We Are All Birds of Uganda

by Hafsa Zayyan

  ‘Hope you don’t mind if we …?’ Jeremiah points to the wine list.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I find it so impressive when people don’t drink and are still, you know, sociable,’ Angela says seriously. ‘So much of our professional and social lives are constructed around alcohol. I don’t think I could do it.’

  Sameer gives her a short smile in response. A social life without alcohol had seemed unimaginable to him too not so long ago, but he no longer wants to be tied to alcohol in this way. He no longer needs it to feel that he is a part of something, or perhaps he no longer cares about feeling a part of whatever it was that alcohol made him feel.

  The drinks arrive and they toast, wine glasses clinking against Sameer’s pint glass of Diet Coke. They make small talk for a few minutes, Sameer asking Angela where she’s doing her PhD (and being very pleased with himself for having remembered she was doing one) and where she lives in London.

  ‘So what else happened out there?’ Jeremiah asks when the small talk dies down, one hand taking a slug of the wine, the other snaking around Angela’s waist and pulling her close. ‘You seem … different.’

  Sameer shrugs, twirling the straw in his Coke with one hand. ‘You seem different,’ he responds. ‘Going up in the world?’

  Jeremiah laughs, setting down his glass of wine to pick up his phone. ‘I’m kinda blowing up, haven’t you seen my Instagram lately?’

  Sameer shakes his head; he cannot remember the last time he went on Instagram. Jeremiah thrusts the phone under his nose, beaming. ‘Thirty thousand followers,’ he says proudly.

  ‘Wow! That’s a lot.’ Sameer takes Jeremiah’s phone and begins to scroll through the posts. He stops at a picture of Jeremiah standing next to a very familiar face. ‘Wait – is that –’

  ‘Yup,’ Jeremiah is glowing. ‘He was doing a feature with a British artist for his new album and came to the studio to record it. He heard me mixing and I’ve been sharing a few of my beats with him ever since.’

  Sameer is astounded. ‘Mate, that is so cool,’ he finally says.

  Angela leans into Jeremiah and plants a kiss on his cheek. ‘He’s going to make it,’ she says passionately.

  This brief display of affection warms Sameer, makes him crave Maryam.

  ‘So what’s up with you?’ Jeremiah asks, locking his phone triumphantly and putting it back on the table.

  ‘Well …’ Sameer pauses, taking a sip of his drink. ‘The big news is that I’m moving to Uganda.’

  ‘Uganda?’ Jeremiah looks confused. ‘Man, I can’t keep up with you these days. What happened to Singapore?’

  ‘I quit my job,’ he says simply. ‘I quit the job, met a girl, and am moving to Uganda.’

  ‘Hold up.’ Jeremiah’s eyes widen. ‘Did you say you met a girl?’

  Sameer laughs. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Her name is Maryam,’ and the words dance on his tongue and taste sweet.

  ‘Holy shit, you must be in deep. Quitting your job for her?’

  ‘It’s not really for her – she’s a part of it, but –’

  ‘Pic,’ Jeremiah interrupts. ‘Let me see a pic.’

  Sameer starts to take his phone out of his pocket and then stops. He has never taken a photo of Maryam and – for some reason the thought brings a smile to his lips – she doesn’t use Instagram or Facebook. ‘I don’t have one,’ he says.

  ‘You’re moving to Uganda for a girl you don’t have a picture of?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just never took one, I guess. And she doesn’t really use social media.’

  ‘How long have you known her?’ Jeremiah asks, pouring Angela another glass of wine.

  ‘A couple of months?’ and he blushes as he says it, the existence of them, acknowledged by the passing of time, giving him a little flush of pride.

  ‘So what are you going to do out there?’ Jeremiah asks, scraping the flesh off a large green olive with his teeth. Sameer had not even noticed that olives had arrived.

  ‘I’ve got some connections there from my family,’ he says. ‘I know someone who would probably give me a job, but I’m going to try my hand at starting my own business first. After the wedding, I’ll –’

  ‘What wedding?’ Jeremiah nearly chokes on an olive pit, which he spits out and into the palm of his hand.

