by Hafsa Zayyan
‘When are you next going to the village?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Maryam, absently fingering the leaves of a waist-high shrub. ‘I haven’t been for a long time. I won’t go if it means one of my patients will be left without a doctor,’ she explains, ‘and that’s what it usually means, so …’
‘Ah,’ he says. He had not taken much holiday since he had started working not because there were not enough people to cover him; to the contrary, his team was large. It was because of a belief that he was needed, that he was indispensable to the team, that if he left for a week or two, everything would fall apart. He wants to tell her what had led him to take this holiday, how he felt that his life had started unravelling, but his woes suddenly seem so meaningless. ‘Holiday is important though,’ he says, as if he knows what this means, ‘or you’ll burn out.’
‘Well,’ she says, pausing as a pair of white egrets totter in the grass in front of them; they stop walking for a moment and watch. ‘I burned out a long time ago,’ she continues as the birds fly away.
She takes him to a local Ugandan restaurant close to Nakasero for lunch. He orders goat luwombo, she orders fried fish. As they eat, she tells him about the hospital where she works. He watches the way her eyes crinkle, the way she presses her lips together between sentences, the flutters of her hands. She tells him that her job is often frustrating – that there are not enough doctors and no consultants on the wards; that doctors earn a quarter of what a civil servant or an accountant earns, so why would anyone bother; that patients in need of urgent care end up waiting hours or even days to be seen. ‘I think if I hadn’t gone to Canada and seen how things could be, maybe it wouldn’t affect me so much,’ she says, separating a piece of fish from the bone with her hands.
‘You lived abroad?’
‘Yup. In my fourth year of studying medicine, on an exchange programme for six months. How long are you going to Singapore for?’
‘It’s supposed to be two years, but it will be longer,’ he says. ‘Forever, maybe.’ This seems so final, so inescapable, that he suddenly wishes he had not said it. ‘So what was it in Canada you saw?’ he asks, wanting to draw the conversation back to her and away from him.
She closes her eyes briefly. ‘Just, you know – doctors, equipment – they had everything you needed. But it wasn’t really that. It was the fact that there was the type of structure in place that allowed the hospital to be a reliable institution. Look, Mulago doesn’t have the equipment, but even if we did, there would be no one who could maintain it, know what I mean?’
‘Mmm. Have you ever thought about just working at a private hospital?’
‘Ugh,’ she sighs, stabbing the fish with her fork. ‘It just feels so wrong, prioritising those who can pay over those who can’t. Let me put it this way. We don’t have enough doctors. We don’t have enough equipment. The government is not paying us enough – or at all sometimes. If we do get equipment, maybe the hospital will sell it to the private hospitals and make a little profit, because those patients will pay for it. But it means our patients, who have no money, suffer.’ Maryam pauses, moving food around her plate with her fork. ‘I hate myself for doing it, but yes, sometimes, when I really need money, I’ll pick up a shift at the private hospital.’
‘I’m sure everyone does it.’
‘Does that make it right?’ she asks. ‘Most of my friends from university just left, you know. Didn’t bother trying to work here. They just went. To Kenya, South Africa, England if they could.’
‘Have you ever thought of doing the same?’
‘No,’ she says slowly. ‘My father is unwell, I have to stay to care for him.’
There is a pause. Sameer wonders what condition Musa suffers from that has crippled his body, that makes him look older than his own father, Ibrahim, but he does not ask.
Then Maryam says abruptly: ‘My mother died in Mulago.’ She lets out a hollow laugh. ‘Over something so preventable. You know, it took me years to find out how she died, because they don’t keep proper records of anything here.’
Without thinking, Sameer reaches out and squeezes her hand: human instinct has overwhelmed him, that need to communicate empathy by physical touch at the first sign of distress. It is the first time he has ever touched her, and her eyes register surprise, but she does not immediately pull away. After a few moments, she moves her hand from under his and clasps both of her hands together on the table in front of her, as if in prayer. Then she says, looking at her small fists: ‘She bled to death. After she gave birth, the doctors and midwives left. They just left her there.’ Maryam finally looks up from her hands and at Sameer. ‘I’ve never told anyone that before,’ she says quietly.
