DREAMS DREAMS AND DREAMS!

By Glaydah Namukasa

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The late evening sun welcomes him to his harbour. He’s lost his pursuers. When, he cannot tell. Must have been during the long struggle through the shrubs. As he enters the forest, it dawns on him that it cannot be a harbour. How could he have hoped? It’s the forest that handed him over to five men. To the iron arms of prison! Yet, as he struggles on, he realises it isn’t just a forest. It’s his harbour from the pursuers.

He knows the evening sun will soon say goodbye and hand him over to the grip of darkness. He hates darkness. He hates forests. He hates men. Waves of tiredness wash over him. He’s sure it’s the fatigue due to the long struggle for escape. He approaches a fallen muvule trunk and sits down on the low end. Is Edna still alive? Did she survive the experience of child birth? Did she survive Watta forest? He feels all the strength drain from his body and tears well in his eyes. Edna. If she is dead, what will be the reason for his escape? "She’s alive!" he tells himself, "I am going back to her."

The early morning sun streams through the treetops. Leaves dance to the tune of the breeze. The dancing leaves pespire and beads of sweat pour to the ground. A droplet spatters on his forehead and he rises from the unknown depths of his sleep. He opens his eyes then squints. Is it moonlight? Daylight? More droplets spatter on his body. He opens his eyes wide. It’s daylight. The treetops are rising high like they intend to meet the sky. The world is smiling down upon him. He is free. He smells a fresh scent of rotten leaves, bird and monkey droplets, and treesap. Yes. It is the scent of freedom, animating. It isn’t the sickening smell of the cell. Not stale cigarettes, sweat, urine, faeces, blood – he is free!

The chill of the morning sips through his ragged clothes. He sits up and lowers his eyes along his body. His ashen skin is decorated with clotted blood, dust and humus. His feet are sore. His stomach is rumbling. It’s all okay. He is going home. He closes his eyes as if to shut away the night.

Suddenly, a noise cuts through the silence. He poises his ears. Pounding footsteps. Breaking sticks. Voices! Panic jolts through his body. It grows to fear. Fear paves way for terror. The terror of being caught. "You are going home," he whispers to himself. He creeps backwards and crawls into a thick undergrowth. A stick worsens his punctured wound on the thigh. He lies flat and presses his body against the soft earth. Something under his stomach prods him: a stone perhaps. But it’s all okay. Physical pain doesn’t last long.

The noise gets louder, footsteps nearer. The rustle through the shrubs intensifies. Voices! He can’t make out the exact number of pursuers. What slices his heart is the fact that they have halted near his hiding place. So near that he can smell their familiar odour: the sickening odour of prison. He’s afraid they can smell him too. They spent so much time together that they seemed to be parts of each other. But he has to break loose.

"He must be found," a voice snaps. The voice is familiar. It carries an unusual air of presence and determination. "He is someone who shouldn’t just leave alive. How, for heaven’s sake, did he escape? Find him!"

The commanding voice stirs his own determination. He can’t be taken back. He must go to his wife – and child.

"Find that man," another voice sounds, "he should be found. We are not going back with bad news. Find him. Move on all of you. Scatter!"

Later, the sounds drone. He can only hear voices of the birds. They are probably greeting each other or discussing the day ahead: planning to shift into new nests or enlarging their territories. Suddenly, the noise resumes, this time in a distance. He hears multiple movements again. More men seem to have been mustered. The noise gets nearer. Voices again!

"One group to the left. Others that side," the former voice resounds.

"Afande, we need to alert the village locals. Many are already in their gardens. We can alert especially this area where the forest connect to the swamp—"

"That’s not your office! Now do what I say. Sweep the forest. Shake it till he drops to the ground. I’ll be here for the next thirty minutes. After that I will be gone. Don’t hesitate to call me as soon as the boil bursts. Now start. Search the forest inside out."

The heavens seem to tumble down on him, furious and avenging. Avenging his innocence. Avenging his escape from torture and hard work. He can see the shrubs opening their mouths to talk, to give him over. Every leaf and stick above is mocking him; telling him they are jumping away any second. That he was a fool to trust their safety. He feels himself melting like a piece of ghee on fire. He shuts his eyes to stifle the welling tears because if they flow, they will carry away hope of seeing his wife – and child.

The thought of the child he’s never seen casts a scoop of pepper in his eyes. He has to go home and see his child. He poises his ears again. A crackling sound jars him with a start. Is the Afande getting to him? He has to fight. Luck was with him when the pursuers did not sweep his hiding place. And luck isn’t static. Now, he has to face the Afande! Multiple foot stamps follow, then a scream. As he steals up, he hears a voice say, "damn it!"

