Introduction by Kathryn Tobin

I

The day Nelson Mandela came to Uganda in 1991, we lined up to welcome him along the streets under the bottlebrush trees of the International Conference Centre, like bouquets on display. It rained heavily that afternoon, sweeping away the burgundy dust that usually covered the streets. We stood shivering along the sidewalk, without sweaters because the teachers ordered us to appear smart, and sweaters would hide our school badges. We waited for three hours in the cold for the African hero. When his convoy passed, he waved at us, and we shouted in excitement, our voices sounding louder than the police sirens that escorted his convoy. He hadn't noticed our badges.

Naboro wished her father was an African hero, not the tall, stooped man in the arched doorway, a silhouette of himself. This was a man she was afraid to call father—or even to acknowledge any relation to him, save for living in the same house. This man lived 25 years back in time and insisted on wearing bell-bottom trousers, which men of his generation had long abandoned; he could have walked out of a photograph from the 1970s. This was a man recently released from Luzira Maximum Prison as a pardon from the President. This was a man, the papers reported, on death row for the last 25 years "for atrocities . . . committed against the Ugandan people during his time as Idi Amin's henchman."

When he appeared in Naboro's life the day he was pardoned, her mother only said: "You were born nine months after he was taken away. It was the beginning of the end of my life." She went right on stitching a client's dress.

"What happened?" Naboro pushed. "I need to know."

All she said was this: "The Tanzanian army and Ugandan rebels overran the government, and all top officials were arrested. The people said the terror had ended."

Later, Naboro hunted for family pictures of him, looking for a thread to connect her to this man she was supposed to call father but couldn't form the word. There were gaps in the family albums where his pictures should have been.

Naboro sat on her bed, not knowing what to say. She felt her heartbeat quicken. She still felt uncomfortable around him. Their eyes met. He looked at her like he was searching for something he had left behind when he was arrested 25 years ago. She involuntarily dropped her gaze and heard his hollow sigh. He took to sighing each time he looked at her. When she looked up, she met his eyes still resting on her regretfully. Her gaze, in turn, searched for something that might connect them. Something that might make this awkwardness between them lighter. She moved a little on her spring bed, wringing her hands. There was nothing to say. If she wanted to talk, she wouldn't know where or how to start. That she despised him? That he should have refused the pardon and stayed in the prison like the other men had done? That their lives were running smoothly until he interrupted the embroidery of peace they had woven around themselves?

"May I come in?" he asked, breaking the silence.

She shrugged. "It's supposed to be your house," she whispered like the wind had carried her voice away before she let it out of her mouth.

He stepped cautiously into the room, as though afraid of being followed or ambushed. His tall form filled the narrow room. It had originally been a store and was painted a drab grey, which made it appear smaller than it actually was. The reluctant, late-afternoon sun seeped in through a small window and rested on her father's stooped form. Today he wore a flowered shirt and grey checked bell-bottomed trousers. These were the clothes her mother kept locked away for a long time in the silver trunk—she had devotedly cleaned them every morning for 25 years. The trunk sat in the corner of her mother's room, and she never opened it in the presence of Naboro and her brothers. They always wondered about the colossal trunk's contents. Naboro imagined gold jewellery and other fancy things inside, not these flowered shirts and bell-bottomed trousers.

The spring bed sunk in as he sat down beside her. She held her breath. She had lived without a father in her life and couldn't react to this one. She noticed her mother anxiously stealing glances in her direction. And she sensed her discomfort. For her mother, he could have been the one love of her life. For her? He was the missing card discovered too late at the end of the game.

"Can we talk?" he spoke in a voice like a whistle. Naboro cringed. She was silent.

"About what?" she asked. "Maybe we can talk about the song composed about you, the one about dead babies and their mothers?"

She didn't want to be part of this man. She wished she could cleanse her blood or trade it for someone else's. She jumped to her feet and rushed to the door.

"I want us to talk about that," he said, stopping her in her tracks.

