We Are All Birds of Uganda

by Hafsa Zayyan

  Sameer doesn’t know why Mr Shah has taken him under his wing, but he remembers that he often used to feel like this – at school, at work, people just liked him for no apparent reason – and he is thankful that his good luck seems to have returned. When Mr Shah insists that Sameer should come for dinner at his house at least one night a week, batting away Sameer’s counter-offer that he could take them out for dinner instead, Sameer has no choice but to agree. Mrs Shah is especially happy to see him and makes a huge fuss of the occasion each time, but Aliyah is notably absent and he is quietly grateful. ‘Although she’ll be back at Christmas,’ Mrs Shah reminds him cheerily. ‘How funny that just as you came here, she went back to university. But it’s no bother, she’s not planning on staying in the UK after university,’ she adds quickly. ‘She’s quite taken with Kampala, like you.’ Sameer remembers guiltily that he had not replied to Aliyah’s last message (Sam, hi, are you in London? I’m back at uni, would love to see you!) and he had not told her that he was moving to Kampala; then again, he is sure that her parents have.

  When the retail trial period for Sameer’s juices begins, he doesn’t employ anyone to assist him. He has some inexplicable feeling that he must do this alone; that it should be difficult and that he should feel it. The kitchen is stocked with commercial juicing machinery, but almost all of the processes are manual. Sameer spends the day operating the machinery, blending the juices, filling the bottles and date-stamping them. He finds it almost therapeutic to use his hands to create something tangible – more than tangible, something edible, something sustaining. He recalls with a detached sense of amusement the greengrocer he used to pass on his way to work every morning – if he was early enough, loading a van with crates of fruit and vegetables; otherwise clearing away the scraps of onion peel and carrot leaves from the street outside the shop. He used to wonder what kind of life people who worked jobs like this lived: did the man just go home at the close of the morning, job done for the day? Was it fulfilling, sourcing fruit and vegetables and delivering them across London? Was it challenging?

  Waiting for feedback is almost painful; the anxious checking and refreshing of his inbox; the odd sensation of a constant, underlying nausea, a feeling he had almost forgotten since waiting for exam results. For the first time since he has had the idea for this venture, he wonders: what if it doesn’t work? But by the end of the first week of the trial, two of the retailers have contacted him to say that they are going to need more bottles for the second week – they have been selling out by lunchtime. Sameer is so grateful that he almost cries.

  The additional supply takes total bottle production to more than he can manage alone – after the first day of the second week, when he locks up at 2 a.m., he asks Mr Shah to find him a short-term employee. Whereas before Sameer was unbothered by late nights (and even relished the feeling of being needed, of having something to keep him occupied every evening instead of coming back to an empty flat), now he keeps one eye on his watch, always conscious of when Maryam’s shift will be over and he will be able to see her. Mr Shah offers one of the sugar factory interns, a young boy named Patrick, and Sameer gratefully accepts; the work is made all the more pleasant by the fact that Patrick is eager and good-natured despite having been removed from the job he had originally applied for and told that he would now be working at a random start-up. Days spent with him on the kitchen floor are easy and enjoyable. Sameer starts to dream about the future, taking Patrick on as a full-time employee, laughing and joking together as the money rolls in, and is secretly disappointed when Patrick reveals that he will be going to university to study engineering the following year (Sameer can never tell how old Ugandans are).

  Whether it is luck, the grace of God, or just the fact of being in Uganda, to Sameer’s relief and elation the four-week trial is a success – all of the retailers agree to twelve-month contracts with him. At the weekend, Mr Shah takes Sameer out for dinner to celebrate.

  ‘May we have many more successes together, inshallah,’ Mr Shah declares, as the waiter brings over two flutes of champagne.

  ‘Inshallah,’ Sameer responds, declining the champagne with a shake of his head.

  ‘You’re not drinking?’

  ‘I’ve stopped,’ he says simply, remembering the tumblers of whisky they had shared in the past. He does not offer any further explanation and Mr Shah does not ask for one; he nods curtly and waves the waiter away with one hand.

