BROKEN CLAY: PART TWO
By Shanine L. Ahimbisibwe
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BIO
Shanine Ahimbisibwe is a Ugandan girl who is passionate about writing and story telling. She is a graduate of Organisational Psychology from Makerere University and a contributing writer to www.kweeta.com and co-founder of www.thisisUganda.org, a website dedicated to demystifying stereotypes about Uganda.
She enjoys reading, adventure, meeting new people and travelling.
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I was saved from the impending one sided conversation by the customer that walked in at that exact moment.
He spoke loudly and authoritatively. He was tall and of fairly good looks. The sort that always had an arrogant air about them. He looked about thirty four, had his hair shaven in the style we called ‘marine’ back in school. The hair that showed remnants of a thick afro neatly shaven in the side and stacked at the front. He wanted medicine for the sinusitis attack his wife or mother or daughter was having. I couldn’t tell which it was because he kept referring to her in pronouns. He switched to Luganda in a tone that suggested Rose could understand him better. Good choice, I thought. He was of medium build, tucked his crisp white T shirt into his black trousers and wore pointed shoes. I liked his spectacles. The thin metallic line across his temple could have made them invisible if not for the thick red rims.
He and Rose went back and forth between alternative medicines that could bring relief to his wife/mother/daughter and with a sigh of exasperation, he went out and returned with a female who hurriedly told Rose that she had had a terrible reaction to Cetrizine the night before and because it was still chilly, she needed a quick fix. I had buried my head deep in The Mockingbird and when I raised it, I was stunned by the beauty of the woman I saw!
When Dolly Parton sang about Jolene, a woman who could have taken her man if she’d wanted to, a woman she desperately begged not to take her man, I thought it was an exaggeration. But now I thought this woman could easily have been Jolene. With large white eyes and flawless skin the colour of creamy peanut butter, it’s no wonder this guy wanted her healed right away. Her long hair, tinted Brown with black roots and hints of gold, settled nicely around her shoulders and accentuated the fairness of her skin. I saw my reflection in the display mirrors behind the medicine and instantly felt so ugly. I wanted to sob.
My attention snapped back to the man when he told Rose and Miss Jolene of how he once had an allergic reaction to a certain type of medicine that when he ingested, he had a terrible rash for three days. I sighed out loud.
When Rose handed the lady the prescription, she smiled ever so lightly and exposed a dimple in her left cheek so deep it looked like a toothpick could fit in it. I watched them leave and for a moment I got stuck thinking about my pale and spotted dark skin that always looked like it could use a scrub. I thought about my hair, unruly and wild. I could never be as poised and graceful as she was. For the first time in a long time, I found myself feeling completely unattractive, which led me to Max. I should be glad and grateful that a handsome and intelligent man wants to have children with me but instead, what do I do? I run him off with my immature nonsense of not wanting to have children. Not wanting to be married by twenty seven to a man who goes to work and brings home the sugar like a good Ugandan man. But what is it that I wanted anyway?
I stayed at Rubbies long after Brian had come back with a truck load of new stock. Once he was in Kikuubo, he figured he could as well get the drugs for the next quarter. One more reason to love Brian! He was proactive and industrious. I couldn’t say no when he asked me to stay and stock take. An exercise I loathed more than Rose’s shoe dragging but welcomed anyway because I needed to take my mind off things.
One of the perks of living in an alcoholic’s house is waltzing in at midnight and not having to explain where you are coming from. I found him passed out in one of the dining chairs, a step up from the front door two days ago. I was impressed actually, that he had made it all 10 steps through the sitting room furniture, to the end of the room where the 8-seater dining set was. He looked uncomfortable, with his legs straightened out by his side and his head on the naked wood of the table. His hands hung like lifeless extensions of his body on both sides of his elongated torso. Only an unconscious person could find rest in that position. I couldn’t deal with him yet, I needed a shower and a change of clothes.
I walked past him into the short corridor that led to my room. I took a quick shower and put on my pyjamas. After closing my window and making my bed, I went back to the sitting room to rescue my father from that torturous sleeping position.
“Daddy… daddy…” I said while shaking him lightly to get him to wake up.
