by Hafsa Zayyan
Falling in love has brought him closer to God, where he finds clarity and reassurance. Above all, he is thankful: thankful that God led him to Uganda, to Maryam, to rethink everything he thought he knew about what he wanted from his life. When he thinks about what he has been blessed with (which he does often now), he feels grateful again and again and again.
They didn’t discuss anything before he left – it was too rushed, he was leaving too soon. They met again only once, when she took him to the airport, but Ibrahim and Ruqaya insisted on accompanying them, and there was only one stolen moment alone in the airport, when Ibrahim took Ruqaya to buy some water: a kiss and a promise that he would come back soon. She waved goodbye as he went through security, a hand on Ruqaya’s shoulder, and gave him a trembling smile without dimples. In that moment, as he waved back, he knew that she loved him too and that she felt she was somehow weaker for doing so.
At the back of his mind, he is quietly aware that he is going to quit his job and move to Kampala. Maryam will never leave Uganda. She has an obligation to her father and to her country. Sameer, on the other hand, is ready. Ready to quit his job: he feels surprisingly calm about this, as if it is just his conscious catching up with his subconscious. And he is ready to leave the UK: that is what he had been planning in any event, just to Singapore, not Uganda.
But as the plane touches down in Heathrow and he stares out of the face-shaped window onto the calm concrete of London, the steady, reliable grey drizzle, he feels such a rush of comfort that he wonders for a moment whether moving to Uganda is really a good idea. Then, as he passes through baggage reclaim and his feet are almost run over by the trolley of someone, who, in response to Sameer’s protests, gives him an ‘Oh fuck off’, the nostalgia is washed away, just like that. No Ugandan stranger, sweet-natured and smiling, would ever react like that.
The family – aside from Mhota Papa – are waiting for him at the airport. His mother cries when she sees him. ‘You’ve become so dark,’ is the first thing she says. His father is tight-lipped, still angry, but he came. Zara laughs at Sameer’s complexion. ‘You look African, bro,’ she jokes.
‘How is Mhota Papa?’ Sameer asks.
The family exchange sideways glances and he knows it’s not good news.
His father begins the lecture in the car on the way home: it is the first time that they have spoken in five weeks, and it’s a lecture. Mhota Papa is unwell – he has been admitted to hospital with pneumonia. ‘Now, see, this is what happens when you disappear for a month like that, what did you expect?’
I expected you to tell me, Sameer thinks. ‘How long has he been in there?’
‘Three days.’
Why didn’t you tell me? he thinks. He feels like he is being punished, but he’s not sure what he’s done wrong. It is his father who decided to telephone his employers; it is his father who decided not to speak to him for five weeks. ‘If I had known I would have come home earlier,’ Sameer says quietly.
‘Well, your Amira Ben flew over from America as soon as she found out,’ his father retorts. ‘She’s staying with us.’ This is delivered smugly, as if it is a competition and Amira Ben has won – despite the fact that the playing field was not even, because she knew, and he didn’t. Mhota Papa’s daughter who lives in the US didn’t get punished for not living in this country, he thinks bitterly. They reserved punishment only for him.
There is silence. Sameer stares out of the window miserably. There are no questions about his trip, and he volunteers nothing. He closes his eyes and then feels a light touch on his arm. A gentle voice, his ever-loyal sister: ‘So, tell us about your trip. What’s Kampala all about?’ Sameer turns to Zara and smiles. He tells her – just loud enough for his parents, sitting in the front of the car, to hear, if they wish – about staying with the Shahs, about visiting their grandfather’s old house, about exploring the national parks of Uganda. His voice drips with affection and Zara comments: ‘You’ve really fallen in love with the country, you’re making me want to go! Maybe you can take me with you next time?’ Sameer grins. He does not tell them about Maryam. Not yet.
They drive straight to the hospital from the airport. A pang of anxiety greets Sameer at the revolving doors: he does not want all of his memories of Leicester to be of its general infirmary. But seeing Mhota Papa, who is frail and small and distant, is so different to seeing Rahool. Sameer looks at Mhota Papa, a bag of bones, covered in crumpled skin, and ponders the brevity of life. One day – God willing – Sameer will look like that. It is not distressing; it is inevitable and understandable, something to be grateful for. He sits close to Mhota Papa and takes one of his dry, veiny hands, into which a tube has been inartfully inserted. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, Mhota Papa,’ he says.
