Abigail George – The Waking

In the dream, Mariel felt as if she was hiking alone in the mountains. Something was said. Something was not said. An understanding passed between her and the mountains. She tramped on a twig, and a bird fluttered in front of her like thunder. It sounded like an alarm in the depths of the forest. And she felt her hidden sadness like a mirror, her reflection in a pool of water. She knew she was living in a fairy tale. Then she was in a room burying the castle. She looked through the keyhole. She thought of her laments, how she taught herself to breathe underwater. How her flat in adulthood, years after her mother had passed away, always felt like an autumn house. Leaves scattered on the floor at great risk. When she was younger, she heard her father crying in the bathroom. Her father's depression had annoyed her a great deal. She didn’t want to go in there. Didn’t want to, as they say, face the awful music. The scene was terrifying to her. She was just a child. She didn’t know how to cope, didn’t want to cope with the situation.

Her mother was lying on the bed, awake, smoking a cigarette, her hair held back from her face with a pink barrette and bobby pins, with the sheet over her face, pretending for her own sake that she could not hear him, either. Mariel stood there for a long while, outside their door, before going into her own bedroom to play New Order. Waiting for the reality of the music to cut into her own reality, she felt as if she was listening to the last words in the world, as if somehow her own world had come to an end. Her innocence too.

She later remembered how she had felt no sympathy and how, when she prayed in church, she felt like a robot calligrapher. She thought of the suddenness of the belief in God when she was baptised in the local swimming pool with her mother and father hovering in their late thirties. The day was pleasant. There were younger girls, prettier than she was. You could see they were popular and nice, not like the girls Mariel went to high school with. After the ritual, the three of them went straight home. They drove past Mariel's high school to their home, a modest one-story house which was some distance from the church.

Her mother drove the compact 4-door sedan. Her father looked at her sadly, and said, "Hallelujah, God is good!" He put his hand on his wife's knee affectionately, but she ignored them both. Just stared straight ahead, parked the car in the driveway, and went straight to the kitchen to smoke another cigarette, then make coffee in three mugs.

"My mug is chipped, Mother," Mariel murmured.

"Oh, rookie mistake," her mother answered breezily, blowing out the smoke from her cigarette. "What’s wrong with you? Find another mug yourself, then," her mother continued tersely. Mariel and her father just looked at each other. Her father tried to smile, shrugged his shoulders. Mariel felt like crying. She felt like throwing her arms up in the air in desperation, and yelling, "What the hell is the matter with the two of you? I want to be normal. I want a normal life. I want a normal father and a normal mother who love each other. I want to come home to normal. Not to have a banshee as mother, and a trick pony as a father." She began to have lucid dreams after that. After the baptism.


I am complex and reactive, the river seemed to say. I am detailed. Colour in my perspective, the sky said in return. I am layered like ice, said the ghost of the sunlight of the day that danced around her. "I believe I am repressed, that I am going in circles, that pain is the most normal feeling in the world," Mariel said in returning to the order and routine of the day. "The people we love the most push us far away!" she then said out loud to her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Mariel moved out of her parents' house when she left for university. She thought of her mother’s breast cancer, years, how silence seemed to come upon her, how she never found the time to visit her father anymore after her mother’s death. She blamed him somehow. On the telephone, she would be pensive, and her father would be begging. That was her favourite part. "You could never be there for us" lay on the tip of her tongue. "You could never love us, mum and me, properly. Not the way she deserved to be loved. Not the way I needed to be loved. You left us before she left us. How did I get here, Dad? I want to know. When I thought I knew you so well? You didn’t even try."


"Not even once to get to know your own daughter." She’d have an imaginary barbecue with her dad, pretend conversations, long walks on the beach where they would just talk and talk. The dawn was already stale when the grownup Mariel decided to get up.

She thought of the wildflowers she had picked in the cemetery, how beautiful the day was. The mayonnaise from the potato salad on her father’s chin as he absentmindedly ate a ham sandwich in the church hall. All she could stomach was the split pea soup. People were always going on about how food was supposed to bring folks together in times of happiness and extreme sadness. She looked around her. Cousins she never grew up knowing had turned into young men and women. Uncles and aunts that had done a disappearing act on the three of them over the years feigned concern over Mariel and her father. "Your mother found God, never forget that, Mariel."

Her father had found her outside smoking a cigarette. "Can I bum one of those off you?"

"You don’t smoke, Dad."

"Well, it goes with the day, don’t you think? One won’t hurt. You shouldn’t be starting this, Mariel."

"Starting what?" Mariel snapped. Her father looked at her, that same look in his eyes the day she got baptised. She looked at him as well, blinking back the tears, and walked to her car.

"You’ll conceive. You’ll see, you'll live your own life," her mother had told her. Her mother had held Mariel’s hand at the hospital. She had looked closely at her mother, who was smiling at her in the bed in her pyjamas – thinner, paler, with no crown of hair.

"Look at me. Now, who would have thought I would have married, would have got out of Johannesburg, would have had a daughter? I was happy. I am happy, Mariel. And you?"

She smiled and said, "Yes, Mother, I’m happy too, but sad that we’re losing you."


She thought she was leaving her sorrows behind in the cemetery with the light of that day. She held onto her father’s arm as if she never wanted to let go. Drove them both to the church hall afterwards.

"Dad, put your safety belt on. Want to listen to Johnny Cash on the radio?"

Mariel got kissed on the cheek by male cousins and uncles that she had never seen before in her life. She got hugs from aunts with golden hair, who looked like her mother, then from her father, and telephone numbers were punched into cell phones. People promised to stay in touch and bring more food. Casserole dishes and bredies. "You need to eat at a time like this, dear," Mariel was told. You people need to have better tongues, Mariel thought to herself. Pack of wolves. One of the women was handing her father a napkin and a glass of iced tea.

"Come meet my sister," her father said.

Mariel shook her head. She felt rejected by the scene of the day. As day turned into evening, people still hovered. Cars and more cars. Foot traffic and more foot traffic. Neighbours asking her why she never said anything, asked for help when her mother had been diagnosed with cancer. They would have come. They would have offered to help. Relatives expressing surprise. Oh, her mother was just like her, never one to ask for anything, never one to ask for help. Not even when Mariel was a baby or when her husband had a brief stay in a mental hospital.

Mariel felt isolated, interloped upon, estranged from her family because of the way her mother chose to live her life. While observing her father speak calmly with the guests, she toyed with the idea of screaming at him, “Look at all these people and think about how many birthdays, gatherings, family functions we've both missed because of Mom!” Well, Mariel said nothing, silence being the only true manifestation of how proud she felt of being just like her mother, who guarded their privacy at all costs.

She went to the kitchen as the house emptied out and her father said his goodbyes to his family. She nibbled on a slice of apple crumble as the kettle boiled. Mariel's father was about to close the front door behind him when she suddenly put on her coat, grabbed her handbag, and kissed his cheek on the way out. ​​ 


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An Interview with Abigail George

NOVELTY FICTION – You have published a number of stories across different publishers and platforms. If someone wants to familiarize themselves with your work, what books and stories should they read first, and why?

ABIGAIL GEORGE – If you want to start at the beginning, then I suggest begin with my poetry. That is who I am. I am a poet first and foremost, but the language in the short stories speaks of the despair and hardship found in family life. My first three books Africa Where Art Thou, Feeding The Beasts and Winter In Johannesburg are available in the Kindle Store. My short stories are often bleak. In the Winter stories and the poetry in the Africa book, I write about political figures, love and romantic entanglement. The stories speak to people about a woman who has had a rather difficult upbringing. There is a sinister and dark unhappiness in her childhood that threatens to sabotage the discipline, will and faith she has for herself. She cannot face up to her own loneliness. There is an upheaval in her relationships. There is the strained mother-daughter relationship, the shadow of a father, the sister who has "made it," landed in Europe and made what seems a success of her life, but the sister is distant. Maybe the stories are successful since they aim for depicting the reality of a woman who has a lacklustre life, who has missed out on certain opportunities because of ill health, opportunities for a happy life, happy relationships with others because of a grim childhood filled with a neglectful mother, who abandoned her daughter to the wolves of the world. In most cases, in most stories, perhaps in all of them, the mother chooses the other daughter. The other daughter grows up, is sometimes happy, sometimes unhappy, dramas play out in her life, but she isn't damaged or deeply wounded by it. The middle daughter somewhat makes a success out of her life.

For someone who is interested in shorter introspective pieces, I would direct them to my blog. My characters are not happy people. They are almost always dissatisfied with their lives to a certain degree, and try to find a way out. But I do try to write life and soul into my characters. Jean Rhys, Virginia Woolf, Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath, and Vanessa Bell are real-life people. They have transformed me. Writing stories about their lives transformed me. All women are happy or unhappy in their own way. It can differ from individual to individual to varying degrees. Life taught me that, as do my characters and the women in my family. If you want to start with my life, begin with The Scholarship Girl.


NOVELTY FICTION – Your stories are often written in a subjective style that focuses on your female main character's point of view. She debates her life, values and relationships – as opposed to others debating her. Does your main character always hold the moral high ground, or can she be partially to blame for things not working out?

ABIGAIL GEORGE – Of course, the main female character's to blame, I reason. There are times, moments when she is tough, strong and mentally fit. The writing, my writing about her, restores her, her senses, energies; her powers are reinvigorated by love or work, overshadowed by her love, her relationships and work in these stories. If her life worked out, if there was a balance in her life that counteracted the bad stuff, the mistakes she makes in her thinking or over-thinking, in her simplifying the complicated nature of her relationships, not finding lasting happiness, she could attain that moral high ground but she fails to. So much unhappiness is hard to bear and cope with, but the protagonist in these stories finds a way, she finds her way, and it's the natural inclination to accept her lot in life, to show up for her life and to believe it will get better. That things will change. I think this state of unhappiness, this general display of not being in your personal comfort zone, reveals a deep yearning for acceptance, for truth and trust on the part of the reader. Accept me, the protagonist asks and says: If you do, I will offer you up truth. Trust me, the character asks.


NOVELTY FICTION – We recently published your short story entitled “Clarissa, Hector and Septimus Redefined.” Clarissa is 15, her male friends 1-2 years older. Clarissa is unhappy with how she was treated by them. With such a modest age difference, is exploitation even possible, or is it a matter of simple seduction as in “All is Fair in Love and War”?

ABIGAIL GEORGE – I think that there's submission, there is the individual who submits, and dominance and who plays what role in relationships. There is both exploitation and seduction in this story but varying degrees of both. At the end of the day, was Clarissa taken advantage of, was she genuinely loved and cared for by her male friends, was she the naive wallflower, events just playing out around her in her environment, and afterwards did she play the damsel in distress? This is what I am wrestling with as the writer. Clarissa is a toy, a plaything, and these situations can turn dangerous. Is she desired? No, she's toyed with, and the dangerous part comes in when she's discarded. She can't deal with that. It's too much for her to handle. She's rejected. When you're loved, it's different. You move differently in the world. She suffers. I don't think the boys are aware of this suffering, they are not aware of their cruelty and that their treatment of her is a game. It is nothing but a game to them. She is being used. Poor Clarissa, she means nothing to them. She badly wants attention. She badly wants to be desired. Neither of her male friends love her. She wants to be seduced. She has no understanding of the self, no understanding of her ego, and no understanding yet of the guilt trip. Her identity becomes a ​​ fractured identity. This is what happens to young girls, the loss of innocence in the developmental stages in these types of relationships. I think she wants to be corrupted. She is willing to engage in this behaviour, so therefore she wants to be corrupted. She wants to do away with childhood and childhood things and the nature of all of that.

I don't dislike Clarissa. I also don't feel sorry for her. If exploitation takes place, it's mostly her fault. In these situations, girls are supposed to know better. Already we know that there is no strong male father figure in her life. If there was, she would care more about herself and not have placed herself in this situation. This attempt of hers to want to please her male friends, to seek acceptance from them... I have to ask myself: what exactly is her motivation in the scheme of things, why does she care so much about their validation of her? Life doesn't treat girls like Clarissa very kindly. Not only do these young males reject her, she's also rejected by society and her mother. I think she's willing to be taken advantage of. The males are more interested in their own inner life world, anyway. She's confused and tragic in the sense that she is not the femme fatale. This is not the Disney high school fairytale ending. This is what happens when you don't understand what it means to be abandoned and you are not wanted in the male language.


NOVELTY FICTION – In your forthcoming short story “The Waking,” Mariel struggles to make sense out of her parents' behavior and blames them for creating a disharmonious family. If, hypothetically, she had confronted them, would they have been able to explain their behavior, or is it a lost cause?

ABIGAIL GEORGE – No, to me, for me as the writer, there would be no confronting them. It would be a lost cause. In my own relationships, sibling, parent, other confrontation was always a lost cause. Mariel would get absolutely nothing out of it. Her energy would be wasted on confronting these two individuals. I sometimes wonder why people have children in the first place, and to me it is this: they want someone to look after them in old age, or they want to be happy. They think having a child is easy, raising a child will be easier for them than it was for their parents. So, I am really fighting with my parents in this story. I am saying to them: you people thought this would be easy. It wasn't. I am angry at myself for my poor decision-making over a lifetime. I am confronting myself as Mariel confronts herself in the kitchen eating apple crumble. The house empties itself out of people, and she has a decision to make. Does she stay or does she leave? To live, how to live, is not the easiest decision to make in the world, and how do you make your way in the world after rejecting the one half of the people who raised you?


NOVELTY FICTION – Your writing style tends to be poetic, colorful and filled with delicate surprises. Some of your writing can be fairly abstract, such as lengthy streams of consciousness. What authors and poets inspired you to write like this, and what else have you done to develop such a distinctive style?

ABIGAIL GEORGE – I would say that it comes from the queen of stream of consciousness writing herself, Virginia Woolf. I think it started in high school. The building of my own technique and particular style came and was developed from myself reading widely, reading with a purpose in mind. I was heavily influenced by the confessional poetry of Anne Sexton, all of my English teachers in high school and the novels, then especially the poetry I was reading at the time. It started in high school, but even before that I aimed high – or rather, my mother aimed high for the both of us. My mother introduced me to speech and drama classes with Miss Marjorie Gilbey; and so the foundation was set in stone for the rest of my life, I believe. I received a kind of training in all my future writing from Miss Gilbey. I was acting on the stage, her stage, and I would recite poetry and monologues back to my mother and Miss Gilbey, but it was preparation for dialogue, conceptualisation, characterisation, and laying the groundwork for narrative.


