by Hafsa Zayyan
When I close my eyes, our wedding night comes back to me with such startling clarity, as though it took place just yesterday. Funny how twenty-one years pass in the blink of an eye. Before we were wed, I had only ever glimpsed you outside the mosque, head covered, eyes downwards, clutching your younger sister’s hand. I saw you once after our families had agreed our marriage, about a month before the nikkah. I was driving down Nasser Road, and I saw you walking past, holding bags of shopping spilling with fabrics, your fair skin flushed. I thought then that you were the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
And then, before I knew it, it was the day of our wedding. Quite a contrast to the events of today: when we married, the local mosque was packed to the brim and we had the grandest of receptions in the Imperial Hotel. No fewer than a thousand guests. I must have been the most nervous I have ever been about anything in my life. The festivities passed in a colourful blur – do you remember how much you cried? – and then we were left to our own devices in the honeymoon suite.
I remember pushing back the material weighing on your head and watching your hair tumble down to your shoulders, releasing the smell of something sweet that I would wake up to every morning for the next twenty-one years of my life. Oh, to live that moment again! Before I knew you; yet, even then, knowing that I already knew all of you.
‘Hasan –’ you whispered so softly that I could barely hear you, and your thick lashes raised to meet my eyes for the first time. I saw something in you so vulnerable at that moment and it suddenly struck me that you were only sixteen. Do you remember what you said next? ‘Hasan, I just want to talk tonight.’
And that is what we did. I helped you to unpin the heavy bridalwear attached to your shoulders, circling your waist, and chained to your wrists. You removed it all in the privacy of the bathroom, whilst I tried to quell the more basic instincts arising in my groin as I waited for you in the bed. When you finally re-entered, in a long white nightgown, you looked like an angel. We sat on the bed and talked until our voices became hoarse and we could no longer keep our eyes open.
I loved you deeply from that moment, and I have never stopped loving you since.
Abdullah tells me the pain of grief will subside with time. He cradles my head gently in his arms, like he used to when I was a young boy. He tells me to trust him. He has lost siblings, parents, cousins, friends. He has even lost a son. But he has never lost his wife. He has been married to her for forty years now. We only reached half that time. Oh, my darling Amira. What I would not give to have even just one more minute with you.
When I close my eyes, I can picture you standing in the kitchen, back door open to allow the smell of spices to escape into the courtyard, your sleeves rolled up tightly, those slender, determined arms kneading a lump of dough. I can still taste the soft, hot rotli made by your hands.
It makes me smile now to think that when we first moved into this house, I wanted to employ a cook. You hated the idea. ‘Hasan,’ you said to me, ‘what will I do all day if we have a cook? We already have Abdullah, that’s enough.’ We both knew that Abdullah’s cooking left much to be desired. I knew it was not easy for you navigating the vast expanses of the new house, whilst managing our children, my father and our new daughter-in-law, Tasneem. That is why I hired the ayah, my dear – to give you room to breathe. And even though you were annoyed with me at first, after just a few days I saw you visibly relax. You spent more time in the kitchen, talking to Tasneem and showing her your recipes: fiery and crisp chilli mogo, green mango pickle, red chicken curry. The ayah spent more time scrubbing the floors and hanging up our laundry. It is a sign of our success, my sweet Amira, that we should have an ayah.
What satisfaction I had felt when the new house came on the market! One of the largest houses on Nakasero Hill, and the timing could not have been better, because Samir had just become engaged to Tasneem, and we needed more room for the newly married couple. This house has six double bedrooms, three en suite and two separate bathrooms, two reception rooms, a dining area, a great big kitchen that opens out into a courtyard, and a sprawling back garden with the greenest, neatest grass you have ever seen, politely lined with mango trees and frangipani. The garage can hold up to four cars. Our driver and ayah reside in the boys’ quarters, which is close – but not too close – by. You were not so keen at first on moving up the hill and leaving behind the house in which our marriage had been built. But when we pulled up to the steel gates, and you saw bright pink bougainvillea bursting over the veranda to rest on the garage roof your heart softened. Bougainvillea was your favourite flower.