Mhota Papa is slow, but acknowledges Sameer with a smile. ‘Toon Kampala giyo hato? Kewoo laygoo?’ You were in Kampala, right? What did you think?
Behind him, Sameer’s father paces the floor. Only two people are allowed in the room at any given time, and the family have been operating on a shift basis, with different people coming at scheduled times throughout the day. ‘Why don’t you guys go home – you must be tired?’ Sameer suggests, glancing at his watch. ‘There’s only half an hour until visiting hours are over. I’ll catch an Uber home.’
His father doesn’t protest and leaves immediately; Sameer finds himself relieved at his departure.
He sits and talks to Mhota Papa, looking into his rheumy eyes and, when Mhota Papa’s eyelids begin to droop, at the layers of sagging skin that roll onto his eyelashes. They talk about his trip to Uganda, about the family’s old shop. Each time, Mhota Papa removes his oxygen mask to speak, prompting a series of coughing fits. But he is animated, switching to English for the first time in years that Sameer can remember (then again, he can hardly remember the last time he sat with Mhota Papa and had a conversation this long).
‘Did you visit the house, beta?’ Mhota Papa asks through raspy breaths.
Sameer nods.
‘Is the bougainvillea still there at the front?’
‘Yes – and it was in full bloom. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘And you never will, beta. The country is unique. That’s why Papa loved it so much, that’s why he couldn’t let it go. He was blindsided by his love for that country –’ but this is too much for him and he begins to cough, aggressive, chesty coughs that cause his whole body to shudder and bring up a thick brown phlegm that he hocks into a tissue. Sameer’s own throat starts to feel scratchy as he watches helplessly.
‘You rest, Mhota Papa, I’ll talk,’ he pleads, handing his uncle the glass of water that’s on the bedside table.
Mhota Papa begins to nod but can’t help himself. ‘Was Abdullah’s family living there?’ he croaks.
‘Yes, Mhota Papa.’
Mhota Papa seems satisfied with this answer and leans back in the bed, but then he starts again: ‘Your dada loved that man more than anyone else in the world.’
Sameer swallows and says nothing. Mhota Papa wheezes a little, but it doesn’t turn into a coughing fit.
‘Your dada was not an easy person to understand, Sameer,’ he says, closing his eyes. ‘But he had a lot of love in his heart.’
Sameer looks at his uncle, thinking back to the Shahzeb of his grandfather’s letters. ‘Dada talked about you so much,’ he whispers. Mhota Papa doesn’t respond. ‘I brought back the letters,’ he adds, still in a whisper. ‘I wasn’t ready to finish reading them, but I brought them with me – every single one.’ He had thought about destroying them, but couldn’t bring himself to do it, and he’s glad of it now, suddenly curious to know more about the young Shahzeb. Still, Mhota Papa does not respond; he is definitely asleep. It’s only at this point that Sameer realises that Mhota Papa is not wearing his hearing aid; that they’d had an entire conversation and Mhota Papa hadn’t struggled to hear him speak. Sameer stays a few moments longer, watching the slow but steady rise and fall of his grandfather’s
oldest surviving child, and thinks: To Him we belong, and to Him we return.
On the way home in the Uber, Sameer finally turns his attention to WhatsApp, firing off a series of messages to Rahool (Are u around tomorrow? Am in Leicester but going back to London Monday), Jeremiah (Yo, I’m back, are you in Leicester?), and, in response to her last message (Land safe?), Maryam (Yes – will call you later. Going to tell my parents about you tonight). Nervous tremors of excitement run through him at the thought of it.
But, that evening, the house is full. Amira Ben and her youngest daughter are staying in the spare room, her two sons have been sleeping in Sameer’s room; Yasmeen Foi and Haroon Fua’s daughter, Samah, and her husband John are in town for the first time in months, and everyone has gathered at Sameer’s family’s house for dinner. It is noisy and crowded; the dining table is extended to seat its maximum of twelve, but this is not enough because Yasmeen Foi’s other daughter, Shabnam, and her family have also arrived. Chairs are pulled from the study, stools brought from the breakfast bar in the kitchen, and everyone squeezes in around the table to be served helpings of Sameer’s mother’s multi-coloured biryani.
