“Next to her was an anthill. You know, in those days babies were delivered in matooke plantations. The anthill had a big hole that opened into the ground. The woman picked up the baby girl and stuffed her inside the hole. Then, she carried the baby boy home and presented him to Luzze.
“The celebration! The jubilation!”
Kirabo was so lost in her story, waving her arms about, making faces, making Luzze’s voice, that she did not care whether her audience was engrossed.
“Luzze named the boy Mulinde because he had waited a long time for him to be born. Meanwhile, every day, the woman crept back to the plantation and nursed her daughter. As she stuffed her back into the hole, she would shush, ‘Stay quiet.’ But as the daughter grew, she devised songs to keep herself company and to make the darkness bearable. Meanwhile, Mulinde explored the villages, fields, hills, swamps, until one day he walked past the anthill and heard a sweet but sad song:
We were born multiple like twins—Wasswa.
But Father had dropped a weighty word—Wasswa.
You bear a girl, don’t bother bringing her home—Wasswa.
But a boy, bring the boy home—Wasswa.
I keep my own company with song—Wasswa.
Oh, Wasswa, you are a lie—Wasswa.
Oh, Wasswa, you are a lie—Wasswa.
“The song tugged at Mulinde’s heart. When he went home, the song followed him. The following day it hauled him back to the anthill. And the day after. And every day. At mealtimes, he kept some of his food, and when he got a chance, he crept to the anthill and threw the food down the hole. Still the song came.
“Luzze noticed that Mulinde was growing cheerless. When he asked what was wrong, Mulinde had no words. Luzze was so troubled he kept an eye on his son. In time, he noted that Mulinde kept some of his food and after lunch disappeared into the plantation. One day he followed him.
“What he saw almost blinded him. The anthill in the plantation started to sing, but instead of fleeing, Mulinde trotted, titi-titi, titi-titi, up to it and fed it his food. Luzze grabbed his son, ran home, and sounded the alarm drums—gwanga mujje, gwanga mujje, gwanga mujje.
“All men, wherever they were, whatever they were doing, picked up their weapons and converged in Luzze’s courtyard. Luzze addressed them:
‘Brothers, this is not for shivering cowards. Something beyond words is in my plantation, inside an anthill. We must approach with caution. If you are liquid-hearted, stay here with the women and children.’
“Real men—warriors, hunters, trackers, smiths, and medicine men—tightened their girdles and surrounded the plantation. Then they proceeded, muscles straining as they crouched, palms sweating around weapons. They trod softly, as if the earth would crumble, hardly breathing. Finally, they had the anthill surrounded. It started to sing. Luzze put his spear down and carefully dug the anthill. After a while, a girl child emerged. She was fully formed, totally human, only crumpled. The men threw their weapons down and wiped away their sweat.
“Even though the sun blinded her and she had to shield her eyes with her hand to look up at the huge men, even though she was as pale as a queen termite from the lack of sunshine, even though she was surrounded by a vast world she did not understand, the girl sang:
We were born multiple like twins—Wasswa.
But father had dropped a heavy word—Wasswa.
You bear a girl, don’t bother bringing her home—Wasswa.
But a boy, bring the boy home—Wasswa.
Oh, Wasswa, you are a lie—Wasswa …
“Luzze looked at his son, then at the girl, at the son again, then the girl. Finally, it dawned. He lodged his spear so forcefully into the earth it quivered. ‘Where is she? Today she will see—’ He did not complete the threat. The misnaming of his family—a Wasswa called Mulinde? And poor Nnakato denied sunshine? Then there was himself, Ssalongo, ultra-virile, called plain Luzze, like ordinary men.
“For some time, nothing stirred. Just this long hush that fell over the gallants and over the matooke plantation and stretched to where the women and the cowards stood. Now and again, the real men shook their heads and sucked their teeth, but no words. Their spears lay useless on the ground. You see, in the face of a singing child, the weapons accused them.
‘Women,’ one of the heroes finally sighed, ‘the way they seem so weak and helpless and you feel sorry for them. But I am telling you, beneath that helplessness they are deep; a dangerous depth without a bottom.’ He nailed the words into a fist with an open palm. ‘You live with them, love them, and have children with them, thinking they are fellow humans, but I am telling you, you know nothing.’
‘Kdto. Even then’—another shook his head—‘this one is a woman and a half.’
‘Me, I gave up on women a long time ago,’ another said. ‘You expect them to do this, they do that. You think they are here, but they are there. Today they are this, tomorrow they are that. A woman will kill you with your eyes open like this’—he opened his eyes wide—‘but you will not see it coming.’
“But it was the women who were most enraged. You know what they say: no wrath like moral women against a wicked one. At the sight of the child, the good women of the community lacerated themselves with fury.
‘A whole woman—hmm? With breasts—hmm? To bury her own child in an anthill?’
‘She is no woman, that one—she is an animal.’
‘It is such women who make us all look bad.’
‘And you wonder why the world thinks we are all evil.’
‘Where is she? Let her come and explain.’
“The women so incensed themselves that had they got their hands on Luzze’s woman, they would have ripped her to shreds. As for me, Kirabo Nnamiiro, I could not wait for retribution. I hurried home to Nattetta on these feet”—Kirabo pointed to her feet—“to tell the tale of a woman who buried her daughter in an anthill to remain in marriage.”
•
For a moment, the house was silent. Kirabo had begun to revel in the success of her storytelling when she sensed an anxiety in the air. As if she had stumbled on to something she should not know. But then Grandfather broke out: “Oh, ho ho ho. Is this child a griot or is she something else? Ah, ah, this I have never seen. Just like my grandmother. When my grandmother raised her voice in a tale, even the mice fell silent.”
“Dala dala,” Grandmother agreed.
But the teenagers did not congratulate her. Girls stood up and threw the boys off their beds. The boys slid down, yawned, and ambled towards their bedroom. The teenagers’ rejection of her story stung. Kirabo’s head dropped, her eyes welling up. That was when she whispered, “Where is my mother?” making sure her grandparents did not hear.
The teenagers stopped, exchanged looks.
“I want to go to my mother,” Kirabo mumbled. She was sure her mother would love her story.
“Ha,” a boy clapped in belated awe. “Did you hear Kirabo’s story?”
“Me, I told you a long time ago—that child is gifted.”
“Too gifted. I couldn’t tell stories at her age.”
“I still couldn’t, even if you paid me.” That was Gayi, one of the big girls.
The teenagers were working hard at their awe because if Grandfather found out Kirabo had been made to long for her mother, someone was going to cry. Kirabo had to be consoled before she went to bed.