“What’s this I hear?” Raju is standing, looking down at his wife. “You are becoming more ill because I am not talking to you?”
Her eyes are wide and she is blinking rapidly. She looks frightened.
He sits on the bed, placing his hands on his lap. “Shall we make you well again?”
Rehmat smiles.
Mumtaz is sitting on the verandah, cross-legged, a bowl of boiled almonds in her lap. She squeezes an almond through her thumb and forefinger, watching the white flesh slip out of the brown skin with ease.
“Bapa has begun talking to Ma again.”
Mumtaz looks up and sees Jaafar standing above her.
“I know it wasn’t my place, but I told him he was making her feel terrible,” she says. “I felt so sorry for Ma. Sometimes Bapa doesn’t know what to do; he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Ma is dying. He can’t accept it. He punishes her for what he cannot change.”
Jaafar crouches down beside her.
“Have I made things worse? Is he angrier with her?” she asks.
“No. Things are better.”
Mumtaz looks at Shama and Karim, who are standing on the grass, using long twigs to poke the ground, or a creature on it; she cannot tell which.
“I’ve always been afraid of displeasing him,” he says. “I’ve always thought he was right about everything. Being afraid of someone who will never lead you astray is easy. It used to be easy.”
Mumtaz puts the bowl down on the ground in front of her. She pulls her knees towards herself and turns her body so that she is facing Jaafar.
“Not once did it occur to me to ask him to be better to her,” he says. “Not once in my life.”
A week later, as the family sits down to breakfast, Amir says he will take Rehmat and Karim for a drive. If his mother feels strong enough, he will drive them to Lake Mburo for a picnic. Mumtaz watches Amir, sitting across from Jaafar, his eyes on his plate even as he is speaking.
“Why not come back here and have lunch with us?” Jaafar asks.
“The air will do Ma good.”
“There is air here. We can eat on the verandah.”
“The truth is I would like to spend some time at the lake before going back to Kampala tomorrow.”
“Do you remember when we went hunting near Lake Mburo? When I shot that antelope? The guilt almost killed me.”
“I don’t remember. I wasn’t there. You went with George.”
“Ah, yes. You’re right.” Jaafar smiles, turning to look at Mumtaz. “He does remember. He remembers better than I do.”
Mumtaz looks at Amir. He is chewing. He is staring at the top edge of his plate. He looks alone, lonely, as though he is trapped in a glass case. “I’ll pack you a lunch,” she says.
“Thank you,” Amir says, lifting his eyes to her.
Two hours later, Shama is cross-legged on the floor of the sitting room playing with a doll while Mumtaz reads the newspaper. She is reading about two American journalists who have been missing for three months. They came to Mbarara in July to investigate rumours of killings at the Simba Battalion. They have not been seen since they arrived at the barracks in their small blue car, a piece of paper reading Press stuck to the window. The United States is demanding answers and President Idi Amin has promised to investigate.
When Raju and Jaafar walk in, Mumtaz fires questions at Jaafar. She asks him if he has heard of these journalists; she asks if there has been talk in town about them; she asks about rumoured killings among soldiers.
“So many questions?” Jaafar smiles. “Let me get into the house first.” He walks towards his daughter.
Raju goes to the dining room and sits on his chair at the head of the table, facing the sitting room, facing Jaafar, who is settling down on the floor next to Shama. Mumtaz walks over to her father-in-law and pours him a glass of water from the carafe sitting on the table.
“What do you think has gone on at the barracks since Idi Amin took over?” Mumtaz asks, looking at Jaafar.
“Well, after the coup he had to replace the officers with ones loyal only to him. Remember Obote’s men, Bapa? They were impressive. Trained at Sandhurst, spoke English like proper Englishmen, behaved like gentlemen. They paid their bills up front at the garage and they were polite. These new ones, these Nubis, their English is terrible, even their Swahili is terrible. They don’t know how to speak properly in any language, just like our new president. And they never pay their bills. They’re friendly enough. But Obote and his men had some class. It looks like we’ll have to get used to the new style.” He is lying on the floor on his back. Shama has climbed onto his stomach and is holding her doll over his face, making it kiss him. She is giggling. “But who knows how long this joker Idi Amin will last.”
