The Mother's Fingers

A biography of Bukirwa Specioza Kaweesa

Under the emerald canopy of a banana plantation, on the 20th of September, 1942 a lady lay in labor pains. The lush, green leaves above swayed gently, as if whispering their support and cheering courage amidst her pains.

Holding both hands tight on 2 young banana suckers was a brave lady, Bingwankoto Nalubowa Mariya, heroically enduring sharp knife edge labor pains. Occasionally she made salient screams, her eyes gazing at the towering banana plants as pin sharp pain sliced through her entire body.

Standing amidst the rustling leaves and whispering winds that awaited my arrival was Eseeri Namutebi, my paternal grandmother. Jjaajja Eseeri had herself gone through the same experience over 12 times and had physically witnessed over 30 souls ascending to earth from the same locality. 

Eseeri wrapped her big body in a brown cotton cloth tightly tied across her chest slightly above her retired breasts. Her sooty black skin had a secret plan to rebel and secede off the body as it folded off forming wrinkles all over. Jjaajja’s body was impolitely pursuing retirement as fresh was falling off the bones by itself. Her ash-like hair stood straight on her rectangular head, a box holding unending wisdom and experience.

She forced her back into a double bend, torched her round eyes wide down to the lady in pain. From her years of experience she knew that was the time. Like a vehicle co-driver reading the map to the driver she started giving constant instruction/dictation

 “Now Push, harder, don’t breath in too much, you are a strong lady, push harder. It's coming push, harder, You are great, one more harder. You are a winner, harder you are about to make it. Push slowly, harder, push…”  

She shout out such courage and guidance statements to her sometimes shouting out rudely, gently, harshly and courageously in one go. 

It was around mid-day amongst the towering banana plants that I landed in her hands, with the lush greenery serving as my first cradle   

She quickly chopped the umbilical code, tied it on both ends, turned me around, pressed her hand on my chest, turned me upside down to kick start my first breath to her assurance came a wild wail from me, a cry that welcomes everyone to the world, a cry that causes smiles to mothers, a cry that washes away all mothers’ labor pains and wipes out all the “Siribiddamu” (I will never give birth again) vows most women make during labor pains.

“She is a girl” Jjaajja triumphantly announced as she rolled me in a clean white cotton cloth (Engozi) resting me on my mother’s chest.

She cleared the place, took the after birth to its traditional place, ekitooke kya Gonja then carried the baby and slowly walked the mother side by side towards the main house a distance away. 

My entrance into this world was far from conventional, as it lay between a transition from tradition to modern ways of doing things. There were no hospitals nearby to accommodate new births on the first attempt. My village Bulerejje in Ssingo County, Kikandwa sub county had the nearest health facility at the just established Kikandwa catholic parish about 30 Kms away. 

My father, Mr Nsonzi Petero Lwanga, stood by as a figure of strength and support from within the house from where he waited for news from the plantation heart in hand. He was a towering figure, charcoal black in color, his forehead was deeply separated from his face with a deep tunnel that equally divided the face just above the nose. His nose, high and wide, stood prominently visible in his face. He always dug his fingers deep into his unharvested hair whenever in deep thoughts as he was this time. 

The colonial and Buganda government was arguing for people to utilize new health facilities as the only way to avoid child mother mortality. But accessing the health facility at kikandwa one had to go through labor pains of a sort. 

A chair tied tight on a bicycle carrier was the only and quickest ambulance accessible. Mr Nsonzi was In deep thoughts because he knew the struggle he had to go through if a “reference” was made from the banana plantation labor suit to a white mans clinic. 

He had to borrow a bicycle from Ssalongo Nswazaluguudo living on the lower side of the village. Then rush to elder Ssenkoole Mariko on the upper end of the village, the only one who had the seat/chair fit to attach to a bicycle for the sick to be lifted in comfortably seated. Thereafter he had to look for strong youths from their hunting or fishing expeditions to ride the sick to the clinic. He knew Ssalongo Nswazaluguudo’s bike wasn’t to be ridden by any youth around as he always attached that condition to it whenever lending it out. But he was confident just in case he was to use Ssalongo’s bicyle, his son Kizza  would come along to ride the sick. Just going through the sweating process of getting an “ambulance” would leave the sick to just lack. 

A smile on his face aired out all his happiness as he saw grandmother happily walking in holding a baby in her hands. My mother had successfully brought her 5th soul to the world via the same route

As a child I had to stay indoors for a month to avoid infections and contamination from people. Thereafter the whole village came in to congratulate my mother as news filtered through, the home was in celebratory mood almost for that whole month in which I was invisible to the public

The following day my Jjaajja Eseeri Namutebi armed with a panga, a knife and basket escorted by my  elder sister Nabbanja, attacked the forests on a mission to pick a collection of herbs both tree bucks and leaves of different plants assortments that were cooked together to make ‘’ekyogero.” For the newborn.

 A ‘’Ekyogero’’ is an assortment of different herbs combined, each herb therein has a different unequaled purpose. Some anti-biotics, some anti-malaria others nourishes the skin, others clear the respiratory system, others help connect the child to the old  generation etc

‘’Omwoloola,’’ a tree whose tree bucks were collected had a medical value to prevent newborn from developing “goose pimples” all over the body and it was the first and major component of ekyogero.

Namirembe a plant that calms down temperature and prevents malaria, but as its name, it is meant to make the child calm and  peaceful to society  in future.

Olweza: The luck plant. A crawling plant known for bringing good luck to whoever bathes it

Kayayana. To make child loved, adored and admired wherever he/she goes

Akawulira. For submissiveness and respect to society.

Jjaajja collected these and more cooked them and the Kyogero shower started. 

Bulerejje, my birthplace, was a village bathed in the vibrant hues of green, courtesy of the fertile land that sustained us. The banana plantations stretched as far as the eye could see, their broad leaves providing shade and sustenance to the community. Cassave, potato gardens dotted in, while yams of all tribes (Kisebe, Ndaggu, Nandigoya, Balugu etc) crippled over tree tops. The air was always thick with the scent of ripe fruits; Jackfruits, guavas, Mango’s, avocado, mention it.

The village was equally filled with sounds of nature from all tribes of birds small, big,  domestic and wild. (Obusanke, Endegeya, Endiisa, Ettutuma, EnyangeAmayuba, emkodooli, Enkusu, kamukukulu, Kamunye, Magga etc) led the lineup for small birds while Mpabaana, Enkofu, Enkwaale, Engaanga, Kalooli, Lukunyukunyu, Ekokotezi, Kaleeba, Muzinge, Ssekanyolwa, Ngaali etc mixed the sound of wild. On the domestic scene we had Enkoko, enjiibwa, embaata and Ssekoko. A combination of their sounds always made the day jovial and the mornings romantic.

Insects, both edible and poisonous, put a desired mix in the natural sound. Edible ones like the mighty White ants (Enswa), grasshoppers (Ensenene), crickets (amayenje) made sumptuous meals at different seasons of the year.  Those dangerous to humanity ranging from red ants to snakes of all tribes (Ensweera, Namagoye, Ttemankima, Ttimba, Lubirango  etc) graced the village

The village well, Nalongo, lay streaming for miles to River Mayanja flowing through ……. Forest one of the many forests and swamps that dotted the village. Forests provided the entire village with fuel, in the form of firewood for generation, food and source in the form of wild animals of all kinds that hunters  hunted. Forests were a natural pharmacy from which the community got all kinds of medicine and drugs. Medicinal plants, and trees from which leaves, roots and bucks were got to heal different ailments grew wild in those forests

Swamps on the other side, besides being natural coolants provided the village with all types of scale-less fish, (Emmamba, emmale, Ensonzi, Omulende etc) while the river Mayanja and Lake Wamala provided us with all scaled fish (Engege, Eningu, Kasulu, Ssemutundu)

Life in Bulerejje was simple, dictated by the rhythms of the earth and the cycles of the seasons Toggo and Ddumbi (Dry and wet).  The plants, trees, animals, insects and humans mix was a constant reminder of the interconnectedness between nature and life, a cycle of interdependence.

After a month, I was taken to my grandfather by both my parents to be named and initiated into the clan. Mr. Kalemba, my paternal grandfather lived on the same village. Very early morning In his sitting room, my mother handed me to my father who handed me to him. He held me upwards, looked directly into my face, checked my feet then handed me to his sister Namagembe Nzerena who sat next to him for a final check and approval.  

She turned a sharp look towards my mother. She looked confident and unshaken. Namagembe pulled stockings off my small feet, checked each one by one, turned to my fingers, nails then face. Total silence followed in the room as we waited for her pronouncement. After about a minutes silence, like a referee off a VAR video check, or a councilor giving HIV test result or a medic giving long awaited DNA test result my Ssenga turned her face into my grandfather’s direction and jovially declared:

 “Ono waffe ddala” This child is ours from our blood. She said as she handed me back to grandfather who laid me on a small table in front of him. 

With his palms resting on me, he  looked into my mothers direction and asked her: 

“Is Nsonzi my son the father of this child?“ Yes sir, affirmed my mother.

“Is this child ours, from the Mbogo clan lineage?” He asked her again to which she confidently affirmed to which the grandfather quickly added: 

“So you confirm she is ours, should I give her our clan name?”  

“Yes father, name her” She responded

Convinced, he placed his hand over my small head and started clan ancestral invocations. Directly addressing me, he started “reminding me” of all my lineage: 

“You belong to the Mbogo clan, you are a granddaughter of  Kalemba, granddaughter of Ssenkabirwa,  from a household of …….. in the lineage of …….. From the ssiga of Mutigwajuuni your clan head is Kayiira e Mugulu who leads you to Kabaka. 

You are a Muganda by tribe, always love, cherish and respect your tribe, culture and Kabaka. Mbogo is a clan of great courageous fighters, be a fighter, a straggler, never be a coward, a betrayer or an opportunist. Be hardworking, creative, supportive and polite to people. 

“From today your name will be:” He kept silent, surveyed the room with his eyes lifted both his hands up, then as he placed them back to my chest he triumphantly declared:

“You will be called Bukirwa.” Everyone in the room looked satisfied and welcomed the name.

“Bukirwa” grandfather called me by my name for the first time then went on to explain its meaning and why he chose it for me.

“The name Bukirwa is a short for a Luganda proverb “Obujja Bukirwa Obusagwa”. (Jealousy is more toxic than poison." He said spirits in a dream he had last night chose the spirit of Bukirwa to live in that child’s body. 

“Bukirwa,” he went on to explain 

“Was my great grandmother, she was an aunt to his grandfather. She was a very successful woman who had many successful children, a lot of property, animals, cultivated a variety of crops and she lived a very long life from Emisuuna to Emicwa era recently when she died but her home was still an admiration for everyone. So be like her,” He moved his left hand to my forehead and while gently tapping my chest with his left hand he continued:

“Bukirwa, be a respectful person, be a prosperous woman, let luck always follow you and evil should never torch you. Be accommodative to people, respect your elders, but most important love your clan, tribe, respect and be royal to your Kabaka and the Kingdom of Buganda” 

He concluded his long invocations by placing money in my small hands. When I held it tight, happiness filled the room as everyone said I will be a rich successful person.

As I grew up in this verdant paradise, my birth and the land that cradled me became a part of my identity. The plantation, with its abundance and resilience, mirrored the spirit of our people. It was in this lush, green haven that I learned the value of hard work, resilience and the enduring bond between humanity and nature. I learnt that with nature we can live stably, without nature our life becomes a misery. 

My parents, though not wealthy in material terms, were rich in wisdom and love, guiding me through the early years of my life with gentle hands and hearts full of hope to harness nature for success.

Chapter 2

Growing up, adolescence and marriage. 

At the age of 6 in 1947 I was entrusted to my SSENGA Namagembe Nzerena whose home was in Sala village Busiro county. Her duty was not just to bring me up but to mentor me into a responsible self-sustaining woman, prepare me for marriage in all aspects and groom me into an unwavering catholic.  

Whoever was assigned a child, it was for life, and she or he was totally responsible for the proper upbringing of that child. All caretakers/parents feared one thing, being ashamed by the child’s characters after she is out of her hands into society. The most routine warnings, and canes I got throughout my childhood were to warn me never to shame Ssenga when out of her hands. 

“You will cause shame and abuse to me” She would say whenever I wasn’t following her instructions to the core. 

“A person's bad character is blamed on someone who was In charge of her at a tender age and failed to shape her into a good person. Never tarnish your parents reputation” She repeated that over so many times that it became like a song rhythm of a sort whenever i wrongly did anything. 

“You are a reflection of your parents' characters. Be a positive representation of us wherever you go.” She always pounded that into my head.  

From my childhood Ssenga never addressed me as a child or a girl, she always referred to me as a woman , something that forcefully imparted maturity, womanhood and self respect into me at a young age. 

“A woman doesn't serve people food with dirt feet, a woman listens. A woman doesn't talk with her mouth wide open. A woman doesn't wake up late. A woman doesn’t go to the garden without a knife and she must pick firewood on her way back. A woman doesn’t sit with her legs open. A woman prepares enough food for all family members and reserves some for visitors just in case. A woman doesn’t walk like a hunter chasing an animal” She would shout, then guide: “She walks gently.”

My Ssenga’s “Doesn’t” was always followed by what should be. Actually from a young age I worked toward being a perfect woman. She always said a person has less time as a child, a girl and a teenager but more time as a woman or man.

Ssenga Nzerena, was a short, stout lady. She was light skinned, her eyes stood so deep into her face that when at a distance you could think she had no eyes as her protruded forehead and potato mound like nose darkened the eyes location. Her cotton white teeth were covered by small soy-pod like lips. It always took time to see her smiling but whenever she did, she had an inviting smile. Behind that smile was a strict disciplinant, a lady turf to the core with totally zero tolerance to any indiscipline. 

I will never forget the day she burnt her best bodingi dress as i watched.  She was ironing using a charcoal flat iron as I sat knees tightly folded beside her. When she lifted the iron, a small hot charcoal fell out through its back “window” to the dress. I stared at it, but fear muted my mouth. I saw it slowly burning but couldn't tell her until she realized it herself from the smoke, but when the damage was too much.

Her house was small but so tidy that entering it from the garden one had to first wash her feet. It was a round grass thatched hut partitioned into two rooms. Inside, everything was so well arranged, each with its specific place, her anger was stirred whenever she found  something not placed in its original place. The Baganda proverb goes, Omukadde wa Muno Tayomba. . . 