  ‘My wedding,’ Sameer says, and now he is stifling laughter, thoroughly enjoying the shockwaves he’s sending Jeremiah’s way.

  ‘You’re marrying this girl?’ Jeremiah’s mouth drops open. ‘Are you fucking with me, bro?’

  ‘Stop acting so surprised, man,’ he says, laughing, ‘you know that’s how we do things in my culture, my religion – we move quickly. My grandfather met his wife for the first time on their wedding night.’

  ‘But culture and religion aren’t the same thing,’ Jeremiah raises an eyebrow, ‘you were the one who always told me that. And not gonna lie, but you and your grandfather are a few generations apart …’

  ‘Yeah, but you know, no sex before marriage and all that. So get married quickly, before you end up having sex.’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait, wait. So you haven’t even banged the girl?’ Jeremiah leans forward, intrigued. He narrows his eyes at Sameer. ‘Now I don’t care what you say, that can’t have been your decision, you’re a fucking horny bastard –’

  Sameer and Jeremiah are both laughing; Angela is staring at them, looking slightly perplexed. ‘Honestly, I can’t explain it,’ Sameer says eventually. ‘It’s not like that with this girl. Obviously I want to. But it’s so much more than just physical. It’s like a spiritual connection?’ He looks at Jeremiah, thinking that if there is anyone in the world who would understand what he means, it would be him. ‘I know this is a cliché, but I feel like she’s my soulmate, do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Do you really believe in soulmates?’ Angela says, and her cheeks are flushed. Sameer notices that the bottle of wine is nearly empty. ‘It seems like you’re giving up a lot for a girl you barely know?’

  Sameer bites his tongue. He wants to tell her that the precise measure of time is immaterial; that it has felt much longer than two months; that life before Maryam was no life at all. But he is aware that this will sound ridiculous and he doesn’t need to justify himself to her, so he says nothing.

  Jeremiah shakes his head. ‘You don’t know my guy,’ he says to Angela gently. ‘He’s the smartest person I know, and he doesn’t make decisions lightly. If he says she’s his soulmate, then she’s definitely his soulmate.’

  These words from Jeremiah, this signalling that his friend will have his back no matter what other people think, tells Sameer that their friendship transcends the countries they live in or the amount of time that has gone by since they last spoke. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know how to convey the importance of what has just passed, and so he simply smiles at Jeremiah who gives him a brief nod in response.

  There is a silence that might have been awkward, but Angela shrugs and takes another sip of wine. Jeremiah turns to Sameer. ‘So when’s the wedding?’ he says. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit Uganda.’

  He’d told his parents when the flight was leaving; he’d sent a message on the family WhatsApp group. There’d been no reply. Zara had messaged him separately, privately: You coming home before you go? and he’d arranged with her when he was going to come – just for a few hours to say goodbye and to collect the suitcase he’d left behind before he rushed back to London. She picks him up from the station and they talk about everything except Uganda on the drive home. His father is not there when he arrives, and his mother hugs him but says nothing about his trip. He had wanted, at the very least, to say goodbye to Mhota Papa, but he is asleep. He knew that there would be no grand send-off, no big goodbye, but even so, it’s a little hurtful that no one seems to care. He reminds himself that he will be back and forth in the first few months anyway. They would come round, as Maryam had assured him, and if they wanted to reconcile with him the next time he ca
me back, they could.

  As he packs his suitcase, Zara sits on the swivel chair at his desk, pushing herself around with her feet and watching. ‘You could come with me, you know,’ he says as he throws a T-shirt into the case. Zara shakes her head slowly. ‘Chuck me that charger.’

  As she hands over the cable, she says evenly: ‘You’ve upset Mum and Dad.’

  ‘I know,’ he shrugs, rolling the charging cable into a ball and slotting it into a pocket in his case. ‘They’re just being racist.’ Zara does not respond to this, so Sameer continues, ‘You do realise the only reason they don’t like her is because she’s black?’

  ‘Did Dada die in her house? That’s what they told me.’

