“Two years. I also have a dry cleaning shop and a taxi service.”
“You do all this alone?”
“I have people working for me and my younger brother will soon join me.”
“What does your father do?” she asks.
“He farms land in Rugaaga.”
“You don’t want to work with him?”
“No. He is very poor. He has only one acre of land.”
“But he sent you to school?”
“My uncle paid for my schooling. He has more land than my father, and he has cattle. But I left school after primary. It is a waste. Unless you want to be an unthinking fool, to cram and repeat things you don’t understand so that one day you can be a clerk, a civil servant, live in a posh house and drive a big car owned by the government. I don’t want to serve anyone. I want to be a businessman, like mhindis. Your people know how to make money.”
“Your father works hard, surely.”
“Very hard. He grows many things: plantains, yams, beans, groundnuts, vegetables. He sells a little and the remainder the family eats. My father works hard and still he is poor. The Bible says, ‘Blessed are the poor for they shall inherit the earth.’ This is what they teach in school. It is honourable to be poor. What is honourable about choosing to live in hell so you can get to heaven? It’s not honourable. It’s stupid.”
“Then what is honourable?”
“Paying no attention to teachers trained by people who want only to see the African remain poor. Becoming better, bigger, more powerful.” He smiles. “And then making my own heaven, here, in Uganda.”
They laugh.
When Mumtaz asks Jaafar about Eliab, he tells her that he used to work for Hussein Mawji as his totoboy, fetching tea, running errands, buying produce from locals. One day he came to Jaafar, asked if he could buy an old car. He would pay him slowly. He could offer no collateral but Jaafar agreed. “I saw something solid in him. He paid me in full, every cent. From nothing, he is building something.”
Eliab comes three times a week to teach Mumtaz. She is becoming a competent driver, but she tells Jaafar that she needs more lessons. She enjoys listening to Eliab. He talks a great deal, about his oversized plans, his oversized dreams. He teaches her about good business practices, about work ethic. He wants to move to Kampala one day to become a Big Man, he tells her. She laughs. This small, slight, soft-spoken man has the spirit of a lion.
In the following weeks, Mumtaz becomes good enough that she can talk casually to Eliab while she drives. She is forced to admit it is time to stop the lessons. “But you must continue to come visit me,” she says, surprising herself. “Does your dry cleaning shop do home delivery?”
“If a customer wants it, I will provide it.”
Once the driving lessons are over, Mumtaz returns to her duties as a wife. She memorizes the schedule of her new home: by what time she is expected to help prepare breakfast, morning snacks, lunch, afternoon tea and dinner. These times do not waver. Raju demands order. And she is living in her father-in-law’s house.
Mumtaz masters the Khoja art of thin khadi and thin chapatis. She learns so well, Raju wants only Mumtaz to prepare his chapatis.
“They are far better than yours,” he tells Khatoun, looking directly in her eyes while Mumtaz stands next to them, crestfallen that her reward for superior skill will be additional cooking duties.
At least once a week during mango season, she helps Rehmat prepare dal and keri nu ras, rubbing mangoes against gunny sacks until she is panting with exhaustion, until she is cursing under her breath.
When Mumtaz tells Jaafar she is pregnant, he promptly announces to his parents that she must rest and no longer do housework.
“I am having a baby,” Mumtaz says, laughing. “I am not ill.”
The following week she helps Rehmat prepare dinner for her parents’ visit.
Later, she sits stiffly at the dinner table while her father glares at her.
“What the hell is this?” he asks in Punjabi, gesturing with his chin towards the mango pulp. “They can’t serve meat when their pregnant daughter-in-law’s parents come over? They give this ridiculous fruit drink and potatoes?”
Mumtaz looks at Rehmat, who is smiling. Her eyes so big and earnest behind the thick lenses of her glasses that Mumtaz is forced to turn away.
This is married life, she reminds herself daily. It is what she expected; it is what she was taught to expect. Those magical early days were only that, magic, illusion. She knows they could not have lasted; she knows they were not real. But as she goes through the motions of the life she waited years for, the life she prayed for, she finds herself longing for something else, something more.
