We Are All Birds of Uganda

by Hafsa Zayyan

  He raised his hands in protest. ‘What good will it be to me? I cannot even manage the store. They are coming for me.’

  ‘This will all die down,’ I replied firmly. ‘It’s not you he wants to destroy, it’s us. And anyway, this is only a temporary measure.’ My voice began to shake. ‘We can’t take these things with us. To abandon them would only mean they would fall into the hands of someone else. I entrust them to you, for now, for safekeeping. Until I return.’

  I could not help it now; my eyes filled with tears. Abdullah said nothing. He came towards me, a man perhaps only ten years my senior, who as a child had raised me like a father, who over the years had grown close to me like a brother. The closest friend I have ever had, the only friend who knows me perhaps even better than you, my love. We embraced.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said eventually. ‘I am sorry for everything.’

  I did not protest this apology; I allowed him to have it. He took the papers and left us for the last time; he walked through the doors of our house on Nakasero Hill and he did not look back.

  It was only a short while later that it transpired that what we had done, in transferring our assets to Abdullah, was in fact a criminal offence. Amin had announced a new law requiring all Asians to declare the totality of their assets, and any attempt to transfer them would result in imprisonment. What can I tell you, my dear, of what has been said of Amin’s prison … it is enough for you to know that they call it the ‘one-way’ prison. But our assets had been transferred before the law was promulgated; surely we were safe? No, Shahzeb warned us, the law would take no account of when such assets were transferred: any transfer, at any time, was illegal!

  Every day, Amira, the announcement of a new law or regulation. As we began to prepare for our departure, we were suddenly told that each family was only to take a maximum of a thousand shillings out of the country. The Shahs purchased a round-the-world ticket immediately – ‘We’ll get a refund when we get to England. Or we’ll just go round the world!’ they told us gleefully. But the Shahs had cash in foreign accounts. We had nothing: all of our money, by my doing, was here in Uganda. Shabnam wept dearly at this news: ‘We will be separated and I will be penniless! How will I live?’ Of all the vagaries of Amin’s regime, this surely must be the worst. What would we do if we could not take our money with us? How would any of us live? ‘We will go and buy as many round-the-world tickets as we can,’ I promised her. But although we went to the travel agent the very next day, we found ourselves too late: the government had learned of this little trick, and now we were only permitted to buy tickets to one destination. Worse still, any ticket purchased had to be officially endorsed by the Bank of Uganda.

  Hindsight, my love, is clarity. Now that I look back, I think of all the things that we should have done, but the realisations came too late. Is this to be a constant pattern in my life: not knowing the truth until it is too late? We could have cashed our money abroad, we could have sent it to the Mehtas. We could have saved some of our cars by driving them into Kenya before she closed her borders. But I was not quick enough, I did not react in time. I failed myself and my family by believing for too long that Amin’s policies were nothing more than a fantasy.

  Shabnam and the rest of the family were due to depart for Britain just days after we had their tickets endorsed by the Bank. It is difficult to fit your entire life into a single piece of luggage; all the more so when you know that luggage will be ripped open at the airport and cleaned of anything of value. The stupid, expensive ornaments that we had bought would sit in the beautiful Spanish oak cabinet, gathering dust. Then there was the gold, extracted from the safe and lined up in rows on the bed, gold that Shabnam had been gifted when we married; gold that she had acquired to gift to our daughters and granddaughters upon their marriages. I saw her struggle to choose what to leave behind, putting things in and out of her suitcase multiple times.

  I accompanied them to the airport. We went in a convoy of three cars; I took the lead in the blue Mercedes. There were checkpoints every few miles, manned by soldiers with bloodshot eyes, their long rifles dangling. Twice they forced us to get out of the car. ‘Where are you going? What time is your flight?’ Once they opened the suitcases and picked through them, carelessly throwing into the dirt what precious little had been so carefully packed. The other time they took the women aside and patted them down; I could see the shame radiating from Shabnam’s body. It took all of my willpower not to lunge at them. They found nothing of course: the women knew better than to wear jewellery.

