Chapter 1: The girl child has seen days

The residents, Mabel and Papso, moved in twenty four years ago as newlyweds. When Papso would leave to go to work, Mabel, who was on her maternity leave at the time, would say things like, “You’re going to Kampala? When you come back bring me some of that new-fashioned food, I heard that they started selling there. Peters, or Peacers.”

“Pizza?” Papso would ask.

“That one. When you come back from Kampala, bring peetsa.”

What they should have known was that Kampala is like a swarm of cockroaches. No one goes to cockroaches but somehow everyone gets infested. Cockroaches, like Kampala, come to you. And then they infest you. That is what brings us to present day, the beginning of our story, in a Kampala-infested house in Bweyos.

The family had finished supper and was now having a family meeting downstairs in the living room.

It was a living room, by the way, not a sitting room, because the family was well-off. Their house was just two rooms and a couple of closets short of being a mansion, as a matter of fact.

This is how well-off they were: They didn’t know that their next-door neighbour played loud gospel music every Sunday in lieu of actually going to church, because loud neighbours are problems suffered by plebes with their little, pleb houses. Sorry. Well-off people don’t hear neighbour noise.

If you can hear neighbour noise, you may be at home, but you haven’t arrived.

Now, can we start this story already? It’s been three paragraphs, and we haven’t started yet. Let us start. Activating Dialogue Format:

Mabel, Mother and Chair: I would like to call this extraordinary meeting of the Kyayisewa family to order. Before we begin, I have a point of protocol to clear up, which is, Edwin, what did I tell you about toothpicks?”

Her son Edwin had a toothpick in his mouth. It was wiggling out of the left side.

Edwin: You said Nti it makes me look like one of those stupid rappers who make songs about dealing drugs instead of brushing their teeth.

Mabel: That is right.

Edwin: But some ka-chicken was still there between the incisor and the canine, and it was not shiftin…”

And then Edwin noticed that he was not being asked for an explanation, he was being instructed to get rid of the dumb toothpick. He got up to dispose of it while Edith, rather than come to her brother’s defence, swung to the defence of the chicken itself.

Edith: But Zabeti was on like a hunnid today. This was even better than Christmas chicken. This was special-occasion chicken. Like from that restaurant in the mall where all the food has French names. This was not chicken, guys, this was poulette.

And Edwin was back. It doesn’t take long to spit toothpicks into dustbins.

Edwin: Nti Zabeti is on top form? I bet she’s got a new boyfriend.

Edith: She doesn’t have a boyfriend. She’s married.

Edwin: Married women can also have boyfriends...

Suddenly the hairs on the edge of Edwin’s ears stiffened. This was a useful instinct he had developed over twenty four years of running his mouth without thinking. He knew he had said something dense and even though he was twenty four, he was not too old for flying slippers. He had to backtrack.

Edwin: No, I don’t mean... Present company of course not included. I mean other married women. Like the ones who are not as well-married as you, our dear parents. Love you guys. I mean those fake married people, like on Twitter. I mean on X. Wait. You guys are old, so you do Facebook. Did you know that Twitter changed its name to X? But we still call it Twitter…

Even though she was his twin, Edith often acted like an older sister. She could be bossy and protective at the same time.

Edith: Rabbit, go get another toothpick if you can’t find something better to do with your big mouth.

Edith and Edwin were twins. Twenty-four-year-old twins who looked the part.

Edith had seven piercings in each ear alone, two more in other visible places and the rest, if any, is classified information. She had a tattoo on her wrist, she had braids in three different colours and she had a phone in her hand, even though she was not allowed to look at it during family meetings. It remained in her hand because if it were removed, a panic attack would ensue inevitably.

Edwin also looked as 24, urban and middle class as he was. He had spiky dreads and a fuller beard than either his father or grandfather. In fact, he had a fuller beard than Jajja Kyayisewa’s sheep. Both of his parents wondered where he got all those beard genes from. Mabel actually considered a DNA test once: You never knew with men, Papso might have tricked her. But then she saw how much the test cost and she had already booked a spa day. Mabel loved her spa days.

So, like the rest of us, she just assumed it had something to do with evolution and the pandemic. Every middle class male in their twenties in Kampala has had a full beard since COVID.

Since we are doing the family portrait now, here’s the rest.

Mabel was 44. She had a jogger’s figure, a nacho nviri puff and kind eyes offset by a smile two degrees south of a smirk. As in, she could smile sweetly, but if you were asking for it, her lips were like sarcasm machine guns fully loaded. She could fire round after round at you.

She had a Masters in Comms, was, until recently, a high-flying executive in an PR firm, and liked watching cartoon movies. The Shrek, Puss in Boots and Despicable Me series were her favourites.

Papso was 46. He was tall, paunchy, and always ready to laugh with a face that involved every muscle in the process. His whole head laughed.

He was an executive at one of those firms with three European names and this “&” symbol. No one can really tell you what they do so don’t ask or the answer will be something like, “consolidated offshore portfolio management solutions and asset enhancement.” as if you asked for a headache instead.

Papso was also a huge Nollywood fan. On Sunday afternoons, him and Mabel would play matatu to decide on the movies for that day. Then the winner would saunter into the sitt-- Sorry, living room, chase the twins off the sofa, and the couple would binge. Because neither of them watched movies alone. 