NOVELTY FICTION – Anything else you would like to share with our readers?

ABIGAIL GEORGE – As a writer, I find that I tend to have a lot of issues with self-doubt and insecurity and that inevitably finds its way into the behaviour, the mannerisms and adverse childhood experience of my female characters. The males wear a kind of armour to protect themselves from the indecision of the woman, the fragile woman, the sad woman, and she's always complicated. Her relationships are always problematic. If you look at my poetry, the short stories, the writing itself, I take on the difficult subjects of loneliness and fear, and anxiety plays itself out with ripple effects in tandem with depression. The depression hangs like a cloud across the page. I think that although my characters might not find happiness, they do reach a certain level of satisfaction in their own lives. I have made it thus far, so I'll keep on going, is what the character tells herself inwardly. The female character overcomes her adversity, and she endures, she struggles, she encourages herself, and therein lies the triumph, but she survives through instinct alone sometimes. She finds her way.

Read Africa. Write Africa. Buy books. Invest in them. I have reached a point in my life where I buy books every month. Educate yourself by reading everything you can. We all have the power to do that. African writers, and writers in general, should read and read what is coming from the continent. As for writers in Africa, I believe we should be more supportive of each other and we should read one another's work. I hope Novelty Fiction's readership supports my books. They all speak to the lonely heart, the lost, the vulnerable and the dazzling heroine who doesn't wait upon anyone to save her.


© 2022 by Novelty Fiction. All rights reserved.

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Clarissa, Hector and Septimus Redefined – Introduction video

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Issue 15, Fall 2022

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Joseph Jegede – Arinfesesi


Tade has been looking forward to this day for a while, and now he is glad it is finally here, although it felt yesterday like today would never come. But here it is, the day has broken.

The alarm sounds, and he reaches to put it off. He shouldn’t have set it in the first place, but he was scared he would sleep off and awake late. He doesn’t trust himself when it comes to sleep, especially during this harmattan period where one could sleep on and on for hours without having to concern oneself with NEPA supplying power or not.

Last week, he had awoken late for an interview scheduled for 9 AM. It was stated that applicants should arrive an hour earlier. Tade, however, awoke some minutes past 7. Before he could hurry to the bathroom to brush his teeth, wash, relieve himself, dry and moisturize his body, comb his hair through and put on his clothes, it was almost 8. When he got to the main road and saw the traffic that morning, he knew it was baseless going further. There was no magic he could use that would make him arrive before 9. Today’s interview is scheduled for 1 PM: these guys sure understand the situation in Lagos well enough not to have slated the interview for 8, 9 or 10 AM like many offices do, and heavens bless them for that. Yet, he has learnt his lessons and won’t repeat such mistakes. Once beaten, twice shy.

So, in angst that he would awake late, he set his alarm for 6 this morning. Eventually, the alarm was redundant as it turned out to be a long night for him. His anxiety was at its peak as if he had never attended an interview before. Well, such a reaction was to be expected. There is this opening for the post of an accountant in a big firm, the pay is huge, and the position comes with several benefits. He cannot afford not getting the job; not after he has fantasized about how he will confidently tender his resignation letter to Mrs. Benson, the principal, soon. The woman is always demanding sex from him. Is it a crime to be good looking? He knows that her lust after him is why she grants many of his requests; perhaps she is of the opinion that he will succumb eventually if she continues to be nice to him.

Tade didn’t take permission to be absent from school today because the second term break started last week. He is thankful he still has three more weeks before the break comes to an end, thus giving him enough time to search for jobs and attend several interviews. He is tired of earning a meagre salary every month, tired of teaching accounting as a subject in a low-budget secondary school. He wants to do accounts, not teach about them, all more reason why he jumped for joy when he received the invitation for this interview. The opportunity is worth his angst.

As early as 6 AM, Tade puts on his chargeable lamp and unlocks the door to his small room. He fetched water from the well outside last night. He walks out of his room into the passage, and heads towards the bathroom with his bucket of water in hand. At the bathroom, he sees a light, and there is no need to doubt it is Mr. Ade, the clerk, taking his bath. Tade cannot wait till he is done, so he moves to the other bathroom, which generally has been abandoned by the tenants and even the landlord. He starts his bath, even though he detests the foul smell emanating from the facility.

If he is fast enough, he might talk Mr. Ade into giving him a ride on his bike, but only to the junction.

“Good morning, Tade, do you have an appointment today?”

“Well, yes. Good morning, Mr. Ade.”

“Alright, all the best!”

Tade is pouring water over his head, so he does not hear the rest of what Mr. Ade says. When he is all finished, he heads back to his room, where he applies lotion to his skin and massages, then starts to comb his hair while remaining unclad. He walks to a corner where he stores a few foodstuffs, reaches for two sachets of noodles, and starts preparing them. Within a twinkle, his noodles are ready, and he begins to devour the hot meal. He craves after chicken sauce, but knows wishes are not horses. Even if he had the money for chicken sauce at the moment, he would spend it on something else. In his present condition, what matters is to eat, not whether he enjoys the meal or not. Eat to survive, that’s his motto right now. But when he finally gets this job, he will rejoice and dance for joy; then he can buy whatever he wants and eat whatever meal pleases him. He will satisfy his cravings – if only he gets this job.

Having finished breakfast, he spreads out his well-ironed clothes on his bed. He has ironed them to the last layers, so that if any sharp object pierces through them, they could easily get torn. He wears his trousers first and is about to put on his belt when he feels his balls dangling underneath. He has forgotten to wear boxers. Well, one can’t blame him, for what do you expect from a man who goes to bed unclad and who roams about the room naked when alone? He rummages through his ghanamustgo, and brings out a pair of striped boxers. He draws down his trousers, and places the boxers underneath before he zips up and uses his belt. He wears his shirt, tucks it into the trousers, and tightens his belt against his waist. He again combs his hair through and brushes his beard, sprays his body, and arranges his files into a clear bag. He moves towards his wardrobe and brings out another clear bag, from which he retrieves some documents and puts them into the former, which he now places into a larger bag. He zips the outer bag and looks at his watch, almost 7 AM. He wants to tarry a little, but decides to start heading off after remembering how congested Lagos traffic can be, especially on Monday mornings.

The cloud seems to have completely broken loose from the darkness that hugs it. The atmosphere is clearer than when he went to the bathroom. The morning cold is intense; typical during harmattan. Tade touches his lips and feels the chapped surface against his palms. He forgot to apply lip balm, but that is not of utmost relevance right now.

He wants to take the BRT, and spends a few moments at the bus stop at Berger before he remembers that it was announced in the news yesterday that BRTs would not be working today. So he decides to take molue to Obalende instead, and then enter a cab from Obalende to Ikoyi afterwards. He shouldn’t spend much that way, it will only be stressful. He flags down the first molue that drives by.

“Obalende, CMS, wole pelu changi! (Obalende, CMS, enter with your change!)” the bus conductor shouts as the bus partially comes to a halt. Tade knows the ritual already: run towards the bus while it is in motion, and as swiftly as possible, because it will not accept everyone waiting in the crowd. But such maneuvers may not be necessary this morning because there are only about five people at the bus stop, and there should be enough space to accommodate all of them. On the other hand, some effort will be necessary because the passengers inside the bus are already impatient, and so is the driver. No one can fault them with how the situation is in Lagos, always congested, especially in the mornings when people are going to work and at night when they are returning. Many worry more about being late for work than about getting home late, which is inevitable. In order to get to work on time, many leave their homes as early as 5 or 6 AM. So, why delay them more than strictly necessary?

Tade enters the bus. Molues are usually not well-ventilated, which often infuriates him. He would rather take one of the well-ventilated BRTs instead, but today he doesn’t mind because the trapped air is a therapy against the harmattan.

He doesn’t take note of the people around him. No one cares about him either, every man for himself, a typical way of minding your business. But somehow, the woman with two twin boys sitting beside him catches his attention. The kids look so adorable and take a great semblance after their mother, especially their round lips. He has never seen their father, though, and hence can’t tell if he’s misjudging and they actually look more like their dad. The kids stand in front of their mother, playing with her clothed thighs. Tade likes them. He loves kids, would love to have one as soon as possible – no, when he gets this job. Without a good job, he cannot keep a woman. Having a woman comes with a lot of responsibilities. She will request money for braids, money for data subscription, money for her nails and lashes, money for makeup, even money for going to the toilet. Everything a woman knows is money; so to keep one, you must be well-equipped like the World Bank.

Having kids comes with additional responsibilities: money for diapers, for food, for checkups and much more. He can’t have any right now, he needs to be financially buoyant first. He can’t afford to make innocent souls wallow in poverty, a mistake his father made when he married his mother and made her conceive ten children for him, six of whom died before the age of five due to one illness or another. His mother kept shouting that the witches of her husband’s household were to blame. Tade believed it, too, until he reached school and was taught reproduction, nutrition and malnutrition, diseases that affect children, epidemics and the likes in science class. Out of the surviving four, only he managed to attend university after working various jobs to save up money for school. It took him two years to do so. While in school, he also worked part-time at odd jobs. His parents had mentioned that secondary school was the peak of what they could afford; so after his two elder brothers finished secondary school, Tolu, the eldest, became a driver, while Timi became a bricklayer. Tade is the third; he made up his mind to attend school, get a degree, and become successful at all cost. Tanwa, the youngest child and only girl, has two years left in secondary school. Their father says Tanwa’s issue is the easiest because as a woman, she will get married and depend on her husband to sustain life; educating her is baseless even if the parents can afford it. Tanwa does not like this mentality; she wants to become a journalist. She often reminds Tade of that, and he promises that her wish will be granted – she will be thoroughly educated once he has money.

After he graduated, he would get a well-paying job; that was how easy he thought it would be, a vision corrected by almost two years of futile job hunting. His father called as late as last week to ask how he was doing. He could sense the “didn’t I tell you?” expression in his father’s voice, but Tade is determined to keep on trying. He can’t afford to fail now, he cannot afford to let his family mock him for choosing a separate path. Now, he quietly prays that today will be productive.

One of the boys touches his lap, and he smiles down at him. An adorable kid. Soon, his twin joins him in smiling. They leave their mother, and start playing around Tade’s lap. Their mother persuades them away from him, but he tells her not to worry. He even lifts one of them up and places the boy on his lap while playing with the other boy’s cheeks. He is enjoying himself.

The bus slows down briefly due to traffic, but speeds up again within a twinkle. The boy sitting on his lap sneezes, and the mucus escaping from his nose flies directly onto Tade’s chest. Tade cannot believe this: a sky-blue shirt ruined early in the morning.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” the mother apologizes as she hands Tade a napkin. He wipes his shirt, but traces remain. Tade wishes he had seated the other twin instead. How is he supposed to cope with the uneasiness of having mucus on his chest during the interview? He is not wearing a blazer because he didn’t want to appear too formal.

“It’s fine,” Tade says.

His bag falls to the ground, and the clear bag in it falls out. The other boy picks it up for him. As he does so, he turns it upside down, and the files inside escape onto the floor. Tade immediately drops the boy sitting on his lap, and starts gathering his things as he mutters an inaudible disgust.

“Oya, come here!” the mother screams at the boys. She then starts to help Tade pack some of his files.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m done.”

Tade packs everything and starts rearranging them inside the clear bag, examining each document in the process. He picks up the last document and looks at it very well, which is when he realizes that he has picked the wrong bag.

“Shit! Driver, abeg, I wanna come down!” he shouts.

“Na mainland we still dey o, alaye. You no sabi where you dey go ni?” the conductor replies.

“Mo ni mo fe boole, I want to alight!” he screams. The driver pulls the bus over to the side of the road.

“Uncle, is everything alright?” the woman asks.

“Yes ma, it is.”

Tade pays the driver and walks away from the bus. He can predict what will happen inside the bus in a few moments. The conductor will talk bad about him, and the rest of the passengers will start to gossip him, which is how it goes in Lagos. He crosses over to the other side of the road, and begins to flag down buses going towards Berger. It doesn’t take long before he gets one, but he wants to beat himself for making such a grave mistake. How could he pick a random letter instead of his CV? Incredibly, he has been preparing several days for today just to fuck up again. The road is gradually getting congested, and the driver maneuvers through it. When Tade alights, he looks at his wristwatch. It is almost 8 AM; he should still be able to meet up.

He finally reaches home, only to find the main entrance locked. It wasn’t locked before he left this morning, and it is usually unlocked in the mornings, so what is happening? He hears the voices of his neighbors.

“Mummy Funke, please. Bear with me till I return.”

“You won’t leave this house until you drop money for food.”

Tade is annoyed, and bangs hard at the wooden door with all his strength. What insolence! How can one couple deny all other occupants admission just because of their stupid family affairs? They are lucky the landlord has travelled with his family to Ondo for a church convention; he wouldn’t have condoned this nonsense in his house.

“Please, open this door, I implore you!” Tade screams. Moments later, the door opens, and Mummy Funke apologizes to Tade. He doesn’t mind her, but walks straight to his room and unlocks his door. Hurriedly, he picks the other clear bag, which he left behind on the bed earlier. He opens the bag and peeps through it. Sure enough, his CV is in there along with other essential documents. He opens his outer bag and replaces the clear bag with the other one. He wants to change his shirt, but realizes it would take his time as he would have to start ironing from the scratch. He could have done that since there is light, but time is what he doesn’t have, so he pulls down his one and only black blazer and wears it over his shirt. He feels pressed, his gut is full and he should relieve himself, but a glance at his watch tells him it is well past 8 AM, so he decides to hold it until after his interview. If worse comes to worst, he must use the toilet at the company, they shouldn’t disqualify him for that. He closes his door and begins to dash out.

Outside, he encounters Mr. Ade who is starting his bike.

“In which direction are you headed, Tade? Let me see if I can give you a ride.”

“Don’t worry, sir. I’m going to the Island, Ikoyi.”

“And you tell me not to worry? I’m going to Ikoyi, too. To the secretariat, where I have an official assignment this morning.”

