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Doreen Baingana’s
collection of short stories Tropical Fish examines Uganda and the
Diaspora in black and white, with history graying in the fading
distance. Idi Amin was a deadly buffoon. Up to 400,000 people may have
perished under his reign of lunacy. Amin’s atrocities were perhaps
dwarfed by Milton Obote’s. Then there is AIDS. Up to 800,000 people may
have died already. Amin and Obote died in peace in exile without any
credible attempts to hold them accountable. So much for justice. In
‘Tropical Fish’, Baingana says virtually nothing about Obote’s evil
reign. This is baffling. How do you forget? Should fiction not document
the lived history? Baingana says in the book that Idi Amin gave Asians
72 hours to leave Uganda in 1972. They were actually given 90 days
because Amin claimed that Asians had the habit of giving Ugandans 90
days credit.

The story, ‘Green
Stones’ is a delightful conversation about relationships, marriages,
and life. In Christine, the main character’s world, alcoholism and
infidelity hold sway in the form of Taata, her father, a mean drunk,
the sauced burden of her mother, Maama. It is a look at family
relationships, warts and all from the eyes of a child, a revealing
exploration of familiar issues: infidelity, alcoholism, the extended
family, patriarchy – all within the stifling confines of a traditional
marriage. ‘Green Stones’ is written with all of Baingana’s literary
muscle. Tart luscious prose bear nice turns of phrases and they delight
the palate.

‘Passion’ and ‘A
Thank-You Note’ are the only previously unpublished stories in the
book. No wonder. They are awful. They sit in the centre of the book,
smug, like badly cooked rice, hoping to be saved by great stew.
‘Passion’ is an imperfectly designed, puzzling story leaning on the
pretence of magic realism. ‘A Thank-You Note’ is an overwrought
introspection on AIDS. Baingana tries – and fails – to put herself in
the mind of an AIDS sufferer. The story does serve a useful purpose:
the inchoate main character Rosa is mercifully killed off by bad
writing. ‘Hunger’ and ‘First Kiss’ are rambling, pointless exercises in
self-absorption.

You must read
‘Lost in Los Angeles’ and ‘Questions of Home’. They are thoughtful
reflections on immigration, the immigrant, exile and homecoming. One is
taken by the unresolved pain and anguish that are unearthed in these
stories. There are some good observations about the impact of
technological advances on community and relationships. The stories
spoke to me. Nonetheless, the immigrant of colour in Baingana’s book is
painfully self-conscious. There are strong hints of self-absorption and
narcissism. For Baingana, even lovemaking is an opportunity for deep
introspection in search of meaning where none probably exists.
Sometimes folks just want to get laid.

The book’s
attitude to sex is fascinating; sex is described in near indifferent
terms – a few minutes of heaving and pushing. The book makes a grand
failure of exploring sensuality and is hugely successful at remaining
mum on the sum total of our sexuality. It is a poorly kept secret that
same-sex relationships in Africa’s boarding schools are common.
Baingana gingerly navigates the fringes of tradition as she rides
around on wheels of modernity.

Baingana is
unsuccessful at being more than one character, Christine. The other
sisters, Patti and Rosa are merely afterthoughts. They are identical
triplets cannibalised by Christine’s strong character and weak writing.
Baingana asserts Uganda’s otherness as she carefully separates Ugandan
words from English words, like a cook separating stones from beans. To
her credit, she does not provide a glossary of Ugandan terms. Yes. Let
the reader do the research. ‘Tropical Fish’ is slightly burdened by
some editing issues. Baingana should shop around for a more organised
publisher next time.

Africans are
victims of uncritical acculturation. Questions of identity abound: Who
are we? Who should we be? Why are we the ones who keep trying to be
like the other? What does exile mean in the age of Facebook? Who really
leaves home these days? Who stays home these days? Where is home?
Expecting Baingana’s book to answer these questions is like asking the
slide rule to compete with the iPad. Our intellectuals have no answers;
they are too busy navel gazing, whining about racism and drinking the
white man’s best wines. See, they wail to the West, we are human beings
too; we eat ice cream!

Baingana’s stories are sleepy, like passengers on a red-eye bus to
the city struggling to come alive at every junction manned by thieving
policemen. We see the self-loathing that Western education confers on
Africans as they flee anything remotely African or indigenous. In the
fashion, in the food, in the literature, Africa desires to be white.
Africa is turmoil but the book ends on a hopeful note. The exile begins
the long process of re-introduction to her ancestral land. Culture
shock streaks out of cultural attitudes to work and life. Still, she is
here to stay, says the book. Did she stay? I suspect that “Christine”
is back home in Washington DC, subversively pinching cantaloupes in
farmers’ markets. And the beat goes on.