Kintu Read online

  Kintu did not know when the serpent lost interest. When he opened his eyes, it was gone. He went back to the house but Nnanteza was not in. He went to the royal guards and asked whether Kyabaggu kept pet snakes. They said he did not.

  That night Kalema returned. He was much younger though. He stood shy, at a distance, his thumb in his mouth. His cloth had faded.

  “You’re dead,” Kintu rebuked. “What have you come back for?”

  Kalema crossed his hands across his chest and shivered.

  “I am cold. It’s chilly out there, especially at night.”

  “Nonsense, o Lwera is never cold.”

  “But I am, I am.” Kalema was close to tears.

  “But you’re dead, you must stay dead.”

  “I am lying on my hand. It’s numb. My leg is twisted. It hurts really bad. Won’t people pile dead dogs on top of me? I am too close to e Jirikiti.” Then he became excited: “Did you see me today, did you see me? Haaa, I was tall.” As if realizing his father’s lack of enthusiasm, Kalema added miserably, “People say I am not your son.”

  “You are my son but you are dead. Stay dead.”

  Kintu started to walk away but when he turned Kalema was standing at a distance, his arm was stretching out toward Kintu. It kept coming and coming regardless of how fast Kintu ran.

  Kintu woke up, then froze. The snake was in the room: he could smell it. He lay still. He tried not to think about returning home, about breaking the news to Baale, to Nnakato, which language he would use to tell Ntwire. The thought made him hot and his skin grew wet with perspiration. The problem was not that Kalema had died—that is what people do—the problem was that he had killed him. It kept him awake through the night.

  When day broke, he could not find the snake. Though the smell lingered, Nnanteza did not smell it. Kintu sent for Nnondo the headman.

  “Did you bury the boy properly?”

  “We tried our best, but it was as if in death he grew taller,” Nnondo explained. “We misjudged him.”

  “What happened to the sheet I gave you?”

  “We thought you’d need it.”

  “Did any of you see e Jirikiti?”

  “E Jirikiti?” Nnondo was horrified that they had missed it.

  Kintu sat cross-legged. His cloth covered most of his body apart from the right shoulder. He gnashed his teeth making his jaw dance frenziedly.

  “Go away then,” he whispered.

  Nnondo walked a short way off, stopped and hesitated.

  “The men and I can go back and bury Kalema properly, sir. We won’t be long.”

  “Kalema is buried at the other end of o Lwera; you might as well go home.”

  Nnondo kept his eyes on the ground.

  “I’ll supervise it on our way back,” Kintu whispered, realizing it was his fault for not overseeing Kalema’s burial.

  9.

  The first time Kyabaggu summoned him, Kintu confirmed that Namugala was dead. It was there in Kyabaggu’s eyes—the confidence that the challenge had been eliminated. Kyabaggu was so relaxed that there were only two guards on duty. For a moment, Kintu felt sympathy for Namugala: Did he die mercifully?

  On this occasion, Kyabaggu was human. His smile reached the eyes. He talked about his ambitions for Buganda. As soon as Kintu was given liberty to speak, he broke into praises for the new palace, his quarters, and the sure prosperity that Buganda was going to enjoy because of Kyabaggu’s expansive vision.

  “Did the girl entertain you sufficiently?”

  “That luxuriant beauty, Nnanteza? Ha! One look at her and I thought, is the kabaka testing me? I couldn’t soil her. Me? Not with these commoner’s hands!”

  “Luxuriant beauty?”

  “Hwo: you’d pour water on Nnanteza and I’d drink it.”

  “Nnanteza? Go fetch her.” Kyabaggu snapped his fingers and a guard ran out. Meanwhile, Kintu expounded on the state of his province and illustrated his plans to extend Buddu beyond the banks of Kagera River to Kyamutwara. He assured Kyabaggu that, like his father and grandfather, he had no intentions of looking back at Bunyoro Kitara, the kingdom from whence his province was plucked six generations earlier.

  Kyabaggu looked at Kintu condescendingly.

  Kintu swore that the pitiful Nyoro blood—he spat—had been wrung out of his family, that no one was more Ganda than the people of Buddu. At that point the guard reappeared, Nnanteza in tow. Kyabaggu raised a hand and the guard nudged Nnanteza forward. She walked in a few steps, turned to face Kyabaggu, and slowly walked backwards.

  “Turn.”

