This Nalweyiso girl. She sends me subtle annoying text messages. Says I can keep the ring. While she keeps the man. She does not know who the real keeper of the man is. An. Me. Min Ot. People do not call me Min Ot pa Okello for nothing. I am the wife. She is the lineswoman. Always running on the touchline with a colored flag and awkward shorts. I am the Mrs. I keep the pitch and the game running. I am the one with the cards. An referee.
She doesn’t know that she is another of his fads I have decided to look away from; like his annoying love for Arsenal, fast cars, pig-hoof soup, electrical stuff we never use, and TNT movies.
She brags about how Okello has taken her to Ssese islands. But Okello and I have combed every inch of Kalangala; end to end. She brags about how they have gone to Amabeere Ganyinamwiru caves. But Okello and I have gone beyond the Zambezi, to the Mosi–oa-Tunya; The smoke that thunders or Victoria falls to the Waitomo Glow-worm caves!
She says he has kissed her under lush waterfalls of those wonders in Kabarole district. But I have been pinned by Okello against the Borassus trees of Kidepo and incoherent Luoglish things murmured against the back of my hot ears. Even yesterday he was murmuring words Luoglish against my warm beautiful Mucwini neck.
She says in her mingo text messages how he has asked her to be his official kachumbali. But what is kachumbali sincerely? What is it? Nyanya ma nyanya. Mere diced tomatoes laced with onions and, sometimes cilantro. An incomplete meal. Pe yengo dano. Not filling at all. Who gets a full belly from eating raw poorly squared tomatoes? Anga? Who?
She says he tells her am old. That I refuse to dye my greys. That my zing is zanged. That I am a lunatic that wont give him peace. That he’s with me pien lotino tye. That he is stuck because of the kids. Ni if the children didn’t look like him and that I was threatening to take them, the house and our very many investments, he would have left long ago.
She insists in her messages that he will leave me once the kids grow out of kindergarten and Junior reaches senior six. That he is with me because his mother wont let him leave me. That the Mothers’ union are on my side, always saying witchcraft prayers that work. The by-fire-by-thunder kind. That I have dried myself and refused to leave the house even when he mistreats me.
Eeh eeh eeh my Lord I wonder! Eeh! Those lies! Who believes them? I cannot believe she is that blond headed to believe those lines! Okello has told them. His father has told them. His granduncle has told them. His cousin has told them! His forefathers have told them. It’s the lies coo spin. Heck, it’s a generational lie. Abrahamic! The I am only there for the children lie. The some-leg lie.
She thinks I am stupid by provoking me this month. Aming ku ba. I am not. She thinks wanga pe. But I have eyes. She thinks I am not woke enough to notice she wants my December. Ento my eyes are open. I am not playing with December. Not this month. No way. Hapana. All my Karama cards are held to my chest. I am working right. I am playing smart. I am a Pro at this. I didn’t come into this marriage to play. I came to stay. To have my Okello all December.
Nalweyiso doesn’t know that when you decide to settle for a Cwaa mon alwak; a man whose penchant for side women is like a lizard and lazing in the morning sun, you know your angle. You learn when to fix your shade and work him to your corner. You plot all year. You plot for your children. You plot for yourself. You plot alone. You plot with your friends. You plot with your mother. You plot with your mother-in-law even when you don’t like her. You plot for your happiness. It’s plot after plot after plot until he retires.
You angle your way through every single day in the jungle that your marriage is. You drive through it like a smart but mad Kampala driver going through panyas-panyas and racing on the wrong lane, pavements, and parking on the kerb near the mall when totally unnecessary. Sometimes you are like a crazy Subaru driver raving mad through Jinja road oblivious of that Police station opposite the car shop. You learn things. You do things. Strange things.
In December, arweyo Okello like a new born baby is massaged with moo yaa by a Luo grandmother. I will not pick fights i dog Karama. Adegi. I wont. December is for letting him know he means the world to me. It is when I am at my best behavior and he is at his kindest and most romantic. It is when we reconnect after a crazy year. We are all loving and caring this month as if Christ is preparing to be born in our very backyard. We are at our happiest. And no latin anyaka is going to ruin that.
I will deal with that little aweno brained Makerere girl with fake eyelashes growing on her forehead in those lousy months of July and August when there are no public holidays and I am totally idle. I will reply her messages in September when my year is done fitting in the calendar, fees are cleared, and my Christmas budget is fully funded.
Besides, that kiss at Amabeere Ganyinamwiru or not, Okello returns to me every night. and runs his fine Luo hands through my greys. This anyaka pwaa-ne nono. She is paa-paaring for nothing. Her being all over the place is a waste. She doesn’t know that i nino Karama kany, us we will wear matching Kitenge; from kids to grandparents to godparents. We will go to the St. Stephen’s church of Uganda, perch ourselves on the part of the pew labeled Donated by Okello & family for lega me cawa angwen. That 10am service. While she, Nalweyiso, incessantly checks into that iPhone of hers for the next 45 days until February or until the next Miss Fake lashes topples her. Okello will be off the grid.
December megwa, me and Okello. It’s when we show up and show off as a couple. Dwe me Apararyo wa poro odenge. We play heavily into our rainbow of hypocrisy. When you have decided to be with a laco ma wange tar, a man with shiny amorous eyes, you need to know how to play with your script. You don’t goad the king but praise him; like Queen Makeda did.
December is beautiful. Dry. Sunny. Dusty as heck but beautiful because I have the ring, the man, the holidays, the kids, and Christmas. Me and Okello wa aa kama bor. We come a long-long way. He has his ways. I have my ways. We have our ways. Nalweyiso doesn’t know. She will never know. But Christmas; Karama with Okello is mine. Karama pa Min Ot. Christmas belongs to the wife. Like it or not, it is.
PS: This is a work of fiction ojone!
Merry Christmas!