Loud Music

“Foolish boy. kaaaaso, kasowole!”

He turns to look at the door, his knees on the grey rug that covers below and around his tawny four-poster bed. Teyeeyunga stands legs asunder in front of the door. Ngoga is petrified, unsure how he got in without him noticing. Teyeeyunga charges at him. Before Ngoga disappears under the bed, Teyeeyunga grabs his legs and pulls him out. He picks him up and pins him against the wardrobe. Ngoga’s shoulders hurt under the firm grip of Teyeeyunga’s fingernails lodged into him. He has him pinned high enough that their faces meet. Ngoga’s eyes and lips are wide open in disbelief at the strength of this elongated scrawny man. He looks like he can be folded and packed in a boarding school metallic suitcase. Yet it is Ngoga’s legs swinging in the air as Teyeeyunga studies his face. It must be the episodes…he is  having another one, but his episodes aren’t violent or maybe he is just getting worse…is he  supposed to take meds that he didn’t take, or he is possessed…could it be witchcraft…I should  scream for help…what twenty-five-year-old screams for his mummy. Ngoga’s mind is a disco of thoughts. Teyeeyunga smiles, Ngoga is relieved, it’s a prank.

The smile grows revealing his maize-yellow teeth, who smiles to the point that their premolars are visible? I am dead, he’s going to kill me, I should’ve talked to him or at least greeted him, I can’t die like this, in my  bedroom at the hands of a mad man, a mad uncle, should I fight back, what if I anger him and he  bludgeons me rather than simply snapping my neck, I don’t want a painful death, I have  achieved nothing with my life, I can’t go like this, I have to call mummy, she’ll understand.

Teyeeyunga leans closer. Ngoga, eyes squinting turns his head to the left, praying he doesn’t bite into his jugular.

“Foolish boy like your makers. You want to be great despite being born in hate. You want the  world to know your name when all you do is blaspheme. The world is not your mother! Wake up  kasowole!” Teyeeyunga’s voice wavers. Ngoga, dumbfounded slowly looks back at him. 

Teyeeyunga rears his head side to side like a cobra, “Wake up kaso! I hear you sing in your sleep. Your voice lies to you the world is a dream, humming songs that will never leave these walls. Your prayers are commands. They didn’t teach you the world hates to be told?” Ngoga reflexively nods to deny.

“Your mother prays you become something. Your father wants you out of the nest. If only they accepted that you’re kasowole. Families with kasowole can pray to him to make things happen. But then again, I doubt kasowole is bigger than the world. How those two refuse to learn that the world doesn’t take orders from the waiting! Wasting time blackening your knees. Begging an abstract to grant you your dreams,” Teyeeyunga sardonically laughs. Ngoga’s face is blank.

“Boy oh foolish boy, the world gives when it wants what it gives. You don’t instruct the world with your prayers. You and the world, who is bigger? Clear your mind of that foolishness and wait. The world only gives to those who don’t rush it, to those…who…don’t…rush it, to the eager less.”

                     ****

A knock on his door awakes Ngoga. He knows it’s mummy, he wonders what she wants at this time. “Uh huh,” he answers, his voice hoarse and eyes still shut.

“Roland, I need you to go buy me some eggs.”

“Later,” he coils back under the duvet. She speaks but Ngoga only hears something about a visitor. He traces for his phone in the bed, he dozed off while listening to music so he knows it is somewhere. He finds it. His eyes hurt when he looks, having slept only an hour ago. The battery icon is red so the screen light is low, he looks harder, it’s 7:17am. He drags himself out of bed, his face creased from sleep and sour with irate. He throws the navy blue robe over his naked body and slightly opens his door.

“Mummy, it’s seven, I’ll buy the eggs later.”

“You make noise for us all night with your music, in the morning is when you want to sleep? Come, go buy the eggs.” 

Ngoga walks to the laundry basket in the corner, he picks grey sweatpants and a purple sweater. He knows it is cold outside from last night’s heavy pour. Mummy waits by the door because sometimes he says that he is coming then returns to bed. As he drags his feet along the corridor ahead of her, he laments, “Who even visits at this time?”

She lightly slaps his right shoulder, “Keep quiet. Your uncle will hear you.”

The weird one? Mummy hands him a five thousand note from the dining table.

“Bring eight eggs.”

Ngoga pockets the money and walks to the dining room sink.

“That sink is for hands,” Mummy reminds him as she always does, he proceeds to wash his face as he always does. Into the kitchen, Ngoga is startled by Teyeeyunga sitting in the center, on the beige tiles. His oversized striped short-sleeved button-down high school teacher shirt is bluer from wet, and leaks. His black trousers are muddied brown at the bottom, his feet are white and wrinkled from being soaked.

“Good morning,” says Ngoga preempting mummy’s shoulder tap to remind him to greet. Usually, she tells him not to greet her in-laws in English; say mukulike ekkubo or eradde ssebo, which he says so plastically as he doesn’t even know what eradde means. Today, she says nothing. He exits through the kitchen door to go buy the eggs.

Upon return, Ngoga races to his bed.

He fully awakes at 1:04pm, he remembers his uncle, part of him hopes whatever he came for, he got and returned to wherever he emerged from. During weekdays, Mummy lets him have lunch in his room. He picks his plate of white rice and dish of mushroom soup from the kitchen, Mummy placed his fried eggs from breakfast on the rice plate. No sight of his uncle, Ngoga is relieved. Like all days, he spends it in his room. He plugs in his keyboard and plays the melody that came to him the previous night. He opens his 180-paged spiral notebook, its volume is less by cause of his hands tearing out pages whenever he feels the lyrics aren’t good enough. He pens the first verse;

Crazy in love sounded like a fairy tale

When my eyes met your eyes 

I was hooked onto your spell

Are you a witch, bano ab’eddogo? 

then bwologa bikola and well

His heart warms at how far the song has taken shape. He checks his WhatsApp, hoping for a reply from the record labels or artiste managers he shared his song demos with. It’s the same blue ticks, some as old as seven months. He does some vocal training with his favorite YouTube voice coach, records a cover of “Live and Die in Afrika” by Sauti Sol then plays music until night falls.

When Ngoga walks into the dining room for supper, Teyeeyunga is comfortably sitting in  his chair. This house follows a pattern. This house has an order to it. On the four-seater glass dining table, Daddy sits in the chair that allows him watch the 9:00 pm news on the sitting room TV, mummy sits on his left where she too can enjoy the news while Ngoga sits opposite Daddy, disinterested but listening in. Teyeeyunga’s elbows stand on the table, his fingers are interwoven into a lock on which his head rests exhibiting a smile. What is there to smile about? It is steamed matooke, white rice, chicken stew and a freshly squeezed cocktail of mango, passion fruit and orange juice that was reddened by beetroot. Mummy always cooks a special meal for visitors, Ngoga finds the effort a little too much for Teyeeyunga, nevertheless his taste buds assemble for the chicken breast. In the remix of forks on ceramic and slurping of soup, “kasowole, you have grown,” Teyeeyunga states. Ngoga looks up to see everyone is staring at him. He stares back  disconcerted then reverts to his plate. 

“Kasowole, I’m saying that you’ve grown,”

Ngoga looks at Mummy for rescue as she expects him to, however, she looks into her plate before their eyes meet. Still uncertain how to reply, he asks, “What is Kasowole?”

Teyeeyunga gently places his fork on the table mat, sips some juice to clear his throat, rubs his palms and sighs.

“Kaso-kasowole, they didn’t tell you you’re Kasowole? A child who comes out legs first is Kasowole. They say that Kasowole is a twin, that is why they’re supposed to perform the rituals on him like they do for twins; okuzina abalongo. They say Kasowole’s birth announces the arrival of twins, but of course you don’t have twin siblings and no rituals were perfor–”  

“Enough,” Daddy says calmly.

