by Hafsa Zayyan
Maryam turns to her father and begins to speak rapidly in a language that Sameer does not understand. She is gesticulating; despite the low volume of her voice, and the melodic nature of its sound, the tone is aggrieved. He wonders whether this is the limit of Ugandan anger, still so gentle. Although concerned to know what has caused her distress, he’s also pleased for the outburst: it gives him full permission to stare at her openly, undisturbed. He never knew that he was capable of thinking of black women as being this beautiful – perhaps because he’s never been with one before, although he remembers suddenly, almost victoriously, that he had kissed a mixed-race girl in a club once. And, just as suddenly, he feels ashamed at these thoughts and his face burns.
Her father responds to her sharply and she folds her arms across her chest.
‘Sorry, what were you asking me?’ Musa says, turning to Sameer, half grimacing and offering no further explanation. ‘Oh yes, how did our grandfathers know each other,’ he pauses, throwing a glance at Sameer, eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t know who we are?’
Sameer shakes his head. Should he?
‘I see,’ Musa nods. He almost sounds relieved. ‘Well, when your grandfather left Uganda, he gave this house to my grandfather. My family – my parents, my daughter, my brothers and sisters, their families – we all live here together, as many of us as can fit. Just like your family used to, all of them under this one roof. We have a lot to thank your grandfather for.’
Sameer is watching Maryam, who has something of a look of distaste on her face. She has not looked at him once.
‘So our grandparents were good friends,’ Sameer concludes: they must have been for his grandfather to have left them the house. ‘My grandfather used to run a store in Kampala. Do you know anything about that?’
Musa smiles sheepishly. ‘Well, actually, your grandfather also left my grandfather the store. So we run the store now. It is still called Saeed & Sons, believe it or not.’
Although Sameer’s father rarely talks about it, Sameer is aware of the history, the forced expulsion, the fact that they were not allowed to take anything with them. But he had never really given much thought to their belongings, their businesses – all the things that they had to leave behind – and what had become of them. By the time he was old enough to be conscious of it, his family were already very comfortable and he had never known anything else. There had never been any need to investigate the history before. ‘I’d like to visit, if that’s OK?’
There is a short pause before Musa says: ‘Of course. You are welcome to have a look around any time, son.’
‘Right,’ Maryam speaks up. For the first time since she came in to the room, she looks him straight in the eye. He looks straight back and feels a frisson of energy, like something has snapped, or welded. Her chin is tilted slightly upwards so she can look down at him along the bridge of her nose; her long, slender neck – in spite of the attempt of the scarf draped over her head – exposed, pulsating. She is indignant and exquisite. ‘Let’s get to the point,’ she says shortly, although her voice is still soft. ‘Are you here to take it back? Is that what you want? This house? The store?’
‘What?’ he stares for a moment, confused. ‘No. You’ve got it all wrong. That’s not why I’m here. Not at all.’ She is still studying him distrustfully and he can’t tear his eyes away from hers. They have been looking at each other for so long now that it almost seems rude to have excluded Musa from their gaze. ‘I wouldn’t have any power to do that anyway,’ Sameer adds. ‘All these things, they belong to you.’
Musa exhales deeply and Sameer breaks the spell, looking away from Maryam to her father. ‘You are a good man,’ Musa says, ‘just like your grandfather.’
‘We don’t know that yet,’ Sameer hears Maryam mutter, but her father does not seem to notice.
They speak for a little longer (Maryam says nothing, although the animosity seems to have left her); Musa tells him that he was very young when Sameer’s grandfather left Uganda, but that his father knew him well. Sameer is eager to find out as much as he can, surprising himself at his thirst for more knowledge of his family’s history.
‘Maryam can take you to the store,’ Musa says, attempting to rise. Maryam rushes to his aid, giving him the walking stick. ‘My father is working there today.’