We had a strict unwritten time table to follow. I had to wake up very early in the morning, greet her, sweep the compound, clean the house, run to the well miles away to fetch water, start a fire for her morning tea then follow her to the garden. 

Her banana plantation at Sala was small but so well tendered that it produced enough food for the family all year. Mulching was an almost daily activity. The plantation was so well mulched that all the years I spent there we never used a hoe to weed it. We only pulled out weeds that grew scattered therein with our hands. She always used dry banana leaves cut from the same bananas and rubbish we collected from the bush for mulching. Actually you couldn’t see any open soil while there and if a visitor found her there she would just comfortably sit down. 

She grew other seasonal crops, beans, maize, peas etc and “soil” food, like yams in the swamps (Obukopa and Bwayise). On all trees in the garden she grew yams of all types (Kisebe, Nandigoya Balugu, Ndaggu etc). 

She had a section dedicated to growing cash crops, where she had a coffee plantation, grew tobacco and cotton from which we got money.

There was no school at Sala village, the only primary school nearby was at Kavumba village called Kavumba primary school. In 1950 at the age of eight I enrolled in this school for P.1. Kavumba primary school had four grass thatched classrooms. It was catholic founded, basically to teach community children how to read and write. It stood at the village edge surrounded by a vast low grassland. 

A drum at the school, sounded by teacher Zziwambazza, always notified learners of the start and end of lessons. Emphasis was too much put on teaching us how to write and read especially the Luganda language as English was a preserve for upper classes. Actually it's from Kavumba primary school in my P.1 that I learnt the alphabet, counting and most important to write and read Luganda. That's basically what the whitemans education was about, they didn't teach anyone to manufacture, but to use and service whatever they manufactured like cars and radios etc

The following year, for reasons I couldn’t temper to ask, Ssenga shifted from Sala village in Busiro county to Kitebere village, Bulemezi county. 

Kitebere was a big village with the same landscape as Bulerejje, Sala and Busiro in general. The difference was, It was in another county, Bulemeezi “Abalya Nakka”(Home of white ants) but in the same country Buganda. Busiro also had white ants and it was a delicacy there as it is anywhere in Buganda, but Bulemezi had pride in a specific type called “Enaka” that was common in their place.  

White ants are of many different types specified by their size, type of ant-hill they build and time at which they are harvested. There is Enaka, Entunda, Embobya and Ensejjere. To be specific, Enakka for Bulemezi are black in color, small in size, are caught in the evening and they don’t build visible ant hills. They are so tasty, eaten both raw or fried.

The Balameezi, as they are called are so accommodative and welcomed us in such a way that we all felt comfortable at home. Senga had got a bigger land here, almost virgin with forests and shrubs. We immediately set off on a mission to plant a banana plantation, a coffee garden and plant other foodstuff.

Before our first harvest we were fed by the community, village members brought food to us and some who couldn't carry it themselves told Ssenga to go pick food directly from their banana plantations whenever she wanted until we made our first harvest. Our immediate neighbor, Ssalongo Bukenya supplied us with all the banana suckers and even ordered his children to carry them to our home when planting our first garden.

Amidst that transition I lost an academic year. In 1953 at the age of 11 I enrolled in Kanyanda Primary school Bulemeezi for P.2. Kanyanda was a better school compared to Kavumba. It was a protestant church school. It had brick walls and its floor well cemented. The school had more learners than Kavumba. It was about 3Kms from Kitebere village but the distance was narrowed by the fact that we were many learners from the village who trekked the journey every morning 

The following year 1954, as a catholic at age 12, I had to enroll and study omujiji (Catholic Church initiation or “indoctrination” course of a sort) to get baptized and get my first Ukrist and confirmation. It was a full course of its own. I moved to Kijaguzo parish primary school for P.3. The school was in a very big parish compound, surrounded by a lively community of nuns and rev fathers who lived in the many houses therein. It had vast land on which nuns and teachers had vast gardens and plantations on which we always worked. 

The school section was totally different from the religious section. The school was basically for academic learning and the church was for spiritual indoctrination. The parish was headed by one of the few first black priests, Rev Fr Paul Mukasa. There were very many sisters, sister Costante. Sister Gozanga, sister Adrian Constantia and the unforgettable sister Augustine whose rudeness always made us ask why she joined church instead of army service.

To be initiated into the Catholic Church one had to undergo a full course the Baganda dubbed it “Omujiji for a year, then baptized and confirmed as a catholic. After P.3 in 1954,I  had to pause academics and turn to the religious course omujiji for a year. I spent the year 1955 studying the omujiji course where I was baptized in the first 3 months. After the baptism course, we started another 3 month course from which we got “Confirmation” (Konfirimansiyo)  confirming us into true catholics. Then immediately started yet another 3 months course, self proclamation, {Okweyatulira) we finished this in December 1956. I became a staunch catholic well versed with all its operations and spirituality

The following year 1957, I had to resume education in P.4. In February as learners were going back to school, Ssenga told me she had no fees to take me back to school. The obvious message was, get ready for marriage. I was old enough to get married, because I knew how to read and write, I had finished the church course, and even the informal marriage course. I had got enough training and preparation for marriage practicals. The Baganda say Konoweeka…… so I waited to join the practical institution called marriage.

The year I was declared ready and put on the marriage market stall saw a marathon of suitors flooding my ssenga’s home asking for my hand in marriage. Amongst whom was the sub-county chief and many other men both young and elderly from near and far, some looking for second wives others fresh entrants into the marriage institution. Being a fresh graduate of the catholic church course, i also had my set personal terms and conditions. The basic condition was, I had to leave my Ssenga’s home only and only through a church holy matrimonial automatically meaning the man to take me had to be a catholic and a Muganda, period.

In 1958 came Kizza John, a family friend from the neighborhood. In one of our loose village talks, he had  promised to connect me to a suitor he knew very well, well behaved, hardworking, a catholic, from a well known family and very suitable for me. It was an evening in october, he came home with a youth strapped on his bicycle back seat. 

He was a short, slander bodied and dark colored youth. His eyes grew deep into his small block shaped face, with a protruding forehead. Signs of boldness were showing on his well combed short hair. He put on a white cotton shirt well tucked in a bell bottom trouser. Coarsed muscles protruding from his hands portrayed him as a hard working youth. When he spoke, his voice was so deep that I had to look back to be certain it came from such a slender youth.

That day they came home, my Ssenga wasn’t around. When Kizza told me he is the youth he promised to link me to, I told them to return and inform SSenga about him, to which they agreed.

On the second visit they met my Ssenga and had a brief discussion. She was informed the boy's name was Kaweesa Joseph. He was a catholic, Muganda from the Ffumbe clan and his parents were from the next village Buganganya, Mr Walusimbi Ezekiel’s home to be precious.  He was single, staying in Bugerere county, Gangama village where he hoped to take me.

When they left, Ssenga asked me for my opinion. My answer was an outright No, my reason was:

 “He was staying very far from our home, if he mistreated me, i would have nowhere to run back to easily”

 “But have you liked him, as a person?” Ssenga asked

“Yes” I answered. “To me he is better than all suitors who have been here” I complemented

“You will go with him” Ssenga said in a ‘I have decided tone’, Then she went on to explain to me.

“We have rejected many men because they were not of your age. We have tossed many here because they wanted you as a second wife. We tossed others on religious ground. 3 have left because they had unclear  plans for a formal wedding. This one ticks all boxes and has the recommendation of a formal person.” 

She assured me: “You are not going into marriage to run away or be mistreated, he will not torture, abuse beat or mistreat you because he doesnt booze. He is of the right age for you with whom you can work and grow together” I accepted

A month later, my ssenga had to lead them to my fathers home for a formal visit (Okukyaala) and then introduction. We didn’t have to go to Bulerejje Ssingo where my biological father was staying. A child belonged to the entire family and all members at their levels were equally responsible. My fathers brother who followed him, Mr. Mikairi Ssebagudde lived on the nearby Busambu village. That’s where all marriage formalities were completed, obviously with my biological father in the know. 

Kaweesa came with his friend Kizza, his elder sister Saliya and another delegate from his father, four people in total for Okukyaala. Taata Ssebagudde asked them to bring 500/=  2 Guards of booze. 1 gourd of banana juice. One wrapper cloth for ssenga, 1 for mom and Ekanzu 2, 1 for my father and 1 for brother in law as the bride price.

They promised to pay off the bride price within a month. That month of waiting was a hot period for me! All women, elderly young, related, unrelated, friends, from near, distant, those known and unknown pumped into me materials related to the new institution I was entering.

My ssenga had always cautioned me against shaming her in marriage by proving i was poorly prepared via being hardworking, respectful to the husband, cooking, being clean and organized in the home, hardworking, patient etc. Each woman who sat me down during that period repeated the same each with an emphasis as strong as she could. Always ending with, “Never ashame us”. I realized in marriage i was not only going to represent myself, but my family, Ssenga, clan, tribe and the entire woman kind.

In all, running out of marriage, parting or divorce was totally canceled out. All marriage issues had to be solved from within the family. A woman doesn't go into marriage to be worked for, but to work with the husband. I learnt, all people in all marriages equally face the same problems just at different levels and success goes to those who solve them from within. Patience, trust, respect and perseverance were tools handed to me to move my marriage

It was strongly pumped into me to respect my husband, not move out of home without seeking his permission. As a wife feeding the family was my sole duty,  I had to grow, cook and serve enough food (Tofumba Kafu) in my home. I was told to welcome all visitors (Munju temuli kubo). To produce as many children as possible and most important to take extra care of them and groom them into well behaved responsible future citizens. Those points were repeated by so many people that before marriage I had explored all the marriage scenarios before joining it. 

As a bride, I had to spend the whole of January inside the house being prepared, smeared with ghee, eating and being counseled, trained, coached or advised by experienced ladies. When I came out, it appeared I had washed off the past and physically and ideologically set for a new life.  

It was a hilarious moment on 31st Jan 1959, when my father Ssebagudde led me back into Kijaguzo parish church and officially handed me over to Kaweesa Joseph and Rev father Paul Mukasa declared us husband and wife, freeing us to go put in practice what we have been trained

Our wedding reception was organized at Mijinje village (at the home of my husband’s sister). When the deafening drums, celebrations and boozing calmed down with the dawn, I entered the second phase of preparation. I had been handed over to the Ffumbe clan and they had to welcome and initiate me into the new family. 

I spent another full month being pounded into marriage shape by my new family members. I spent the whole month of February 1959 in Mijinje indoors from where I was welcomed into the Ffumbe family re-lectured on the dos and don'ts in the marriage institution by different people. Throughout this period I was introduced to different people I had to contact in case we had any problem at home. My mother in law Owe Nyonyi Nanyonga Petrolina after taking me through all traditional initiation ceremonies, gave me a bodingi dress which I put on, a dress code graduating me from a teenage girl to a married woman.  It was during this period that I got a chance to learn more about my husband.  

Kaweesa Joseph was born August 23rd 1928 to Walusimbi Ezekiel of Ffumbe clan and Nanyonga Peteralina of Enyange clan from Buganganya village, Kanyanda parish, Makulubita sub county, Bulemezi county. Mr Walusimbi Ezekiel was a protestant but Kaweesa his 6th child was baptized as a catholic on a local catechist request. His father was a tall , stout faced gentleman. He had a combination of turfness and rudeness that did not only end with his children but extended to his wives. He had a total of 10 children, 8 boys and 2 girls from 4 wives. 

1.       Kigozi Nathan 

2.       Sseddugge Samuel 

3.       Mawemuko Jane Ndagire Nakimuli

4.       Nanyeenya Simon

5.       Kaweesa Nathan 

6.       Kaweesa Joseph 

7.       Muliraano David Lubwama

8.       Luboyera Ibrahim Kabamba

9.       Mutaasa Milika

10.   Nabawanuka Jane (Omuggalanda)

On growing up, Kaweesa went to Kanyanda primary school at the age of 10. To his father, education wasn't an issue as at the time the basic youth had to have a piece of land, marry a wife and start up a family, this was basically what parents groomed their children for.  

As a child Kaweesa had a special admiration for being educated and dreamt of becoming the first degree holder in his family if not the entire clan. This dream was so big to him that even when his father discouraged him, gave him too much to do before going to school he always did it and ran to school on time.

Kijaguzo PS at the time was basically for elementary education and to proceed for further Junior education he had to go to join Nakanyonyi primary school thereafter joined Wampewo technical school for J1  where his education ended unceremoniously when his father denied him fees.

”I was so annoyed and disappointed on that day” He told me, tears almost flowing in his eyes.

“We spent the whole holiday picking coffee, and I spent the whole day ferrying over 10 sacks of coffee on bicycle to Matugga for sale. Going back to school was the following day. When I asked him for money to go back to school. He told me he had no money to take me back. The money from coffee sales was for marrying another wife!” He swallowed hard, stared hard at me  as he continued:

“My father promised to start a butcher business for me at Bulamba trading center. When I thought about it, I refused knowing it would keep me under his control or even tare us apart. I decided to run away from home” 

To where? I asked, just to keep the story moving. I knew Kaweesa’s father was in Buganganya but i didn't know why and how he came to be staying all alone in Bugerere miles away.

“I ran to my class mate called Ssali William who was staying with his Ssenga Namuddu Lakeeri at Matugga” He went on

“While there  I explained to him my case. We brainstormed on the way forward. His first suggestion was to talk to his ssenga so she pays fees for me. I rejected this suggestion on second thought” 

“Why, when you wanted to continue studying?” I asked

“I thought if in the process she fails to buy me books or pay my fees in time, i would be annoyed with her for no good reason, so we side lined that” He answered 

“Ssali came up with a second proposal. He suggested we use a piece of her Ssenga’s land to dig and plant crops, when they grow we share the produce. This idea was good but it also had loopholes because Ssali was not to get out of school meaning at times when i'm in the garden, he would be at school. When I explained that to him we discarded that plan also. But still, it's Ssali who brought yet another suggestion.”

He said since his ssenga had a chunk of land in Bugerere county, he proposed to talk to her. She allows me to stay there, take care of it as I use it for growing my own cash crops. This was the brightest of all ideas. I accepted it and that very night we talked to her. She entrusted me with the land and her shop that was operating thereon in Ggangama Bugere. 

I moved to Gangama Bugerere where I have been for the last 3 years. It's where our home is. its where my academic dream will come true” He vowed smiling 

By academic “dream coming true” he didn't mean going back to school himself for a degree, but meant to get a child, educate him/her to a degree level, then take a degree holder to his fathers compound and show him what an educated child is like.