  Nnanteza turned but continued walking toward the end of the room, her back toward the king. She was visibly shaking and Kintu feared she would wet herself.

  “Come back.”

  She turned and walked toward Kyabaggu. In the middle of the room, she stopped and dropped to her knees. All the while, she kept her eyes on the floor. Kintu heaved a sigh of relief—Nnanteza had been coached well.

  “Look up.”

  She raised her face but her eyes were still focused on the floor.

  “Look at me.”

  Nnanteza stole a glance at Kyabaggu and looked away.

  “I see what you mean,” he glanced at Kintu. Then he dismissed both Kintu and Nnanteza with feigned indifference.

  Kintu was uneasy. The meeting had gone too well. Kyabaggu was too calm, too confident. Kintu was sure that his grovelling had worked. Kyabaggu was contemptuous. He hoped that he had laid a foundation for Nnanteza, as she never returned to Kintu’s quarters. If she plays her mpiki well, Kintu thought, he would have an ally close to the throne.

  On the second occasion, when Kyabaggu met all his governors as a lukiiko, he staged terror. First, the drums sounded to announce his entrance and the governors prostrated themselves. But instead of the king entering, Kintu heard a pair of footsteps, timid, come in and climb the podium. Up there, Kintu could not make out what was going on. Then the footsteps came down and scurried out.

  The governors remained on the ground.

  Then Kyabaggu and his bambowa entered. The men stopped at the entrance while Kyabaggu climbed the podium and walked to the namulondo. Kintu heard it squeak as Kyabaggu sat down. Then two men climbed up and stood on either side of the kabaka.

  “Arise.”

  The governors raised their upper bodies and pressed down again in appreciation, like geckos, turning their heads to the left, to the right and to the middle.

  When they sat up, shock ripped through the lukiiko. Some governors choked, others yelped.

  In front of them, Ssentalo the Ssabatabazi’s freshly severed head glared at them like a ghoulish trophy.

  Twice, Kintu’s nausea rose but he held it in his throat and swallowed. Ssentalo was the highest general in Buganda’s army. He had served over eight ba kabaka, not counting Mwanga who had only lasted nine days.

  Kintu was baffled. Ssentalo had been friends with Kyabaggu. Had he become too familiar? Ssentalo had been untouchable. His head was considered cemented onto its shoulders: Did some ambitious warrior take advantage to further his career? But Kyabaggu seemed too politically savvy to be manipulated. Was Ssentalo mistaken to harbor Namugala? Then, there was the issue of Ssentalo’s reveling in his indiscriminate sexual tendencies. But as long as the kingdom’s frontiers kept shifting outwards, his sexual avidity had not bothered earlier kings. Besides, he was always away looking for war. Ssentalo’s beheading did not make sense.

  Even in death Ssentalo’s comeliness was still visible. He had been a muvule tree: tall and erect. He was charming, if a bit too good-looking and aware of it. The fact that he was a warrior who made both men and women groan beneath him had propped Ssentalo’s manliness to unprecedented heights. Was Kyabaggu intimidated by Ssentalo?

  Ssentalo and Kintu had been close. During Kintu’s grooming, his father told him that Ssentalo was the only official he could trust in the lukiiko. The immense size of Buddu made Ppookino the most powerful governor, but Ssentalo was key to its expansion.
He first introduced himself to Kintu when he succeeded his own father. He inquired about the “flaccid situation,” and Kintu was alarmed that Ssentalo had misunderstood the path he walked. Seeing Kintu’s panic, Ssentalo had said, “Don’t worry. You’re good-looking—but in a way that appeals to women. There’s something gentle about you. When I want a woman, I go for a proper woman: soft, smooth, and round. When I want a man, I want hairy, sweat, musk, granite.”

  Kintu had smiled.

  “Don’t ever try men out of curiosity,” Ssentalo had winked mischievously. “It’s like a river: a one-way flow for many people, no return. Once you have heard the hoarse groan of a man, felt the moist hairy skin and drunk the scent of male sweat you will not want to hold a woman again. I have wives and I enjoy them. To the kingdom I’ve given a lot of children. Do you see what women do when they harvest cassava?”

  “They replace it.”

  “Exactly: to avoid famine. As humans, we don’t only replace ourselves, we multiply. Where there was one man, ten boys should grow. It’s the ultimate law.”

  “I am not planning to try—”

  “Do you enjoy women?”