I lifted his left arm and slung it over my shoulder and tried to lift him up. I failed. He wasn’t a big guy. He was a frail man, lanky and of no build whatsoever. I always imagined I would win if he and I were ever placed in the same ring. He was a 61 year old man who had weighed 57 kilograms for the past 3 years, but something happened to his body when he passed out. Mum and I always managed to drag him along. Barely. But she was gone now and he had to get to his bed. As much as I despised him for constantly drinking himself into a stupor, I couldn’t leave him here. He would wake up hangover, with sore muscles from his odd sleeping posture and then drown in shame and self-pity from the realisation that I had seen him like this. I grabbed both his shoulders with a little more force, I shook him harder and didn’t stop until he stirred. He grunted, said something I couldn’t make out and swung his head back on the chair. He blacked out again.
I felt the agitation creeping up on me, but I didn’t want to get angry. I couldn’t waste my
emotions on a daily occurrence.
“Daddy… Come on. Daddy,” I said as I shook him harder. He woke with a start. This time he opened his eyes. “Tuuze kubyaama,” I implored him to wake up and go to bed.
His mouth curled into a tiny hopeless smile when he saw me. A smile that said he was happy I had found him and cared to take him to bed. He mumbled something that turned my agitation into a heavy stone in my throat. His mouth contorted like he wanted to say more, but nothing came out.
I half carried- half dragged him off to his bed, which was in the next room. Mechanically, I pulled back the covers on his bed with my left hand as my right supported him. I put him down in a sitting position and knelt in front of him to take off his shoes. For a drunk, he always had his shoes in the most complex knots. I carried his lower body by his feet onto the bed and pulled back the covers to his waist. I pulled down the mosquito net over the four poles that stood from the corners of his bed and tucked it into the sides of the mattress. When I was confident that he wouldn’t choke in his sleep, or get bitten my mosquitoes, I switched off the light and closed his door behind me. I didn’t notice I was crying until I felt the heat in my eyes and wetness on my cheeks. I went back to my bedroom and got ready to sleep.
***
I was eight years old the first time I saw him beat her. It was a moody Thursday evening following a rainy afternoon that had accompanied by thunder. That should have been a warning. He came back home that evening in a sullen mood, nothing unusual, his moods swung back and forth depending on the amount of money in his pocket. When he was in one of his moods, he was very irritable and grumpy. Anything provoked him into a quarrel that went on until he tired of talking and slept off. Salt was his ignition that evening. Looking back, it wasn’t what set him off, he needed a reason to go off, a justification for his anger, anger that nothing to do with us.
We sat on the four-sitter dining table as we silently ate our supper. My brother Andrew sat to his left and my mother to his right. The tension that evening was palpable as no one wanted to be the target of his mood swing. We said little, only in response to his questions and careful enough not to grant him an answer that wouldn’t displease him. We were doing well so far, despite the fact that he had an irritated look on his face. We all knew, but desperately hoped this wasn’t one of those nights we wouldn’t get any sleep.
“Pass me the salt,” He said to no one in particular.
Mum and Andrew quickly obliged, searching for the salt among the dishes and tins in the centre of the small table. It was not there. Mum said she would go and get it from the kitchen and
quickly stood up. The next sound I heard was a plate hitting the wall right behind her. Yellow peas flew across the table and splattered all over the white wall and shards of clay fell onto the floor.
Mum ducked, Andrew shook, I cried.
“What kind of stupid woman cooks food without salt?” he shouted at her. “What kind of food is this? This rubbish is not fit for a pig!”
He marched out of the dining room into the kitchen and came back with a Royco Tin in which we kept the salt. Quickly, he opened the tin and poured all the contents into the dish that had the peas and flung the empty tin at mum, who was picking up the broken clay from the floor. He sat back down in his chair, picked another plate and made another serving for himself. He instantly spat the spoonful he ate back onto the plate. I would have laughed if I wasn’t too scared and shaken from all the banging and shooting. He lifted his plate and banged it on the table before going out of the house. Mum told us to help her clear the mess before we could go to bed.
