by Hafsa Zayyan
‘So this is quite an unusual situation,’ James says delicately. ‘We just wanted to bring it up with you discreetly.’
‘What is it?’
‘Well. We had a phone call from your father yesterday,’ James says. ‘He left a voicemail at reception. It was eventually routed to me.’
Sameer immediately feels a sudden and violent desire to throw up.
Chris interrupts James’s gentle tone and says brusquely: ‘He said that you’ve decided to pack it all in, that you don’t want to go to Singapore any more, that you’re resigning from the firm.’
The nausea has passed and Sameer stares at the wall in front of him, nodding, mute.
‘Well? Is it true? Fucking strange way to hand in your notice if you ask me.’
Sameer can detect a hint of glee behind the sharp tone: Chris is either delighted at the news or taking the piss – probably both. He wishes he was physically in front of him right now. ‘No, it’s not true,’ he whispers into the phone.
‘I didn’t think so,’ James says reassuringly. ‘But I think you might need to have a conversation with your parents …’
‘God, yes, sorry, I’m so embarrassed,’ he gabbles. ‘I think they were just a bit upset at hearing the news – I’ll sort it out, don’t worry. Sorry again.’ He hangs up the phone. For a moment, he sits there calmly as he tries to process what has just happened, and then, quite suddenly, his blood begins to boil. He storms down the stairs and into the front room, where his parents are sitting with cups of tea. Zara is lying on her stomach on the floor, reading a book. Sameer slams the door behind him so hard it rattles. His father looks up, unconcerned. ‘How dare you,’ Sameer begins, voice so low it is barely audible. ‘How dare you?!’ he screams.
His father has clocked what has happened and multiple expressions flit across his face – irritation: it did not work; sadness: it did not work; anger: how dare his son speak to him in this way?
‘Do not take that tone with your father,’ Sameer’s mother says. ‘What is wrong with you?’
Clenching every muscle he possibly can, Sameer stops himself from screaming or shouting or doing something worse. He closes his eyes and counts to five very slowly in his head. Then he says, controlled: ‘You called my boss and told him I was resigning. You had no right to do that.’
Sameer glances at Zara and registers shock. His mother looks unperturbed: naturally, they were both in on it.
‘You want to talk about rights, son?’ his father’s face is red with anger. ‘You have no right to abandon us to go to Singapore.’
‘Zara, get out,’ Sameer says. Zara immediately leaps to her feet.
‘Zara, stay,’ his father commands. ‘It’s about time you saw your brother for what he truly is – selfish.’ Zara, torn between the wishes of her father and her brother, gives in to her father and sits down again, crossed-legged, on the floor.
This interaction, Zara’s presence, diffuses Sameer’s anger quite abruptly, and he is exhausted. He has no desire to fight with his parents. He feels numb. There was a time when he would have talked to Rahool, asked him why his family behave like this, whether it’s an Asian thing, being fucked up. And then he loathes himself momentarily for wishing he was from somewhere else. His father is speaking, face hot, eyes angry, gesticulating. His mother stands behind him, nodding seriously. The unit. Unbreakable. He does not listen to what his father is saying. His mind drifts to that wretched memory.
He is seventeen years old and giddy with the excitement of first love. His insides squirm; he flushes easily when he thinks about her lips; his every thought is of her. Her name is Raha and she has joined his sixth form from a different school. The first day that he met her marked the beginning of the rest of his life, as she walked into his maths class with not a care in the world, effortlessly beautiful, skirt pulled high to reveal long brown legs: girls were supposed to wear tights, but he didn’t know then, as she would later tell him, that they didn’t make tights in their colour. His parents can tell that something has happened to him. He is distracted, constantly on his phone, he no longer wants to study at home, preferring instead to go to the ‘library’ (hot, fumbled, groping in the back seat of his car).