“They also say Kasowole answers prayers, that a family can pray to Kasowole to take away curses. Kasowole nsaba onsowolek-”

“I said enough, Teye!” Daddy commands.

Teyeeyunga smiling, raises his spread out palms to show he carries no weapon. The rest of supper is so quiet, you can hear the chicken skin tearing from the meat.

As everyone in the house retires to their bed, Ngoga’s night is only beginning. He flips the  switch, allowing the darkness in, then climbs into bed headphoned. He lowers his head, and sinks  into the pillow. He listens to “Muvubuka” by Kenneth Mugabi off the People Of The Land album. He reveres him and other vocalists whose music though not as mainstream, is a symphony whose musical notation is tattooed on the hearts of their fans. The music is so loud, it reverberates in his ears. In between song transitions, he slips onto stage sitting behind a black grand piano, he stuns in crimson high waist trousers and a double breasted cropped jacket, its four diamante buttons undone, exposing his chest. The blue stage lighting makes his suit purple. He serenades the  enthralled audience with “Toganza Namuganzi”; an elegy by a man who on the eve of his wedding to the love of his life, Namuganzi, discovers her real paternity making them kin of the same clan whose marriage is forbidden. Ngoga is drawn out of his trance by the bright bulb light. He attempts to look at the switch but his neck disobeys. Despite numerous tries, his hands and legs  remain static. 

Teyeeyunga appears above him, leans into his right ear and whispers, “Kasowole, when they don’t do the rituals, curses befall the family. Kasowole, your mother didn’t dance the dance, you became a tragedy. Kasowole, I was there when you ran into the world legs first, when the cord tied around your neck and almost put an end to your quest. Kasowole, you shouldn’t have life, our clan opposed your Munyarwanda mother, and what did my stupid brother do? First, you come with legs first, then you’re almost strangled out of life, last, you left her vagina with her uterus, Kasowole who doesn’t fear you, a baby with so much rage.”

Ngoga is up at 8:00am the next morning unlike his usual midday morning. He kneels to pray for his music. He washes his face, studying himself in the mirror. He feels a vacuum, something he ought to have but cannot find. As he leaves the bathroom, he almost crashes into Teyeeyunga. Last night comes back to him in one flash. He holds his hands out anticipating an attack from his uncle. 

“What is the matter?” asks Teyeeyunga.

Ngoga walks past him to his room. Was it a  dream or hallucination? He has breakfast at the dining hoping Teyeeyunga calls him Kasowole so he can interrogate him about last night. Besides the blend of the aroma from the mandazi Mummy made and the kisubi scent of the tea, there isn’t any sound at the dining table. Ngoga doesn’t even notice Teyeeyunga sitting in Daddy’s chair, allowing him to reclaim his.

At lunch, Ngoga sits at the dining table again.

“Am I to believe that you like being around your uncle?” Mummy asks as she serves the katogo of matooke and groundnut sauce with slices of avocado.

Ngoga’s face already objecting, “No! By the way, where is he with his kasowole jazz?” “Was he there when I was born?” “Does being kasowole mean anything?” 

“Since when do you care about Baganda things? I always have to tell you how to properly greet and now you ask me these Baganda things. You’ve forgotten I am not of your tribe?”

“Fair point, but was he there?” 

“Roland, don’t disturb me. Everyone was told you were a breech baby, and yes he was there. Your father was picking him from school when I called to tell him I was in the hospital. He came  with him, you were kicking me but were not coming out. Your father left to bring my new mother things and that is when I went into labor. Are you contented now?”  

“And the rituals for a breech baby?”

“Those Baganda things, you’ll ask Edgar. There were no rituals done on you, you know your father. Your uncle is not well, be selfish with your ears. He stepped out when I told him it was lunch time, I don’t know to where.”

