“I will settle for that thank you. I haven’t been serenaded in ages. It is good for a politician to be thanked once in a while. We mostly get dog pooh in the letterbox or on the lawn as a reward.”
“You should have looked for a proper job,” Bat grinned.
“Said my dad. But then you would be dead or still in detention. Hey, life has been kind to us. We can’t complain.”
“It is not every day that a Conservative MP is found wearing a purse on his head,” Bat said, trying to imagine the dead honourable member with the garbage bag on his head.
“When I got your sister on the line, I thought, What a waste of life! When such a thing happens to somebody you know, it feels like a ton of newsreels dumped on your head. You start panicking and calling up people.”
“I am sure you’ve got a huge phone bill waiting for me.”
“It depends on how deep your pockets are.”
“I am not too badly off.”
“I can see where you are staying.”
“I can make a donation to your office. Anonymously, that is.”
“We need all the funds we can lay hands on. There are no bigger beggars in the world than politicians,” Damon explained, smiling self-deprecatingly.
“By the way, I hope you still have that car you had at Cambridge. I want to buy it.”
“Thieves took it a long time ago,” Damon said, raising his hands palms-up in the universal sign of resignation.
“It is a shame. I wanted to take it back to Uganda as a memento.”
“Have you explored London, Mrs. Bat?” Damon asked, turning to Babit.
“A little bit. It is amazing.”
“That is the fun part. You should come and see the area I represent. Unemployment, poverty, riots, demonstrations, parades by the extreme right. We have it all.”
“It must be quite exciting. Do you go around in armoured cars?” Bat jested.
“What is extreme right?” Babit said, looking at Bat, who wanted to burst into laughter.
“I can introduce you.”
“Damon, please. We are here on holiday, not on a journey of exploration. You can save us the smell of your sewers.”
“I want to meet them,” Babit said with genuine curiosity.
“What do you want? Shit thrown in your face?” Bat asked angrily.
“We came to see London, didn’t we?” she insisted stubbornly.
“Fine, fine, fine,” Bat said defeatedly.
“Don’t worry, it is only a circus,” Damon said mischievously.
THE TRIP to the housing estates, which reminded her of flats in Bukoto and Naguru, made Babit realize how well they were living at the Grand Empire. It had in a way been too good to be true, lacking in the two-sidedness of life as she knew it. She had craved the familiar pressure of the world, the evidence of poverty, social unrest, the tension generated by different people living together. She had glimpsed some people sleeping rough, but there had been something fanciful, unreal about it. Faced with the baldheaded men, the dead eyes, the ugly black clothes sown with spikes, the outlandish boots, the sky-bound fists, she felt afraid despite being under police protection. They shouted abuse, spat, waved banners and placards, and raged relentlessly. Taking into account that they had never killed people in big numbers, they looked like cartoons of the State Research Bureau, who, Babit was sure, would frighten the ugly clothes off their backs. The cartoons looked more insidious only because they were more organized, using word to spread their message whereas the Bureau relied more on their guns and had no ideology to pass on to the next generation. In a few years the Bureau boys would be dead, whereas these cartoons would go on living, slowly consolidating their power. Babit did not fear or hate them. Having lived with the Bureau, nothing seemed able to touch her, and anyway she had no plans of settling in London.
“You don’t look too impressed by our circus,” Damon said with an ironical smile on his face.
“These boys don’t have guns. They don’t have powers of life and death. They can’t penetrate my mind. If you’ve been terrorized by the Bureau, you can’t be intimidated by the cartoons. In the past months I spent sleepless nights, fearing for Bat’s life. I have come through it without losing my mind. I am not going to let anyone infect me with hate, fear, negativity.”
“You are right and I will remember the word ‘cartoons.’ I like it.”
On the way back, going through areas with small dirty shops with hardly any verandas or porches to speak of, making her think they were in Bwaise because of the presence of mostly black people, they went past a leftist demonstration, the two groups kept apart by mounted police. Babit liked the caricatural part of it: the banners, the fists, the shouting, the chanting, the laughing, which made it look as if the two groups congregated to entertain bored Londoners.
Later that evening Bat commented on how excited she was. “London no longer frightens me. I just admire it. It is that part I want to keep.”
“I am glad to hear that. After all, we came to enjoy ourselves.”
“Is Damon coming back to see us?”
“He doesn’t have time. He works more than twelve hours a day.”
“Did you both learn that at Cambridge?”
“Not necessarily. Many Cambridgers don’t want to work. We are just special people,” he said by way of bragging. “By the way, what should we eat tonight?”
“Choose. You know London better.”
“Snails, frogs and dog steaks, madame.”
She just laughed.
“I can take you to a Chinese, Indian, Russian, Mexican or even Ugandan restaurant. It is all here.”
“I told you to choose.”
AFTER A MONTH Bat was already thinking about returning home. Things had started repeating themselves. He missed the discipline of work. When he discussed the idea with Babit, she agreed with him. They were sitting at the top of the Grand Empire, the Thames glittering in the distance, the city going about its evening business.
It suddenly occurred to him that if he was going back it would be nice to ask Babit to marry him. Without much ceremony he took Babit’s hand, kissed it and asked her if she wanted to be his wife. She accepted. A moment of total silence followed. Bat was glad he had been accepted. He remembered that Kalanda had asked his wife to marry him in a bar. The Professor had done it in his house at the university. It seemed the place did not matter that much.
They sat and watched the lights in the distance. They did not make any solemn promises; there were no dramatics. He had a feeling that they had known each other all their lives, and this had been just an affirmation of a lifelong commitment. He imprinted that part of the city, especially the lights, in his mind. In the years to come they would return to commemorate the day.
“Look at those lights carefully, wife. They are my wedding gift to you. Carry them in your head from now on. After every so many years we will return, stand here and reminisce.”
“Thank you, husband. This is the best night of my life,” Babit said breathlessly.
He ordered champagne. They drank it in silence, looking at each other, and at the city, making wishes. He kept thinking that his fate had been redeemed here weeks ago by Damon, and that a new one had begun in the same city. After a very long time in which not much was said, they descended to their room. They drank more champagne, played some music and danced, and Babit asked him to sing “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” for her. She clapped as he sang, watching every gesture, enjoying every word, every inflection, every modulation. She told him afterwards what he suspected, that nobody had ever sung for her.