He can’t be without her; they will coordinate their university applications – bound to get into at least one together, that’s where they’ll both go. She tells him that she doesn’t want to apply to Cambridge. He doesn’t want to risk even one of their choices not being the same: it’s not worth it.
When his parents discover that he has changed his mind about applying to Cambridge, they are horrified. They ask him why. In the end, he tells them about Raha: he has to, because one day she will be his wife anyway. Now we understand, they say. Now we understand why you have been acting so strangely. They tell him that what he is planning to do is not right. This is his future; she is a distraction. He dares venture that he’s in love and that he intends to marry her one day. They tell him that if she really loved him she would never want him to give up Cambridge for her and that she would still be there at the end of his degree, waiting for him. OK, he says, finally relenting. He would still apply to Cambridge. Would they release him now?
Later that day, a text message from Raha: It’s over, Sameer. I don’t want to see you again.
This is the moment that he will look back on as defining him: he cannot see, he cannot breathe. Why would she do this to him? He calls her multiple times; she does not pick up the phone. He sends her countless text messages. She replies to the first one. I’m sorry, it says. She doesn’t reply to the rest.
But it doesn’t make sense. They had talked about what came next; the plans they had made were for a future together. At school, she walks straight past him as if he doesn’t exist, as if he was a shadow that simply disappeared when the sun went in. He struggles to understand how someone could be so cruel. Why does it hurt so much? He stops eating and he cannot concentrate at school. His parents are worried.
He receives a letter from Cambridge: they want to interview him. But by the time of the interview, he has not improved. He has lost a stone. His mother blows prayers over his head as he leaves on the morning of his interview; makes him drink Zamzam water for luck. Cambridge is more beautiful than he imagined, but that only makes him think of her. The interview passes in a blur. Dad picks him up, asking him question after question. I can’t remember anything, he says. I’m having a complete blank. He warns his parents that he has bombed the interview, but the weeks pass and he receives a letter from the college he applied to: they want to offer him a place, all he needs is three As. He is stunned and elated. His family are ecstatic. They host a party at the house, all of the extended family come. He suddenly has a new lease of life, a new energy. Something to work towards. Something to live for. He dedicates himself to revision, gets the grades and is off to Cambridge for his first year of university.
In the summer after his first year, he bumps into Raha in Leicester town centre. She is wearing a white crop top and her shoulders are exposed. Still completely beautiful. She smiles warmly at him. They have both grown up a bit. She does not make him weak at the knees any more. He wants to reach out and hug her, but physical touch seems inappropriate for some reason, and so he says: Where did you end up?
Leicester actually, she replies, not quite meeting his eyes. I know you went to Cambridge, of course, she adds. You were in the local paper.
Yeah, he shrugs, acting casual. It’s all right. Not all that.
They chat aimlessly for a few more minutes – about the weather – and then she says: Well, I’d better be going.
He nods, but he cannot resist: Raha – can I just ask you … why? After everything we had planned, why did you break it off with me so abruptly like that?
The air between them turns cold. She frowns, staring at him, deciding whether to give him what he’s asked for because it’s clear that he still doesn’t know. But he’s man enough to take it now. Your parents called me, she says. They told me I was going
to ruin your life, that I was not the right girl for you and that if I cared about you even a little, I would break up with you for your own good. They were your parents, she adds, eyes imploring him to understand. And I was young and stupid, so I just did what they said.
His balance is unsteady. He’s so angry he may not be breathing. The depth of this betrayal is beyond comprehension and all he can say is: They … they had no right to do that.
She smiles and takes his hand and he immediately begins to feel warm. I really did love you, Sameer, she says gently. She tiptoes to kiss his cheek. She smells like peaches. But we’re both happy now, aren’t we? You’re at Cambridge, you’re going to do brilliantly, I know it. I’m in a new relationship, and I’m happy.
He watches her go. Much later, he learns that she moved to Canada and married a man her family had chosen for her. He never sees her again.