After a month at Majinje, March 1959 the wedding honeymoon was over and we moved to Bugerere county, Gangama village to start up our home/family. It was a 3 hour bumpy ride on my lord's bicycle. 

Chapter 3.

Gangama 

We reached Gangama at around mid-day. At a junction within the trading center, was the house to set off our journey. The house walls were made of mud and wattle with an extended veranda supported by circular wooden bars. Its iron roof was browned by age. The locked unpainted big wooden doors  stared at us on arrival. The place was commonly called “Mizigo esatu” from the number of rooms thereon. The shop was in the first room as one turned from the main road and the other 2 houses were unoccupied. 

Our new home was the single hind room behind the shop, and entry was from behind. When my lord opened it, darkness engulfed my eyes and an odor typical of a small room unopened for a long time punched my nose. 

“Welcome home” 

He said as he rushed in to open a small wooden window that allowed in light. 

Inside, on the left, lay a bed that perfectly fit in wall to wall. The bed was so well laid, with white bed sheets covered with a gray, white striped mink blanket folded at one end. The room was divided into two by a curtain that hung on a wire that ran through its middle. It doubled as his “wardrobe” where he kept his shirts and  trousers hanging.  A few household items lay scattered around, sauce pans, plates and cups on one side and a metallic basin, soap and spongy under the bed. The roof above was just meters above our heads, the walls were plastered and the floor cemented. 

He brought in my luggage, bags and suitcases and went to open the shop in front as I started cleaning the room and organizing it into a home setup.

Ggangama in general was a welcoming place with accommodative and supportive people. The land under my husband's care was so big that a big chunk of it remained a forest yet he was a relentless farmer. My lord had been to this place for 2 years and had put most of his efforts on growing cotton, a cash crop, as his primary interest was getting start-up capital. 

My Ssenga had told me it's my duty to grow food and feed the family, with that in mind I started preparing for the April-May 1960 planting season by clearing the land and buying seeds. When the rains started we had cleared enough land for food and cash crops. I specifically gazetted a big chunk of land for planting a banana plantation.

We planted so many food crops that season, beans, maize, potatoes, cassava but most importantly I planted my first banana plantation. It was a dream garden I always looked forward to taking care of as trained by my Ssenga. We planted Cotton as a cash crop on a scale double what my husband used to plant when single. 

Our harvests were so much as we planted on virgin fertile land and the rains were constant. My banana plantation was taking shape and I started mulching it using rubbish and grass cut from around looking forward to my first harvests months to come. 

By the start of the August–September planting season food in our home was no longer an issue and as farmers' routine we cleared the land and planted more crops. This season we expected not only more  food and cash crops harvests but an additional consumer, I was anxiously expecting my first child in a few months time. 

By November 1960, Lakeeri, the landlady, started doubting the consistency of my lord in taking care of her shop, with marriage obligations. She sent a lady to stay with us, sleeping in one of the 2 empty houses and attending to the shop full time as we do our work.

This lady was in her late 20s, her body was flat head to feet. She had sooty black skin and a small head that looked like an orange chopped into two. In her flat face popped out big chameleon-like eyes that made one feel she was given under sized eyelids. Her lips looked as if she had just been a victim of a wasps attack. Lifting them as she spoke seemed like a heavy weight challenge to her. In between her protruding eyes and lips was a parrot beak sharp–like nose.  On her semi-circle-like head, long hot combed hair grew, it looked unharvested for years. Her legs seemed to be serving a sentence of a sort as they looked starved and thirsty, just skin painted on bones

This lady's name was Nantongo Maliya. She always preferred and insisted on being called Miliya. She had been sent to take care of the shop as Lakeeri suspected that now that my husband was a married man he  has many commitments that he may lack time to fully attend to her shop or even tempt him to misuse her sales profits. 

Miliya stayed in the next room and attended to the shop in our absence and life moved on well in her first month as we ate together. But in her second month, Maliya became Miriya! In November, the month in which I was expecting my first child, she told the landlady to chase us out of the plastered–cemented room behind the shop and move to the other muddy rooms. She made allegations that we are running down the shop business and not giving it enough time as we spent all our time on our farming. She wanted to take over the cemented rooms so that she gets more time for the shop. 

With no option we moved all our property to one of the muddy un plastered, un cemented rooms and she fully took over the shop. It was a blessing in disguise because we got time and concentrated more on our plantations. Harvests that season were so good that we had to use the extra room as a crops store. Meanwhile my banana plantation (Entembo) was blossoming. Just looking at it made me happy because I was confident that even if my Ssenga visits me i Have a plantation to take her around as a lady.

In December 1959, my lord took me to Nsambye hospital in labor pains. From there, I had my first born, a beautiful baby girl whose grandfather Named Nakimuli Tagulwa, on baptism she was named Dezilanta. The joy of being a parent at 17 years was unimaginable! We had all the money to buy whatever we needed as a family courtesy of cotton harvests. 

The parenting joy was short-lived as Miriya’s witch–hunt turned into jealousy, hatred with our first child. She told the landlady how we were useless, harvesting a lot from her land, sleeping freely in her house while serving her no purpose in return. She convinced the lady to chase us away telling her we could even sell off her land.

One Saturday, she came back from Kampala and told us we had been told to order us to leave the house immediately! She emphasized that we had been told never to ever return to the plantations to pick any foodstaff growing there. 

My thoughts rushed to my “Entembo” banana plantation from which I expected the first harvests in just a month's time. I had potatoes and cassava gardens therein, but leaving my bananas just like that pinched me deep.

On getting the information my lord thought about going to Kyadondo meet and talk to the landlady Lakeeri herself, but shut down any debate on that when he himself brought out a Luganda proverb that goes: 

“Nanyini Kakomo Bwakakusaba, osaawo Mukono”

He immediately started looking around the village for a house to rent. Houses for renting at the time were as few as people who wanted to rent them. He searched for about 5 days without results. meanwhile Miriya, reminded us of the landladies ultimatum which disgusted both of us so much that we wanted to even sleep on the verandah. 

On the sixth day, as he moved around looking for a house he met a lady called Namusoke living in Gangama village, she had a big house and a big heart. On hearing our story. She offered to accommodate us for free for a short period as we looked for where to settle. That very day we moved into her mud and wattle house where we were assigned a room. We had the 1959 christmas here.

The lady Namusoke, who accommodated us, was a parent at heart. while at her home she always called me “Muwala” (daughter in law) and i called her mom. Whenever doing household chores with her, she was never rude to me but guided, advised and counseled me in a parental way.

As I had just given birth, she always carried the child, guided me on how and when to breastfeed her. She collected Ekyogero herbs for me and showed me different portions to give to a child when, how and under what conditions. 

“Mom” as i always called her, was a widow whose husband had died about 5 years ago living her the big house. She had 6 children, 3 boys and 3 girls. They were all married and had established their homes in different villages in Kyadondo county. She lived with a grandchild of about 6 years, she looked like a replica of myself at Ssengas.

I both admired and envied mom in the state she was in. As a woman, she already had a complete journey as expected of a wife. “Produce children, bring them up responsibly, look after your grandchildren as you keep your husbands homestead alight.” But what i admire most about her, she had somewhere where she is comfortably settled, she had achieved what we were fighting to achieve. 

One evening as we were cooking in her kitchen, I asked her about how she came to be here. The question excited her and she started:

“In the same way you ended up here, and still going” She joked smiling broadly.

 “I made a long trek” She started after laughters ceded

“My father Abalabyeko Nsubuga is from Buddu,” 

“Buddu?” I cut in shocked.

“Yes, I'm a “Munna Buddu” (I’m from Buddu)” She emphasized on seeing me staring at her astounded. Buddu is a county so very far away on the Borders of Buganda and Bulondogoyi. It's so far away that even people from there had their own version of Luganda

“I left Buddu to stay with my Ssenga in Kyadondo when I was a girl about your age” She continued

“That was at the time when whites exiled Kabaka Mwanga, In their mission to rob our heritage….”  

“1899–1900” I interjected remembering history from community folk–tales

I made simple loud calculations, If someone was 17 in 1899,  by today 1960. She must be 78 years old. On asking her age now for confirmation, she said she lost count and added:

“Age calculations are now confusing, because white men came with their age counting system yet we also had ours, Ttoggo and Ddumbi” 

The Buganda calendar divided the year into 2  based on seasons. The first part of the year was called “Ttoggo” or the male and the second part was called “Ddumbi” the female. Ttoggo ran through the dry months of November to April while Ttoggo ran from May to october. This is why Ttoggo was considered dry (male) and Ddumbi rainy or female. Transition from Kiganda to the white man's calendar confused many.

“My Ssenga brought me to Namere Kyebando, Kyadondo where she was staying. While there she got me my lord, Omuyovu Batenyetto Ssensalire” She looked up at me, her face brightened by the memory.

“We stayed in Kyadondo, at Lubya village where he looked after Kabaka’s ceremonial cows. It’s while there that I bore my sons "Takiwereza" (y'akiyita ekitunzi) and "Beerampya" (Beerabira emiryango). It was a nice happy place because we were so close to Mengo and had many visitors in our compound until one day when catastrophe struck.” 

“How?” I asked.

“As Ssekabaka Daudi Chwa turned into a self-reliant youth, his Katikiro, Apollo Kaggwa, Kifeefe, Luwenge Bikongolo, who was by then  trying to assume Kabakaship through collaborating with whites, wanted to kill my lord” 

“Why kill him yet he was in charge of Kabaka’s cows?” I asked amazed by the story

“My lord openly opposed him specifically for dividing, distributing and sharing Buganda land amongst a few individuals serving white’s interests”  She explained.

“Luwenge Bikongolo….!!” I exclaimed with my eyes wide open. “Yes,” She responded.

I all along knew Ssekabaka Daudi Chwa’s Katikiro was Apollo Kaggwa, but i didn't know his other names 

“His real names are fading out with age.” She explained.

“He was brought to Buganda during Ssekabaka Muteesa’s reign as a slave, from Busoga and his names were Luwenge Kifefe Bikongolo Ttebitta Nume, a Musoga, that's why whites found him an easy target to use as a puppet”  Mother spoke with a peculiar interest whenever talking about Buganda palace issues and history, clearly she had been within 

“Muwala,” She continued;

“When my lord told me we were to leave Kyadondo to Bugerere, I nearly froze. At Busabaala we had workers to help in gardens. We had access to niceties from Mengo palace, but leaving meant leaving  them there and starting a totally new life. 

The then Bugerere Saza chief Yosiya Katono was a great friend to my lord, he got him this land to ran away from “Ekinene Kya wanga” 

So how was the place when you got here? I asked. She was talking about a place 40 years back.

“You are lucky, now you have bicycles, roads and there is even a bridge at Ssezibwa kabaka constructed 8 years back connecting Kyaggwe to Bugerere. We had to sail through Ssezibwa on boats, then walk through paths meandering through forests to get here, with luggages on our heads” She turned towards me,with a pose of brevity

“When we got here,” She continued

“My lord had to build temporary dry banana leaves huts where we put all our property and began our home” She paused, and asked me to first go in the main house and bring her mat she was weaving. 

As I went to the main house, I compared her situation to ours, then saw some hope. Though she started by sleeping under thatch, she at least had a house and land where to plant her banana plantation without hindrances.

  “You told me he built 2 huts immediately, why?” I asked immediately when I returned. 

“Ooh, i hadn’t told you, we were two. Me and my “young sister–Kabejja.” She stopped raised her hands to receive her mat from me. 

By “My young sister” she didn't mean she was traveling with her biological sister, but meant her co–wife. Kabejja in Buganda is a title given to a second wife in a home. Buganda recognised four women each with a title. Kaddulubaale, was the first wife. Kabejja was the second wife. Nassaza was the third wife and Mukuma the fourth wife.

Mom unfolded her mat, arranged palm leaves on her left side then started weaving as she continued:

“When we got here we worked so hard together, tealing the land, my lord planted cotton and coffee, we planted food crops. It wasn't long when he built a squared house big enough for us all and in 1930 built this one where he left me” She said looking outside to the house

“My daughter, building a home requires hard work, dedication and patience for both of you. As a wife, always try hard to be a supplement, and never a liability to your husband” I nodded in acceptance. 

“Respecting your husband will win you more marriage battles than any portion” She said pointing at me.

“:Generations will change, but I'm sure natural laws will never change. Men will always be men and their demands will always be the same. I'm foreseeing a transition of parenthood roles but not womanhood.” She turned philosophical, i wanted to ask but she continued with almost no pause

“Our dying out generation is of women dependent on husbands. You, our daughters' generation born at a time of culture transition is a generation of women who should be working with your husbands. Your daughter's….” She pointed at my baby sleeping down, 

“The Tagulwa’’s generation will be one for women working for themselves, married or not. Their children or your grandchildren’s generation will be one where women will work for husbands” She smiled broadly as I looked astounded by her prophecy. We both broke out laughing at the idea of women working for men. Amidst loughters she concluded in a warning tone;

“If women keep swinging with these rapid changes flooding our Kingdom, they will end up being their own husbands“ I laughed my way to the heath to lift off the food and prepare it for serving supper. 

Mother was a source of fan, inspiration and logic typical of ladies of my Ssenga’s generation. She always spoke with prophetic confidence, always backing up her talk with a comparison of the past to the present. 

Her jovial mood always made me even forget in a refugee state here. My lord had sleepless nights and stress was visibly written all over him since the day we entered here. He looked heartbroken, worried and beaten. He had moved all around looking for a house to rent but failed to get any. The thought of an upcoming planting season with nowhere to plant even a flower made him iwardly regret marriage.

“Did I rush to marry? Why did I bring someone's daughter to nowhere? Did we annoy any of our ancestors? Do I carry my fathers curse? But he blessed our marriage! He answered himself. Didn't he forgive me for running away from home? Was I being punished for refusing his proposal to make a butcher for me? Now that we are chased from the land from which we have been getting what to eat, how will we bring up our child? What does Bukirwa think about me? What do her parents think about me? I have gone back to square zero, yet have added more demands, a wife and a child!!” 

Such and many other questions run through my lord's mind all day and night stressing him to sleepless levels. 

 On the other hand, at least had some relief, some counseling and smiles from moms talk  and Tagulwa my beautiful daughter.

My husband never blamed neither Miriya nor Lakeeri the landlady or anyone for our tribulations. He piled it all on himself for not having worked harder earlier and bought his own land. Accepting this reality helped him not to waste any energy playing blame games but concentrated on finding solutions to his problems.  He took the situation as a challenge that inspired him to think, plan and work harder. 

