by Hafsa Zayyan
The clerk, credit to him, stopped in his tracks. ‘And who are you?’ he asked Ibrahim suspiciously.
‘I am an officer of the Ugandan Army under the command of Brigadier David Musawanje, 106th Battalion, Fourth Division,’ Ibrahim stuck out his chest. ‘And I am friends with some very powerful people. This is an injustice. You would not want my friends to know of this injustice, would you –’ he squinted at the badge on the clerk’s shirt – ‘Adeka Bako Ogwetyang? I know who you are.’
The clerk looked at us blankly for a moment and then said: ‘I’ll get my boss.’
We waited. Eventually, the man at the top of the pyramid emerged from the cavern in which he had been hiding, visibly annoyed to have been disturbed. ‘Give me all of your papers,’ he said, and Shahzeb handed over my documentation. The man disappeared with the documents into the dark. We waited again. I started to sweat in the damp little room. After waiting for an hour, Ibrahim went back to the clerk and spoke to him in a language I did not recognise. The clerk nodded and went behind the desk; he reappeared with my papers and handed them to Ibrahim. ‘You must write to the President,’ he said.
There was nothing more to be done. Shahzeb drove us home. In the car, he began to talk about what we should do next: that we should write to the President, but at the same time, we must start the process to re-register me as British immediately – ‘Otherwise, Papa, you will belong to neither country.’ I said nothing in response and simply stared out of the window at the red and green land rolling by.
11
At the end of his second week off work, Sameer sits down with his parents and presents his idea. It is Sunday afternoon, and they are sitting at the dining table after breakfast. Zara has taken Mhota Papa for a walk around the garden and Sameer can see them toddling along through the glass door panes in the kitchen. ‘I’ve been thinking about a growth strategy for the petrol station,’ he says, barely able to keep the excitement out of his voice. He is extremely pleased with his resourcefulness, almost enamoured with his own productivity in the space of a few short days. ‘I know it’s not your primary focus right now,’ he adds. ‘But I’ve had a few ideas I think are worth exploring.’
He pulls out copies of a digital sketch from a folder on the table and hands them to his parents, who look slightly perplexed. ‘This is the garage with the forecourt reimagined. This is where the Costa franchise would go –’ he points to the building in the left-hand corner – ‘and over here we would have our shop – you’ll see I suggest we get rid of hot-food counter and expand our retail stock range. These two buildings, redeveloped, would be available for rent to third-party retailers. The space is much better used, isn’t it?’
Sameer waits for his parents to respond, but they just continue to look at him. He clears his throat. ‘What I’m suggesting,’ he says gently, ‘is that we redevelop the garage. We focus on premium items, like proper coffee. We have a couple of retail units in the forecourt space and let them out to popular brands to increase customer traffic. I looked at the company’s accounts, Dad. Petrol is such a small part of how the garage makes money – it’s all about the retail sales.’
Again, silence.
‘Look,’ Sameer pulls copies of an Excel spreadsheet out of the folder and slides them across the table. ‘I’ve modelled it. This spreadsheet sets out everything – assumed costs, capital requirements and our projected returns over a five-year investment horizon.’ He pauses. Their reaction has deflated his ego slightly; he wishes they would speak. ‘That’s it,’ he says. ‘That’s everything I wanted to show you.’
At last, his father says: ‘This is all very interesting, and well done for the research and effort you have put in, son. We are really impressed with your enthusiasm for the family business, it makes me proud.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘But,’ his father continues, ‘you know that the petrol station was – well, we didn’t buy it because we wanted to go into the garage business. We bought it because it was a low-cost investment and would make a small, steady return for us without much management. This, what you’re suggesting, would be a major distraction at a time when we have a significant acquisition for Kampala Nights. What we know and what we do is the restaurant business, beta, we’re not petrol station managers and we don’t want to be.’
‘OK, yes – I understand, you haven’t done this before and that’s fair enough. But don’t close your mind to it.’ Sameer tries to stop himself from sighing audibly. ‘I’ve spent days researching this, Dad, and there’s real opportunity here, there’s money to be made. And it’s a platform for growth, we’ll be able to scale it – if we opened a couple more with the same model, what’s now a small side investment could become a large operating business in its own right.’