  ‘No – please, go ahead,’ Sameer says quickly, suddenly aware that he does not want his decision to decline to come across as righteous.

  ‘No, no, don’t be silly, I won’t drink without you,’ Mr Shah smiles, but Sameer cannot help but feel that Mr Shah now likes him a little less.

  Over dinner, Mr Shah tells Sameer that other retailers and even some restaurants have expressed an interest in trial contracts. They talk about opening a factory, employees, and automating the processes. Tremors of excitement run the length of Sameer’s spine: so this is what it feels like to create something. At the end of the evening, Sameer refuses to allow Mr Shah to pay. ‘I just don’t know how to thank you for all the help you’ve given me,’ he says, surprised to find his voice thick with emotion. He looks at Mr Shah, who is removing a napkin from his collar with one hand and rubbing his protruding belly with the other; the gold chains nestled in the folds of his neck, the bright purple Versace shirt, the gold rings on nearly every finger – he looks ridiculous. But Sameer watches him with fondness – a man who not so long ago was a stranger and is now like a father.

  ‘Now, now, don’t forget I haven’t done all of this for free. I’m still a shareholder in that company, albeit a small one. Don’t go abusing your majority position on me …’

  Sameer laughs. ‘None of this would have been possible without you,’ he says. ‘And I know you have a lot of other more important things you could be doing – I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Just because it’s a small project doesn’t mean it’s not important,’ Mr Shah looks at Sameer with affection. ‘You know, you remind me of myself when I was your age. So full of ideas and energy, I thought I could change the world.’

  ‘You have,’ Sameer says, thinking of the impact that Shah’s Sugar has had on Uganda’s economy.

  ‘And so will you.’

  Sameer’s chest swells with pride as his face breaks into a huge smile. He feels lighter than air and like he is floating upwards and into the sky.

  The feeling of glory lasts a long few weeks – unlike the highs he used to get from a deal completing, which were as short-lived as the days that passed before he was put on the next one. Sometimes he is scared by how well things are going. In just over a month’s time, Maryam will be his wife; he has three twelve-month contracts that will bring in a modest income after they return from honeymoon; and in the meantime, he’s secured further trial periods with other retailers, which means potentially even more business. Nothing, not even the fact that his family are still not speaking to him, can diminish the pride he feels.

  A week or so into the additional trial period, someone comes to the kitchen, knocking on the window rapidly. Patrick goes to the door and calls for Sameer. A Ugandan man is standing in front of him. ‘Is this Saeed & Sons?’ he demands.

  The tone of his voice makes Sameer swallow.

  ‘Why?’ he says, wiping a hand on his apron. He is still holding a knife that he had been using to cut papaya and a drop of dark orange juice falls from the blade to the floor; he sheepishly tries to hide the knife behind his back.

  The man’s lip is trembling. ‘You and your people, always stealing business from us – how can we compete with you?’

  Sameer’s heart starts to pound. ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘I am being told my contract is terminated. I go to the supermarket, and all I see is your juice! I looked it up, I found this address. You are with Shah’s Sugar, aren’t you?’ the man says. ‘You Asians, always helping each other out, never thinking about the people who are hosti
ng you in the very land on which you are standing!’

  The acerbic tone cannot hide the pain that leaks from the corners of the man’s eyes; Sameer meets them and is hit with the full force of his anguish. He looks at the man’s worn and tired clothing; his stance reveals some discomfort in his leg, or perhaps his back; Sameer imagines the hungry mouths of the family he has to feed at home. He takes a step back. ‘Look, Mr – I’m sorry, I don’t know your name –’

  ‘What does my name matter to you?’ the man says, and now the bitterness has left his voice and only desperation remains. ‘Your foreign money and your connections have caused three of the biggest retailers who sell my juice to shift to you. Now what do I do?’

  The look on the man’s face is one of hopelessness, but more than that, Sameer senses resignation: that for this man, Sameer standing here in front of him like this was inevitable. Before he can say anything, the man sighs, says something in Lugandan that Sameer does not understand, and starts to walk away, limping slightly.