“Where are Obote’s officers?” Mumtaz asks. “The ones who disappeared right after the coup.”
“In prison, likely,” says Jaafar. “Some would have joined Obote in exile in Dar es Salaam, like George did. I’m sure some were killed.”
“The missing Americans were trying to find out about mass killings at the Mbarara barracks in June, killings of Langi, Obote’s tribe, and Acholi.”
“Oh, I don’t know about mass killings. Wouldn’t we have noticed masses of dead bodies in our town?” Jaafar laughs. Then he abruptly stops. He sits up and Shama rolls off him. Mumtaz sees Raju and Jaafar exchange a look.
“Dead bodies, Daddy? What is dead bodies?” Shama asks.
“Ah, silly big people talk. Shall we go outside with your new dolly, beta?”
After Jaafar walks out, a giggling and flailing Shama in his arms, Mumtaz turns to her father-in-law. “Bapa, would you like some tea?” He shakes his head. “Some papaya? It’s very sweet. Let me bring it.”
“What do you think of all this?” he asks her. Slowly, she sits down in a chair next to him. She feels her fingers trembling.
“I think,” she says, pausing and looking at her hands, which she is folding and unfolding atop the dining table, “I think something is off. Even the air feels different.” She looks at Raju. She expects him to be shaking his head or smiling indulgently at her. But he is doing neither. His eyebrows are raised, his eyes open wide, like a child’s, like he is waiting for her to give him something he needs, something he has been waiting for. The words stream from her mouth like a swollen river breaking over its banks. “Amirbhai told us that a friend of his at the immigration department said thousands and thousands of Asian applications for citizenship were abruptly cancelled in the past few months. Many of these had been pending since independence, almost nine years ago. Jaafar said it was bureaucracy, the new government setting new guidelines, that people would simply need to reapply. But I find it strange. Why only Asians? I have heard Idi Amin on the radio talking about how terrible Asians are, cheaters, smugglers who won’t let their daughters marry Africans. Then a few weeks later he says Asians are wonderful, the strength of Uganda’s economy. He’s mad but—” She stops. She looks down at her hands again. Then she looks at Raju. His expression has not changed. “He’s going after tribes, tribes that threaten him. Langi, Acholi, Asian,” she says. “His talk is stupid. But his actions are organized, systematic.”
Raju slowly runs his hand over his face. He looks at Mumtaz and nods.
19
RAJU AND REHMAT TRAVEL TO JINJA TO VISIT Gulshi and her family for their granddaughter’s engagement ceremony. In the two months since the doctor told Raju about Rehmat’s failing heart, he can see that she tires more easily than she used to. In the night he hears her moan in her sleep. They are sitting on the verandah. It is early morning and Rehmat is sipping tea. A small bird alights on the ground in front of her. It walks quickly, purposefully, towards her. Raju leans forward for a closer look and it flies off. He leans back, turns to Rehmat and asks her if she wants to see Mumdu, if she wants to find him. It is the first time he has spoken of their eldest son in more than twenty years.
She turns to him. “I saw him, some years ago. Baku took me to
him the first time. Then I went with Burezu.”
Raju is quiet.
“Three, four times I went to his house. Too many times Dilshad lost the baby she was carrying. Then they moved to Dar es Salaam.”
“And what does he do?” Raju asks loudly, too loudly. “Is he happy?”
“He was fighting, too much, with his wife. She was always angry; she became angry, like Mumdu. Now, I don’t know.”
“If you want to see him, I can arrange it. You can travel with Amir.”
She shakes her head. “Leave him,” she says. “He knows where I am. He knows where we are.”
In two weeks, Shama will celebrate her third birthday. Mumtaz has taken her to town to select fabric for a dress. They walk near Eliab’s dry cleaning shop. She sees him through the window and takes Shama inside.
“Mrs. Jaafar, how good to see you. And how is toto?”
