WHISPERS OF THE NILE

[Setting: Courtyard at St. Jude's Secondary School, dappled afternoon sunlight filtering through mango trees. White and navy-uniformed students gather between classes.] Sheila Nalwanga stood in the middle of the courtyard as if a queen on her throne, laughing freely and naturally as Peace Nabwire finished telling some far-fetched story of their Literature instructor. The late sunlight danced across the small beads that had been woven into her braids, creating tiny flashes of light as she tossed her head back. She was aware-painfully aware-of the eyes upon her. Always observing. Always censoring. Always requiring perfection. [She adjusts her uniform skirt, perfectly pressed, exactly regulation length. Her movements are fluid, practiced, the performance of someone who's learned to always be "on."] "Sheila, you're not even listening," Peace accused, nudging her with an elbow. "I am!" Sheila protested, dragging her attention back to her best friend. "Mrs. Nabwire and the gecko incident. Absolutely riveting." "Liar." Peace's dark eyes narrowed in affection. "What are you thinking? Or do I say who?" Sheila had no chance to respond when a scuffling ensued near the science building. Mark Okello's booming voice echoed across the courtyard, taunting and loud, and Sheila's stomach tightened with familiar annoyance. "What is he doing now?" Brenda complained, stretching to catch a glimpse. [The other two girls float over toward her, Sheila involuntarily, drawn by the note of pain in a human voice under Mark's booming laughter.] "-love letter!" Mark was shouting, waving something white in the air as a smaller boy bounced frantically, trying to snatch it. "Science Boy has written verse! Shall I read it to everyone?" The younger boy-Ben something, Sheila thought, the quiet one from Chemistry-seemed to hope the earth would split open and engulf him. His hands shook as he stepped forward to claim the paper, his voice strained: "Please. It's private." "Nothing's private at St. Jude's!" Mark declared, laying the paper flat with flair. "Let's have a look... 'Dear Sheila'-oh, this is good-" Sheila's heart became frozen. "'I've wanted to tell you for three months now-'" "Leave it alone, Mark." Sheila's words cut through the crowd of students like a blade. She pushed her way through students with the confident air of one who is used to people parting with her. Her jaw was set, eyes aglow with fury that made even Mark blink.] Mark spun around, surprise flickering over his good looks before hardening into a derisive grin. "Sheila! Excellent timing. Looks like Science Boy here has a thing for you." "Give him back his letter." "Why? Don't you want to hear what he said?" Mark's eyes sparked with meanness and an imitation of playfulness. "It's sweet, as a matter of fact. He says you're 'the most beautiful person' he's ever met. Not just in looks, but the way you 'think and see the world.'" A flush of red spread across Sheila's cheeks-not embarrassment, but anger. "I said give it back." "Or what?" Mark towered over her, his full six-one height, using his size to intimidate as he so habitually did. "What are you going to do about it, Sheila?" [Tension crackles between them. The audience pushes forward, sensing drama. Ben's face is a mask of humiliation, his eyes everywhere but on Sheila. He stands as if turned to stone.] This was the problem with Mark. Sheila understood with jolting, crystal clarity. He had been stalking her for months-expensive gifts, public declarations, thinking that his standing and wealth entitled her to appreciate his attention. When she'd said no politely, he'd joked about it. When she'd refused him firmly, he'd become sulky. And now he was humiliating some poor kid just to show he could. "What I'm going to do," Sheila said, her tone could still, "is told him you're a coward and a bully. You can't handle rejection, so you ruin anyone that you consider competition." Mark's smile stopped. "Sheila-" "Give. Him. Back. His. Letter." She held out her hand, palm open, the words dropping like rocks into water. Mark just stared at her for a long second. His jaw then knotted, something mean passing over his face. Instead of giving her the letter, he let it fall, as it fluttered to the floor between them. "Fine. Stand up for your little crush." Mark's voice was dripping with disdain. "Don't come crying to me when you wake up to what kind of boy writes secret love letters instead of having the courage to say anything." He turns and walks away, his group following like dazed puppies. The crowd began to break up, disappointed that the show ended so quietly.] Sheila stooped to gather the letter, observing how Ben immediately recoiled, as though contact with her might burn him. She held it out without looking at the message-she might be curious, but she was not without limits. "I believe this is yours," she said, and managed to meet his eyes. Ben Katongole stood at around five-foot-ten, lean in a manner that suggested village poverty rather than athletic physique. His school uniform was neat but slightly faded, and he had ink on his fingers-he'd been writing when Mark had found the letter, probably. His eyes, when they finally met hers, were the brightest eyes she'd ever seen-deep brown eyes full of ideas that moved too fast for his mouth to catch up to. At that moment, those eyes were full of pure mortification. [He takes the letter in shaking hands, folding it delicately without reading it, as if failing to read the words would render what had just happened void.] "Thank you," he whispered. "Don't thank me. Mark's an i***t. Someone should have told him that a long time ago." "Still. You didn't have to-" His voice cracked ungracefully, and he appeared to shrink even smaller. "I should go." "Wait," Sheila said, not really sure why. Maybe it was the letter-the knowledge that some stranger had thought about her for three months, actually looked at her. Maybe it was the pain in his eyes, so genuine and sincere it hurt to look at it. "Did you mean it?" "Mean what?" What you said. In the letter," She searched his face intently, trying to penetrate the horror and find whatever truth was concealed beneath. Ben's mouth flapped open and shut several times, as if he were a fish struggling in the air. Then, without response, he turned and ran-actually ran-across the courtyard to the science building, around the corner out of sight in an eyeblink. [Sheila stands alone in the dispersing crowd, holding the space he'd occupied, something like disappointment settling in her chest.] "Well," Peace said, appearing at her elbow, "that was dramatic." "He ran," Sheila said flatly. "Yep." "Didn't even answer my question." "Also yep." Peace linked her arm through Sheila's. "Come on. We're going to be late for literature." As she strode towards the main building, Sheila couldn't help but think of Ben Katongole's eyes-shining and scared in equal measure. Of the letter she had never read but could imagine. Of Mark's cruelty and Ben's shyness. [She unconsciously brushes her braids, a nervous habit she has never outgrown, and decides without fully realizing why.] "Peace," she said slowly, "tell me something about Ben. From Chemistry?" Peace's eyebrows jumped. "The kid just ran away from you?" "That's the one." "Why do you care?" Sheila couldn't think of a plausible answer. She only knew that sometime between Mark's ridicule and Ben's flight, something had shifted. A narrative had begun that she couldn't yet discern the outlines of. "Just curious," she said, and even to her own ears, it rang hollow. [They reach the classroom door. Mrs. Nabwire is scribbling on the blackboard within. Business as usual continues, oblivious to the slight earthquake just experienced in the courtyard.] "He's a genius," Peace whispered, just before they stepped inside. "Top of our Chem class. Mr. Opio calls him a genius. But poor, Sheila. Scholarship student. From a village. Not really your-" "Not really your what?" Peace hesitated. "Your social circle." Sheila's stomach twisted on something hard and nasty. "Since when do I care about social groups?" "Since always. But maybe-" Peace's face relaxed. "Maybe that's changing." They entered class and sat, but Sheila was unable to focus on Mrs. Nabwire's lecture on post-colonial literature. Her mind kept coming back to the courtyard, to a scrunched-up letter she hadn't read, to an unasked question Ben hadn't replied to. Did you mean it? She felt-fear and hope intertwined-that knowing the truth would be the difference.