And Maybe You […] (by Siime Mugisha Jeresi)

Tangram of Self

Contd…“Heat.” Mrs. Otim begins her dictation. I scramble into my bag, looking for my pen. It was somewhere around. I cannot find it.  Good Lord! Lord have mercy! Mrs. Otim is already 3 lines into her note and I am not writing. Lord, do not let her see me yet. Lord!

“Use this.” Ssozi who seats beside me whispers, a spare pen in his hand and a very warm smile on his face. I am surprised. But I don’t like him, so why should I like his pen? Why is he smiling? Horrible! Soon, a vision flashes before my mind’s eye. I imagine Mrs. Otim noticing that I am not writing and then parading me in front of the class with my peeping belly. I see the other students bursting with insuppressible laughter as they crane their necks to catch a glimpse of the fat glory placed before them. I sigh and take a look at her cane. The pain which Mrs. Otim’s caning leaves will be nothing to compare with the mortification. I look at Ssozi still smiling. I smile back tentatively and then, I collect his pen. He gives me a thumb and continues writing. I will think of his actions later and decide whether to thank him or not. For now, I must write.

Time drags on from one lesson to the other until the dear bell rings. It is time for break. I am famished and I have no sweater to wrap my behind with so I tell Nankya to help me buy me something from the snack shop. I won’t move around till I am back within the safe confines of my long and big school uniform —an armor that covers my excesses.

Coming after break-time on Friday is one thing— debate. I love debates. It’s the only activity I am good at. For two hours, I get better than them. For two hours I do a good job at making others doubt their thoughts. And if I  am up against a bully I make his brain seem maggoty in front of everybody. Oh! Now I see why Ssozi gave me a pen and was smiling. He is part of the opposing team. Aw! But not today. Why did I even wear this tight shorts? How can I speak?

The Golden Rules of the debate: Make sense. If you are to counter or defend a motion make it count. Another: Team Work. You cannot make it count alone. You need agreement and support from your team. Can that work when I sit next to Kisakye who is my teammate? Will he support me? Did he choose to be on my team to set me up? Why did he even decide to sit next to me? Lord have mercy.

Kisakye tries to get a book out of his bag, and then his elbow prods my side (I would have loved to say ‘ribs’ but you see, I am full of flesh) and he looks at me as if he has just discovered the gate of Eden.

“You have rolls of fat?” He says with amusement dancing in flat eyes. His voice is raised.

“She has folds everywhere?” Ntensibe noses in. Kisakye nods like a lizard watching an interesting movie.

“Wow!” Ntensibe says. Ssozi looks at me from the ‘opposition’ bench, he wants to say a word but he is in a fix. He just swallows. He knows I might have my shine on him soon in spite of the pen bribe he gave.

“Yes, I do,” I answer their questions with a fierceness that dampens whatever joke they are trying to carve out from my folds. Nankya makes eyes to me— eyes that say “Nyakato, forget this jealous pile of people”. But this time, I will not forget. I will lecture them. “Both of you, when I sit my tummy folds up at the side. If you had a body like mine you would have understood. You are just skinny.”

I think skinny people are mean people. I think the devil is skinny. Yes! He must be. I never want to be one of them— these ‘sugarcane’ thin people leave a bitter taste. If they are products, they don’t market themselves nicely. Ssozi’s eyes seem sorry. Why? It’s weird. What’s up with this Ssozi boy? If he is really sorry, then that’s good for him. I just want to be me.

A strange feeling begins to boot within my spirit. Where is it coming from? I love this feeling— it is like a revival. I hear Mama’s lovely voice in my head saying, “Nyakato, you are bold, beautiful and blessed” and I believe it. I look into Nankya’s eyes and in them, I see a friend who is proud of me. So why won’t I love and be proud of myself? Kisakye, Ntensibe, Ssozi and anyone else, why won’t I?

Fat-pants, tight-shorts, folds, large-girl or wobbly-calves. That was then. I want to be me now and even after the debate. I want to be me forever.

When the debate starts, I pop up even though there is no sweater tied around me. I adjust my shorts and raise my hand higher. Battle ready.

They stare as I stand. Someone whistles and calls out, “Wobbly calves” while others giggle but I let their nastiness pass. I challenge every one of them with my eyes as I bring my arguments to the floor, like never before. They are stunned by my flawless rhetoric which beats their eardrums as they listen. In this charged moment, my words become fire and I see my audience as ice. As they melt, they testify that what is inside of me is tough. It is eternal, sagacious and light— light as truth. I feel mighty and fine as they keep staring at their feet in shame after I am done.

As those feet shuffle when the bell signaling the end goes, I am not rising with everyone. I don’t want to fit in anymore. I am not going to the dining hall where they all head to eat posho and beans provided by the school. I sit there for a moment, accepting the gift of myself before going to the library to refuel.

I experience the world in a different way; the shackles I allowed to be put on me have been put off. I feel released as I flip through the pages of the book before me. Just then I hear footsteps coming from behind. It must be Nankya. My dear Nankya. I drop my book and I turn around but it’s Ssozi I see. Ssozi? His appearance startles me. It is unbelievable. He still has those sorry eyes.

“Oh! Your pen,” I manage to say as I get it out of my bag and stretch it to him “thank you very much.”

“No!” He says “Please, you can keep it.” Then he drops his shoulders, clears his voice of all its bile and then he says “Nyakato, I came to clap for you.”

Time flies in the library as he claps to my laughing face. Now, I have two friends— Ssozi and Nankya. Who knows? Tomorrow I might have three—Ssozi, Nankya and maybe you.

‘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.