RED AND GREEN WRAPS: PART TWO
Based on a True Story!
BY ARINDA DAPHINE
PLEASE find PART ONE here!
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BIO
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A mountain of wood had been erected and today he would cover the heap in red soil and green grass and green branches until the only crevices left uncovered were the outlets for smoke.
On his way to the Kyabihambe forest, he met one of his friends returning from school.
“Ma muh uh uhuma ah,” Abu said to the tall boy with very wide nostrils who was carrying a blue paper file.
They shook hands and the tall boy asked if Abu had witnessed Kigarama Hill boys being whooped by Gwibaare Boys at yesterday’s match.
Abu smiled, lowered his head a little ashamed. He had a wide dimple on his right check that stood out. He shook his head because he was a Kigarama Hill boy and although he had not played with the team, their failure was his failure too.
“Are you going to burn for charcoal today?” the tall boy asked, noticing the panga in Abu’s hand.
Abu nodded and pointed towards the north indicating that he was headed to Kyabihambe Hill. The boys waved farewell to each other and parted ways.
There had been a football match at the Rugyeyo Primary School pitch the previous day and Abu had attended — as a spectator and a victim of public ridicule. Children teased him whenever he was part of a group. He would know when they were insulting him by the way they moved their mouths, they way their upper jaws met with the lower jaw, the way their tongues rose and fell and curled when they mouthed ‘ekiteeta’ or ‘ekilagi’.
He saw lips move and fingers point to him from little children peering at him as he walked past. ‘Ekiteeta’, ‘Ekilagi.” These names made him want to retreat back home to his grandmother where no one pointed fingers at him or mouthed words that he could not hear but whose mockery he could feel. When older children pointed him out to their siblings, he knew they said such things as, look, there goes the village fool who cannot talk or hear — his parents knew better not to send him to school- he is so stupid that he can’t even be allowed to take sheep grazing.
Abu knew sheep were silly, he saw how the ones at home behaved, sometimes walking into walls yet they had eyes to see, other times walking in the opposite direction yet the herdsman was directing them in another direction with heavy lashes. Abu would not compare himself with silly sheep and he thought that given a chance to attend school, he would be best in class. Grandmother had taught him how to count and his father had taught him how to write his name. Of course he was smarter than the miserable kids in his neighbourhood; them that sat scratching like mad boys because jiggers had found home in their toes- laying eggs and producing pus- causing an infuriating itch. Did they not have the decency to take a shower or to pour paraffin over the toe like his Kaaka had taught him.
As he went past the last little town at the foothills of Kigarama, three naughty children of about four came up to him and moved their mouths in funny ways that he had to stop himself from bursting out in laughter. They would pull their ugly and elastic lips into a pout and slap them heavily against each other. They looked like little monkeys. He knew they were making fun of the way he talked but Abu was in a good mood that afternoon and did not take offence.
He was excited. He was going to make money this Christmas season. If the wood burned well, if the fire was regulated by constantly adding soil and greenery on top of the heap, and if itonly baked the stems from greens and browns to coal black, he would be able to collect at least two sacks of charcoal.
The boy was targeting a particular family on Bitabo-Bye-Ngwe Hill, a rich family that had a storied house and used charcoal to cook instead of firewood. They stayed in Kampala during the year and only came to the village during the Christmas season. He thought that if he sold each sack at ten thousand shillings, he would make good money to buy his Kaaka a new Busuti to wear to church on Christmas day. All he prayed for was for the skies to be graceful to him and keep dry that day, that night and the next day.
Phirimoni and Noweri were already on their way to the forest to collect firewood like their mother had instructed. The Kyabihambe forest was nearer to their home and that is where they were headed.
Abu got to the forest first. He was delighted to see his mountain of wood still standing high. Using the panga he had carried with him, he cut branches from the nearby weak trees — the ones he had not cut down because they were too small to make good charcoal. Some branches he reached by jumping high up in the air with the panga raised above his head, for others he had to climb up the weak trees and swing slightly along with the stem as he struggled to thrust his arm as far as he could to reach a leafy branch. With each thrust, each of his black sturdy upper arms contracted into a mould of hard muscle.
When he had collected enough leafy branches from the nearby trees, he put them together near the wood-mountain and left to look for clumps of thick bladed wild grass. There was not much grass in the clearing he had chosen to build his wood-mountain and so he had to walk a distance away to the next fold of the Hill to find thick grass.
Phirimoni had a small household knife with him to use for chopping stubborn twigs and branches that he could not break with his hands. As the boys walked he playfully used his knife to chop flowers on the pathways and any short shrubbery on the path. He longed for his father to return and he had convinced himself that scoring twenty four aggregates was not that bad, after all he was among the top three performers in his class. He would work hard the next year to be graded in Division two.
That December afternoon, the sky was a beautiful clear blue with a few scattered white clouds. The sun wasbright as Abu run across the Hill, crossing from one fold to the next, jumping over ridges, before he finally arrived at a lash green expanse that had the thick and heavy grass he needed. With his panga, he dug into the soil and with his strong hands he uprooted clumps of grass with soil still attached to their roots. He then begun to fill the sack he had carried with him.