It’s the Afande’s voice. He watches as the Afande drops his gun and fidgets to pull off his clothes. Ants! Ants have invaded the Afande. He rises. Luck is knocking on his door. He has to open the door wide. He creeps forward and reaches for a stone that he casts at the Afande. It hits the Afande’s temple and he staggers before tumbling down.

He darts forward and grabs the gun. "Don’t move," he says to the bleeding Afande, "and no noise otherwise I shoot." He is trembling. He has never touched a gun. He has never shot a gun. He hates guns because they are too commanding. Once its mouth faces you, you have to freeze. You have to die to yourself and live for whatever it commands. Guns have been a part of him for ten years but its presence in his hands is enough to make him sweat. He is afraid he can touch the trigger and kill someone or kill himself or alert the rest of his pursuers.

"Head down," he says, lowering his voice as much as he can. He drops the horrible gun, swoops for a bigger stone and hits the Afande unconscious. He then drags the unconscious Afande to his former hideout. He pulls off the Afande’s clothes and puts them on. He dashes, ignoring the boots. His feet are too sore to be in the Afande’s boots. Besides, he’s never been used to shoes his whole life. He races, the hat on his head almost covering his eyes.

A voice startles him from the left saying, "Afande! Anything yet?" Footsteps sound towards him. Not again! In a moment he realises they’ve mistaken him because of the clothes. He halts, thinking fast. He waves them away and pats his crotch. He holds his hands like he is about to unzip his trouser. He hurries behind a huge setaala tree and peeps. The guard is looking away from him. He steals away. This time he is going away. He is saying goodbye to his pursuers. He is saying goodbye to the forest. He extends his thanks to the forest for being a fair harbour. He thanks the birds, snakes, monkeys, worms and all the forest inhabitants as well as trees for loving him, for supporting his cause.

Noises mingle with the continuos croaks in the swamp. First, chiming of the church bell: persistent like the wedding bells. Then the blare of car horns. The scent of freedom overwhelms the odour of the Afande’s clothes. In a distance, he looks at blossoming maize stalks, flowering coffee plants, dancing banana leaves, and houses. Hope whispers to him louder. Loud enough to awaken his ears which seem to have been deaf for ten years. The fair harbour had seemed unending but he is glad to be winding it up. He races on. He is going home!

¨ ¨

The late evening welcomes him back to his home Buligi: the farming village. Coffee Shambas shine like the midday sun. They shine so bright that the fog on his eyes clears; fog that has covered his eyes for ten years. He can see the landmarks of Buligi: a maize field here, a cassava field there, a stretch of carpeted sweet potato leaves, and plantations of banana plants. After what seemed like a decade of wrong turns he has finally made it. He scrambled over rocks, taken paths in bushes to avoid any prying eyes, walked uphill and down hill, now he is home.

As he strolls on in silence, his footsteps sound unnaturally loud. He prefers noise to silence. He wishes for a swamp or a forest. There, croaking frogs squabble and the noises occupy his troubled mind. He hates silence because it stirs memories of the past. He wishes the past to be a story that would never be told. He wishes the ten years erased from his mind forever.

Fate, fate and fate! Fate has made him a thief. He hates thieves because they harvest what they didn’t sow. A prisoner meant a thief, that’s why he hated all prisoners. Now, he hates himself too because he has stolen – for once. He had to steal a pair of trousers and a shirt which had been spread for drying. He did so because the Afande’s clothes would call for suspicion. But he has been a thief only for once. As he meanders down the path, he promises himself he will take back the clothes the moment he reaches home and changes into his own. Then he will be a thief no more because he is a prisoner no more.

He branches off to another path that borders the Kibo River on the right. The weather is threatening, heavens gloomy. How he wishes for sunshine because then he would tell time by the level of his shadow. At the junction where the river meanders down to Watta forest, he halts and poises his ears. Drum beats. The sounds are coming from in front. He can make out the beat and the tune. It’s a tune he last heard the day his father died, just five days before fate came his way. Yes. The drums are announcing death of a resident. Edna?

The thought jolts through his head like a bullet. Is Edna dead? Why hasn’t she waited for him? He grips a nearby Jackfriut tree for support. "Go on," he tells himself immediately, "Edna survived Watta forest. Edna survived her fist experience of childbirth. How do you expect her to die now?" He lets go of the tree and hurries on. As he rounds the long bend of the river, he realises he is thirsty. He turns back to the Jackfriut tree and plucks a leaf that he uses to draw water from the river. The cold water revives his energy. He scoots round the meander to the main tarmac road.

¨ ¨

Homesteads unfold ahead. Night has taken on its duty. He walks on, blessing the full moon because he can tell it’s 9.00 p.m. by the level of his shadow. He has not met anyone on the way; not even the young lovers stealing through plantations. Yes, this is his home, Buligi, always known to be asleep by 9.00 p.m. He is home.

The fact that he is home brings a smile to his lips. The mud-and-wattle houses stand like they did ten years ago, all surrounded by coffee trees and banana plantations. The compounds are so large that they provide enough space for coffee drying. He notices, as he draws near his house, that the drumbeats he heard earlier are no more. It dawns on him that they were hallucinations from with in his brain.

Home is quiet. The sweet scent of flowering coffee plants tells him it’s blooming season. If he hadn’t been in prison, he would have been harvesting coffeebeans in a few months.

His neighbour’s home draws near. He halts, hating the moments ahead. How will he pay back Mukasa’s bicycle which was taken that fateful night? He walks on, surrendering to each moment as it will unfold. He notices a flickering light move across the compound to the house. Mukasa’s family always slept late. Goodness! The ten years of his absence haven’t changed anything.

At the path to the compound he halts. The impulse to branch off and see Mukasa is strong but he fights it. Edna should be the first person in Buligi to see him. He watches two figures enter the house and the door closes.

He walks on, the smile on his lips broadening. He is home. He imagines himself knocking on the door, Edna waking up and asking who it is in a low voice – soft and smooth. Edna’s voice is soft and smooth. What will he say that won’t frighten her? He imagines Edna opening the door, his child clinging to Edna’s skirt, Edna reaching for the kerosene lamp and scrutinising his face, blinking her eyes as if make sure what she is seeing is real—

He halts suddenly. Where is his house? The house is supposed to be adjacent to Mukasa’s coffee shamba. He turns and stares at the shamba as if to make sure it really exists. Yes it does, with two musizi trees standing tall in the middle. He turns back. His eyes only meet overgrown elephant grass almost towering over a dilapidated building.

He lifts his eyes to the full moon and curses it because it’s only mocking him with a clear view of his desolate home! The house has no roof. He can remember very well how he toiled to build his bride an iron-roofed house. He can remember the wooden doors and windows that cost him a year’s saving, and the mud-bricks he made out of his sweat. Where is that home he built for his bride? Where is his bride? Where is his child? Or is he lost? He walks five meters ahead. He notices that matovu shrubs stand where the fish smoking place used to be.

He lowers himself down and cups his face. He crouches for as long as he can’t tell.

A rustle through the shrubs startles him. He stays still. A sniff cuts through the rustle. He wishes to die. He wishes to surrender to whatever is moving. He wishes it to be a lion because he is better off dead than realising Edna went away – married again perhaps.

As the rustle gets closer, he realises he doesn’t want to die. He ducks down and holds his breath. The rustle sounds towards him. His first desperate thought is to rush to Mukasa’s home for shelter. As he gets up, he frightens the approaching creature and it squeaks as it races away. A pig! He jumps up and stares at the dilapidated house again. "Things have changed," he says as he hobbles back to Mukasa’s home.

¨ ¨

"It’s me, Kato. Mr Mukasa, it’s Kato." He is in the doorway staring at Mukasa’s startled face. "It’s Kato. I am back." Either Mukasa is dumb or deaf or even blind. The light of the flickering kerosene lamp casts a shadow across Mukasa’s left cheek. He notices that Mukasa is very old. "It’s me, Kato. Don’t you remember me? It’s Kato your neighbour."

"Kato," Mukasa whispers, "Kato is dead. He was killed ten… he disappeared—"

"Let me in, Mr Mukasa. I will explain."

Mukasa reaches for the lamp and scrutinises his face. "Kato," he says but his voice is still a whisper. "Is it you? Where…why… how…" He replaces the lamp and turns to his wife who has just emerged from the bedroom. "It’s him. It’s Kato. He is alive. He is back!" He opens the door wide and reaches for a bamboo chair.

"Yes, it’s me." Kato smiles. Mukasa has recognised him. Now, he just needs to know where his wife is. "Tell me, Mr Mukasa, where is my wife?"

"Get him water and food." Mukasa turns to his wife. "No, wait. A gourd of Tonto first. He must be thirsty." He dashes past his wife to the next room saying, "let me do it. Kato is back. He is alive."

"Yes I am alive. I am back." Kato smiles but the smile transforms into a frown as he realises that Mukasa has avoided his question. He stares at Mukasa’s empty chair.

"Now drink, you need this." Mukasa is back.

"Thank you, sir." Kato reaches for the gourd and gulps it down. "My wife…" the brew chokes him and he coughs. He coughs so continuos that he wakes the sleeping children in the next room. "I am sorry," he coughs.

"Here." Mukasa hands him a Tumpeco of drinking water. "Take this too. You need it."

