Listen, and I Will Say Sorry

This post was first published in The Uganda Times (a now-defunct online newspaper) on 10 January 2021.

Hell broke loose yesterday when Maama Mike found out her flask had been broken, so Michael told me on the phone. He was so sorrowful that he spoke with a cracking voice amidst light sobs as he narrated the whole episode. Mike is a longtime friend, and we have been good neighbours for as long as I can remember. We have very fond memories of our childhood days when we would sneak out of home and wander about the whole neighbourhood picking up children wherever we met them and inviting them to play with us. We climbed all the trees in the neighbourhood and sustained many injuries from falls, but that did not stop our agility. We went to the same local school until we left for secondary school, when we parted ways. Still, we caught up during the holidays and shared our stories. In short, Mike has been there for me, and so have I for him.

Yesterday was one such moment when I was there for him. Ever since the lockdown started, it has been our routine to catch up every good-weather evening for a stroll around the neighbourhood, marvelling at how the place has developed over the years. The roads have been tarmacked, and so there is no more dust. But what we enjoy the most are the homes. We live in a housing estate, and every other day, new houses are being put up with mouth-opening architectural designs. Then, we could run around and finish the entire estate in one hour. Now, it takes us a week to walk through all the corners and by the time we finish, there will be new homes put up where we started. If you could just have enough of the mansions people are putting up, even during this coronavirus pandemic!

We had arranged to meet at 5 o’clock, and when it came to twenty past five, I had to call him to ask what was up with him.

‘Mike, what’s up, man? You’ve kept me waiting… where are you? Are you even home?’

‘Atwine, I a-a-a-am sorry, bro. I am not feeling fine, man…’

‘Again, man, you had told me you were better and had recovered!’

‘Yeah, that was malaria…’

‘Okay, so, now what is it?’

‘Bro, how do I explain this?’

‘You guy, don’t tell me it’s corona!’

‘Hahaha, yiiyii, come on naawe, shyaa, mschew!’

‘Hahaha, man, with the way this thing is spreading, anything is possible… hahaha.’

‘I know, but it isn’t that. Look, it’s my mum.’

‘Atteh! Hahaha, has she assigned you some chores, chiller?’

‘No, but man, aargh! She’s just a-a-a… she’s just, aargh, I don’t know!’

‘Bro, it’s okay. Tell me. What has she done?’

‘Okay, she’s just a mood-spoiler. She…’

‘Hahaha, again…!’

‘Man, will you listen and let me talk?’

‘Okay, bro, okay, easy, man!’

‘Okay, man, it was at lunchtime…’

‘Wait, man, I’m using airtime, not minutes… so, why don’t you just come out and we talk?’

‘Man, I’m not ready to walk.’

‘I feel you, bro. Let’s just sit by your gate and talk there, kawa? Kawa. Find me there already.’

We met at Mike’s gate and sat by the high pavement along the trench of the road, on the short grass. Mike narrated his story about the incident at lunchtime that lowered his spirits. Her mother had shouted at him, which always agitated Mike for as long as I knew him. He did not like being shouted at, and once he had served a short suspension from school for assaulting (threatening to beat/attack really) a teacher who offended him by making a big deal out of a very small issue—reminding the teacher it was already way into the lunch break, yet they hadn’t completed an assignment for the next class. Mike hated such exasperation and thought it unfair to be treated that way, especially because he is a most responsible and obedient person.

During lunchtime, Maama Mike, as she was called throughout the neighbourhood, desired some cold chai. She knew that by that time, the hot chai would have cooled down since the flask was now somewhat old. She didn’t send for the chai as she normally did. She had moved to the table to serve herself. That was when everything came to a pause. The atmosphere became tense, and Mike and Anne knew it was time for a thunderbolt. Maama Mike was audibly shocked and angered. She held her breath, turned around to look at Anne, and she roared! Her favourite flask was broken! It could still keep the chai, though; it was just the handle that had broken. Words descended on Anne like lightning, and she was visibly upset and horrified. She wanted to burst out and cry, but she braved the moment and stopped the tears from flowing. Poor Anne, what could she do?

Mike looked at the poor maid with sympathy. He decided it was enough and acted without a second thought. ‘It’s me, mum, it’s me. I broke the flask, but it was just an accident!’ he ejaculated in a fury. He thought taking the blame would make things better for the poor maid. After all, it had indeed been an accident. The fridge was adjacent to the table by the serving window, and whenever it was switched off after it had been emptied of stuff that genuinely required it, so that the expensive electricity wasn’t wasted, the ice sheets melted, and water always seeped out. So, that was how Anne slipped when she went to pick up something from the table, knocking down the delicate flask and breaking its handle. She had even bruised her shoulder, but who would care?

By now, you must have guessed how relieving it was for her that the container had not itself broken, but for the handle. Even then, hell had broken loose. Mike loved her mother, yet hated her only for that one cruel and harsh attitude she had. She always hovered over and around the maid like a helicopter, complaining about this and that and yet all were minute issues. Let me say it as you guys do: she was a pain in the ass!

‘But why didn’t you say so, Mike? Why do you keep quiet and wait for me to find out?’ She finally started talking, like a person, a mother. ‘Didn’t I teach you to always say sorry for the wrongs you do?’ She demanded.  She went on and on and on, but Mike remained silent.

Mike told me he wondered how the virtue of apology would work where it was not welcome. He told me Anne was a very careful, hardworking, loyal, responsible and obedient house help. Anne always did right, but Maama Mike always found fault. And when (rarely), she did do wrong, she wished the Earth would open and swallow her alive. How could she dare come clean and say sorry for a fault as slight as accidentally breaking the handle of the damn flask? If she had seen hell when she had done nothing wrong, what then would she see when she did do something wrong? No, she couldn’t say it, she would never tell it!

The reason why it is easier for one to apologise to God is that the apology is always welcome. God will accept everyone, from the murderer to the chicken thief, and all will be welcome, and their sins washed away; their heavy baggage lifted off their backs. God will understand the mind was unwilling, but the body was weak; he will understand the temptation. God will also understand when one formed the intention and did commit sin mischievously, but he will still welcome one with a smile and open arms. Mike told me, if such virtues as saying sorry must be preached, the preacher must also show hospitality for the apology.

‘Michael, Mike?’

‘Wanji Maama, let me come.’

Mike had been called by his mother, and he had to go. Before he left, he categorically warned me not to write about it in the papers, and I promised him so. Since he follows my writings, I hope he will not be mad with me after all, ‘Mike’ is not his real name.