And Maybe You (by Siime Mugisha Jeresi)

Tangram of Self

If I bare the terrifying pain in my soul, help me in only one way —be petrified by me. I don’t need pity. Pity can be bottled and saved for tomorrow.

Mama should not have praised me the way she did, calling me bold, beautiful and blessed. She should have sucked confidence out of me and not left it for my classmates to trample upon. She should have made me aware of all those sad descriptions and not left them in the mouths of strangers. How it seems believable coming from a bunch of them! Mama’s mouth would have delivered gentler blows and her hands would have been cupped if she were to slap. I tell the sky and the birds all these words before Ntensibe’s comment cuts me through. “Nice shorts.” He says looking at my bottom.

We are held at the gate for coming late by the teacher on duty. He asks us to pick litter. Ntensibe is now standing near the cleanest girl in our class. Adolescence has sprayed pimples on her face before any of us because she is older than all of us. She was advised to re-sit the Junior School Certificate exam this year so she could get some things she ‘missed’ while getting her pimples right. She smiles at her boyfriend’s remark. A disgusting couple—the both of them.

“Wow, is that your butt? Very hot.” She says to my crumbling face. Does it look like an elephant? I want to scream at her.

“I did not know you were this fat.” A girl in a lower-class chip in, looking at me from my head downwards. Whatever her name is, I gave her my space in the lunch line yesterday. She is very thankful, I see.

“Hurry up Nyakato. We are already late.” Nankya, my only friend, calls to me when the gate is flung open.

Petite, fearless and beautiful, Nankya walks on. She always tells me, “Nyakato, forget this jealous pile of people.” But how can I forget about them when it seems the staring committee was organized specifically for my behind?

Am I that fat? Is having a tiny friend—Nankya— who tells me to close my eyes to hurt a good idea? Can someone please hand me an invisibility cloak? Harry Potter? Anyone? No one should ever want to have cruel children like them, not even a barren woman. And no one should ever give birth to a girl with big things like mine. I should have stuck to my spacious school uniform—a dress with many rooms and a courtyard I could hide in. The monologue in my head continues. It is so loud. I feel they can hear it all.

“Nyakato hurry up. Forget this­—” Nankya says again but I complete the good old sentence, “Jealous Pile of people?” I ask. She does not answer me. Why will she? What does she even know? But I love her.

We walk fast. We want to get to class before the Basic Science teacher. If she beats our goal, she will literally beat us up and tear us apart.

Namirembe College has a spacious compound. Nothing bourgeois like Nakasero College or Namirembe Hillside. There are just enough green quadrangles and a play area for the students. When you enter through the old gate with missing paint, the furthest building you see is Class 3. That is where we are going. When we get to the library which is a chorus of colors, I slow my pace to inhale the scent of books wafting out.  The students we left behind catch up. Ssozi, a boy with a head full of ringworm patches and a torn shirt, walks up to us.

“Nice shorts, Nyakato.” he compliments with the normal motive, using Ntensibe’s words. Ntensibe always tells them what to say or do.

“Urgh?” I grunt.

“You look really fine.” He giggles.

The emphasis he places on fine pushes me deeper into the dark corridor of embarrassment.

“Hey? Did I hear a thank you?” He smiles, revealing his white teeth. He is enjoying himself. “Thank you,” I say.

Nobody likes such jokes but Ssozi is right— they all are. I am huge and plenty. That is what they mean to say.

We are past the quadrangles. A few more meters— just a few meters before I hide in the back of our class.

“Large girl! Large girl!” A voice I know calls no one else but me. I dread the voice. The arch bully is here. The party can officially get started.

His name is Kisakye— a short and tiny thing that always seems to be in motion. He is the brightest person I know. I give that to him. The Principal always reads his name on assemblies. He is dark and has bulbous eyes. Kisakye is the ant that gives this elephant restless nights and sick days.

“You can hear me large girl, cant you?” He lands in my front. Ssozi goes behind me. Nankya keeps walking with bolts of lightning in her feet; she wants me to do the same. But I want to walk through Kisakye and knock that cheeky smile off his face and send him tumbling to the ground. I feel like helping him feel what makes my sports shorts tight. Maybe a slap or two to wrap up everything.

“Nyakato, your bag is open,” Ssozi says from behind.  “It is not open, Nyakato. He is just being mischievous.” Nankya yells over Ssozi’s taunt and adds “Class has begun!” Nankya is already running. Kisakye follows too and Ssozi overtakes me. I try to catch up with them. It is only then I know the staring committee didn’t really disperse— some students who have been watching from their classroom windows are sent into fits of laughter when I try to run. Every part of my body shakes and quakes in a mighty way, from my calves to my cheeks. I stop running and start walking faster, entering after Ssozi and before the stern science teacher.

Mrs. Otim is strict— strict as a new razor. Army-barracks strict. She is light skinned and on the big side too. At her age, it’s okay to be big up, down and center. My mama is big too. But that does not mean I am cool with Mrs. Otim. None of us is. In fact, when we were about finishing Class 2, Ntensibe had a prayer written on a corner of our blackboard:

Lord, please be merciful

Lord leave us out of Mrs. Otim’s class

Or give her a Job in the Barracks where would fit.

She saw our prayer before Angel Gabriel could wipe it out and take to Jesus. And then, she brought her canes to help us say Amen.

…To be continued

‘And Maybe You’ was written by Siime Mugisha Jeresi, a prolific Ugandan Poet, and Writer whose taste bud for word use and narration leaves an imprint in her readers mind.