  But it began again at the airport, which was a chaotic mess of confusion: every suitcase opened, every individual searched. ‘Where is your tax clearance?’ one of the army officers snapped at me. ‘I am not travelling today,’ I explained to him. ‘I am just here to drop off my family, that is all.’

  How to explain what it was like to say goodbye? As I watched each of them clutching the small cases containing all their remaining worldly possessions – my wife, my children and their spouses, my grandchildren, three generations of Saeeds – they had never looked so dear to me. Shabnam looked especially beautiful in an old rosebud-pink cotton sari. My throat constricted. I could not speak. I said nothing to any of them, no last words. I just raised my hand as I watched them walk away from me. Why is it that I have such an inability to talk at times when it matters most?

  The house felt so immensely vast without them, it frightened me. I could hear the ghost of Shabnam’s bangles jingling as I walked through the corridors. The cook stayed – ‘Bwana, we will stay until you leave, who will feed you otherwise?’ – perhaps this was kindness, but I thought I could detect a hint of glee underlying his voice. Maybe I am being paranoid. I told him the house belongs to Abdullah, but he didn’t seem to hear me.

  The commercial district of Kampala is like a ghost town manned by the military. Our store is closed, the stock cleaned out after the announcement that we could not take money, but before the announcement that we could not take goods. All Asian stores have the lights off, shutters down. The scent of the wind here has changed; my city has undergone a profound change in character. The Africans stare at the few of us who remain with open contempt. The soldiers spit and taunt. With our numbers dwindled, the karias’ resentment has emerged to show its ugly face like a pack of angry wolves descending upon a stray.

  The official deadline to leave is 8th November. I will be on the second-to-last plane leaving the country. Getting to Entebbe was a different experience in the United Nations bus: we went straight through the checkpoints without question. Still, they tried to search me at the airport, their grubby hands feeling inside the band of my trousers, baton between my legs. But there was nothing to find. I have taken nothing with me but these letters. I will read them in this new country, and I will remember home.

  Amin Dada. Daddy Amin. A man who calls himself a Muslim. A man who has been far from a father to us, let alone a brother. Amin has denied us our home in the belief that it should belong to the African, that the African should take precedence. But a man is not distinguished by his colour in the eyes of Allah. He is distinguished by his intentions and his deeds; he is distinguished by his taqwa.

  I made sure, my darling, to visit your graveside yesterday. You rest in the best spot in the Kololo cemetery, not crowded with other graves. I did not go there to say goodbye. I went there to tell you that I will return, and I will find Abdullah.

  It is a funny thought, but for some reason it has just struck me that I never asked him what his name was before he took the name Abdullah.

  17

  ‘So when are you coming home, beta?’

  Sameer sighs, staring out of the window of the guest bedroom and onto the illuminated garden below. ‘I told you, Mum,’ he says patiently, ‘it’s a two-week trip. I’ve only been here a few days!’

  ‘Are you eating properly? Are the Shahs looking after you? I hope you’re not doing anything dangerous, it’s not a very safe country, you know
. Oh, my heart hurts when you are away from me like this, beta, I can hardly bear it.’

  ‘Mum. I’m fine.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’ll cope if you go to Singapore,’ his mother says darkly. The line crackles; he half hopes that it will cut out. ‘Well, at least it’s a safe country, hai na, unlike Uganda. But you know, your father and I are getting old. We’re not going to be around forever.’

  ‘Mum, please –’

  ‘Anyway, speaking of your father, I’ve just heard the door. I better go. I love you, beta.’

  ‘Love you too, Mum,’ Sameer responds automatically.

  His father did not say a word to him in the week before he left for Uganda and they hadn’t spoken since. He just needs more time, his mother had said fretfully on the call. Sameer is perfectly fine with that; in fact, he prefers it this way, not speaking. This way is stress-free. He had spent the day at Mr Shah’s office in downtown Kampala discussing the potential acquisition of a run-down hotel in Tank Hill and thoroughly enjoyed it, the experience made all the better by Mr Shah’s compliments over dinner: ‘This boy is full of bright ideas. We could really use someone like you in our team. In fact –’ Mr Shah had paused as he served himself another spoonful of biryani – ‘if you ever think about moving here, we’d be very happy to have you.’