“I am not a baby.”
Mumtaz laughs. “Shama will be three very soon.”
“Polé,” Eliab says, looking at Shama. She tucks her hair behind her ear and stares at him for a moment. Then she turns away and walks towards the door, looking out onto the street.
“I’m surprised to see you,” Mumtaz says. “When I was here last month, your brother told me you moved to Kampala.”
“I have moved. My brother’s wife has been ill and he needs to help her, so I am working here for some time.”
Mumtaz turns to see Shama walk out the door. She is hopping on one foot in front of the shop, singing to herself. “You’ve gone to make your fortune?”
“Yes. But I had little choice. I’ve had a lot of trouble since the coup. Two times I was arrested and sent to the prison at Simba Barracks.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They said I was a supporter of Obote. Me, a Muganda, supporting the man who threw out my king and turned his palace into a barracks. It was all lies. These Banyankole soldiers, they wanted money they think I have. They are jealous of Baganda businessmen, of their success in their land.”
“Isn’t it Baganda who are jealous of mhindis, of Asians, and their success?” Mumtaz asks, a smirk on her face. “After all, it was the Baganda who boycotted Asian shops in 1959.”
Eliab has raised his eyebrows. Mumtaz was trying to be light, funny, bringing up the Baganda boycott. Now she is not sure what her intention had been.
“That jealousy comes for reasons,” he says. He turns his eyes to the counter.
“What reasons?”
He shifts from one foot to the other. The words come quickly. “Would your great Alidina Visram have been so great if he wasn’t given advantages by the British? Asian workers are more efficient, the British said. That is why Africans were kept out of cotton ginning and coffee production. And this Mehta and this Madhvani, they bring poor workers from far in the north to work on their sugar plantations because they will work for less money.”
Mumtaz cannot speak for a moment. Then says this: “The British were bringing workers from the north long before Asians. And Madhvani and Mehta don’t force anyone. People come to Asians looking for work. Efficient work, cheaper costs of production. You told me this is how a business makes profit, Eliab. You taught me this.”
He is quiet.
“Should Asians have rejected what the British offered? Should Alidina Visram have turned down business opportunities? Be fair, Eliab. There was no Uganda or India then. We were all under the thumb of the Europeans. We were all trying to improve our lives in a world ruled by others.”
He does not look at her.
“Would you reject an offer to do business?”
“If Asians didn’t keep secrets from Africans, it would be better.” His voice has softened.
Something rises up in Mumtaz’s throat, altering the sound of her voice, thickening it. “Secrets?”
“Asian businessmen speak in their own languages so Africans don’t learn their business secrets.”
“We speak our own languages with one another because it is easier for us to communicate this way, especially with older people. Doesn’t your family? Your community?”
“Business accounts are kept in your languages.”
“The government permits this. Most accountants in government are Asians.”
He raises his eyebrows again, triumphantly this time, Mumtaz thinks. They stand quietly. She inhales through her nose and releases the breath through her mouth. It helped her, this type of breathing, when she was in labour. “Was it terrible? In the prison?” She clears her throat, trying in vain to shake the discomfort lodged there.
“That’s why I left. I can’t take a chance staying here in Ankole. It’s better I moved to Kampala. I can build more businesses there.” He looks at her. “I thought it would be good with Obote gone. But this Amin Dada, everything he promised was garbage. What happened to the elections we were supposed to have? What happened to his great respect for the kabaka and the other kingdoms? His army is out of control. I spent weeks in jail and was never even charged. We are living under the rule of the jungle.”
“Even the jungle is better,” Mumtaz says. “This is the rule of madness. He hates Asians; he loves Asians. He loves Jews; he hates Jews. The president of a country speaking this way, saying whatever silly thought comes to him. It’s an embarrassment.” She is pleased to be discussing a subject on which they agree.
“He wants men to bow to him now. And women to kneel.” Eliab laughs. “I think he dreams of dancing with the Queen.” He looks at something on the floor.
Mumtaz looks down to see a cockroach. “This while hating the British.”