‘Sameer …’ his father’s eyes look tired. He hates it when his father uses his name like this to start a sentence. ‘Restaurants are where the money is. We’ve been doing this for a long time now, and look at how successful we are. Opening a few shops in a petrol station isn’t going to make much money in comparison.’
His father has scooped up the papers and pushed them back across the table towards him. Sameer looks at his mother, who has said nothing but nodded repeatedly at his father’s remarks. Sameer allows a flicker of irritation to pass his face openly. ‘Dad,’ he says, gritting his teeth, which makes his tone sound angrier than he intended it to, ‘you’re not listening to me. You’ve just closed your mind to it because you’ve already decided you don’t want to do it. But it’s not just shops, it’s rental income as well. And the most important thing is that once we have a model that works we can just keep doing it, replicating it around the city, around the county.’ He sighs with frustration. ‘Why do you never listen to me? Is it not possible for you to contemplate that for once I might actually know something that you don’t?’
‘Sameer, don’t take that tone with me,’ his father is angry now, arms folded across his chest. ‘You think you know everything there is to know about business? You’ve never run a business in your life. You just read laws all day. How are you so arrogant to think you know better than us?’
Sameer groans inwardly. He should have known better than to think that he could raise this; he wishes he had not – the lecture that he had become so adept at avoiding will begin: Sameer does not understand, and he will not understand, because he did not come from nothing like they did; he has had everything given to him on a plate; he does not realise how lucky he is.
‘Are you listening to me?’ his father snaps.
Sameer jumps to attention. ‘Yes,’ he barks.
‘What did I just say?’
Sameer stares. His mother’s eyes have not left his face. ‘Mum. Dad. I have to tell you something.’ He looks down at his fingers, which are interlocked in his lap. He takes a deep breath. ‘My firm, they’ve offered me a job in Singapore. I’ve accepted it.’
‘Ay-Allah!’ his mother gasps.
‘Singapore?’ Sameer’s father looks completely crestfallen, his voice small and shrunken. ‘But, I thought …?’
A rush of regret courses through Sameer. He should not have blurted it out like this; he should have reconsidered at the end of his six-week period of leave; he might still change his mind? ‘It’s an amazing opportunity,’ he says automatically. ‘I’ll probably get made partner there,’ he adds, thinking: no chance if Chris has any say in it. ‘Anyway, I have to go. To see Rahool.’ He stands up awkwardly. He should not leave it like this. He should talk to them, tell them what it is that has led to his choices, ask them for their advice. It is entirely unnecessary, but he adds: ‘You know, Rahool, my friend who came back to Leicester to work in his family business and was nearly beaten to death.’ His mother lets out a little cry, but instead of looking at her, Sameer turns and walks out of the room.
He texts Zara: Borrowing your car. He needs the freedom of not being tied to anyone else’s timetable today. No time to tell Zara about Singapore, and his family will do this in th
eir own way before he gets back. Probably paint him in the worst possible light. Traitor. Deserter. Just like Amira who ran off to Um-rica and never came back.
Jeremiah is home for the weekend and they have arranged to visit Rahool together. Blasting music from the speakers to drown out his thoughts, Sameer drives to the block of flats where Jeremiah’s mother lives and sends Jeremiah a WhatsApp: Outside.
Jeremiah’s biceps bulge under the short sleeves of his T-shirt as he enters the car; the fabric ends to reveal dark skin that is as solid as a rock. He smells good. ‘What’s all this?’ Sameer says, wrinkling his nose as they pull out of the parking space and head towards the hospital. ‘You look built.’
‘Thanks, man, been gym a couple of times.’
Sameer snorts. He knows that with Jeremiah, a couple of times really does mean twice. He thinks about how many gym sessions it would take him to get even half the muscle that materialises on Jeremiah after just two sessions.
‘I meant to tell you actually,’ Jeremiah suddenly sounds shy. ‘I’ve met someone.’
‘You what?’ Sameer begins to smile, mood lightened for the first time that day.
‘I’ll tell you all about it after. Dinner tonight?’
