We Are All Birds of Uganda

by Hafsa Zayyan

  ‘Now just tell Ama how you like your eggs and she’ll whip them straight up,’ Mrs Shah hands him a plate. Ama, who Sameer had not noticed was standing quietly behind him, steps forward and takes the plate from his hands with a blindingly white grin.

  ‘Scrambled, I guess,’ he says, feeling strangely guilty. ‘Please.’

  Mr Shah pushes a glass of thick orange liquid towards Sameer. ‘Drink this,’ he says, toast still in his mouth. ‘Papaya, it’s delicious.’

  He takes a sip of the juice, which is creamy and a little musky, barely sweet. ‘Mmm,’ he says, unsure whether he likes it. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Good, right?’ Mr Shah takes a swig from his own glass of papaya juice. ‘So what’s the plan for today? Do you play golf, son? I’m meeting some friends at the club if you want to join?’

  ‘That’ll be so boring,’ Mrs Shah protests. ‘Do you like art?’ – and without waiting for Sameer to respond – ‘Well, you might have noticed I do.’ Sameer nearly chokes on a piece of croissant in his rush to agree. ‘Why don’t you come with me to the opening of a new art gallery in the Industrial Area? That’s where they’re opening things these days.’

  They both look at him expectantly. Ama scurries over and puts a plate full of fluffy, orange-yellow eggs in front of him. He stares from the eggs to Mrs Shah to Mr Shah.

  ‘Are they bothering you?’ Aliyah’s sleepy figure, wrapped in a long silk dressing gown, appears in the doorway. There are streaks of mascara under her eyes. She wanders into the kitchen and picks up a piece of toast.

  ‘And what time did you get home last night?’ Mr Shah says in a voice that Sameer assumes is meant to convey sternness, but Mr Shah is smiling.

  ‘Oh, Papa, please,’ Aliyah plonks herself down next to Sameer. He can smell stale alcohol. Mr Shah does not ask again; he has pulled out a pair of reading glasses and is studying a newspaper called New Vision. It crosses Sameer’s mind with a detached sort of awareness that he has never known Zara to be home after 10 p.m.; that he has never heard Zara speak to his parents in this way. ‘I’m going out on the lake with a few of my friends today,’ Aliyah says, leaning towards him conspiratorially. ‘Do you want to come?’

  Sameer glances at Mr and Mrs Shah before saying yes. They do not seem to mind; to the contrary, they seem pleased. He wonders if he is imagining it, but Mrs Shah’s smile seems strangely satisfied.

  The trip with Aliyah and her friends, departing on a large speedboat from a sprawling hotel and spa resort just off the shores of Lake Victoria, is a surreal blur of overstated luxury: this is how the Rich Kids of Uganda live. Slinging about their manicured laughter in their glinting pristine white trainers, Ray-Ban sunglasses and luxury watches. Barbecued lobster and wagyu (surf ’n’ turf!), with an endless supply of Budweiser and – for those who want to go ‘local’ – Nile Special. Drake blaring from the speaker system as they dance along to ‘God’s Plan’. Is this what Singapore will be like? Sameer wonders. Her friends – a mix of girls and guys, mostly South Asian and white – ask him first what his parents do, and when he mentions he lives in London, they nod, murmuring sounds of Tramp and Scott’s – places Sameer has never visited. A year ago, he might have feigned recognition, drank until he felt comfortable enough to make himself the centre of attention; he would have wanted Aliyah’s friends to remember him afterwards. He probably would have done something silly, like try to kiss her, or even stupid: there might have been an injury, something to laugh about later. Now, for some reason, this holds no appeal, and he is subdued. He watches them with mild interest from a distance, trying to imagine this scene in Singapore’s marinas, trying to put himself in their shoes.

  On Monday, Mr Shah takes Sameer to the sugar factory. It’s nearly a two-hour journey, with Mr Shah driving – ‘I leave Paul at home for Rehana’s benefit really’ – past rich greenery on either side of the road, intermittently replaced by rows of ramshackle shops and the ambling silhouettes of locals.

  ‘The closest town to the factory is Jinja,’ Mr Shah says, ‘where we used to live. We had a lovely house overlooking the Nile … but you know how it is, things change. We export less sugar than we used to, and we lost some of our farmers to neighbouring factories,’ he pauses for a moment. Then, in a brighter tone, he says: ‘The key to continued growth, son, is diversification. That’s how we’ve succeeded. My focus is now more on tourism, real estate and our other business ventures. I only go to the sugar factory once or twice a week.’