He always remembered days when he was in the same state in Buganganya, and decided to run away from his fathers home to start his own life from scratch. At the time he didn't have a wife or a child to look after, only courage and determination. Today, he has none to run away from, he has nowhere to run to, has a wife and child. His only savior is courage, hope and determination.

I had the same level of stress myself, but mom always gave me inspiration, confidence and hope for a brighter future. I was well prepared for bigger challenges ahead of us in 20. 40, 60 years, this looked tempolary. 

My daughter Tagulwa was a living source of irreplaceable joy. I didn't even want to be diverted to thoughts of suffering. The young angel was a marvel to watch smiling with her toothless gums, a treasure to feel when breastfeeding, a melody to listen to when giggling or crying. She made me feel the inimitable joy of parenting amidst the turmoil we were in

I was always sleepless at night torching and feeling her to confirm she is okay. Meanwhile my lord stayed awake all night out of stress. With Tagulwa in our midst, I had more reasons not only to stick around but to work hard with my lord to build a brighter future not for us but for her. 

With a daughter I felt I had more reasons to be thankful than to despair In under one year, still a teenager, I had respectfully got a caring man, wedded in a colorful ceremony, successfully delivered a beautiful bouncing baby girl and best of all I’m so physically fit. With all that at hand, I had no reason to despair but be confident of a bright future.

From our room one evening when he returned from a house search, he looked more stressed.  When I asked him how it had been, he said he had no success.

“Keep searching, you will succeed” I assured him.

“I got a message from my father,”  

"What was it about, are they fine? I cut in

“Mzee Suggested we go back to Buganganya and reset ourselves from his Kibanja” He reported. 

As I thought about the best words to ask him what his response was. He continued:

“I refused outright”“Definitely, you can't make one step forward and another back” I supported him. 

Keep searching, we will get a house and a way forward. I explained to him. 

“We are blessed because we have a baby,” He smiled at the mention of our baby Tegulwa. I was holding in my hands. He reached out for it from my hands and I handed it to him. 

“This baby is a blessing to us, she is our inspiration to work harder. she is the one who will take the first degree to your father.” I said smiling

“Just remember, many married people struggle to get children and some even fail to even get a pregnancy, or some get pregnant but fail to get a baby. But we have Tagulwa here, nothing is equivalent to her, she has no price value, as her name.” 

This put a smile on his face. With excitement, he held the baby upright face to face with him, he smiled and Tagulwa smiled back displaying her gum.  She was a jolly admiration to look at and seemed to know how to calm down tension in the family.

After spending about three weeks here, I became accustomed to the life routine. I had to wake up, clean the compound, prepare tea, go to the garden with mom, fetch water, prepare lunch, wash my baby clothes, cook supper or do any work as assigned by the old lady. 

This morning we had to prune her banana plantation. Her banana plantation stretched from right behind the house to down deep to her coffee plantation about 5Arcres away. It was well weeded but not mulched as plantations in Busiro i grew up seeing. Actually mulching in Bugerere wasn't as common as it was in other counties. 

“Why don't you mulch banana gardens here?” I asked her as we worked.

“In Buddu” She started talking in an amplified voice

“We grew up mulching banana plantations. My mothers garden was so well mulched that whenever a visitor found her in the garden we didn't have to run for a mat as she could comfortably sit down on the mulch. We even never used a hoe in it. We just had to pull out weeds with our hands''

“That's exactly how also my Ssenga’s plantations were both in Busiro and Bulemeezi” I interjected 

“But as you know, Bwogenda ebulya mbwa……?” She continued with a Luganda proverb

“When I got here, I found them doing things differently and I followed them. They don't mulch much here but I think it's because here we have so many trees, Mituba, Migavu, Miyembe, Ffene etc within the banana plantation.” She reasoned

Actually I hadn't realized it, but it's true that in Bugerere bananas are grown under trees which isn't the case in Busiro Bulemeezi and even Buddu where plantations are put on open plain land hence the need for mulching

 I was using “Olusolobyo” cutting off dry banana leaves above as she pruned dry banana fibers off banana stems below. Mom liked working on bananas i have just cleared above, intention to be near me so the conversation keep flowing. 

 “Mom” I called her

“Wangi Muwala” She responded immediately, her ears had not developed any mold yet

“When did you plant this banana plantation?” I asked

“Very long ago, It was when i had just come here, during the reign of Ssekabaka Chwa” She answered

“I also look forward to planting mine, from which my child will feed from, but i don't know whether we will also ever get land of our own!!” I exclaimed

“Why not?” She shoot back, surprise in her voice

“Mom, I don't even know how and where we are to start from”  I said

“My daughter,” She cut in as she stretched her back up to stand straight for a better view of me:

“I’m very confident of your future, yours will be very bright, you are even far luckier than most women. She mused 

 Why Mom? I quickly interjected, surprised to be called lucky when accommodated like refugees, 

“You are the luckiest amongst all women, as the catholic prayer goes: “oli wa mukisa mu Bakazi Bonna” She added smiling

“Why, compare me to the holy one, mom?” I inquired resting the “Lusolobyo” down to listen uninterrupted

“Because your husband has nothing, totally nothing” She startedas i wondered how one can be lucky when the husband has nothing

“That means whatever you will have, you will have worked and achieved it together as a family” I nodded in agreement

“When you achieve everything together from nothing, you will be proud and your husband will forever respect and treasure you under all other circumstances, even when he marries other wives….” Olusolonyo fell from my hands, I scrambled to pick it up to avoid my shock being recognised. She continued

“Your husband is a hard working, honest and committed young man. You, my daughter, you are equally energetic, dedicated, resilient and determined. Most importantly you were both well brought up by true Kiganda families, “babatuuza” all you have to do is encourage each other”  She advised, as if reading the same script as Ssenga.

“But mom, you said he is to marry another girl, other wives?” I asked rhetorically 

“Yes” She responded in an emphatic tone that made my heart skip a beat. I felt like opposing her but I remembered my Ssenga’s words: “Elders are to be listened to and understood because they speak wisdom. Talking as they talk  make you  miss wisdom”

Mom seeing me astounded, looked straight at me and said:

“My daughter” 

“Men are men and all men are the same” She pulled her wrinkled lips backwards to make a big smile, displaying all her still intact dentures.

“Just like you can’t stop a bull, a he-goat or a cock from mounting as many cows, goats and hens as possible, so is a man. We just  learn to live with it” I nodded my head backward in acceptance though inwardly it sunk low. 

“He will marry another woman, actually other wives. Just like any other man he will beat you, he'll come home late, drunk, he will order you. I don't want that to shock you when it comes, be expecting it because it will come. But never leave your children into your co-wives hands to suffer. In the same way, take care of his children when he brings them to your home. Those are your old age saviors. But always remember that: respect, trust, persistence and politeness are womens small keys with which we easily control, lock and unlock those big, rude, strong men, always move with them”. That sunk deep, I thanked her for the guidance.

“The best appreciation you will ever give me, is never shaming me and your parents wherever you ll be, by practicing what your parents told you” 

“I will surely do mom” I assured her

“A woman is blamed for all the bad things in the family, while the man is credited for all the good things in the family. When a child is greedy, we say he is as greedy as his maternal grandmother. When a child has bad behavior, society says he is as bad mannered as his mother. Struggle to make sure everything is good right from cleanliness to Tagulwa’s characters. It's you who makes or breaks your family. The more respect you give/show your husband, the more society will respect him, you and your entire family.”

Her words stung me deep, but at the same time walked me miles into the marriage institution. Not at any time, was exiting given as a solution to any marriage problem. I couldn't imagine living my beautiful Tagulwa in another woman's hands to squeeze anyway

The lady had herself told me they were 2 in the house but she had been there all through to old age. With the reinstalled confidence i worked With vigor pruning faster as she followed me,

Days after the new year's day 1960, my husband came home jovial. He called me aside and told me he had got a house. “and it's for free,” He added.

As he went out looking for a house that day 3 villages away, in Nazigo village. While there he met an old friend called Sewava, a former schoolmate. When he told him he was looking for a house to rent. He told him to look no more as he has a house within town without tenants, and he wanted someone to occupy it freely to avoid its walls weakening due to being unused. 

With that news, that night I unceremoniously said goodbye to my new mom Namusoke. She sat me into another full marriage session. Talking authoritatively, she told me to always respect and value my husband. A woman only divorces under one condition, when the husband’s family are sorcerers who eat dead bodies: 

“Muwala'' She called, emphatically staring at me through flickering tadooba candle light.

“I should never see Tagulwa my grandchild suffering because you choose your happiness over hers. Never leave her in another woman's hands. Always work hard to fend for her with or without my sons support” I promised never to disappoint her and went to sleep.

That night, I prepared, organized and tied all our belongings into luggages and bags. We agreed that my lord would very early in the morning carry them onto our bicycle to the new house and he was to take me last when everything was ferried. That arrangement was meant to give me enough time to do all household chores and leave everything clean and well organized

The following day after everything was ready, she served us the last lunch which also served as another couple counseling and guidance session. As if we were just getting married, she emphasized trust, respect and perseverance as tools that will bind our marriage forever with or without financial success.  

When finally time to leave came, she stood in her front doorway and called us. We both knelt before her feet, bent our heads down. 

She pressed her aging hands on our heads turned her eyes up the sky and prayed:  

“Our ancestors and spirits who brought this family to me. I implore and beseech you to follow, guide and protect them. All the ancestors of Effumbe, Embogo, my Emmamba and Enjovu clan spirits, bless them. 

Jjaajja Nabuzaana omujjanjabi, Jjaajja Nakayima omuzadde, jjajja Bamweyana, Ba lubaale Kibuuka, Mukasa and all others, i beseech you to download blessings and protection to your children in my hands, now, today, tomorrow and forever and ever:” She awaited our response

“Bweeza” We both responded. 

“Have a safe journey”  She said as we stood up to move to ride on our bicycle to another phase of our marriage at Nazigo town.

Nazigo was an upcoming town favored by its location. It is on Bugerere to Kyaggwe-Busoga road, where the white colonial government constructed a bridge 5 years ago linking Buganda and Busoga. Houses in this town were lined along the roads. They were all four cornered or rectangular in shape with no single hut. All  houses were iron roofed with walls mostly made of mud and wattle, a few plastered and cemented inside.  It was amidst this town setting that our new home was to be. 

On a left turn, on the road to Nazigo parish next to a cotton ginnery/store was a business 2 room house. It had a verandah so long that it looked like a courtyard of some sort. Its iron sheets were cotton white while its walls were mud and wattle all plastered. The rooms inside were well cemented, painted with chalk. A wooden door separated the front from the rear rooms. These rooms were big and the un–ceilinged roof far raised than all the previous houses we had shared. 

We unpacked our things and I started placing them in positions where they are to serve their duties. In all we had four rooms, the two we occupied  and the other two rooms in the next muzigo which were also empty. 

From the beginning life here had an air of unsettlement. We had all along wanted to have our own house from where we would start our life and here we were, but totally nothing to do!! While at Ggangama, there was a garden where we could plant food and cash crops, but here we had nowhere to even scratch or even plant a flower. Though I had been trained and prepared to face society in its multiple settings, I was more trained to attack through the garden, yet society was dumping far and far away from it. 

We had no single income source, no work or even a single viable plan for a job. I woke up every day to clean the house, wash babies clothes, cook food and eat. My lord’s main activity then was to eat the food I cooked, bought from money he saved from the previous cotton season and then ride his bicycle to Nazigo town where he always looked for what to do or play football with fellow youths, he was talented soccer player.  

One day he came back excited, carrying butter and bread. On welcoming him back, he didn’t wait for my  greetings. 

“Ddungu ayizze” He said with excitement.

“Why, how” I asked, staring at the bread and butter he carried, my thoughts were that he meant these!

“I have a job to do” 

“Which job?” I asked with excitement, relief and expectation combined.

“Mzee Kateregga Paul, the owner of Nazigo coffee factory has offered me a job at his factory. 

”As who” I asked moving nearer to him

“As a coffee buyer,” He answered

“My assignment is, he gives me money to pay/buy coffee from farmers who bring it to the factory,” He elaborated. “I have started work today” He added

Coffee buying is a very good business. The whites had forced Baganda to plant coffee on their bibanja on a large scale from the 1910s.  50 years on all coffee plantations presented great harvests. There were coffee processing factories at all sub county levels which received unprocessed coffee from farmers and cooperative societies formed to the deepest village. Buying coffee meant transacting a lot of cash and keeping good records. My lord had got a nice job but on second thought, I realized the risk it carried because of the too much money involved which required honesty and trust. 

“Be very honest, trustworthy and careful with Mzee’s money, never, steal, or miscalculate a coin while there”  I advised. 

He assured me Mzee Kateregga had spotted him because of his trustworthiness and  honesty among the youths

With that job the family routine changed. He had to wake up very early, go to the factory, test coffee beans (whether dry enough or not), Measure the Kilograms brought on a weighing scale, enter it in the records book, make a receipt then pay the farmer or trader his cash. In the evening, he would balance the kilograms bought with money spent, count balance at hand versus total cash given to him by Mzee Kateregga. He would then forward books to the accountant (Kalaani) to balance the day's incomes, profits and losses. 

I remained at home, a pure housewife whose only duty was to cook the food he brought, wash Tagulwa’s clothes and sit around. He always had to go look for bananas from villagers to bring home for food as banana weren't sold at shops or markets or stalls. 

This life was so boring to me, I never stopped imagining my energy being wasted like a limbless person. I always Fantasized about my own banana plantation, being in a life where I didn’t have to wait for food from my lord's sweat.  

My lord always bought a big banana bunch from villages and we kept it at home. It always lasted us a week and I always told him to get one as the previous one was getting finished. There were no markets selling banana, actually all food was bought directly from gardens. 

One unforgettable day, I had not told my lord to buy a banana and other food items in time, and there was totally nothing that day. When going to work in the morning, he promised to squeeze time and either bring or send them as soon as possible. 

While at home, I cleaned the house, cleaned all the utensils, and washed Tagulwa’s clothes as I waited. By midday I was still waiting for my lord, or someone he sent to bring the food in vain. In confusion, I moved to the front of the house to check whether maybe someone came looking for me and failed to trace our house. There was none, I was enticed to check on the road.