My heart was bursting with pride on the day that we moved in. Three weeks before Samir was to be wed: just enough time to get things in order. The sun was streaming through the windows, lighting up every room with a brightness that made my eyes water. The children were shrieking with excitement as they ran from room to room and outside into the back garden to somersault on the springy green grass. Papa was content, leaning on his walking stick with a soft smile at the corner of his mouth. You were wearing a pale blue salwar kameez, and the bougainvillea flower tucked behind your ear tickled me when I leaned in to kiss your cheek. Samir had done us all proud: he was joining the family business and marrying a girl from a very good family. The business was doing better than it had ever done before. I remember looking up to the sky, thanking Allah, and wondering how Ma would feel if she could see us now. We were moving into an old muzungu home, on old wazungu land. And it was all ours.
It is funny how one’s whole life can change in a single moment. I almost despise this house now. Every room is a projection of what I thought would be a future with you and our family. Sometimes the urge to go back to our old, smaller house, just to inhale the smell in the corridors, is so strong it overwhelms me. After you passed away, your things were taken by your family. Let them, Papa said. It will help you to process her death. But I kept one of your dupattas. It still smells like you. I dig my head into the soft fabric and inhale deeply and the smell of you evokes such a forceful memory in me that I almost feel like I have travelled back in time.
It is getting late, my love, but I am not ready for sleep. Do you know that it was almost fifty years ago today that Papa first set foot in this country? I cannot imagine what it must have been like for him, leaving behind his parents, two brothers and sister in Gujarat to set sail on a dhow with an uncle he barely knew. Papa does not speak much of his life in India, but I know that it was hard. The idea was that if Papa could achieve some success, the rest of the family would be sent for and the poverty of their lives in India would be over. But by the time Papa was ready to send for them four years later, Papa’s only sister had died of dysentery. Papa’s younger brother, Muazzam Kaka, had married and wanted to stay in India. But Papa’s parents and his older brother arrived on the shores of Mombasa in the spring of 1904, and they brought with them Papa’s new wife – my ma.
Why is it that the women in my life have left me too soon? Papa says that Ma was of a weak disposition. She is shadowy behind my closed eyes; truly, I cannot remember her at all. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night, sweating and panting, terrified I am going to lose the image of you in the same way. But I have your picture, taken just last year, smiling shyly into the camera.
I never had a single picture of Ma. When I think back to the early years of my life, I can only remember my dadi and Abdullah – although we used to call Abdullah ‘Boyi’ back then of course. It is as if the memory of Ma has been erased. All I can see is Dadi, standing in our tiny kitchen in a grey cotton sari, adding cinnamon bark to frying onions until the whole house was filled with fragrance; Boyi, taking our washing to the communal backyard, scrubbing green soap into our underwear and rinsing them clean.
Boyi must have been about fifteen years old when he first came to work for us, and, despite his tender age, he assumed the role of bathing me, feeding me and keeping me entertained in Ma’s absence. He was all I ever had as a playmate. I used to be so env
ious of your large family: your three sisters, your brother. I had always longed for a sibling but none had survived: one miscarriage, one stillborn, and my little sister Zahra, who had died suddenly aged one. And Papa never remarried. You knew that was why I craved for us to have a big family. And, like the dutiful wife that you were, you bore me five healthy children: Samir, Shahzeb, Farah, Ahmed and little Aisha, who is still too young to understand what has happened to you. I never imagined that one day I would go on to adopt somebody else’s children – or that I might have children with someone else.
My love. I hope you can forgive me. I truly believe that you would, if you thought of Shabnam and her young children left alone with no one to take care of them. You were always so gracious in the way you treated others less fortunate than yourself. You accepted Abdullah as a brother immediately, in spite of his African blood. You saw that Abdullah was not like other karia; that he was loyal, hard-working and honest, and that he had accepted Islam into his heart. You treated him with such patience and you gave him so much of your time, to the point – I must admit – that it sometimes bordered on the absurd. But, that was you: forever putting those less fortunate before others. Abdullah had always been a special case though. He had worked for five years as a boyi to a British inspector general living on the top of Nakasero Hill and I believe it was that experience which gave him the solid foundations he had when he came to us. Returning to the hill was like a homecoming for Abdullah.