Sameer does not know what to say to this; some invisible boundary has been crossed and he is unsure whether she wanted to cross it at all. After a moment, he just says: ‘That’s really awful. It must have been so hard for you to learn that.’
‘It’s crazy,’ she says, ‘you know, to think that just one quick injection of oxytocin might have saved her life. But I guess we’ll never know.’
The last stop on Maryam’s tour is Nakasero market, which is an explosion of colour, smells and sound. Someone calls after him as he passes each stall: ‘Am-rica?’, ‘Welcome, muzungu!’, even ‘Man-U forever!’ He nearly trips over the carefully stacked piles of bizarre-looking fruit and vegetables: baby aubergines the size of grapes, large misshapen jackfruit, lemons green and tomatoes yellow. A street seller breaks a single baby banana from a smiling bunch of a dozen for Sameer to try; it is both sweet and slightly tangy, leaving an aftertaste that makes his mouth water. He asks the seller if he can have the whole bunch of bananas. ‘Three thousand,’ the seller bares yellowed teeth at Sameer, who retrieves his wallet, working out that this is less than a pound. So cheap!
‘Nedda, tonziba!’ Maryam has appeared and starts arguing with the street seller. She hands the seller a 2,000-shilling note in exchange for two bunches of bananas. ‘Muzungu, never take the first price!’ she says, eyes teasing. ‘Good luck eating them all,’ she adds, laughing as she gives him the bunches.
As they delve deeper and deeper into the marketplace, Sameer struggles to keep up with Maryam, who glides through the chaos as if she is floating. He is intrigued, wanting to stop and sample more; but sweating, trying to keep a hand on his phone and wallet at all times because – as Maryam has warned him – he will certainly be pickpocketed if he does not. He will not allow that to happen again.
She says something to him, but he cannot hear her over the din of the street sellers. He points at his ears, hoping that she will slow down, but she laughs and slips deeper into the crowd. She disappears and reappears like a bobbing ghost, and he starts to feel desperate: he will never catch up with her here.
Eventually, they have looped around back to her car and Sameer’s head is spinning. She offers to drive him back to Kololo. ‘I couldn’t keep up with you,’ he admits as they climb inside.
‘Don’t worry – you just need to get used to it. You should go back. Still got your phone and wallet?’
Sameer pats his trouser leg – panic – and then the other one: they are there. ‘Yes,’ he breathes.
There is a brief silence while they drive along, and then Maryam says: ‘We all grew up hearing Jjajja’s stories about the Saeeds – your grandfather is considered something of a hero in our household,’ and her eyes light with warmth; this is the first time that Sameer has seen her be genuinely complimentary of his family, instead of fearful or reserved. ‘Those papers Jjajja gave you, he always talked about keeping them for your family – it was the last connection he had to your grandfather.’ She glances at him almost apprehensively. ‘We never opened them. We always wondered what they were. But Jjajja was very clear about that – we weren’t to touch them.’
Sameer can sense her burning curiosity, her seizure of this moment of opportunity. He smiles, amused by her interest. ‘They’re letters,’ he says.
�
�Of course,’ she breathes, ‘that makes –’
‘Love letters.’
‘Oh,’ she says, barely able to keep the intrigue from her voice.
‘I haven’t read them,’ he adds, laughing. They are already in Kololo, and he gives her the Shahs’ address, feeling dismay at the speed with which the day has passed. She parks outside the gate and switches off the engine.
‘Thank you,’ he says, turning to face her. ‘Thanks for showing me around.’
‘No problem,’ she says, meeting his eyes. ‘It’s felt like a holiday,’ she adds, grinning.
He is conscious of how close they are in the front seats of her car and his ears suddenly feel uncomfortably hot. ‘Well, I hope you get the chance to take a real holiday soon.’
She doesn’t say anything to this and the brief silence makes him feel awkward.
‘Well, thanks again,’ he says, breaking eye contact and opening the car door; he is starting to sweat. As he steps out, he pauses. ‘Hey, Maryam?’
‘Yeah?’ she leans across the gearbox, engine on and car purring, ready to go.
‘Are you on WhatsApp?’ he asks, and her face breaks into a smile.