12
To my first love, my beloved
2nd February 1971
Last night I dreamt about the bodies. Lifeless, bloody shapes, strewn along the road, dragged hastily into ditches. I am not one to shy away from death: I have seen it many times before. But not in such numbers, or with such carelessness.
The coup came from nowhere, it seemed. That is not to say that things have been easy – far from it, in recent years. But these were difficulties of the Asian, not difficulties of the African. I did not know that dissatisfaction fractured the government from within; I did not know what problems Amin believed he would be resolving for the Africans by taking control of this country.
You remember our old friend, Manish Mehta, who ran a small duka and a boutique hotel in Mburo? Lakeside Lodge, not more than ten rooms, but with such focus on detail, each room with its own personal touch. We stayed there for our fifth wedding anniversary, in the Coral Room. I close my eyes and I can picture it now: gauze curtain flapping in front of open shutters, where the walls were painted salmon pink and the door handles were shaped like shells, where the four-poster bed with white and orange linen was a steamy enclosure contained within the draped mosquito net, where your skin turned the same coral colour as I rose above you … I have been back to Mburo a few times since, but I never stayed in the Mehtas’ hotel again.
The last time I saw Manish, he asked me for money. You would not have recognised him. He had lost so much weight! His belly was concave, cheeks hollow, and his eyes darted and flickered about the place, swivelling black beads.
Now I knew that business had been difficult lately for the Mehtas. They had been struggling to comply with the new trade licensing laws – the kind of money those laws demand businesses to show in liquid capital is no small ask for a modest business like his. I had offered to loan him the money at the time the laws came into force, but he had refused, saying he would sell the duka before he took money from me. But when he showed up at our door, I did not connect his appearance to his trade – I thought he was coming to tell me that he was gravely ill.
‘Mrs Mehta and the children are not with you?’ I said, peering behind him. ‘Well, I do hope they are well. What brings you to Kampala, bhai?’ We sat in the drawing room. He refused my offer of tea.
‘Hasan bhai, I’m going to get straight to the point. I need money,’ he said. Sweat collected at his temples in spite of the soft whirring of the fans. ‘Not a lot,’ he added. ‘Just enough to keep us going while we wait to get out of this godforsaken country.’
I looked at him, puzzled.
‘I sold the duka and used the money to get the licence,’ he explained. ‘But very quickly we found that we were not making enough money with the hotel alone. So I raised rates … and we lost custom. Eventually I had to use the money supporting the licence to put food on the table and, well … the licence was revoked. So that’s it.’ He hung his head, ‘I have no choice now. We have to leave.’
‘Manish, I told you. I can loan you the money you need for the licence.’
‘No, bhai. The time for that has passed. Perhaps I should have accepted your offer when you first made it …’ he ran a hand through what was left of his hair and gave me a small, sad smile. ‘I never thought I would say this, but I am ready to leave. This is not my home any more.’
‘Where, then, is your home?’
‘We will go to Great Britain,’ he said. The Mehtas had not taken Ugandan citizenship when they had the opportunity, and had instead retained their British citizenship. This was the reason the licensing laws had applied to them, as non-citizens, in the first place. ‘But you know what the British have done to the system now?’ Manish continued. ‘It is not enough these days to have a British passport to enter the country. You must have been born in England, or have parents or grandparents born in England, to get into the country.’ He shook his head in sad disbelief. ‘And if you were not, then you must wait your turn in a long queue for an entry voucher. We have been lucky. An old school friend of mine works at the British High Commission and he’s given me a personal assurance that we will have our entry vouchers within two weeks. But, bhai, we’re living on nothing right now. You know I would not ask you if I was not desperate, but I need to feed my family.’
I opened my wallet and pressed a large wad of notes into his hands: enough to keep him going while his family waited for the entry vouchers, and more.
‘Thank you, bhai. I cannot thank you enough.’ He rose to leave and then hesitated. ‘Hasan, can you not see what is happening? Have you not read his Common Man’s Charter?’
