Victoria remained where she had been, near the thin sofa, the radio, the pot of artificial flowers. She had saved Bat’s life once again. She had a crushing conviction that he was rightfully hers, and she, his saviour. She had to act quickly to make him hers, hers alone. There was only one person standing between him and her, and that was Babit. She had to go. From now on there would be no more phone calls, no more threats, no more words of advice. She had to go. The General’s problems didn’t interest her in the least. She had hers and it was called Babit. She had to go.
IN THE MEANTIME, cars continued exploding in different towns. People did not know what to do about it. There was a general fear of cars, and of shops and of crowded places. Bat wondered what was going on. He had waited in vain to hear the pirate radio broadcasting. His sister had never heard of it. The Kalandas and the Professor thought he was pulling their leg. They called it Lake Radio, meaning that it was a fiction, like the failed lake Amin had tried to make.
“How many people did the pirates move in order to start their broadcasts?” the Professor ridiculed.
Bat kept quiet about his brother and the money he had supplied. Too sensitive a secret. He gave Babit the task of tracking the radio day and night. She scanned the waves, turning the dial round and round, watching the pointer slide past numbers back and forth, amidst explosions of claptrap and the occasional clear sound.
“Why all this interest in pirates?”
“Aren’t you eager to hear when the country will be liberated, and what kind of people are going to do it?”
“Do you know what I think? This radio station doesn’t exist and you are just teasing me.”
“Yes, indeed, but keep at it. I am tired of working for these idiots.”
“What do you think about these car bombings? I sometimes think that you should stop using that car.”
“My XJ10? You are joking. I keep it in the ministry garage. To get at it the bomber would have to shoot the guards first.”
“It is evident that he is bombing cars and shops belonging to security agents. But suppose he mistakes your car for the two belonging to the generals?”
“Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to me, dear.”
“Why doesn’t the group claim responsibility?”
“They want to keep Amin and his men on their toes.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I am a very educated man, remember?” he said, chuckling.
“Yes, Professor.”
She was glad that things were going well. So often after marriage things cooled down and became boringly routine. She had had her fears, which had proved to be unfounded. She was glad that he had talked to Victoria and, as a result, there were no more threats. Twice a week he drove home for lunch. She enjoyed those days the most. They compensated for his absences and late homecoming. They were like two extra Sundays, days marked by anticipation and intense pleasure. She never fretted about money any more. It seemed he would never run out of work. All the ministries wanted him. They no longer interviewed him; they just hired him. One day the Englishman was bound to come. And maybe they would fly back with him, and sleep in the Grand Empire and eat all those strange foods.
Bat had hinted at visiting America. Babit noticed that he read more and more biographies of American sportsmen, film stars, politicians. . She believed it was his form of gossip, a search for other people’s secrets. . It would be nice to go there. Maybe by then they would have children. If not, maybe they would go to a specialist and get her checked. By then she would have completed her teaching course. For now though, on with the search for the elusive radio pirates.
Three. In Limbo
There were days so fine, so suffused with bright light falling from high-domed skies, the beauty of delicate clouds, the perfume of gentle winds, the gloss of exuberant vegetation, the sheer delight of living in a bubble of peace amidst an inferno, that Bat felt totally in tune with life. He was not a religious man, but once a month he accompanied his wife to church. She chose the best suit for him, the darkest shoes, the best tie. For herself she picked the finest midi- or maxi-gown, matching accessories and a subtle, expensive perfume. They would emerge from the house and stand on the steps surveying the flower bushes, red and purple bougainvilleas; the towering thousand-year-old trees, majestic, their branches spread high above; the lake, a broken marble surface linking them to neighbouring countries in a fraternity of water; and the XJ10, the crown jewel, shining, ready to go. They would descend the steps and drive away.
At church they would mingle with well-dressed men and women who worked in the beleaguered civil service, the diplomatic corps, the remnants of the aviation service, and the armed forces. In mufti, the soldiers and the spies tried to make themselves as invisible as possible. Bat liked the fact that these days the church had turned into a human rights podium. Priests spoke out directly or indirectly against the disappearances, the killings, the abuses. The clergy had felt the bite of the bayonet, the sting of the bullet, and it made a difference. The words rolled off the priest’s tongue with conviction, steeped in pain. Bat liked to sit there and think of good memories, his achievements, because his captivity had taught him how precious and luxurious the fine moments were.
On such days he liked to be surprised by uninvited guests who turned up to interrupt and enrich a day he had offered to the whims of time, to his wife, to leisure. If it happened to be his sister, they would talk about her son, her work, the state of the country. Living in a rural area, she would have a different view, a down-to-earth vision.
When his parents came, they talked about the past, who had lived where and done what. His father liked his job, a proper job, as he called it. He would mourn the fact that the coffee trade had been undermined by smuggling. His mother said little; she had always been a very reticent person. Your father talks for both of us, she used to say. His father had a bad memory now and he believed that everybody was ripping him off. Bat found it comical and would laugh.
“I always dreamed of seeing London and visiting the British Leyland plant,” he revealed one day.
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
“Where would you have got the money to take me and your mother?”
“Where there is a will, there is a way, Father.”
“It is a dream I wanted to keep. But when your wife said there were parts like Naguru and Bwaise, I believed it was better that I had not gone.”
When Babit’s people turned up, he would drive them round the town, to the zoo, to the airport, to the Botanical Gardens, to the landing point at Katabi where food and fish came in from the islands. Standing there always reminded him that Entebbe was a peninsula, almost choked by water, which in places was just a few metres from the road to the city. It was not hard to imagine floods rising out of the lake or crashing out of an angry sky, submerging the town for weeks, and receding to reveal a new island or clutch of small islands. It often made him curious about Robert Ashes’ island. During these visits Babit led the conversation, and Bat enjoyed watching her and her people interacting.
IN THE MEANTIME, the search for the bombers intensified. Numerous arrests had already been made by the Bureau, the Public Safety Unit and, not to be outdone, by the Eunuchs. The Ministry of Internal Affairs set up a team to hunt down and destroy these men. It was believed to be a big group organized into small cells. Bat heard about all these operations and wondered where his brother was. Why had he heard nothing from him for so long? He hoped that Tayari had nothing to do with the bombings, especially after General Bazooka’s wife got injured. He did not believe that the bombers were responsible for the General’s wife’s fate. He believed it was the result of infighting, possibly sanctioned by Amin to punish the man for one reason or other. General Bazooka’s current low profile seemed to confirm the theory.