Orange for the Sunsets

by Tina Athaide

  “Hi.” Yesofu sat down and leaned back against a hanging tree root.

  Akello dropped down next to Asha. “What are you doing here?”

  Asha swallowed her irritation and scooted over. She wasn’t going to let Akello get to her. Not today. Simon ran up and joined them.

  “Habari,” Yesofu greeted him. “What’s that?” He pointed to a package in Simon’s hand.

  Simon smiled and handed Asha the bag. She whipped it open. “Surprise!”

  Yesofu leaned forward and looked inside. Asha held her breath and waited. Yesofu wasn’t saying anything. He didn’t look happy. He looked confused, like he didn’t quite know what he was looking at. “It’s a cricket uniform.”

  “I see that,” said Yesofu. “Why are you giving it to me?”

  “For the Uganda-India match.” Asha shook the bag, trying to hide her irritation. “Here, take it.”

  Yesofu made no move to take the bag. “You bought me a uniform?”

  “Well, no.” Asha looked to Simon for help.

  “It was Rajeev’s,” said Simon.

  For a minute, Yesofu said nothing. Then he spoke slowly, his voice almost quivering. “I don’t want his hand-me-downs.”

  Asha stared at Yesofu. She didn’t understand why he wasn’t excited. His uniform was falling apart. She leaned forward. “Yesofu.” He tugged a blade of grass, avoiding her gaze. Oh. How could she have been so stupid? This game was a big deal to Yesofu. Big enough that for once he wanted . . . no, he deserved a new uniform. “Yesofu,” she tried again.

  Akello slapped the bag out of Asha’s hand. “He doesn’t want Rajeev’s stinky uniform.”

  Asha picked up the bag, wanting to whop Akello on the head with it. Instead, she ignored him and gathered all her anger into her fingers, folding up the bag tightly. “I’m sorry for making you feel like . . .”

  “Like a servant that needs his rich Indian friends to buy his clothes.” Akello spat out the word Indian as if it tasted bitter in his mouth.

  “Shut up!” Asha shouted. She was sick of Akello butting in where he didn’t belong.

  “You’d make things a lot better if you listened to Dada Amin and left.”

  Asha faced Akello. “We don’t have to. Mama is exempted and Papa has Ugandan citizenship.” She gripped the bag tightly, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Akello. “I hear the government is revoking Indian citizenships.”

  Yesofu’s head jerked in her direction even though she hadn’t said a word.

  “They can’t just take away our citizenship,” said Simon.

  “Yes they can.” Akello crossed his arms and leaned back against the tree trunk, looking triumphant. “This is our country. You don’t belong here.”

  Revoked. An uneasy feeling began to settle in the pit of Asha’s stomach. Papa had gone to Kampala to verify his citizenship. She shoved the bag at Simon. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait!” Simon called. “I’ll come with you.”

  Asha ignored him and took off.

  15

  Yesofu

  YESOFU SAT ON the step outside his house and pulled out the money he’d been saving. No hand-me-down cricket uniform for him. It was bad enough he was only captain because Rajeev had left. There was no way he was going to wear Rajeev’s uniform too. It’s not that he wanted Asha to buy him a new one, but she didn’t even ask. She just expected him to be grateful. He didn’t mind wearing used uniforms at school, but this was the Uganda-India cricket match. Asha should have known better. Even now his face got hot just thinking about it. Wait until they saw him in his new uniform. He held out his hand. “You sure I have enough?” he asked Esi.

  His brother nodded. “The Indian duka owners are selling their businesses before they leave. Barter. You’ll get it for less.” Esi dropped some coins into Yesofu’s hand. “Here’s a little extra. Go grab a snack at Café Nile with Akello too.”

  “Asante.”

  Outside, the morning sounds of the village were alive. The steady thumping, thad-da, thad-da, of dried beans being ground under heavy, wooden pestles. Mamma stood by the side of their hut, sweeping. Her neat rows of braids danced on her head as she swished the broom back and forth. She stopped when she spotted Yesofu, and he went over.

  “I am very proud of you, mwanangu.” She pulled him into a hug that smelled of smoky firewood and onions.

  “I just wish Baba wouldn’t give me such a hard time about playing cricket. That’s how I’ll get a scholarship to pay for secondary school.” Yesofu shook his head.

  Mamma rested her chin on top of the broom handle. “He wants a better life for you and Esi. He does. But it’s hard for him. He doesn’t want you to be disappointed . . . like he was.”

  “I have to try.” Yesofu kissed Mamma.

  “He won’t say it, but he’s proud of you too,” said Mamma. She slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out some coins. “You and Akello be careful. Soldiers are crawling in town like ants upon a kernel of corn.”

  Akello wasn’t outside when Yesofu went to meet him. He was about to call out when he heard shouts coming from inside the hut.

  “You listen here,” a male voice bellowed. It had to be Akello’s dad. That meant Akello could join the cricket team again. “You won’t be needing any school clothes, ’cause you aren’t going back.”

  What? Yesofu froze. He stood still, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. Akello had to quit the cricket team the last time his dad left. If he quit school, he’d never get into secondary school. No secondary school meant no college. And if anyone could make it to Makerere University, it would be Akello. School stuff came easy to him. Yesofu had to read and reread the text to make the information stick.

  “I can’t quit school,” Yesofu heard Akello say. He fist-pumped the air. The father’s word was respected in the Buganda tribe, but this was too important for Akello not to argue.

  “How else am I going to get into Makerere?”

  “College?” Akello’s dad scoffed. “How you gonna pay for that? It ain’t free.”

  “I’ll get a scholarship. My grades are good and—”

  “You’ve got more school than I got,” