I
did not want to talk about it, but this lady at OleeBranch went public about
it, and so I have to continue the conversation, to tell you what her actions
did to me. I don’t think she meant harm. I think she is a nice person, but
there is an Acholi saying that goes ‘Yom cwin oneko latina’ – forgive my
inability to write in Luo – which means ‘being too kind hearted killed my child’.
She says she kindly offered to baby-sit for a stranger in a taxi, even as this
strange mother showed no gratitude at all, and I believe her for she seems like
a good person.
 |
A child cries for something.
I took this photo in Kit Mikaye, Kisumi |
At
that time, I did not know her. We had met maybe only once before. I can’t
remember where - one of those art things (was it Bayimba last year?) and we had
barely talked. Just a dry hello and brief introduction. So that day, when she
walked into the taxi, I thought I recognized her from her sandy-colored
dreadlocks, but I was not sure.
I
was not sure either where I was going. I am more used to Jinja-Mukono road, I
know all the stages. But with Entebbe road, I only know where to pick the
taxis, and where to get off in Entebbe town. So I was fidgety all the time,
wary of being robbed if I asked fellow passengers for directions. See, I had a
camera bag. I was going for a gig, to take photos at someone’s birthday party.
With Kampala what it is today, I feared if someone thought I was a stranger to
the place, they might want to take advantage of it and mug me. I had to get off
in Zana and I was not sure where that was. If she was near me, I would have
asked, but she was like three rows in front, and I was squeezed in the
back-row. Besides, I was not sure if she was the lady I knew. She had a baby,
which confused things some more.
So
when she alighted, I followed her to ask for directions. I thought a woman with
a baby would not try to rob me. By the time I got out, I found her arguing with
another mother. My Luganda is not the best, and I could only understand
fragments here and there, but I thought they were arguing about a child. Olive
said to the other woman ‘Have you forgotten the child you gave me?’ Now, I was
certain I had misunderstood that Luganda phrase. Surely, a woman can’t give
another woman a child unless they use hi-tech reproduction and cloning, which,
as far as I know, is still science fiction. ‘Me? I gave you a child?’ the other
woman asked Olive. ‘You rasta must have smoked weed and it is making you deny
your own child.’
That’s
what I thought I heard. My brain still refused to process the information, for
I thought I was misunderstanding. But then, someone had paid me to take photos
at a birthday party, and I had to get there, so I interrupted the quarreling.
‘Excuse me, are you Olive?’ I asked her, tapping on her shoulder. She turned to
me and her face was folded in a frown, her glasses caught the lights from a
street lamp so I could not see her eyes. I wondered if indeed she had smoked
weed and forgotten her own baby. I once read a story about a woman in the US
who smoked and then put her baby in a blender to make juice. She later told the
police that she thought the baby was a giant pineapple.
‘Yes,’
she replied. ‘I’m Olive.’ And then she recognized me. ‘Dilman!’ Yep, she was
the one I met. ‘You are the guy who writes those crazy scifi stories.’ I was
impressed that she remembered what I do. ‘Can you believe this woman? She gave
me her baby and now she’s denying it!’ A tear rolled down from beneath her
glasses and I felt sorry for her. Either she was too high or she was telling
the truth. I could not decide which was which.
 |
| Grandmother and Child in Kit Mikaye, Kisumu |
I
turned to the woman, but to our great surprise, the woman was gone. Just like
that. We looked around, and I saw her disappearing into an alley. ‘There!’ I
said.
‘Hold
the baby,’ Olive said. ‘I’ll bring her back.’
She
thrust the baby at me. She was so mad that I could not refuse, and so I took
the baby. Olive sprinted off after the woman and soon she too disappeared in
the same alley. I do not remember the last time I had a baby in my arms. I did
not even know if I was holding it right, since I was wary of my camera bag
being snatched, but the little thing seemed happy to be in my arms and it was
laughing and smiling at me. Its toothless gum caught the street lights and
glistened like (an angel? I suck at such descriptions) but yes, it glistened,
and it gave me an idea for a sci-fi horror story, in which a man finds what
looks like a human baby but a weird light radiates from its mouth……
Nearly
thirty minutes passed and Olive did not return. Now I got worried. My phone was
ringing. The birthday people were calling, but I could not answer for my arms were
the full of baby. And my legs being weak, my knees were wobbly, my ankles
hurting. Standing for so long had left me woozy. I had to find this Olive fast,
and give her back her baby, but I didn’t have her number. As my phone continued
to ring, it occurred to me that I was stuck in a place I didn’t know with a
strange baby in my arms. It was early night, just coming to 9pm, and the street
was already largely deserted. Only a few boda-bodas laughed at a stage, and a
rolex stand glowed somewhere in the scene. I thought maybe I could give a boda
guy the baby, and ask him to take it to the nearest police station, so I walked
over to the charlies.
 |
| A calabash protects a baby from the harsh world in Kitgum district |
‘What?’
one guy said, after I explained, and I knew he had not understood my Luganda.
‘You want us to do what?’
‘I’ll
pay for the transport,’ I said, speaking slowly so they would understand me,
mixing in a lot of English. ‘Just take it to the nearest police station. I have
to work. I can come later to make a statement. I’ll leave my number. Bambi,
help, I have to work.’
‘Are
you throwing away your baby?’ the body guy said.
‘It’s
not my baby!’ I said.
‘We
saw you and your wife coming out of the taxi with it,’ another boda guy said.
‘Now you want to throw it away?’
‘That
was not my wife!’ I said.
‘Da-dee,’
the baby said. Now, I’m sure it did not say those exact words, but it made a
sound that could pass off for Daddy, and it was laughing with me, pulling on my
shirt.
‘See
how it calls you daddy,’ one guy said. ‘See how it laughs with you? And you
deny it?’
Things
happened really fast after that. A mob formed quickly. They threw all sorts of
accusations at me. ‘He stole the baby.’ ‘He impregnated a woman and she dumped
the baby on him and now he wants to dump it on us.’ And the mob grew rowdy.
Someone suggested they lynch me. Another said it would not be a wise idea for
what would they do with the baby? Another suggested they beat me up to teach me
a lesson. Then a police car showed up. God, was I glad to see the cops? At
least the mob wouldn’t beat me up, or lynch me.
‘What
is the problem here?’ a policeman asked.
‘This
man wants to throw away his baby,’ the bodabodas chorused.
‘Take
him in,’ the officer said to one of his juniors.
They
ripped the baby off my hands, and the baby started to howl. They handcuffed me,
and threw me into the back of the pickup. We sped off to the police station,
the baby howling all the way. When we reached, they gave me back the baby, and
the moment it was in my hands, the baby stopped crying, and promptly fell
asleep, snuggling against my chest.
‘You
are in big trouble,’ the policeman said.
~~
If
you enjoyed this, you will enjoy my short films. Subscribe to my channel and watch
them on youtube.com/dilstories Do subscribe and share with your friends. I
upload a great short film every month.
~~
 |
| Beautiful drooly smile in Kitgum district. |
Do
you know what happened next? Then please, tell us. Leave a comment, or write it
in your blog and let Olive know. This is a chain story for the #UGBlogWeek. The first is available here. Another response is here.
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Labels: #ugblogweek, relationships, writing