I shrugged uncomfortably. ‘It is a party manifesto. It is rhetoric, he will not do anything.’
‘Arey, bhai, he has already started doing things. With the greatest respect, you are being naive. The licensing rules. The nationalisation pronouncement. The requirement for non-citizens to carry work permits. This is just the beginning.’
I did not say anything, but I could taste unease in my mouth.
‘At the very least, do you have money in Britain? You can open a bank account in England easily.’ Manish’s voice took on a lower tone. ‘Undervalue your export, overvalue your import – leave the difference abroad. Most people are doing this, you know.’
‘We are not most people,’ I stated, looking him straight in the eyes.
‘I did not mean to offend you,’ he said quickly, and he lowered his head deferentially. ‘But I am telling you, as your dear friend, that you must try to get your things in order so that you can leave at the shortest notice.’
Those were the last words he said to me before he left. That was nearly a year ago.
I cannot deny that things have changed, my love, compared to thirty years ago when we were starting out. In the days with you, we benefitted from the tax system, the price-setting, the competitive market. All these wonderful incentives kept coming to our family just after we were married, because I had you, my lucky charm. Now, not only have these advantages been stripped from us, but the new government has sought positively to disadvantage us. These trade licensing rules, for example. They only apply to ‘non-citizens’ – meaning, of course, Asians! Worry not, the government says, the idea is not to disadvantage the Asian, but merely to require the Asian to share with the African.
But tell me, my darling, how can we share our blood, which holds the key to our success? You give an African ten shillings today and he will spend eleven shillings tomorrow. That is just their nature.
Not all Africans are the same, of course. Abdullah is a fine example of an African who thinks like an Asian. Still, we did not make him a shareholder in the business when the licensing rules came about. You see, there was some uncertainty as to whether the new rules applied to Saeed & Sons – whether, in the light of the letters I had received from the Immigration Office, I was still a ‘citizen’ of Uganda. (On that matter, our plans for expanding into our neighbouring countries have ground to a halt: I have not travelled on my Ugandan passport since.)
You would have asked me why we did not make Abdullah a shareholder at that point. This would have resolved the matter: wit
h Abdullah as a 50 per cent owner, the licensing rules simply would not apply to our business. You always reserved such empathy for Abdullah, harbouring what you believed to be injustices on his behalf, though I do not recall him ever asking you to. But I am not writing to argue with you. I agree with you, my dear. Abdullah is a great asset to Saeed & Sons. No, it was not because I believed that he was lacking in any aspect that I did not make him a shareholder. The reason I did not make him a shareholder, my dear, is because Saeed & Sons is a family-owned company. Papa founded this company in the year 1910 and since then it has always been kept within the family. That chain of history is our legacy.
In any event, we did not need Abdullah to stand in as our citizen owner. We were luckier than the Mehtas. The officials enforcing the licensing scheme were happy to pocket some extra cash in exchange for applying a more liberal interpretation of the rules.
Nevertheless, Shahzeb continued to express discomfort with my citizenship status. Shortly after the Mehtas left Uganda, he asked me to apply for the British quota voucher scheme. ‘Why would I do that, son?’ I asked him. ‘I have no intention of leaving Uganda.’
‘Just in case, Papa. You know how the rules work. Ma can’t apply. Only you can.’
I laughed. ‘Beta, I renounced my British citizenship years ago. I have no grounds to apply for such a voucher.’
‘This is what I mean, Papa. We need to fix this mess once and for all: work out how to get your British citizenship back.’
Something about the way he talked unsettled me. ‘Everything I have and know is here,’ I said. ‘Our entire family empire has been built here. We have succeeded here and we will continue to succeed.’
‘Papa,’ Shahzeb said softly, ‘will your love for your empire continue to blind you? Can’t you see what is happening to us? Obote is a man obsessed. He does not see our success independently of their failure. He sees their success as dependent on our failure.’
