by Hafsa Zayyan
‘Well, I’m very grateful to you for letting me stay,’ Sameer replies politely, extricating himself from her embrace. ‘My mum and dad send their salaams.’ There is a brief silence in which he feels slightly awkward. ‘You have a beautiful house,’ he adds.
‘Thank you, beta,’ Mrs Shah smiles, gesturing around the room. ‘The carpets are Persian – we have a collection throughout the house. This one is from Shiraz. We bought that mirror in Goa, actually. And those little tables. Lovely trip we had there a few years back, it’s a nice holiday destination. Have you been?’
He shakes his head.
‘Well, you must if you get the chance. Anyway, Paul will show you to your room. I’ll go and check on dinner. You must be hungry, hai na?’
He had not noticed that Paul was behind them, but there he is, standing in the shadows, carrying Sameer’s bag in one hand. ‘Follow me,’ Paul says, leading the way down the hall. A hideous and violent abstract painting of reds and browns hangs portentously over the stairwell. Trying not to look at it, Sameer follows Paul up a spiral staircase, where he is shown to a room that is bigger than his parents’ bedroom back in Leicester.
‘Anything you need, you just ask me,’ Paul says, standing in the doorway. ‘I show you swimming pool now?’
They leave the house from the front door and walk round to a large beautifully landscaped garden, where Nandi flame trees sport bright red flowers, guava fruit hangs from swollen branches, and small purple buds sit shyly among the green leaves of jacaranda that are almost beginning to blossom. It looks like a domesticated, vividly colourful jungle – Sameer half expects a leopard to appear slinking lazily from between the bushes. Past a patioed area with tables and chairs, a small rose garden, and they turn a corner to find a pool in the shape of a teardrop. Sameer can see a tennis court in the distance.
‘Nice?’ Paul grins. Sameer nods, slightly dumbfounded: this house is like something from a movie.
‘Hello! You are most welcome,’ a young Ugandan lady carrying a platter of drinks in glass bottles appears from nowhere, smiling as she extends the tray. There is a wide variety of soft drinks and Sameer selects a Coke Zero, surprised to see all of the brands he knows. Before he can thank her, she has disappeared. Paul takes the bottle from Sameer’s hands and flicks the lid open with a bottle opener before handing it back to him. Seamless. ‘OK, please,’ he says, ‘we go to the dining room now.’
He follows Paul back into the house to the dining room. A long mahogany table stretches out, large enough to seat more than a dozen people. Paul pulls out one of the chairs for him to sit down. ‘You will eat here,’ he says as he slips out the door. ‘And don’t forget – anything you need, you ask me.’
‘Thanks so much,’ Sameer calls after him, feeling a little overwhelmed. He waits, looking around. A Monet-style painting of water lilies (the first art he has seen that he can bear to look at) hangs above a fireplace at the end of the room. His hosts have disappeared. Just as he is thinking he might take a shower or – curiosity tugging at him – try to explore the rest of the house, the door opens.
‘Hello, you must be Sameer.’ A young woman is standing in the doorway. ‘My dad told me you were coming.’ Long brown hair streaked with blonde reaches the small of her back. She’s wearing a sleeveless kurta that exposes the softness of her arms; an orange Hermès bangle adorns one wrist and a gold-and-white Omega watch the other.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘You’re at SOAS, right? I’m sorry, I don’t know your –’
‘Aliyah,’ she says, an amused expression on her face. ‘Typical of my father to tell you where I’m studying but not tell you my name.’ She rolls her eyes and he notices that they are green, just like her mother’s. ‘Well, look, dinner won’t be ready for –’ glancing at her watch – ‘another thirty minutes probably. You don’t have to just sit here and wait.’
‘Thanks, I think I might take a shower,’ he says at the same time that she starts to say: ‘I’d be happy to show you –’
She breaks off, smiling. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Someone will call you for dinner.’
He is about to ask her what she was going to say, but tiredness overwhelms him. He retraces his steps to the bedroom, strips and jumps in the shower. The hot water beats down on his back, massaging his body, relaxing his muscles. What a way to live, he thinks, as he stands under the showerhead. The feeling is so good that he does not want to get out.