13
THE DAY KARIM IS BORN MUMTAZ WATCHES Jaafar dash into her room at Mbarara Hospital’s maternity ward. He hands her a long-stemmed pink rose. She has just finished feeding the baby and has given him to his grandmother. Rehmat is sitting in an armchair, across the room, the newborn in her arms.
Jaafar has not seen his son yet. He sits down on the edge of Mumtaz’s bed, one knee bouncing. She looks at the rose in her hands, holding it with her forefinger and thumb, careful to avoid the thorns. She is propped up on pillows and in pain from the stitches she has received. But she brushed her hair and put powder on her cheeks. She has been waiting for Jaafar. She wants him to be here. She wants him to see her, the mother of his son. From the moment she learned she was pregnant she fantasized about the moment when the baby would come, when she and Jaafar would blossom into a family, their own family. But when he walked in, almost running, thrust the rose in her face and sat on the bed, his weight causing her body to shift slightly towards him, her pain increased.
“Go, look at your son,” she says. “He looks like you.”
He jumps up off the bed and in two large strides is standing over his mother, looking at the baby. Mumtaz notices that he is wearing a suit, a navy blue suit with a narrow brown tie, a white cravat tucked into his breast pocket. She turns to place the rose on the table and when she looks at Jaafar again, he is shaking his head.
“No,” he says. “He looks like you. Right, Ma?” Rehmat tilts her head to the side, examining the baby. Then she looks up at Mumtaz and nods.
“Are you going somewhere?” Mumtaz asks him, her body sagging with disappointment. She thought he had come to spend time with her, with their son.
Jaafar takes the child from his mother, holding him awkwardly, his large hands struggling to manage the small bundle. The baby begins to scream and Jaafar hands him back to Rehmat, who quickly calms him back to sleep.
“Well done, Ma!” he says. “Just meeting some friends for drinks,” he adds, keeping his eyes on the baby, “to celebrate.”
“Celebrate?” Mumtaz repeats.
“I’m a father now,” he says, looking up at her. He laughs.
She nods, a tight smile on her lips. The pain from the stitches is almost unbearable. She winces.
“I should go, and let you rest,” Jaafar says.
She closes her eyes. He walks over, kisses her forehead and walks out.
A few minutes later, a nurse comes in, at Jaafar’s instruction, she explains, and places the rose in a tall white vase.
The first days of Karim’s life are a blur. Mumtaz is awash in her love for him. She holds him in bed, where she spends most of her time, rubbing her cheek against his, marvelling that this perfect creature is hers. She kisses his miniature lips again and again. She lets her love for her child pour over her, swimming in its tenderness, resisting nothing it offers.
Her sister-in-law Gulshi has come to stay to help with the cooking so that the new mother can focus only on her child. Mumtaz sees even less of Jaafar. “This is all ladies’ business,” he says when she asks him why he is gone more than usual.
She smiles. “But he is your son.”
“He is a baby. As long as he is a baby, he needs only you ladies.”
Forty days after his birth, Karim has settled and sleeps
in the night, waking only once for a feeding. That evening, Mumtaz takes the baby to jamat khana, where she and Karim each will be sprinkled with holy water. It is time for Karim to enter the world and for Mumtaz to re-enter it. Until now, they have hovered in a space above everyday life, above death, above the earth.
Mumtaz feels the shift as a hard, sudden fall.
Shortly after 7:30 p.m., at about the moment holy water was hitting Mumtaz’s face, Baku smashed his Peugeot 404 into a tree.
Earlier, he drank two glasses of Johnnie Walker Red Label with water. But this did not make him drunk. The food he consumed at the Agip Motel, the steaming matooke covered in peanut sauce with large, moist pieces of beef swimming in it, filled him up. On a full stomach, two glasses of whiskey does not make him drunk. But still, he lost control of his car on a smooth tarmac road on a clear night, even though there were no other cars, no people, no animals.
Jaafar, who received a phone call from his brother at 8:15 p.m., minutes after returning home from jamat khana, arranged to tow the car into the garage while Baku and his passenger were being treated at Mbarara Hospital.
Baku was not seriously injured. He needed three stitches over his right eye and his right shoulder was bruised. His passenger was shaken but unhurt. Before Baku returned home, he ensured that she rested before being driven home. He did not know where she lived, but she would give directions to the family’s driver, Burezu. They both speak Runyankole. His passenger that night was a woman, an African woman, a local woman.