Having woken up early, that afternoon Ngoga takes a nap. When he awakes, he kneels by his bed to pray for his music.

“Foolish boy,” a whisper. Ngoga thinks he is imagining it, like when naked people from the internet creep into his thoughts as he prays. He counter-imagines heavenly things; white-haired winged white men in white gowns levitating in white clouds, and continues in prayer.

“Foolish boy. Kaaaaso, Kasowole!” He turns to look at the door, his knees on the grey rug that covers below and around his tawny four-poster bed. Teyeeyunga stands legs asunder in front of the door. Ngoga is petrified, unsure how he got in without him noticing. Teyeeyunga charges at him. Before Ngoga disappears under the bed, Teyeeyunga grabs his legs and pulls him out. He picks him up and pins him against the wardrobe…

Foolish boy like your makers. You want to be great despite being born in hate. You want the  world to know your name when all you do is blaspheme. The world is not your mother! Wake up kasowole!” Teyeeyunga’s voice wavers. Ngoga, dumbfounded slowly looks back at him.  

Teyeeyunga rears his head side to side like a cobra, “Wake up kaso! I hear you sing in your sleep. Your voice lies to you the world is a dream, humming songs that will never leave these walls. Your prayers are commands. They didn’t teach you the world hates to be told?” Ngoga reflexively nods to deny.

“Your mother prays you become something. Your father wants you out of the nest. If only they accepted that you’re Kasowole. Families with Kasowole can pray to him to make things happen. But then again, I doubt Kasowole is bigger than the world. How those two refuse to learn the world doesn’t take orders from the waiting! Wasting time blackening your knees. Begging an abstract to grant you your dreams,” Teyeeyunga sardonically laughs. Ngoga’s face is blank.

“Boy oh foolish boy, the world gives when it wants what it gives. You don’t instruct the world with your prayers. You and the world, who is bigger? Clear your mind of that foolishness and wait. The world only gives to those who don’t rush it, to those…who…don’t…rush it, to the eager less.”

Teyeeyunga wakes up. He stares wildly at Ngoga, sees his hands holding Ngoga then suddenly let’s go, leaving Ngoga to fall. He looks around in doubt of his surroundings. He walks to the  window and draws the curtain. He flinches back, raising his hands to shield his eyes from the accosting sunlight. He turns, walks to the door, opens and walks out. Ngoga lays on the sage green tiles breathing heavily. He’s still shaking as he collects himself from the floor and sits holding his folded legs against his midriff. He rests his head on his bruised knees. He can taste the salty streams from his eyes. He reaches for his phone from the reading table where it’s charging, connects the Bluetooth speaker, and increases the volume. The phone warns; listening  at a high volume for a long time may damage your hearing. He increases the volume to 100  before he disappears into the sound. 

That evening, Ngoga tells Mummy that he is not feeling well and would rather stay in his room. Mummy places her hand against his side neck to feel his temperature. The music can be heard in the kitchen. She says it’s that loud music making him sick. Ngoga insists it’s nothing, he just doesn’t feel like himself. He requests she allow him have supper from his room and tell Daddy so that he doesn’t fuss. He returns to his room, a stage for his orchestra of thoughts, where he drowns in lyrics and sound. He tries to fight it; him on stage singing to a stadium of fans. He tries to fight his songs topping chats, the ladies yearning to take selfies with him, his father proudly smiling like he never said music cannot be his career. Ngoga feels Teyeeyunga’s words like he remembers his songs that know no crowd, “Your prayers are commands, they didn’t teach you the world hates to be told?” I have watched interviews of singers say they didn’t expect to be that  big, how they were signed by a record label after a video they posted went viral or they caught  someone’s eye while doing a backup singer gig or how they were snatched from a church choir. Some seem not to even like it, they do it like any other job. “The world gives when it wants what it gives. You don’t instruct the world with your prayers.” What future awaits me who prays daily to become a music icon? How desperate I’ve looked to the world that loathes to be commanded. They say mouths can create and I thought each prayer was a slab of concrete on my music career. I have seen singers thank God when they won Grammys, what does Teyeeyunga mean  it’s the world that gives. I can see the world. I can’t see God. I can’t see my music career but it will happen so if I can’t see God it doesn’t mean he is not there. Maybe I’m not of God, as Kasowole to whom rituals must be done, maybe I’m cursed for not having undergone the rituals. How do I block my mind from who I want to be? How do I dream without whoever is in charge  thinking that I’m commanding them? If I was in charge and I gave everyone everything they dreamed of, it’d mean they have the power to predict the future, rendering me their servant. Is  that why people who do less get everything they want? Oh no! I’ve been going about this all wrong. You can’t dictate the future and to think so would be an attempt to write it which the world can’t grant you for fear.