Sameer is woken by a knock on the door. Mildly disorientated, he rubs his eyes and takes in his surroundings, then scrambles to his feet, wrapping a towel around his waist. ‘One sec,’ he calls, as he hops towards the door and opens it a crack.
The same lady who brought him drinks gives him a smile. ‘Dinner is served, Mr Saeed.’
‘Thank you,’ he replies, wondering how long he has been asleep. ‘What’s your name?’ he adds, but she has disappeared once again.
Mrs Shah and Aliyah are seated when Sameer comes down – there is no sign of Mr Shah. A row of chafing dishes heated by candles have been laid out along the table.
‘Please,’ Mrs Shah says, beckoning him to sit opposite her. ‘We don’t normally eat here, it’s for dinner parties, guests, you know? But it’s your first day here and you are our guest, of course. Hai, the house seems so empty since Asiya moved to Kenya and Aliyah went to university. If only we had had a son, then his wife could have moved here! Aliyah, I hope your future husband moves into this house, otherwise we’ll have no use for it at all.’
Aliyah reaches for her glass of water.
‘Where is the rest of the family?’ Sameer asks politely. ‘Uncle mentioned working with his brother and nephew?’ He can’t help but think that if it were his family living in such a big house, they would all live together, brothers, sisters, cousins and all.
‘Sajid lives closer to the sugar plantation, though his son, Raheem, lives not far from here on the border of Kololo – they have a wonderful little place, you should see it. The rest of us are spread out – I have some family living in Jinja, some up near Kidepo. Anyway, we should eat,’ Mrs Shah looks over her shoulder, nodding at the housemaid, who hurries forward and removes the lids from each of the dishes. Steam rises in swirls: it is a feast fit for a small country. ‘We won’t wait for Sohail. He’s always late.’
‘Really, Auntie, you shouldn’t have gone to such effort,’ Sameer says, staring at the exorbitant amount of food. It smells incredible.
‘It’s no bother,’ she says, standing to survey her handiwork. ‘Now, you must try everything, beta. We’ve got curried cabbage, fried emputta – that’s freshwater perch from Lake Victoria, you like fish, don’t you? – mutton pilau, chicken curry. Oh, I also asked the cook to make some traditional Ugandan dishes for you – luwombo, right here, it’s a sort of beef soup, quite delicious. And chapattis and matoke are here. You know matoke? The Ugandan banana, it’s more savoury than sweet. You can eat it with the groundnut sauce.’ She loads his plate so high that he begins to sweat just looking at it.
Just before they start eating, Mr Shah enters. ‘Sorry, sorry, business call,’ he says, taking a seat next to Sameer. ‘Please don’t wait for me to start.’
Sameer puts a spoonful of luwombo into his mouth. ‘This is really delicious,’ he says to Mrs Shah, wondering – given Mrs Shah’s mention of a cook – whether she had actually made any of the food herself.
‘So, Sameer, do you have any plans for what you want to do while you’re here?’ Aliyah asks.
‘I haven’t thought about it too much,’ he says. ‘I guess I’d like to see the house where my family used to live. And the stores they used to own.’ He had not had any plan to do so when he organised this trip, but now he is here, it seems silly not to.
‘Well, we can certainly help you with that,’ Mr Shah says, as he puts a parcel of chapatti and chicken in his mouth; this does not deter him from continuing. ‘Your father used to live up on Nakasero Hill. It’s not too far from here.’
After dinner, the house
servants come in and clear away the dishes. Sameer marvels at the fact that no one has to leave the table: both Mr Shah and Aliyah are looking at their phones; Mrs Shah is instructing one of the housemaids. Sameer wonders if Mr and Mrs Shah even know what their kitchen looks like.
They retire to the drawing room, where Mr Shah lights up a cigar. Mrs Shah turns the T.V. to a black-and-white Bollywood film.
‘Do you want to come out and see some of Uganda?’ Aliyah asks in a low voice, as if to say: I know spending the evening here is going to be so boring. The only thing Sameer really wants to do is sleep. He looks towards Mr and Mrs Shah.
‘Yes, go, please, you young things,’ Mr Shah says, with a wave of his hand.