Mumtaz sits in silence as Jaafar tells her all of this. She is in bed. She finished feeding Karim and was burping him when Jaafar returned home. He is asleep in his cradle beside her bed now. It is after midnight. She looks at her husband but cannot speak. He is removing his shirt. “Baku can be so stupid, sometimes,” Jaafar says. They are both silent as he continues to undress and then gets into bed beside her, wearing only white briefs. He leans over and turns out the lamp. Then he lies on his back.
“Where did she come from?” Mumtaz says in the dark. “This woman. Where did he find her?” She is surprised by how high her voice is. It is almost unrecognizable. Mumtaz knows Jaafar frequents the Agip Motel; she knows Jaafar regularly drinks Johnnie Walker whiskey. Many evenings, now, she doesn’t know where he is.
Jaafar is quiet. He turns his head to look at her. Her eyes, having grown accustomed to the dark now, can make out his face. But she cannot read his expression.
“I don’t know,” he says, quietly. He closes his eyes. In minutes he is breathing heavily, rhythmically.
Mumtaz remains awake for hours. She cannot stop wondering what, of all the silly things Baku did that night, Jaafar found stupid.
In the days after the accident, no one in the family speaks of it. Khatoun comes over each day to help prepare lunch. Baku walks in, a small plaster on his forehead, and sits down to eat, smiling, as he always does, ravenous, as he always is. Raju and Jaafar discus work and politics with Baku, but not the accident. Mumtaz begins to wonder if she imagined the conversation she had with Jaafar.
Then, one morning, while Rehmat rests in her bedroom, Mumtaz is alone with her sister-in-law. They are preparing sarnosas for the men’s morning tea break. They decided late what they were going to send today. The food must be ready for the houseboy to deliver to the garage at 9:50. It is already 9:00. Mumtaz and Khatoun are rushing.
“How are you, Bhabi?”
Khatoun looks up at Mumtaz, startled. They have been sitting together for close to a half hour.
“I’m fine, of course.” Khatoun smiles and resumes her work.
Mumtaz stares at Khatoun’s hands, dexterous in spite of how fat the fingers are. She is folding a narrow strip of paper-thin pastry into a triangular pouch.
“Are you angry with maro bhai?” Mumtaz asks, referring to Baku as “my brother,” as is customary, as is respectful.
Khatoun does not look up. She picks up a teaspoon and begins stuffing the samosa she has just finished folding. Mumtaz fills a samosa with spiced ground beef and glues it shut with a flour-water mixture. She sets it on a plate, ready to be fried.
“Anger achieves nothing,” Khatoun says, finally.
“But we still feel it.”
“No. No, I don’t feel it. I asked myself many years ago what it is I expect from marriage, from a man. And the answer left me calm. There is nothing to be angry about.”
“You excuse his behaviour?” Mumtaz’s tone is not accusing, in spite of the words.
“It is not for me to excuse or condemn his behaviour.”
“If not you, then who? You are his wife.”
“I want for nothing. My children are all in school. They will be educated. We have the means to find them good marriages. They will live well.”
“What about you?” Mumtaz asks. “Don’t you want a partner? A husband you can trust?”
“You are young,” Khatoun says. “You have imagined more of life than you have lived. Let go of ideas, ideas of marriage, of men, of women.”
Mumtaz’s back stiffens.
“Hold on to what is real,” Khatoun continues, gluing her samosa shut and setting it on the plate. “Then you will be happy.” Carefully, she lifts a new strip of pastry and begins to fold it.
Mumtaz stares at her sister-in-law, at her pockmarked skin that she refuses to cover with powder, at her hair, oiled and tied back in a single long braid like a girl who has just left the village, at her plain, shapeless dress covering her plain, shapeless body. She wants to feel pity for this pathetic woman, sympathy for this wronged wife. Instead she feels both disgusted and pleased. Khatoun is living the life she deserves.
14
SOMEONE IS BANGING ON A PIECE OF METAL. THE sound is coming from far away, from a room Mumtaz cannot see. With a start, she wakes. She is in her bed. The sound is coming from the window. She sees the shadow of a head behind the curtain. She shakes Jaafar until he is awake. Stumbling, his eyes only half open, he goes to the window.