On peeping in the road that led to our house, there was someone who was clearly looking for me, for our home—not one person but two. My mother and sister Namukwaya had come all the way from Bulerejje to visit us. I was so happy and at the same time inwardly scared upon seeing them. I ran towards them, hugged them, welcomed them and led them to our home, brought out our best mats and displayed them to sit on.  We exchanged greetings, I brought out my now 7 months old Tagulwa and happily handed her to Mother. 

By June 1960, almost a year and half into marriage, my mother had never visited me. Yes, I had taken my baby Tagulwa to her but she hadn’t seen where and how I was staying. Physically visiting someone or sending someone there was the only way to know about a relative’s current situation then. So they told me they had come to visit my elder sister Namagembe in Kibuye—Kampala who was sick but before going back, they had decided to pass by and check on me also. I thanked them for coming, and told them many stories. From my the lady who chased us from Ggangama house to my Mom who accomodated us. From my lords unemployment to his new job. 

Almost an hour later I was feeding my guests on talk not because I didn't know, visitors were fed, but because I didn't have anything to prepare for them. 

After exhausting all the talk, conversations and questions which I kept extending to buy time expecting my lord would send food in the process, I got disgusted with myself. My mother, my Ssenga and all my relatives had told me it's a woman’s role to feed the family. It's a woman’s duty to grow, cook and serve as much food as possible to people, they had always said, and even Baganda have a saying: “Olugenda enjala tukudda” but here i was as if i didnt know what they meant. 

I silently cursed the Ggangama lady who had chased us out of our grown banana plantation from where I would be harvesting by now. Imagine this level of shame! I thought as i couldnt even get what to cook for my mother of all people!! 

“Will we ever get out of this???” I whispered to myself stumping my feet down. Meanwhile my mother looked at me as a daughter and seemed to understand whatever situation was going on though not told. She kept occupying me with talk after talk. 

I excused myself and moved outside the house. I decided to send someone to my lord at the factory with a message of what’s at home. There was a middle aged man called John, who lived in the neighborhood. I sent him and soon returned with a banana and meat. He told me my lord was on the way coming with other niceties. He soon arrived with enough to return a smile to me as mother had a good drink in my house as I busied myself with cooking joined by my sister Namukwaya. We peeled and cooked food but given the time at which we started we ate it as supper.

My mother’s visit pinched me and also awakened my craving for my own banana plantation and land on which to grow my foodstuffs without waiting for food as if I'm lame. My resolve to contribute towards  my family's well being was heightened.

When mother left, we had a discussion, a self assessment as a couple. It mostly revolved around the need to buy our own land and prepare for the family in an organized way that will never shame us the way it was with mother.

My lord had started keeping with me money he made from the factory, saving for our dream Kibanja.

I proposed to use it to start up a small restaurant in our front room targeting the very many cotton sellers at the nearby ginnery. My husband accepted without any hesitation and we  immediately budgeted for the inputs we needed. Big source pans, plates, cups, glasses, forks etc. 

The family routine changed again, this time for me. I had to wake up at 5:00pm to cook tea and breakfast for early risers. Then cook lunch and make chapati and Mandazi for my customers. John, the middle aged man in the neighborhood, joined me in this business. He concentrated on making chapati, mandazi and serving customers as i cooked, served food on plates and obviously played the cashiers role. 

The food business was such a good enterprise that within a week I had to double the food quantity  I started with.  I further expanded it, from serving Tea and food, I started making pineapple juice which was highly on demand. I somehow started feeling valuable to the family. 

A plate of food was sold at 30 cents and a cup of tea or glass of juice was at 5 cents, a bunch of banana was at 50 cents depending on the seller. I struggled so hard to atleast make and save a 1 shilling a day, an initiative my lord had already started since the day he got a job. The Kibanja we were struggling to buy was at 2000–3000 shillings. 

By 1960 the country called Uganda was not yet in existence, we were under white colonialist hence we were using East African currency which had coins of: 5 cents, 10 cents, 20 cents, 50 cents, 1 shilling, 2 shilling  and banknotes of 5 shillings, 10 shillings, 20 shillings, and 100 shillings. A shilling was equivalent to a dollar i,e the exchange rate was 1 shilling to 1 dollar

My family routine again changed, from a pure housewife to a juggler between a worker and a housewife, a waiter, a cook and a restaurant cashier. As a couple, the routine also changed, we had to wake up very early in the morning and everyone got busy with line duties. In the evening, whenever he returned and after I had served my last customer, we would sit down for super. After super, it was time to discuss business. I would share with him the days sales less the days expenditures. As I gained experience, food business calculations were entering my head. I knew how much I would make from a banana bunch, a Kilo of meat, rice or anything. With that knowledge I could aptly predict the future of my business.

We agreed to make daily savings until we get enough money to buy our Kibanja. The following day, he came home with a “safe”, a wooden saving box in which we dumped a routine 1 shillings each plus any excess amount each made per day.

One afternoon as I served my customers, Mrs Ssewava {The owner of the house} dropped in. Their home was a village away in a village called Seeta. When she came, I welcomed, greeted her as a visitor and served her food, same quantity as i serve all customers but at no cost because she was more of a family visitor than a food customer yet i was trained “Munju temuli kubo”. As she ate, I attended to my other customers as the routine was. After eating she thanked me, said goodbye and promised to come visit us next time. I escorted her to the main road and she left.

That evening when my lord came back, he asked what had conspired between me and Mr Ssewava’s wife. I explained the whole scenerial to him then asked him why was he asking and what he had been told

He told me, she had told her husband, the landlord, that I had treated her like an outsider, looked at her with contempt and worst of all, I had served her little food only enough for children!! I was astounded. Before I got an answer, my lord cautioned me to be careful with people because we don't know their intentions. Sewava’s intention was unclear especially with the resourant bussines. When i started making pineapple juice for my customers, he abruptly brought pineaples to me, and asked me to make juice out of them and sale it for him. Inbrief he took my pineapple juice bussiness but i did it, sold the juice and gave him his money.

We turned the debate to our lack of independence, each agreeing, if we had our own home, on our own land such wouldn't be happening, but when still in Mizigo, on other people's houses we will never build self-respect. I personally got disgusted of staying in someone's house, it reminded me of the lady who had chased us from Ggangama unprepared living behind my banana plantation. It reminded me of my mothers visit when I had nothing to prepare for her. As a couple, our resolve for self sustenance heightened. 

Life in Nazigo moved on normally, and our routines moved on. My lord always gave me hope and encouraged me that everything will be fine. Our box savings were consistent and besides the long term plans we had, as a family we lived a relatively happy life though not luxurious. With some hope we ended 1960 working towards success. 

On 22nd October 1961 i delivered my second child, a boy at Nsambya catholic hospital. It was joy for me, basically because a woman is only complete in a home when she has produced a successor for her husband, and here he was. My lord was so happy for now he has a daughter and son. 

A month later we took him to his grandfather for naming. My father in law Walusimbi Ezekiel was so happy to receive us at Buganganya Kanyanda. We arrived around 11 am, we had planned to go get the baby named and thereafter we go back to Nazigo the same day. 

After exchanging greetings my husband introduced the reason for our coming. 

“We got a baby boy” He started, pointing at the baby in my hands.

“Father, we have brought him here for naming rites, I request you name him, we want to go back to Nazigo.” He said

Mzee Walusimbi, put his beer glass down and critically looked at my impatient looking husband. 

“You said you are in a hurry and want to go back?’’ He asked with contempt in his voice

“Ye Ssebo” Gently responded my lord. 

“Did you inform me yesterday that you were bringing him today?”

“No”

“Then either go back and bring him when you have time or sleep over, i will name him tomorrow before sunrise” He ordered and immediately stood up and started moving towards the village bar murmuring

“This is time for burial, not naming children. In Buganda a child is named in the morning, not noon, and I must sleep for his ancestors, spirits and all oracles to give me a name of the ancestor they have chosen to live in the baby's body in a dream, I air it out.” 

He spoke out the Buganda culture naming procedure as he moved. 

The Buganda cultural way is, a child is named in the morning before sunrise by his\her grandfather and he must sleep over the information to get a name from the ancestors whose lineage the child continues. My husband moved to friends, comrades and old pals still in the village, as I prepared food for the day.

The following morning, we were moved into Mzee Walusimbi’s sitting room, where he waited seated in his “Mwami akooye” chair positioned in the far end of the room placed directly opposite the door.

I handed the child to My lord who undressed him and handed him to his grandfather, who placed him on a small table in front of him. 

“I request you name him after me “Kaweesa”, My lord told suggested

Mzee Walusimbi looked at him with anger and angrily said:

“If you wanted to name him by yourself you would not have brought him to me. If you brought him, I will name him according to spirits and ancestors orders, not yours” He passed the child to Ssenga for a final checkup. After Ssenga’s approval and a long cultural recitations he turned and directly addressed the child:

“You are a grandchild of Walusimbi Ezekiel, Bugeza, Gwantamu, Bamutange, Bulesa. From the homestead of Muliraano, lineage of Luboyera, omutuba Kiralire, Essiga Ssempala  Ssejjala e Bulamba. A great grandchild of Walusimbi, the clan head who links you and us all to the Kabaka. 

You belong to the Effumbe clan and your name is: He kept quiet, surveyed the room with his gray eyes,  we anxiously waited,  After some silence he repeated. 

Your name is: Lubwaama

“Be a very intelligent man. Be prosperous, be hospitable, accommodative, rich and I repeat be as intelligent as your great renowned wise grandfather Lubwama.” 

He placed money in his hands, gave him some beer from his duard saying: Omubala gwaffe guvunga nti basengejja, tunywa omwenge, drink like your grandfather Walusimbi”. He handed him to ssenga, who also made cultural recitation that ended with her plaacing money into her hands.

Thereafter we started our way back to Nazigo. I was very anxious to restart my business which had been down for almost a month now.

 On reaching home, my lord emphasized the need to work harder than before so we buy our own land. He expressed more disgust in staying in a rented house far more than me. 

That night I asked him why within this short period he had more than doubled his disgust for this area.  He told me a story that had happened to him as I was away on my “labor leave”. He sadly started

“To be somebody in this world we should work hard and have our own” he started

“One day as I had just slept here, Ssewava knocked. When i opened, he had a girl and told me he wanted to spend the night here with her” 

“On our bed?” I shout out shocked

“Exactly, I was equally shocked” He answered

“I recollected myself and told him, that since my wife had just given birth he can't sleep on our bed with another woman, culture doesn't allow that” 

“When my reasoning couldn't convince him, I proposed, he allow me to move our mattress into the next room they stay here” He accepted and i carried our mattress to the other room.

That incident hurt me equally as the person who had experienced it. I imagined what would have happened if I was present.

In trying to fix the problem, we thought that maybe they were mistreating us because we were not paying him any money. We agreed to get him some cash disguised as appreciation for his leniency for that period It was delivered by my husband

About 2 weeks later my lord came home early from work, with too much money which he gave to me and asked me to count. I was shocked because the money was too much. Before counting it I asked him where he had got it from. I told him i don't want any dirty money and cautioned that if he had stolen or swindled it from the coffee factory he should take back the old mans cash because we work our way out of poverty without stealing or having a tarnished reputation

He assured me that the money was clean. He informed me that he had saved it from the factory overtime from coffee sales but not stolen or swindled and all the factory books of accounts can stand testimony to that.

We started counting the money, about an hour later i announced the final amount, he had brought a total of 660 shillings! That was a very big reap towards attaining our own land knowing that our saving box had roughly the same amount or more.   

From that day on, he kept bringing to me atleast 100 shillings a week to save. A combination of work experience and November–December being coffee harvesting period, helped boost his “savings” at the factory hence having more money towards our project. 

Tagulwa my daughter now almost two years had been sent to stay with her grandfathers at Buganganya since i was busy in my restaurant and had a young baby to take care of. 

We worked hard through December 1961 trying to fit into the situation while not forgetting our long term target.  Signs of disgust were visible within the family, especially me who couldn't pretend. My husband was getting more and more stable at work and as a footballer his relationship with the community was getting better and better. 

In March 1962, we finally decided to break our box to check exactly what we have. We had to first extend behind everything to clear enough space, sweep clean the floor then empty our box down. When poured down we arranged it in ascending denominations, from 1 cent coin to 100 sh notes. After arranging them in order, which took about 1 hour of sorting, my lord started the counting. We agreed he does the first counting, declares the amount counted to me, then i do confirmatory counting and write  down the total got from a bundle. 

For about an hour, only coin rattling sound cut through the silence in the room. Finally after careful and counter counting we totaled up all our savings. We had about 3205 shillings and 57 cents!! Excitement lifted both of us up, and hugged so deep that it felt as if we wanted to go through each other. 

We remembered to hide the money in a safer place before a thief utilizes the opportunity. I rolled it in a cloth, pushed it under the bed and a debate about it began . The decision was one and obvious, to look for land on which to settle as soon as possible. 

One week later my lord came with the news, he had seen a Kibanja on sale. He said he had already visited it and it was so good, so fertile, so near, with a good 4 cornered, well plastered and cemented house. 

“How much is it?” I asked, excitement nearly making me run out of my skin.

“I haven’t talked to the owner because i wanted to take you there first” He said

“Let's go there now,” I proposed. The house where we stay feeling worse than usual.

“Yii Yii Twala, eri,” He waved me off smiling

“ It's too late, we shall go there in the morning,” He said.

The anxiety and excitement I had that night could only be compared to the first time I was going to Mengo, or our wedding day night. 

The following morning we met Mr Mustafa the land seller. It was located on Nazigo village, It had a big coffee plantation and bananas grew unattended to. I was overjoyed on seeing a cemented floor, walls plastered house with a big  living room and 3 bedrooms!

Mr Mustafa was a Musoga from Busoga, He had settled in that place about 20 years ago when he married a new wife. Now he had decided to sell off everything in Buganda and go back to his home country Busoga as age seemed to be chasing him towards the grave 

Seated on a bench on one side of the room and him on the other came the most important question:

“How much” Asked my husband

“My price is 3200” 

Byinstinct we looked at each other. I inwardly smiled because the amount was within our range

My lord haggled with him requesting for a reduction urging “Gyebaziregera sigyevugira”

He finally told us that being a young couple, he will accept to take 3000\= for the land

My lord asked for a recess, we moved outside and held a short discussion.

He told me we accept the price, but we shouldn't use all the money we have because our child may get sick when we have nothing to use. I agreed with him and we decided to make a down payment of 2800/= and pay the balance in 6months. 