‘Taata, I am very busy,’ she begins in a low tone as she helps him up. ‘You know I have lots to do –’
But her father shushes her and insists – ‘He is our guest. Do you need a place to stay, Sameer?’ Musa asks as he shuffles towards the door. No questions are asked about how long he might be staying for. Sameer notices the expression on Maryam’s face freeze.
‘Thank you, Uncle, that’s very kind,’ he says, ‘but I have somewhere to stay – not far from here.’
‘Well, you are welcome in this house any time. Please treat it as your own.’
‘Taata!’ Maryam protests, but her father has already hobbled out of the room. She throws Sameer a doubtful look, lips pursed. He experiences a strange thrill that they have been left alone together; he tries to smile as warmly as he can, but he ends up baring his teeth and she looks at him like he is deranged.
‘Look –’ he begins, but she interrupts him.
‘Come on,’ she says begrudgingly, drawing her scarf closer to her, tighter around her neck, ‘I’ll take you to the store.’
As she walks out of the room and he follows, he can’t help but stare; Maryam’s buttocks struggle to be hidden by the fall of her dress. He shakes his head to clear his mind of these thoughts.
It smells like cinnamon inside her blue Toyota Corolla. ‘Thanks very much for taking me,’ he says, and she nods curtly. He wants to make conversation but he doesn’t know what to say, and she says nothing, so they drive out of the Nakasero suburb and onto Kampala Road in silence. They are quickly stalled by traffic; outside, it is wild and noisy. The traffic is gridlocked, and the vehicles chug out black fumes. People piled atop each other on motorbikes, some carrying babies, others carrying furniture, move between the four-wheeled vehicles, teetering dangerously. He sees livestock among people in an open-backed truck, cages of chickens squawking, deformed street beggars, people walking between the cars selling water, groundnuts, candies, anything. Still, the jungle green appears through the cracks of the pavement – wherever it can, it tries; among the chaos, there is a persistent struggle for life.
A small girl with a runny nose in torn, dirty clothing knocks on the window as they wait in the traffic. Sameer instinctively reaches for his wallet, taking out some notes. Maryam watches him out of the corner of her eye.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ she says eventually. ‘If you open the window, they might take your whole wallet.’
‘Oh.’ He immediately puts his wallet back into his pocket.
‘She’ll be OK. Look, she’s already wandered off.’
She is right – the little girl has gone. ‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ he says, happy to have a dialogue going. ‘Look. I’m sorry to burst in on your family like this – I really didn’t mean to impose. And I’m sorry to inconvenience you like this.’
She does not say anything and so he carries on talking, telling her that his ancestors were brought here from India by the British, that his father and his grandfather were born here, that they ended up in Britain through no choice of their own. She doesn’t say much but eventually offers, ‘We have all been affected by British colonialism.’
The store is not far from Nakasero market, on a street lined with shops at the bottom of large two- or three-storey buildings – these shops sell everything from mobile phones to hardware, bathroom sinks and tubs to appliances. He marvels at the number of shops with Asian names – Zara’s Boutique, Alam & Sons, Anika’s Jewellery – but, squinting from behind the glass, they mostly seem to be manned by Ugandans.
She parks the car in front of his grandfather’s old shop. It is strange to see his name on the storefront, in red letters against a yellow backgr
ound: SAEED & SONS – and in small, italicised lettering underneath: For your everyday needs and more! The wording has faded rather sadly and he wonders if it has been updated at all since his family left.
Inside, any vestige of the store’s Indian history is gone; it now sells brightly patterned gomesi and African foodstuffs. The shelves are stuffed with clothing, containers, detergent, soaps. There are so many things haphazardly organised that Sameer is slightly taken aback. A boy working on the shop floor greets Maryam with enthusiasm and openly stares at Sameer with curiosity. Maryam asks the boy a question and he points towards the checkout desk. An old man sits in a chair behind the till, his tight black curls peppered with grey, face gently lined.
‘Jjajja,’ Maryam says loudly, pushing Sameer forward slightly. ‘This is the Saeed grandson.’