I didn’t want to go to bed. I wanted to stay up and watch WWE with Andrew, after waiting through the nine O’clock News on UTV. I wanted mum to plait my hair in those nice cornrows and to listen to dad’s commentary to the News. Going to bed now meant a long sleepless night of banging and shouting and crying. This wasn’t the first time he had displayed this behavior, in fact, this was standard procedure. We had grown accustomed to it that mum always found new things for us not to do, things that would make him angry. Whenever we would realize he was in a bad mood, we would do just about everything right. Lock all doors, put away all dishes into the cabinets, remove all sandals and slippers from the door, unplug all appliances not in use and switch off all the unnecessary lights. But he always found a way to turn anything into a shouting match. Only he shouted alone. Mum cried and prayed. Soon the alcohol would wear off, he would tire of his own noise and sleep too. Usually at two a.m.
Mum cleared the table and told us both to go to bed. She was on her way out of the house when she collided with him in the corridor. Next thing I heard was a slap followed by a wail from my mum and a trail of insults and curses from him. Andrew quickly got on his feet and made for the scene of the crime. I followed behind. We found her seated on the floor with the head in her hands. On seeing us, my father retreated to the darkness outside the house. I saw fear in his eyes,
I was tempted to think he was afraid of Andrew. At fifteen years, Andrew was almost his height and much bigger than him. After years of emotional and verbal abuse, that was the first time he had ever laid a hand on her. It wouldn’t be the last.
Andrew and I went to boarding schools, came back for holidays and found dad more bitter and abusive but mum never lost her strong will and calm nature. She found a church that she rooted herself into and became more prayerful. Prayer filled the deep holes in her heart. We soon tired of asking her to leave him and made peace with our reality. Only difference was that Andrew and I could leave at any time. Soon Andrew would go to University and I would go back to boarding school, but mum would not go anywhere. This was her life. She had no escape. She said she stayed for us, to watch us grow and give us the best life she could, but I knew she loved him deeply and was fully devoted to him. It was then that I made a decision to never be in her situation. I would not put myself in her position. I would not have any children to compromise my happiness, and considering very few childless marriages stood the test of time, I wouldn’t get married altogether.
As I grew older, pictures of cute babies and glamorous weddings on Bella Naija did nothing to my emotions. I was embarrassed to admit that I did not find babies as joyful as every other woman did. My resolve strengthened. I dated less, went out more and traveled at every chance.
***
Sundays were always family days. Mum, dad, Andrew and I always spent Sundays together. In the good old days, dad took us to the beach or to fancy places for lunch. Now that Andrew was married and mum was off trying to reboot her life, Sundays were mine and daddy’s days. Max often came around too, he would have long discussions with dad on politics and religion as I cooked and busied myself elsewhere. I woke up to find two missed calls from Max and Sandra. I returned Sandra’s first, I knew why Max was calling and maybe Sandra had some happy news.
“Hi Sandra, sorry I missed your call,” I said as I got out of bed.
“Sheila, good morning. How are you?” she said. Sandra had an even tone that didn’t
express happiness or sadness. I could never tell what she was going to say next.
“I’m okay, Watsup?”
“Not much, what are you up to day?”
“The usual. Home, housework, lunch. Nkeebyo,” I said as I put on my slippers and set to organizing my room. I always managed to make a mess of it during the week, Sundays were my only days to tidy up.
“Oh okay. Wanted you to push me to Rick’s barbeque,” she said.
“Sorry love, would have wanted to come but Andrew and Max are coming,” “It’s okay my dear. Let me ask Becky,”
“Kale. Let me know how it goes,” I said and hang up. She needed a cushion for Rick. There were some lines exes shouldn’t cross and she often found herself beyond them. A buffer would help her enjoy the party and stay in line at the same time. Becky was the girl for the job.
I tidied my room and checked on my father, just to confirm that he was still breathing. When I found he was okay, I went into the kitchen and set to make breakfast. My phone rang as I picked the eggs from the tray.
“Hi Max, sorry I missed your call,” I said apologetically.
“Hi babe, that’s fine. How are you?” he asked.
“I’m okay. Just going to make breakfast,” I said as I lined my condiments for an omelet.
