by Hafsa Zayyan
‘Uncle,’ he said softly, ‘come and sit down. Let me make you tea.’
And so I sat with a cup of tea in my old drawing room (different, but the same) with Ibrahim. He could have been Abdullah, sitting there across from me with that knowing, smiling look, as we shared his milky chai. But it was not Abdullah. It was his son.
And so, it is with a heavy heart that I relay to you now the news he delivered. He told me that when he had disappeared, he had fled to Tanzania because he knew that it wouldn’t be long until his tribal roots marked him as a target of Amin’s regime. He told me that the military began to look for him, and Abdullah – a prominent and well-known figure thanks to Saeed & Sons – was a means to exert pressure. He told me that one day, on 6th January 1973, Abdullah just disappeared.
‘I joined the Tanzanian forces in the struggle to overthrow Amin, and we took Kampala in the spring of 1979,’ Ibrahim said. ‘When I came here, to this house, it had been abandoned by whoever had been living here before the war –’ and he avoided my eyes momentarily – ‘so we just took it. But it is yours, of course, you are welcome to have it back if that is what you came for.’
‘Where is your father?’ I repeated.
‘Uncle, we do not know,’ Ibrahim’s voice caught in his throat. ‘He never returned. And no body was ever recovered.’
I looked down at my hands, gripping the china mug tightly, saw my nose and chin swimming in the milky surface, and was suddenly seized by the urge to throw the cup across the room, to smash it to pieces against the wall, to let the tea stain everywhere. I had always believed – perhaps somewhat naively, yet, nevertheless wholeheartedly – that I would see him again. We were not finished; I was not yet done with him, like I was not done with you, and I wanted to tell Ibrahim: there was more to be said between us – I had more to say …
‘May I borrow your car?’ I asked Ibrahim. ‘I need to go somewhere.’
‘I would be happy to take you anywhere you want, Uncle.’
‘No,’ I said shortly. ‘I must go alone.’
It felt good to be behind the wheel and in control. Nothing about the roads had changed, save, perhaps, that they were in a better condition than I remembered. At first I thought I was going to the Muslim cemetery – to visit your grave – to lie myself down on the dirt above your skeleton and weep. But I found myself turning out onto the empty roads that led to Jinja. I drove for an hour before I stopped, in the middle of nowhere, where bush meets exposed volcanic rock, where the formation of the land is reminiscent of prehistoric times. I clambered atop one of the rocks, knelt down and prostrated my unwilling body so that my head touched the stone.
I had only ever been here once before: the night I had found you sitting with Abdullah, your slender hands pressed against his black skin. I had never thought about this place again, and if anyone had ever asked me where it was I would not have been able to tell them.
To this day, I cannot justify to myself why I did not talk to you the week before your death. You will not understand when I say to you that the way a man’s mind works is to jump from the visual to the physical. This is tangled up with our sense of possession, our sense of pride and our sense of shame. I am sorry, Amira. I am sorry I did not talk to you.
You see, for so long I have tried to forget that night. Terrible things happen, you process them and you move on. That is our capacity as humans, to forget, so that we do not stop ourselves from living in the present. That is our gift.
Now it comes back to me with a shame I cannot bear. My fingers sweat and the grip on this pen loosens.
I see myself, walking into the house we shared together, after a long day of work, Abdullah lying on the sofa, you, crouched over him with a damp cloth. Your hair was loose – falling on his face, tickling him, he would have been able to smell its aroma, soft and fresh. Why hadn’t you tied it back? I watched you both for a moment; you said something softly and he laughed, a deep gurgle from the belly.
I did not say anything. It was as if, after so many years, all the pieces of the puzzle had finally slotted into place. As if I had been a blind man, feeling my way around for my entire life, and suddenly I had been given the gift of sight. That look of tenderness in your eyes, the gentle way in which your fingers touched his skin – it all came crashing together, to me, in that moment. You loved him. You had always loved him.