"You did what the song says?"

She thought she saw him nod before she dashed out of the room. She crashed into her mother.

"Where are you rushing to?" she asked.

"I'm running."

"Why?"

"That man . . ."

Naboro was tired of the house. The song about that man played in her head:

Nasser prohibited the wearing of slippers/anyone wearing slippers was like one who wore a mini/and had to be punished/Nasser made them eat the slippers they wore/He burnt them with melting jerry cans/

The song rang in her mind as she hurried from the house, wanting to get away from him—and from the eyes that made her think she was looking at herself, the beseeching eyes that begged her to understand and to talk. She didn't want to make friends with him; she didn't even want to know him. She had learned enough from the newspaper archives at the university library.

II

Naboro was the last of the children. She was born after the '79 coup. He hadn't known about her until the day Zahara, his wife, took her to the prison. Naboro was, in some ways, the most important of them all; she was the girl he had always longed for after a parade of boys.

He could have refused the pardon and stayed in prison, waiting for his time. But the empty eyes of the child in the picture haunted him in his sleep. This was the child he held in his hands only once, early in his incarceration, when Zahara brought her to prison to meet him. Naboro, a little bundle, sucked her thumb as she slept, oblivious to the world she had been brought into. He felt a pain sweep through him like a searing flame when he held her. He looked Zahara in the eyes and quietly asked her not to bring the child to him again. He didn't want his only daughter to see her father as a condemned man—a man counting the stars each night through his prison window, thinking that if the poison did not kill him, then the executioner would summon him. Each night, he counted stars he believed would be his last. The sky has a multitude of stars if one has been counting them for 25 years.

He accepted the pardon as his only ticket to knowing his daughter. He stopped caring about the cause of being imprisoned. He thought that perhaps meeting her would atone for his sins in a past life. Many reasons could have pushed him to turn down the pardon. He had grown used to the mechanical life—waking up at 4 a.m. for the morning drill and gruelling work, all before a light breakfast of porridge, meant to last until lunch, when he ate half-cooked posho, beans, and cabbage, followed by an equally miserly supper. He lost his sense of taste. You lose many things in prison if you intend to survive. You build a mechanism around you and adapt to the new life. You try to block out those left behind and the luxuries with which you once lived. To him, morning, noon, and night lost meaning and melded into one., as though the day consisted of one long circle drawn around his eyes. He was tired of rolling his head to see the end of the circle.

He resigned to this state of being until an agitated Zahara visited him. They sat in the meeting room and chatted about general things.

"Do you still have the sore throat?" she asked quietly, keeping her gaze on the table.

"I am fine."

"I am glad to hear you are fine . . ." she sniffed, fighting back tears.

"What's the matter, Zahara?"

"Nothing," she said.

"Something is wrong."

She shook her head vehemently. He stretched his hand across the table and lifted her chin. The tears that filled her eyes sparkled like crystal. He let go of her chin.

"Tell me what's bothering you."

"Naboro keeps asking for her father. She cries each time she asks for you. And I don't know what to tell her."

He reached for her hands. "Look into my eyes," he whispered. She lifted her head and stared at him.

He wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Do not cry," he told her. "Tell the little girl that her daddy is not coming home. Tell her anything, but do not tell her that he is in prison."

She nodded, taking a white handkerchief from her handbag and wiping her eyes.

"What about the boys?" she asked.

"They are old enough," he said. "You can tell them the truth—but not the girl."

She pulled a black-and-white picture from a brown envelope and gave it to him. "I want you to remember your daughter."

He held the picture in his hands and studied the chubby face that smiled at him. Those glittering eyes made him forget everything. They made him realize his loss, and they eventually started haunting him. He prayed for another day to see his daughter, hoping that God would pardon him. And when his prayers were answered, he signed his pardon papers without hesitation. He knew his time in this life was winding down, and he could not afford the indulgence of saying NO to the MAN. He walked out of confinement, leaving his mates behind and trading 25 years for a few months with his only daughter.

