A Horror story from Uganda
Patient Pearl
January 1, 2012
Omar Kalinge-Nnyago
CHAPTER ONE
Her name is Pearl. Sometime ago, a white man came by and had nothing to
describe her beauty with. He thought she was a Pearl, not of just her village,
but of the whole of Africa. She will turn 50 on October 9, 2012. She was a star
in the sixties, one of the few actresses of her color ever known. She still
acts, yes, but has changed roles quite a bit and changed managers several
times, probably nine times to date.
She once fired one who returned in style after eight years of refuge in a
neighbouring village. She now has a new manager – well – not so new after 26
years. He showed up, if I recall, in 1986, after breaking her front door. She
had seen him before. In 1980, he had come to do interviews for manager. He had
failed miserably then. When she saw him again, she trembled. But he looked a
bit different this time. When he smiled at her, she broke down in tears, tears
of joy. He comforted her and promised, I won’t be here long, unlike your former
managers who messed you up. And he sang her a sweet lullaby – she fell asleep.
When she almost woke up, he had taken her former manager’s bedroom.
She did not object – she was probably tired of her old manager, a man with
fluffy hair and a beautiful name; Oby. She went to sleep again. In the morning
when she woke up her new manager had fired the cook and bodyguards, and was
putting on the driver’s uniform. He had pinned up new rules of the house. She
accepted. Perhaps this is what she had been waiting for, for a long time. She
needed some order around the estate. He was later to abolish contract periods
for Pearl’s managers.
Her new manager had a nice name too. Musolini he was called. Some say he had
formerly worked for Oby and learnt a lot from him, but that was not important.
Musolini promised her security, prosperity and a lot of enjoyable sleep. Sleep
was that important to Pearl because she had suffered from symptomatic insomnia
for years. Someone had kept popping several rounds of pop corn near her
bedroom window. Once, he had broken into her back door and taken her brown
shoes.
Every 50 year old is entitled to a few aches and pains, but Pearl’s
appear to be every doctor's nightmare. Yet to the casual observer she
looks good. One of the Russian wigs Musolini has ordered at astronomical cost
is perfectly combed, not a hair out of place. It crowns and frames a well made
up face. Musolini, her now perennial manager of 26 years, is seated right by
her side, with a wide smile and rolling eyes. He murmurs a kind of rap song.
Pearl turns a bit reluctantly before he asks her: you want another rap? He is
perhaps trying to hide the fact that Belarus used to make nice wigs, but it
seems they are out of style. One of the wigs, we hear won’t fit as well.
The combination of foundation, powder, and eye pencil are the work of an
artist. The plum red lipstick is the same shade as the nail polish on the long
artificial nails gracing delicate fingers. Pearl’s colour theme is continued in
the gleaming Japanese six inch stiletto peeping at the end of the Italian
designer trousers. Inside, she has a yellow blouse - a little odd but okay.
There is a whiff of a bad odour but surely everyone thinks it must be coming
from the unkempt old man in the next chair.
Then it is Pearl's turn to go to the doctor's room, and the pretense
falls apart. As she gets up, so does the unmistakable stench of human waste.
Previously admiring eyes gawk in shock and disgust - could that generous behind
be wrapped in nappies? And why is she limping? If her joints are so painful why
does she not wear the more comfortable leather sandals made and sold all over
Kampala, instead of the ridiculous imported heels?
But as Pearl climbs onto the couch the heels are the least of her - and her
doctor's worries. The wig comes off to reveal extensive hair loss. The skin
beneath the make up is dry and dotted with scars. The
rest of the body is not spared - all over, wounds and boils of various sizes
are covered with dressings. There is marked weight loss except
over the sagging folds of the belly. What looked like attractive curves under
the expensive suit turn out to be carefully padded undergarments.
Clearly Pearl’s problems are not of recent onset.
The doctor begins to dig into the history. Its a sad tale of neglect.
Important symptoms have been masked by expensive make up. All her systems are
now in near collapse. Although she has been compelled to see the doctor because
of the embarrassing incontinence, her nervous system is not the only problem.
Her digestive system has a chronic failure to absorb fats and proteins, and
most of the vitamins that she takes in her food simply get wasted. Her immunity
is in shambles.
Every germ that comes through the neighborhood takes firm root in her body. Her
l