“Bwana! Bwana!”
“It’s Yozefu,” Jaafar says.
Her mind cannot make sense of the scene.
“Our boy,” he says.
He is a man, with a wife and child, but he is called a boy. Jaafar has pulled the curtain aside. He opens the window.
“Bwana, help me. My son, he is sick.”
Mumtaz rushes to the window and sees Yozefu holding his two-year-old in his arms. The child’s head is lolling backwards; bubbling white foam is coming out of his mouth and nostrils. His eyes have rolled back into his head.
Mumtaz holds her hands over her mouth. Jaafar dresses and rushes to the door. She quickly follows, grabbing her shawl from the end of the bed. They meet Yozefu at the front door.
She puts the shawl on the child and Yozefu wraps him in it.
“Asante, Mamadogo.”
“Nenda!” she says. “Why are you wasting your time thanking me?”
Yozefu rushes to the Citroën. Jaafar starts the engine and Yozefu climbs into the passenger seat, the little boy on his lap. With one hand resting on top of her head, the other on her hip, Mumtaz watches Jaafar back out of the driveway.
When she returns to her bedroom, Karim is whimpering. She leans over his cradle and pats his back until he falls asleep. But she cannot sleep. Each time she closes her eyes, she sees the baby with the foam coming out of his mouth; she sees the whites of his eyes.
When Jaafar returns three hours later, she is lying on her bed in the dark. She sits up and looks at her husband. He turns on the lamp. He is holding her shawl. She wants to open her mouth and scream.
“He’s fine. I dropped them at home.”
She lets out a long breath and holds her head in her hands. Jaafar sits down beside her, the shawl in his hands.
“They were drinking and someone gave the baby waragi.”
Mumtaz winces. Even a sip of the local gin makes her stomach turn.
“He would have died if they hadn’t pumped his stomach,” Jaafar says.
Stupid Africans.
The thought has appeared unbidden in Mumtaz’s mind. She presses her eyes closed so that she does not see it, but she can do nothing to silence a silent thought.
“I wanted to scream at Yozefu for being so careless,” Jaafar says. “But he looked so broken as we drove to the hospital. And then I thought, How can I scream at a man whose child is dying? It’s his child. Not my child. Who the hell am I to shout at him?” He lies back on his pillow and closes his eyes.
She watches him. For minutes she does not move. Finally, she lies down beside him and watches his chest rise and fall, his hands still clutching her shawl. “You are a good man,” she says quietly, placing one hand on both of his. He has fallen asleep.
15
MUMTAZ IS WATCHING KHATOUN BOUNCE Karim in her arms. She is standing on the threshold of Mumtaz’s bedroom. Her body is shaking, the rolls in her midsection, visible through her chiffon saree, jiggling like bright orange halva. Karim is crying and Khatoun is humming in a low moan.
Without any warning, recently digested eggs shoot out of his mouth, falling over his chin, onto the bare skin of Khatoun’s chest, down the front of her blouse, her saree. She laughs. “Oh, my poor, poor boy,” she says, her voice artificially high-pitched, the falsetto grating. Khatoun lowers her voice, turns her head and screams, “Esteri! Leta kitambala! Esteri!”
Mumtaz, who is lying on her bed, breathes out of her mouth so that she does not have to smell the vomit. Karim reaches his arms out to her, crying even more loudly.
“Give him to me,” Mumtaz says, gesturing with her hands. “You will need to change your clothes.”
Khatoun is dressed for jamat khana. It is the only time she wears a saree. Khatoun shakes her head and turns her body so that it is between the child and its mother. “You need to rest. I will clean it just now.”
Mumtaz is pregnant. She is nauseated. Her pregnancy with Karim was pleasant. She felt strong and energized. This time she is weak; she cannot keep food down; she is miserable. There are four months left in her pregnancy. She had not expected to make it this far. Two months ago, she decided that she wanted to terminate it. At the hospital for a routine visit, the words abruptly came out of her mouth. “I want an abortion.” She explained to the startled doctor that her mother died in childbirth.
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