When we moved back to him my lord gave him our proposal, he welcomed it. He told us to come back in the evening with the money promising that, the village and parish chiefs will be around to witness the sale

It was a Tuesday evening. I packed the money in my brown handbag and we went to the house. We met the village and parish chiefs already there waiting.  We paid off the agreed amount and an agreement was made for us. We presented the landlords mandatory Kanzu and a cock to the chiefs hence we were accepted and registered as new residents and Kibanja owners. 

Mr, Mustafa said as he handed the agreement to my lord that we can move into our house as soon as we want as he had already taken out all his staff and family . My lord handed the agreement to me for safe custody. I carefully placed it in the deepest part of my bag where the last coin hid as we came.

Excitement that led our way back was only comparable to a hunters dog watching its boss slaughtering an animal or “Omwoki wa Gonja”

That night we discussed when we should move into the new house. We had no cause to hurry so we agreed to move in on Sunday evening when well set. Meanwhile I started drawing my house arrangement plans, how I wanted my dream living room, bedroom and childs room to be. How my kitchen will be and courtyard. Whenever I thought about my own banana plantation I felt grateful to my ancestors whose blessings keep following me.

On Thursday, after serving breakfast, I decided to move to our new land and check the growth levels of bananas therein and check on other things we needed to start with. The garden tour was short but very successful as I found out there were enough bananas to feed us and the coffee plantation was big enough to cater for all our financial needs. 

I decided to pasby the house and verify what needed what. I was welcome by a new Padlock on the house!! We had left it open and Mr Mustafa could not have put a new padlock when going away. 

On inquiring from a neighbor who had witnessed the sale, I got a shock of my life. I was informed, Mustafa had re–sold the house to another person that very morning after!! 

Labor pains cut through me and before i knew it i was behind his house inside his toilet.

Mustafa reselling his house didn’t strike me much, what shocked me most was our shuttered dream, our money, our savings we struggled for for a full year!!

I rushed to the coffee factory to break the sad news to my lord. I found when he had already heard wind of it. On extra inquiry he had information that Mr. Mustafa had promised to refund all our money before he goes.

That evening we sat in our house all curled in like a defeated dogs tail. My lord tried to steel me out of the situation with an assurance that our money will be refunded but i couldn't believe it, as i imergined other years in muzigo 

I wondered what and where we had gone wrong in this marriage. We both had our parents blessings which automatically means we had all clan spirits and ancestors blessings, but then why was everything going against us?? I kept asking myself quietly and audibly.

Many people came to console us about that loss, many advising us to sue Mustafa, others advised us to go bewitch him while others advised us that if he is to pay us, we should demand an interest from him.

We listened to them all, but besides hearing romors that he promised to refund our money: We didnt have reliable official info to that effect from him. None knew where Mustafa was currently staying. None knew where to get him if he went back to Busoga. None knew any of his relative around and the most disturbing question was, why didnt he bring back our money immedietely, because he had it? Our money hung solely on a thread of Mustafa’s goodwill and unproved honesty.

Around midday on Friday as we lay crestfallen like a defeated bull, we got an emissary from Mr Mustafa. He brought information that he had told us to keep around in the evening. He will bring back our money.  Anxiously we waited for his arrival with friends who wanted to push him for an interest around. 

On hearing that he was to come, i called my lord aside and suggested that If Mustafa brings back our money, we get back our money and ignore the interest issues. My lord said he is of the same opinion his only interest is money we shall get land somewhere else.

Around 6:00 P.M Mustafa escorted by two gentlemen came. He entered the house and explained to us that he had decided not to sell his land, the reason being that where he also wanted to buy in Busoga, he realised it had been sold off. He appologised and said:  

“So the purpose of my coming here is to refund your money” He said as he opened a palm leaves bag (Ekikapu) and pulled bunches of money out. 

After counting it, we thanked him and wished him a safe journey. Not for the team that wanted an interest, they stopped him at the verandah and asked him what his intention was. They told him that he came with his buglers to show them there is money in this house so they break it at night? My lord calmed them down and he left

The true story was that when Mustafa put up that land for sale many people wanted it, amongst them was one Mr Kiriggwajjo Ssekimpi, a catechest. When he came back, he found out that Mustafa had just sold the land. He convinced him that he would give him the original amount of 3200/= and he was paying it all in cash, no debts. Mustafa accepted the deal and decided to return our money.

We were drawn back to square zero, actually square one because as for now we had where to start from unlike before when we were looking for money.

Chapter 5

Days after came trusted family friend Mr. Kizza John with some news, he told my lord, he had seen a big fertile kibanja on sale somewhere about 20 kms away. He said it's big, fertile but the area is a bit far, so mosquito infested and the price was so high that’s why he himself couldn’t buy it. 

My lord immediately requested him to take him there to see it which they did the next morning. 

When they returned that evening, my lord found me at the verandah and shared the information with me. He told me he had toured a Kibanja 20km away, so fertile, so big but the place is not accommodative as it’s surrounded by forests, so mosquito infested, far away and worst of all it’s mostly occupied by only non Baganda’s. 

On hearing that, I welcomed him back and requested him one thing: To take me tour it first thing the following day. Early next morning, bicycle tyres  cruised the ground, and by 8:00am we were in Kiteredde village about 20Kms from Nazigo touring the Kibanja boundaries.

Kiteredde village is hidden in between Musamya swamp in East, Ssezibwa River in the west both meeting in the north and vast Mabira forest in the south, it is an island of a sort and accessing it required walking through a tiny path through Musamya swamp. 

At first sight, I liked it straight away. To welcome your eyes was a very fertile banana plantation, an expansive forest of coffee under different tree types therein and a massive fertile virgin looking land. As he took me around the boundaries and neighborhood all my attention was not just on when but where and what to start from. 

This is exactly what I had wished for all my life, having our own land, having my own banana garden and a big chunk of land where I can cultivate my own crops never to have food shortage in my home or any inability to feed my children. My mind rushed to that time a year back when I was ashamed when my mother visited me when I had nothing to prepare for her as if I wasn’t married.  

After touring the Kibanja boundaries, we moved to the compound where a family discussion was held.  Within the abandoned compound were two houses. The bigger one stood on four corners, its mud tenderly attached to it. From its look, it was the main family house. With much anticipation, we moved towards it, I opened the stalked reeds door, I had to brink over 100 times for my eyes to get used to the darkness inside. When cleared, what I saw made me move straight to the smaller hut meters away. 

There was a small house inside the main house. It looked like a private prayer room or an altar of a sort for the household head. I couldn’t temper with it whatever it was or whichever purpose it served, I made up my mind never to ever sleep in it. 

Hidden among towering trees and thick underbrush, stood a dilapidated mud and wattle hut, its thatched grass roof sagging under the weight of neglect and time. A combination of time and abandonment had conspired to render the structure a testament to neglect, a ghost of the humble abode it may have been once.

From the outside, the hut presented a forlorn picture, the thatched roof appeared patchy and worn, with large gaps allowing the sky to peek through. The mud walls, etched with deep cracks and bulges, revealing the wattle framework beneath splintered and decaying.  The roof, once tightly woven with skilled craftsmanship, had turned a mottled sooty black with tufts of grass sticking out at odd angles. 

We say “Akasubi akamu bwekava ku nju tetonya” This thatch proved this saying wrong. Patches of sky were visible through gaps where the straw had thinned. 

The mud walls, crisscrossed with a lattice of wattle clearly bearing scars of erosion. Deep cracks ran haphazardly from top to bottom, and the mud had flaked away in places, revealing the skeletal framework beneath. Near the base, the walls bulged out hazardously, as if they might crumble at the slightest touch. The wall behind was supported by several bars.

A gaping maw of strewn reeds sagged in the door flames as the door looked set to fall out at the slightest touch. Carefully my lord shove it aside. Our eyes were welcomed by a makeshift of tattered fabric fluttered in the middle of the single room as a curtain that offered little or no privacy to those on the “bedroom” side.

Stepping inside, we were knocked with an atmosphere of dampness and decay. The air was thick with the stuffy scent of molding wet earth. Sparse shafts of light rays filtered through the thatch above, casting a dim glow with the dark room. The hut didn’t have any window or ventilators of any sort.

The interior walls were a patchwork of continuous repairs, where clumsy attempts had been made to reapply mud, each layer a different shade, marking the passage of time. Large portions of the wattle framework were exposed, the reeds splintered and rotting with visible pass ways. 

Behind the tattered colorless curtain, a pile of dried grass and leaves served as a makeshift bed, covered with a threadbare blanket that could have been a World War 1 offer that had long lost its warmth.,

The floor was pothole riddled a sign that they are filled with stagnant water from the leaks above when it rains. Remnants of a fireplace, surrounded by stones blackened from countless fires with cold charcoal and ash sat dozing besides the room’s doorway. Black soot on the thatch above was the only visible testimony that fire once burnt in that heath.

A rickety 3 legged stool stood by one wall, its legs uneven and surface smoothened by over use. A collection of cracked and leaking clay pots, gourds, a basket woven from reeds and other staff whose name, use or value I didn’t know lay haphazardly leaning on each other sagging under the weight of neglect. 

“This looks a good bleeding grounds for snakes” My lord broke the silence pointing at the rubble with a joke.

Mention of the word snake itself gave me a fright, I jumped towards him shouting:

 “Tonkanga”  We held my hand all the time we spent inside

The dilapidated hut stood as a silent witness to the ravages of time and the inevitability of neglect.  A testimony to a transition from one regiment to another. To Mr. Katitiri Dan this was an old useless place not worth staying in. To me, it was a golden find, a fulfillment to my life family dream. When we moved out, he stopped me and asked:

“Bukirwa’’, will you stay in this place?” His question wasn’t specific to the hut but the village in general.

“Yes” I affirmatively answered. 

He grinned a bit, disappointment written on his face

 “I would want us to stay here” I emphasized looking straight at him. 

Getting closer to me he said discouragingly:

“There are many mosquitos in this area, they may sicken our child, check forests all round…” as I was about to answer he added:

“Even the people here are of a different culture altogether, inmigrants from Bugeso, Budaama Basoga, we might find it hard settling amongst them. How will we bring up our children amidst such a mixed culture?”

I knew deep inside my lord very much wanted to stay in a town setting, in a cemented house and in Nazigo where he had friends. I also felt the town temptation, but we had to take a step on our life journey, the proverb says: “Konaweeka. ..”. As i jaggled that in my mind he came straight”.

“I will not stay in this mosquito infested village. I haven't liked it. You will either stay here alone and i stay in Nazigo or we both stay in Nazigo and make this our farm land’’ He proposed 

“My lord” I politely answered; 

“I’m willing to stay here with my child, Its okay if you still want to stay in Nazigo no problem, you will always come and check on us here” I turned my head towards the smaller hut, and concluded”  “Im settling here, no further room to room movements” I firmly resolved in a tone so loaded with determination visible to even the blind 

That statement seems to have stung him deep, he looked disarmed, defenseless and wordless. He told me to sit on the bicycle and we rode back to Nazigo.

The following day, as I washed my Child's clothes in the evening, he came home, called me into the house and handled a small paper plucked out of an exercise book with fresh ink. On opening it, It was a kibanja buying agreement. He had paid 1500/= out of the total price of 2100/= the balance of 600, the agreement read, had to be paid in less than 6 months.

I felt like jumping out of my body. As I knelt down to thank him, he was already on the door way rushing to meet his friend Kizza with whom they had been and were rushing for an evening drink.

I quickly slid the agreement into the deepness of my bag for safe custody and right away started gathering and preparing basic staff to move into the new house. “Enindirizi….” Baganda proverb says. 

When he came back at around 9:00 pm that night, as he was eating super I had served him, he saw our household things bound into luggages, stacked into bags and others piled into bundles in heaps.

Reading the surprise and shock on his face, I didn't wait for him to ask.

“We are moving to our new home tomorrow morning” I said flatly

He looked confused, caught unaware and dismayed by my determination. 

“Why the rush?” He asked, clearly shocked by my over ambitious rush.

“Let us go next week,” he suggested.

In response i quoted several proverbs by our grandfathers:

“Enindiriza….?” 

“Yamezza Ssemitego” He responded

“Ssekawuka Kaali kakulumye…..?”

“Bwokalaba okaduka” 

“Ndikirya jjo…?” 

“Bakimutikka” He completed the proverbs broadly smiling now seeing the direction i was taking 

They also say  “Konoweek…..?” 

“Tokalinda Kusaaba Ttaka.” 

I continued. We should never forget the tale of the man “Eyajja okukima eryato.., ” 

Those proverbs delivered the point home. I reminded him of the Kibanja in Nazigo we had missed just because of delaying to occupy it after paying. 

From that experience, i totally hid to our grandfathers wise warnings through the proverbs: 

“Sitta nkya neninza lwagulo”. 

I will go after all, be it today, tomorrow, next week, month or year, we will go settle there.  “Konoweeka tokalinda kusaaba ttaka”. I have closed the restaurant business and Today is my last night in Muzigo.

“We, no, me, i'm going tomorrow morning, whatever you want to finish doing this way you will do it when I’m already there” I said stern determination punctuating my words.

“I have already packed our luggages and set to go even now'' He shifted uncomfortably to the other side. Reading discomfort in him, I felt it necessary to convince him. 

“My lord” 

I started 

“Last time our kibanja/house was taken and nearly lost our money because of delays after payment, this time we shouldn’t give out another chance, Totta nkya…” 

He turned to my side and bluntly said: 

“We shall go” then turned his head down to sleep

The following morning, I woke up as early as a child promised to go to Kampala for the first time. I looked forward to the journey even more than I looked forward to marriage/wedding day. Well having a home is the sole and true essence of marriage/wedding without building a home a wedding remains a function.  

I had to choose the basics amongst the basic requirements because our family transport means, a bicycle carrier had a limit to me, the baby and a sizable luggage. This time he had to take me first and luggages followed after. 

First in the luggage was a knife, a small saucepan, a cup and plate. Then our child’s beddings rolled into the mattress. The rest were to find me there on the second shift. I left everything well packed not to disturb my lord when picking them. 

Around 7:00 am, I said goodbye to Nazigo, goodbye to mizigo. It felt like setting off for the real marriage journey.  My small luggage of basics was strapped tightly on the bicycle side, I sat onto the carrier my baby Lubwama Steven strapped in my hands and off we went to Kiteredde

The 20 km ride was bumpy, the road was narrow but my lord also rode like an obsessed person, maybe because after taking us, he had to ride back and pick other staff or he had other issues to finish i didn't know. The ride was in total silence, each jaggled whatever within his minds 

Chapter 6

“Akatono kewerimidde kasinga akabbe” So I felt after jumping off a bumpy ride to an area so remote and a house so dilapidated that a caring farmer wouldnt keep his goats within it. Traveling from Nazigo to Kiteredde, our new home had taken almost over 2 hours.  