As he sat on the bed she had suddenly left, emptiness engulfed him. He thought of his life in confinement with nostalgia. Perhaps he hoped for too much. Perhaps he should never have returned. Perhaps the charade should have continued. But he knew he couldn't handle prison any longer. He stopped handling it when the doctor told him about the malignant cyst growing on his liver. He counted his time and wanted to make peace with everyone; mostly, he wanted to reconcile with his daughter. If he could earn her forgiveness, then he would die at peace with the world. That is why he blindly signed the pardon papers the day his lawyer waved them before him. He agreed to the conditions of his release: holding press conferences to praise the MAN and not commenting on the political scene. He signed away his voice and opinions. None of this mattered anymore. All that filled his mind was little Naboro. But was coming home the right thing to do?

Zahara entered slowly. Their eyes met. He hung his head and could not hold her gaze. She walked to him and sat beside him, resting her hand on his shoulders.

"Naboro will get 'round to having you around," she consoled.

His shoulders drooping, he nodded slowly."I don't blame her. I'm just a stranger in her life," he said dejectedly.

"That may be true," she uttered, "but it does not change the fact that you are her father. You have to give her time."

"Time is what eludes me, Zahara." He looked up at his wife, with pools of water flooding his eyes.

"Nasser," she interjected, "we have all the time in the world, and we shall use it."

"I'm drowning," he said.

"Forget the doctor's diagnosis," Zahara soothed. "He could be wrong," she said, squeezing his shoulders. "He must be wrong."

He lifted his hand and covered hers. He closed his eyes tightly and inhaled her scent. His Zahara, ever naive and believing in miracles.

"I wish it were true," he sighed, "I wish it were true."

III

Naboro rapped impatiently on the wooden door. She needed to talk to Sammy about the latest events at home. She crossed her hands and bit her lip, desperate for him to appear. Sammy lived in one of those houses in the new commercially-operated neighborhoods, the ones equipped with full amenities. The inhabitants didn't have to go into town to purchase anything; everything was within arm's reach.

A groggy-eyed Sammy, wearing only shorts, finally opened the door. Naboro squeezed past him, sauntering into the living room and throwing a sullen hullo over her shoulder. He shut the door behind her. Romeo, his Maltese, bounded over. She stroked his head briskly and pushed him away before collapsing on the green leather settee.

"You took so long coming," she said.

"I was sleeping, you know."

"I should have called before coming," she said. "It all happened so fast. I lost my mind."

"Want something to drink?"

"Yeah, I need your strongest drink, actually undiluted Waragi."

"I think you need juice."

"I need the Waragi, and don't lecture me about my religious beliefs and how that man is strictly religious."

"You mean your father?" Sammy asked.

"Whatever. Can I have that drink? And stop the questions, please?"

The Maltese came back. She kicked him away, making him yelp.

"Take Romeo away. I'm in no mood for doggy games."

Sammy called Romeo and led him to the kitchen, locking the door. The dog started scratching the door and whining. Sammy walked to the cabinet, retrieved glasses and a bottle of Waragi, which he set before Naboro on the tinted coffee table. He went to the kitchen and returned with two cans of Coke and a glass of ice cubes.

"I guess you might as well dilute the Waragi since you insist on drinking it," he said, adding Coke and two ice cubes.

She took her glass, gulping down the contents. "That was something. Thanks."

"Naboro, what did your father do this time?"

"Oh," she moaned. "Do we have to talk about it?"

"Yes. You just guzzled a glass of Waragi. I think we have to talk."

"Okay, fine. He asked me to be his friend. Can you imagine his nerve?"

"Being friends is a good start. What's wrong with that?"

"Everything, Sammy, everything."

"Maybe you should accept his offer of friendship. It might be a step in building a relationship with him."

"I can't."

"Isn't this what you've always wanted?" Sammy asked. "You always imagined him coming home and somehow making up for lost time. This is perfect."

"Yeah, but . . ."