“Oh!” Tade mutters as he secretly thanks his lucky star for bringing Mr. Ade his way at this time, although he is unsure whether he should let this man bring him to the island. He has ridden with him before and knows him to be quite slow, so would it not cause him to be late? He could ride with him to the bus stop and see how fast he is today; if Mr. Ade rides slowly, he could alight at the bus stop and enter molue, lie that he needs to branch at the printer’s place.

Tade climbs onto the bike, and Mr. Ade kicks several times, but no response, which begins to worry Tade. He is about to alight when the bike finally starts and rides away. The pace at which Mr. Ade rides is only a bit faster than that of a snail, as if he is scared the wind would blow him off the bike should he ride faster. The only consolation Tade finds is the realization that Mr. Ade’s bike is faster than his own feet, so there’s no point in him alighting to trek.

When they reach the bus stop, Tade initiates his plan, which goes easier than expected. Tade waits among the crowd awaiting the arrival of the next molue. The day is brighter and busier, and about ten people are standing at the bus stop. He knows he will have to be extremely violent if he wants to go on the next bus. He looks at himself, buttons his blazer and feels his feet in his shoes, which are firm. He drops the handle of his bag off his shoulder, and wraps it round the bag before he hooks it under his armpit. From afar, he sees the next molue coming, as it announces “Obalende, CMS.” There is a woman directly in front of him, and he elbows her by the waist, making her stagger in her feet. No more obstructions, Tade worms his way inside and keeps a straight face. He doesn’t look at others who are struggling to get in, not even at the injured woman lest he feels guilty. The bus starts, the chauffeur driving at full speed. Tade silently prays that there won’t be much traffic. How feasible is such a prayer in Lagos on a Monday morning? Hahaha!

He keeps looking at his wristwatch from time to time, his patience wearing out. They’ve been stuck in this holdup for a while. Maybe if he had gone with Mr. Ade, he would have left this spot by now, since it’s easier for bikes to maneuver through holdups than for vehicles. When the bus moves, it does so at a very slow pace. When they finally leave the holdup and proceed with their journey, he heaves a sigh of relief. As he alights at Obalende, he checks his watch again: almost 12 PM. About four hours in traffic. Lagos traffic na your mate?

He enters a cab. Luckily, he is the last man to enter, so it takes off immediately. The driver maneuvers his way round Obalende towards Falomo, heading for Ikoyi. Tade keeps looking around in the hopes of locating his interview venue. Not that he is clueless about the place. Based upon the description given by mail, he probably understands how to get there, but he has never actually been there, never seen the building before, so he doesn’t know what the place looks like from outside. He will have to rely upon his intuition, which is why he refuses to take his eyes off the streets.

The street light turns red at Falomo roundabout, the driver stops. Everyone including Tade stares as the light counts down from 30 to 0. At 3, the red light changes to yellow; and at 0, it changes to green. The driver kicks the vehicle to a start, but it refuses to heed. He tries several times, but it doesn’t work. Behind them, Tade hears the sound of other vehicles honking. When they realize that Tade’s cab won’t leave the spot, they begin overtaking it.

“Driver, what is wrong?” Tade asks, restlessly.

“I don’t know, but I’ll look into it,” the driver says as he alights from the vehicle. Tade mutters in irritation as he follows suit. Other passengers also express displeasure, but Tade does not concern himself with them. What is most important to him right now is that the car works well so that he can proceed to wherever he is going.

He looks at his watch, it is now 12:30 PM. He is extremely restless. The interview is scheduled for 13:00, but it was clearly stated in the mail that interviewees should arrive at least one hour before. He should have been there since noon, but his village people – so he thinks – are determined to have him fucked up again today. As always. What if there will be no serious interview? What if the basis of selection is punctuality? He prays it won’t be the case, or he has lost already.

“Driver have you fixed it yet?” a voice asks. It could be any of the passengers seated inside the cab.

“E remain small,” the driver says.

Tade cannot take this any longer. He rummages through his pocket and brings out a rumpled naira note, which he hands over to the driver. He doesn’t look back as he walks away. He stands by the roadside to flag down vehicles, but it isn’t as easy as he thought. No one stops, not even any of the poor-figured mini buses.

At exactly 12:45 PM, Tade hears a distant sound like an explosion. Almost immediately, he hears his name being called out. As he looks up and sees Mr. Ade, he tries to hide his astonishment.

“We meet again. Are you done with your appointment yet?” Mr. Ade asks.

“Done ke? I haven’t even reached the place. There was a holdup on the mainland, and the cab I entered broke down.”

“Yes, that holdup was mad. That trailer that fell across the road made things worse.”

“I know, right.”

“Well, maybe that’s why God sent me here; to help you. Come on, climb on, let me take you.”

“Thank you, sir,” he says as he takes a seat. Mr. Ade really is a Godsend. Had he only known how crazy things would become, he would have ridden with Mr. Ade directly and avoided all the wasteful spending.

As they enter Ikoyi, he keeps looking around for a building with a description matching what has been given to him in the mail, but he is yet to see any.

“What building are you going to exactly?” Mr. Ade asks.

Tade tells him he doesn’t know the name, then describes the building. Mr. Ade keeps nodding, assuring Tade that he knows the place. Tade secretly thanks his lucky star for bringing this man his way today, and is further happy that he is riding faster than usual.

“Oh my God!” they both exclaim simultaneously at the sight before them: a vast heap consisting of bricks made of sand, water and cement, planks that have been destroyed, wires, metals, and roofing sheets that have lost their magic; everything that once made up a house or even a mansion is spread out before them in a heap like a volcano, a heap as tall as a four-story building. The bricks rest on each other like logs of wood. And it looks as if a bulldozer has carried out the operation, but when Tade looks around, he sees nothing like that. What he sees instead is smoke erupting from the heap like dust. For a while, he is unable to see through it from where he stands; but when he finally does, he brings his hands to his head in pity of the victims of the collapse He sees body parts detached as if by the angry knife of a merciless butcher: a rigid right arm with blue band that belongs to a man, a lean left hand with a diamond ring on the fourth finger that belongs to a woman, feet bleeding through long trousers, eyeglasses whose owner he is certain must be dead by now or be among the surviving few whose wails he cannot hear. He sees all of these things from where he is standing at a foot of the heap.

He cannot move even if he wants to, his feet have suddenly become numb and unable to walk. He hears screams from among the crowd whose presence he hasn’t noticed earlier, wails, especially from women whose relationship with the victims he questions. Yet, he can relate because even he feels a deep remorse; he is just too dumbfounded to express it. The wails grow louder, and he forces himself to look at the women screaming; many of them have taken off their corporate shoes and stand barefooted while slapping their thighs twice a second as if it causes them no pain. Some of them are seated on the bare floor and grabbing hard at their hair, which makes Tade ask himself: if total strangers can feel this way towards the victims, then how must their families not feel when they finally receive the news?

“A whole twenty-one story!” one of the women sitting on the floor screams, and Tade forces himself to look in her direction, a lot rushing through his mind. Twenty-one stories means several people working, possibly hundreds of lives lost. Oh God!

Tade is so engrossed with the expression of the wailing women that he doesn’t notice the long line of cars that have started to queue. Then it dawns on him that the building has collapsed on the road, thereby blocking the free flow of traffic. It will take days, if not weeks before this road gets motorable again. But it seems like many of the drivers who are stuck are in no hurry to get wherever it is they are going, as majority of them alight to feed their eyes. Curious eyes everywhere: poor and rich, young and old, men and women, all watching in pity at the scene without knowing how to help. Tade hopes the rescue teams will arrive on time. That is one of the reasons why he likes America: if something like this had happened over there, help would have arrived on time – based upon what he has seen in their movies. He soon hears sirens sounding from afar; at least one rescue team is almost here, maybe the police.

Tade finally finds the strength to move his feet, moving further away from where the diamond ring on that fine finger keeps catching his attention. God rest the soul of whoever that woman is! He moves to the opposite end, which is where he sights things that baffle him the most, things that will forever become his nightmare: the bodies! Not simply bodies, but vital body parts. While he sees some bodies that appear to be asleep with their parts still intact, he sights others where some of their parts have left them: bodies without arms, without legs. Some heads have been cut off from their hosts as if by a sword. One head in particular catches his attention; despite all of the misfortune, the head’s eyebrows remain intact; red lipstick is still evident on her lips, even though it has been soiled by dust. Such a beautiful face. Tade feels a connection between this head and the hand with the diamond ring. He hopes he is wrong. Beside that particular head, he sees another, this time the head of a man without a neck, a pen penetrating through one side of his ears, and he can see blood still gushing out slowly through the ear. The sight scares Tade, who doesn’t know when he screams.

No one hears him or pays attention to him because there is a lot to be worried about right now. His stomach rumbles, and he can feel his breakfast slowly creeping its way up, not knowing when he starts to throw up. He empties his whole stomach of the noodles he had for breakfast, and is still heaving to bring out things he ate days prior. No one holds him as he is not of the utmost priority just now.

He feels discomfort in his head after he has finished throwing up. He stands upright and looks again towards the heap. The discomfort intensifies, but he gets the reason now: the weary wails of the living still trapped in the heap. How come he never heard that? Perhaps he transiently lost his sense of hearing. The sound is disturbing, resembling the sound of houseflies on feces. Tade wishes them death; that is what everyone must wish for them because death is definitely better than their current predicament.

“I was supposed to have an interview here, what just happened?” Tade finally asks no one in particular as he stares blankly at the site, still unable to believe his eyes.

“Well, it is what it is: a building collapse,” Mr. Ade says as he walks up to him.

Tade stares on in disbelief, trying to fathom what he is seeing and what could have been. Could he have been one of those trapped inside? He ponders on what has transpired over the course of the day. Even when the police arrives, even when the fire brigade and other rescue teams finally get here, even when Mr. Ade pats him on the back and tells him to calm down, he pays little attention. When the thought of his family comes to him, when he contemplates giving a better life to Tanwa, when he thinks of getting married and having kids, when a lot of things cross his mind, he doesn’t budge or flinch. All he does is thank God for life. Even though his days of poverty have further increased by perhaps a day or two or three – who knows? – he still won’t budge. After all, where there is life there is hope, isn’t there? That is what matters, and this is how he consoles himself.


About the author

Joseph Jegede hails from Ondo state in Nigeria. He is currently pursuing a degree in Foreign Languages at Obafemi Awolowo University, Nigeria. He is also an alumnus of Ludwig Maximillian University of Munich, Germany, where he attended the summer school after he was awarded a scholarship by the DAAD in 2021.

As a thinker and interested observer of social affairs and human nature, Joseph Jegede expresses himself by writing fictional stories. His works have appeared in a number of publications, including “Mummy O!” in the Culds Anthology and “The Bond That Binds” in Ogu & Other Stories, both available from OkadaBooks. He is currently working on his novel manuscript. When he isn’t writing or reading, he is doing something in German or French.

Twitter: @thejosephjegede

Posted in Short stories | 1 Comment

Zeddekia Ssekyonda – Waiting on Fate

11 PM.

Lubega is sitting singly on a settee in one corner of Club Ambience, a half-filled paper cup in his hand. Three bottles of Smirnoff, one obviously half full, are huddled together on the glass table before him as if frightened of the beams that keep swooping on the floor and sweeping up the walls. Young pleasure seekers are dancing, drinking, smoking shisha and making out in the party fog, something clubs never had in Lubega’s time. Back then, most of the music played was from Congo and South Africa. Nowadays, home musicians dominate playlists, though once in a while the DJ slots in works recorded in typical West African pidgin and Jamaican patois.

The MC keeps reminding the revellers, who he fondly refers to as “child-of-my-mother,” that life is short, and encourages them to “enjoy it to the maximum.” Where is the lie? It seems like only yesterday that Lubega and others were the flowers of Kampala. Today, he cannot tell where all the bubbly girls he partied with in the 80s disappeared to. It is as though Dionysus called time on bell-bottoms and miniskirts, and sent them off the pitch of revelry saying, “Go y’all and prepare for frequent doctor’s visits.” Little wonder Lubega has already caught too many faces giving him more than a glance and exchanging surprised looks. Anyone would find it hard to understand what a man in his sixties, wearing a pinstriped suit and a necktie the size of Zwangendaba’s panga, is looking for in a typical youth nightclub.

At what point does one start to eschew trends and snub calls to happenings? At what age does one stop cherishing ‘less cloth, more skin’ and become a judge of morality? Ha! Life is short indeed. For Lubega, he never returned to nightlife after losing his first child. He and Christine resorted to soul-searching. By the time Lwanga was born, three years before Violet followed, nightlife was long forgotten.

It is now past midnight. The club is literally on fire, with everyone on their feet except this old man refreshing his paper cup. Christine would be surprised to find him drinking and staring – she would call it that – at girls grinding their bottoms against boys’ groins, others being spanked and loving it. Lubega hates to think Violet and Bridget, who are 25 and 23 respectively, dance like this too. Though he admits they did some really crazy things in his time, girls didn’t wrap their legs around men’s waists by way of dance.

Now check out these two girls grinding on each other. When Lubega’s eyes meet those of the smaller girl, she smiles at him, revealing a gap between her teeth. He smiles back, unwilling to give away his dejection. The girl whispers something to her friend, and gives Lubega the glad eye. He frowns and returns dismissively to thoughts of his son, who he left in hospital three hours earlier.


Lwanga just made 30 today. His wife rang up Christine four days prior to ask her and Lubega to turn up for the birthday party. Lubega was lounging on the balcony, reading the People & Power pullout in Sunday Monitor, when Christine came lamenting, “I cannot believe I no longer own my own son.” Though she seemed to be speaking to herself, Lubega knew she was seeking his attention. He cocked his head to the side, and shot her this look that asks: What do you mean you no longer own your own son?I have been thinking of throwing a surprise party for Jonah on his birthday...” Not that Lubega remembered their son’s exact date of birth. “Sharon has pulled the plug on me, she’s asking us to join her in surprising him on Friday.” Lubega appeared to slowly return to the newspaper, but not to the thoughts of Bobi Wine’s magical rise in Ugandan politics and its implications. “Hubby?” He was absentminded. “Hubby, are you fine?”

“Oh, we will go,” he said, suddenly grabbing at the pullout. He picked it up and returned to his previous posture, pretending to Christine that nothing was wrong. “We will go. I am very fine.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to do your things. We’ll talk about it later.”

“But I have just said we will go.”

“I mean talking about whatever is bothering you now.”

In bed after supper, Christine tried to drag the reason for the sad, thoughtful demeanor out of her husband, but all her efforts matched the description of milking a rock. Lubega insisted he had a mild headache which wouldn’t continue into the next day. But his spirits remained low on the morrow, much to Christine’s disgust. By evening, however, Lubega had accepted that worrying, just like not worrying, might not abate his worst fears now that Lwanga was turning 30.


He’s considering starting on the second bottle when the girl who winked at him moments ago appears before him. She stands positioned like a fashion model posing for pictures on the catwalk. Her short translucent dress, high heels, and long legs force an embarrassingly ample view of her thighs on Lubega. But thanks to the thoughts about his family, he will not easily give in to the enticement of a girl his daughters’ age.

Her next move is to amble around the table and sit right beside her prey with her right leg crossed over the left. It goes without saying that her dress has slid up by two inches. She even has the temerity to refresh the paper cup and down it in two deuced gulps before casting her prey a hungry look. Her eyes are glittering like a serpent’s. Poor old Lubega is simply out of ideas; yet his tormentor is still full of moves. She undoes the crossed legs, and shifts so tactically on the couch that she nudges him with her hip. If he doesn't react, positively that is, she will go a notch higher. These girls are, as per Ganda parlance, no food.

With one knee on the couch and the other leg attempting to wedge Lubega’s legs open, she loosens his necktie, knowing her boobies are almost popping out of the dress – on purpose. Zwangendaba’s panga defied, and now a look of incredulity on Lubega’s face, she proceeds to the coat. To Lubega’s own disappointment, he obeys. He would have resisted her straddling him if he had predicted it. The heat introduced to the area of contact is actually less startling than the rocking that follows.

When the DJ fades in a Jamaican song, the rocking turns into aggressive grinding, and his reaction threatens to equal her action. She has awakened something that has long been in slumber. Lubega feels helpless with embarrassment, not that his tormentor cares. Her vodka-smelling lips keep spewing hot air around his neck. She’s soon getting what she came for.

It’s really miraculous that Lubega feels her crooked hand sliding into his trouser. As she reaches her head to push Lubega’s phone into the band in her hair, the old man grabs hold of her hand. So much for her cunning.


In the afternoon, precisely eleven hours back, Lubega and Christine first drove to a gift shop on Entebbe Road and bought a Rolex watch and, by Christine’s insistence, a pair of brogues and a canister of Hugo Boss perfume. They always give their children the best things they can afford. But now the premonition was getting the better of Lubega, so much that he complained, “Waste of money.” Christine stopped and gazed at her husband as though he had uttered a swear word in public. Then she turned and carried the items to the counter.

Outside the shop, she threw a tantrum. “I will repay the money. It will be back on the account by close of the day.”

“I didn't mean that,” said Lubega, entering the car to avoid causing a scene.

“Then what did you mean?” Christine demanded, occupying the passenger seat.

Lubega improvised, “All Sharon expects of us is our presence.”

“What about Jonah?” asked Christine. “What are his expectations?” No other word was uttered until they arrived at Lwanga’s home in Buziga.

Buziga is a quiet high-class neighbourhood on the fringes of Kampala. Lwanga’s house, like all the rest in the estate, is a sturdy two-storey bungalow with grey roofing tiles, white walls and light blue reflective glass panes. When Sharon received them, they acted as if they were on the best talking terms ever.

“How is everything?” asked Christine with a sweeping gesture. Their granddaughter Claire was laughing from being tickled by Lubega.

“Very good,” said Sharon. “Three of his friends and our neighbours across the street are already here. Claire has promised she will not give anything away, though she insists on welcoming him back home as she always does.”

“Won’t this car give Dad a clue?” asked Claire with a note of concern in her voice. “It should be parked behind the house like all the rest.”

“Goodness! Those are my genes,” said Christine proudly.

“Let me have the keys, I will park it behind,” offered Sharon.

Lubega thought his daughter-in-law was doing so much to please her man that she might regret before long. Even Lwanga’s friends and neighbours were to him unnecessarily excited when they joined them in the living room. He had attended two or three funerals where a mourner cried, “We were with him a few days ago. I can't believe he’s gone.”

“Dad, is anything the matter?” asked Sharon, seeing that Lubega was not looking fine; in fact, he was not even involved in looking at Lwanga’s pictures taken over the years. He straightened the involuntary frown. “Can I give you some food?” continued Sharon, solicitously, knowing that her quite conservative father-in-law wouldn’t openly ask her for food if he felt hungry. “My pans are not yet holed, Sharon.” Christine played spokesperson. “He ate before coming here.”

“I am sorry, Mum.”

“Only jesting, my dear,” said Christine before turning to whisper in Lubega’s ear. “Let’s forget about the little quarrel, big boy.” She was mistaken about what weighed on his mind.

Claire took her grandparents through the birthday songs, putting them on a par with the other guests, and Sharon briefed them on delivering a little speech each. “We’ll then count down from thirty to zero, and Jonah will cut the cake.” Lubega wanted to raise an objection to the idea of counting down, but it clogged up in his throat before coming out as a benign grunt. In some way, Sharon’s idea made him imagine Lwanga would be living on borrowed time from that day onwards.

When Claire heard the honk of her dad’s car, she ran out to receive him. Lubega didn't like the way everyone else ran up the stairs to the corridor that led to the master bedroom. He took his time climbing up, much to the anxiety of the rest. Sharon handed each of them a candle, and lit them one by one. They could now hear Lwanga and Claire coming up the stairs. Lubega alone didn’t hold his breath. Hardly had Lwanga stepped onto the landing when the surprise singing of “Happy birthday...” threw him off balance. He reflexively yanked Claire’s hand, and together they avalanched back down the stairs.

Claire gave one cry and nothing more. When the shocked choir ran down the stairs, they found Lwanga bleeding from the nose and mouth. Christine feverishly picked up two of her granddaughter’s teeth as though she might replace them. Lubega was looking on, utterly astounded. The candle wax was dripping onto his fingers but, like a leper, he seemed not to notice it.


Clubs and bars have maintained the culture of not fixing clocks to their walls. They don’t want to warn customers that they are running late. Whenever Lubega wants to know what time it is, he has to consult his phone because his wristwatch isn’t bright enough to be read under the moving coloured beams.

It's 2:32 AM. Luckily, he has not received any calls from Sharon, Christine, or any of Lwanga’s friends. For the first time, he appreciates the logic in the English saying ‘No news is good news,’ but there is a growing feeling of regret in one half of his heart. He feels he could have prevented the accident if only he had opened up about his premonition. The other half stands up for him, arguing he would have been ignored nonetheless. Or Lwanga would still have choked on a piece of cake. By the time Lubega left Case Hospital, he didn't know how the odds stood. Only Sharon and Christine had been permitted into the ICU rooms, each attending to her child. However, a doctor in the emergency unit had specified who needed more prayers between Lwanga and Claire despite the fact that Lwanga had bled profusely. Perhaps there was a chance of survival for him, even when Claire’s death would imply the jinx no longer spared females.

Lubega left Lwanga’s friends in the waiting lounge of the ICU, all of them tearful. When he wondered which place to drive to, he remembered the venue of Christine’s last birthday, a restaurant near the club. But he had no appetite, and a restaurant would not allow him to wait inside till morning.

3 AM. The revellers are still so full of energy you might think it’s only 10 PM. It’s clear they have no son or granddaughter on life support. Lubega is praying for time to stop moving because once dawn breaks and the club closes, he will have no option but to return to hospital. That is, if there is still no news by then. His stomach grumbles, and he decides to go to the washroom, only to find himself rooted to the floor without the smallest urge to use the facility.

He’s coming out when a club muscleman stops him. “We don't encourage anyone to leave their drinks unattended, Mzee,” he booms close to Lubega’s ear. “And no man is allowed to use the ladies'.” Lubega turns to look where the man’s finger is pointing, and sees the female sign emblazoned on a plaque above the door. “I am sorry,” he says, fiddling with his phone, which just vibrated. Luckily, it is a useless message from the telecom company. “Is anything the matter, Mzee?” asks the bouncer. “You won’t understand,” Lubega replies after a momentary hesitation. Even if he chooses to confide, he knows he will not go beyond the accident to talk about the mystery known only to him and his late grandmother.

Lubega became orphaned at eleven months. His father was gunned down at the Uganda-Kenya border, apparently for smuggling salt into Uganda. Two Ugandan soldiers had ordered Lubega’s father to eat his sandals, which he refused to do. Feeling disrespected, they roped him to the back of their pickup and dragged him six times around the compound of their station. Save a few scratches on his back and the chafed wrists, Lubega was not that injured. That was even more disrespectful to the soldiers. “Let’s see how a bullet might do,” they said, according to his friend, who had accepted to eat his own shoes. Perhaps one bullet wouldn't have killed Lubega’s father; but the soldiers fired over eight rounds at him. All for smuggling Kenyan salt into the country. The incident was never investigated since the victim was a nobody.

Two months after his father’s burial, Lubega’s nineteen-year-old mother dumped him at her paternal grandmother’s house in Masaka. When John, Lubega’s cousin, opened the door in the morning, he was surprised to find a baby sitting in the doorway, nibbling at a slice of bread, a sisal bag beside him. Perhaps Lubega’s mother had said to him in baby talk, “Wait here, my child, I will not be long!” The front of Lubega’s overalls was decorated with crumbs. Among the contents of the sisal bag was a note which Lubega’s grandmother asked the village chairman to read to her and the gathering of neighbours.

Maama, I have found a white man. I am going with him to Bungereza. Bungereza is Luganda for England. The bad thing is that I was dishonest with him about my motherhood, so he does not expect a stepchild. I love my child so much I will not pass up this chance to give him a good future. Please take care of your grandson.

It was after the chairman had read the last sentence that Lubega’s grandmother bent down and frowned a gaze at Lubega’s face. Now she recognized the baby she had seen at her son’s funeral two months earlier. She burst into tears.


It is 3:46 AM.

Perhaps Lubega’s grandmother wouldn’t have been so hurt if her daughter-in-law had remarried after thereabouts four years. Then Lubega would be old enough to join his cousins in doing some chores. She decided to write her off, and told herself she was Lubega’s mother and father although, as Lubega grew up, she called him mwami (husband). Lubega was the heir of his father and therefore the heir of his grandmother’s husband, who had been survived by three daughters and one son, Lubega’s father.

Lubega enjoyed special treatment from his grandmother to such an extent that whenever a food item of any kind was too small to be shared among all the grandchildren, she said the fair thing to do was to leave it for Lubega. One day, Jajja Daphne – grandmother of Daphne, for whom the boy would later form a deep liking – sent Lubega’s grandmother a basket of sweet potatoes from her garden. One of them became orangeish once peeled. All the grandchildren desired it, wondering what it would taste like once cooked. But when the food was ready and placed on the lujjuliro – the traditional dining table, which is not really a table but an arrangement where boys sit and girls kneel down around a heap of food – their grandmother cut the coveted potato into two pieces, took one, and gave the other to Lubega, who always sat right by her side at meals.

Be that as it may, Lubega received the most serious beatings for wrongdoing where his cousins mostly went unpunished. When John started escaping from school to go and catch fish at the lake, their grandmother turned a blind eye, but when Lubega stayed out playing with Daphne, he was beaten like a snake.

By the time Lubega started going to school, having cleared the test of passing a hand over his head to touch the other ear, only his uncle, Jackson, had visited him from his mother’s side. Four times. He came riding a Raleigh bicycle, the cuffs of his trousers tucked into the socks to prevent the chain from catching them as he rode. Lubega’s grandmother became uneasy whenever Jackson said Lubega resembled his mother.

“Do you hear from her?” she would inquire. Each time, Jackson said they had not heard from her, but she would come back someday. “That is unnecessary,” Lubega’s grandmother once replied.

For Lubega, it was amazing to imagine he even had a mother, a black woman who lived among the whites. He often wondered what she looked like. He once broke his grandmother’s mirror while looking at his face to visualize what his mother looked like, and received the worst beating of his life.

It was Daphne who reached out to him on one side of the house and consoled him. From that moment on, he was more fond of her than of any one of his cousins. Daphne was not the only girl in the neighbourhood, but the only one whose hair was not kinky, but rather alluring like wet cat fur. She was also the only girl who made his heart leap when she smiled, mesmerizing him as he watched her skip the banana-fibre rope. Such was Lubega’s attraction that whenever family make-believe was to be played, he wanted to act the role of father with Daphne as mother. Playmates often took issue, and assigned him the part of child on the grounds that he was about two years younger than Daphne.


It is 4 AM. Lubega has so far seen two revellers throwing up on the floor. The cleaners quickly swept up the mess, and bouncers pushed the offenders out. Now his mind wanders back to the past.

He was in primary two when Jackson came one Saturday to tell his grandmother that Sarah had returned from Bungereza. Jackson broke the news so happily. Lubega was excited, but his grandmother’s reply nipped his expectations in the bud. “So what?” she asked, unpacking bread and sugar from the package Jackson had brought her. “She wants to have her son back,” replied Jackson. The old woman paused for some moments, replaced the things in the satchel, and pushed it toward Jackson. “Go call the neighbours,” she told John. The village chairman, a bad-tempered man who beat children for playing at the well, was the first to respond.

Everyone wondered about the audacity of Lubega’s mother. “I think she left all her manners in Bungereza,” said Lubega’s grandmother.

“Is it wrong for a woman to ask for her child?” asked Jackson.

“Do you see that door?” retorted Lubega’s grandmother, pointing at the front door of her house. “Go and pick whichever child you find sitting there, and take them to her.”

The chairman asked Jackson, “How do we know she’s the mother of the boy? And how sure is she that this is her child? How sure is she that the child was not stolen from the door where she left him?”

“But I have been coming here many times to see the child,” Jackson said, puzzled.

The chairman replied, “That doesn’t mean the child you’ve been seeing is your sister’s.”

Jackson stood up and kicked the stand of his bicycle with the heel.

Lindako ssebo! Take your things with you,” said Lubega's grandmother, referring to the bread and sugar. “Go and give them to your mother.”

Jackson was moved to tears. He and Sarah had neither mother nor father, and Lubega’s grandmother knew it.

