First kiss, last part.

Christine slowed down once she got to the street. She was sweating already. Why did Nicholas choose the
afternoon? It would have been cooler later on, and the evening light more romantic. Christine giggled and practiced
a womanly sway. The high heels definitely made her more feminine, though unbalanced. She smoothed her jean
skirt over her still small hips. Was it the heat or this escapade that was making her sweat like a broken tap? Under a
jacaranda tree by the side of the road, she got a small mirror, Patti's, from her bag, rubbed on Patti's lipstick, then
walked on. Everything was asleep; the road was dead, even the flies were too lazy and drunk with heat to do more
than flop around. The sun was Christine's relentless witness. She reached the huge roundabout in front of Lake Vic,
but had to walk around it because the grass was overgrown. Back when she and her school friends passed by every
day on their way to school, they would find groups of five or six women hired by the Entebbe Town Council cutting
the grass with long thin slashers. The women were always busy because the grass grew back as fast as ever. Poor
women; during Amin's "economic war" they were paid next to nothing. It now looked like the council had long given
up the fight with nature. The grass, ignoring the emergency situation, kept on growing. Christine could almost see
those early morning scenes: most of the slasher women had babies tied onto their backs, who slept peacefully even
as the women swung up and down, up and down with labor. The women wore old, they were barefoot or wore thin
rubber sapatu. They didn't speak English, of course. Christine and her friends didn't greet them, even though they
looked just like their aunties back in the village, whose close, sticky hugs smelt of sweat and kitchen-fire smoke. They
were comforting and discomforting all at the same time. But here in town, the lesson these women gave was so
clear no one even said it: Study hard, speak English well, get into one of the few good high schools, go to college.
Onward and upward. You are not these women. Do not become them.

Match the words and their definitions.

_____ moving a lot, usually including all of their body parts.

________ any of various tools for cutting wood.
______ continuing in a severe or extreme way
_______move or cause to move slowly or rhythmically backwards and forwards or from side to side.

______a device by which a flow of liquid or gas from a pipe or container can be controlled.
_________ a place where three or more roads join and traffic must go around a circular area in the middle

Tasks:

- Summarize this paragraph in one or two sentences.

- What do you think about the women described and the people’s opinion about them?
It was now half past one. Christine was rarely early for anything, but this time she was almost at the school. Past the
roundabout was a giant tree that seemed to have retained its immensity even as the school buildings ahead shrank
as she grew older. Christine felt silly in Patti's red high heels, she felt like a chicken clumsily trying to fly. Her laughter
rang out in the silent hot afternoon; making her catch herself Nicholas would think she was crazy! Here was the
Upper School Assembly, another faded apology of its former imposing blue and white state. It was now ten to two.
Christine was early, oh no, a sign of desperation. Coming on time was bad enough. This was a date, not a school
appointment. She wished she had asked Patti or Rosa for advice. No, she didn't go out with boys; she would have
stopped her from going, called up the Bajomboras or something! Rosa wouldn't be much help either; she would
have laughed at her and kept bringing it up forever to embarrass her. So much for big sisters. Well, she had the time
to cool down, wipe off the sweat, check her lipstick. Christine sat in the shade on the cement ledge in front of the
Assembly Hall. She doubted the toilets were open or clean. She wouldn't look at her watch again. The Assembly had
long glass doors all along one side to keep it cool, and long windows on the other. She looked into the darkness of
the hall. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the forms inside took on recognizable shape. The curtain on the stage was
torn; a piano's dark bulk squatted awkwardly to one side on only two feet, its lid broken and askew. A few small
chairs were scattered around the huge dusty floor, and on one of them was a pile of neglected, ragged-looking
exercise books. It was hard to believe this was the same school that had performed so well once that even Amin's
children had joined it for two terms when they lived in Entebbe State House. It was only three years since Christine
had left; how come she hadn't noticed this mess? Things must have started falling apart years ago. She hadn't
noticed it then, probably because she was here every day. The change was gradual and the result normal, like many
other things about Amin's time, including the everyday fear in the air. She remembered how everyone had laughed
in astonishment, then got used to it, when Amin by decree banned minis and wigs. He made Friday, the MusUm day
of prayer, a day off and Saturday a workday. Everyone adjusted to the upside-down week, and other ugly things she
didn't want to think about.

Can you imagine a regime like that? Let’s discuss and think together about some liberties we have acquired, and how
was it before, when people didn’t have those rights and liberties.

