By Daniel Kakuru
When I was first told I would be moving to Butambala inside a space of two weeks as a permanent resident, I hid my face behind my palms and wept like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. When I next attended church, my motive was not to pray but to ask God some questions. What had I done to deserve this betrayal?
He remained silent, as always when I demand quick answers from Him. I checked my Google Maps app and the answers came. I located my new home, my Butambala. It was seated somewhere close to Mpigi.
Fast forward, I’m in Butambala and my next door neighbours are Muslims. So are all the people within my vicinity. After every five homes sits a mosque. It is usually well painted, with loudspeakers peering from its ventilators. It is through these loudspeakers that a random man with a face bathed in beard will bellow frequent calls for prayer. Every primary school has a UMEA suffix. Male pupils wear cassocks to school. Female ones wear hijab and skirts flowing down to their feet. They keep their vitals jealousy tucked away.
One day in January, I chanced upon a lady who was hawking Islamic vestments. I bought a taqiya. I can’t quite remember how much it cost me; my memory is short. But I think it was a figure close to Shs 10,000. This taqiya will take me to places I never dreamt about. This taqiya will give me Janna and Muslim women. This taqiya will give me an Islamic name.
The first time I wore it to work, it raised eyebrows.
Have you been converted to Islam? Shakur asked me. I smiled a sly smile and said, yes. And the days that followed, I made sure to come with it on. I still wear it to all places. It even helped me kill a hen this morning.
How?
I wore it and walked around looking like an alumnus of Meccah.
“Hajji! Hajji!” a woman called.
I walked on, my head held high.
“Ssebo Hajji!”
She did not stop calling; not until I wove on my feet and looked in her direction; not until I flashed a toothy grin at her and asked, “Nkuyambe ntya nyabo? (How should I help you, madam?)”
“Ssebo Hajji,” she crooned, “Mbadde nsaba kunsalila enkoko yange obulago (I would request you to slaughter my hen).”
In Buganda, women do not behead animals. Around the globe, non-Muslims would also not behead animals even if they were men. So my arrival was akin to that of Jesus in Jerusalem.
I obliged. She handed me a rusty knife which I assumed was sacred.
Poor hen was placed on the ground layered with banana leaves. It kicked and cried and begged for life. I refused to listen; I always don’t. Instead, I recited incoherent Arabic words the way Muslim butchers do, and in an effortless cut, I had the head in my hands.
And just like that, she will feed her people on enyama enkaafu.
About the author:
Daniel Kakuru is a lover of life and stories. He writes under a Facebook hashtag #MugOfPorridge and blogs at danielkakuru.wordpress.com