The crampy grass thatched hut eagerly waited for me. Its door, a collection of dry reeds shoved together with Mutuba tree bucks, was closed. On opening it with care not to fall in, the stingy stench  nearly choked my nose. The owner had removed everything from inside save for the banana fiber rope that ran perpendicularly across holding a colorless curtain. 

Looking above, the aging grass was sooty black courtesy of years of smoke from the house doubling as a kitchen below. Eyes could see light rays penetrating through the roof thatch. It was a sunny season, but right rays from the sun warned me of what awaited us on a rainy day. 

Mr. Dan’s son had taken out whatever belonged to him except the banana fiber rope that ran across the house, the 3 cooking stones and a big grinding stone at the verandah. The grinding stone was so big and well-shaped that it fit well into the description of a “stone age” era tool. I’m sure he would have carried it also if it wasn’t for its massive weight. How it got there is a story for another day but its smooth surface showed it had regularly served its purpose. Milling millet and sorgum into floor

My lord untied the mattress from the bicycle, put it on the verandah and set off to pick other utensils from Nazigo. After inspecting the house, my plan was to look around for blooms to sweep and set up where to put what, but on realizing that my baby was still snug in my arms I decided to sit on the verandah, breast feed him then leave him sleeping somewhere as I do other chores. 

I sat down at the verandah and started breast feeding Lubwama. My eyes wandered into the garden admiring the fertile green banana and coffee plantations. Inwardly I thanked god for answering my prayers. At last we have a Kibanja of our own, somewhere to grow my own food undeterred, somewhere where my children will call home forever.

As I was engrossed in that silent thanksgiving prayer, dry thatch mixed with dust from above fell onto my head, scattered onto the chest and my sucking baby! Terrified, I hastily looked up. I saw the tail end of a dark black snake hanging off the thatch bar. Its head had already disappeared meters behind the rough walls. Overwhelming terror submerged me into a pause, so terrified. I held my baby tight and watched as it unfolded itself off the bar (maybe also) in fear, climbed down and disappeared into the bush. 

What a glamorous welcome!! I exclaimed to myself. Though very scared for my babys safety, I had no option of complaining or even raise any concern as it was me who had literally forced my lord to move into such a dilapidated environment.

Lubwama had slept off immedietely after breastfeeding, I got his bedsheets and blanket from the lugage, laid a confortable bed for him on the big glinding stone at the verandah and laid him down. 

Blooms grow wild, so I looked around and got some I cut it using my knife and swept the steamy house clean. After tiding the whole place I unfolded our mattress (a mattress cover with raw cotton inserted inside it), got out our bedsheets, blanket and laid a comfortable firm bed on the ground. I turned another pair of sheets into curtains separating the bedroom from the living room, and hung the rest of the clothes on the “curtain holder”.

It was around mid-day when I finished all that, and next was the ladies challenge. The previous occupants used the house/verandah as the kitchen. To me that was unheard of. I sited where to place my kitchen, quickly I carried the 3 stones from the main house and pressed them around.  

My next activity was to move to the garden to collect firewood and food before my lord returns. But It's then that I realized that the thick bush around could be used as an improvised “shower room” but the toilet!! 

The one available was a hole meters away in the side of the house. It was about 20m deep, with a rectangular hole made between two palm tree logs among others that covered it. It had all dirt dating years back. Then its walls? It had four bars in a rectangular corners adjoined with banana fibers, an indication it once had Bisanja (Dry banana leaves) fixed around as walls. I added dry banana leaves on my days “shopping” list in the garden on top of firewood and food. 

I checked on my sleeping baby before setting off. He was comfortably snoozing ignorant of the new challenging environment we are in. I stared at him wondering whether he was safe from snakes, mosquitoes or even the dilapidated walls falling onto him. As I was still engulfed with that not knowing what to do, I had someone calling from outside. I was shocked as I didn’t expect any visitors at the time.

The consistent ‘’abeeno’’ call was of an elderly woman’s voice. I moved out and met a stout short, dark skinned, gray haired old lady staring at me from the courtyard. Her skin looked like a cloth retrieved from a cow’s mouth craving for ironing. She put on a long cotton dress that touched her ankles, it took me minutes trying to identify whether brown was its original color or it was just dirty. Whatever it was, telling from the many hand sewn patches on it it must have served her for years and demanded retirement for long. Her age aside, she looked and sound jovial.  

“Tusanyuse okukulaba nyabo,” I welcomed her smiling. 

She forcefully pulled her flappy lips backwards in what would have been a smile but ended up as an exposure her toothless gum, both the lower and upper front teeth reetired. She was the first elderly woman I saw in my life not wearing a gomesi.

After a while she calmly said in a small Kigeso tone:

“No my daughter, it’s me glad to see you on our village” She moved towards me on the verandah where I was kneeling and handed me roasted maize she carried rolled in a green banana leaf over to me saying:

“When I saw you coming I roasted this maize for you and my son as you settle. It’s just a little without tea but take it as a start up.” 

I received the maize, showing great delight with a broad smile. I thanked her and carried it inside. 

She told me her name was Nagudi, our nearest neighbor, her grass thatched hut was visible through thick vegetation. 

As she turned to go, she told me that whatever I want, I feel free to go ask her.

When she left. I Stared at the maize and was caught between dumping and eating it. She was an old woman staying alone, I didn’t know her character and always such old ladies were associated with witchcraft and sourcerer. But from her good will I chose to munch it as I moved into the garden.

I took a small garden path picking firewood and marked the nearest ready banana’s from which I could get food, dry banana leaves and fibres. I was so impressed by the virginity of the land, amazed by the fertility of bananas, coffee and other crops growing under so many trees within. I covered just about 4 acres of the land and was met with a dense forest leading to a thick swamp. I decided to venture into it on another day. I carried my firewood home then returned to pick a bunch of matooke and dry banana leaves. 

At about 2Pm, I was back home, I had food, a knife to peel it, firewood to cook it with, “amasiga” to cook it from, but I didn’t have a saucepan to cook it in!! Whatever I had to do related to cooking, I had to wait for my lord to come back with the basic utensils.

I decided to fence off the toilet by tying bundles of 6-7 dry banana leaves together at the top, then hang them on banana fibers around to secure the pit. After about an hour I succeeded in “building” a roofless toilet with a big bundle of banana leaves placed in the entrance as a door!

By 3:00pm my lord wasn’t back yet!! I was feeling angry for the delay and hungry having not eaten all day. I decided to peel the food as I waited. After peeling I realized without a match box, I needed fire to start the homestead fire. I also  noticed I needed water for anything to move. I was willing to fetch water first but it dawned on me that I did not only lack a can, a pot or big saucepan to fetch it from, but I also didn’t even know where and how far the village well was. It’s then that I realized how indispensable the old woman was in my new life.

Towards 4:00pm I had to run towards the road to welcome back my lord. He had literally loaded our entire household possessions on the bicycle carrier. He put the bed first, then on top of it he put everything movable. Me holding the bicycle, we unloaded everything into our hut. 

I told him about the visitor we had and the pressing needs we have to set off the family rolling. He offered to go fetch water at the well, as I arranged things inside. After arranging setting up everything inside, I went to the old ladies place to ask for hot charcoal to start our homestead fire heath. I realized from there that I had gone without anything to carry it from. She moved inside her grass thatched hut, got an unused hoe, loaded hot charcoal on it and gave it to me. 

I moved back home thinking this could be my new Ssenga. She was my grandmother’s age mate and looked friendly and caring. 

That evening when having our first supper me, my lord and Lubwama, our son, is when I realized there were blood suckers on standby warming up to also feast on us for their supper, mosquitos!! They were so big and so many that killing them didn’t require slapping but just rubbing them dead!! That night was spent in a fight with them.

On talking about them with Mzee Nagudi who came to check on us early the following morning, she advised us to make a fire around every evening so smoke chases them away. It was then that I realized the previous house occupant weren’t using the heath inside for cooking but as a mosquito repellant. We had less bites thereafter.

On that sleepless night we discussed where to start from, the Kibanja was unconstitutionally naturally divided between us. My lord owned all the coffee, trees and any other money generating crops thereon. I automatically owned and was in charge of the bananas and all the food crops thereon---not to sell them for money but to use them to feed the home. His duty was to use the kibanja to generate money while my duty was to use the kibanja to generate food for the family. This didn’t mean each was to work on his own, but we had to work together supplementing each other. 

We had many duties staring at us before the garden. We had to clear the bush around the house and establish a family compound. I had no kitchen. The thatch roof of our main house looked a temporary trap. The coffee plantation needed pruning. Bananas needed weeding. We needed clear the bush for the next planting season a month away etc etc

We divided the work. I cleared the bush around to make the place look habited as he went into the bush to cut trees with which to build a kitchen for me. The existing compound was about 30m wide around the house, with a small path connecting it to the main road.  I expanded it to about 50m direct up to the main road. To achieve this width I had to chop down trees and thick bushes, flatten the ground then carry the rubbish into the bush. Grading the compound didn’t mean I didn’t fetch water from a well 3 kms away or cook food for the family. By evening I had a clean looking compound and a kitchen flame though unroofed. 

I was more and more proud of my home as it took shape slowly by slowly by the day. Inwardly I felt I had attained the missing link to be a complete woman, a home. I was happily married, had 2 children a boy and girl but lacked land on which I can grow whatever I want unabated, here it was. 

Both my mother and Ssenga had very big banana plantations and always knew which banana to harvest when. All the time I spent with them, none lacked food for the family, visitors and even pass-bys. They always told me that there must be enough food in a home and a woman should always cook enough food. “Omukazi taba mufumba Kafu”.  era “Oluganda Kulya”

Whenever I had nothing to occupy me at home, especially when my lord had gone to the trading canter Kyabazaala to play football or chat with friends, I would get my knife, move down to my banana garden just to check on it. I would move from one corner to another eyes up labeling which one was ready for harvesting, which one is about to ripen, which one must be eaten when. I would remove excess banana leaves or overgrown grass then continue into bushes around marking where I will plant beans, maize cassava etc next season. I always left satisfied but returned the following day and repeated the same exercise for self-assurance/confirmation that I was the one in charge unabated.  I looked forward to the day my mother, Ssenga, sisters and other relatives would visit me. I actually felt like inviting them

By the end of the month of July, we had well pruned coffee and banana plantations and preparing gardens for the next planting season.

As all countries (Bunyoro, Ankole, Lango, Busoga, Toro Madi etc) innocently warmed up to the process of losing their independence to a white man formed confederation named Uganda in 1962, we spent most of it struggling for our families independence.

Buganda as a country looked less into the white man's confederation. The Baganda didn't have cause to fight, prepare or jubilate for independence because all along Baganda sought services from the Kabaka. We looked at the white as someone with a parallel government in our country and his going only meant restoring what's ours, we already knew and followed. Independence was something that looked only to benefit those outside the royal family with political interest. We sought our family independence,  

Around mid-August 1962, after about a month and half in Kiteredde, we went to visit our family friend Baabumba back in Nazigo. As we were there, It rained cats and dogs. We had a hard ride back home on our bicycle as the road was so slippery, watery and we reached home all dirty me who was on the carrier dirtier as the hind tyre rolled all dirty water onto my only gomesi. We got home dirty and wet. I rushed straight into the hut to change into dry clothes while my lord carried the bicyle in.

On entering the dark hut all my attention on where we keep the matchbox, I slipped and only the wall stopped me from landing flat. The loud scream I made brought my lord running in. He thought I had encountered a murderer or wild animals inside.

 “What’s the problem?” He gently asked, holding me in the darkness as I clung to him.

“The house is wet and I slipped as I entered, but I’m fine” I answered.

“Is the baby fine? Give him to me and get the matchbox” He said, carrying away the child from my hands. 

I moved towards the bed end to look for the matchbox to light the house Paraffin candle (Tadooba) 

It’s then I realized all the house floor “potholes” were water full, all the floor slippery and everything in the house wet. The matchbox I was looking for was equally wet hence no light. The clothes on the hanging line I wanted to change into wet, and you guessed it, even the bed was wet!! Not just wet but almost submerged in water, all our white bed-sheets black stained by dirty sooty water from the thatch above!! 

My lord, speechless, moved outside with the baby and sat at the grinding stone at the veranda. In darkness, i started squeezing water from wet clothes, bed sheets and turned the mattress around searching for a dry area to lay our son Lubwama. 

Deep inside me I felt some regret that maybe I forced him so early to come into the dumpy hut, maybe he planned to fix it before. But the other side of me said, this is a lesson to learn from and work hard for better conditions. After fixing where to lay Lubwama, I laid him to sleep and joined my lord in the darkness outside.

I knelt beside him and for a minute we stared at each other speechless each expecting the other to start. He expected me to blame him for not building a befitting house for the family. While I was expecting him to blame me for rushing him into the shanty hut. Suddenly, we both smiled then laughed at once. 

“Bukirwa” He called me gently

“Yes my lord” I responded

“I’m scared for our child, this situation may sicken him.” He said worriedly. 

“It's really not good for his health, but I put him somewhere dry” I assured him. I expected him to propose that we go back to Nazigo until we fix the roof. I prepared a big capital lettered NO, but he had a different idea,

“We must double our efforts and as soon as possible build a house befitting us, as us.” He emphasized.

He spoke my mind. I knew what he exactly meant when he said “Us as Us.” The village we were in had 80% of the households living in grass thatched houses yet they were fading out in Buganda. The precedent was obvious because even the few iron sheets roofed houses belonged to, Peter Kiwanuka, Kiyaga, Sseruwagi Matia, Ms Kyabeene and Ms Namugga in the corner

“The rain was a wake up call” I said.

“Yes maybe the first rain was a wakeup call, but this one coming now is a standup call” He joked pointing to the sky where loud thunder and lightning was increasing, an indication of more rain

How we slept that night is a whole life experience that steels hearts. That nights cold, dark night made us realize we didn’t have any accomplishment worth celebrating when sleeping in an animal's stew-like state. We resolved to work hard and get out of that muddy hut as soon as possible. My desire for my relatives' visit was punched as I had nowhere they could sleep. 