‘Thanks, Papa,’ Aliyah says, blowing a kiss in Mr Shah’s direction. She turns to Sameer. ‘Just let me run upstairs and grab my bag. Paul will take us.’
Paul drops them off at a nondescript building that’s only a five-minute walk from the house.
‘It’s a private members’ club,’ Aliyah explains as they enter the building. She flashes a card and a smile at the security guards (both wearing AK-47s slung over their shoulders, Sameer notices); they surrender the contents of their pockets to an X-ray machine, pass under a metal detector, and the guards promptly call a lift near the door.
The lift opens into a softly lit rooftop bar, where house music is quietly playing. They take a table among potted olive trees and lights strung along wooden trellises. The bar hosts a mixture of people, black, white, South Asian and even South East Asian – but they all have one thing in common as far as Sameer can tell: everyone is wealthy.
‘This place has just been taken over by new management, they’ve given it a new look, rustic chic – that’s what’s in now,’ Aliyah says as they sit down. She picks up the bar menu, looking at her phone. ‘Some of my friends may join us a little later, that OK?’
‘Of course.’
‘I think I’m just going to get a Bellini,’ Aliyah says, glancing at the drinks menu.
‘I’ll have a Coke.’
‘Oh, right – OK, in that case, so will I,’ Aliyah says quickly.
‘No – it’s completely fine if you want to drink. I’m just knackered.’
The drinks arrive; Aliyah opens a tab. Sameer feels relaxed and sleepy. The night air is warm and his jacket hangs redundantly behind him. This is what Singapore will be like, he thinks. Rustic chic. They talk about London; he asks her what she wants to do in the future, whether she will join her father’s business or do something completely different. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says, ordering another Bellini. ‘It’s too early to tell. I think I want to start my own business, you know. Collecting art.’
He has no idea how this is a business. ‘Sounds cool,’ he supplies lamely.
‘Rani!’ Aliyah squeals suddenly, leaping up to embrace a girl who has just walked in. Introductions are made, a few more of Aliyah’s friends arrive, all girls, all South Asian. Sameer is relieved he does not have to lead the conversation: he sits back, nodding every now and again and nearly dozing off as the girls chatter around him about who they went to school with and what the other people in the bar are wearing.
For the first time in weeks, Sameer sleeps properly. He wakes up late, around midday, feeling slightly embarrassed. No one came to wake him up. He unlocks his phone. A single WhatsApp from his mother stares sadly from the screen: Have you arrived safely?
Downstairs, the house is large and empty. He wanders through the rooms, marvelling at the decor (tribal masks that remind him of Kampala Nights’ interior, what looks suspiciously like a pair of rhinoceros horns, cowhide rugs and leopard-skin hangings) and wondering how much everything must have cost.
‘Hello, good morning!’
A cheery voice makes Sameer jump and he tears his eyes away from the leopard spots to look behind him. The Shahs’ housemaid is smiling at him. ‘Morning,’ he says.
‘No one is home, they wanted to let you sleep. Would you like some breakfast?’
Sameer nods and thanks her, and this time he gets her name – Ama.
He sits at a breakfast bar in the enormous kitchen, asking her questions while she makes him a plate of scrambled eggs and toast (he had suggested that he could do it himself if she showed him where the food was, but she had just laughed). He doesn’t want to eat alone, and so the questions keep flowing, while Ama stands and answers patiently, politely: ‘Do the Shahs have many people working here?’
‘There is myself, I am doing the cleaning and looking after the house. Paul is the driver. And the cook, Jonathon, he comes in the afternoons.’
‘So do you live here?’
‘Me? I do not, I live with my family in Kampala. Paul lives here, he is from the village, he goes home when he takes holiday. Please, you need anything, you just ask me or Paul,’ and Ama gives Sameer such a genuine smile that he immediately gets the sense that nothing would be too much trouble for these people.
‘Thank you,’ he says, feeling slightly uncomfortable, but smiling back at her all the same. ‘I’d like to walk to Nakasero now if that works with the Shahs’ schedule. Do you know what time they’ll be back?’
Ama shakes her head. ‘We do not advise walking, it is very far,’ she says. ‘Better to ask Paul to take you later. He has taken Mrs Shah to the shopping centre, but I can find out what time he can come back, maybe they won’t be so long.’