Perhaps I let out a scream – I must have done something to alert your attention, because you started and looked up at me, eyes wide and innocent, just like they were on our wedding day. ‘Hasan?’ you said gently. ‘Abdullah’s been hurt.’ Abdullah scrambled to his feet then. Blood was dripping into his eyes. You looked at each other and you looked at me. ‘Hasan?’ you said, stepping forward. There was concern in your voice. I stumbled backwards, out of the room, out of the house.
I jumped in the car and began to drive. As I drove further and further, all these things started to race through my mind. You need to understand: my mind would not stop. Things that had seemed so innocent, that had meant nothing at the time – they all suddenly took on meaning. The way you always fought his corner; the way you laughed at his jokes; the way you spoke of him and his devotion to his faith; the many, many ways in which you showed you cared. You loved him, and I finally saw it.
I drove a great distance, until I was forced to stop the car to relieve a sudden urge to throw up. I stood at the side of the road to a view of these rock formations and, just as I did today, I knelt on the rock and prayed to Allah that this problem would resolve itself. I prayed for the strength to deal with your betrayal and for justice to be done – for me to prevail over him.
When I eventually returned to Kampala that night, the house was quiet. There was no sign of Abdullah. You greeted me at the door, anxious. I still remember the way your lips trembled, as if you were about to cry. Your soft voice: ‘Hasan, what is going on? Where did you go?’ I could not look at you. You have to understand, at that time I believed that you had betrayed me. You and him both. And you were feigning innocence, like you had no idea. Before that moment, I did not realise that the way you feel about someone can change in an instant, like the snap of fingers. Before that moment, I had always thought of you as an extension of me; that you were my ultimate source of comfort – and I yours – because we were simply a reflection of each other. But in that moment, I realised that, in the end, we are all on our own. In that moment, I detached you from me.
I wanted nothing to do with Abdullah either. And so I sent a message that he had been dismissed and I did not speak to you for a whole week. I found it difficult to look at you. It was easier for me to pretend that you did not exist; to turn away from you when you tried to speak to me, to walk away when you tried to touch me. You have to believe me when I say, Amira, that I was trying to find the words. After twenty years of marriage, twenty years of words flowing between us, unbroken, I suddenly did not know what to say. This was a new world, one in which you were no longer a part of me: how could I convey to you what was going through my mind? But before I even had the chance to try, you were taken from me.
A freak accident, they said. She was terribly unlucky – never normally happens in Kampala, it’s much more common up in the northern parts of the country. Sorry, Hasan, but she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why you went out in a thunderstorm, I don’t know. Where you were going, I don’t know. And because I had refused to speak to you, I never will.
It was only at that point – when Abdullah came to me at your janaza, when we both wept like children, when we embraced like brothers, when he swore upon Allah that nothing had ever happened between you – that I knew that I had to believe him. I had to be humbled, otherwise my jealousy would destroy everything I loved, and I loved him. I had lost you. I could not lose Abdullah too.
So tell me, my darling, who did you love? Was it me, or was it him? Because it cannot have been both of us. All those years after your death, I convinced myself that it was me. Abdullah convinced me that it was me
. But it is your souls that have been reunited now, whilst mine remains on Earth.
Do you remember when we first married and I used to have the driver take us out in Papa’s old car so we could explore Uganda?
Our first trip together, two months into our marriage, our faces dewy with youth and love, holding hands in the back of the car as we went along that winding dirt road to Sipi Falls. I still remember exactly what you were wearing: a simple yellow salwar, hair pulled back, no make-up. And I remember thinking that you were the most exquisite creature in all the world. Halfway up the mountain road butterflies appeared – hundreds and thousands of them – and you made the driver stop for fear of killing them. We got out, laughing, surrounded by butterflies dancing maniacally in the wind, clinging to your hair and your clothes, leaving your pale yellow salwar streaked with orange dust. We went back to Sipi many times, but we never saw anything like it again.
Remember February of 1925, the hottest summer on record, when I shared with you the secret hiding spot I used to visit as a child? An enormous canopy rock at the top of a hill on the outskirts of the city. We climbed under the rock on our knees and into the cool shelter, avoiding the small pools of water that collected in drops from the low ceiling. Sitting cross-legged and breathing in the cold smell of earth and damp, I still remember how your lips tasted like strawberries behind that curtain of cold air.