It has been a long time since they were all together like this, and he is reminded of evenings at Maryam’s house in Kampala, but it is different when it’s his own family and (no matter how long it has been) he doesn’t have the privileges of a guest. Shabnam’s belly is now enormous and she complains about back pain while her young son Ayaan throws his food on the walls and the floor, only encouraged by his father’s hapless attempts to stop him. Sameer’s parents are occupied with Amira Ben as they try to persuade her that the US is no place to live, and her two young sons try to draw Sameer into a debate about American football teams that he’s never heard of. Zara and Amira Ben’s daughter giggle conspiratorially over something on her phone; although Amira Ben’s daughter is several years younger than her, Zara, being the type of person she is, will make an effort to get along with just about anyone she is asked to. Samah and John are fussed over incessantly by Yasmeen Foi and Haroon Fua, who seem to be just so grateful that they have made the arduous journey down from Leeds, and when Samah shyly reveals that she is three and a half months pregnant, Yasmeen Foi starts to cry with joy. They barely pay any attention to Sameer at all – he has no chance to tell them about Uganda, let alone Maryam.
After dinner, Sameer manages to grab Samah and bundles her out into the back garden, no shoes. The grass is damp from the drizzle and soaks into their socks.
‘I’ve missed you, ben,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen you since the wedding.’
‘I know,’ Samah says, her tone almost contrite. And then, half defensively: ‘You’re always welcome to come and visit us in Leeds, you know.’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ Sameer says. Now that he is standing in front of her, everything he had wanted to ask seems childish and unnecessary. ‘Congratulations on the baby,’ he says after a pause. ‘You both must be so excited.’
Samah instinctively touches her stomach with one hand. ‘The first mixed-race baby in our family,’ she whispers. ‘I hope it doesn’t end up looking completely white.’
‘Either way – are you going to call it Sam?’
He flashes her a smile and they start to laugh, quietly at first and then loudly, full-bellied. It is suddenly like no time has passed at all, as if they are the same Samah and Sameer – Sam and Sam – digging holes in the garden with a stick and daring each other to eat worms.
‘I wanted to tell you something, actually,’ he says. ‘I’ve met someone. Someone I want to marry. You know, a love marriage, like you had. How exactly did you go about it with Foi and Fua?’
‘Wow, little bro,’ she attempts to ruffle his hair as he ducks out of the way. ‘Congratulations. Is she Muslim?’
Yes.
‘Sunni?’
Yes.
‘Indian?’
No.
‘What is she then?’
Ugandan.
‘Even better,’ Samah grins. ‘They’ll love that. Where are her parents originally from – Gujarat?’
‘No,’ Sameer says. ‘She’s not Ugandan Asian.’
Samah frowns, not understanding.
‘She’s African,’ he explains. ‘A black Ugandan. Hijabi.’
Samah’s mouth falls open. ‘Black and hijabi, Sameer?’ she laughs. ‘Nice one. That’ll really push their buttons – well done.’
He scowls. ‘I didn’t do it to piss them off, Sam. And I was asking your advice because you married – you know – John –’
‘Yeah, but, Sameer, John’s white.’ Samah shakes her head incredulously. ‘You really think they’re going to treat a black girl the same way they treat a white guy? You do realise they used to have black servants in Uganda, right?’ Sameer visibly winces at this comment. ‘OK, maybe I’m being unfair,’ Samah concedes, ‘But I’m just trying to be honest with you – I’m not sure how they’re going to take it.’
There is a short silence as they stare out into the depths of the lawn. The kitchen is illuminated against the evening sky and Sameer can see his mother, Yasmeen Foi and Zara cleaning away the dishes. Then, Samah says: ‘She must be really special, huh? Tell me, what’s she like?’