"Thank you, sir." He reaches for the Tumpeco and takes a sip. "My wife…" the water almost chokes him.

"Here.’ Mukasa reaches for the food his wife has brought. " Eat this food. You need it." He turns to the wife. "Leave us alone, Nabalongo. You need your rest now."

"I will eat, Mr Mukasa but please tell me, is my wife… is my wife—"

"Your wife is fine. And your son too—"

"My son." He sighs like he has never sighed in ten years then jerks off the seat. "My son… can I see him…can I see them? —"

"The food, Kato. Eat first."

"Yes." He sits down and attacks the steamed cassava and smoked fish. Halfway between the meal he pauses. His wife is alive but is she still single? "Is my wife single, Mr Mukasa?" he says between a mouthful. Mukasa’s sudden facial transformation stirs an anxiety in his heart. The anxiety borders on hysteria. He jerks up with the plate in his hands then slumps back into the chair and it creaks. He averts his eyes from Mukasa’s face and stares at the half-eaten food.

"Eat, Kato. Finish the food."

He picks a piece of cassava and nibbles on it. He tries to swallow but it is too heavy to go down his throat. He takes a sip of the water. It tastes bitter. "I was kidnapped," he says, staring at the half-full Tumpeco. "I left her helpless. In labour pains! In the middle of Watta forest —"

"Kato, you need to eat first. Your wife and son are well, and there is much time for you to tell me everything. For now, eat."

"Where are they, Mr Mukasa? Tell me one thing, is she still single? Will she accept me again? I’ve been in prison. Hell. I missed her. I escaped for her. I managed because my love for her guided me. Those damned men. They kidnapped me. I left her helpless… is she still single? Is she still single?" He places the plate down.

"Kato, things have changed." Mukasa grits his teeth and sighs deep. "Things changed. Children were born, children grew up, people died … people … got married—"

"Is my wife married, Mr Mukasa?" The piece of cassava in Kato’s hand drops as he jumps up and kneels before Mukasa. He listens to the silence. It’s frightening. Stinging. Killing. Ripping his heart over and over again. He trembles. His body heats up. Sweat breaks through his skin. His breath quickens. The heart races. "Is Edna married?"

"Not yet, Kato." Mukasa helps him back on the chair. "You see, my son, I wish I could tell you otherwise but you deserve to know. Edna has waited till she could wait no more. Her wedding is pending."

Kato pats his ears. What Mukasa has just said is the loudest phrase he’s ever heard yet he isn’t sure he’s heard it. It has to be repeated before he can believe it but he is not sure he wants to hear it again. He prefers death. He prefers being kidnapped and put in prison: locked up forever. Deafness is better that he can never hear again but he has already heard. Edna. Her wedding is pending. He wants to wake up and realise it’s all a dream but there are no illusions. It is reality. Mukasa is seated right opposite him and he’s just told him his wife’s wedding is pending.

"Pending," he says, "pending." The one word is a machete slicing his heart into two yet truth he has to face. "Pending." He lifts his teary eyes to Mukasa. "Ten years. No communication, no…" Tears overwhelm him. He cries. Immediately, he stifles the tears and says, "I don’t blame her."

"She is the only person who never accepted your assumed death. She always said you would come back. Always," Mukasa says.

"When is her wedding?" Kato asks. Things have really changed. Everything has changed. He is afraid he is also changing because if Edna’s wedding is pending— "When is her wedding, Mr Mukasa?"

"Soon. Today is Friday. She is getting married to a rich Moslem in her home area. Her wedding is on Sunday. Kato, my dear son and friend, I wish I could tell you otherwise but it’s the truth."

"Thank you, Mr Mukasa. I needed the truth. I needed it. I need it just like I need to see her. Just to see my wife before her beautiful face is robbed from me forever. To say sorry. To say sorry for a crime I never committed and to tell her I escaped for her. To tell her I missed her. That I love her. That I love both of them. And my son too. That I will always love her. Where is she now? I want to go and see her in the morning."

"Home, her parents’ home. She left a year ago. Not of her own choise. Your relatives chased her from the land but they just left it untended—"

"I saw my desolate home already, Mr Mukasa. I saw it. My relatives..." He doesn’t remember when he last thought of his relatives. His relatives had hated him because of the attention he used to give to his wife. They didn’t know what love was. They didn’t know Edna was everything to him. And now, they don’t know he has lost everything except the son he has never seen. "If only I can see her one more time, and my son, it’s all I need. Not my relatives."

"I well, you have a right to – see her. Now, you need to rest."

"Rest is the right word." Sleep means nothing in this present condition. "By the way, your bicycle—"

"Don’t mention, Kato. The bicycle went, but you are back. It’s all that matters."