Tropical fish

African American Review, Winter, 2003 by Doreen Baingana

I found out I was pregnant. We used condoms most of the time. I didn't say anything when we didn't. My breasts started to swell, and my heart grew suspicious, as though my belly had secretly passed on the message. When my period was more than twelve days late, I told Miriam. I couldn't tell Peter. It didn't seem to be his problem, not a part of our silent sex-pact. This was personal. Miriam's sister Margaret, a nurse, worked at a private clinic in the city. Nobody stopped me, they all knew it had to be done. I tried not to think about it. At the clinic, the anesthetist droned at me in a deep kind voice as he injected me. When I wouldn't go under quickly, he asked, with a knowing half-smile, if I drank a lot. I was going to remain conscious but wouldn't feel anything, he said. Just like real life. The doctor was cream-gloved, efficient, and kind, like Peter. I fell into pleasant dreaminess. Why did I always seem to have my legs spread open before kind men poking things into me? I let them.

At the clinic, I read an article about all the species of fish that are disappearing from our fresh water lakes and rivers because of the Nile Perch. It was introduced by the colonial government Fisheries Development Department in the fifties. The Nile Perch is ugly and tasteless, but it's huge, and provides a lot more food for the populace. It was eating up all the smaller, rarer, gloriously-colored tropical fish. Many of these rare species were not named, let alone discovered, before they disappeared. Everyday, somewhere deep and blue, it was too late.

Margaret gave me antibiotics and about two years' supply of the pill, saying curtly, "I hope we don't see you here again." I was rather worried, though, because the doctor said I shouldn't have sex for at least two weeks. What would I tell Peter when he called? Maybe I should say what happened. Now that I had dealt with the problem, I wasn't bothering him with it. I just wanted to tell him.

I went to Peter's office without calling, not knowing what to say. It was on Barclay Street, where all the major airline and cargo offices were, convenient for his business. It was surprising how different Peter was at work: his serious twin, totally sober, a rare sight for me. He got authority from somewhere and turned into the boss, no longer the drunken lover. Once, at night, he told me how worried he was because all the workers depended on him--what if he failed? This talk, the concern, made me uncomfortable. This wasn't my picture of him.

The first time Peter took me to his office, on my way back to school, an Indian businessman came in to see him. The Asians were coming back, fifteen years after Amin gave them seventy-two hours to pack up and leave the country. They were tentatively reestablishing themselves, which didn't please the Ugandan business class too much.

Peter led the short, bustling, black-turbaned man into his back office, where I was sitting. The Indian glanced my way and back at Peter, summing up the situation. After a curt, "How are you?" he dismissed me and turned to business. Jagjit had come to sell Peter dollars, which was illegal except through the Bank of Uganda, but everyone did it anyway, by magendo. He produced a thick envelope and drew out old, tattered green notes. Peter checked each one carefully, rubbed it between his palms, held it up under the light, turned it over, and scrutinized it again until he was satisfied. There was one note he put aside, then went back to after checking them all. He said, "Sorry, Jagjit, this one's no good." It was a $100 bill. That was about 1,000,000 shillings.