The bad smell became familiar. In this very hall, Christine had been through five years of morning hymns, prayers,
and announcements. She remembered the cheerful routine of singing "We Wish You Many Happy Returns of the
Day" for different students every week. The word "returns" had puzzled her; it still did. The headmaster, fat round
Mr. Mubozi, had led assembly since Christine's first year in the Upper School, when she was eight. He looked kind
and jolly, like Father Christmas, but he wasn't, oh no! She remembered him shouting at a kid once, "Wipe that grin
off your face!" Everyone looked around in astonishment for a green face. Christine had gone to his wife's nursery
school. She was white. She too was fat and round, but kind, giving them homemade toffee every week. The nursery
school was a room at her house, with children's colorful drawings up on every wall. Most of the other kids were
Indian. The lasting impression of that year was of their heavy black hair and spicy smell, and how they jostled up to
the front, not afraid to seek the teacher's attention, while Christine hung back, waiting, as she had been taught to
do. But in one week that year, 1972, the Indian kids disappeared; Idi Amin sent them all away. Christine remembered
the frightened faces heading down Circular Road past Saint John's Church to the International Airport, and the piles
of comics and all sorts of toys she, Rosa, Patti, and so many others got for almost nothing. Those Indians were rich!
Where were all those kids now? Christine wondered. It was now ten past two. Okay, calm down, Christine told
herself. At least she was in the shade. Out in the sun, two yellow butterflies chased each other round and round. At
the corner of the school building was a huge flower bed with three plants. She should have brought a book. She
remembered the dirty book she had seen peeking out of Rosa's suitcase, about a year ago. There was a naked
woman on the cover, her body twisted in a weird position. Christine's face went hot as she peeked through the
pages. How could Rosa read this? People didn't really do these things! But Maama and Taata must have, at least
three times! Christine now giggled at the thought, then guiltily murmured, Taata, rest in peace. Goodness, two-
thirty. Should she leave? Christine heard a clamor of voices and froze. A group of rough-looking kids came running
by, boys chasing girls, dark round heads bobbing, all of them screeching and yelling as they ran past, wove round the
corner, and, just as suddenly, went out of sight. Silence rose up and took over again. What was she doing there?
Christine de cided to walk around the school once. Nicholas would have to wait. She would not think past that.
Christine peeked into the classroom. The chairs were so tiny. Innocent looking. This was where her class had done
experiments with beans, to see what made plants grow. They tried to grow one plant without light, one without
water, one without soil, and one that got everything. It was science in a bean shell. A guided experiment about life
that you could control and be sure of the results. How simple. Here was the classroom, where one of the Bajombora
boys, not Nicholas, had jumped through a window because of a fire. It wasn't a real fire; someone had shouted Fire!
as a joke, and he got scared. He jumped and broke his leg and became a mini-hero, even though the whole incident
was laughed at. Girls didn't talk to boys, oh no, but they gossiped about boys all the time. How stupid he was, they
said, as they secretly admired him. Christine would never have dreamt she'd be here waiting for his big brother.
Christine came to the steps where she had fought with Karen and Carol, her two best friends. It was a game at first:
the person in between the other two was the queen. They playfully pushed at one another to get into the center,
but gradually the game turned from playful to rough to mean. Before long Christine, the smallest, was pushed to the
ground crying, while the other two ran home separately. The next day they pretended nothing had happened, but
were shame-faced and awkward with one another. They didn't speak about it ever, but now they knew that
friendship was envy, admiration, anger, and longing all mixed together. Three years later, Carol's parents retired and
the family moved to their village in Toro. Karen went to a different high school. The flow of letters between them
gradually dried up. Had all that emotion been for nothing after all? Time passed by and stole it away. And now, now,
time was moving too slowly. Christine circled back to the huge silent Assembly.

In this paragraph Christine remembers and reflects about the past. Can you feel close to any of the things
mentioned?

No Nicholas. A part of her couldn't believe it. So he actually wasn't going to show up. Had he even planned to?
Anyhow, had she really, really expected him to come and see her. That would have been the shock. She should
leave. But she wanted to sit there and wait. Just sit there. Not go on. Tear out the end of this book. Christine's feet in
borrowed grown-up shoes hurt her. She undid the long red straps. She was tired of this place, the whole of Entebbe,
in fact, filled with buildings that had been alive in the past, but now were small and irrelevant, ruins, almost. The
three flowering plants, the only sign of new life around, now looked so stridently and annoyingly red and perky. She
glanced over her shoulder then went and pulled at the plants roughly. The stems were tougher than she was; taut,
elastic. She tore at the tender petals. The flyaway pollen made her sneeze. She used her hand to wipe her nose and
cleaned it off on her skirt, staining her nice tight jean skirt. That made her even angrier. Christine pulled harder at
the green stems, leaning her body back. Aaaah, she felt the roots tearing, the dark brown earth moving, loosening,
the plant breaking free. The release made her stumble back, almost fall, and she laughed through her tears, holding
the limp, useless plant in her hands. Now there was soil all over her borrowed open-toed shoes and her feet. She
threw the plant carcass back onto the soil, disgusted and feeling silly. Childish. Christine wiped her tears with the
back of her hand and cleaned it on her blouse, smudging it red and brown with lipstick, tears, and dirt. What a mess.
Nicholas should see her now. She had better go home; they would all be back, asking for her. Maybe there would
still be some cookies left for tea.

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