  Sameer reddened as he smiled. ‘That’s so kind – thank you. But I’m actually moving to Singapore …’

  ‘Don’t then,’ Aliyah shrugged. ‘It’s simple enough. Stay here and work for my dad instead. Sounds delightful …’

  They had all laughed. But for the rest of the evening, Mr Shah’s words had given him a warm glow.

  After dinner, he had excused himself to speak to his mother and gone upstairs. Now that the call is over, he sits crossed-legged on the bed, wondering what to do.

  The package of papers Ibrahim handed him the day before sits untouched on the bedside table. Sameer looks at the bundle; it looks back. He reaches over and puts the pile on his lap. Heavy. He gingerly unties the twine wrapping. A musty smell rises; the yellowing paper curls, recoiling at being touched, at being exposed. He peels off the first paper and unfolds it gently. Rows and rows of small, faint cursive.

  To my first love, my beloved. It is my wedding night tonight.

  Heat springs to his face and he snaps the paper shut, hearing Ibrahim’s voice: Your grandfather left them here. Are these his grandfather’s love letters? He puts the letter back on top of the pile and reties the twine. The package goes back on the bedside table – and then, on second thoughts, inside the drawer.

  There is a thunderstorm overnight and Wednesday is brought in with the damp, heavy smell of rain on earth, reminding Sameer almost of England; but no – rain in London smells like wet concrete; here, the scent is raw, visceral. It is the first time since arriving that he has seen clouds in the sky. For some reason, this is exhilarating, the mercy of rain. Or perhaps he is excited by the fact that he is seeing Maryam today. After breakfast, encouraged by the brief respite from the humidity afforded by the rain, he walks to her house, avoiding small rivulets along the street and hoping he is not too early – they did not arrange a time to meet. The security guard nods at him this time, seating him on the porch. Beads of water from the bougainvillea petals hit his face as he waits.

  Within moments she appears, dressed in a patterned red skirt and orange blouse, hair hidden by a matching head tie. Something about her astounds him each time he sees her – something he forgets when he’s not with her and that he’s reminded of when he is, something amorphous, like the existence of beauty or happiness. Today she looks regal, and he wonders what she thinks of him, suddenly conscious of the creases in his shirt.

  ‘Hello,’ he stands, meeting more drops of petal water that roll down his cheeks like tears; he brushes them away.

  ‘Hello,’ she says, half smiling. ‘Let’s go – there’s no one home,’ she adds. ‘Kids are at school, adults at work.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, remembering that she works shifts. ‘It must be annoying to have such an irregular schedule?’

  ‘I like it,’ she shrugs. ‘It’s nice to be alone sometimes. The house can feel so full, I don’t really get much privacy.’

  They climb inside her car and close the doors; she smells of talcum powder and strawberries.

  ‘So is there anywhere you want to go in particular?’ she asks as they pull out of the driveway. ‘I don’t know what you’ve seen already?’

  ‘Not much,’ he admits.

  The cloud is clearing and sunlight has begun to filter through. ‘Let’s go to the Baha’i Temple,’ she suggests. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  As they drive out of Nakasero and into central Kampala, he can see paving on side roads dissolving into red dirt. In the veins of these dirt tracks there are clusters of ramshackle corrugated-tin structures; clothing strung up and drying in full view; plastic bags clogging ditches; men sitting on fraying sacks, staring; small, barefoot children in ripped vests with runny noses: this is the Africa that he has seen on the television. It is a stone’s throw from the salubrious suburbs of Nakasero, but might as well be a different world; in the skyline he can see the gleaming metal towers of the central business district where Mr Shah’s main office is located.

  ‘There’s so much wealth in Kampala,’ he says, looking away. ‘Why so many slums?’

  ‘Only some people are wealthy,’ Maryam corrects him. ‘A small proportion. People like you,’ she adds, with a smile. ‘The Asians living in Kampala. The Europeans. Some of the Chinese.’