"But what? Your dreams are coming true."

"Yeah, that was before I read the papers. That changed everything, you know?"

"Naboro, that's in the past. It happened over 20 years ago. Time heals the wounds."

"I'm afraid," she whispered.

Sammy moved closer. "It's alright to be afraid. It's not a bad thing. It happens to all of us. What you're experiencing is natural."

"These feelings are unnatural. Do you know what it's like looking him in the eyes and remembering the pictures in the papers? I'm terrified of having the same bad streak in me." She paused. "You know, it was easier dreaming about him. My mother kept the secret well."

"It was bound to come out some time, and maybe this is the right time."

"It was okay singing the song about him when I didn't know it was him. Now it creates a knot around my heart; I feel my breath being cut off." She sighed, picking up the remote and switching on the television. Sammy took that as a cue that their conversation was over.

IV

The front door squeaked, and Naboro staggered into the living room. She did not see him as she wobbled by. His voice in the darkness arrested her.

"Where are you coming from?"

She froze in her tracks and turned to face the voice.

"Out."

"There are rules in my house," he said quietly.

"Rules work best in prison."

He stood up and walked over to her, sniffing. "You have been drinking."

She looked up without speaking.

"You forget your religion," he spoke quietly. "No child of mine desecrates this house by drinking alcohol."

"For what it's worth, you should take your ass out of the '70s and face life. Times have changed, and you need to re-adjust your thinking."

Nasser raised his hand and slapped Naboro hard. She landed on the red polished, cemented floor. The slap resounded in the room. His hand hurt, and he turned away. He hadn't meant to hurt her. He only wanted to talk to her, to make her see that she was wrong. He only wanted to assert his place as a father-figure in her life. But she was disrespectful. She was spoiled. She dared to answer back defiantly. She made him do this.

As Naboro stood up slowly and tottered to her room, he felt something tear at his heart. Nasser was a crushed man. For the umpteenth time that day, he asked himself whether accepting the pardon was the right thing to do. After all, he had adjusted to life in detention and felt happy. Almost happy. He had resigned himself to his fate and moved on with his life. Now, back in the free world, he couldn't even manage something as basic as parenting. Perhaps he had rushed his decision; perhaps it was foolish. No, he made the right decision, he told himself. Things had to work out within the limited time he had left.

Suddenly, a pain seared through his right side. He doubled over, staggered, and collapsed in the chair.

Naboro slammed her door and fell on her bed. Her cheek still felt hot when she brushed her hand over it. How dare he slap her? Her mother had never raised a hand at her, and now this absolute stranger walked into her life and, out of nowhere, hit her. She envied her older brothers. They were out of the house and didn't have to suffer this outrage. One of them was studying to be a lawyer so that he could represent condemned men. Naboro smiled at the thought. The damned man in the living room did not deserve any representation. He was guilty as hell, and she didn't care whether he was her father or not. She felt no warmth toward him—and embarrassed each time she had to face people she'd known her whole life and admit, "Yes, I know him," and then hurriedly explain, "My mother kept the secret from me." She felt the need to apologize for things she hadn't done—and for even being born. And she constantly reminded people that she wasn't like that man. She had been brought up proper. Why had this happened?

V

When Naboro found him slumped in the chair the next morning, his head hanging over his chest, she thought he was still sleeping. She felt glad not to have to face him this morning, silently wishing he would sleep longer . . . and longer . . . and longer, maybe even forever. Then, and only then, would life return to normal. Then she would not have to endure his preaching about religion and drinking. She would remain her own person and live like before. She would block it all from her mind.

Still angry, she ignored him and drew open the curtains. She got the broom from the corner and started sweeping the floor. Layers of dust covered the room. As she swept past him, she prodded him with the broom but received no response. She left the room. The sun shone high in the sky when she stepped out, prompting her to shield her eyes from the blinding rays.

