity one hundred dollars, the one and only payment he made, the puke-yellow Uganda Postal Service truck returned. This time the tailboard spilled forth a fridge-cum-oven, a mighty spring bed, a box of black tea cozies which were in fact Afro wigs, a few other bits and pieces, and something which greatly fascinated me. It was two-legged like a billboard, had a rectangular shining face and was so burnished and smooth that one could see one’s face in it. I watched the driver’s hairy hands carefully to see if his palms became wet after touching the gleaming surface. With bated breath I waited for him to wipe his hands on his khaki overalls, but in vain. A smile on my face, I went near Serenity, hoping to touch the object in order to sate my curiosity, but Serenity just growled and said, “If you touch it …”
The reverence with which the new imports were handled made it clear that they were dear, much dearer than the stinking Toshiba or Serenity’s suede shoes. I could hardly camouflage my interest as the shiny object was being installed in the fastness of the despotic bedroom.
The hour after the truck’s and Serenity’s departures passed with grinding sloth. I kept watching the clouds — dusky, foamy horses with heads jammed into each other’s rear ends — as they slid across the sky. Was it going to rain?
Padlock was neither in the Command Post nor in the toilet, which led me to conclude that she had gone to the shops to buy cotton, chiffon and other materials for dressmaking. Loverboy had not appeared, and it was too late for his visit. The shitters were either busy with menial tasks or wrapped up in play. This was the time to storm the walls of my humiliation and walk the floor kissed daily or every other day by my knees as I worshipped at the altar of despotic power. This was the time for me to enter the shrine of despotic slumber, on my feet like a pirate taking an island, and, like a conqueror, grab the treasures I desired. This time there would be no one to make me check my step, my manner, my tone of voice, my conduct. I was going to be the lord of the chamber of despotic decree, dreams, love, child-making, nocturnal debate and hidden conflicts. This was my coup d’état, my riposte at my tormentors. I was going to open their drawers and boxes, and examine their clothes and jewelry, and see if they had dirty little books filled with smudged secrets. The magnet at the heart of this putsch was the glittering object. It had razored the darkness at the center of my fear with its lightning swords, and the concomitant blood of courage had birthed this coup, this rebirth of my old days of power.
I stormed past the Toshiba, its pale case dimly beckoning and obliging. The soles of my feet bounced on the hairs of the carpet, whose thickness was alive with the dust that made stiff-brushing it a stone-rolling ordeal. “You will clean it till I tell you to stop,” I could hear Padlock croaking. I brushed past her ghost, which never forgave Grandma for dying before a Hoover could be bought, those resources having been diverted toward her burial costs. Serenity had since refused to buy the machine.
I pushed the door before which I had trembled when I heard Padlock’s plan to break me, and I was soon inside her bedroom. It was in semi-darkness, as if the walls were bursting with untold secrets. The old bed was bare, stripped naked, its cone-shaped springs facing the ceiling like empty funnels. I sat on the springs, eliciting a few metallic squeaks. The bed resembled Serenity’s bachelor bed of old conquests. The springs and the frame cut into my backside. I stood up and turned my attention to the new bed. The thick, prickly blanket looked snakelike in its red and brown patchy magnificence. Face taut with excitement, I ran my fingers across the blanket, static electricity crackling. The silky bulk of the pillow felt like the coat of a sow at mating time, just before misdirected semen jetted over it. On this pillow heads full of horny dreams rested as the despots, and the Indians before them, mated. A stuffy, woody smell floated on the air, combining with loose, lewd dreams to foster a mounting tension in my loins.
Padlock had an intriguing reading lamp: the shade was a black-dotted yellow cone, the stand the effigy of a famous white woman, her pleated skirt billowing round her waist as though she were standing on a fan, and a cheeky full-lipped smile on her face. There she was, this silver-screen veteran, discarded by departing Indians, adopted by the despots. I prodded and stroked her behind, the incongruous obscenity of her presence filling the air with refracted sexual forces. I prodded her behind one more time and moved on.
I brought my nose very close to the glittering object at the head of the new bed. I was disappointed because it smelled like shoe polish, its oily tang lingering on my palate. Succumbing to tactile temptation, I stretched out my hand and touched the gleaming surface, its dry smoothness, the imagined smoothness of Lusanani’s backside. I closed my eyes and explored the very cool, very smooth surface, my fingers going deeper and deeper into imaginary orifices, my imagination’s eye peeking under the sheet at slick dilated lips. I stretched across the thick pillow, and it moved under me like the back of a sow, and my hand reached the extreme end of the object, very near the wall. The sensation of swimming in a dark pool, warm and slick with swine sperm, was intoxicating. I got the feeling that the Lamp Lady, Nantongo and Lusanani were sitting on my stomach, squeezing a thick liquid out of my loins. As I turned on my back, I saw the box of wigs. One wig was sitting on top of the box like a hen on its eggs. The hairs called back memories of Aunt Tiida’s pubic hair. On closer scrutiny, though, the wig was more like myriad black caterpillars sewn together into one monster. I turned to the glittering board, the pressure in my loins more palpable. What was beneath this glittering magnificence, this slick dryness?
Using my thumbnail, I attacked the edge of the board. I worked slowly, trying to attain a good rhythm, but got nowhere. I needed an implement. I thought of fetching a nail or a knife, but changed my mind. I didn’t want to leave scratches or betray my tracks. I had to use my fingernail, but with better technique. I wedged my thumbnail between the veneer and the glue and the frame. A piece of veneer as big as a man’s fingernail broke off. Beneath the veneer was mere wood! Dull brown, long-grained wood! Sweat broke out on my back: What was I going to do with the broken piece? A dull, anticlimactic feeling assailed me, momentarily stalling panic.
I licked the glued side of the splinter and attempted to paste it back in place. Was there no proper glue in the house? There was a tube of solution used to patch bicycle tubes. A bolt of elation shot through me: I was going to get away with the invasion, the damage and the discovery that below the glitter was banal dullness. I trembled as I had trembled when I thought that Padlock’s baby was going to fall through the rectangular latrine hole. Once again I was ahead of her.
A soaring sensation overtook me. I was soaring into safety’s bosom, swimming through currents of warm air as thick as morning mist. At that moment a furious palm swept hot air into my face. Two fingernails sank into my lower lip, carefully avoiding my lethal teeth. This was a novelty, for Padlock was a celebrated ear puller. Maybe she was so excited by the occasion that she could hardly contain herself, let alone stick to normal procedure.