“Oh okay. What are you cooking?” he asked reflexively.
eggs.
“Eggs. And sausages. You know my dad likes sausages,” I said and set to cracking the
“Oh cool. He eats well,” “But Of course,”
“Can I see you today?”
”yeah, yeah. You could come home for lunch,” “Okay. What time should I come?”
“Three,”
“Cool. See you then,” he said and hung up.
Dad woke up a few minutes after eleven a.m. looking emaciated and pale. He looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in a week, probably so considering his bad appetite. He found me in the kitchen and offered a quick greeting before disappearing back into his room. He reemerged a few minutes later looking like a totally different person. Nothing a shower and some Vaseline couldn’t do. We chatted a little before he stood up to go off in search for some gin to get his day started. He did not know how to be sober, ever since mum’s estrangement three months ago, he was unbearably sad. I didn’t understand why, considering how unhappy he made her.
He had always been a good man. Which made me so angry because he did such bad things. He was kind, empathetic and loving. I knew he loved me, Andrew and mum, despite all the trauma he put us through. When he drunk he became a totally different person. His smiling eyes turned glassy and cold, his warm comforting words turned to daggers and swords. He was a totally different person under the blanket of alcohol, and for this I hurt so much. I couldn’t hate him completely for all the good he was, for his sacrificial and unconditional love but I couldn’t love him completely either, for the monster he was and how badly he treated my mum. What was left in between was pain. Looking at him, both sober and drunk caused me great agony. I wouldn’t subject anyone to this kind of emotional turmoil, in the event that history repeated itself and I married my father. Children were off the table for me.
“Daddy you should eat before you go,” I said.
“Thank you, thank you very much, let me eat when I come back. I won’t take long,” he said stepping out of the door.
“Please eat now. You know how sausages get when they become cold,” I said, trying not to sound as desperate as I was.
“Okay, okay. Thank you,” “It’s on the table,”
We both sat on the dining table and ate, making conversation in between mouthfuls.
“Max is coming for lunch today,” I told him.
This was a more a reminder for him to be on his best behavior. If there was anything that would make him lay off alcohol, it had to be a prospective husband for his only daughter.
“Ohh he is welcome. What time will he come?” He asked as he bit into his sausage, a task that looked painful. He hated food as much as he liked the bottle.
“Around three. Andrew and Lucy are coming too,” I said. “I think today we should eat muchomo. This food yaantama,” I did not want to go through the process of cooking up a storm for only five people who would leave me stuck with dirty dishes and leftovers.
“Okay. We shall be happy to see them,” he said as he finished his sausage and stood up to go. “Keep this for me in the fridge, I will finish it when I come back,”
For all his faults, he was a gracious host who loved visitors and stopped at nothing to make them feel at home.
Andrew and Lucy were the first to arrive shortly after two p.m. They had met in Kabale where Andrew had been doing his internship at Kabale Hopsital and had been married for three years now. I liked Lucy. She made Andrew less reserved and more carefree. That was good enough for me. Lucy helped me set the table as I put the rest of the marinated meat onto the grill. This promised to be a good afternoon. Max arrived a little after three p.m.
We ate and made general conversation, all the while steering clear of any topics that involved mum. That left us with a tiny margin of things we could discuss. Lucy helped me clean up as dad, Andrew and Max watched a presidential briefing on TV.
Later, when the food had settled in our stomachs, Max and I went to the backyard. Our unfinished business had hung above us like a dark cloud all through lunch and it was time to resolve it. We both knew a decision had to be taken. He told me all about his plans to have a family that was big and cohesive. He couldn’t convince me to have his children any further, and he wouldn’t try anymore. He never understood why any woman, why I wouldn’t want to have any children, but he would let me be. A few words later, a few sentiments later, we both made a decision to pursue our respective desires.
I was relieved that we had come to a decision that meant we could still be friends. I was not ready to commit fully to Max, to anyone, but I couldn’t stand the thought of him not being in my life. I knew I was being childish and cowardly, not all men were the same. Max was not my father and I would not be my mother. Maybe it was time for me to reconsider.