As Phirimoni walked over Kyabihambe Hill, he picked out the trees with low hanging branches that he could reach. He had to be selective of the branches because all he had with him was a kitchen knife that could not chop into thick wood. It had not been a fruitful harvest so far. They had been walking a while and Phirimoni only hand a handful of firewood.
Suddenly the harvest seemed to appear. Phirimoni paused in his step as he stared at a heap of branches assembled on the ground. This was unbelievable. Of course it belonged to a charcoal burner, he could tell from the high stacked stems standing in front of him and the heap of soil and the green branches but there was no charcoal burner in the vicinity. If I am going to do anything, I have to do it now, he thought. Quickly he turned to Noweri who was trudging on from a distance.
“Stay here and look out for anyone coming. I have found firewood,” Phirimoni said, pointing at the branches on the ground.
Phirimoni continued to the branches and started taking off leaves on the ones he thought would make good firewood if put out to dry in the sun for a few days. He worked fast. He knew that most charcoal burners were older people with many responsibilities who often left their stacks of stems unattended in the afternoons. The actual burning of the wood into charcoal was done in the evening when the sun had set, the heat of the day not being conducive for slow baking of the wood.
Abu was walking back to his wood-mountain. He was dragging the sack of grass along the ground with one hand and had his panga in his other hand.iHe stopped as he noticed a person de-leafing the branches he had gathered earlier. He was immediately displeased with what he saw and he run down the hill towards his wood-mountain, abandoning the sac of grass because it was heavy.
Phirimoni heard footsteps headed towards him in quick movement. He looked up and saw Abu. He knew Abu, the deaf-mute from Kigarama Hill. He went back to de-leafing the branches, not suspecting that the deaf-mute may be the owner of the branches.
Abu reached deep within for the loudest voice he could master and said to the skinny brown boy who was stealing his wood , “Stop doing that, I need the leaves on those branches, you thief, stop taking my branches.” He attempted to talk but all Phirimoni heard were very comic utterances from Ekiragi.
“Noweri, come and see Ekiragi,” he called out to his brother.
Abu felt a rage rise in him when he read Phirimoni’s lips and recognized the insulting name, Ekiragi. He clenched his fists and only then became conscious that he was still carrying a panga in his left hand. He pointed to the branches and then pointed back to himself, informing Phirimoni that the branches were his. His face wore anger and patience and intensity simultaneously.
Phirimoni understood what Abu was communicating but it was unbelievable to him that a deaf-mute could be the charcoal burner. Instead he laughed out loud each time Abu made faces and even more laughable utterances. Noweri joined in the laughing.
Abu felt more agitated. He drew closer to Phirimoni in two rapid steps that throbbed of command and anger. He spoke to them and told them to stop. He said that they should stop stealing his branches. He said that the land they were standing on was owned by his father. He said that the wood was his, the soil was his, the branches were his and the leaves on the branches too. He spoke but Phirimoni and Noweri laughed and pointed and laughed some more and teased.
“Ma muh uh uhuma ah, keeeee, uh ma,” Phirimoni imitated the sounds Abu made each time he tried to say something.
Noweri laughed even harder and made the same sounds that Phirimoni had made. Phirimoni begun to gather the branches he had de-leafed. Abu leaned forward and wrestled the branches out of Phirimoni’s hands, the sharp bladed panga still clenched in his hands. The two boys struggled for a while, Phirimoni claiming ownership of the branches, Abu defending what was rightfully his.
“You daft boy, give me my firewood. It is mine. Noweri, a mad boy is fighting your brother,” Phirimoni called to his little brother.
Instinctively, Noweri picked a stone and threw it at the deaf-mute wrestling with his elder brother. Abu stood up and said to the little boy, “Stop throwing stones and stop it right now.” Noweri only laughed and continued throwing stones. He knew that deaf-mute people were mad and you threw stones at mad people. He threw two stones, three stones, and then Abu turned to Phirimoni and said to him, “Stop your little brother, tell him to stop throwing stones at me.” Phirimoni just ignored him.
Phirimoni was bent over, binding the sticks of firewood with fibre when Abu pushed him causing him to topple over, face first to the ground. Noweri stopped throwing stones and watched the two older boys.
The skinny brown boy got to his feet and faced Abu who was standing in front of him, brandishing a panga. Abu was saying to Phirimoni that this is my father’s forest, why was he disrespecting him in his father’s forest? Who did he think he was? Taking his branches without asking, throwing stones at him and calling him names. Who did he think he was?
Noticing the silver bade sword in the deaf-mute’s hand, Phirimoni picked up his kitchen knife from the ground and threatened to go at the boy if he came any closer. Although Phirimoni could see that the boy in front of him had a stronger body than his, he was not in the least intimidated because he assumed that deaf-mute people are mentally incapacitated and unable to fight back.
Noweri stood still and watched, excited that he was going to see two boys fight but terrified by the weapons each boy held in his hand. He picked one last stone and threw it at Abu, heating his nape. Abu turned and looked intently at Noweri who, noticing the terror in the red teary eyes, run towards Phirimoni and stood behind him. Phirimoni laughed when the deaf-mute turned and spoke very unintelligible words to Noweri, nearly biting his tongue in the process.