  Eventually structure and dirt drop away and the land on either side of the road becomes reams of swaying green reeds. Mr Shah overtakes a large yellow open container truck bursting with what looks like wild grass; three men sit atop the heaps, chewing and spitting, watching as the silver Mercedes glides past.

  ‘That was sugar cane,’ Mr Shah says. ‘They’re probably on their way to our factory. And those –’ he points to each side of the road in turn ‘– are sugar-cane plantations. You’ve never had raw sugar cane, have you? You must try it – it’s delicious.’

  The car climbs a hill leading to a road lined with casuarina trees and yellow bell bean bushes. A faint rumbling sound becomes louder as they draw closer to a large metal gate on which the words SHAH’S SUGAR are painted in blue. The gate is manned by security kiosks, but it swings open without Mr Shah having to stop.

  Behind the gate, the factory is made up of a number of enormous structures, roofed and walled by corrugated-iron sheets. A strong, sweet smell permeates, despite the windows of the car being up. Mr Shah drives past a queue of trucks loaded with sugar cane waiting to enter one of the factory buildings. ‘That’s the beginning of the refining process – the cane yard,’ he says. ‘We produce about 100,000 tonnes of sugar a year. That’s a fifth of Uganda’s total yearly production, you know? We’ve got almost three thousand farmers growing sugar cane for us. This factory employs five thousand people. Can you believe that? We try to reinvest back into Uganda, you know, create as many jobs as we can.’

  Across the red dirt they drive, past more buildings and machines, trucks and workers in shiny plastic helmets, and through to a white one-storey building at the west end of the factory site, which stands slightly out of place next to the bare factory structures. Inside the air-conditioned interior is Mr Shah’s office, with mahogany floors and panelled walls, ornate mirrors and some questionable art. An old computer sits on a large desk beside an enormous potted blue orchid in full bloom; rows of filing cabinets and stacked paper stand behind the desk.

  ‘Here we are,’ Mr Shah says. ‘My brother’s office is next door – he’s not in yet, but you’ll get the chance to meet him later.’

  ‘It’s a lovely office,’ Sameer says politely, his eyes resting on a particularly grotesque painting of a bald eagle tearing into a small furry animal framed just above Mr Shah’s desk.

  ‘It’s not bad, huh? Now listen, I’d love to take you around myself, but there’s a few things I need to sort out this morning. So I’m going to call someone in to give you a tour of the factory.’ He reaches for his phone and within minutes a smiling, softly spoken young man has arrived to collect Sameer.

  The man ushers him into an open-top buggy and takes him across the factory grounds, from the feeder machines and mill turbines, where everything is rust-coloured and groans, to treatment and reduction rooms, where enormous silver machines remind Sameer of an old sci-fi film. In the warehouse, where bags of sugar piled as high as the ceiling sit waiting to be collected, the man offers Sameer a hunk of raw sugar cane. ‘We use the fibre to create electricity,’ he says cheerily. ‘Nothing is wasted.’

  Sameer bites into the turgid stalk; juice explodes and dribbles down his chin, leaving behind strands of the fibrous inside. Nothing is wasted. He wipes the sticky liquid from his mouth with the back of his hand, pondering these words, marvelling at the ingenuity, the resourcefulness, and thinking to himself: no wonder Asians were so successful here. They saw money in absolutely everything.

  Mr Shah takes him for a late
lunch at a restaurant overlooking the Nile in the nearby town.

  ‘I love this place,’ Mr Shah says, tucking into a club sandwich. ‘Great for birdwatching. See that blue kingfisher?’ Sameer nods eagerly. He delights at the sight of a pair of green turacos with red tuft mohawks – ‘They mate for life,’ says Mr Shah solemnly – and – ‘You’re in for a treat, it’s our national bird!’ – a pair of grey crested cranes, perfectly regal, their bodies a plume of grey and maroon, their heads decorated by a golden crown.

  ‘So, what do you want to do for the rest of the day?’ Mr Shah asks.

  ‘We’re not going back?’

  ‘Nope. We’re done for the day.’

  Sameer looks at his watch; it is only 2.30 p.m.