She kept on sweeping, taking on the entire compound. Then she heard her mother's voice perforate the brick wall at which she bent down to gather debris. The intensity of the voice went straight through Naboro to her heart. She trembled. And when she recovered and stumbled to the house, the sight she beheld in the doorway transfixed her: kneeling over the man who was her father, her mother wailed and tugged at his chest, pleading with him to wake up . . . pleeease, wake up! His head hung forward, and foam formed around his mouth's edges. His face, darkened, made him look like a burnt sculpture. Naboro felt nothing for the unconscious man she saw slumped in the chair. It was her mother's distress that moved her, compelling her to run from the house, barefoot on the stony murram road all the way to the taxi stage, to hail a special taxi. As she ran, she heard the wretched sound of her mother's voice, a mixture of hopelessness and fear. She also saw th e pained look on her mother's face, contorted, disbelieving, and sad.

As if someone—or something—conspired to keep her from leaving, the taxi stage was empty. She paced up and down, biting her lips. She now regretted her thoughts from earlier this morning. Her mother had glowed the moment that man re-entered her life. Now this?

She did not know what to do. She needed a car immediately. She stared at the lock-up shop across the road. An MTN Publicom stood out against its yellow wall. She checked her pockets for coins and turned up nothing. With her eyes fixated on the booth, she darted into the road, not seeing or hearing the speeding car that screeched to a stop just in time. She kept going, not hearing the shaken driver's abuse as she scuttled on. Jumping over the shallow trench filled with soil, dirty water, polythene bags, and juice boxes, she entered the shop and asked the attendant to let her use the phone. He looked up from his Red Pepper tabloid with disinterested eyes and continued chewing his gum. She raised her voice and asked to use the phone. She needed to make an urgent phone call, a man was unconscious, she needed a car, a friend had one—she spoke frantically and incoherently. The attendant held out his hand for the money. She shook her head.

"I don't have any," she told him. "It happened so fast. I'll bring the money later."

He shook his head.

"Nasser is ill. Very ill." Until now, she hadn't mentioned his name since he returned home from prison three months ago. The name performed miracles: the attendant gave her a phone card.

Sammy answered his cell on the first ring, as though he was awaiting her call.

"Please," she pleaded. "Please come home. The man is ill. My mother is distressed. There are no taxis. Please come."

Sammy listened to Naboro's shaky voice. She never sounded like this. He said he would be there in a few minutes. He told her to wait at the shop. He would pick her up. She hung up and went around the door, handing the attendant the phone card. She thanked him again, to which he nodded indifferently and went back to reading his tabloid. Leaning against the wall waiting for Sammy, she hoped the man was still alive. And she prayed for her mother.

A loud hooting shook her from her reverie. Sammy waved, and she hurried to his grey Celica parked alongside the road. He leaned over and opened the passenger door.

"Thanks for coming," she mumbled.

"Don't mention it," he grinned, starting the car. "How did it happen?" he asked absentmindedly. She did not answer.

Leaving a trail of dust, he drove fast. His cell rang. "I'm driving. Got an emergency on my hands. Will get back to you later, okay?" He hung up before hearing a response.

Naboro leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. Her breathing was coming slowly. Sammy concentrated on the road ahead. It did not take long to get to the house, but Naboro fell asleep. He parked and gently nudged her, causing her to startle and hit her head.

"Sorry," Sammy said.

"It's okay." She opened the car and jumped out, running to the house to find her mother in the same position, like a painted scene frozen in time.

"Mama," she called, but her mother did not turn. She continued rocking the man and pleading with him to wake up. Naboro walked closer, putting her arm around her mother and whispering, "I have a car for us, mama. We can go to the hospital." Her mother looked at her blankly through a tear-stained face.

"We need to move her," Sammy said, coming over to help. They gently moved her aside and carried the unconscious man to the car. The mother followed closely, sobbing. Sammy got in the car, while Naboro and her mother cushioned the man between them, with the mother rubbing his shoulder, the daughter staring ahead, and the friend feeling the awkward silence, save for the mother's muffled sobs.

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.