The man gets to his feet, taller and sturdier than Sameer expected, and a huge smile spreads across his face. He is missing two of his teeth, which for some reason makes Sameer’s heart swell. ‘Hasan Saeed?’ the man asks. Sameer nods.
The man’s wrinkled eyes instantly fill with tears. ‘I can tell, you know. You look like him. He was darker than you, but you have the same way about you,’ he says. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Sameer,’ he responds and then adds, ‘I’ve come to find out more about my family and their history.’
‘Wonderful. We are so happy to have you. My name is Ibrahim. My father and your grandfather were close, very close. Saeed & Sons was the number-one general goods store back in those days, before all these large supermarkets came, you know? And your grandfather, he didn’t just have a store in Kampala. There were at least another two or three in other parts of Uganda. In Mbarara, I remember, there was a store being run by his daughter, and there was one in Jinja too.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Sameer replies, wondering if he will be able to visit these places, wondering who runs them now.
‘My father was the general manager of the Saeed & Sons stores,’ Ibrahim continues, ‘and everyone knew them – my father and your grandfather – the two of them, the perfect example of a black–Asian working partnership. That is what they were, partners,’ he says proudly, pausing for a moment. ‘But then we lost them both and we lost the stores for nearly ten years. It is just this one now, the first Saeed & Sons store, this is all that remains.’
‘How long you going to be talking for? Can a woman get some things round here, or should I go somewhere else, eh?’ A woman holding a few items in her hands speaks up from behind Sameer.
Ibrahim laughs and apologises profusely. ‘Eh, sorry, Mama,’ he says cajolingly. ‘I didn’t see you there. This is my son, he has come to Uganda for the first time.’
Sameer nods and the lady is appeased. ‘You are most welcome,’ she says sweetly. ‘How do you like Uganda?’
‘It’s only my first day,’ he admits. ‘But so far, it’s beautiful.’ He glances at Maryam, unthinkingly, and receives a rush of pleasure at the sight of a small smile.
‘Listen,’ says Ibrahim, ‘you will have to come to our house for dinner. There is much to be said, and we must talk. You are welcome any time.’
Sameer is bursting with questions: there is so much he wants to know now, but instead he politely thanks Ibrahim and promises that he will visit.
Outside the store, he leans against the door of Maryam’s car, staring for a minute at the shopfront. ‘The sign could do with an update,’ he says absently. ‘There are a few things that could be updated, to be honest.’ He closes his eyes briefly and tries to imagine what it would have been like fifty years ago when his grandfather ran it. Had Sameer’s father, much like himself, spent his childhood toddling past customers, waving hello while his mother called him to return to the back room where she sat tallying stock after the most recent delivery? As his father had got older and started going to school, had he dedicated his weekends to helping out, just as Sameer had? Was this chain of history simply a part of his genetic make-up; inevitable and unstoppable, something that couldn’t be helped even if it was resisted? His father’s family had arrived in England from Uganda, his father had gone on to obtain a degree and yet – afterwards, he came home to the sari shop run by his brothers. Sameer wonders: had his father ever had a craving for something beyond the four walls of Saeed & Sons; had he ever wanted more?
Something small suddenly hits Sameer on the side of the head. He looks to see what has fallen: it appears to be a receipt that has been rolled into a ball. ‘Eh, muhindi!’ someone shouts. He looks up, but the street around him contains no answers, only the occasional passer-by, and as they saunter past, they all seem to be smirking.
‘Let’s get in the car,’ Maryam says.
Sameer obliges. ‘What just happened?’ he asks. Maryam has locked the doors but hasn’t turned on the ignition.
‘Muhindi means Indian person,’ she says hesitantly.
‘You know whoever said that actually threw something at my head?’
There is a pause, while Maryam plays with the sleeves of her dress. ‘Look, don’t take it to heart,’ she finally says, avoiding his gaze and looking out of the car window. ‘It was just some stupid boys who should be in school.’
‘But why would they throw something at me?’
‘Boredom?’ she suggests. ‘Frustration?’
He shrugs and there is a brief silence.