My dearest Amira, despite the present successes of our business, the thought of continuing without you makes me despair. How beauty entered my life after you became a part of it! You, glowing with enthusiasm, heavily pregnant with Samir, sitting patiently as my scribe, diligently and carefully writing up the company books as I directed, until you became proficient enough to do it by yourself. You, managing the duka while I went to Jinja, Mbarara, Mbale to trade. You reminded me of myself when I was young, after Papa first opened the cotton ginnery and left me to manage the small shop under the house where we lived on Market Street. I used to work in that shop after school every single day; weekends spent sleeping on the shop floor and waiting for the delivery boys to come; stockpiling – food, soft drinks, soap – in the middle of the night, trying not to get behind on my schoolwork.
Amira, I do believe that you were my lucky charm. It was you who brought us our success with the cotton ginnery. It was you who really helped our shop and tailoring service to expand and grow. The world surprised me by continuing to turn in your absence. Now that you are gone, I fear for our good fortune. Whatever brilliance we possessed has been eclipsed. Now that you are gone, I cannot shake this overwhelming sense of dread.
3
It takes just over an hour to get from St Pancras to Leicester by train. In the window seat, Sameer can see the reflection of his face, floating in the glass pane, staring through him and into the distance. There is not a cloud in sight today. Green fields dotted with sheep and bordered by the blue expanse of sky roll by. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the window, but he cannot sleep. In his head, he begins to run through the different ways he might tell his family that he is moving to Singapore. It has been two weeks since he was first offered the role. He signed the paperwork last week; he didn’t want to be in a position where his family might talk him out of it. The departure date has been scheduled for just under five months from now.
The train pulls into the platform and Sameer steps out. The familiar facades of the station’s interior tug at him, giving him a feeling of comfort. He has not been home for six weeks and he realises, with mild surprise, that he has missed it. Singapore will only be for two years, he tells himself.
The ticket barriers are open (why did he buy a ticket? he thinks, irritated – they will probably be open when he leaves too), and he walks through their arms and out of the station, into the bright light of the day. Round the corner, in the usual meeting spot, his father is waiting for him in a white Range Rover that Sameer doesn’t recognise.
‘Hi, Dad,’ he says, opening the passenger door and climbing up onto the seat. With one hand, Sameer throws his rucksack onto the back seat; in the other, he holds a bouquet of roses for his mother. ‘New car?’
‘Hi, son,’ his father replies, engaging the gears and slowly pulling out onto the road. Every time he goes home, Sameer is surprised at how his father seems to have aged. ‘No, it’s not new – I’m just borrowing it from the Patels while the Merc goes for servicing.’
The Patels are Rahool’s family. Sameer is conscious that his parents will be aware that Rahool is returning to Leicester from London. Before his father can mention it, Sameer asks: ‘How are you?’ They are crossing the Humberstone roundabout. This is not the way home.
‘I’m fine, son. I’m fine. Very busy, as always. Like you. We haven’t seen you in a long time.’
‘Work,’ Sameer replies shortly, looking out of the window. ‘It’s been busy.’ The car approaches Belgrave Road; it is a Saturday and the traffic is already building up. Women in saris amble past on the street; shopfronts in red, yellow, blue blare names, Lakhani, Akshar, Arshi, Krishna. Gold jewellery glints invitingly from behind shop windows; heavy, brightly coloured fabrics pose, draped on mannequins standing to attention; street food sings and steams from a vat, chaat, pani poori, paan. This is the Golden Mile. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Your mum wanted me to pick up some samosas,’ his father replies, deftly sliding the car into an available space along the crowded road. Just a few metres away, the first Kampala Nights restaurant that his family ever opened stands proudly, orange letters beating against a black backdrop. ‘Come on,’ his father says, glancing at his watch and getting out of the car. Sameer hesitates for a moment. They are not far from the road that they used to live on until Sameer was eight years old, and coming here always gives him a lukewarm feeling of nostalgia. He puts the roses down on the front seat and gets out of the car.