Sameer thinks about going home to face his family. ‘Perfect.’
When they arrive at the hospital, Mr Patel is there. Jeremiah gives him a hug and Sameer stares. He has never seen Jeremiah hug Rahool’s parents before.
Rahool is sleeping and the three of them sit around his bed, speaking in low whispers. Rahool’s father tells them that he will be discharged tomorrow; that the doctors say he has made great progress; that he can walk, but he is still relearning how to write. Without thinking, Sameer asks how long until Rahool is back to normal, and then immediately remembers the prognosis was that some of the damage is permanent. Mr Patel exhales deeply; Sameer kicks himself. It’s awkward now, but there is no point trying to make excuses for why he had to deliver this painful reminder. He had only forgotten momentarily in the hope that Rahool would remember him again.
As if on cue, Rahool’s eyes flicker open. Sameer instinctively scrapes his chair back, conscious not to frighten him. ‘J’miah,’ Rahool says, looking at Jeremiah. A little drool dribbles onto Rahool’s chin and his father wipes it away.
Sameer keeps his distance while Jeremiah and Mr Patel talk; Rahool throws Sameer the occasional suspicious glance, aware that this man has come to visit him several times, but still unable to recollect who he is. They stay for another fifteen minutes while Rahool is awake; he tires easily and gets irritable. Just before they leave, Rahool has a light-bulb moment: ‘J’miah,’ he exclaims, ‘wefell in the r’ver!’ Rahool begins to chuckle softly, pleased with himself for having remembered this and even more pleased that the memory was a funny one.
Jeremiah grins nervously. ‘We’re heading off now, Rahool,’ he says slowly and loudly, but Rahool’s giggles have already turned into snores. ‘What was he talking about?’ Jeremiah mutters as they leave the room.
‘He was remembering rowing along the Soar,’ Mr Patel says quietly. ‘But that wasn’t with you – it was with Sameer.’
In the first week of sixth form, Sameer had joined the school rowing club and pleaded with Rahool to join too. Preparation for if I get into Cambridge, he had said. The first session was in the gym, on a rowing machine. Rahool had fought with the machine, grunting and puffing, going red in the face. They had laughed about it afterwards when he’d complained that his arms were in agony; Sameer had said: You don’t use your arms, mate, you weren’t doing it properly. The next morning, 6 a.m., their first ever outing on the river, and Rahool’s arms had completely seized up and he couldn’t keep hold of the oars. He had called out to Sameer – help me! – and Sameer had let go of his oars and the boat had capsized. They had laughed about it for days.
Rahool had remembered this, but in that memory Sameer was Jeremiah. Did that make any sense at all? Sameer imagines himself fading out of Rahool’s memories altogether, dissolving into little pixels that blow away with the wind, and the strong, sturdy figure of Jeremiah appearing in his place.
As they leave the hospital, Sameer texts his mother: Won’t be home for dinner. There is a message from Zara – Singapore? (crying face emoticon) – which he ignores.
Jeremiah tells him about the girl, Angela, who he met at a party. She’s doing a PhD in philosophical science and she’s intelligent and beautiful and kind. Sameer is happy for him. He looks at the Instagram profile proffered keenly by Jeremiah – she’s half-Portuguese: olive skin, olive eyes, glossy brown hair. Most importantly she is Fun, according to the multiple, filtered shots of #girlsnightsout, #lbd, #wasted, #doesmybumlookbiginthis? He imagines for a moment their bodies intertwined, olive skin on black.
Dinner turns to drinks: Sameer has a half pint of beer, followed by three Coke Zeros. Jeremiah, who is not driving, has four pints. He hasn’t stopped talking about Angela and Sameer is struggling to stay focused. ‘I’m taking you home now,’ he says at 10 p.m. ‘I’ve got to get back.’
‘OK, OK.’
As they walk towards the car, Jeremiah says: ‘I think I love her, man.’
Sameer laughs. Jeremiah has known this girl for three weeks and been on four dates in that time, and he reminds him of this. ‘No, man,’ Jeremiah insists, as they get inside the car. ‘When you know, you know.’
‘Right. So did you tell her you love her then?’
