Accident

                                                               Lino Leitão

(Accident first appeared in THE MASSACHUSETTS REVIEW in 1988, and was later republished in Short Story International, issue 86.)

 

continued from page 1

Nancy Price wasn't a fool. Through that sharp look and the beatific smile, Nancy claimed that she had a good look at the mental makeup of Mother Veronica, as if they were two wide windows. Mother Veronica was nothing but an outright Colonial, she said, who didn't want to change a thing through education but to subjugate the brain of the collegiate through paternalism, or, in this case, maternalism. 

She blamed British colonialism in Uganda and elsewhere for creating colonial moral structures like gas chambers and putting the colonized therein to be exterminated. Knowing what Mother Veronica was, she left her alone, but brought the debates at tea-breaks in the staff-room. She a solitary American, the others were from the British Isles, and of course, John Kiwanuka and I were neither Americans nor British. So we were passive observers. She had a flair for debating and brought in much varied analysis that she had picked up in her readings to show the devastating effects on the colonized. Giving various examples, she demonstrated that the elevated status of the Colonials, in this case the British, was created by exploiting the colonized and thereby bestowing upon them an inferior status. The expatriate British teachers refuted Nancy's hostile attacks on the British Empire. 

They pointed out that the Britons weren't wholesale exploiters, but human nature being what it is, they weren't perfect, "Who is? No man is perfect. No government is perfect," They said. They accused her that she was blind and didn't see the benefits the British Empire had brought not only to Uganda but to her other colonies too.

"Like what?" Nancy demanded.
"Schools, hospitals, roads, economic development, administrative system, above all law and order and host of other improvements."
"Hogwash!"
"Of course, you wouldn't understand. They need us, they want our know-how and our technology. And so we are here. Without Western aid these nations have no chance to modernize."

But Nancy, giving statistical facts, would make her point that the Western aid, the aid of the former Colonial Powers, was not helping Africa a bit. The Western nations developed industrially by exploiting the colonized nations and she argued that they were still perpetuating the same system, except now, they had a better grip on them than before, thus making a farce of "independence". She also pointed out that the mechanism of the international economics was still in the hands of the exploiter nations, keeping the former colonies under their thumb. 

The British teachers weren't dumb, though. Miss Allison Web, with gusto, would argue that the British imperialism was now like decrepit old man, almost in the grave, and what one should be afraid of now, she would say, was Yankee Imperialism, economic domination of the World. And she would cite the USA's role in Vietnam and Latin America. Thus, Uncle Sam and John Bull, like two ponderous elephants, tasks locked in, wrestled to establish the benevolence of their respective imperialism. Both Miss Allison Web and Nancy Price would cast glances at John Kiwanuka to solicit his support. Neither sought my opinion. I was like a nonentity, but passive listener.

John Kiwanuka hardly said anything. But one day, he remarked to the warring debaters, " Exploiters have no moral guilt, no shame. The exploited are uncivilized, brutes and savages to the exploiters. But the exploited isn't an idiot! They know who is the uncivilized and barbarian. Africa is the womb that gave birth to man, and the West is the tomb of man, a destructive force, creator of weapons of doom. It is Africa who knows the pangs of human birth. It is Africa in the end, who will restore the moral conscience of man."

They all listened to him, as though his statement was like a revelation that would unfold in the future. 

The British teachers set a rumour in motion that Nancy Price was an agent. When asked in whispers whom did she represent, they said she was CIA agent or she was a double agent spying both for Uncle Sam and Idi Amin. It produced results; Nancy Price was boycotted by the staff and the students. Mother Veronica really believed that Nancy Price was implanted by Idi Amin in the institution to keep a watch on the staff and herself.

In the meantime, political conditions worsened. God had appeared to His Excellency Idi Amin in a dream and instructed him to throw away the Asians from Uganda because they were living on the fat of the Africans. The Whites, too, were in trouble. The whole country was in chaos. It was no longer safe both for the Whites and Asians to stay in Uganda (and later on, it wasn't safe for the natives of the country, either). Whites left the country and the Asian Exodus started from Uganda to the different parts of the world. I landed in Canada. I was in a different world now and Uganda was hardly on my mind, until I happened to meet Nancy Price.