After dinner that evening, Aliyah asks Sameer if he wants to go to out. Every part of him wants to decline but Mr and Mrs Shah encourage them with waving hands and eager smiles and Sameer feels like he cannot say no. Aliyah runs upstairs to change and reappears in a short, skintight green dress, hair loose and flowing down her back. There is a shimmer on her cheeks and her eyelids. She is undeniably beautiful, and when she offers Sameer an arm to link, he takes it.
Paul drops them off nearby, in an upmarket district called Bugolobi. ‘It’s a cocktail bar really, but they have a DJ,’ Aliyah says blithely, leaning towards him in the back of the car.
The bar is large and sexy, illuminated in soft purple and aired by open floor-to-ceiling windows which carry in the warm evening breeze. Most of the people there look like ex-pats or tourists; he turns to Aliyah and asks: ‘Where are your friends?’
‘Oh, it’s just you and me tonight,’ she replies, nudging him towards a stool at the bar. For some reason, this statement makes him sweat.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ he says.
Aliyah shakes her head. ‘I’m ordering for you,’ she says, beckoning the barman and asking for a drink he has never heard of.
Two matching cocktails arrive within minutes, served with a smile. ‘It’s made with waragi,’ Aliyah explains, taking a sip. ‘Uganda’s local spirit. Try it – go on.’
Sameer obliges. ‘Not bad,’ he says.
Three cocktails later and Sameer has relaxed. They talk freely – Sameer doesn’t know exactly what about, but it’s fine, they’re having a great night. The DJ turns the music up, it’s afrobeats, and Aliyah stands unsteadily and grabs his wrist. ‘Let’s dance?’ she asks. Sameer is not sure – no one else is dancing, won’t it look weird? But he follows her lead closer to the booth, where the DJ grins at the pair of them, nodding encouragingly. Aliyah lifts her arms and places them around his neck, pushing her body against his. Her hair smells like summer; he places his hands on her waist. Her body responds and this should feel good, so why does he feel annoyed at himself?
He wakes at eleven the next morning with a headache. He rolls over, rubbing his eyes, and pulls his phone off the charger. There is a WhatsApp from Jeremiah:
Jeremiah (01.00): Yo, did you message Rahool?
And then a screenshot of messages between him and Rahool:
Rahool (20.38): Doing ok, having weird dreams though.
Rahool (20.38): Btw
Rahool (20.39): What happened to Sameer?
Jeremiah (20.48): Yoooooo dawg, you remember Sameer?!!!
Sameer blinks, rereading the messages twice, three times. He opens his WhatsApps with Rahool: last seen five minutes ago. Their last conversation was so banal, nearly three months ago. Tentatively, he begins to type.
Sameer (11.15): Hey, man, it’s your old pal Sameer. How you doing?
He locks his phone and throws it on the bed. Then he picks it up again and searches for Maryam in his contacts.
Sameer (11.17): Hey, it’s Sameer. I had fun yesterday. Hope you booked some holiday!
It sits there, a little green message, the first message between them, and it looks stupid. He wishes he had said something else. He wonders whether he should add: Would love to see you again, but no, that sounds creepy.
Downstairs, none of the Shahs are around. Ama is sweeping the kitchen.
‘Good morning, Sameer!’ she sings, abruptly stopping sweeping when she sees him standing in the kitchen. ‘Can I make you breakfast?’
He nods. ‘Please,’ he adds. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Mr Shah is at work, Mrs Shah, I don’t know,’ Ama says. There is no mention of Aliyah and Sameer does not ask. After a quick breakfast, he makes his way to Nakasero market on foot.
It is the same burst of colours and sound that disorientated his senses on his first visit, but this time he’s not trying to keep up with anyone. He takes his time, wandering through the stalls slowly, one hand always in his pocket on his phone and wallet. He stops to buy passion fruit and guava and ends up with an assortment of other fruit and vegetables that appear in abundance – lemons, beetroot, ginger, bananas – always making sure to offer half the price they first give him.
Back at the Shahs’, and with Ama’s help, he throws the fruit he has bought in the blender. She brings a strange-looking brown nut from a cupboard, cracks the shell open and tells him to add the fleshy pod inside to the mix. ‘What is it?’ he says cautiously.