  Wait! Sameer wants to call after him, but when he opens his mouth to speak, no sound comes out. He remains in the doorway, stunned, watching the back of the man’s stumbling figure. He is suddenly very aware of his own able body, the cost of his shoes, the watch on his wrist.

  ‘Mr Saeed?’ Patrick appears behind him, concerned.

  ‘I’ve told you to call me Sameer,’ he responds automatically.

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ Patrick wheedles. ‘Sameer, are you OK?’

  Sameer cannot bring himself to explain to Patrick what has just happened. Not only is he guilty of doing the things of which he has been accused, but worse: he was unaware that he was doing them. ‘I need to go,’ he says to Patrick. ‘Can you finish up?’

  On his way out, and he doesn’t know where he’s going, he reaches for his phone and calls Maryam once, twice, three times. She doesn’t pick up.

  He finds himself outside Mr Shah’s offices. When, agitated, he tells Mr Shah what happened, Mr Shah dismisses it as meaningless and typical. ‘The same thing has happened to me before,’ he says. ‘It’s happened to all of us – no doubt it happened to your grandfather. These karias, they hate to see us succeed. But let me tell you something, son, there is nothing to feel bad about. This is just capitalism.’

  Sameer is sickened by these words, and Mr Shah’s face, just moments before these words, so kind and unassuming, now distorted into the image of his grandfather, his grandfather’s face distorted into the image of him. They are all the same. Sameer stumbles out of the office – Mr Shah calling after him: ‘Are you OK, beta? I’ve heard there’s going to be a storm tonight, and it’s going to be nasty, please stay out of it. Sameer?’

  But Mr Shah did not see the man, standing there in front of him, defenceless and hurt, his livelihood having been snatched from his hands by Sameer; he had not spoken to him. Mr Shah, with his comfortable life, his immense wealth, he didn’t care about anyone but himself. And now Sameer was doing exactly the same thing.

  Back in the Airbnb and his suitcases are upended – suitcases he has been living out of for weeks now – a visitor to this country, a guest. He’d kept the package of letters somewhere here, a little part of his dark history carried with him everywhere. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to read them. But now there is only one thing to do: to know it all, to its bitter end. He takes the bundle and walks out of the Airbnb, walks until he reaches Kololo, struggling in the humidity, scrambling up the steep red hill that leads to the park bordered by the disused airstrip. The sky is perfectly clear – but there are no people, as if everyone knows something he doesn’t.

  There he sits and reads. Letter after letter, unfolding in his palms, squinting at the cursive, aching at the tenderness, burning at the racial slurs, laughing sometimes at the sheer stupidity and ignorance. He has never sat and read the letters in a row like this and he is spirited away – he is his grandfather now, hunched over his desk, loopy writing in blue ink that bleeds onto the page, while his heart bleeds for Amira and Uganda. He is his grandfather while his rights are stripped, while his passport is taken from him, he is his grandfather as the only place he ever called home expels him. He is his grandfather as he tries and fails to settle in a country where he experiences cold as he’s never known it, and he is his father now, getting smacked in the face walking home from school. He is his father as he listens to the drunken slurring of life in Uganda, a country which evokes nothing but anger – how could they do this to us, cast us out here? He is his father now, sleeping like a sardine cuddling up to his brothers and cousins because there are five of them asleep in a room and they can’t afford to switch the heating on. He is his father watching his mother serve dinner to her children and husband and realising that after that, there is nothing left. He is his father as he watches his mother smiling and saying cheerfully that it’s OK – if it goes into your stomach, it goes into mine. And then, finally, he is his grandfather again – returning to the country in which he will die, admitting that he never knew if his first wife ever loved him.

  When he is done, Sameer’s face is streaked with tears. Clouds have begun to gather. He is empty now, spent. There is nothing left of him. He will lie, face down in the red ground of Kololo’s Independence Park, and allow the rain to wash him into the earth. Suddenly, he is overwhelmed by the strongest urge to call his father. He retrieves his phone from his pocket and dials the number. On the fourth ring, his father picks up and says shortly: ‘Sameer?’

