PENETRATING THE IMPENETRABLE

Our breathing had become labored, and conversation had died out completely. The sounds of the forest; the chirping of the crickets, the rustling of the wind in the trees, and the crack of branches beneath our feet mingled with our panting to produce a curious sound. I was breathing hard but deep, trying to clamp down the panic that threatened to rise. I have always had a paranoia about slopes, picturing vivid images of myself rolling down and hurting every bone in my body. The ground beneath us was wet and treacherous, so that what seemed like a sure step could become a slippery slope…quite literally. It was the stuff my worst nightmares are made of.

“Is everyone okay?” the guide called out ahead. In the silence, his words echoed around us like he was behind, and not far ahead of us. We grunted our assent as if to say,

“What choice do we have?”

The look you give when the guide keeps moving and the end is nowhere in sight

It had not started out like this. We had spent a night at Lake Mburo National Park, at par with nature: the graceful impalas, the haughty bush bucks, the still water of the lake, the large peaceful hippopotamuses, the gorgeous loud birds, the grunting warthogs, and the clear blue sky.

The sky has never looked so blue

The clouds seemed to have a mind of their own

We had risen early and had a healthy katogo breakfast in Mbarara, surrounded by a mixture of the hesitant step to city life and the reluctant rural feel portrayed in the loud shouts in Runyankore about milk and cows, and the unassuming buildings. The afternoon and evening had been spent playing loud music and ludo outdoors, and was moved along by engaging conversation and raucous laughter. The air here was cleaner, and we took deep cleansing breaths and enjoyed the gentle breeze that had replaced the oppressive heat of Kampala. After a nourishing dinner of local buffet, we went to bed early to prepare for the early morning drive from Kabale town to the forest.

We were up at 4 am, giddy with excitement. After a quick breakfast of omelettes we made ourselves washed down with scalding tea to warm us up, we were on our way. The drive was beautiful, the roads winding and steep, the view of the hills of Kabale and Kisoro breathtaking. In the distance, Muhavura hid behind a thick mist, like a bride awaiting her unveiling. We stopped many times to stretch, take pictures, and really just marvel at the sights.

By 8:00 am, we were at Ruhiija, ready to track and find the gorillas in Bwindi Impenetrable Forest.

Shoe game strong

 The guide explained that the gorillas are unpredictable and our journey to find them may be a short, medium, or long walk.

Picturesque, but brutal

We packed some water and some snacks, and tied our shoelaces a little tighter. Nothing had prepared us for this nonetheless: the steep hill, the slow torturous descent, and the exhaustion. I held on to the walking stick they provided at the starting point and wiped my brow.

The descent eventually got gentler and became almost flat. After jumping over a little stream, we started the climb. Conversation resumed even with the panting, and we hoped that ours would be the short walk. As if the Universe had heard, we were soon shushed. We had reached the gorillas!

Taxi Chronicles 201

A few weeks ago, I had a pain in my neck – well not exactly in my neck, but at the back of my head on the left side. I didn’t see it coming on so it must have slithered in and in a very sly way that I attributed it to a bad night’s sleep and that it will slither away in the same manner that it slithered in. However, the pain intensified – literally pushing me to a diet of pain killers. Pause a minute. You see, I am a paranoid person and after a few days, I had worried myself half to death about the effects the pain killers would have on my kidneys. Checking out the pain at the clinic, I was assured that there was nothing to worry about and was given some liniment to massage it away with. The recommended massage didn’t ease the pain but rather, it did a good job of distributing the pain equally along my neck muscles, that I took to walking with a haughty head held high posture and coupled with a mood that was worse than that of a nauseous exhausted expecting mother – not that I would really know what the mood of nauseous exhausted and expecting mother is like seeing I have never been pregnant. One evening while still trying to recover from this strange inexplicable pain, I walked to the taxi stage. The pain had by now upped its game to the next level and took delight in transforming itself into a headache if I did not keep a steady head. The taxi stage was a little crowded, but after a quick rekey, conclusions were drawn that everybody looked civilised and no one would fall prey to the new Miss Angry and Haughty that I had become. But once the approaching taxi stopped, civilisation went out of the window and in came an Aleppo in Syria battlefield. It was a battle at the barely opened door. Miss Almost-Louboutin Heels turned into Queen of Elbows, using her elbows to barge everybody out of her way. Mr. Cool and Composed was now a single minded ogre, almost crushing someone’s foot beneath his at the taxi door. Meanwhile, my headache was in a world of its own and all intense. Ten minutes later, another taxi pulled up. I took a cautious step forward while scared that my neck and head may not survive the escapade if I tried being a fighter. This group was a bit more civilized - probably because the taxi was only half empty or am I supposed to say it was half full? Anyway, we were a group of five at the door when a tall weary gentleman stepped in front of me, almost pushing me over. Though spent, I held onto the taxi door and drew breath. Something in my expression must have struck him when he turned, because he suddenly paused and gave me leave to enter undisturbed to a comfortable seat by the window. Having had a stranger save my life, my faith in humanity and taxis was restored. This, of course only lasted until the conductor refused to give me my change. I guess some things don’t change. Back to taxis! More taxi chronicles to follow here.