A few weeks later, Lubega was attending a social studies class when the deputy head teacher came in, a policeman in tow, and called his name. “Come out,” he said.

“Alright. Let’s go, young boy,” the policeman said to Lubega, who was nearly peeing on himself. The officer led him to a car parked at the road. Lubega had never sat in a car, and the only such car he had seen was the District Education Officer’s when he guested at the speech day the previous year. As he looked behind, tears streaming down his cheeks, the deputy headteacher and almost all the regular teachers were watching from the veranda, looking on unhelpfully. His fellow learners were peering through the windows. Why him among all the pupils? His cousins were in the windows too, he imagined. “Don’t look back again,” said the policeman, his voice making Lubega shudder. The policeman opened the backdoor and told him to get inside. Had it not been an order, he would have hesitated because his feet and lower half of the legs were dusty. But when he laid eyes on the face of the woman in the back, it took only moments before he knew she was his mother. He felt it too.

Despite all his dirtiness, his mother grabbed him into her embrace. Lubega found himself crying afresh when he saw the tears in her eyes. The policeman, now driving, would say nothing throughout the journey.

Lubega’s mother gave him a cupcake and juice in a plastic bottle. She observed him encouragingly as he ate, her eyes still bloodshot. Moments after another cupcake had been devoured, she replaced Lubega’s uniform with a new T-shirt and a pair of shorts. She cast the uniform out through the window. She had new shoes for him as well, but decided against getting them out.

Nothing interested the village boy more than seeing trees race backwards, along with cars and buildings he had never thought existed.

When they arrived at his mother’s home, the policeman was given his pay and drove away.


4:25 AM. Lubega sits alone at his table, nothing new in that, but he finds himself checking the time more frequently. The nightclub is nearly half-empty, and less noisy. At the table across from his sits a lean man, who appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He speaks only in whispers, and his face is covered in a deep, unshed sob. From what Lubega can gather, he is not crying because of the music or the people, but because he has spent all his money. I could offer to buy him a couple of drinks, Lubega thinks to himself mockingly, in exchange for some sympathy.


There was an even bigger car parked in the compound. Two small girls, who looked like those whites who came to Lubega’s school and the pupils danced for them, answered the door. They wanted to hug their mother, but stepped back as if they had seen a ghost standing beside her. Then came the home help. Her skin was slightly lighter than that of Lubega’s mother; it looked like Daphne’s.

The trio glared at Lubega’s feet, and the girls said things he couldn't understand. But the surprise on their faces was so clear that he was fast feeling out of place. Their mother told them to get out of the way and, holding Lubega’s hand, led him into the house. “Prepare something good for my child,” she said to the help and carried Lubega to her bedroom, the way you would a baby.

Lubega reappeared at supper time in a pair of trousers and shirt, his feet now cleaner than he had ever seen them. He smelled so fresh he could barely believe he was the same person. The girls still eyed him as though he had two heads. “This is Willy, your brother,” said their mother. “You mean stepbrother?” asked the taller of the girls. Their mother said nothing, but the help nudged the young girl's shoulder. The girl was Esther, but Lubega was to call her Essie. The other was Sandra, alias Sunny. The help was Aunt Stella, and their mother was Mummy.

For the first three nights, Lubega slept in Mummy’s bed because that was what she wanted. It was on one of those nights that Lubega was told about the circumstances which had forced Mummy to leave Uganda. “I didn't know what to do after your father's death,” she said. “So when the opportunity appeared, I took it up immediately.” This country had seemed like a dead end, so when an exit appeared out of the blue, she immediately took it. She had abandoned him, true, but only because she had no other choice. “If I had consulted your grandmother, she would have objected to the idea. Still, I might have been arrested and charged with child neglect had I not dropped you at the door. Forgive me, Willy,” she said contritely. “I did all that so you would have a good life. Which I am sure you’ve started living now.” Lubega understood. He asked one thing: that Mummy took him to see his grandmother every once in a while.

Essie and Sunny were driven to school every morning after the 6:30 breakfast. Lubega stayed at home with Aunt Stella, as Mummy kept a boutique in Kampala and returned home in the evening with the girls.

Lubega now had lots of good clothes and shoes, and a magnificent bedroom with a real bed, all to himself. His dressing mirror was so big he wondered what his grandmother would have done to him if that were the one he had broken while trying to imagine what his mother looked like. Watching people in a box was more fascinating than hearing them speak inside his grandmother’s radio. Eating meat on a random weekday was normal here. Even when Mummy didn’t rear any hens, the icebox never ran out of chicken, and everyone ate to their belly’s satisfaction. Instead of the small tin known as tadooba, which operates on paraffin and has to be relit whenever the breeze or a mere stream of air from someone exhaling puts it out, bright bulbs hung down from the ceiling to light the whole house. Instead of the lujjuliro, they sat comfortably in chairs around the dining table for meals. Moreover, Sunny and Essie were not punished for talking during meals. They didn’t have to go to the well; their water flowed out from pipes. Aunt Stella didn’t use wood for making fire; therefore the walls of the kitchen were not covered in soot.

All the children of the neighbourhood enjoyed far more freedom than Lubega had ever imagined possible. Some of them looked like Essie and Sunny, they were children of white settlers. Essie and Sunny often joined them in playing. Intimidated by their fluency in English, Lubega just watched them. Every day after supper, Mummy taught him how to pronounce English words correctly. Lubega was shocked to discover that his village teachers had taught him all the wrong pronunciations. After thereabouts three weeks, he found himself able to understand most of the things Essie and Sunny said, although he was still afraid of engaging in their conversations. Understanding a language is one thing, speaking it well quite another.

Try as much as he could, Lubega still missed his grandmother, cousins and school friends deeply. He missed climbing guava trees and playing hopscotch. He missed Daphne and wondered whether she felt the same way.

Lubega passed the interview at his sisters’ school, which was an institution for the children of big people – ministers, members of Parliament, rich whites and Indians. He was clearly the oldest pupil in his class, even when many of his classmates were bigger in size as a result of feeding well all their lives.

Although Mummy was not as rich as the ministers, she was satisfied with herself. Plus, she spoke excellent English, and knew England better than the whites who had spent decades in Uganda, communicating home by mail.

Essie and Sunny received mail from their father regularly. Mummy picked up the mail from Posta. Most times, there were photographs enclosed. Mummy, in turn, called a photographer to take pictures of the girls, and would then send them to Liverpool. She often took pictures herself, but never sent one to her white husband. She didn’t want him anymore. In fact, some big black man used to come around and spend weekends with her. The children called him Uncle Bob. One night when Lubega had left his homework book in the living room, he stumbled over Mummy and Uncle Bob kissing, an act he had never seen in his life. Mummy came to his bedroom moments later and apologized to him. He never saw Uncle Bob again; but when Mummy caught Essie and Sunny kissing in their bedroom, she pulled their ears and scolded them.

After one year, Lubega was pestering Mummy to take him to his grandmother’s. She finally gave in, but told him to wait until December. One evening, a week before Christmas, she took him to the barbershop, and told him as they drove back home that they would be traveling to Masaka the next morning. “What of Essie and Sunny?” Lubega asked. “They will stay home with Aunt Stella, I don’t think they would like the village.” She was right; the girls wanted their TV that much. “Aren’t we taking any things for Jajja?” he asked. “We’ll do some shopping for her in the morning, but you should know I will leave you with her and pick you up a day after.” Lubega remonstrated. “You said you wanted to see her; is it me who wants to see her?” Mummy's voice was rising with anger. “Who told you she wants to see me?” Nobody, of course.

Before they left Kampala the next day, they bought sugar, bread, butter, cooking oil and other things, although Mummy said she knew Lubega’s grandmother would reject them.

Lubega’s grandmother was on all fours, gathering peanuts. It was just 3 PM, but the sky was cloudy with prospects of rain. The old woman raised her head and gazed at the car as it came down into her compound. Lubega knew she couldn’t guess he was the passenger. He wanted to jump out even before the vehicle could stop, wanted to shout, “Jajja, I'm back!” Mummy just ignored him when he scampered out excitedly and hugged the old woman very tightly. Lubega’s grandmother was taken by surprise. When he released her, she cocked her head back and looked into his eyes. “You left me here!” she said, “I thought I would never see you again. I thought you had gone to live among the Bazungu. We looked for you everywhere... until we gave up.” Tears ran down her face, but Lubega understood they were tears of joy. “Mummy is here,” he said, pointing to the car. His mother was still inside, looking at them. The old woman stared back at her, and the barrier between them became evident. “Aren’t you going to come out and greet me?” Lubega’s grandmother called out. “Can she hear me inside there?” Lubega replied, “She can hear you.” Mummy opened the door on her side with her face crumpled up. She was fighting back the tears, the way she had done when explaining to her son why she had left him behind.

Fresh tears ran down the old woman’s cheeks; it was becoming a very emotional moment. Lubega looked away before he found himself picking a peanut and cracking it open, something his grandmother would have beaten him for in the past. He popped the seeds into his mouth. When he realized he couldn’t stop his ears from capturing the exchange of questions and answers between the two women, he called over his cousins, who were watching from the front of the house, then proceeded to open the boot. They carried their grandmother’s stuff into the house, and started their own conversation. John was not around. He still went to the lake and sometimes reappeared after four or more days. According to these cousins of Lubega's, even the village chairman, for all his toughness on young people, had washed his hands his hands of John.

Lubega’s grandmother and cousins were unable to stop talking about how different, and how rich, he looked. When he spoke in English to Mummy, they all kept quiet to listen. For lunch, Lubega and Mummy ate the katogo, a combination of beans and triangular cassava pieces, which had been prepared before their arrival. But as they ate, matooke and chicken were being cooked; that’s the appropriate meal for visitors. Lubega joined his cousins when they picked up cans to go and fetch water from the well. He took the smallest can because his grandmother refused him the bigger ones. Even so, he could remember her saying, over one year ago, “You are now a big man; stop carrying the small cans.” Other village children they found at the well couldn’t hide their admiration for Lubega; once one of them, now looking like a prince.

Daphne came around before dusk, but she didn’t say a word to Lubega. She greeted Mummy, however. After picking some red charcoal from the kitchen, she disappeared into the path to her grandmother’s house. Lubega felt disappointed. Had Daphne possibly transferred her affection to someone else? Did he look too young for her, or did she find his appearance intimidating? Could she have taken it badly when he left the village, even though it didn't happen by choice? Lubega couldn't help wondering. But as he parted from his cousins, he handed one of them a bill to give to her.


He returned to the village once a year before he joined university, but never got to talk to Daphne any of those times. In fact, by the time he started highschool, two of his cousins had left the village to face the world.

When Mummy succumbed to a stroke, Lubega was in his second year at university. Essie and Sunny returned to England, where they now stay with Bridget and Violet.

After graduation, it took Lubega time to settle down because he had too many girlfriends. He had a nurse who was not ready for commitment; a commissioner's wife, who gave him freedom to date other girls; a teacher, who seemed to want to rush him to the altar and was a menace to his pockets; and Christine, who had a tendency to be very jealous.

Lubega next went to see his grandmother after two-and-a-half years when she summoned him through one of the Kampala-Masaka bus drivers. Amidst work and love pursuits, he seemed to have forgotten about her, though he still sent her things on the Masaka-bound buses.

His grandmother was evidently older than he had left her. The skin at her throat appeared so thin you could nearly see the saliva when she swallowed. Her back was slightly hunched; she could no longer stand straight. Her lower eyelids appeared baggy. The village too had changed profoundly. It had new houses, and the government had brought them electricity. Most people were not connected to the grid, which they feared they couldn't manage using. When Lubega suggested connecting his grandmother's house to the grid, she objected, saying the electric lights would kill her eyes. The big mango tree from which John had once nearly fallen had been cut to allow passage for the installations.

The young woman cooking food in the kitchen happened to be John’s wife. She stayed with the old woman when her husband traveled to the lake to catch fish. From the veranda at the back of the house, Lubega could see her roasting maize cobs by the fire. Another set of cooking stones had a soot-blackened kettle on it. Lubega's grandmother reminded her for the second time not to roast for her cobs with hard kernels. “For me, they are the ones I like,” said Lubega. His grandmother shrugged her shoulders and said, “You still have your teeth, but look!” She opened her mouth to show him. “You can count them on your fingers.”

John’s wife brought the kettle out to the veranda, its spout spewing steam. She poured them a cup each, and added sugar from a glass bowl and fresh mint leaves picked from the banana garden. Knowing the rims of metallic cups to burn, Lubega started with the maize as the tea cooled off. His grandmother, on the other hand, was blowing steam off the surface and slurping off the tea. While Lubega picked off the kernels with his fingers and popped them into his mouth, his grandmother would use her two front teeth, leaving the coats of the young kernels on her cob.

She told Lubega how people he couldn’t remember had died, married or committed the sin of changing their religion. As if to hurt his feelings, she even mentioned that Daphne now had three kids. A long silence followed.

When lunch was ready, John’s wife carried the round metallic container of meat to the veranda, and returned to the kitchen to slice food onto the plates. Their grandmother lamented that village people no longer sat at the lujjuliro. “They cut food onto plates and scatter. Some eat while standing, others from their beds. That’s why the banana gardens are no longer very productive these days.”

Lubega’s food came on a special earthenware plate, and a similar plate was put on the side for his sauce. Hands washed, never mind they hadn’t washed them before eating the maize, Lubega’s grandmother opened the hot container without insulating her hands with cooked banana leaves as John’s wife had done. She didn't even wince. The old village meat aroma assailed Lubega’s nose. His grandmother waded her serving spoon through the sauce, looking for the best pieces of meat for her grandson, her husband. She scooped out the first, and placed it on his sauce plate with a smile of a great discoverer. Then the second, third and fourth pieces. She explored further, and brought up a very fatty piece. “Do you still like fat?” she asked, but was already placing the piece on Lubega’s sauce plate. He gave a laugh and said yes. “You should eat it while it’s still hot. Or cover it inside a slice of matooke. That way, you can be sure to find it hot when you are ready to eat it.” Without caring about size or quality, she served herself and John’s quiet wife.

After the meal, the old woman took a siesta, and Lubega had a light conversation with John’s wife. The young woman said she didn’t trust men, that she knew John had someone who kept him company when he went to the lake. “Don’t worry about John. By the time he returns, we’ll have made strides,” Lubega joked. “I heard you,” said their grandmother as if talking in her sleep. With that, she rose off the mat and stretched. “Why don't you accompany me into the banana garden?” she asked Lubega.