He kneels down to implore the world or God to forgive him for commanding them. He sits on  the bed and turns up the volume again. Ngoga lays across the bed in the dark, using his halluces to draw lyrics on the grey rug. To block out the future, he sees the lyrics appearing in neon colors. Even then, an image of him on stage creeps in and he smacks his face to thwart it.  Mummy brings his supper. When he is done, he returns the plate to the kitchen. He greets Daddy as he passes by the dining, making sure not to look at you know who. After brushing his teeth in the bathroom, he hurries to his studio to dive into the abyss of music. He locks his door and tries to open it to ensure it can’t. As he lays on the bed, he looks wide into the blackness fearing that he will return. Ngoga is awoken by a loud knock on the door. “Teyeeyunga, leave me,” he shouts. The knocking intensifies, “I said leave me!” 

“Ngoga, I said turn down that music.” It is Daddy. Ngoga runs to unlock the door.

“Do you know what time it is? Listening to music all the time will not make you a singer, you’re only spoiling your ears. Turn it off.”

Ngoga disconnects the speaker and connects his headphones. He can’t tell them that every song is three minutes away from this world in which he isn’t a contemporary music star, and three minutes from his world where he is a contemporary music star. He runs out of both worlds, this is easy, it’s like when I was a kid and pretended not to care so the game console would work. I just have to pretend not to care until the world makes me a star. How do I conceal my ambition when every year within these walls and not on stage is a thousand lashes to my heart? If at all I manage to fool the world, he didn’t say pretending not to care was not allowed, he only said the world  doesn’t want to be commanded. If I manage to fool the world but by the time it gives me what I  want, I’ve hidden my want so deep, I cannot find it. How do I write my songs without seeing  myself in studio recording them, without being on stage with the audience singing along, without  swooning over the locs-haired dancer gyrating to the beat of my drum as we shoot the video? And if Teyeeyunga is wrong? Then God denies me my dreams because I didn’t believe, and  relied on the theories of a mad man. What child almost killed at birth, who denies his mother the  chance to birth again is not already cursed enough to ever be something? 

The next morning, Ngoga’s head is a furnace, he wears his headphones. The music doesn’t work this time. He wants to tell Mummy to tell Daddy to tell Teyeeyunga to leave their house. Things weren’t fine before but it wasn’t a quandary. He opens his door to go to the bathroom, he sees the guest bedroom’s door knob turn and hurries back to his room. He locks the door. It is  Saturday, Daddy is around. Teyeeyunga can’t dare to attack me. Ngoga slowly opens his door and walks to the bathroom. He was excused last night, he knows Daddy will not allow him eat from his room again unless he is bedridden. He slowly walks into the dining room and sits on Daddy’s right, leaving his chair for Teyeeyunga. He is glad Teyeeyunga isn’t at the table yet, he quickly says his good mornings. It is spaghetti, fried eggs, avocado and milk tea. The growls from the base of his stomach keep his mind on his plate. Mummy reminds Daddy that he has to go inspect the rentals so he should leave early and be back in time for lunch. Ngoga is agitated, he looks at Teyeeyunga who is smiling at him. “Daddy, can I go with you?”