  ‘I’m at a certain position in my life now, son,’ Mr Shah explains as a waiter arrives to clear their table. ‘In the sugar business, I leave most of the management to my brother. He oversees the day-to-day operations of the factory. But we’ve established methods and practices that are followed by our employees, and we’ve hired general managers that we trust. There comes a point when your systems are at maximum efficiency, everything is working the way it should be, and your role is really just supervisory.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ Sameer says, blinking rapidly in the sunlight. His heart is beating with a strange intensity.

  Back at the house, Mr Shah suggests a game of tennis before dinner. Sameer obliges; he is rusty though, and he cannot seem to beat Mr Shah (although the games were very close): he possessed the stamina of youth, but Mr Shah’s technique was superior. In the end, Mr Shah seems so pleased to have beaten a man several decades his junior that Sameer is glad he didn’t win and feels almost guilty for trying.

  Ama brings them cocktails as they sit on loungers in the sun; Mr Shah in his damp tennis whites, Sameer in his shorts and trainers. Sameer closes his eyes and imagines for a moment being Mr Shah: wealthy, limitless possibilities, his family happy, relaxed and uninhibited. What a life.

  When Sameer goes upstairs to change, he sees that Jeremiah has finally replied to his messages.

  Jeremiah (17.47): Rahool is getting better, u should text him u know.

  Jeremiah (17.50): Also, how is Uganda? You going back to your fam’s old house?

  Sameer suddenly remembers Ibrahim’s invite: You will have to come to our house for dinner. There is much to be said, and we must talk. But they had not arranged a day, or a time. Could he just show up as he had done before? He takes a quick shower, throws on some clothes and bounds down the stairs into the drawing room, where Mr and Mrs Shah are talking.

  ‘Come, join us, my dear,’ Mrs Shah says, beckoning him towards them. The light catches her chest as she gesticulates; a fat piece of jewellery glints in the crack of her bosom.

  ‘Actually, I was going to pop out – if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Oh. Well, of course not. For dinner?’ Sameer has no idea if he will be invited into Maryam’s house for dinner, but he nods. ‘Well, I do feel bad that we haven’t taken you out yet,’ Mrs Shah smooths down the kurta she is wearing. ‘But we will of course take you somewhere before you leave – there are a few nice places around here. Where are you going? Can Paul drop you anywhere?’

  Sameer gratefully accepts this offer, asking Paul to stop round the corner from the house, where he climbs out of the car and approaches the drive on foot. The sky is a still shade of lilac as dusk approaches, the air calm and close. As he walks towards the house, he hears whispers on the air. Beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead. The dogs are starting to bark; they have sensed that he is near. He feels like a stalker: but that is stupid, he was invited. Finally, he enters through the pedestrian gate, nearly bumping into the security guard, who stares at him with suspicion. The dogs are going wild, jumping and snapping as they try to escape the restraint of their leashes.

  ‘Hello, it’s Saeed,’ Sameer says to the guard. ‘Remember, I came here a few days ago?’

  The guard does not show any sign of recollection. ‘Wait here,’ he says, leaving Sameer in the company of the dogs.

  Sameer stands by the kiosk, looking up at the house. The sight of the erupting bougainvillea causes goosebumps to appear on his bare arms. He starts, thinking he has seen Maryam’s face briefly in the window, but then it disappears. Minutes pass; he begins to wonder whether he should have come at all.

  Then, the front door opens and Maryam steps outside, closing it gently behind her. He walks unsurely towards her.

  ‘Hello,’ she says. A gentle breeze causes the scarf draped loosely over her head and shoulders to ripple, and she pulls it closer around her.

  ‘I just thought I’d come by – Uncle invited me when I was in the shop –’

  ‘I know,’ Maryam interrupts, smiling, and Sameer swallows. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

  They stare at each other for a moment; then the door opens behind her and Ibrahim is standing there.

  ‘Sameer,’ he says, beaming. ‘I felt that you would come today. You will join us for dinner, yes? You are very welcome, please, come inside.’

  Dinner at Maryam’s house is a very different experience to the Shahs’. There are eight adults and five children living in the house; in contrast to the Shahs’, it is brimming, chaotic, crowded; hands grab him and pull him into embraces from all directions, some stroke his hair, others his arms, their voices sweetly saying: ‘You are welcome’ as the children scream and run between his feet. Never before has he experienced such warmth radiating from the company of strangers: it is flattering and mildly discomfiting.