  ‘Yes, but he was an old man and he just died in his sleep. There’s nothing weird about it. And trust me,’ he adds, ‘he would have been happy that he died in Uganda.’

  ‘How would you know that?’ Zara says, swinging the chair all the way around so that Sameer can’t see her face. He stops packing and looks up. ‘You don’t know that,’ she says as the chair comes back around to face Sameer. ‘Just try to imagine how they might be feeling right now, when their son is talking about marrying a girl from that house.’

  ‘Zara,’ Sameer snaps, ‘this has nothing to do with that. This is about the fact that Maryam is black. That’s why they don’t like it. Did you not hear what I said? They. Are. Being. Racist.’

  ‘I’m not saying that it’s not messed up,’ Zara says, raising her hands defensively. ‘I’m just saying that you should think very carefully about what you’re doing. Like, do you really want to disobey them? To get married without their blessing? Come on – surely you agree that’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s more wrong that they disagree with it because of the colour of her skin,’ he is nearly shouting with frustration. Of all people, he thought that she would understand, that she would be on his side.

  ‘Bhai,’ Zara says softly, ‘I get it. They’re not always right. I’m not saying they’re right about this. But just think about it for a minute – you’ve only known the girl, what, a few weeks? You’ve known our parents your entire life. Think about how many sacrifices they’ve made for us, all the things they’ve done for us – is it really worth hurting them for a stranger?’

  Sameer wants to throw something at her. Nothing she has said makes sense. How had he thought, all these years, that he knew her so well?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Zara says, standing. ‘It’s just I wouldn’t do it if it were me.’

  In that moment, he suddenly understands. He looks at her expression, his little sister, awash with the pain of the family she would never let down. His anger dissipates immediately. ‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ he says. ‘Please get out of my room.’

  ‘I was leaving anyway,’ she says and walks out.

  24

  To my first love, my beloved

  7th September 1981

  Today, my love, my forgiving, precious love, I write to you from the room that is our study in our beautiful house in Nakasero, Kampala. Yes, Kampala! I am back, and the house has not changed one bit. Bougainvillea still blooms on the porch. The rooms still possess that ineffable scent of home.

  But there is no inclination, it seems, to deliver me joy alone. This visit has come unfalteringly with heartbreak. The Quran says that Allah does not burden a person with more than that person’s soul can bear. How many times am I to suffer before respite is delivered? Is it so that I am capable of bearing pain again and again?

  You should have heard Obote on the television – he was begging for us to return. He has a great deal of admiration for us, my darling. He recognised our contributions – that without us, Uganda had failed to prosper, and that on our return, it would rise to success once again.

  We had already begun to make our mark in Leicester. Before we arrived, Belgrave was a run-down slum. It was our small community of East African Asians who improved it beyond recognition. What was once a strip of disused offices and peeling paint is now a glorious stretch of saris and salwars, dosas and chaat, yellow-gold jewellery shining from behind window fronts. People come from all over the country to visit Belgrave Road. There is nowhere else like it in the UK – even London.

  Our wonderful sons have built the sari shop from the ground up – packed full of every type of fabric, rolls upon rolls of colours, patterns, textures, all glinting under the shop lights. My children and grandchildren are attending good schools and they will all receive full university educations, free of charge inshallah. We are comfortable. But I am not foolish enough to suggest that I can claim any of these successes as my own. It is not me, but my children and my family who have succeeded.

  When Amin was overthrown, it was as if a light inside me had been switched back on: my interest in life resumed. I began to pay attention to the newspapers. I stopped drinking – just like that, they call it going ‘cold turkey’. I simply did not need it any more. I had been waiting for this moment for nearly ten long years. What had I done in all that time? Sat in my bitter corner of the room, bottle in hand. The past few years have not been kind to me, Amira. I am not the man you would remember. My features are bloated, my liver is poisoned and my heart is failing. I should almost certainly be dead. But somehow I am still going.