‘God no, she’d freak out.’
Sameer shakes his head and smiles. That was Jeremiah for you: fell in love so easily, and had his heart broken even easier. He was always hooking up with the wrong kind of girl: girls who wanted, as Jeremiah put it, the Black Guy Experience.
When Sameer creeps back into the house, he is relieved to discover that his parents have gone to bed. Zara is sitting in front of the television alone, eating popcorn and watching reruns of Family Guy. ‘Yeah, I’ve been waiting for you,’ she says accusatorily as he enters the room. But she stretches out the bag of popcorn and he accepts a handful. ‘What’s all this Singapore business? How did you not tell me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says as he collapses onto the sofa next to her, eyes locked on the TV. ‘I really wasn’t sure about it. I didn’t want to tell anyone until I was.’
‘So now you are?’
Sameer shrugs in response.
On the television screen, Stewie is beating Brian to a pulp and demanding money and they laugh, breaking the silence. Zara shakes the bag towards Sameer and he takes another handful. ‘How long will you be gone for?’
‘It’s only two years,’ he admits. ‘But I’ll stay for longer if I like it. Maybe move there permanently. I don’t know yet.’
‘Wow. That will be strange. Mum and Dad are really upset, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘They genuinely thought you were going to come home and join the business.’
‘I don’t know where they got that idea from,’ Sameer says, exasperated. ‘I’ve never wanted to. I’ve always wanted to make it on my own.’
‘It’s not always about what you want,’ Zara says, turning her head away from the television screen and looking her brother in the eye. ‘It’s about what you owe them. You’re the only son of a desi family, what did you expect?’
Sameer stares back at her. ‘I’m sorry about your grades,’ he says finally.
‘It’s all right. I’m happy being at home in Leicester.’
‘Don’t you want to try living out?’
‘Maybe. But I’m also like, what’s the point? They’re just going to marry me off to someone from the mosque as soon as I finish uni anyway, I know it.’
‘Doesn’t that bother you?’
Zara considers this for a moment before saying, ‘As long as he’s nice and I like him then, no, not really.’
‘OK …’ Sameer cannot understand this, cannot understand how she could be happy with no freedom – not even the freedom to choose her own husband – but he doesn�
��t want to create issues for Zara where she doesn’t seem to see any. ‘Well, in that case, don’t you want to go and try to live a bit before you get married?’
Zara laughs. ‘Dilwale Dulhania style?’ she asks. ‘I’m all right. If I’m going to meet the love of my life at uni, I can still do that while living at home.’
Well, he supposes, this is the right response for a good Muslim girl. Zara has accepted her fate without protest; more so, she seems content with it. If making peace in this way is weakness, then why is there something so admirable in that beatific smile of hers? ‘They’re lucky to have you as a daughter,’ he says, sensing that this response is somewhat inadequate.
Zara offers him the last of the popcorn. ‘They’re also lucky to have you as a son,’ she says.
The following day, Sameer tags along with his father obediently: to the office, to the new restaurant site with Haroon Fua, to Yasmeen Foi’s house. His auntie and uncle don’t appear to notice that Sameer and his father are barely speaking – in fact his father positively tries not to speak to him at all – and there is no mention of Singapore.
Later that evening (after an awkward dinner where there had been almost complete silence at the table), lying on his bed, Sameer’s fingers drift to his email inbox, wondering what he has been missing. To his surprise, there is an email from the managing partner, just ten minutes earlier, copying Chris: Pls give me a call as soon as you can. J.
Sameer studies the message quizzically. James will probably still be in the office, he thinks, dialling the landline number. His heart begins to pound as the phone rings out. What on earth could this be about? James picks up on the third ring. ‘James Butcher speaking.’
‘Hi, James, it’s Sam. You asked me to call you?’
‘Oh, hi, Sam.’ The tone of James’s voice changes instantly; Sameer does not recognise it. ‘Can you give me a second? I think Chris is still around – would be good to have him in the room for this call.’
‘Actually, I’d prefer if –’ Sameer begins, but he is speaking to hold music. His fingers start to sweat; the phone becomes slippery and he nearly drops it. The partners click back on.
