Tombstones and Banana Trees Read Online Free PDF

endured so many hits and punches and abuses, called for help so many times, and nobody had even once told us to fight back. It was simply an unthinkable option.
    We knew that it was a risk, that if we fought our father there would be consequences for us all—severe ones. But doing nothing and allowing the violence to escalate would lead us to death anyway. What choice did we have?
    The time to act came one night. We knew he was going to kill her. I do not remember what started it, and it never really mattered anyway. His rage was an inflamed sore that took only the mildest glance to prompt a reaction. What I do remember is seeing my mother—my beautiful mother—lying on the ground inside our house. Her feet were twitching and thrashing like snakes in a sack. My father sat on her chest, his hands around her neck. No sound came from her other than a strange choking noise. She would die if we did not act.
    As one, my sisters and I launched our attack. We picked up every weapon we could: a stool, a cup, a plate. My sisters were biting him, forcing him off my mother, who was curled up on one side. They had him on the ground now, and I saw a stick that was halfway into the fire. I pulled it out. I held it with two hands and all my strength as I stuck it into his thigh. I do not know how long it was there—perhaps a few seconds or as long as half a minute—but I do remember the smell of burning flesh.
    It was not the alcohol that made him slow to react. I do not believe he was as drunk as he made out. I think it was the shock of his children fighting back that made him pause. Soon he backed off and disappeared for the rest of the night.
    We were left with our anger subsiding and our doubt beginning to rise. Yes, we had defended our mother, our only hope, our only eyes, our only encouragement, but at what cost?
    Our father went to his sisters and told them what had happened. They nursed him and listened to his account of the story about his terrible children and his abominable first wife. He went from house to house, showing his wounds and telling his story. With every visit, our status in the village slipped a little lower. To the outside world Boniface was a good man—only our neighbors knew the truth about the violence. What kind of curse were we to treat him this way?
    Soon he left our mother’s house and never came back again … but not before he told us that he had made a vow: One day he would teach us a lesson. It was a threat we did not take very seriously at the time. We were just relieved his exit meant that, at last, we might be about to enter a period of peace. During this period when he was in self-imposed exile we were happy because at last we got to sleep in the house and to eat food without being bitten, and we lived a life without intimidation or violence.
    It was a year and a half before he came back to our house and stayed with us. During that time he appeared in our village only twice. He had traveled a long way west and found land in what is now Queen Elizabeth National Park, in a place that today is called Bunyaruguru. It is a good place to go on safari today, but thirty-five years ago it was an untamed wilderness. The animals were savage, and nobody lived there. The land was cheap, but it was incredibly fertile, even by western Ugandan standards. If our father was going to settle there, then he could not do it alone, even though his own family was so large; he would need others to join him, and his trips back to Rwanjogori were his attempts to recruit settlers. I remember him holding sweet potatoes that were twice as big as normal, holding them up and amazing the crowds with tales of even greater riches on offer.
    Eventually he came back and settled once more in our compound, though not in our house. He brought another wife with him, but at least he did not eat our food. We could eat without fear that he would come into our house, and yet in a strange way his presence comforted