  I asked Shabnam to come with me, but she did not want to come back. ‘Not even just for a week? To see what it’s like now?’ I had hobbled towards her from the comfort of my armchair, clutching the newspaper in one crooked hand. She was washing dishes in the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled to her elbows.

  ‘Stop this, Hasan,’ she said irritably, jaw set. ‘We are happy here now.’

  ‘You are happy,’ I moaned, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, unwilling to cross the threshold. ‘The children are happy. Everyone is happy except me. And how can you be happy if your husband is not happy?’

  Shabnam stopped washing for a moment, sighed heavily and turned to face me. ‘I understand your frustration,’ she said. ‘I understand your pain. Do you not think that I miss Uganda too? That I didn’t also live my life there? That it didn’t hurt me to go from that, everything we had, to this?’ she gestured around the small room and soapsuds flew from her hands to the floor. ‘But at least here, we are safe, hai na? Have you already forgotten what it was like when Obote was in power the first time?’

  As I stood hunched in the doorway, watching the deft movements of her hands in the sink, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the water, I became so aware of the twenty-year age gap between us. England has given Shabnam a new lease of life; her blood pumps with youthful vigour. I, on the other hand … I looked down at my hands, still clutching the newspaper with Obote’s black-and-white face squeezed beneath my swollen arthritic joints. Twenty years is a vast gap. I realised in that moment that Shabnam and I could not be further apart.

  My children did not want to come with me either. Samir and Shahzeb had no interest at all: too busy, too focused on the business to leave, even if only for a short visit. The younger ones refused – ‘Why would we want to go to Africa, Papa?’ – their memories miss the mango sweetness of the fragranced air: they know only hushed voices, low whispers and palpable fear.

  My youngest, Rizwan, took me to the airport, the others apparently unable to spare the time. ‘You will come back, won’t you, Papa?’ he asked before I went through security.

  I looked at my son’s sweet, bright face, fresh out of university with an honour’s degree in management, about to embark upon his first foray into business by helping his older brothers to run the shop. My youngest child, my boy, was becoming a man. I smiled. ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘it is only a week’s visit. Of course I’ll be back.’

  I had a plan, you see, that if things were good and I could find a way for us to live in Kampala again, I would convince the family that we should return. And if they did not want to, well, I would go back alone. There is nothing for me in England.

  And so it came to be that I arrived in Uganda this morning, alone.r />
  I had not expected the flood of memories to hit me with such force as they did on landing in Entebbe (indeed, I did not know that they were capable of doing so, my wearied old mind forgetting even now, so often, your face), but there it was: flashes of laughter on the shop floor, sitting cross-legged as a skinny child on top of the counter; the cardamom-fennel taste of Abdullah’s milky chai; the caress of your slender fingers over my back, windows open, our bodies sticky with sweat.

  I asked the taxi driver to take me through the Asian neighbourhoods in Old Kampala, down Rashid Khamis Road and past Madras and Bombay Gardens, where we purchased our first house. The houses looked so different; run-down, unkempt, glass missing from window frames through which multiple pairs of eyes stared at me from the darkness. How many African families were now living in these buildings, crammed into each of the rooms? The driver circled the block, looking at me with suspicion, and I quickly directed him on towards Nakasero. I did not know what I would find of our own house, but I prayed to see Abdullah’s face.

  As we approached the wrought-iron gates, an immense sense of panic began to descend upon me. I came very close to telling the driver to take me straight back to the airport! But the gates swung open and the bright fuchsia of bougainvillea burst into sight and it calmed my heart. Nothing, my darling, had changed.

  To my relief and surprise the door was opened by none other than Abdullah’s son, Ibrahim. A man who had disappeared had returned alive and well! I stumbled into his arms, my hands touching his face to check his features were real. His arms, as solid as tree trunks, held me gently. ‘Mjombe Hasan?’ he said. ‘It is really you.’

  ‘I am so happy, Ibrahim,’ I said, unable to stop the tears from running down my cheeks. ‘I never thought I would see you again.’ Behind him, I could hear the scampering of feet: children, women disappearing into the shadows – this house was full. ‘Where is Abdullah?’ I asked, pushing past him.