I had in fact bypassed four bodies lying in the shadow of the market office building. The power of the stench made me feel as if the roof of my nose had been ripped off. Two corpses were lying faceup; one was facedown; the fourth was headless. I was the only onlooker; others just hurried by. The woman who had held her nose had disappeared. I did not recognize any of the dead. I was about to walk back to the taxi park before it was too late, when I was struck by the familiar look of one dead man’s bloodied brogue. I had brushed that shoe many times and wiped the polish off with a piece of white cloth. I knew where the cracks were and how carefully they had been repaired. I bent down to look more closely, the stench almost knocking me back. The man lying facedown was Grandpa! My bladder voided itself, releasing a few drops. Suddenly I was no longer hungry or thirsty. I was just dazed and groggy. Why had Serenity and Kawayida not looked here? Had they looked and failed to recognize their own father?
I somehow made the journey home. Aunt Lwandeka went to her NRM colleagues, got a jeep and moved the body to the morgue for immediate attention. She then drove to Serenity’s suburb. The two brothers were lying in bed, exhausted by yet another day’s futile search. They were relieved because the search had ended, but angry that they hadn’t discovered Grandpa’s body sooner.
The clan gathered at Grandpa’s house. The last time there was a crowd like this was at Serenity’s wedding. Aunt Nakatu had become older and fatter, though unmarked by her recent tribulations. Hajj Ali looked distinguished in a white tunic and a gold-threaded Muslim hat. Baby Sulaiman, their only child, was already attending primary school. Aunt Tiida and Dr. Ssali could not get over the loss of their beloved Peugeot. Amin’s army officers had commandeered it, over Tiida’s protests that theirs was a Muslim family which should be exempt from such aggression. The car had broken down one hundred and fifty kilometers from the city. Dr. Ssali’s mechanic found it in a roadside ditch with the engine blown up. Tiida told the sad story over and over again. I saw Uncle Kawayida’s wife for the first time in years. She looked tall and majestic, exuding the energy of well-being. If it had not been for her thick lower jaw and large feet, she would have been the most beautiful woman there. She had come driving their second van, and was proud to oblige the mourners. Uncle Kawayida did all the driving now, but for some reason, his wife kept the keys, which kept getting lost. At one time, all people seemed to do was to look for the keys. Uncle Kawayida’s wife liked the game. She kept finding the keys and feigning surprise.
Grandpa’s body arrived two days later because of the intensive work that had to be done on it. Grief apart, I felt proud of the man. He was one of the few people I knew who had practiced what he preached. I felt proud that he had taken those beatings, and the stabbing, and the bullet in his leg. He had lived in a self-chosen political battlefield, and had died in it. I now associated Independence Day, the 1966 State of Emergency and Amin’s fall with him. To me, he was an encyclopedia of our political history, and without his dissertations and my efforts to regurgitate them, I would have been a political ignoramus. He had pursued his political ambitions and paid the price. He had made the predictions of national explosions and died in one. He had led the life of a rebel, speaking his mind even if it meant suffering for it. He had been an island of outspokenness in a sea of conformism. Whatever others said about him, I did not mind.
The forlorn drama of death was highlighted by the head-shaving ceremony. Aunt Tiida turned this banal ritual into a spectacle. According to custom, the heads of all the orphans had to be shaved stone-bald. Tiida saw her brothers’ and her sister’s hair collecting at the shaver’s feet and decided to rebel. When her turn came, the old man with the razor blade did not even look up. He just extended his arm, beckoning her to come forward.
“I am keeping my hair.”
“What!”
“You heard me,” she said, laying on more authority than she really commanded. “I am not mourning my father with a bald head. If you want, I will cover my hair, or even dirty it, but it is not going to be shaved off. Dad never cared for such scruples.”
“Do not hold up the ceremonies, woman. Come here and get it over with,” the old man, now surrounded by a phalanx of supporters, commanded.
Serenity and Kawayida, both red-eyed with grief, seemed about to explode. They looked at their sister with vehemence, waiting for her to change her mind. Angry voices were gathering volume. Dr. Saif Ssali, a man who knew how small things could cause big problems, moved forward to forestall trouble. He led Aunt Tiida out of the circle of mourners and talked to her. Crestfallen, she returned and offered her head to the razor.
News of the incident circulated quickly, feeding the thirsty gossip machine that ground incessantly to lighten the prevailing mood of doom and gloom. Another popular topic of conversation was the recent looting spree which had occurred in the towns and in some rural areas. Survivors from the youthful section of the village who had attacked the barracks and brought back army bunk beds, tents, boots, biscuits, corned beef, fridges, incubators and bullets joined the mourners and told their stories. Now and then we heard explosions from their end of the village. Idle youths put live bullets on lighted coals and cheered the explosions.
Serenity had looked at me with a mixture of envy and anger when he learned that I was responsible for the discovery of his father’s remains. There I was, once again, weakening his position as first son. He felt particularly defeated because on three separate occasions, Kawayida and he had passed through Owino Market on their way to the cathedrals. He could not figure out how they had missed those bodies, which had been so near the road. I was not in the least preoccupied with his concerns. I was only interested in seeing his first child, the daughter who was one year older than me. I pictured her as endowed with the elegance of Aunt Tiida, the mild temperament of her mother and Grandpa’s ambition. My hopes were dashed by Aunt Nakatu, who revealed that the girl would not attend the burial. She had boycotted all family functions attended by Serenity. It was clear now that Serenity had not been much of a parent to her. I suspected that he might have offered occasional financial help, say, when the child was sick, but no more. My feeling was that he did not hate her, but he simply did not know what to do with her, what to offer her. As a man brought up by female wolves, he must have assumed that all females had the wolfish capacity to take care of themselves, an assumption backed by Padlock’s independence and Nakibuka’s confidence.
I had already met Kasiko, the girl’s mother. She was far better looking than Padlock. She carried her years well, and compared with Padlock, time had been very kind to her. I liked her. She had not treated me like an enemy, her supplanter’s offspring, the way Padlock would have done. I would have liked to know her and to meet her daughter, but I did not know how to proceed. Ours was a family trapped in decay, the fibers binding us corroded by lack of contact, the dislocations of modernism and the vagaries of undigested Catholicism. If Serenity had not estranged this woman, there would possibly have been a way in which she would have enriched my life. There was something accommodating, sweet and mild about her, a grace in defeat, a glowing inner strength I would have liked to investigate.
Yet there was something ugly in the way Padlock and Kasiko avoided each other. They sat miles apart, eyeing each other warily like scavenging birds. If Kasiko were to fall into a pit, I was sure the ex-nun would not help her out. On the other hand, if Kasiko found Padlock in a pit, I was sure she would pull her out, if only to enjoy the revenge of being her savior. To me, the two women seemed two sides of the same coin: Padlock had strong principles, but as sole role model, she was defective, in need of a balancing element, somebody with heart like Kasiko. Kasiko in turn needed something of Padlock’s independence. Serenity knew this, but it was too late. He also knew that Hajj Gimbi’s children had better female role models than the shitters, who had to do only with the reclusive Padlock. “She is the mother of my children,” I heard Serenity say to Nakibuka several times.