Nakibuka was also present. Had Serenity ever had so many women with him at the same time and yet looked and felt so lonely? Kasiko, Padlock and Nakibuka seemed to be three hot pebbles in his boot. Hajj Gimbi would have called the women together and made them do things whether they liked it or not, but Serenity was walking a tightrope, doing his best to avoid the trinity, as if by ignoring them publicly, he was honoring some old agreement or diluting the gossip about the fact that Nakibuka, his mistress, was his wife’s aunt.
I was impressed with Nakibuka’s charisma and stage presence. She acted like the first wife of Serenity’s wifely trinity. She was oblivious to backbiters and moved confidently among the mourners. She organized a cooking brigade, sent loafing youths to fetch water and made sure that nobody had more than their fair share of food. She was back in her role as the bridal aunt, taking care of both the uptight bride and the nervous groom, welcoming relatives and visitors, making sure that everything was running on schedule. She had first come to this village eighteen years ago. Now she was back as a conqueror, going straight to Serenity when she needed something, helping out Aunt Tiida where necessary, moving with the consummate ease of a fish in water.
I could not get enough of watching her. I was mesmerized. I could see what self-love had done to her: she looked at everyone, friend or foe, as if she were on the verge of breaking a secret or reciting for them a love poem. She looked at the mourners with friendly eyes, ready to welcome the wandering stranger, reassure the weary of heart and send off the hopeless with a smile. She was so good that even Aunt Tiida got irritated. “Who does she think she is?” I heard her say to Aunt Nakatu. In a sea of grief-stricken mourners, Nakibuka stood out, but so would she in a crush of joyful celebrants. There was something flirtatious about her, the very reason her husband used to beat her: she used to make him tremble to the core with insecurity, too aware of his own inadequacies. Serenity’s insecurities and discomforts were not exacerbated by Nakibuka, and neither would they be cured by her. It was the reason that, despite having this powerhouse in his corner, he still had the manner of an animal with caustic grease up the ass.
I did my best to keep out of Nakibuka’s way, because I did not want to become a messenger boy delivering messages to Padlock, Serenity or whomever else she wanted to contact. I kept out of Padlock’s way too. She looked pathetic, with her pouty, pinched-faced nun look. I disappeared whenever I could, returning only at mealtimes.
Sleeping arrangements caused a stir. Uncle Kawayida wanted Serenity’s “wives” to occupy his bachelor house. Nakibuka and Kasiko moved in, joined later by Aunt Lwandeka. Padlock, however, asserted her position and refused to enter the house with Nakibuka and Kasiko. Uncle Kawayida, assisted by Tiida, carried out negotiations with Padlock which ended in a stalemate. Serenity tactfully kept away. Padlock won the day, sleeping on the bed on which she had lost her virginity. Nakibuka and Kasiko, like allies in a trench war, slept outside, as though planning to storm the house at the crack of dawn.
I slept outside under the tree of Grandma and Grandpa’s afternoon arguments. I listened to the howls of dogs in heat, the snores of sleepers and the calls of nocturnal creatures. I remembered the night I was confronted by Dorobo, the seminary watchman, the power saboteur. I could see him towering like a tree, wide as a wall. Fr. Gilles Lageau had left the country. Fr. Kaanders had died and was buried at the seminary. Lwendo was still pursuing his priestly vocation. Where was Cane? I remembered the two clean, stenchless bodies he had shown us so long ago. Memories of Grandpa lying in the shadow of the market office came back. The stench too. The slimy finger of nausea crept up my stomach and I retched, thinking about the bullets that had killed him. I could not sleep again. Tomorrow was the burial. The grave was dug, the last nail in the coffin of the past ready to go in. I became very restless. I walked to the youthful end of the village. The “restaurant,” “hotel” and “casino” were wrapped in darkness. The youths with their bullet-on-coals games were asleep. The coffee-smuggling business had died a natural death after the fall of Amin. The place where joyrides, card games and drinking bouts used to be held was strewn with plastic wrappers coming off new mattresses, radios, shirts and other goods looted from the barracks. The looting spree was over now. In its place was a lacuna of inactivity. People seemed to be waiting for oracles to pronounce on the future of post-Amin Uganda.
The burial took place early in the afternoon. There were two puke-yellow Postal Service trucks filled with Serenity’s trade-union members. Hajj Gimbi was there, together with many other people I did not know. The only thing I remembered was the two trucks coming and going. The rest of the day was wrapped in a sickly yellow film full of fading images. I kept wondering whether they had finally removed the bullet Grandpa had carried with him for thirteen years. I wanted to keep it as a souvenir. I remembered Grandma’s dream of the buffalo and the crocodile. I wondered where I fit in the past and the future.
The political picture eventually became clearer. Tanzania’s gray-haired leader, President Nyerere, was calling the shots. A coalition government incorporating old political forces and many diffuse new ones was in power. Nothing was getting done because of the infighting and interference from Tanzania. Aunt did not like her colleagues’ chances. She had discovered that the National Reform Movement was small compared with the giants roaming the political arena. The brigadier had got only a small post: he was one of a team in charge of repairing military barracks and recruiting soldiers. Already there was talk of elections. Nyerere’s old friend Obote was free to participate. It was clear that Tanzania was finally ending his exile and using him to guarantee payment of war costs. Inside the country, expectation was low, disillusionment surging. Democracy built on old forces promised to be no bed of roses, and even at this early point there were rumors of impending civil war. The tidbits Aunt got from her colleagues pointed to a murky future as the infighting in the government mounted. For the moment, people eased doubts about the future with actions to improve the present. Parent-teacher associations sprung up and opened schools while the government dithered. It was evident that getting rid of a tyrant was one thing, setting the house in order quite another. I was kept from political musings by the string of tragedies that struck the family.
Female liberators were the latest sensation; they now controlled most roadblocks. I had seen them, behinds bulging in tight military pants, breasts bouncing in green army bras, hair peeping out from under sweaty caps. They were the direct response to the growing complaints about harassment at roadblocks manned by their male counterparts. The honeymoon between the populace and the liberators was over. Calls to remove all roadblocks were made daily, because the liberators too had succumbed to the temptation of ransoms. Plans were under way to send the Tanzanians back. In the meantime, many tried to acquire material things they could not get in Communist Tanzania. Roadblocks stayed because there were still people with guns used in armed robberies, a few of which got impounded at checkpoints.