Kiteredde village now my new home from July 1962 is a big village, with swampy Sezibwa river in its backyard, many swamps, shrubs and forests. The Buganda gov’t village chief’s name is called Khalid, the parish chief Mr Lubega Nasanayiri deputized by Mr Benenego of Mpamenvu village. 

The village has a few people who moreover look like they are all relatives. From Kiteredde junction is  Mabeeri Namolo (Tofiro’s  father) Mr Balaza Musamya, then Mr Okware Abdul opposite elderly Nagudi, who is above our new home sold to us by Kititiri Dan. The neighbor below us is Mr Wesisi Farasiko, a mid-age gentleman with a family so big that his homestead consists of many huts accommodating many children of all ages. Between him and his brother/neighbor Ntoniyo they had about 100 acres of land, their homesteads had been built in the middle of their land. On the other side is Ms Naalyamagonja Kiwumu followed by Mr Kiwanuka Peter then on the extreme end bordering the swamp was Mr Kiyaga. Neighbors live miles away from each other and each has enough land to teal, graze, preserve natural forests and swamps. 

Swamps and forests cover most of the area, meaning hunting and fishing are daily activities. The area’s road network is so poor, we use village paths from Kyabazaala to all corners of the village.

Chapter 5

1963

The August to November rainy season of 1962 squeezed sleep out of us as we ran from corner to corner whenever it rained, especially at night. But as we moved from one corner to another we reminded ourselves where to do what tomorrow morning to utilize the downpour in our garden. The season was great from the harvests. My lord in preparation for Christmas that year called friends and re–thatched the main hut and my kitchen. 

Lack had followed him because while in Kiteredde he was also contracted by Mr Ssiyamba Wilson to buy for him coffee from his store. He bought coffee from a store in Kyabazaala town and from home. He  later joined a cooperative society called “Kijjomanyi cooperative society” with Mr Malagala from Kikoma  Mr Mayanja from Ntunda etc. Coffee buying and growing became his identity sub county wide.

Whatever money he saved, he started buying iron sheets one or two at a time. We kept them in our hut with a target of having 50 which were enough for constructing a bigger house

In May 1963 as we were picking coffee from the garden, we heard a visitor call at home. I saw him from a distance, he was on a bicycle legs down calling as if he was in a hurry to turn back. 

“He is your brother Muliraano from Bulemeezi” I said to my lord

He left the coffee tree he had bent and moved towards home saying:

“Could there be a problem at home?” 

Visitors at the time always presented a funny situation. Whenever you see him you never exactly knew whether to be happy or sad because he either came for a casual visit or he carried bad news from home.

On getting near him, my lord asked him:

“Eka balungi?” (Is everyone at home okay)

The answer sent labor pains tearing through me. 

Tagulwa Deziranta my 3 year old daughter had died that morning! He had come to inform us to go for a burial scheduled at 2pm the next day!! 

Almost all the village was at our home, in minutes in response to the throat breaking wails i made. Elderly Nagudi looked so sad, and she was joined by other elderly ladies to console, comfort and counsel me through the situation I was going through for the first time though they had experienced the same multiple times. No kind of comforting counseling stopped me crying. My lord all through organized our simple luggage, money and literally forced me to shower and dress decently. 

We left Mzee Nagudi incharge of our homestead handling villagemates, we jumped onto our bicycle and I cried all the way to Bulemezi where we buried my beautiful Tagulwa, unsatisfied by the conditions under which she died.

 We couldn’t stop believing that maybe someone was careless somewhere for her. Maybe she cried out for help and none could woke up. Maybe she shouldn’t have died in our hands at our home. Maybe I would be satisfied if she had died in my hands. I had many “mays” I couldn’t get answers to. 

I had seen many people dying and dead, but death had never come home to me. My mother and Ssenga Namagembe Anzerena had always told me, actually pumped it into me that “Omukazi aguma” (A true woman stands strong) under whatever circumstance. I didn’t know they anticipated such a situation and more. Recalling their words reset me to the true realities of life. It inserted a level of maturity, womanhood into me at just 18 years!!

Days after the burial when we returned home, my lord made a single conclusive statement:

“We must never ever give out our children to anyone, we must raise them all under our care whatever the situation” 

I fully agreed with him on this. Tagulwa my dead first born is the first and last to be given out, I vowed. As a family we counseled each other back to our planned life schedule. My lord advised me to stop moaning as it may affect the child I carried then. I was months pregnant. Death taught us a lot about the community around us, unlike our anticipation, these were caring, cultured people who humanely lived for each other.  Days later we got ash, smeared it around our two hoes as a sign of an end to a moaning period and resumed our work. 

My lord's coffee buying business was picking and could at least afford all home basics, and most important at least an iron sheet every week. The coffee and banana plantations were not just so good looking but also financially so productive. We decided to plough more land and plant more coffee to widen our economic base.

It was then that my lord brought his elder brother's daughter, Nampala to stay with us purposely to play with Lubwama. She was about 2 years older but being a girl she had matured faster into a responsible person. She was to play the role my first daughter would play.

In June 1963, I had a successful delivery at Nsambya hospital, a bouncing baby boy. His grandfather named him after himself, Walusimbi. A month later we realized this boy had difficulty in breathing. Something held him in the throat and complicated his breathing. We had a family Doctor in an Indian called Dr…….. whose clinic was on William street Kampala. We moved there on several occasions but the situation wasnt improving  

one occasion when we rushed him to the clinic for treatment, the Dr just looked at him, checked his breathing and told me “Take this medication, but don’t pay, just go home give him that as prescribed” 

We boarded a bus back to Bukolooto. We sat next to each other talking about different issues. On the way, I realized the child's condition was getting worse but I didn’t want to scare my lord, so I didn’t tell him about it until we reached Bukolooto where the situation was really worse. 

On disembarking, I informed him about it, and suggested we don’t go home straight to Kiteredde as we may fail to get transport means to rush him back to Kampala, tomorrow or at night when need arises. He suggested we go to Ggangama and spend night at Mzee Namusoke’s place

On reaching Mom’s home, she welcomed us but when my lord explained the situation to her. She got the child from me, opened its clothes and pressed her pal on its chest to check its situation. She got silent for a while, stared mercifully at me, my lord then the child in her hands. After about a minutes silence, she addressed me, as she turned to enter her house: 

“Come in let us be with this child here, meanwhile” She turned to my lord.

“Go get a vehicle to take you home as soon as possible” 

I entered the house and minutes later my lord returned with a vehicle to take us to Kiteredde. 

I sat in the back seat holding the child and my lord sat in the co-drivers seat and we drove off.

From behind i watched my baby's appalling condition turning pale and paler every minute. I knew Ssenga had assessed that its chances of surviving were none so she advised us to get home as soon as possible to avoid the costs of transporting a dead body. 

I held the baby tight in my hands and attentively watched as we drove silently. About 10 minutes into the drive, I heard the baby’s breath receding. Whatever was pulling him inside abruptly stopped. I pressed my fingers on its wrists then chest, it had passed on. 

“Omukazi aguma” My Ssenga’s voice stopped me bursting out in tears. I held the body so tight, looked down and wiped out flowing tears from my eyes. I decided not to inform my lord until we reached home.  

When we reached Kyampisi junction, the driver, a cahin smoker and drunkard (telling from his appearence), parked the vehicle and moved out to buy a cigarette.  Remaining two in the vehicle, I whispered to my lord: 

“The child has died!”  

He jumped, from his seat nearly knocking the wind screen. Quickly he turned to me felt, its chest with his right palm, It was turning cold already. Scared, we stared at each other for a while, when he got composed he told me:

“Guma” (Take heart.) 

“Don’t cry. Don’t mention it until we get home” He looked straight into the wind screen as the driver drove all the way home.

I held my dead baby’s body so tight that it scared the dead bodies fear out of me. It was a bumpy drive,  on a potholed road, the vehicle itself looked like it was falling apart any time, the driver, a chain smoker, pulled out of a bar, then the horrible experience of holding a dead body while holding tears made the journey look like an expedition to hell. Whatever thought run through my mind that period was hashed by one voice “Omukazi aguma”

When finally the vehicle packed at home, My lord quickly got out, rushed to my side, opened the door for me and stood aside. I moved out with the dead body tightly held on my chest, I walked straight to the Lubengo on the veranda. I pretended to be opening the baby for breastfeeding, then burst out crying shouting “Afudde” my baby has died!!

My lord rushed to me, the driver jumped out to console with us. He suggested that maybe the child died because of the many potholes on the way. He entered his vehicle and left.

In Buganda culture such a young child is buried immediately by ladies in their menopause. That wasn’t a big issue as Elderly Nagudi was there to lead that. Also in Buganda burials are supposed to be at ancestral grounds—Bulamba Bulemeezi for our case.

Being at night, burial could not take place that day so we sent an emissary to inform our father Walusimbi Ezekiel of Bulamba that we had lost a child. When he came back the following morning, he told us the father had said we take the body for burial there or if we can he also gave permission to start a new burial ground. My lord chose to start his burial ground. At around midday Walusimbi my third born was buried at Kiteredde. 

His death didn’t strike me as much as my daughters, first of all because he died in my hands and I was satisfied I did my best, secondly he was too young unlike Tagulwa who was old enough to even fetch water for me. 

This death brought a lot of misery in our family. It dented my pride as a mother. At 18 years I had successfully delivered 3 children, but had now lost two! What could be the problem? I had heard some elders suggesting I give birth when I was too young, so the kids were weak, that's why they were dying. This theory scared me so much because I thought even Lubwama the second born could die soon!! I felt like giving up producing more children until I became of Age but another spirit advised me to produce as many as possible so that I ll have a subsequent number even if some die off young. 

A day after burial, as I was in my kitchen preparing food for the guests around, I saw at the main road a long awaited guest coming. As he turned into our compound, I called out to my lord who was seated on the Lubengo (Dlinding stone) at the verandah. When he looked into my direction I just signaled him with my eyes to look into the road direction. When he saw him, he lifted his right hand onto his chin and scratched his beard with his thumb. Engulfed in thoughts. 

The visitor was Mr Katitiri Dan, the man who sold us the Kibanja. Automatically we knew he had not come from wherever he had gone to console with us for the loss of our child, but he wanted his balance. We had agreed to pay the remaining 500/- within a year, and it had elapsed. 

We had used all the money collected during the child's sickness and death and we couldn’t raise 100/- from our hut. 

My husband welcomed him, stood up and pointed to the Lubengo telling him to have a sit. After exchanging greetings, Katitiri went straight to the point:

“I have come to pick the balance,” he said in an assertive Kigeso tone.

My lord responded with confidence.

“True , this is the right time we agreed upon, but as you can see I lost my child and all the money I had I have spent. But please give me a month and I will have your money.” 

“A month” exclaimed Katitiri standing up!! He started speaking on top of his voice.

“I have patiently waited and I need my money today and now before I go.” In an ascending high pitch he shout out  additional Lugeso statements none of us understood:

“I didn’t want sell my land to poor people” As he paced around the compound, he authoritatively said:

“If you don’t have my money now, I’m going to chop a piece off your land, sell it and get my balance” He shout out, in a quarrelsome tone, swearing lugeso statements

Chopping off a pierce was an alarming suggestion, from the Kitchen where I was, I imagined him selling off the part with my banana plantation dragging me back to square zero. Confused, I called my lord aside for a discussion.

When he came, we stood beside the hut and just stared at each other. We had nothing tangible to discuss. My lord always presented whatever money he got to me and we budgeted for it together and I knew the last we had was spent. 

“Our only solution is picking coffee then get his money” he broke the silence

“How about these people you buy coffee for, can’t they lend you money we pay them back after harvesting our coffee?” I suggested flatly because I knew he could have thought about that option already.

We sold off all the stock 3 days back and the cooperative hasn’t paid us, there is no money at our store. He said.

“What do we do?” I asked, in a rhetoric way

Meanwhile Katitiri continued shouting in the compound addressing none in particular but whoever passed. His noise attracted neighbors' attention who thought maybe we had got another problem.  

Mr Wesisi Farasiko an elder Mugeso came along on hearing him. Having been neighbors, and tribes mates they knew each other. 

Katitiri told him everything in Lugeso, after listening, Mr Wesisi called my husband so they could talk as men. They stood 3 in a circle, Mzee Wesisi tried to convince him to be patient and wait for a month as the people he was demanding money from had just had a catastrophe at home. 

Katitiri refused and insisted on chopping off a piece of  land, get a buyer and go back with all his money

On realizing that Katititri was seriously stuck on his resolve, Mr wesisi exclaimed in a way that sounded like he was more shocked than even my lord.

After a short silence.

“Kaweesa” He called my husband by the name 

When my lord looked into his direction, he beckoned him to follow him to his home meters away. 

On reaching his home, he took him inside his house, deep inside they moved through a dark corridor to its extreme end. He got a key from his trousers and opened a padlock that secured a door that looked unusually opened. When the door was pushed in, dry coffee beans poured out filling each open space. Wesisi immediately moved into another room. He came back holding a pile of sisal sacks in his hands. He handed them to Kaweesa saying:

“Pack as much coffee as you need, go sell it and pay off that gentleman “atuviire” 

My lord was like a prisoner, freed off a death raw. The shock and appreciation that filled his face muted his mouth, he failed to even express his joy in words. 

Wesisi, who looked unbothered, told him he was continuing with his journey to Kyabazaala trading center and started disappearing in the dark corridor. 

“Words can’t express my appreciation for this sir, may the lord reward you, thank you so…” Said my lord to the disappearing man. He last heard him ordering his 3 youthful boys, all called Kadenya’s to move in and help him pack the coffee into sacks.

The opened place was an 8X8m coffee store within. Kaweesa had only seen so much coffee at the coffee stores collected for sale.

A kilo of coffee was about 70 cents, so to get 500/- about 600kg were needed.  As an experienced coffee dealer My lord knew 600 kgs can be put into 10 sacks. He packed one bag, put it onto the bicycle and rushed it to the store. On reaching the store he told Kawongolo the cashier to give him 500/- at once to clear off the roving debtor as he was bringing more coffee.

On returning from Kyabazaala, he took the man to the village chief (Omutongole} named Khalid he made the payments and the final agreement recognizing receipt of the final installment was written. Relief was reinstalled into the family 

Mr wesisi’s unconditional offer taught us to build bridges not walls with neighbors because you never know when you'll need who and when. I learnt neighbors are more of your relatives than your relationships far away because they are the only ones always available for a small, minor and big problem.