Later that evening, when everyone has left and Amira Ben’s family have gone upstairs (Sameer had reluctantly agreed with his mother that it would make sense for him to take the sofa bed in the living room rather than turf his cousins out of his room), he tries to corner his parents before they go to bed. ‘Mum, Dad, can I talk to you?’
‘What is it, beta?’ his mother’s eyes are tired, hands raw from the washing up. One hand rests on her back like she is in pain.
He takes a deep breath. ‘I want to talk to you about something important.’
‘Something important, huh?’ his father glances at the clock hanging on the wall. ‘Well, now is not really the time. We can speak tomorrow.’
Sameer sighs inwardly – but the arms of the clock do read 1.35 a.m.
He changes into his pyjamas, brushing his teeth in the downstairs bathroom at the same time as scrolling to his messages with Maryam. He had warned her that the dinner would go on late and he wouldn’t get a chance to escape and speak to her; they had arranged to speak during his morning, while she was on her lunch break.
It’s the first time that they will have spoken to each other on the phone and he is strangely nervous, but when her face, grainy but beautiful, appears on the small screen in the morning, the memory of being with her comes back to him so strongly that it is like a physical ache. They talk for an hour – until someone raps on the bathroom door and Sameer is forced to say goodbye and flush the toilet. Zara is standing outside the door, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. ‘You were talking to someone,’ she says. ‘Who were you talking to?’ Sameer shakes his head, a faint smile still on his face, and pushes past her for the kitchen.
But there is no time to talk to his parents over breakfast, and immediately afterwards, they all go to the hospital to visit Mhota Papa. Sameer goes straight from the hospital to see Rahool.
It is the first time in perhaps six or seven months that he has been to Rahool’s family home, and standing there outside the front door, he suddenly wishes that Jeremiah was with him. But Jeremiah had not responded to his last message. He raises a hand and presses the bell.
Rahool’s mother opens the door and hugs Sameer firmly. She looks tired but happy; underlying her movements and the rhythm of her speech is relief. ‘We are so happy to see you,’ she says as she leads him to the front room. ‘Just head on in, I’m going to prepare you some lunch.’ He protests, but she shoves him towards the door and disappears. He stares at the door for a moment, abandoned, and then forces himself to push it open.
Rahool is sitting in a wheelchair, talking to his father, when Sameer enters the room. He looks so small, knees knocking together, hands sitting placidly in his lap, shorn head tilted ever so slightly to the left.
‘Hey, Rahool,’ Sameer says
loudly. ‘Hello, Mr Patel.’
Rahool’s father pats the seat next to him and Sameer sits opposite Rahool. The wheelchair has such presence, dominating Rahool’s small form, the stiff black upholstery visible from every angle, the awkward metal framing holding him together. He wants to pull Rahool out from its constraints – to embrace him, clap him on the back, grab his hand. ‘How you been doing?’ he asks instead.
‘Good,’ Rahool says with a lopsided grin – ‘Better. Heard I forgot you for a while.’ His speech is punctuated with pauses, given context with jerky gesticulation, and his smile makes Sameer wants to cry.
He stays for lunch, and then he stays a little longer. Rahool is slowly learning to walk again and Sameer helps him to practise with a walking frame (the physiotherapist will be coming later and she is apparently quite terrifying when Rahool has not done his homework). When his parents are not in the room, Rahool volunteers that he doesn’t remember anything about the night he was attacked – that this was the first thing that Jeremiah had wanted to know and he’s sorry to disappoint, but it’s a black hole. Sameer is surprised to find that he is unbothered by this news. The trial is over, what has happened has happened, and he’s not interested in retribution or reopening wounds that are on their way towards healing. He’s interested in Rahool’s recovery only. He changes the subject and tells Rahool that he has just come back from Uganda and – unable to keep the excitement out of his voice – that he has met someone. Rahool’s smile is so genuine that it lifts the corners of Sameer’s own mouth until their faces are matching, both beaming, and for a moment Sameer has his old friend back, the Rahool he grew up with, who celebrated each of Sameer’s successes as if they were his own. Sameer stays upbeat the whole visit, nodding and smiling and acting as if everything is completely normal, but it’s exhausting and as soon as he leaves, he almost feels depressed.