  “One of them—”

  “Aha, Nnakato. I’ve heard that she was carved for you.”

  “Hmm.”

  “The others?”

  “Sheer labor.”

  “What agony! This body,” Ssentalo’s hands had swept over his person, inviting Kintu to appraise it. “Was made to be enjoyed.”

  “Hmm,” was all Kintu could say.

  “If you want to make the arduous sexual labor through your wives bearable, here is the medicine. When you return home, rather than ravish Nnakato first, start with the wife that repels you most. Then work your way from the repellents to the favorites. Keep Nnakato for last. It’s like eating sugar cane: the anticipated sweetness of the bottom pieces makes the top bits, which taste like tears, bearable.”

  Kintu had hoped to sound out Ssentalo of his decisions about Baale and Babirye and seek his counsel. Now, looking at his head dripping on a calabash, turning gray, while the lukiiko discussed raids on Busoga, brought pain to Kintu’s joints. No doubt this was Kyabaggu intimidating the lukiiko. Kintu’s shock melted and abhorrence took over. Ssekiboobo was discussing the best time to cross the River Kiyira, the size of fleet needed, and whether they could use the alternative route on Lake Nnalubaale. Listening to them was painful because all these campaigns were within the remits of Ssentalo’s office. From then on, Kintu worked to mask his odium and maintain a frightened countenance. Meanwhile, Kyabaggu had made it clear that his eyes were set on the Ssoga people in the east. Annexing them to Buganda Kingdom would be his legacy. He wanted to know how many men each governor would supply for the invasion. Luckily for Kintu, Buddu was exempt because of the distance.

  Kintu spent two moons at the palace. Soon after Kyabaggu’s coronation, he returned to Buddu. Before setting off, he bought sheets of quality cloth from Lubaga. This time he oversaw Kalema’s second burial. The party spent three days working on his grave. The men collected stones and piled them onto the grave until it stood out in the featureless o Lwera landscape. Then they planted the prolific musambya shrubs around the grave. When they finished, Kintu called Kalema and told him that he had done his duty by him as a father. He reiterated that in death as in life he was his son. However, Kalema had to stay dead. If he did not and chose to play mischief, Kintu would have his spirit bound.

  10.

  As soon as the trekkers reached their home territory and servants met them to take their loads, Kintu realized that Kalema had not made contact. For any traveler returning home with news of death, this was the first opportunity to disclose. But Kintu hesitated. He had hoped that the family would at least have an inkling that something had gone wrong on the journey so he would not break the news fresh to them. Anyhow, the furor over the safe return of the party so swept the urgency of a belated funeral away that even when Kintu set his first foot onto his courtyard, another moment to make the call of death, he did not. As moments right to disclose passed—he did not call Kalema’s death as he stepped past the threshold of the main house either—Kintu realized that he would never muster the courage. When he sat down in his private lounge, he knew that he would never hold funeral rites for Kalema. He also knew that while Kalema’s death was a tragedy, not holding funeral rites for the lad was reckless.

  Before he even settled down Nnakato asked, “How was my boy when you left? I bet he—”

  “Is he the most important thing in your life?”

  “This tongue,” Nnakato, though taken aback, cursed herself. “Such perils, o Lwera, Kyabaggu. Ddunda has been merciful.”

  Kintu leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He felt Nnakato hesitate, as if she were weighing her words.

  “Are you still with us?” she whispered.

  “Why not?” Kintu did not open his eyes. “After all, trekking from one arm of the kingdom to the end of another is blowing air through a basket.”

  Nnakato knelt before him. For a long time, she sat in silence. Her silence said she knew that something was wrong and she was waiting for him to tell her. Kintu did not open his eyes. Nnakato leaned forward, bringing her forehead closer until it touched his. Normally, this worked: either he smiled and whispered the problem or he pushed her away. Kintu did not open his eyes. He did not push her away either. Nnakato felt locked out. She sighed and stood up but then Kintu said, “I am not dying in case you’re preparing to cry.” Nnakato laughed because he expected her to. “But this journey will be my death,” he added quietly. Still Kintu did not open his eyes.

  “Kyabaggu might understand,” Nnakato came back. “Instead of quarterly visits you could go twice a year.”

  “Governors twice my age still turn up all year round.”

  “But none crosses o Lwera. You trek across three provinces.”

  “Maybe I should get a wife that end,” Kintu smiled.

