The Dark

Nick Makoha

• Éditeur: Oberon Books
• Année: 2018
• ISBN:
  9781786827043
• Édition: 1
• Sujet: Ciencias sociales
• Sous-sujet: Estudios étnicos

A new live literature experience by award-winning poet Nick Makoha. On a November evening in 1978 after eight years of civil war, Nick Makoha and his mother fled their homeland of Uganda. Many people were displaced, thrown into unfamiliar environments and forced to find their new home in the world. The Dark is Nick's own poetic retelling of his experience and that of others affected by it - a series of voices echoing from varying states of darkness. What unfolds is a story of those who find themselves exiled, with allegiances split between their birthplace and their new country.

SCENE 1

//Old Taxi Park. During the scene it gets darker. MAMA NICK and YOUNG NICK are not yet on the bus. NARRATOR and YOUNG NICK are played by the same actor. NARRATOR is NICK now, grown up.

//Projection: Kampala, November 1979 – Dusk.

MIREMBE: Biscuit! Biscuit! Biscuit! The greatest Ugandan service a woman can perform is to spend her fertile years pregnant. When the skirt was illegal, they tried to wipe us out with machetes. But I multiply to defy our enemies. They will look you in the face to see if you are one of us until you are not. I sell them biscuits for ten shillings. From the profits I buy another package for two hundred and fifty shillings. If I’m lucky I go shopping. I saw this hat from a Bruce Lee film – Fist of Fury. As your father Kigo would say, ‘When the rider is not welcome kick like a mule.’ You will be my last of seven. I can take you as far as the border. Remember me? There is no such thing as the place you came from, there is only home. Soon my child like the birds you will be free.

OCHENG: Give me a pack.

MIREMBE: Just one?

OCHENG: Make it two. We are leaving soon. Be at the stage before curfew.

MIREMBE: But my customers!

OCHENG: So what!

// OCHENG walks to the side of the stage. He is talking to KIMATHI.

OCHENG: …I make two deliveries. The first in Jinja, to make sure it works. Then we do the border.

KIMATHI: Apana! We will not be able to get near to it.
We will be exposed to bandits and drunk soldiers.

OCHENG: You don’t have to. You have me and I will find someone else to pick it up. Rule number one brother, you always send someone else.

KIMATHI: I like that rule.

OCHENG: Listen! Even if that someone is stopped in Jinja they will only be getting a tenth of the product. Not from me. I’m the conductor. From someone else!

KIMATHI: Do you have someone in mind?

OCHENG: A woman.

KIMATHI: A woman? The biscuit lady!

OCHENG: No! I take her to Busia at least once a week.
We need two peoples.

KIMATHI: A woman and a boy. (Looking at NICK and MAMA NICK.)

OCHENG: That is the plan.

KIMATHI: My plan.

OCHENG: My matatu gets your money to the border.

KIMATHI: We’re in this together.

OCHENG: Partners.

KIMATHI: Partners.

OCHENG: (Conductor.) Pesa! Pesa! Pesa! Excuse me! Excuse me! Excuse me! My friends, please, unless you want the soldiers to arrange our fate, please pay attention to my instruction. I am the king of this matatu. Her name is Mable. Mable will get you to the border and our driver Kimathi has kindly sponsored us with half a tank of US petroleum which will get us as far as Jinja but as we know, oil is gold, so as you are boarding, please place your luggage under the seats. Yes! Four or five to a row…you sir, please make space for the lady?

OLD MAN: (Getting onto the bus, humming.) Is this seat taken/
Thank you sir.

I will be coming through for fares. Five hundred shillings to Namataba, one thousand shillings to Jinja and two thousand to Busia town. I have no change so exact fare and tips are welcome. Please do not forget the two hundred shillings petrol tax. Mable is thirsty. And be informed any bribes at checkpoints are your responsibility.

FAIRFAX: Pardon me I think your bag is on my foot?

As comrades in my principality, we offer you the many hills, the Mabira Forest, Njeru market and the Lake. Mable will be leaving in ten minutes. I am Ocheng, your conductor. Thank you! Thank you! Yes please! Yes please!

FATIMA: Assalam Alaikum sister how many months are you?

NARRATOR NICK: How you doing? On the bus so far is an old man, hunched with a wooden cane, maybe late seventies. I’m sure he had a glass eye. In front of him is a pretty young-ish lady, maybe early twenties, with a headscarf on. She carries a bag and some books in her arms. The Muzungu from England is the only white guy on the bus. He is clutching a camera and Dictaphone. Oh and that’s the biscuit lady, she gets this bus regularly to pick up her stock. She is carrying a bun in the oven. Uganda’s matatu service was not your usual bus service, no business cards, no union, no contracts, no insurance, no standard working hours, but if you wanted a simple way to get from point A to point B with no questions asked, then a matatu was your best bet.

OCHENG: Excuse me sir, no goats. Do I look like a shepherd to you? No guns. Sir, you had better put that camera away otherwise you and the whole bus will be deported.

// MAMA NICK and her son stand, holding a suitcase. Light is disappearing from the day. We hear the engine turn on and see the matatu lights coming on.

MAMA NICK: Nick kuja. Tuck your shirt in.

YOUNG NICK: Mama, where are we going?

NARRATOR NICK: That’s Mama Nick. My mum. I hadn’t seen her in a while because she’d been in London doing her PhD. She’s the kind of woman who likes to keep herself to herself.

MAMA NICK: Two for Busia!

YOUNG NICK: Are we going to see Grandma? Are we Mama?
Are we?

MAMA NICK: Yes! Yes! Grandma!

YOUNG NICK: Does she know we are coming?

YOUNG NICK: And Grandpa?

MAMA NICK: Yes! And Grandpa. (To OCHENG.) I need two for Busia, I’ll pay you double.

Beat. The engine purrs.

OCHENG: You and you out!

FATIMA: But they paid.

OCHENG: I’m a capitalist.

FAIRFAX: Do you mind?

OCHENG: (To existing customer.) Pole! Pole sana.

MIREMBE: Yes Muzung...