The garden still had a number of big bunches despite the fact that people no longer ate at lujjuliro. It was mulched with a type of grass that grew in the swamp. Lubega's grandmother said she gave some young village couple food, and they did the work for her in return. “If you had a wife, you would take that bunch to her,” she said, pointing to a bulky bunch, the type called kibuzi in Luganda. Lubega didn’t look up. A childhood spirit had come over him; he was uprooting a sugarcane. His grandmother didn't comment. She wouldn't prevent those who had their teeth from enjoying the sugarcane.

“I called you because I had an important matter to speak to you about,” she finally broke the silence as they reached a jambula (black plum) tree heavy with green fruits.

“About what matter, Jajja?” Lubega asked.

She took her time to respond, first bending to reorganize some mulches where a hen had scratched. “You went quiet; you no longer come to see me. If I were a bad wife, I would get other men.” There was a note of jest in her voice.

“But most young men have gone to Kampala,” Lubega returned the joke.

“One or two still roam aimlessly around the village,” said the old woman before complaining about Jajja Daphne’s goats, which had eaten the leaves off a number of her sweet potato mounds. “The point is that I want you to get married,” she picked up where she had left. “The Bible says it in the Beginning: it is not good for a man to be alone. All your cousins have married. Will you first develop a spur to accept you’re old enough?”

Lubega laughed mid-chew and spat out the sugarcane pulp.

“These days, it's hard for young men to get marriageable girls. I don't blame them. Very many girls these days are bayaaye (unscrupulous). Your young eyes cannot detect a good wife. I got John his wife.”

Lubega almost choked on the cane juice as he laughed again. “How did you pick her out from others?” he asked.

“I can tell a well-mannered girl when I look at her. She’s also very beautiful. I know you educated men think it’s old-fashioned...” They were returning to the house. “I will not get you a wife, but take it upon yourself to get one and impregnate her without delay.” Lubega could barely believe his ears. “I hope you’re listening to me.”

“I will find one at the right time,” said Lubega. “The Bible also says there is a time for everything.”

“That is right,” agreed his grandmother. She called John’s wife, and asked her to bring her the basket containing the mat she was weaving. She sat down and stretched out her legs. The mat had white and purple palm leaves. Lubega quietly wondered why she used only two colours; yet these days, mats had numerous colours in them. “Why I am concerned is...” His grandmother trailed off after shaking him out of his thoughts.

“Am I getting too old? I am only 29.”

“That’s why I am worried.”

Lubega could have sworn there was a note of frank fear in her voice. She made two loud snivels.

“Your father died at 30. Your grandfather died at 30; a buffalo gored him badly when he was hunting. And your great grandfather was about the same age when he drowned in the lake, according to what my late mother-in-law told me.” Lubega’s heart started pounding. “When you look at it, my husband was the heir of his father, just like you're the heir of your father, who was my husband's heir. I worry for you, mwami. Get a woman, and waste no time.”

Shortly after Lubega had returned to Kampala, Christine came to his workplace to confront him. “Why did you lie and say you didn't come inside me?” she asked, looking as though she might swallow him up. Lubega knew the basic repercussions of impregnating a clergyman’s daughter without first marrying her. “You held me inside you, what did you expect me to do?” sounded his question, as if that had been a good reason to lie. They looked at each other like two sick dogs. “Then you’ll start living with me,” Lubega said finally. “Oh, I see... So this is how you planned to have me move in with you?” Christine asked incredulously. “The baby is not your parents’ responsibility,” he responded. “You cannot continue staying with your parents.”

Their wedding was hastened, and Christine’s labour pains came five months afterward. Lubega drove her to Mulago Hospital, where he had a friend in the obstetrics department. When the doctor listened to the baby’s heart, his hands dropped limp.

Lubega still believes the baby died in his place.

After two years of asking God countless questions, Christine conceived again. Despite her staunch Christian background, she desperately accepted to use the herbs Lubega’s grandmother sent her. Then Lwanga was born. Lubega's grandmother died three weeks after naming the baby after its grandfather.

Now, Lubega is wondering if Claire might die in her father’s place. The only sure way of breaking the jinx, he knows, is by losing his son. And hopefully, Sharon is not pregnant with a boy.

5:32 AM. The club is still active when the phone rings. Lubega’s innards plummet down. It is Sharon calling. Lubega doesn’t remember when his daughter-in-law last rang him up. He’s too afraid to pick up. He’s starting to think his granddaughter is dead when another call comes, from Christine. He squeezes out of the club. Finally out, he walks toward his car. He takes a deep breath and returns Christine’s call. The moment she picks up, he asks, “Lwanga or Claire?”


About the author

Zeddekia Ssekyonda, fondly called Zed, is a Ugandan fiction writer and activist for democracy and ethnic/tribal tolerance. He was born on 16th September, 1997, in Masaka, Buganda Kingdom. Most of his stories are centered on gender, African traditional beliefs, challenges of youth and political crime.

Zed is a student of Medicine and Surgery at Uganda Christian University.

Twitter: @Zeddekia1

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Thandie Mvundla – Famished

Things began to change the moment Thandie's mother left for the diaspora. One day, she came home holding a document, telling Thandie: “It’s a visa.” The 4-year-old girl thought it to be a disease or bad news of some sort, as her mother had uttered the words with no hint of joy on her face. Like a giant, she towered above the little girl and took her by the hand, sat her down, and tried to explain that she would be leaving for the UK; she had gotten a job there or something. Before she even finished the sentence, Thandie had already stopped listening. She felt sad and empty, the kind that makes one puke. She began to cry. She genuinely believed and hoped the tears would convince her mother to stay, but they didn’t. Thandie's crying usually helped her case, but this seemed to be out of her control. She continued wailing. God knows the fear she felt the moment she realised her mother wouldn’t be here anymore, that it would just be herself, the maid and Dad.

Since Mum had gone, Thandie's father began to act strange. He got depressed and stopped going to work, which meant that they depended on money Mum would send from overseas. When he was in a better mood, he would take Thandie with him to see his mistresses.

One day, they walked to a house just somewhere around their neighbourhood. Dusk had fallen, and there was an eeriness to it caused by the electricity supply being cut off. Maybe someone had stolen the copper cables again, or maybe it was just a minor fault, but either way, there was a distinctive, almost suspicious silence.

They got to the house, no gate, with a peach tree just in front of the building. A woman opened the door for them, eying Thandie as if she were an intruder. Thandie asked herself who this woman could be. She jogged up her memory in search for any aunts or other relatives, but was certain she had never seen this woman before.

Thandie sat in a dark room. Immediately, her father and the woman escorted each other into a separate room, and left the little girl in that dainty sitting room infested by mosquitoes. The insects disturbed her so much that by the time she’d fallen asleep, they had become best of friends. All she had the following day were some red and huge cysts to remember them by.

A sudden huge reverberation of noise from outside pulled Thandie out of her slumber. Electricity had returned, and finally she could really tell where she was. She saw the brown layer of dirt that had established itself on this undistinguished upholstery sofa she’d been lying on, dirt so immense one might mistake it for a leather sofa where the skin was peeling off. Disgusted, she sat up straight and looked ahead.

Thandie found everything inside that house appalling. Something like rotten onion and garlic paraded the air. The uneven arrangement of the table cloth, or how the chairs ahead of her looked half-tucked under the dining table, annoyed her. The lack of precision and attention to detail convinced her even more to dislike that woman; she could never replace her mother.

Her father emerged from the room, tucking his shirt into his trousers. The mistress helped him fix his collar, a duty Thandie had been accustomed to watching Mum do. Even though Thandie hadn’t really assimilated to how she looked before the lights came on, the woman did look somewhat roughed up. She had a wrapper around her waist, and Thandie was pretty sure she wore nothing underneath because, as she walked to get Thandie a glass of water, her bottoms jiggled too obnoxiously.

When Thandie's father died of causes unbeknownst to her, she moved in with her rich uncle, whom Mum trusted most to take care of her. She would be living near the Southeastern city of Bulawayo, population around 500,000. More precisely, she moved to a small town called Khumalo, which is further divided into smaller neighborhoods, and around her uncle’s house there are no more than 100 houses. Although elevated well above sea level, the area is quite flat. The soil is red, so autumn is not pleasant at all. There are few natural attractions, except for the various streams that run through the bush. The local vegetation is a mixture of mostly bushes and fruit trees, plus some desert plants. Mopane and Jacaranda trees are most prominent, making the area more bushy than forest-like, but most of the fruits from the bushes are inedible and poisonous.

Her uncle looked tall and full like a giant, had a commanding demeanor about him, and spoke with conviction and confidence. Back when he was fit, he would take Thandie to the museum or the park, and even to cities where he would be delivering some stock to his clients, mostly tourists. After a good week of earning, he would take his wife out, and the two would return home drunk but happy. Thandie was happy there; and compared to the other kids in her neighborhood, she was more than blessed. Sadly, he would fall sick just a few years later. It didn't take Thandie's aunt very long to abandon them; she moved to the countryside, then married someone else.

* * *

Thandie is short and light in complexion, with big brown eyes and a short kinky Afro. As she approaches their house, she cannot help but notice that the hedges behind their wall – from within the yard – have become way too long and have begun hanging, thus straining the wall. She could have saved it, but is too short to even dare trim the hedges. Ever since her uncle fell sick, the man they called their ‘garden boy’ stopped working for them, since her uncle could not afford to pay. His other children, who usually helped with the home’s appearance, are nowhere to be found.

The numerous trees in their yard often cast a huge shadow on the road where Thandie and her friends usually play. Whilst the boys who enjoyed playing football on the streets have stopped, given the atrocious condition of the roads – the potholes that never cease to sink deeper make it almost impossible to enjoy the sport – they opted to play on the playground just beyond the neighborhood. So from above, these roads probably look like termites with smallpox.

Someone walking through will see her uncle's house with its black gate and an electric fence around the walls. His exotic trees protrude from the yard and shoot straight up into the air, making them visible from outside. There are also flower beds, and trees on each side of the gate, which have a ‘Beware of the dog’ sign in black and white, even though the dogs are long dead. The main road leading to ‘the city’ stretches out at the end of the neighborhood, crossing a river.

The neighborhood in itself is not terrible at all. Thandie has enjoyed spending weekends getting up to no good with her friends or classmates. What annoys her is the fact that everybody knows everyone else’s business, gossip being a daily bread and misfortune the staple food of this little community. The houses are mostly from post-colonial Zimbabwe, closely built houses with thin walls or no walls at all between them, densely populated and suffocating. The houses themselves are not too big, mostly three bedrooms. After independence, some had made efforts to extend their houses, but most simply could not afford such a luxury. It also is not shocking to see a yard without a gate. This is what differentiates the middle class from the one just an inch below that belt. Yards without gates fall victim to kids like Thandie who will come from all over the neighborhood to climb trees and steal fruits whilst leaving broken branches, footprints, and leaves on the ground. Having no gate means fragility.

In the morning, the women who have conformed and dedicated themselves to be ‘housewives’ bend over, sweeping their yards, almost piercing through the ground as if they will find gold. It used to annoy Thandie because by the time she would get to school, all the dust she had collected before she got to the main road would leave her shoes looking untidy, as if she hadn’t applied whatever bits of polish she managed to salvage the night before. Ever since the economy crashed – Thandie understood that to mean that money had become worthless – not a week has passed without the unsettling news of someone getting stabbed or robbed. She always wonders what the sensation of a knife piercing into skin and invading the abdomen feels like. She imagines it to be cold but thrilling at the same time, but she definitely does not want to find out. It is upsetting to think about that something might have happened to her as she walked to or from school. But luckily, they usually walked in groups. To be more precise, Thandie usually walked behind a group of fellow students; and if anything was to happen, she should have been safe.

Her family has kept to itself, though. Even when her uncle was admitted into hospital, no one knew except for their immediate right-side neighbor, who had seen the home nurse bring him back into the house. She sprang up on the other side of the wall, and said, “How are you? I didn’t know you were sick!” Her imposing nature was the reason why Thandie's uncle even extended the brick wall, but the neighbor did not care. Thandie's uncle just nodded, and the nurse meekly responded to the neighbor by saying, “He is just a little bit tired.”

Once an altercation had erupted when the same neighbor called out loud from her yard to say that one of Thandie's uncle's mango trees, which had also begun to overlap into her yard, was becoming a menace because she had to sweep the leaves from the tree. So she asked Thandie's uncle, “Can one of your children come and take the leaves away?” Thandie's uncle chuckled and more or less threatened her to stop banging on their wall.

It had been a week since he had been about, two weeks since he had been admitted, and Thandie was elated to have him back. But after seeing him in that wheelchair, unresponsive and zombie-like, was when the realization unnervingly dawned on her that things would never be the same.

It had also been two weeks since the schools were opened, which meant that proof of fees payment was overdue; and given the state her uncle found himself in, she could not imagine him sparing any cent.

Her school is relatively big, with spacious classrooms. It is a primary school, meaning there are only 7 grades, each with about 1 block of 6 classes. Lawns with flowers accentuate the general school area. She would walk to school, which is not far from their house. The institution is surrounded by a short fence, has a parking lot, and some trees – fruit trees mostly – to decorate the front.

She would never have imagined dropping out of school, but her comfort came from the fact that she was not the only one; some of her friends, too, were staying at home. That afternoon, as her uncle was being put to bed by the nurse, Thandie went to his room in order to look for last term’s fees receipts, knowing with certainty that she had been going to school without paying any fees about two terms prior to this one. She looked through her uncle’s drawers, hoping that by some miracle he had paid for it and maybe forgotten to tell her. But that also was impossible since he himself had been struggling to meet his medical bills, let alone buy food. Thandie was aware of it all, but it did not hurt to hope.

She stumbled upon a levy payment dated around mid-2007, which was when she guessed fees had last been paid. She assumed this because it was the closest thing she could find in the jungle of eviction notices, electricity bills and medical bills, water bills, most with figures she could not fathom. With the way electricity outages had become a norm, it was useless to pay the bill, anyway, but they still got charged for the week out of a month where the electricity would show up. As for the water bills, when the water ‘returned,’ it would run with muddy and dirty water before it could even be used. Drinking it raw ensured a bed in the over-crowded public hospitals.