The Versatile Blogger Award

As I told Benjy in this tweet, I was very surprised by his nomination. I have been one of those really lazy bloggers for....well, ever since I started blogging. I am also very honoured (although I am a tad late to the party). Here are seven random facts about myself (in no particular order):

No. 4

I have freakishly long fingers, and an embarrassing shoe size.

No.7

I used to write about love a lot, but the actual experience has often left me speehless about how to describe it

No. 2

I procrastinate. A lot.

No.5

I make excellent tea. I don't know what I do differently, but it's like my hands have magic.

No.1

I read too fast, but remember nearly everything (no, this does not translate to super natural grades)

No.3

I never forget a face, esecially if a name is assigned to it.

No.6

I throw away about 80% of the things I write before anyone has the chance to read them.

The Rules

1. Thank the person that nominated you and include a link to their blog.

2. Nominate at least 15 boggers of your choice. When considering a fellow blogger for The Versatile Blogger Award, keep in mind the quality of their writing, the uniqueness of their subject matter, and the level of love displayed on their virtual page.

3.Link the nominees and let them know about their nomination

And, the nominees are (drumroll please)

Beewol
Edna Ninsiima
The Sultan's Wife
Qatahar Rayond Mujuni
Papa Shabani
Nevender
Pearl

and

Esther Kalenzi

I coud not make 15, but I tried. If you have already taken part, just skip along. If not, over to you!

THE MIRACLE

She sat on the verandah outside their home, her legs crossed at her ankles. Tina knew what happened when someone died in the neighbourhood. People came in huddled groups, lowering their voices to a conspiratorial whisper when they entered the house that had been visited by Walumbe*. The people would mostly be women, and they would embed themselves into the home like leeches. Tina had always hated it, even when her mother explained that it was the culture, and it helped the bereaved family cope.

Bereaved family.

She hated that term too. The black gate to their home, usually safely locked was wide open to let people in. A few cars were parked in the driveway, including the family car. A new group approached and she had to make a conscious effort to prevent herself from screaming. The women were dressed like they had planned their outfits, in well worn gomesi‘s**. Many of them had wrapped lesu‘s*** around themselves, which would double as sheets for their makeshift beds if they decided to stay the night. She felt before she heard one of the women in the new group come to pay her condolences. This one, though dressed like the rest, had some aristocratic quality about her, like she was the leader of the group. She spoke to Tina in English rather than the commonly spoken Luganda.

“Have you eaten?”

Tina looked up at her, hearing the words but failing to focus long enough to respond.

“You should eat something.”

Tina mumbled something that sounded distant even to her, but it seemed to satisfy the woman. She ambled away, her large behind filling out her green gomesi.Tina’s last thought before she fell off the chair and fainted was that the women should not move around with those hideous coloured nets in their hair.

When she woke up, it was dark. Her mind seemed to close over, to shield her from some reality. She heard voices in the living room, filter through the walls. There was a wail coming from the outside that sounded like a sharp shriek. Tina remained perfectly still, suddenly afraid of reality. She could hear her heart’s pounding from a bad dream, threatening to beat out of her chest. Her skin was clammy with sweat as she reached for her phone to check the time. A dark cloud hovered over her, threatened to choke her through the tears that now flowed freely over her face until she could taste the saltiness on her lips.

“Omwaana wange!!!”****

The shrieking woman had now become coherent in her wailing and Tina recognised her voice.

Sheila’s mother.

The cloud moved back, and the light shining on the darkness within her almost blinded her with self loathing. Sheila was alive, waking her up to have supper because the father used the supper table to do a roll call for the large household. Then she was cold, lying on her bed with a half smile on her face, like she had heard a good joke and was still amused by it. Sheila was alive, peeling mangoes and dicing them for everyone to eat. Then she was being carried out of the room while Ritah, their 8 year old sister cried quietly in the corner. Sheila was alive, irritating her by refusing to leave the bathroom when everybody had places to get to. Then she was lying in the living room, her face pale, with cotton stuffed in her ears and nose.

“Tina! Tina!”

Her mother’s consistent urging voice nudged her back to reality. She was sleeping on the lower bunk of the only double-decker bed in the stuffy room so that her mother had to crouch to touch her arm.

“Tina”

She turned, climbed out of the bed when her mother tucked part of the mosquito net into the mattress on the upper bed.

“You should eat.”

She remained silent, wiped her running nose with the sleeve of her sweater. A brief spell of dizziness almost had her sit on the other bed, but she fought it off and dragged her stockinged feet along.

“Come. There’s food in the kitchen.”

She walked on, through the living room where all the mourners sat, huddled together in groups.

Mourners.

There was another word she hated. It occurred to her that they were still in the same groups they had arrived in. Cliques were not for high school alone, it seemed. She followed her mother soundlessly to the row of rooms built outside, including the kitchen. The kitchen was almost unrecognizable, with larger saucepans than she had seen in the house before. She wondered briefly if her father had had to buy more saucepans for the vigil. It was also full of people she vaguely recognized as neighbours, bustling around cooking. She finally understood why these people came, that their presence took your mind off the death. Her mother was talking to one, asking if everyone had eaten, and then requesting another plate.

“Sit here. Eat.”

Tina received the plate heaped with steaming matooke, pilau and large boiled pieces of meat. The stew was thin and watery, large globes of fat floating through it. She made the sign of the cross and started loading food into her mouth, barely tasting the food. Behind her, near the last room on the row, the few male mourners stood in a circle around a fire they had all helped to build. She idly wondered where they had found firewood in this suburb, so that some burned brightly while the rest was piled behind the kitchen.

She ate quickly, until she could not take the barely salted food anymore. She put her plate on the metallic sink, mumbled her thanks. Then, with her phone in her hands, she walked away, past the hot fire to the lower part of the compound where nobody would think to look for her. She sat on the large septic tank, the hard concrete harsh on her soft buttocks. She pulled out her phone, checked the time. The time glowed back at her.

20:01.

Below that, there was a banner notifying her of 70 messages from 10 conversations. There was no message from him. She knew that a message from him would not make anything better, but she craved it anyway. She opened up their last chat, and started to type.

“I miss you.”

She deleted that, knowing how much he hated cheesy stuff. She started again:

“The mornings are the hardest since we fought…”

That was worse. She deleted it, gave up on sending him a message. He would come back. Or maybe not.

She lay back on the hard concrete, looked up at the sky. It was starless, and seemed to echo the melancholic mood in the household. Sheila came back to mind, and she smiled wistfully. They would all miss that loud laughter. The laughter had started to fade in the last days, when she got weaker and weaker. Now, Tina could not remember if she had even moved her arms when she had placed the pillow over her face. She remembered a weak muffled sound and a slight vibration before she had gone still. Maybe she had saved her from the slow painful death that the doctors had said was inevitable. Tina’s mother had prayed over Sheila day and night, believing that a miracle would happen. When she found her cold that morning, she looked almost like she had got her miracle.

“Maybe I was her miracle.”

It occurred to her that she was relieved that she could go back to school, away from all the things that had to be done for Sheila. The self loathing returned, stronger, and she almost choked on a fresh bout of tears.

*Walumbe: the god of death. According to the Kiganda traditional religion, it is this god that takes life.

**Gomesi: the traditional dress of the Baganda (Uganda)

***Lesu: pieces of cloth that Baganda women often wrap around themselves as the equivalent of an apron.

****Omwaana wange: “My child” (Luganda)

This piece was entered in a short story writing competition and got second place. You can read it here and leave a comment.

