Greetings to you all. I hope you are all doing fine. That you are happy is my wish for all of you. I am doing fine myself. I have been so lately occupied, but now I am here and will write more frequently. And as we forge to reestablish our relationship of writer-reader, accept my apology for writing less for these past months. I present it in the form of running a serialisation of my short story, The Ill-fated Pregnancy.
Yes, I did write a short story. In 2019 actually. And I am sorry I did not tell you! You will know why. I did tell something when later I decided to share it out and actually publish it with Amazon. It is what I detail in the preface to it. Here is what it says:
This short story was originally written as a submission to the 2019 Commonwealth Short Story Contest. Well, it did not win the contest. As a budding writer, I badly wanted to write and so I searched for writing contests where I could have my stories published. I landed on the Commonwealth Short Story Contest and I thought I could try my luck.
I told Nicholas and Joel about it and we set off to write within the remaining two weeks to the deadline. Our short stories turned out awesome. We loved them. We submitted but were not so lucky. Anyway, we didn’t really care much because we loved our creation. What mattered to us was that we had written our very first short stories.
And so, after reading the free e-books of renowned writer, Ernest Bazanye, I have also decided to share mine. I hope it will inspire someone out there to write and tell their stories. And I hope this very story touches someone and passes on one or two lessons. Lastly, I hope this story inspires my younger sister, Honest, to stay committed to writing her best-selling novel.
I wish you a nice reading and if you like it, please share with friends and family to have more people visit my site and download it and follow and promote my writing.
Hope you now understand my position. So, why don’t we go ahead to share in the story? This will be run in series and this is Part One. Enjoy.
I finally woke up from a very long sleep. I was knackered and my whole body was aching. The room was somewhat dark and there was a disconcerting silence in the house. I had been warned by my little sister, Sincere, about the boredom in Nakaseke, but her revelations had fallen on deaf ears. I understood she claimed the place was a bore simply because Mama didn’t have a television set at her house; yet, without one, life would be unbearable to a young child of this era. I had explained to her that long before she was born, we didn’t have a TV and it didn’t even matter as life was so normal. And that since I lived during those old days, I would still make it at Mama’s house.
She had insisted on her arguments, but I called it quits by assuring her that her perception of boredom was opposed to mine. And there, I was, lying on the bed, wondering whether I would actually feel this new house as homely as my father’s, where we all lived happily. The events of the previous day had erased all hope in me for the peaceful furtherance of my visit.
I reached for my phone, a Huawei Y-520, which I had held for three years then, since 2013. The time was half-past midday and I could notice how hot it was by the light rays that hit so hard at the brown thick floral curtains, which shielded them from lighting up the room. I got up and got rid of this shield first. Momentarily, I was blinded by the sharp distinction created by the then lit up room. I opened the window and took in the backyard view bit by bit through a complete 180° head turn.
The window at which I stood was to the left of the back door – through the kitchen, and I could see the rice husks scattered across the old concrete floor that formed the circumnavigating stretch of verandah around the house. It must have been boiling already as I immediately caught the scent of the Pakistani rice which is Mama’s favourite due to its inescapable and enticing aroma.
There was a thick wall of about a couple of inches higher than the kitchen door as could be seen by the wide-open back door to allow it to touch this dividing wall such that it continuously knocked at the wall when the gentle breeze swayed it toward that direction. I would say it was high enough to sufficiently permit not a relatively tall person’s peek into the other side of our neighbour next door, as the house was semidetached. This wall formed a square enclosure of approximately three strides measured sideways and only ended in a door frame just after the kitchen window. I suppose the purpose of this design was to allow for the privacy of the house occupants for a public road passed just a few meters away. There had been a door fitted into the frame but it had long been broken and never fixed as it was placed by the wall directly opposite the kitchen door, within the enclosure.
Directly in front was the backyard farm that stretched for five meters, ending just before the road that wound around the hospital wire fence. This permitted a view of the newly completed Maternity Ward of Nakaseke Hospital, where my mother worked. There was a rubbish heap in the middle of this small garden that seemed to have been burnt a few hours before for smoke was still escaping into the air. The left side of the garden and continuing to that side of the house bore eggplants and other greens commonly referred to as dodo. [1] (Dodo means green amaranth.) Generally, the back yard was neatly swept and the plant cover, coupled with the tall maize, gave the sight the green effect satisfaction.
I heard the sound of utensils and I remembered it was nearing lunchtime and Mama would soon be back for the meal. I quickly made my bed and ran to the bathroom to freshen up and within ten minutes, I was already seated in the living room waiting for food to be served. It was already fifteen past one o’clock and I was feeling my stomach rumbling. I reached for a glass from the table and filled it with Ceres apple juice. And no sooner had I taken a sip of the drink than our house help came in.