‘Tamarind,’ Ama says. Sameer can’t help himself; he smiles as he remembers the first time he tried its juice at Maryam’s house. ‘Lots of healing properties,’ Ama adds, winking.
Sameer tries to breathe discreetly into his hand: is it that obvious he is hung-over? He throws the pod into the blender and switches it on. The resulting mix is rich, zesty and slightly sweet. Within minutes his headache starts to clear.
Two days pass and Sameer has not heard back from Maryam.
He has divided his time between Mr Shah’s office, where he has effectively been working part-time, and wandering the streets of Kampala, where the fruit-stall sellers of Nakasero no longer try to fleece him. With Ama’s help, he has been making his own fruit juices in their blender: adding a dash of turmeric to a mango and pineapple blend, a pinch of cinnamon to a mix of passion fruit and orange, crushed cardamom to watermelon and apple. The resulting concoctions are mostly delicious and an idea begins to take shape in his mind. There is something so simple about it: no app, no tech, just squeezing juice, blending traditional South Asian spices with local Ugandan fruits. The beverage version of Kampala Nights. He is drawn to its simplicity, its traditionalism.
The message to Maryam sits there staunchly in his WhatsApps, ignored. He thinks of messaging her again, but he doesn’t want to scare her away. He thinks of showing up at the hospital where she works, but this seems stalkerish. He wonders if he injures himself badly enough, he might find his way to the hospital. Then he remembers that she works in obstetrics and gynaecology. His first week in Uganda is coming to an end, and although he doesn’t understand why, it is bothering him that he might not see her again.
With this thought, Sameer’s phone buzzes. Maryam’s name flashes up on the screen and he nearly drops the jug of juice he is holding.
Maryam (17.05): So sorry for the delay – we had an emergency and I’ve been at the hospital for two days straight, just got home. Imran is asking if you want to go to Murchison Falls, or anywhere else – he really wants to take you! So I’ve been thinking. If you want to go, I might try to take a couple of days off …
It is a long message and he reads it several times and smiles. No wonder she hadn’t replied: she had been at work for two days in a row. Had she remembered in this time their conversation about holidays? Had she been thinking about him, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, translucent gloves
on, as she delivered a new life into this world? He wonders whether he should wait to respond, then decides: he doesn’t care.
Sameer (17.08): No worries, sounds tough! Would love to – ready to see some more of Uganda!
Too many exclamation marks, but never mind.
When Sameer arrives in Nakasero at 6.30 a.m. on the day of the trip, Imran is dressed in full safari gear, looking so much the picture of an eager tour guide that Sameer almost laughs. He offers Sameer a generous discount for the trip, which Sameer refuses – he will pay the full muzungu price, and petrol – and Imran immediately accepts with a beaming smile. Maryam is holding Ruqaya’s hand – ‘She’s coming with us’ – and Ruqaya nods her head furiously, beaded braids clapping in response. They climb inside a jeep, Sameer and Ruqaya in the back and Maryam and Imran in the front. He wonders briefly whether Maryam would be sitting next to him if Ruqaya were not there.
Ruqaya talks non-stop. In a small plastic backpack she has a colouring book and pencils, a rag doll and a box full of beads. She shows him each of these things seriously and carefully, twisting her tiny body to get comfortable on the seat (he wants to mention seat belts, but no one is wearing one). In the front of the car, Imran speaks over his shoulder, asking Sameer questions about life in England, the royal family, the weather. He is so delighted with Sameer’s responses that Sameer has to quell the urge to laugh, imagining Imran frolicking about Buckingham Palace in the rain. ‘I didn’t know you were such an Anglophile,’ he says. ‘You should come to visit me in England.’
‘If only getting a visa were that easy,’ Imran replies sadly.
Sameer frowns: it can’t be that hard, he thinks; and he continues to speak of snow that turns quickly to sludge and Christmas lights, Sunday roasts and fish and chips on the blustery Brighton coast, until he almost misses home for a moment. Ruqaya listens attentively to the conversation at first, but quickly grows bored and tries out her colouring pencils on his arm. ‘Your skin is the colour of paper,’ she giggles, pressing down so hard that Sameer winces.