I phoned Nancy Price the following Sunday. She invited me to her apartment that evening. She lived in Lachine, at 32 Ave, not far from Dorval. At about six, I arrived at her apartment building. I looked for her name on the Occupants Board but her name wasn't listed. The occupant of her apartment number was "J. Kiwanuka." Did I make a mistake? Hesitantly, I pressed the button. No voice asked me who I was. The main entrance door buzzed, I opened it and went for the elevator. The apartment was 305. The door was ajar. Standing in front of it was a woman dressed in traditional Baganda dress - the Gomisi. She was white.

"I'm sorry," I said rather loudly and apologetically.
"Sorry for what?"
Once again, I recognized Nancy Price through her voice. 
"It's you then!"
"Of course, it's me! Who did you except?"

I looked at her not spellbound, surprised at seeing her in that attire. She could have passed for a Muganda woman if she were black and if she had cushioned buttocks.

"Stop admiring me!" she said. "Come in."
I sat on a sofa. As I was looking at a few Baganda crafts displayed on a wall-unit, I heard someone greeting me, a greeting once familiar.
"Sorotiano Sebu."
"Burungi," I said automatically. And before me I saw, a black man in kanzu.
"You?" I exclaimed.
"Yes, me, John Kiwanuka."

He came closer and clasped me in his embrace, as if he had found his long-lost brother. I saw the beaming face of Nancy Price, while I was still held by Kiwanuka. After enough hugging, we all sat. John and Nancy sat on a love seat and exchanged loving glances. I sat on a chair opposite them, dying of curiosity. Nancy's sparkling eyes told me she was eager to tell me their story. I alone, perhaps, would understand and appreciate what they had to tell me. But Nancy excused herself, went into the kitchen and brought in a tray loaded with hot cassava fries. And unto my nostrils came the aroma of the steaming matoke. I knew I was in for a treat.

"Well, let us have some beer now." Kiwanuka said and disappeared, coming back with Molsons and mugs.
"John, you forgot the salt and chili-powder shakers," said Nancy.

John brought the salt and chili-powder shakers. He opened the beers and we filled our mugs. There were coffee-colored bark cloth coasters on the table. I took a handful of cassava fries on a paper napkin and sprinkled them with a little salt and splurged the chili-powder on them. I had a sip of beer. All expectant, I looked at Nancy and John. Though Nancy was a good debater, she had no knack at story telling. She rambled a lot and John came to her rescue, as if to put the story on the right track.

"You both married?"
"Of course!" said Nancy.
John Kiwanuka beamed.
"How did all this come about?" I asked.

"I wasn't a coward," said Nancy. " I approved the way His Excellency Idi Amin got rid of the Asians and the White men. They atrophied Uganda morally, intellectually, economically and so on. They were big Bana Kubas who did no physical labor. And the Ugandans who worked for them were looked upon as stupid, lazy, untrustworthy and all that kind of crap. And your race - "

"What about my race?" I asked.
"The kill was made by the Britons and your race was like hyenas gorging on decaying caresses. That's how your race built their economic securities and empires. What did your race contribute to Uganda? Nothing."

"Hold it a minute there," I said." You may be right about the Asian presence in Uganda. They might have been parasites as you say. But my race did contribute something."

"And what's that?"
"The national dress that you are wearing," I said. " This dress was introduced by a Goan tailor, called Gomes, hence the name Gomisi. Ask John." John told her so. 

Her mood changed. Both persuaded me to have more cassava fries and more beer. But still her story wasn't coming out. I was really dying to know how Nancy came to get married with John. And in the meantime, the main course was served- matoke with peanut sauce topping it. John excused himself for a while came in with a bottle and placed it on the table in front of me.

"Waragi!" I exclaimed. " Where on earth did you get it?"
"That's the only thing that I came with from Uganda," he said," and saved it for many years. But today is a especial day and we will have it."

Waragi was on the point of becoming a national drink of Uganda. It was distilled and bottled by the Government. It was a very potent drink, resembling gin. Nancy Price had taken away beer glasses and brought huge goblets for waragi. John poured the waragi into the goblets. I would have preferred mine with a mix, but my host didn't want to dilute the taste of waragi. I sipped mine. My body was on fire. Nancy and John drained theirs in a single gulp and they refilled their goblets. This time, they savored it. We started attacking the matoke. Wragi must have loosened Nancy's soul and tongue. The story poured out.

page   3