She greeted me and I responded. She then followed this by making an observation to which I felt a little awkward. She wondered how I had slept for such a long time and revealed that thoughts of my having died had crossed her mind…! I couldn’t imagine her declaration, and more so for what had transpired the previous day. How had she managed to get over it so quickly; yet, the revelation was still vivid in my mind? She attempted to start a friendly chat through her sleep jokes, but I chose to hear that in passing. I interjected peremptorily asking her when Mama usually returned for lunch. She looked at the wall clock that hanged on the wall, above the front door, but at an arm’s distance towards one corner of the small living room that led to the door of the corridor. Realizing that it had stopped ticking, she hummed and at the same time moved her head sideways in an effort to tell the time that would most accurately answer my question.
She finally made her mind. ‘Past thaate wan.’ She immediately followed this assertion with an innocent; yet, a shameful laugh that I suppose was caused by the indescribable look that I gave her. I could not help but join her. Soon I was able to defeat the spasm of laughter and I asked her when she had started speaking English. I went ahead and corrected her and she repeated after me. Suddenly there were footsteps heard approaching the door and the familiarity of their pace announced the arrival of Mama. I stood up to open the door for her and the maid went about busying herself with duties she had apparently earlier neglected.
It had been on very rare occasions that I had seen Mama dressed in her nurse’s uniform, for she stayed in Nakaseke, where she worked and the rest of the family stayed with my father in Kampala, where he worked. Such was the separation of the family from Monday morning to Friday evening when once again she could reunite with us, but only for the weekend; and the sequence; thus, continued save for rare distortions occasioned by either public holidays or leave days. Seeing her in her immaculate white uniform dress was not only pleasant to my eyes but was also heartwarming so much so that I literally blushed. The moment filled me with emotions of satisfaction, pleasure, wonderment and affection. It is just impossible for me to lie that even once had I ever felt more proud of being my mother’s son and firstborn child at that. She looked younger and more beautiful. I loved her! Her nurse’s cap sat restfully on the tall and curly black French cut that made her look like our elegant First Lady, Her Excellency, Janet Museveni, and her black belt coupled with her black moccasins and dark chocolate flashy skin completed an artistic description of the undisputed black and white handsomeness of fashion. And as if to choke me with pleasure, she turned around…and oh my God! I just fell into her embrace as Cordelier did in King Lear’s arms after the two reunited.
Lunch was almost getting finished with when, Sr Helen, as Mama’s name was neatly embroidered on her uniform, started unto the maid.
‘As you can see, I brought, Dickson, here as I had promised; such that if you had not told me who the father of the child was, I would have parked you off and you would be looking for another source of livelihood.’
‘Do you seem to suggest that, Rest, is pregnant?’ I inquired unbelievably, as though I hadn’t overheard the whole episode yesternight.
‘Eh! Have you not seen the bulge in her tummy? It’s coming to five months now.’
‘I can’t believe I hadn’t realized it.’
So tell me, what do you plan to do? Will you take the baby to its father or you will raise it and the other children as a single mother?’
Rest hesitated for quite a while, pondering over the question that had been posed to her. It had awakened fresh memories of her misfortune. How she had been tricked into getting pregnant was the one thing that occupied her faculties and the only one thing that she could not figure out. She felt as defeated as she had been during the time she had consented to the lucky man. Why it had once been her and why it was her all over again, were the questions she silently and painfully asked God at that moment. She looked so miserable, poor Rest, and indeed sorrow and regret were engraved on her once charming pretty face. She thought hard, contemplating the regrettable outcome of her “Yes” answer. I watched her in pity as she took in her last fork of food and I saw the movement of her mouth, as she struggled to chew the piece of sweet potato, result in her face forming such twists that created channels through which her soggy eyes were drained. Her left eye was first, the tear escaping at terrific speed from the eye, but progressing to roll down at such a slow pace… then followed her right eye, it kept its flowing constancy and was even slower than its counterpart. The tears told an untold story. They were tears of sorrow and regret. At that moment, Mama reechoed her question to which, Rest, who had now formed the subject of my undivided concentration, inhaled so deeply so as to gather up Dutch courage to finally pronounce her, “Yes”, in exhalation.
Mama took a glass of water, patted her on the shoulder and told her to stop crying, assuring her that everything would be alright. Had she known that at that time, her verbal comfort was most unwanted as much as it was most wanted by the countenance, she would not have said those words. For as soon as her last word was out, Rest, who was sitting on a mat, lifted her head to look her, and as she tried to nod in approval, her eyes mentioned this by blinking once…and then twice…and then down flowed the Twin Rivers of Anguish. Looking at her cry made me feel guilty of witnessing the episode, but more so of having eavesdropped on her revelation the night before. And this feeling was the same for Mama, who needed the least possible time to tidy up and get going back to work. I only signalled my sympathy by shaking my head and making a short sound of “mtcheew” and proceeded to my room.
The afternoon had already been spoilt by the recollection of Rest’s revelation. Nothing proved capable of lifting my spirits back to normal. I was lackadaisical. I turned and tossed on my bed in hope of being consoled in the arms of Morpheus, but this too proved futile. I tried raising a couple of friends on phone but in vain. So there I was again lying on my bed, wondering how the day would end and all the time thinking about the unfortunate situation that had befallen, Rest.
…
Look out for Part Two. You don’t want to miss out on what happened to Rest Kworoba.
So, that was me, let me hear from you too…