She waited, an open chalice, ready to absorb his story, his body, his spirit. He gave her scattered bits in the bedroom, arms fumbling, groping. Clad in borrowed clothes, he was a hungry refugee in dire need of the nourishment her replete depths promised. The curtain-filtered rays pouring into the room fell on her skin and made it glow, like a ripe fruit bursting to release its sticky juice. All the stolidity, the indifference induced in him by captivity seemed to erupt and empty into her, the receptacle which could hold it without overflowing. Charged by deprivation, he prodded her swollen womanhood, reminding himself how it had been and setting the course for the future.
Let us fuck all afternoon, his greed said somewhere.
He had missed her husky, impassioned voice, and the way coitus penetrated it and extracted the underlying childish whimpers he cherished. He had missed her heat, her tightness, the clean sheets, the trees outside, the lake, the luxury of contemplating it all while riding her, while lying beside her, freshly wiped with a smooth white cloth. Without her, the world felt remote, expendable, parched, hostile.
Drained, glowing, he could see her clearly, hear her, open himself to her, a kid after a good suck at the tit. Her trials and tribulations of the recent past, her fears, the frantic searches, the dread of finding him in the pile of oozing bodies, she told him. It sounded terrible, depressing, searing to the soul. He could imagine the anguish her family had undergone, the doubts, the pain. This was what he had all along been protecting himself against. He did not feel any immediate need to confess his sins, nor that he knew the secrets of the forest intimately. By withholding his secrets he believed he was doing penance, suffering like the others had suffered on his behalf. He knew that if he told her, she would absolve him too quickly, cry about it and leave him without a clear sense of what to do next. The secrets were his reminder, his warning. They made him protective of her, made him feel he wasn’t using her to unload his problems.
“It wasn’t your fault, dear. Don’t think about it. . Anybody would have done the same. .” she would have said to reassure him.
His detention secrets and money secrets made him feel in control. They made him feel responsible for those nearest and dearest to him.
News of Victoria’s evil campaign saddened him. It took him back to the threatening letter he had written the boy so many years ago. It was like an old wound opening. He didn’t know exactly what to do, apart from talking to her, and demanding that she stop harassing Babit. Was Victoria capable of carrying out her threats? He had brought her into his house; he had chased her out, but keeping her spirit out was going to be that much more difficult. He had desired a fresh start, but it was evident that he would have to settle old problems first.
He exercised his freedom in visits to family and friends. He travelled to his sister’s home. The emissary he had sent to inform her of his release found her in labour. By the time he arrived, she had already delivered a baby boy, a large shapeless bundle with its father’s blunt features. Mafuta was overjoyed; she beamed with pride, the first hurdle cleared. She lay in hospital recuperating, getting attention for the damage inflicted on her by the bundle. She smiled through her pain, crying tears of joy over her brother’s resurrection. She and Mafuta had had a big quarreclass="underline" She wanted to name the boy after Bat. Mafuta had wanted none of it. He wanted to supply all the names; it was his first child, after all. The child bearing the names of a man he disliked smacked of defeat, loss of face and authority. They had reached a compromise: she would provide one of two first names; Mafuta would give the baby its surname.
On arrival, Bat heard that he had acquired a namesake.
“I am overjoyed, Sister,” he said, squeezing her hand and looking in her eyes.
“It is a very good coincidence,” Babit remarked, wondering whether she was really barren. The sight of babies had started to hammer her with doubt and a string of questions. Bat’s indifference to the subject just seemed to make it worse for her. She imagined the joy he would have felt had he come from captivity expecting a son. She imagined herself in Sister’s place, flat on her back, propped by white pillows, smiling, receiving homage. The stark white room, with the green bed and the casement window, looked like a sweet cross to carry and get crucified on before entering the paradise of motherhood.
“I am so lucky to have a sister like you,” Bat said loudly, as if addressing a big audience. “Calling Villeneuve was the most important move in the whole drama.”
“I kept blaming myself that I had not done enough. I would lie here and curse myself for not being in the city trying.”
“I knew you were doing your very best, Sister,” he replied, squeezing her palm. Tears filled her eyes. For a moment he felt extremely close to her, as if he knew everything about her and would remain by her side forever.
“Brother-in-law, welcome back,” Mafuta said, marching into the room. “It is a relief to see you back.” He squeezed Bat in an impromptu bearhug.
“I appreciate the effort you made on my behalf. A son is a fitting reward. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. A historical baby in family terms,” Mafuta said, glowing with pride. This was his creation, the best thing he had ever done. He was euphoric. All the pieces of his life seemed to have fallen into place. He seemed to have won a victory over Bat. He had a son, somebody like him; Bat didn’t. He felt grateful for the moment. He wanted to stretch it out before gloom, competition, jealousy, tarnished and swallowed it.
Bat found the town small, uninspiring. It did not evoke any tender feelings in him. It was just another shapeless entity astride the road. Rural life bored him; it constricted him. It looked frozen, caught between the past and the future, as if afraid to advance or retreat. Having grown up among farmers, listening to their complaints about fluctuating crop prices, he now felt how cut off they were from the centre of power, government, decision-making. He had vowed never to find himself in such a predicament in the future. It was one of the reasons why he wanted to stay in Uganda. Here, he could move things; abroad, he would be on the periphery, a refugee trying to find a foothold. He always believed that the city and the big towns were the place to be. If they were dangerous and unpredictable, that was a fair price to pay.
Bat did not understand his sister’s thinking at times. What did she see in this place? What if something had gone wrong with the delivery? Would she have made it to Mulago Hospital for surgery? Why she had chosen nursing puzzled him. Spending one’s life with the sick, the injured, the needy, didn’t look that appealing. That she could be so close to filth and still retain a smile on her face defeated him.
The days he and Babit spent in these mosquito-bitten back-waters visiting his family passed slowly, sodden with beer, flatulent with overeating, saturated with the same stories. He told his story and heard it retold till it became formless, almost unreal. It made his secrets seem very precious, close to his heart, privy to a handful of eyes. These people seemed to know him, and he kept thinking that there was a lot they didn’t know. In some eyes he had already become a hero, somebody who had conquered death. The power of astrology had also been inserted into the saga. Some claimed that it had been Dr. Ali who had freed him in a dream. Bat found this curious, and he asked his brother why he had sacrificed the bull so openly. But then he understood the desperation caused by his disappearance. He decided to accept it all, although the glorification and mythicization bored and bothered him.