Kabanda’s musings: Datiliva wants to be ‘her excellency’

Datiliva finally agreed that she need not go to Singapore; the free tour, per diem and allowances for the mission notwithstanding. Whatever stroked her memory I will never know but she surprised me early I in the morning the other day by asking, “Honey, kindly remind me; what is it that you studied at University?” The question caught me unawares so I blurted out ‘International Relations and Consular and Diplomatic Practice’. As if she had received news that she had just won the Lottery, Datiliva ululated at the top of her voice and ran to the Tuvugane man who stands outside the tiny shop nearest to our tiny abode so she could call her sister to say “it is possible”. Unsure of what had gone into the head of my Dearest, I chased after her in my nightdress, concerned about her safety. The chase left me breathless and our sight must have created a scene because people soon crowded round us including Maman Kibonge who sells charcoal in our neighborhood (she later told me she was sure our neighbor had bewitched my charming wife; to which I replied that witchcraft does not work where there is love which Datiliva and I have in plenty). Datiliva was saying animatedly that yes, she was going to be her Excellency the wife of the Ambassador and go into foreign lands. “Can you imagine dining and partying with Presidents and Royals, driven around with the flag of our country flying ‘erect’ through the streets of some Bazungu country and the ‘forever title’ of ‘your Excellency’”? I was not sure of what to say so there I stood gazing at my Dearest and hoping that by the time she was done, she would have the energy to walk home considering the amount she was dispensing through her animated talk on the phone. Ndayisaba snaked through the crowd and pulled my hand, grinning from ear to ear, took me aside and whispered in my ear that ‘now you are a man’. My instinct told me to check my zipper-less pyjamas but thankfully I was safe in that area so I turned to Ndayisaba who was still grinning and eager to shake my hand. “Have I always seemed like a child to you?” I asked him to which he replied, “you may be a hundred years but as long as you do not have a child, you remain a child”. Before I could digest what he had said so that I could respond to him without injuring his goodwill, he grabbed and lifted me high on his shoulder and carried me around. Other members of the village joined in and higher they pushed before deciding to deposit me at Tereza’s drinking place. Datiliva unsure of what had happened to me, dropped the phone receiver, pulled up her skirts unlike someone preparing to wade through a shallow stream and charged at the unfortunate villagers carrying me high on their shoulders but by the time she caught up with us they had seated me in the better of Tereza’s sagging chairs. Pierre announced that because I am not used to fermented banana wine, he was offering to buy me a bottle of beer before other villagers offered to do the same “in celebration of your proving of your manhood. Now we know that at night you do not sleep like a toddler” to the applause of all those around. Datiliva seated herself on my right and demanded to know what was going on. I stood up and thanked everyone for their kindness and ordered a five liter-container of the brew for all of them but requested to go home, dress up and return for the rest of the day which was enthusiastically granted. On our way home Datiliva demanded to know what was going on to which I replied that it was her instead to tell me what was going on. She said I should know because I started it but I reminded her that she had started ‘it’. Finally we agreed to start from the beginning, what made her to go to the Tuvugane man. She said she was happy to know she was wife to a ‘potential Ambassador’ and had to tell her sister because soon I might become an Ambassador and did not want her sister to be surprised by the appointment. “Honey” I said “you can’t be the wife of an Ambassador”. Why, she wanted to know. “This is Africa,” I said. “What do you mean?” she asked. “In Africa”, I explained “Ambassadors are not professional career diplomats but expired and failed Politicians. Diplomatic service is a dustbin for politicians whose ‘gray-matter’ has turned black either with age or alcohol. Does it occur to you that in Tasmania, ‘Down-under’ (Australia) where Rwanda has no Mission people commemorate the memory of Tutsis victims of killers during the Genocide of 1994 with night vigils and prayers and yet people in countries in our region as Rwanda with full diplomatic missions know nothing about the genocide? So we have to wait until we are ‘pensionable’ or else do your family members have a history of involvement in politics?” She said she had been right in the first place, when she prepared to campaign for political office starting with sector elections which she said I was not supportive. She said nothing will stand in her way come the next round of local elections. As if she had suddenly remembered, she demanded to know why I had been carried shoulder high by Villagers as if I were Idd Amin. ekaba2002@yahoo.com