Remember our weekend picnics, when Samir was just a toddler, and we would take Papa, and your parents too – we’d all squeeze into one car, seven or eight of us, and drive to Entebbe? Laughing and talking, as we made our way through the ginger lilies and starbur, to sit on the green grassy mounds overlooking Lake Victoria in the shade of the trees, heating red chicken curry on a Primus stove. I still remember how that curry smelled as it rose from the stove, mixed with the scent of the jasmine that surrounded us.
Uganda, my beautiful land. In spite of everything I have lost, it is so good to be home.
25
The first time Sameer returns to Entebbe, Maryam is waiting for him at the airport, alone. He sees her, standing a few steps away from everyone else in the crowd, tall and slender, hands clasped in front of her, wearing a floor-length blue dress. He breathes with a new excitement, but he doesn’t run to her and she doesn’t move forward. He wants to savour this moment, the return, and so he walks until he is standing an inch from her. She looks unbelievably beautiful. ‘Where is everyone?’ he asks.
‘I didn’t tell them you were coming,’ she says. He drops his bag and puts his arms around her waist, pulls her close to the smell of strawberries, drops a kiss on her forehead. People are staring openly at them, but they don’t notice. She nestles her head into his chest. ‘I didn’t know if you were really coming,’ she admits, almost in a whisper, and he pulls her closer.
Stepping out of the airport and onto the red dust land is like coming home: familiar and comforting all at once. He’s booked an Airbnb in Old Kampala, but Maryam insists they go straight from the airport to her family house in Nakasero.
‘Taata is home and you have to speak to him,’ she says, and her voice is strained with urgency. ‘I haven’t told them anything about us, but it doesn’t feel right for you to be here and them not to know.’
‘OK,’ he says, giving her hand a small squeeze. He was prepared for this; he knows what he is going to say.
Maryam is quiet on the journey towards Kampala and Sameer finds himself doing most of the speaking, chattering away about the progress he has made with his business, telling her about Jeremiah, Rahool. When they eventually arrive and she pulls into the drive and kills the engine, she turns to face him and he can see trepidation in her face. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says gently. ‘It’s going to be fine. Come on.’
One of Maryam’s aunties – Sameer cannot remember her name, although he recognises her face – is standing right behind the door when Maryam turns the key, as if she had just been about to open it. ‘Sameer?’ she says, surprised. ‘Maryam?’ An eyebrow is raised.
‘Assalaamualaikum,’ Sameer tries, but the auntie just nods her head and steps back to let the pair of them into the house. Maryam takes him to the drawing room and tells him to wait there.
The minutes pass slowly and he is drawn to the photos sitting in frames along the display cabinet: the young children of the house, grouped together in a dirt yard under a mango tree; a black-and-white photo of two older women he doesn’t recognise, with severe expressions and no smiles; a picture of Maryam and her father at her graduation, Maryam smiling with her whole face, a noticeably younger Musa with one arm proudly around her shoulder.
There is a noise behind him and he jumps and the photo falls backwards. He rushes to straighten it (he did not realise he had been touching it) and turns round quickly. Musa and Ibrahim are standing in front of him – no Maryam.
‘Hello,’ Sameer says, eyes addressing both men.
‘Assalaamualaikum,’ Musa replies, coming forward to embrace him (Sameer rushes a hasty wassalaam, annoyed that he has not been able to work out who says salaam in this house). Although Ibrahim is older, it is Musa who uses a walking stick; as he walks towards Sameer, his movements are spasmodic, difficult. This reminds Sameer of Rahool and he shakes his head to get the image out of his mind. ‘Sit down.’ Musa gestures towards the settee and Sameer sits; they take a seat opposite him.
‘So,’ says Ibrahim, ‘you have returned.’
‘Uganda is a very beautiful country,’ Sameer replies carefully.