Abu moved closer to Phirimoni. Phirimoni said to his brother, “Run away and do not get hurt.” Noweri run and stood at a distance where he was still able to see the two boys.
As Abu inched closer, it occurred to Phirimoni that he only had a kitchen knife while Abu had a panga. Without thinking, he threw his knife at Abu, just missing Abu’s left eye and bruising the boy’s cheek.
The knife flew at Abu unexpectedly and he had not ducked to avoid the hit. Realising that he had actually thrown a knife at someone,with a panga, Phirimoni started to run but he tipped over the bundle of branches at his feet.
A savage rage consumed Abu as he stood over Phirimoni who was still on the ground, head shielded between his thighs because he had seen Abu raise the panga. Before he could look again, a sharp heavy metal landed on his shoulder. Phirimoni screamed, Noweri heard the scream, saw the blood and run away as fast as he could. Abu had cut Phirimoni with a Panga. Noweri could not stop the fighting. He had to report to an adult immediately. He hoped his mother was back from the market. He run and did not look back.
Phirimoni remained alone, with flagged limps that could not lift him off the ground and a suddenly numb shoulder. Abu did not stop raising his hand, he did not stop bringing down the sharp panga with brute force. He continued to cut and bruise and chop. Phirimoni remained in the same spot, helpless. No sound left his mouth. He was suddenly aware of how dense the forest was, how far he was from home and how unlikely it was that Noweri would make it home and back with their mother to save him.
Abu continued to raise and bring down his panga. He was chopping trees to burn for charcoal, he was cutting down branches to use as a flame regulator, he was cutting and cutting and the liquid gashing out at him from Phirimoni’s body was only sap from the trees. He raised his panga one last time and before he brought it down again, he saw a boy laying in a pool of blood, helpless and limp, and he became conscious that the trees he had been felling were a tall skinny boy trying to stand up. That the branches he had been cutting were the arms of a boy flailing about, begging for mercy and that the sap gushing at him was in fact red and it splashed from a boy’s body.
He immediately dropped the blood-soaked panga and looked around. He was terrified. What had he done? He looked at the boy who lay at his feet and looked around again. He ran five metres away from the blood and the limp body on the ground. A minute later he was back. He looked at the boy on the ground again, saw the swollen cuts his panga has left on the boy’s back, shoulder, arms, skull, legs,- what had he done?
He reached out with his hand to awaken the boy on the ground. He knelt besides him and shook him hard but the boy did not budge. The boy’s face was pressed flat against the ground. Abu lifted the face and saw that that the boy’s eyes were closed and his mouth was wide open. He pulled his hands away and the boy’s head fell back to the ground as lifeless as a log.
Abu looked around, he did not see the younger boy who had thrown stones at him. He knew he had to hide somewhere because soon, the little boy would be back with an adult or other children and Abu would be in trouble. He looked at his grey shirt and black shots. He had blood on his shirt. His shorts had dump patches but being black, they did not show blood. He took off his shirt and threw it at the lifeless boy on the ground.
He looked around and saw the panga he had been wielding. It had blood sticking to its wooden handle and its silver blade. He looked around, the wood-mountain was still there. The soil was still there. The branches were still gathered on the ground. The lifeless boy was still laying on the carpet of leaves he had pulled off some of the branches. If the boy was dead, he had to bury him before anyone came. He thought of digging a grave but remembered he had no hoe. All he had was a panga and soil, and branches and tree stems. He could not dig a grave. But if he found a ravine on the Hill, he could drag the boy’s body there. Abu dragged Phirimoni’s body for ten metres towards a narrow gorge along the west slope of Kyabihambe Hill.
A dark cloud stood over Kyabihambe hill and Phirimoni lay in a ravine, his body wrapped in red swollen cuts, blood oozing from the panga inflicted wounds, his breath still.
The forest whispered ‘shhhhhh, shhhhh’ as Noweri sped through the trees with a determination to share what he had witnessed with the first human soul he met.
Abu stood, arms shaking, legs cold, left eye twitching, , his hands bruised and tired, his conscience deeply disappointed in how he had managed his rage. He had to cover up the boy’s body. He went back to the place he had abandoned the sac of grass and dragged it towards the ravine. Abu poured the green clumps of grass on top of Phirimoni’s body. He dragged the branches he had cut earlier to the ravine and threw these over Phirimoni’s body.
Abu hoped the green grass and green branches would hide the dead boy’s body perfectly. He hoped that when the village came looking, the greenery would act as a cover to shield the terrible thing he had done.
Abu gazed at the dark cloud over Kyabihambe hill and his eyes teared. He cried rivers and prayed for the skies to wash him clean of all the blood. His bloodshot eyes stared at the ground where the panga had risen and fallen fatally upon a young boy and he wished for the rain to fall heavily and wash clean the clearing in front of his wood-mountain.
Two boys waited to be found that December the 11th; one buried in a ravine on Kyabihambe Hill, in red and green wraps, the other running as far away from Kyabihambe Hill, wrapped in rain and regret.