PAIN

The bile rose in my throat, almost choking me. Outside, the sun glared angrily, so that the small clinic was strewn with shades and bright spots. My stomach churned, the contents of my breakfast threatening to return. I took a deep breath and put my head between my legs, hoping it would not. My mother had gone through so much trouble to get me to eat it, insisting the Malaria medicine would nit work if I did not eat. The sweet woman, God bless her, really had no idea what was going on. A cool hand touched my forehead, soothing.

“Marita!”

A nurse shouted my name, inviting me to the lab. I received the small white bottle, and soon brought it back with the dark yellow liquid. It occurred to me that I was dehydrated, and I should listen to my mother and drink more. The wait was arduous, even though I knew what the test results would say.  My body was confirming my fears: the nausea that would not abate, the constant exhaustion, and that sense of foreboding I had had for weeks. Yet, a part of me remained hopeful, that the results from the first test had been wrong, that this was all a huge mistake and I was not supposed to be here, that I was not just another teenage pregnancy statistic. It was a cruel irony, after all the education I had received from home and school about “sex education”

The results came back sooner than I expected and my worst fears were confirmed, my eyes blurring with tears over the page as I read the familiar medical jargon in a doctor’s careless scrawl. HCG: Positive. It had always been negative in the past. I remembered my laugh whenever the doctors would ask about that. I remembered my mother’s confidence whenever I would take that test, slightly tinged with irritation that they had even considered that her sweet child would be pregnant. My head swam, and this time I could not hold back my breakfast, barely making it to the nearby bathroom before I let it out.

I was stronger when I returned. As it had been for the past 2 weeks or so, vomiting had made me feel better. I came back to the waiting room, and sat, making peace with my newly confirmed fears. I trained my eyes on a large green fly on the windowsill, too lazy to move even when the nurses who passed by tried to wave it away. They chatted happily as they went about their work, while the fly and I just sat there, unmoving. Hope stayed next to me, her silence both welcome and comforting.

I heard my name again, followed the nurse through the ply wood-lined corridors to another room. I was numb with apprehension, and sick to my stomach with fear. A few minutes later, I was lying on a high rickety bed with an old white bed sheet that was frayed at the edges. I closed my eyes and tried to think about school, about the exams I had missed and how hard I would study for them. Instead, his face came to mind, contorted with pleasure.

The nurse started to work, never bothering to warn me about how cold the metal was. I gripped the sides of the bed, tried to push away the guilt of ending what could have been a human life. The cold metal was pushed inside me, and the pain began, shooting from my center to every part of my body, so that I could not even cry. My raised legs started to cramp, and I realized I was crying because now I had a headache. Time seemed to stand still as she continued to work efficiently, saying mundane things that sounded like they were meant to be soothing. She pushed the metal again, and the suction resumed, the pain making me feel silly for complaining about menstrual cramps.

The pain was between my spread legs, in my lower abdomen, and even in my chest from the reality of what was happening. Suddenly, I was back in the dark classroom where this had started. I could hear the fabric of my flimsy blouse tearing, the harsh sound of my choked gasps as he mauled my bra-covered breasts. I could smell his cologne like he was here. Oppressive. Like his body against mine, like his lips against my neck as I said his name again and again, begging him to stop. I knew he heard the desperation in my voice not from arousal but fear. Yet he held me tighter, put his hands around my neck and dared me to scream. The strength of his grip made me realise that his slim form was deceptive, and there was little I could do.

 “Don’t scream. You know you’ve wanted this since we met.”

I gasped and choked on my tears, my voice suddenly useless when I needed it to save me.

“Almost done,” the nurse said

“No one will hear you anyway.”

“Please,” I heard a soft whimper, in my memory and in my present.

“Almost done dear.”

“You girls these days claim you like it rough.”

“Okay. I’m going to do this one more time, and then we can go.”

Through the haze of my tears, I saw the white syringe, filled with dark red blood. The nurse started over, pushed the metal in again. I steeled myself but once again, the pain knocked the breath out of my lungs. It felt like my insides were being ripped out, sucked into the large white syringe. His face came to mind again. For the first time, I wondered about forgiveness. How it really worked. If it really worked towards anything. If I had to "let go". For the first time, I had trouble thinking of myself as "forgiving". Suddenly, my penchant for "letting go" didn't seem like an asset. I closed my eyes and the pain washed over me like rain.