Sandak Shoes: an excerpt from the unpublished novel The Saint of Desperate Cases

There were only three things in this world according to Ma. There was God. He was the light of this world. There was the devil. He was darkness. There was Baba. He was everything else. Everything else might have meant something else to Ma but to me it meant flowers. When Baba was not wearing his khaki police officer’s uniform, his shirt was like Mama Wakidi’s bright yellow thetvia fence. His tie was the color of the bougainvillea fences in Kololo. Baba’s trousers were the velvety red of landini lilies. His socks were the white daturas of Entebbe Botanical Garden. Baba’s smile was like the morning glories in the church compound, bright and blossoming in the early morning, unravelling petal by petal.

In the year Ma and I left Baba to live in our own house in Naguru Housing Estates, the year the church was to commission her as a Lay Leader, the year I turned seven, Ma, my mother, the woman with tamarind skin and teardrop earrings, told me we were going to see my Baba. I had just returned from school. I still had on my white shirt, my blue skirt, and my white socks. Even my school bag was still on my back.

‘My Baba?’ I said. The smile on my face was the size of Ma’s dahlias.

‘Is that not what I just said?’ Ma said.

I did not move away from the veranda. I stayed there unsure what to do at first and then, feeling the afternoon heat, thought I ought to take a bath even if I hated cold water. I ought to put on my Sunday best dress, the one my uncle Maracello sent me last Christmas through the post. I ought to put on my new shoes. The ones that made me look like I was going to a party even if they left blisters.

‘Tiko! We do not have all afternoon,’ Ma said. There would be no baths or change of dress if her voice was like that, I knew. I went past the kitchen into the sitting room. I left my school bag on the chair but stayed there long enough to hide my smile between my cheeks.

‘Let us go,’ Ma said when I returned.

From our house, the police barracks was a short walk past the two roomed houses and flower gardens. All over the estates were gardens of coral roses and hibiscuses, daises and cannas, bromeliads and bleeding hearts. There was the large jambula tree not far from Nakawa market. There [End Page B-34] was the main road leading into the Naguru Hill. It separated the police barracks from the estates and headed straight into Jinja Road the main highway on the opposite side.

Natasha in Bloom. Acrylic, powder, bark-cloth on canvas, 40 × 60 cm. ©2010 Henry Mzili Mujunga.

As soon as we crossed Naguru Hill road and went past the police barracks driving school, my smile returned. It spread across my face like a fried egg. I lowered my eyes to the tarmac road. Beside me, Ma’s footsteps were inaudible. Everything about her movement was exact and precise. Her grip on my hand was firm and sweaty. Her gaze was straight ahead on the administration block where Baba’s office was.

At the reception, Ma did not stand at the door to wait to be called in. She did not sit on the waiting bench. Ma walked to the lone police constable [End Page B-35] standing behind the high desk. The man was at least thirty. A cap sat on his head. On the cap was a silver crested crane brooch, which stood right above his left eye. The letters SPC were written in black over the constable’s pocket. It meant that he was a special police constable. Everyone else called his lot the stupid police constables. They were the specially trained unit of SPUs charged with crushing the guerrillas who were giving the government a lot of trouble in the...