  He is seated next to Maryam at a long table in the dining room, and Musa begins the introductions. ‘We have already met of course. I am Musa, Maryam’s father. Maryam is my only daughter, her mother died during childbirth,’ he sucks his teeth at this and then mutters: ‘Inna lillahi wa inna ileyhi rajioon’ – Sameer glances at Maryam; she is staring at the table.

  Ibrahim speaks next – ‘I am one of nine children – that may seem like a lot to you! Musa is my son, this here is Imran, son of my brother who has now passed, may he rest in peace.’

  Imran’s eyes light up at the sound of his name. ‘You are very welcome,’ he insists. ‘I would be most pleased to show you Uganda, we have much to offer. You are from England? You will tell your friends to come, yes? You are very welcome.’

  ‘OK, Taata,’ a lady sitting next to Imran laughs. ‘My father is a tour operator, that’s all he means by it. I’m Abidah, and this is my husband Dauda. We are very happy to welcome you.’

  The husband nods and gives Sameer a brief smile. Another one of Imran’s daughters, sitting opposite, introduces herself as Zaynab, pointing to the man next to her as Abdul, her husband. Sameer nods, trying to connect their faces to their names. His head is spinning; the children are not sitting at the table and he is glad he has not been told their names; they scamper up and down the hall, gathering in the doorway cautiously, curiously, eyes glistening, teeth shining, staring at Sameer and then – when he catches their eyes – bursting into fits of giggles. They are batted away by the adults, who tell the eldest of them – who himself cannot be more than ten years old – to take charge. ‘Many of us to remember, I understand,’ Ibrahim says, having sensed Sameer’s confusion. ‘Well, you are lucky that the others are still in boarding school – otherwise there’d be another five of us here!’ He looks at his watch. ‘Come, it is time for isha. Let us pray and then we will eat. Maryam, help me to lay out the mats in the sitting room.’

  Before he knows it, Sameer has been bundled out of the dining room and into a large front room, where reed mats have been spread at an angle in the direction of Makkah. He hasn’t seen this room before, perhaps the largest of the house – and also minimalist in furniture and decor – but he admires the large windows and high ceilings, the embroidered wall hanging containing a passage from the Quran. He doesn’t have wudhu, but no one has asked him and Musa has already begun to recite the iqama, signal
ling that they are about to start, so he joins the men’s line, sweating slightly and wishing he could have at least washed his hands. The children of the house have become solemn; scarves have been pulled from nowhere and draped around the women. He is suddenly thankful that he’s not wearing shorts, but then conscious of how low his trousers sit on his hips, he wonders if the women standing behind him will be exposed to his butt crack as he prostrates. Hunger pangs across his stomach and he fervently prays for it not to expose him. Squashed between the shoulders of the men, following Ibrahim’s lead, Sameer tries to find some peace in spite of the intensity and speed of the entire affair. Growing up, he had never prayed in congregation at home with his family. Congregational prayer was reserved for the mosque; otherwise – save in the case of his mother – prayer was rarely observed. How strange it must have been for Maryam to grow up in a family like this, a family welded together by this ritualistic and regular practice.

  After the prayer is over, they return to the table and dinner is served by the ladies of the house in an assortment of colourful plastic dishes. Lids are raised to steaming foods accompanied by explanations from Maryam: pointing to a stodgy white carb – ‘posho, it’s compacted maize’; yellow mash in banana leaves – ‘matoke, you know that one, right?’; a purple-red sauce smelling richly of peanuts – ‘chicken stew in groundnut sauce’. Sameer’s plate is loaded with generous helpings of everything.

  ‘So, Sameer,’ Ibrahim says, once everyone has been served, ‘you must have many questions, no? How I knew your grandfather? Shall I start there?’

  The table listens attentively; Ibrahim is the only one present who has any real memory of Sameer’s grandfather. ‘My father’s name was Abdullah,’ he says, motioning for Sameer to start eating. ‘He came to Kampala from Gulu as a young boy looking for work and was employed by your family to look after your grandfather, who was without mother or siblings. Your grandfather’s family had a small shop on Market Street where they lived and worked. They did not know then how big the store was going to become!’ Ibrahim pauses to take a mouthful of food; Sameer notices that he uses his fingers to eat the posho, in the same way that Asians do when eating rice and curry. ‘My father had two wives. He married his first wife when he was very young. They had six children together, but only one is still living, my half-sister. My mother was my father’s second wife, he married her when he was much older and they went on to have nine children together. I am the eldest of them.’