  Nnakato looked around to make sure that there was no one nearby. Then she whispered, “You could take Babirye and keep her there.”

  “Now you kill me,” Kintu smiled and opened his eyes.

  Nnakato fussed. The task of rehabilitating Kintu after trekking was hers. In order not to drown him in provincial and domestic issues immediately, she alone went into his presence. To help him recover, she had steamed small portions of bitter vegetables, which were good for repairing the body after a bad diet. Not to overwhelm his stomach, she had prepared juices, which he started with. Then she gave him ripe pawpaw, beaten to a pulp, to hasten his stomach and flush out the old food—later she would give him the medicines to drink for pain and muscle rubs for aches. Then she prepared his bath of crushed pawpaw leaves, tough on dirt, to scrub his body. After the bath, she massaged his muscles with crushed bbombo leaves. She dried him and laid him on the bed with his legs dangling. As he rested, she soaked his feet first then pressed them gently with fleshy banana fibers mashed into a spongy froth. When she had dried and oiled his feet, she laid them on the bed and propped hay pillows beneath them to ease the swelling. As Nnakato stood up to take the dirty water out, Kintu said, “Ssentalo didn’t make it.”

  “Oh.” Nnakato sat down. “I knew something was wrong; I knew it as soon as I saw you.”

  “Kyabaggu beheaded him.”

  “Ddunda!” Nnakato swore. “How did Ssentalo offend him?”

  “Who knows?”

  “All that bravery, all that beauty thrown away just like that?”

  “He brought Ssentalo’s head along to the lukiiko.”

  Nnakato shivered. “What a shock for you, my one! You must have been paralyzed,” Nnakato caressed his feet. When Kintu did not respond she added, “Maybe Kyabaggu asked Ssentalo to assassinate Namugala—”

  “But he refused?” Kintu sat up. “You’re quick, Nnakato. I see it now,” Kintu said. “Ssentalo was stuck; either he killed Namugala, Kyabaggu becomes kabaka and kills him anyway—the obligation to kill his brother’s murderer—or
Ssentalo refuses to assassinate Namugala but Kyabaggu still gets his royal buttocks on the throne and Ssentalo has nowhere to hi–” Kintu was gripped by a fit of sneezes.

  “Evening hay fever; I’ll cover you,” Nnakato fussed again.

  Kintu poked a finger into his right ear and shook it violently. Then he rubbed his nose, clearing his throat.

  “Funny though, hay fever never bothers me on a trek.”

  “Perhaps I should have used warm water to soak your feet.”

  “No, my feet were on fire when I arrived. It’s the arrival of the night breeze. I’ll soon adjust.”

  “Ssentalo was asking for it though,” Nnakato carried on. “Displaying his magnificence like that? Only a sovereign should be that tall, that strong, that imposing. I hear Kyabaggu is short on royal looks.”

  “You read my thoughts exactly. Ssentalo reveled in the reputation of taking his four wives one by one in a single night, of being so manly women were not enough.”

  “You said he wore just a loincloth?”

  “Or a skimpy skin, except to meet the king. Apparently, as a warrior the less he wore the better.”

  “Reckless.”

  “Now that you know what’s been eating me tell me, any news?”

  “Nothing but quiet since Kalema left. Kiyirika’s not the same. Baale’s drained of life.”

  “Baale’s growing. Boys lose weight as they grow.”

  “You’d think they are proper twins. What am I saying? Of course they’re proper twins.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I think Ntwire regrets sending Kalema away,” Nnakato whispered.

  “Has he said this to you?”

  “A week after you left. He said he should have come along to see how Kalema settled in.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Funny though. I doubt Kalema knew of their true relationship.”

  Kintu pretended to be asleep. Nnakato sighed and stepped out.

  Kintu did not sleep properly that night or the nights after. His failure to disclose haunted him. He should have announced the funeral as soon as he arrived; he should have gone up to Ntwire’s house and told him, he could have sent one of the men ahead to break the news to the family. After all, there were all sorts of truths: snakebites, convulsions, truths that could have been more merciful than the truth, but it was now too late. How would he start—Oh by the way I had forgotten: our son Kalema died? Before the party arrived home, Kintu had told his men that word about Kalema’s death should come from him first. Now it crossed his mind that perhaps he had said that because he had no intention of disclosing all along. Nnondo had said that they did not have to say anything at all. If the governor did not mention it, then none of his men would breathe a word.