Inside the restaurant, they are greeted by low lighting, the soft melody of steel drums and the mouth-watering smell of spices. KAMPALA NIGHTS WELCOMES YOU, says a sign near the entrance. PLEASE WAIT HERE TO BE SEATED. They walk past the unmanned post and into the restaurant. ‘Hey, boss is here,’ a boy comes running out from between the tables, giving Sameer’s father a cheeky grin and mock salute. ‘Boss man, you here to eat?’ A faint moustache lines the boy’s upper lip, a pathetic straggle of hairs populate his chin: he is barely eighteen. Sameer remembers himself at that age and wonders whether the boy is at university or whether this is his full-time job.
‘I’m here to pick up our order,’ Sameer’s father says, eyes narrowing and surveying the restaurant critically. There is an open kitchen, where the diners can see chefs dressed all in white tossing ingredients in pans over flames, sprinkling herbs over plates with a flourish, slicing red-orange peppers with huge steel knives. Tribal masks and abstract paintings are hung on walls next to zebra-print and ornamental wooden ladles. Sameer hasn’t been to the restaurant at lunchtime recently, but is surprised to see that it is almost full – families, couples, groups of friends. ‘Why is no one at the door?’ his father says to the boy, who responds with a guilty shrug and runs off towards the front of the restaurant. More employees appear from the restaurant’s depths; Sameer’s father barks instructions under his breath (‘Your hair is poking out of your hat,’ he snaps at one of the chefs; ‘Why aren’t you wearing the uniform?’ he asks one of the waiters, whose black T-shirt fails to read ‘Kampala Nights’ on its back; ‘I don’t like the way you’re having to squeeze around this table to get to the kitchen – who changed the layout?’). The restaurant manager emerges from the back to greet them, all smiles and handshakes, and a bag of samosas is presented to Sameer, who takes it, peeking inside at the crisp golden skin.
‘The restaurant is so busy,’ Sameer comments as they leave, wondering if his mother will notice if there is one less samosa in the bag.
‘Alhumdulilah,’ his father replies. ‘We have been very luc
ky. Lucky enough, in fact, to be in a position to open another restaurant. We’ve found an opportunity to acquire a site not far from Spinney Hills.’ Sameer looks at his father quizzically – his family had previously considered and rejected the idea of opening a restaurant in that area. ‘Now, I know what you’re thinking,’ his father continues. ‘But this is different. The site is a deconsecrated church. It was up for auction and we bought it at a significant discount. The interior needs some work, but it’s a beautiful building, with stained-glass windows and high ceilings. It has the capacity to seat up to four hundred. We’re going to invest heavily in renovating it, and as well as being a full-service restaurant the idea is to be able to use it for private events and weddings. There’s big money in the wedding industry, you know?’
As his father chatters away happily, a knot tightens in Sameer’s stomach. He does not say anything as they turn onto Stoughton Drive, the road they moved to after they left Belgrave. His father drives past their old house – a property they like to fondly refer to as their ‘starter home’, despite the fact that it is a three bedroom detached house and much grander than some of the homes his friends from Leicester still live in today. When Sameer was fourteen years old, the family had left behind the starter life and upgraded to a larger property further down the road. His whole life mapped out in one short drive.
Sameer’s father swings the car in front of their gates, which open slowly to a spacious paved front drive, thoughtfully framed by neat arrangements of grass, lavender bushes and small evergreen trees. The sight of the house delivers such comfort that Sameer almost lets out a sigh of relief.
His mother is waiting at the front door, ever the picture of understated elegance in a simple blue salwar kameez and a row of gold bangles. ‘Beta,’ she says, embracing Sameer tightly. Son. ‘What’s taken you so long to come home?’ She jabs Sameer with her index finger and he quickly hands her the bouquet of roses.
