Jackee Budesta Batanda, "Holding on to the Memories"
(page 6 of 6)

VI

The man felt buoyant. He heard voices but could not see the owners. One voice was familiar; it soothed his heart but held a tinge of sadness. The voice was hoarse and weak. He did not want it to disappear. Something about the voice reassured him and put him at peace. Like the last trace of the sunset before darkness fills the sky, the voice started fading away. He tried to speak, to tell the voice not to disappear, but he could not, his tongue stuck on the roof of his mouth. He felt emptiness, as though something was being sucked out of his body. The other voice was younger. It sounded angry and indifferent, yet something told him it was a part of him. It sounded louder than the tranquil voice, which he heard no more. He strained to listen for the lost calm voice under this new angry voice. The new voice proved strong, covering the sentiments of the previous one and making his brain throb. Try as he might, he could not get it out of his head. Just when he thought he heard the serene voice in a distance, it merged with the newer voice and left him feeling helpless. And just as the voices reappeared, they disappeared like soot rising in the night. The silence in his head felt as heavy as a rock tied around his neck. It numbed his tongue and hung over his eyes like a duvet of gloom.

Sammy drove slowly. He watched them through the rear-view mirror. Naboro wore a straight face and stared ahead. A million lines creased her mother's face, making it look like a tie-dyed batik. She sniffled incessantly now, carrying the weight of the man on her shoulders. Sammy carefully avoided driving on the left lane, where the taxi drivers sped madly and parked abruptly. He kept to the right lane. They were caught in Kampala's famous traffic jams. The new one-way routes introduced by the Kampala City Council to deal with the problem had not solved anything. He switched off the engine, lest he wasted the fuel and started tapping the wheel. He used the time to call a friend: "Hey, Bob, I have an emergency and am coming to the hospital with Nasser. Can you arrange to have medics waiting for us? He's unconscious. You will? Thanks. I owe you one, bro."

Outside, boda-boda cyclists manoeuvred their way through the maze of cars carrying their passengers to their destinations. For a minute, Sammy was tempted to hail one to take them to the hospital. Then the cars started moving.

"Shit," he muttered, as the angry hooting behind made him realize he could start the engine and drive off. The traffic remained light along Bombo road and through the Wandegeya junction, but then it slowed down past Makerere University and on to Kampala International Hospital. On arrival, just as Bob promised, medical staff ushered them quickly into the ICU.

The duvet of gloom faded, but he could not see anything. A curtain of mist surrounded him. He tried to conjure the calm voice that had made him feel at peace. There was no response. He wondered where he was. He was alone. The ground he walked on felt stony and uneven. He stumbled blindly, searching for a way out of the mist. The mist became a mirage, extending each time he thought he reached the end. He felt certain the voices he had heard before lay behind the mist. He needed to get to them. Something convinced him that relief was on the other side. He felt weak, and pain overtook his right side. He doubled over and tried to catch his breath. His hand hurt. His heart pounded fast, like he had just run a marathon. His tongue was dryÑwater, he needed water. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, hoping the mist would settle there and cool it. He heard the ringing of a bell and then footsteps thudding ahead of him. Where was he? He heard familiar voices. Disembodied voices. It dawned on him that they were voices heard everyday in a little cell. Voices that shared the one-man cell with him. Was he back in prison? Then a voice rang through the prison voices, pleading with him to wake up. He thought he felt a woman's hand in his. He squeezed, but when he looked down, his hand was empty.

Zahara moved. Nasser had squeezed her hand. It was a slight movement, but she felt it all the same. "Naboro," she whispered. "He pressed my hand. Your father squeezed my hand."

Naboro stared at her mother impassively. Things had happened too fast, and she was still coming to terms with the events of the past weeks. Now the news about the man's illness had completely shaken her. She felt like a leaf floating in the air, waiting to land somewhere, anywhere.

The hospital was busy when they arrived, with nurses and doctors hurrying along the hallways. It was calmer now, and a nurse entered, asking them to leave the room. He was in safe hands, she reassured them. They needed to administer tests before deciding on a treatment. Naboro quietly led her mother to the lounge where Sammy sat.

"I swear he squeezed my hand. It was a weak grip, but I felt it all the same," she spoke in a hoarse voice.

Naboro was silent.

"You don't believe me, do you?" her mother asked.

"Mama, I believe you," she replied coolly. Her mother smiled sadly. Naboro cleared her throat. "I didn't know he was ill. Nobody told me," she said accusingly. Sensing a family bicker, Sammy stood up. "Got to make a call," he said.

"We tried to, Naboro, he tried," her mother said.

Naboro looked out through the window at Sammy pacing round his Celica, shouting into the phone. She turned to her mother,

"When?"

"Yesterday, he came to your room and wanted to talk. He tried."

"How long have you known this?"

"Two years."

"Is that why he accepted the pardon?"

Her mother nodded. "That, and he wanted to get to know you. He wanted a chance to be a father to you. God, I hope he gets out fine."

"Do the boys know?" Naboro asked. Her mother nodded in affirmation.

"Why was I left out of the circle? The boys living abroad found out before me, and I live in the same house."

"He wanted to tell you himself."

"Well, he did a pretty good job of telling me," she retorted.

"It's been a difficult time for all of us," her mother said, "but we're going to pull through this together." She held Naboro's hand. Naboro stiffened and stood up.

"I need some air. I need some space to think about all of this," she said, walking to the door.

"Naboro," her mother called. She turned slowly.

"Your father may not be the hero you always visualized, but he wants to be a father to you. Please give him that chance."

Their eyes held. Naboro had never seen her mother this exhausted. She looked down at her dusty feet and only then realized she was barefoot.

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