Now let us continue with the family meeting.

Mabel: So unless my co-chair has anything to say, I’m ready to begin with my opening remarks. Anything to say, Chweedie?

Papso (Co-Chair/Chweedie/Father): Nothing except, you two, shut up and listen to your mom.

Chair: Thank you co-chair. Mwah. Now, let me begin.

She scrolled a page up her iPad and adjusted her spectacles.

Chair: We recently reached the milestone of twenty-four years as a successful family unit. This was marked by the recent birthdays of the two of you. I want to emphasise that we are proud of you and both of us on the parental front appreciate the consistent value you have brought to the organisation at large. Of course, there have been ups and downs,

Edith: Downs like Edwin and his grades at uni.

Papso: I thought I said shut up. Does that mean shutting up or does it mean interrupting? Shut up again.

Edith: Sorry.

Edwin: Yeah, Shut up. Mutant.

Chair: Mwe!

They shut up.

Chair: We have had our ups and downs but one thing we have always done is rise, and I credit our resilient, committed, top-tier leadership for what this organisation has been able to achieve thus far.

Here Mabel moved her tablet to her left hand so she could offer a fist bump to her husband. He duly received and reciprocated it.

Papso: We were awesome.

Mabel readjusted her spectacles and swiped to the next page of her iPad.

Mabel: Which brings us to the reason for this meeting. Following the assessment of the past twenty-four years and our conclusion that they have been more than satisfactory; we feel confident that the time has come to bring this relationship to a close. We thank you, as children, for your participation and we would like you to leave knowing that you have been treasured and appreciated, and that we wish you the best in your future endeavors.

Mabel took a deep breath, leaned back, tossed off her glasses, placed the iPad onto the side table and turned to Papso.

Mabel: I think that does it. What do you think?

Papso: Quite good. You nailed it.

Mabel: So, what’s next?

Papso: Upstairs? Whiskey on the balcony?

Mabel: Yeah. Let me get the mosquito cream first.

They got up to head for the stairs. Their bedroom balcony and their scotch awaited. Mabel had a cream which made mosquitoes drunk, so even while they buzzed around they were too inebriated to aim their nozzles properly and couldn’t bite.

But Edwin and Edith couldn’t just let them leave. Even though Mabel was sure she had been clear, it seemed they had not understood what was going on.

Edwin started eventually. He stuttered at first.

Edwin: “Ddi… Wait. Diii… wait kko first… Papso, ddid mum just … fire us?”

Edith did not speak. She pushed her head back, chin to neck, pedicure to chest, and sputtered.

Edith: Like, wha’jusssapened?

Edith often found that in stressful situations her feelings were best expressed in the words of Kylie Jenner.

Papso: You heard. You’re twenty-four years old now. Get out of our house.

Edith still thought denying it would make it change.

Edith: You can’t do that!

Papso: See? Mebz, I told you it should have been an email. Okay, kids, brief recap: You and you are too old to be living in your parents house. Therefore, go live somewhere else. Bye.

Mabel: Guys, don’t worry. You have two days to pack, and your aunty Solome found a pair of apartments for you to move into. We’ve covered the rent for the first year. No, Edith, the apartments are not in the same area. He’s in Kira, you’re in Najjera. But you will have to take care of your own furniture so, Edwin, get a job. Okay, love you. Goodnight.”

And their parents vanished up the stairs.

By the time Edith and Edwin had finally found their tongues, they were alone in the sitting room.

Edwin: Gwe, they have just kicked us out. Fo-reyo.

Edith: I kinda saw it coming, actually. I mean, we are kinda twenty-four.

Edwin: But we are their kids. You can’t kick your kids out of the house. Isn’t it illegal? If it isn’t illegal then at least culture forbids it. First Google African tradition. Or ask the AI.

Edith: At least they got us places to live. At least we got apartments. And Phew, I get Najjie. Kira is soooooooo ghetto. That’s where the sugar daddies keep their slay queens. Good luck with that.

Edwin: Ah but me I don’t want. I was not ready. I have kyejyo. Njabala njabala. Like that song.

Edith: You’re overreacting, Rabbit. It’s not the end of the world. Think about it. Now at least, you have your own place. Maybe you can finally get a girl, or whatever.

Edwin: I don’t get how you are so kawa with this.

Edith: Trussme. Living on your own ain’t that bad. Like, when I was in uni in LA…

Edwin: But I don’t want to hear your stories. Go your side and me let me go my side and enjoy my bed for the last time.

On the balcony upstairs, Mabel and Papso clinked their whiskey glasses and looked out at the hills of the suburb of Bweyogerere.

Mabel: To the end of an era.

Papso: And the beginning of another.

Mabel: Bambi, they are going to start living bachelor lives.

Papso: So are we. Cheers.

Because that was the plan. The couple had never had a bachelor phase. They got married straight out of school. But now it was time to live free. They were finally going to have their bachelor life, with no kids to look after and none of that family responsibility.

And it was going to be even better now that they had more money than young bachelors and also, they did not have to scrounge around like the young bachelors, trying to find suitable lovers. They had that part covered.

The good life was just beginning.

Or so they thought. Little did they know.