“Since when are you interested in my tenants. You would’ve come but I’m not driving there. I’m  going on a boda.”  

Daddy leaves the table, walks into the kitchen and exits through the kitchen door. Ngoga  hurriedly chews the food in his mouth as he collects his plate and cup. He walks into the kitchen,  throws them into the sink and speeds to his room. As he locks the door, he notices it’s dark yet  he is certain he opened the windows and drew the curtains when he woke up. He feels a presence  behind him. His scream is cut short by Teyeeyunga’s right palm tightly covering his mouth. Ngoga struggles, his body doesn’t comply. He can’t feel his hands nor move them. Teyeeyunga  carries him to the bed, plants him in a sitting position and kneels between his legs. He places Ngoga’s palms on his head. Ngoga cannot feel his M-shaped receding hairline. 

Teyeeyunga  begs, “Kasowole nsaba kunsowolako bulalu.” Kasowole I beg you take away my madness. He repeats it again and again. He prays that Kasowole breaks the curse, rebukes his misfortunes, keeps him in his job and solves his troubles. He prays on. Ngoga can now feel his hands. He pushes Teyeeyunga aside, he stands up only for his legs to crumble, collapsing him to the floor. He crawls to the door, reaches for the knob and forces himself up. He fidgets with the key, and when it finally unlocks, Teyeeyunga grabs him and throws him onto the floor. He picks him up  by the back of his t-shirt neckline and pins him against the wardrobe. Ngoga’s jugular veins bulge as he struggles for air, his eyes are teary red. He wants to say but cannot speak. He reaches for the arm that has him pinned. With both hands, Ngoga attempts to force Teyeeyunga’s arm  down, he punches, he slaps, he punches and slaps until his hands give up and lower.  Teyeeyunga’s face is divided into angry eyes and a smile, “Kaaasooo-kasowole, Kasowole!” he  calls.  

“Don’t you hear me kasowole? Kasowole?” he shouts.

Ngoga’s body jerks, tears roll down his cheeks. Teyeeyunga sees and hears Ngoga answer, “Yes.”

“Yes what? Yes, what, Kasowole?”

“Yes uncle.”

“I am not your uncle. I am your kojja!”

“I am your what, kasowole?”

“Kojja, please leave me, I’ve done nothing to you.”

“Make this madness go. You’re Kasowole, you can do it.”

“I am not. I am not that.”

“You think you’re better than me, better than us, like that stupid brother of mine and his Munyarwanda witch. Do you know what curses befell us when you were birthed? Do you know what befell us when the rituals were not done? Kasowole, you’re going to cure everything,”

Ngoga’s feet are kicking, his eyes lids slowly drop.

The door swings open. “Teyeeyunga, put my son down!” Ngoga thinks he is imagining Daddy’s voice. He is let go and plummets to the floor. He coughs continuously as he recovers his breath.

“I welcome you into my home and this is how you repay me? Teyeeyunga, you know there are  doctors for this, this has nothing to do with Ngoga.”  

“But baba-”

“Not another word, I called Kisuule and Annet, they’re coming for you. You’ll wait for them from the shade.”

As Teyeeyunga leaves the room, Mummy runs to Ngoga, she supports him up and onto the bed. Her voice heavy from almost crying, “Edgar, look what he has done to him, what if you hadn’t forgotten your phone. I thought we were free of your people–”

“Lydia, it’s okay. What matters is that he is leaving.”

“Ate forget the rentals, stay until your siblings take him.”  

Ngoga speaks faintly, “Mummy, I just want to rest,”

“You’re sure that’s all?” she asks as she pats his back. “Yes.”

Daddy and Mummy leave the room. Ngoga picks his headphones from the side drawer, bluetooth connects and he blasts the volume.