‘Just Uganda?’ Musa asks, leaning forward so that his head rests on his hands, which are placed atop his walking stick. They both stare at him.
‘Uncle, as you may know –’ Sameer clears his throat – ‘I have come to ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage.’
Musa nods, seemingly unsurprised. ‘We do not have intermarriage here,’ he says. ‘I do not know any Asian who has married a Ugandan.’
Sameer doesn’t know what to say to this.
‘Tell me something, Sameer. Why do you want to marry my daughter?’
Sameer is slightly taken aback; he had not expected such a direct question, but he is aware that pausing for any longer will convey uncertainty, where none exists. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘she’s the most incredible person I have ever met. I can’t imagine my future without her in it. I want to make her happy.’
‘Mmm. And how will you do that, Sameer? How will you make her happy?’ The air in the room is clammy and Sameer has started to sweat. He opens his mouth, about to speak, but then Musa says: ‘She’s only ever known the Ugandan sun,’ and his voice falters on the last word as he turns his face towards Ibrahim, searching for comfort.
‘Uncle,’ Sameer says, almost laughing as he understands, ‘I have no intention of asking her to come to England – you know that, right? I intend to move to Kampala.’
‘To Kampala?’ Musa repeats, eyes narrowing with suspicion. ‘You?’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
‘But what will you do here?’
‘I’m going to start my own business, a juice business. I really believe it’s got a future,’ Sameer says excitedly. ‘But if, ultimately, it doesn’t work out,’ he adds, ‘I can always work in my uncle’s company.’
‘Ah,’ Musa says, leaning back. ‘I see.’ Musa has visibly relaxed; that his daughter will stay in Kampala is a different world to the one he had pictured. ‘And this is what you want? To move to this city?’
Sameer can’t help smiling when he says yes. He has not just fallen for Maryam, but for her city and her country too.
Musa studies Sameer in silence for a moment. Then he says: ‘You know that this may not be easy for you.’
‘Your family in particular may find it difficult,’ Ibrahim adds delicately. ‘It is the Asians who don’t like to intermarry.’
Sameer looks at the men squarely. He is not going to skirt about the issue. He is not going to lie. ‘They don’t approve,’ he says bluntly. ‘I told them I wanted to marry Maryam, and they didn’
t approve.’
Ibrahim nods. ‘But you still came.’
‘I still came,’ Sameer repeats.
As he anticipated, during his first few months in Uganda, Sameer returns to the UK to tie up a few loose ends – the lease on his flat, his finances, his belongings.
He’d half expected his family to have missed him; to welcome him with open arms on his return. Time has passed: how much time did they need? But when he had gone back to Leicester, his father was not at home. ‘He’s visiting Bapa Zakir,’ his mother had said. Bapa Zakir, his father’s older brother who lived in Birmingham, who Sameer could not remember his father ever visiting before.
He could tell by the way she’d held him that his mother was happy to see him, but she refused to talk about his move to Uganda and acted as if it was not happening at all, despite watching him drag a suitcase full of his things from his room into the corridor. In the night, he thought he could hear her sobbing. Mhota Papa was weaker than ever and slept on and off most of the day. Zara was the only one who would talk to him about the move. ‘They haven’t told Mhota Papa you’re leaving,’ she said. ‘And you mustn’t tell him. It will cause him too much distress.’
‘So he thinks I’m still in London?’ Sameer had asked warily.
‘Yes, and it needs to remain that way for his own good.’ Zara stared at him and he stared back. ‘Please, Sameer, can you at least do this one thing for our family?’
Sameer had swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat and did not respond to this remark, but he did not say anything to Mhota Papa either.
It is England that now feels like the foreign country; perhaps because his family have rejected him, his reasons for calling it home exhausted. In Uganda, Sameer has found family in Maryam – and in Mr Shah. Mr Shah has done a lot for him, putting him in contact with a local lawyer, getting his juices a month-long trial period with well-known retailers, helping him to find commercial kitchen space to rent. He’s even invested a not insignificant amount of money into the business as start-up capital.