Sameer checks Google Maps – his family’s old house is a thirty-five-minute walk away, no highway crossings or main roads. ‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘I can walk, don’t worry.’
Ama wrings her hands with a worried smile. ‘OK, please. I will tell them where you go. If you come back late, you call us – you should not walk at night.’
‘Got it. Thank you again for breakfast.’
The afternoon is mild but humid and very quickly he starts to sweat as the walk is determinedly uphill. Google Maps takes him through the suburbs, past grand-looking barbed-fence houses with signs denoting ambassadorial residences, up streets where the pavement is a dirt track or disappears into no pavement at all (he walks cautiously on the roads), past a vast bright green golf course.
And then, there it is: number 44. Sameer stands outside the steel gates, staring, suddenly apprehensive. He imagines his father leaving the gates to walk to school, the grandparents he never knew standing in the exact same spot as he is standing in now. Who lives in this house? Who has replaced the footsteps of his grandparents?
If he doesn’t enter now, he never will. He forces himself to push the pedestrian gate, which opens to a paved drive containing a few old cars. Beyond the drive is a large red-roofed two-storey house fronted by white pillars supporting a shady veranda that is overwhelmed by bright pink bougainvillea. It is grand and old-fashioned; in sepia, Sameer can see a young version of his father skipping down from the porch and onto the drive.
A man steps out of a kiosk with a baton. Dogs in a pen nearby begin to bark. ‘Hello, how are you. What is your name?’ the guard asks. ‘Who are you here to see?’
‘I’m not here to see anyone in particular,’ Sameer says hesitantly. ‘My name is Sameer Saeed. My father used to live here.’
‘Please wait here.’ The guard points to a chair on the veranda and disappears round the back of the house.
Sameer sits under the shade of the bougainvillea, admiring the way it sprawls, untamed, over the white stucco front; waiting, waiting, until – the front door swings open. A man is standing in the doorway, leaning on a walking stick and surveying him through large glasses. ‘You are a Saeed?’ the man asks.
Sameer stands. He can see children have lined up behind the man, hiding; one of them lets out a squeal as he catches her eye and she ducks out of sight. ‘Yes,’ he says, extending his right hand. The man shakes it. ‘My father is Rizwan Saeed. My grandfather was Hasan Saeed, he used to live here I think?’
‘Yes,’ the man says, ‘yes, he did. Please, come in.’
The house does not compare to the
Shahs’ in terms of grandeur; the large entrance hall, flooded with daylight from open windows protected by mosquito netting, is bare save for a shoe cabinet on which stands a small vase packed with pink flowers. In the drawing room, where Sameer is invited to take a seat on one of two rather miserable looking sofas, there is no more than a couple of brightly patterned floor cushions, a drawing cabinet, a coffee table. Did the room look so … well, bare, when his father lived here?
‘So, Sameer,’ says the man, settling opposite him on the sofa. ‘You finally came.’
‘Were you expecting me?’
‘We weren’t quite sure what to expect, you know, after everything …’
Sameer wants to ask the man what he means, but they are interrupted by a woman entering the room, holding a glass of a pink liquid. She offers it to him, unsmiling. He looks at her, dressed head to toe in black with a sheer black scarf draped over her head, and is immediately struck by her beauty. Her cheekbones are high and shining, her eyes large and wide, her lips two-toned, one dark brown, the other deep pink. There is a small black mark somewhere above her lip, deeper than the darkness of her skin, a beauty spot. He blinks. ‘Thank you,’ he says quickly. ‘What is it?’
‘Tamarind juice,’ she replies shortly, not looking at him and taking a seat next to the man with the walking stick. Her voice rings like bells chiming; this manner of speaking – softly, sweetly – is distinctly Ugandan.
‘This is my daughter, Maryam. She is a doctor,’ the man says proudly. ‘My name is Musa. My grandfather knew your grandfather.’
‘Forgive me,’ Sameer says, taking a sip of the juice and marvelling at the taste. It is unlike anything he has ever tasted before: woody and earthy but sweet, disconcerting. He steals a glance at Maryam, who is staring resolutely into the distance. ‘But I actually know very little about my grandfather – how are you connected to him? I would love to find out more about him.’