Her face contorts, as if she is suppressing something, and then, unable to contain whatever is troubling her any longer, she bursts out: ‘They’re probably not in school because their parents can’t afford to send them. And they’re not in work – and their parents are not in work – because it’s difficult to compete with the Asians. And by that I don’t just mean South Asians like you,’ she adds. ‘I mean the Chinese as well.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Sameer says slowly.
‘It’s complicated,’ Maryam says dismissively. ‘Can I drop you somewhere?’
He twists his body to face her. ‘If it’s complicated, then explain it to me,’ he offers, adding: ‘Please – I want to understand.’
She fidgets, still looking ahead. ‘How can I explain …’ there is confusion in her voice, as if he has defied her expectations; that she did not expect the stranger sitting next to her to ask. ‘Well,’ she begins cautiously, ‘the South Asians who used to live here, like your family, they were running huge businesses – manufacturing, steel, cotton. Businesses your average Ugandan would never have been able to run, because they don’t have the capital.’
Sameer nods, encouraging her to go on.
‘But now, well, now we have the Chinese migrating here – a lot of them, and many of them illegally. And they’re not doing what you guys did – they’re doing what the local Ugandan would do, small-scale stuff, you know, selling clothes in the market. But they’re getting the same products – from China – a lot cheaper than we can get them. So, we’re getting pushed out.’ This rushes out of her quickly, almost ashamedly, as if she begrudges the hopelessness of her people to resist the ever-evolving attacks of the migrant.
‘OK,’ Sameer says. He understands what she is saying, but he cannot reconcile the warm, friendly attitude of the Ugandans he has met so far with the callous receipt throwing at his head just because he is Asian. ‘But … I’m not Chinese?’ he says eventually.
‘I’m just guessing,’ she mutters, now decidedly embarrassed about her convoluted and exaggerated explanation for the behaviour of these children. ‘I’m probably assuming a lot. They’re just dumb kids.’ She pauses, looks down at her hands. ‘I heard what you said about what you would improve. You know this business is everything to my family. It might not be as grand as you would have it, but it’s not doing badly.’
‘So you feel the same way, huh? Would you like to throw a receipt at my head? I think I’ve actually still got it,’ he says, digging into his pocket.
She cannot help herself, a giggle escapes her lips and he is delighted to see a shadow of dimples. He wants to make her laugh mo
re, but he has run out of funny things to say. ‘Look,’ he says gently, ‘I have absolutely no intention of taking this business away from your family. I never knew my grandfather. All I’m trying to do is understand my history.’ She looks at him, head tilted slightly, and he feels a tremor of nerves. He wants to say something momentous, to impress her. ‘If you don’t understand where you’ve come from, you’ll never really understand who you are or where you’re going, don’t you think?’ This sounded better in his head, but it will do for now.
‘OK,’ she says.
‘And anyway,’ he adds, ‘I’m moving to Singapore. I’ve accepted a job offer there. I start in a couple of months.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Congratulations. Singapore – what will that be like?’
‘No idea, I’ve never been before.’
There is a comfortable silence, in which they both watch the passers-by. ‘Would you like to see some more of Kampala?’ she says suddenly, turning to face him. ‘I could show you around, only if you want to of course.’ A true peace offering.
‘Yes, please – I’d love that.’
Maryam takes her phone from her pocket, looking at the time. ‘I have a few hours before I need to go to work. Are you hungry?’
She is more talkative now as they wander through the streets, reeling off discrete bits of information – as the road slopes up and down: ‘Kampala was originally built on seven hills, but it’s expanded to cover more than twenty, people just keep arriving, and we don’t have much education in the way of birth control …’; as they pass huge baskets of still yellow and black insects: ‘those are fried white ants, and those are roasted grasshoppers – don’t worry, I’m not going to suggest we eat them this time, ha ha.’ She tells him that to see the real Kampala, they will have to do a street-food tour – and she promises she will also eat everything she makes him eat. They start with a ‘Rolex’, bought from a stall close to the store.