  ‘There are rich Ugandans too,’ he offers. He has seen them among Aliyah’s friends.

  ‘Sure. But not many. Whereas a very large percentage of the non-native population is wealthy.’

  He nods. The Baha’i Temple is located on the other side of Kampala and the traffic has become heavier since they entered the centre. Maryam cranks up the A/C as the car inches along. ‘Well, I’m glad your family is doing well,’ he says conciliatorily, and then immediately regrets it, wondering if she will find this statement patronising.

  ‘Sort of.’ She is tapping her finger on the steering wheel to a song that plays faintly on the radio in the background. Her fingers are long and slim; he finds himself wondering if they are cold or warm. ‘We’ve done OK, because we always had the house. And the store,’ she adds, expressionless. ‘So, yes, I suppose I should thank you for that.’

  ‘Your grandfather ran that store, not mine,’ he says quickly. ‘So you can thank him, not me.’

  Maryam suddenly bangs a fist on the windscreen, where a shirtless man has started to wash it down with a small pail of soapy brown water as they stand in the traffic. ‘Genda eri!’ she shouts, although the windows are wound up and the man probably cannot hear her. ‘Sorry. What were we …? Oh yes, the house. I’m thankful.’

  He says nothing, sensing that there is more. She engages the gearstick and drives forward as the traffic throbs on.

  ‘My mother was from a slum in Kisenyi, it’s not far from Nakasero. She was lucky to meet my father,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Her family still live there, while I get to live in a beautiful house in Nakasero.’ One of her hands rests on the gearstick; Sameer has an urge to cover it with his own, but he does not move. ‘Our neighbours in Nakasero are not like us. They’re like you,’ she says, but he can hear in her voice that she does not mean any offence by it. ‘It’s a strange feeling to live among strangers, among neighbours who aren’t like you and don’t understand you …’

  She throws him a glance from the corner of her eye; he catches it and nods almost imperceptibly, thinking back to England, how he felt among his colleagues and even among his family, and his eyes respond with an understanding that obviates the need for him to say anything.

  She smiles and turns up the radio. ‘I love this song,’ she says, as a light, jovial beat plays from the speakers, a rhythm that makes him think of sunsets and swaying hips. ‘Do you have Bobby Wine in England?’

  He shakes
his head. He wonders if grime has reached Uganda, but she looks so content nodding along to the music that he does not interrupt her and nods along to it himself.

  The Baha’i Temple, located at the top of a hill among jacaranda trees and rose bushes, is an oasis amid the chaos of Kampala; there is no one around save for a man standing at the entrance of the building, who waves them through with a big smile and a leaflet about the Baha’i faith. The green mosaic dome reminds Sameer of a mosque; light filters in through green and amber patterns like the stained-glass windows of a cathedral. As they circuit the small interior in respectful silence, there is such stillness that he imagines time has stopped.

  They exit to a cloudless, brilliant blue sky and begin to walk across the extensive grounds. He likes how this feels, to be alongside her, their shoulders bumping occasionally.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ he asks.

  ‘I think this is the second time I’ve ever been,’ she says, laughing. ‘I suppose I don’t really spend a lot of time being a tourist in my own city.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ They pause to admire the view of Kampala spread out below them between the Nandi flame trees. ‘Hey,’ he says impulsively, ‘you should come to London sometime so I can show you around.’

  She smiles. ‘I should,’ she says.

  ‘Do you get much holiday?’

  ‘I can’t remember the last time I took one,’ she admits.

  ‘Me neither. Aside from this, of course,’ he adds. ‘I mean, it’s the first holiday I’ve taken for a very long time.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you took it,’ she says lightly, but there is something about the ease with which she says it that gives him a strange sense of déjà vu.

  ‘Me too,’ he says, beaming.

  ‘It’s so rare for all of us to be off at the same time, you know?’ she shakes her head. ‘People are always working weekends, taking business trips. It’s a holiday if we just get one day together as a family. I guess sometimes – on public holidays – we might go to the village to visit our relatives.’