  ‘Dad,’ he chokes.

  ‘Son?’

  Why did he call? ‘Dad, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.’

  There is a pause in which Sameer wonders whether his father will hang up. But no – ‘Are you OK?’ his father asks.

  ‘I’m OK, Dad,’ he breathes. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry for everything that I’ve put you through. I know this is really hard for you.’

  His father sighs heavily, making the line crackle. ‘You know, all I have ever tried to do is what is best for you. I wanted you to have the life and opportunities I did not have.’

  Sameer knows that the usual lecture is about to begin, but he doesn’t interrupt. He wants his father to have this one. He wants his father to know that he is listening. There’s no security in Africa – it’s not like England – there is no respect for rights, you will never be one of them, whereas even if the English won’t accept you as one of them, they will respect your basic rights. There’s a reason we don’t want this for you – and there’s a reason we don’t want her for you. Yes, you are English, but we didn’t raise you with English values – we raised you with our values. We raised you to put your family above everything else: we didn’t raise you to be selfish. We raised you to understand the sacrifices we have made to allow you to be where you are today, and we raised you to understand that you have duties.

  Sameer listens. He doesn’t agree with all of the things his father is saying, but he understands, perhaps for the first time, why his is father is saying them.

  ‘Sameer, I can’t force you to listen to me any more. But you’re a good boy at heart. I think you know what the right thing is to do. Come home, son.’ – and on these last words, Sameer is nauseatingly homesick and his eyes fill with tears. Maybe he should leave Uganda. Maybe it’s time to go home.

  But – Maryam …

  Right on cue, the call with his father is interrupted by a call from Maryam. ‘Dad, I’ve got to go,’ he says, and then, hesitatingly, ‘but I’ve heard you. I love you, Dad. I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Sorry, I was on the phone to my dad,’ he says to Maryam. She is surprised and pleased at this news – what triggered the reconciliation? ‘I need to talk to you,’ he says.

  ‘Sameer, is everything OK?’ and when he doesn’t respond immediately: ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Kololo Independence Park.’

  ‘There’s a storm coming, you should get indoors.’

  ‘It hasn’t broken yet.’

  ‘OK, j
ust stay there,’ she says. ‘I’m coming to get you.’

  While he waits, his mind races. They’d never discussed the possibility of living in England – it was always just assumed that he would move to Kampala. But they’d never actually discussed it. When he spoke to her, she’d see the turmoil his mind was in, and maybe she would consider it. Practically speaking, getting her to England wouldn’t be a problem once they were married – she would be on a married person’s visa. But would she ever leave her father?

  He scrambles down the hill and waits for her familiar Toyota; it pulls up on the side of the road and he climbs in. The sight of her – as always – delivers relief, like he’s come home. He reaches out to touch her face and she nuzzles her cheek into his palm.

  ‘What’s going on? Why are you out here?’

  ‘I really need to talk to you.’

  ‘Now?’ and there is a hint of fear in her voice.

  ‘Now is as good a time as any,’ he takes a deep breath and begins: ‘I had a visitor today …’ He tells her everything: the man at the kitchen, Mr Shah’s reaction, what he read in his grandfather’s letters, how it made him feel. Like he’s an impostor, repeating the mistakes of his grandfather, thinking it’s OK to come in and exploit the country like this, a country to which he doesn’t belong. He tells her that he spoke to his father – and yes, that was great news, but it made him wonder: was this all moving too fast? They had never talked about England, but she could be happy in England. He would make her happy; he could be enough. England would love to have her – just as it accepted his family after they were expelled from Uganda. He’s rambling now, but he can’t stop.

  She allows him to speak without interruption, but when he is done, she shakes her head, expression pained. ‘OK,’ she says calmly. ‘Is this all about that man who came to your kitchen? His contract wasn’t terminated for no reason, you know … your products are obviously just better. That’s not your fault.’