The eviction notice had shocked Thandie. She had thought the house belonged to her uncle outright, but apparently not. She shoved the letter back, and tried not to dwell on issues that were way beyond her. She would think about it later when she tried to fall asleep.

The teacher had made sure she was clear when she spat out the fact that if the pupils did not bring any proof of fees payment, they would be sent home. She decided to take the receipt from months ago, hoping that the teacher wouldn't be thorough enough to spot the date. No such luck.

* * *

He sits on the couch watching TV. From the way he’s looking, Thandie can tell his senses are disconnected from reality. She sits on the couch adjacent to his, watching if he caught the joke the girl on TV just made but nothing, no emotion.

The morning breeze pushes the curtains wide open. She gets up to him, and extends the blanket that has fallen onto the floor back onto his lap. That’s when she begins noticing the foul smell that emanates from his genital area.

“Would you like to go to the bathroom?” she asks, ignoring the embarrassment she knows he must feel.

He looks at Thandie and back at the TV, ignoring her. She is used to this. He is not accustomed to being helpless to such an extent, but has to accept her help at some point. She sighs and sits next to him, watching a trail of dried up tears that left white stains behind. The contrast between his skin and the tears, which are sucked in by the wrinkles on his face, looks like a picture from a geography book, resembling terrains one would not dare to wander on.

She asks him again, this time gently rubbing his back. In response, he slightly nods his head. As she helps place him onto his wheelchair, she look at the couch, which is stained with urine. Luckily, she was smart enough to place a plastic sheet beneath the couch covers, so all she will need to do is wash them by hand, without the couch itself having to rot.

She is now in the bathroom with him. She lifts him back up, and he holds onto the steel handle intended for tissue, beside the toilet. She asks him if he wants to go for a second round, and he vigorously shakes his head in refusal. He’s annoyed by her questioning, she knows. As she wipes his behind, she can’t help it but begin to cry. She does not understand how they got to this point.

She finishes cleaning him up and changing the cushion on his wheelchair, then gets him seated again. She pushes him through the cold and dark corridor until they reach the end. As they enter the kitchen, he abruptly brakes, forcing his wheelchair to a full stop.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, knowing the answer. It’s almost lunch, and she hasn’t had time to prepare anything just yet. She scouts the fridge to find pea soup and samp leftovers from yesterday. She doesn’t want to look too hard, knowing there probably won’t be anything to eat tonight. It’s a worry for later; for now, she’s just glad that he can get something. As for herself, she’s not hungry.

Having retrieved a small pot from the cupboard, she mixes the two ingredients and heats them up on the stove. As she’s waiting for the food to be ready, she finds ways to distract herself, wiping the already clean counters.

He is looking at her, probably aware of the circumstances, his niece distracting herself from reality. He moves his gaze onto the window, and she is relieved.

She fetches a clean towel and wraps it around his neck, but he grabs it and shoves it away so it drops onto the floor. Moments like this make Thandie angry. She knows it’s degrading for him, but why doesn’t he see that she’s trying to spare some work? She lacks the energy to change his clothes again after every meal. She is tired. But she’s gotten used to these situations, so she lets it be.

The stroke left the right side of his body paralyzed. He has a scar that stretches from the corner of his lips and stops right about his cheek. It looks like lightning. At 48, he already had a lot of underlying diseases, including high blood pressure, and the stroke was probably caused by too much stress stemming from his inability to pay his debts and from Zimbabwe's 2007 economic collapse. The sickness had left him appearing frail, thin and shrunken. He used to have an Afro, but cut his hair after the sickness, which somehow made him look even more lost and confused. She cuts his hair using his machine, just like one of her cousins will do hers when they come around.

Before the inflation, her uncle was an independent artist who ripped people off. Customers for his handmade wooden plates in different sizes and designs, along with his workers and suppliers of raw materials, became his creditors, whom he struggled to pay back. Since falling sick, he had been living off his pension, which wasn’t even enough to pay the bills. Her aunt was nowhere to be found; she basically stole money meant for her husband’s upkeep before she left for another man. Some clients Thandie's uncle once duped now randomly show up at the house and demand goods he clearly isn’t able to deliver. It falls on her to explain to them why, and it's Thandie who has to take the insults on his behalf, as he is barely able to speak.

She takes her time feeding him. He struggles to chew with only one side of his mouth. Some of the food he ends up just swallowing unchewed, and the rest lands in his lap and on his wheelchair. Then he is full, she can tell, because he just closes his mouth when he cannot ingest any more. She cleans him up, and brings him back to the living room, where they will be watching lunchtime programs on ZBC.

* * *


Since it’s summer, the heat in the house becomes unbearable at night. It’s around 6 PM, and they’ve already had dinner.

She has looked for a bag mealie-meal in the cupboard, but found none. She looks again for the samp she well knows is spent, which leaves her with one more option: to ask the neighbors. This is a habitual drill to such an extent that she needs to take a minute to think about which neighbors she hasn’t asked for anything this week. Which turns out to be tough because she has asked all of them. She needs to widen her compass, so she heads out to the neighborhood behind their block.

Thandie leaves the house in her slippers, with a bowl in her hand, and begins her search. The trick is to find families her uncle has been good to in the past, so that they are more prone to having mercy on him. She knocks on the door to a family of her crush. His mother opens, and glances at the bowl first without any greeting.

After Thandie introduces herself, the woman starts talking about how she knew her uncle and blah-blah-blah, how shocked they were to hear about his sickness and blah-blah-blah. Food is all Thandie wants. After ten minutes or so of reminiscing on things that don’t matter at this moment, she finally gets a chance to ask, “May I please have some maize-meal?” The woman doesn’t respond, but loudly calls out for her son, her crush, to bring the last bag of maize-meal from the kitchen. He comes out carrying the bag, and Thandie holds her bowl stretched out for her to put some inside, but the woman tells her to take the whole thing instead. Thandie leaves feeling triumphant, although it sucks knowing that she'll probably be back to become a burden. But she doesn’t let that faze her out, yet.

After the meal, she brings her uncle outside for the last round of fresh air before putting him to bed. She has dressed him lightly already, and he’s sitting in his wheelchair feeling light. Her uncle usually wears his cotton trousers and a light sweater, given that he is sick. Here at home during summer, she mainly wears shorts and tennis skirts, along with T-shirts, and they mainly use dark colors because of the water outages. Even though he is unsmiling, there’s a slight expression of contentment and joy emanating from his face, which makes her happy.

The young girl takes the bio oil from his bedroom, and begins massaging his facial wound. She can tell it’s getting smaller and better, but she is unsure whether this is because ‘time heals all wounds’ or because the product is just that good. She continues until she’s content, then moves on to massage his legs. Inasmuch as this brings him relief, it also has a therapeutic effect on her because she gets to think only about that and nothing else.

While Thandie is doing this, the gate opens. The new arrival is his first son, about 28. He happens to be drunk, which is obvious from the way he staggers towards the wheelchair, disturbing the peace, saying, “How are you, old man? Are you good?” He continues repeating this while shaking her poor uncle in the wheelchair. He finally stops, and lets himself drop onto the floor.

There is more to this situation than what meets the eye. Thandie's uncle was quite troublesome even when he was still healthy. He regularly beat his kids, and created a toxic environment for them to grow up in; so when he fell sick, everyone left. The sadistic nature of his kid teasing him like tonight, when he is quite helpless and unable to stand up for himself, looks like payback.

“Anything to eat?”

“No, we don’t. We’ve already eaten.”

Thandie knows exactly what’s going to happen. In a moment, he'll go into the kitchen and waste the mealie-meal she worked so hard for – or rather, asked for but worked for regardless. He will even go out into the garden and pick himself vegetables whilst killing some of them. He will then cook and eat, only to leave tomorrow morning. Come and go, that is, without bringing anything for the old man. Uh, he makes her so angry!

Sensing that her uncle has become upset, she hastily brings him back to his bedroom, puts him to bed, and closes the door. These days, he sleeps with the lights on. She can imagine that he fears the same things she fears, those that force her to sleep with the lights on as well.

Thandie remembers when he was still healthy and fit. She lay in bed feeling scared, as the maid she used to share the bed with had left to visit her parents. Her uncle and then-aunt were sound asleep when she suddenly heard something land on the roof. It sounded like a cat meowing or something similar, but she thought the sound was too odd. She’d contemplated knocked on her uncle’s bedroom door, so that she could share the room with them, but did not even find the courage to leave her bed. Instead, she lay there frozen until she fell asleep. Not much time has passed since that event, but these days the prospect of losing her uncle has become her biggest fear.

She is lying in bed now. Her cousin is in his section next to hers. They share the thin wall that divides their room, so she can hear him having sex with a girl he picked up from Lord-knows-where. She hears every thrust, moan and groan. The naughtiness of it all rouses her curiosity, but Thandie hates how she can’t sleep, knowing that she has her uncle to cater for tomorrow.

She finally gives up and steps outside. The full moon is illuminating everybody with its borrowed light tonight. She likes the restlessness caused by people still loitering or playing outside. Tomorrow is a school day, but she is not bothered at all. She is relieved not to be pressing her only pair of socks every night, or having to write her homework under the moonlight because load-shedding is an ass. When in school, she wears a blue dress with a white collar, long white socks, and a dark blue hat. Thandie’s glad she gets to rest; but since God doesn’t give one everything, she gets embarrassed to be walking in the street while all of her friends are at school. She hates answering all the questions, like when one of her friends' mothers, bent over a dish and doing laundry, asked, “Why aren’t you at school?” Thandie never answered her, but rather walked super fast and acted as if she hadn’t heard what the woman just said. She felt so ashamed, thinking that children ought to be at school minding books instead of staying home and taking care of their sick uncles. She wished she'd found the courage to tell the woman that if she went to school, no one would be taking care of her helpless relative. True, but an even deeper truth was that her fees had been left unpaid for about three months.

How she hated it, with the teacher calling out the names, with herself sitting there with her ass tensed up, waiting for her teacher to say Thandie, praying to her ancestors that her name had somehow miraculously dropped off the list. But nooooo…

Outside here, she can hear the noise of other kids laughing, probably while playing Hide and Seek. She wishes she could join them, but her conscience holds her back.

She goes back to bed, and by now the commotion from her cousin’s room is over and done with. She is glad, as she closes her eyes and falls asleep.

* * *

Thandie never used to trim the row of trees they call hedges; but ever since her uncle got sick, and considering the sad fact that his sons and workers abandoned him, the duty has become hers. She doesn’t do this because it’s expected of her – in fact, it really isn't – but she knows how much he paid for those trees and flowers. They were his children, and he used to pride himself of how well he had them maintained.

She takes the garden scissors and starts trimming the hedges, beginning with the branches at the bottom of the trees. She can’t tell what shape most of them used to have, circular or triangular. With some, she does remember, but with others she just has to improvise. She has to take breaks here and there because she’s afraid a snake might just lash out at her for disrupting their habitat.

When she was way younger, she played on the hedges with her cousin. Out of nowhere, this small snake fell onto his neck. They both sprung into the air and ran inside the house, swearing never to play there again.

It is about 11 AM when Thandie finishes, which gives her some time to rest before she begins cooking lunch. The heat inside is overwhelming, and she might have to ask her uncle if he wants to catch some fresh air.

She goes to the henhouse, her heart breaking with less than seven of them in the little room. When days were good, the house would be filled, noisy and full of life. But now, even with the remaining seven, there’s barely any movement or action. They too are tired of it all. She thinks they can sense the desolation that has come upon her family.

The hens have even stopped multiplying, which makes it all the more difficult to keep the business running. She looks around inside, identifying the lack of water and food, then goes to the huge metal tub just by the wall, filling the can with water before she proceeds to fill up the containers. Her worrying intensifies as the water level inside the tub is ever shrinking. It has been almost a week without running tap water, she thinks, but a good deal of water is what she needs to keep her uncle clean. Sometimes, she despises him because she feels like he could simply go ahead and tell her when he’d like to use the bathroom. He doesn’t care about the water situation, his sickness has made him senseless and selfish. He can still speak, it’s just that he doesn’t want to.

Thandie has to go collect money for the chickens she recently sold. Actually, money is worthless these days, so she usually asks for maize meal, cooking oil, salt and sugar in return. She doesn’t even have a book for writing down their names like her uncle used to do. She simply remembers them all by heart. It’s not really the era in which to forget who owes you. On the downside, no one has been visiting to buy more chickens. Everyone is broke, and chickens are for really, really special events nowadays, but there hasn’t been anything special happening lately. Even so, no one would probably tease their mouths with chicken they couldn’t afford.

She is still pondering when to go do this. She'll probably go towards prime time, when the parents will be home and thus unable to avoid her. Thandie's thinking is interrupted by a noise from the wall behind the henhouse. She goes to look, and there is the youngest of her uncle’s sons, trapped between the electric fence wires and the tip of the wall. She helps him get untangled, and he falls onto the ground. She has often wondered who has been destroying the fence, and here is her answer. If only her uncle knew, all hell would break loose. Due to the too frequent power outages and insanely high bills, the fence isn’t electric anymore. It merely serves as a reminder to their neighbors, most of whom don’t even have walls or gates, that her uncle held real money once upon a time.

Her cousin looks at her smilingly, and puts a finger to his mouth, saying “Shhhh!” Thandie is unsure what it really is she needs to keep quiet about: the fact that he’s the fence destroyer or the fact that he was here today. She figures the latter because he’s recently been disappearing and only turns up to recuperate.

Today, he comes with a new hairstyle. His hair is mashed into caterpillar-looking locks, and he even has a piercing on his eyebrow. The more she looks at him, the more uncertain she becomes about what he expects from her. Plus, he smells like a shebeen. She hasn’t actually been to one of those, but she’s sure he smells just like them. His breath smells like he spent the day feeding on dead rats.

She just laughs at him, and he makes way into his room to sleep and recover from the hangover.

He too was forced to drop out of school. That happened right after he turned sixteen. So what he does now is hop from one family to the other; and when he brews trouble, jump to the next one willing to take care of him. Even in this household, he has become known for stealing. Indeed, he steals anything from money to old belongings, even her uncle's most expensive antiques. Her uncle doesn’t notice these days, but Thandie keeps count on his behalf. Unfortunately, she can't even tell her cousin to stop stealing because the last time she tried, he slapped her, sending her to the ground. She’s sure she must have blacked out, because it took her a few moments to recall what had happened. She hasn’t told anyone about the incident – well, she couldn’t disturb her uncle, and who else is there to tell?