“He doesn’t hate them,” Eliab says. “He hates that he needs them to love him and respect him.” The cockroach scurries under the counter and disappears.
That evening, Mumtaz tells Jaafar about meeting Eliab, about his arrests. She doesn’t tell him what Eliab said about Asians.
“Did he mention that he’d robbed a bank?”
Mumtaz sits down as Jaafar explains that Eliab and two of his friends stole a parcel of cash from the local Uganda post office six months earlier. “The three men deliver produce in a truck that has a parking spot near Barclays,” Jaafar says. “The men knew of the delivery beforehand. The bank manager suspected them and alerted police.”
“The manager? That sirdarji?” Mumtaz recalls the story about a Sikh man, a Punjabi, killed in the Barclays parking lot. “Not Eliab?”
“I don’t know who shot him, one of the three. I doubt Eliab. But he was arrested, charged. Somehow he got out of it. Some of the money was recovered. Not all of it.”
Mumtaz is quiet.
“Eliab is a smart man. Maybe—”
“A man died. A man was killed,” Mumtaz says. “Eliab couldn’t have been involved.”
“I agree. He’s no killer. But a lot of these Africans feel owed. They believe that money falls from the sky and that the Europeans and the Asians have taken enough of it. Now it’s their turn.”
Mumtaz shakes her head. “Not Eliab.”
Sixteen children and their parents are to arrive in two hours for Shama’s birthday party. Mary is giving Shama a bath so Mumtaz can finish preparing the food. She is in the kitchen when Jaafar walks in and starts speaking.
“Yesterday, our president, the fat, much-decorated General Idi Amin called a conference of Asian leaders and for hours harangued them, listing our misdeeds. We have been milking the cow without feeding it. We are bloodsuckers. We live apart from Africans. We look down on Africans.” He shakes his head and walks out. Mumtaz wipes her wet hands on her skirt and walks to the sitting room.
“What is this?” she asks.
“Seven months ago, in June, the government did a head count of Asians. There was no explanation why. And now Idi Amin called this conference of Asian leaders. Sikhs, Hindus, Bohras, Sunnis, everyone attended. It was a good opportunity to unite as a group and discuss our concerns. We are part of Uganda and he is its leader. But I have just heard from those who attended that all he d
id was scream and rage. We are guilty of a great number of things, according to our president, even racketeering. We must change our ways or get out.” He smiles.
“What is there to smile about?”
“It must have been quite a performance,” he says. “I wish I’d been there.”
Mumtaz wants to know more. She wants to ask details, what this means, but Shama has run into the room, naked, dripping wet, Mary frantically trying to catch her.
In February, Mumtaz attends the official opening of a company called Industrial Promotion Services Ltd. in Kampala. She has no interest in the company. She doesn’t even know what it is. She has come with Jaafar because the Aga Khan is scheduled to speak. And she has not seen the spiritual leader of Ismailis, of her community, since she was a girl in Nairobi.
Idi Amin stands beaming beside the Aga Khan. The president is effusively praising Ismailis for their positive contribution to Uganda.
“There is no doubt,” Idi Amin says, “that some immigrant communities have made deliberate attempts in certain spheres of economic activity to prevent Ugandans from disturbing their monopoly. I am happy to say that, on the whole, this does not apply to the Ismaili community.”
Though she does not trust this madman, Mumtaz cannot help but relax. At independence, in Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania, the Aga Khan publicly encouraged Ismailis to become citizens. He encouraged them to take on African business partners. Idi Amin must recognize this. He is recognizing it. Finally.
After all, after everything, it will be all right.
The Aga Khan turns to Idi Amin and then speaks into the microphone. “We are confident that in due course we shall succeed in being accepted as full and true citizens of Uganda in every sense of the word. That is what we understand integration to mean.”
20
IT IS SIX MONTHS LATER. MUMTAZ IS IN THE SITTING room with Raju. They are perched on the edge of the sofa, listening to Radio Uganda. The madman has made his move.
Where the Air is Sweet Page 14