She just remembered that today is Saturday. The trucks meant to come with food are probably on their way now; they were supposed to pull through right after lunch. The sharing ground is about 600 meters away. On her way over there, she will see houses. Once she has passed a block of houses, the main road will come up, which is where she’ll cross, going past the alley in the bush. Right after that, she’ll be on the ground, which is surrounded by the bushes and has the bridge from the main road essentially protruding onto it.

Thandie hurriedly gets inside to cook and feed her uncle, then leaves the house without telling him that his son is here. She parked him in the lounge and turned the TV on. Luckily, electricity has returned.

When she gets to the ground where sharing will take place, she finds it swarmed. She sees men dressed in T-shirts, regular shirts and jeans. She sees women with babies on their backs, wrappers around their waists. Some have brought with them doeks to place on their heads when carrying the food. The trucks still aren't there. She can’t even tell if there are queues or not. Some old ladies sit under the shade of trees on this ground, which has turned into a camping site overnight.

The sun blazes from above, penetrating her skin, leaving her dehydrated and lazy. She regrets forgetting to bring a bottle of water, as happens all the time. She is only 8 years old, but in the queues, there are boys and girls her age and even younger. She envies the older ladies sitting under the trees, imagining how cool their bodies must feel. They are probably the ones with the youngsters waiting in the queue for them, and will only get up when the trucks finally arrive.

Moments like this is when Thandie feels so utterly alone. Here she is, all by herself, with no one to hold her hand. Her antenna has to be fully alert, her feet ready to run, and her body ready to withstand the strain from handling sacks of food.

The last time she was here, she waited in the queue for hours, then got a fifty kilogram sack of maize and two bottles of cooking oil. Because of the immense weight, she decided to take a shortcut. Just as she was about to make it out of the bushes, two young men approached her. Both were wearing tattered bucket hats, and one smelled like ‘mbanje’ (weed). They pushed her around, with one touching her breasts in the process, asking if she wanted help with carrying the sack. She was only approaching puberty, so her breasts were tiny, but enough to show through the T-shirt. Her heart racing, Thandie said no, but their voices grew louder, and they took the sack and carried it between them, each holding one of the bottles of the oil she had already begun budgeting for in her head. They ran off, making weird monkey noises, all comic but leaving Thandie with a sadness she could not explain. She wasn’t even mad that one had harassed her and violated her body; no, she bemoaned the loss of food and oil. When she got home, she told her uncle that she had not managed to get any food, without mentioning the men.

Today will be different. She has learned her lesson. Thandie knows she has to take the longer road regardless of the weight.

It’s getting late. The sun is beginning to set, and still no sign of the trucks. She can smell disappointment, anger and hunger in the air. There’s something desperately evil about this. Just as they stand waiting for the trucks that never seem to come, she notices that the crowd’s gaze has shifted to the bridge at the edge of the ground. She looks up to see men falling off the bridge and onto the ground. Luckily, the elevation is modest, so most make it without hurting themselves. There’re men throwing maize meal and basic food from the bridge to people at the bottom. Then further away, people running from the food delivery guys holding sjamboks, which they use to beat looters.

It seems as if trucks have been hijacked at the bridge. Thandie is now worried that she’ll leave empty-handed, so she joins the crowd in running towards the bridge. She is not really using her own strength; the air and bumping into adults push her towards the goal, almost as if she’s being carried. There’s something dangerous but fun about this.

The trucks are lined up by the road. Any cars that are lucky enough to still be running in this economy have halted and joined the raucous crowd. Drivers and passengers take their share and drive off. She envies them.

After struggling against the crowds, she sees a huge man towering above her gesturing to a bag of maize and a couple of other basic needs. Thandie is confused. Up to this point, she has felt like she was just watching an action movie, an observer detached from what was really going on. He screams at her, and now she knows what he means: he’s offering these items to her. She runs towards where he is pointing, grabbing everything. She puts the oil, sugar and salt inside her T-shirt, and holds the maize with the other hand, dragging it across the gravel while hoping the sack won’t break. Luckily, it doesn’t. Once she gets to a more chilled spot with less people, she rests and catches her breath, but not for too long lest someone bullies her possessions off her.

* * *

Thandie drops the things on the kitchen floor, and rests. It’s hot, so she’s lying on the cold kitchen floor, proud of recent events. It’s only then she actually realizes that it’s past her uncle’s scheduled time for taking his pills, but she can’t do that now because he has to eat first.

She goes to the lounge where she left him. She finds her uncle on the floor, with saliva drooling out of his mouth. He’s still responsive. She doesn’t know what happened. Maybe he had one of his strokes or... The girl doesn’t know, she’s just confused and scared.

She lifts him back into the wheelchair, his weight slightly dislocating her shoulder since she’s already exhausted, but Thandie is sure she’ll be fine, it’s nothing too serious. She doesn’t know what to do, call the neighbors? The ambulance, which will not even come?

She begins pressing his body, asking him where it hurts. Vexed and displeased, he shrugs, which she takes as a ’nowhere.’ He has not broken any bones. She is sad, not knowing for how long he lay helpless on the floor.

“I have food that will last us a month now,” she says to him.

He looks at her, smiles, then looks at the TV, which Thandie takes as her cue to start cooking in preparation of giving him his tablets.

About an hour later, she finds herself at yet another household, begging for Cotrimoxazol tablets. The house is dark, and the lady towers above Thandie as she hands her the huge white jar of the medication. It has been about two days since the last batch ran out. Thandie can tell that the lady is displeased and only agrees to help her out of pity, but her heart wills a payment she must know will not come in the nearest future.

The nurse that usually brings him tablets was supposed to come sometime this week, but there hasn’t been a sign of her. His medical aid does not assist much, as her uncle has to live off tablets from the black market. And how do they get there? Maybe the nurse knows the answer.

* * *

Her aunt, a very loud and annoying lady, opens the gate wide and sits in by the rail as she wails. Thandie knows exactly what this means. It echoes the day when her other aunt, who was still married to her sick uncle at the time, behaved the same way. Relatives and neighbors would lift her up on the veranda, where the aunt further rolled her body on the ground, tearing her blouse.

Thandie stood to the side, not sure if that was the right place for her. She joined others in crying, unsure exactly what everybody was crying about. It was only after a while that she connected the dots. See, her older cousin, the second youngest of her aunt, had passed away. She wasn’t certain about what disease he suffered from, but knew for a fact that he experienced pain between the legs from time to time. When he was sick, he would walk as if carrying a brick between his thighs. This had been going on for a week or so, and he had been admitted into a hospital before her aunt came home crying because he was no more.

She is familiar with this scenario, only it’s her uncle this time. For about a month before he was admitted into hospital, he was bedridden. She’d go check on his room in the mornings, and he would refuse to eat, bathe or even take his pills. Other relatives were informed, so this aunt came to help.

She has a good idea of where all her relatives are arriving from. Most stay in similar housing, high density areas, a ghetto-type setting, houses with 3 bedrooms at most, all kind of squashed together. One exception is her estranged aunt, who lives about 200 kilometers away in another town. She has a post-colonial house with a relatively huge yard in the suburbs, complete with gigantic gum trees and a substantial orchard.

Thandie is sitting in the garden, overlooking his flowers. The sun has wilted them to a point of no return. Actually, she cannot remember the last time she watered them.

She hears people come into this homestead. She can tell by the wails. Every new wail sounds different, but also similar to the previous ones. She sits in this garden thinking about her own life. She finally gathers enough courage to go and sit on the veranda, next to no one. She notices how many of the relatives who never paid them a visit during his sickness – including her cousins, their wives, and their babies – are all here now. She despises them for the fact that the only time they are willing to stay as long as they can is when the sick old man is finally dead.

Thandie begins to think about her own life. She needs to continue grade five, but how and where to go from here are the questions her uncle has left her with.

* * *

The events that unfolded after the funeral confused Thandie. His property was shared amongst the relatives, but she noticed that most of his expensive valuables and antiques landed in his half-sister’s home, the aunt she is staying with now. The aunt had dubiously taken ownership of the deceased man's house, even though it was meant for his firstborn. The supposed heir is not in the country at the moment, and couldn’t even be at his father’s funeral.

People are sitting around the dining table, including her aunt and uncle. It’s surreal that Thandie is even here because she would never have contemplated the need to move in with her aunt. The table happens to be the same one her uncle cherished. Back then, it was always well maintained, oiled up. It would be covered with a cloth, and mats were always placed beneath during meals. She feels sick just watching the steam from a lid leave droplets of water on the naked table. Her aunt’s “Eat!” takes her out of her slumber. Not noticing that she has been staring at the table for way too long, she continues eating.



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Arinfesesi – Introduction Video

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Waiting on Fate – Introduction Video

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An Interview with Zeddekia Ssekyonda

In late February, 2022, Ssekyonda Zeddekia submitted an unpublished short story to Novelty Fiction. The manuscript was accepted for publication after an intense period of consultations.


NOVELTY FICTION – Your story evolves around an accident with tragic repercussions. What made you decide to approach a serious topic humorously?

SSEKYONDA ZEDDEKIA – Accidents are not always entirely dull events. There are often bits that confer a humorous touch to the most unfortunate happenings. Sometimes, the humour is in the words people say in the face of the accident; other times, it is in the nonverbal reactions. That is what I intended to demonstrate. Perhaps what makes Waiting on Fate particularly humorous is how the said accident occurs and the fact that the main character, reminded of the possibility of a generational streak of bad luck, finds himself going to a place unexpected for his age.


NOVELTY FICTION – Waiting on Fate allows the reader to experience the sharp contrast between a modern, materialistic city lifestyle versus traditional rural life. Some characters in your story have never used electricity or traveled, but they have something else of value to offer. In a nutshell, what is this cultural treasure?  ​​ ​​​​ 

SSEKYONDA ZEDDEKIA – ​​ In Uganda, and, I think, other parts of Africa, people in rural areas are the custodians of traditions and cultural lifestyle. Rural areas are slow to adopt foreign lifestyles. As such, they form the reference point for our cultural heritage and traditions. Whereas African urbanites tend to conduct themselves with an extreme hauteur around villagers, the latter embody the truer spirit of Africa.


NOVELTY FICTION – You characterize yourself as a “Ugandan fiction writer and activist for democracy and ethnic/tribal tolerance.” Therefore, you seem to be concerned about ethnic/tribal intolerance in your country. Please elaborate.

SSEKYONDA ZEDDEKIA – Uganda is composed of many ethnic groups and even more tribes. A history of fighting, discrimination and bickering along ethnic/tribal lines has been perpetuated in social and political spaces, ever raising the spectre of deadly repercussions. South West of this land is Rwanda, one country where incessant tribal friction led to a genocide. Yet Ugandans seem to have learnt nothing from it. Socially, there are people who take pleasure in very distasteful stereotypes about other tribes. In fact, some comedians are obsessed with such stereotypical notions. And in the political realm, some tribal groups feel sidelined and can’t wait for their ‘turn’. I don't think when their ‘turn’ comes, they will act any differently given that they are holding serious grudges. It’s in view of such situations that I seek to use literature and my voice to mitigate ethnic/ tribal sentiment, stereotypes, and discrimination.


NOVELTY FICTION – Did writing Waiting on Fate enrich you in some ways, for example by leading to new discoveries about yourself or other people?

SSEKYONDA ZEDDEKIA – ​​ Yes, without exaggeration, it did. In three ways. It made me reflect more about the altruistic steps women take for the good of their children. I was also glad to realize my childhood memories of rural life are still intact. Thirdly, I have appreciated more that people harbour serious unvoiced troubles.


NOVELTY FICTION – The title Waiting on Fate may imply that you believe in such concepts. Do you think there may come a time in a person's life where he or she must confront their fate or destiny?

SSEKYONDA ZEDDEKIA – Whereas I will not call myself a fatalist, I think any attempt to confront one's fate is what fallen Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe would describe as wrestling one’s chi. You cannot win. In any case, I don't think there is a proven record of anyone who has ever defeated their fate. Fatalists would still argue that wherever your journey leads you, no matter whether you think you've defied fate, was always meant to be your destiny.

NOVELTY FICTION – You are a thinker, but your narrative tone tends to be crisp and light. Is this style a reflection of your own temperament and personality, or simply a writing technique?

SSEKYONDA ZEDDEKIA – When it comes to fiction, I am a sucker for simplicity. As a reader, I am turned off by stories with extraneous elements. The more I have written, the more I have appreciated the value of interacting concisely with the reader. A good writer, to me, is one who whittles a complex idea into a light and easily comprehensible form, communicates a lot with less words, and enables the reader to clearly visualize what they read as though they were watching it in HD. That's my style, essentially. I must admit developing it did not come easy. But whether it is a reflection of my personality is a question better left to my friends, siblings and people who have interacted long enough with me.


NOVELTY FICTION – Your story contains some passages and expressions written in a language other than English. What language did you use? Is Uganda divided by a language barrier?

SSEKYONDA ZEDDEKIA – ​​ The language is Luganda, arguably the simplest language in Uganda. Most people in the country can somehow express themselves in Luganda. I wouldn't say Uganda suffers from a language barrier; there are several sets of related languages. For example, whereas I cannot speak Runyankore, Rutooro, and Lusoga (properly), I cannot get lost when any of those languages is spoken. Where communication through native languages is not possible, English, being the official language, is used. It's also widely spoken, with varying levels of proficiency. Kiswahili is the other language. Though not native, it's spoken by people in military circles, cross-border traders and people living in some districts bordering Kenya, Tanzania and DRC.


NOVELTY FICTION – Anything else you would like to share with our readers?

SSEKYONDA ZEDDEKIA – ​​ I want to encourage readers to look out for more fictional stories from Africa. Writers are encouraged by the knowledge that there are people consuming their work. Nevertheless, I must mention that literary activity in Africa is still wanting. I therefore encourage more people to pick up the pen and tell the African story.


Waiting on Fate will be published online by Novelty Fiction Gazette on June 15, 2022, and will be made available as an e-book shortly thereafter.


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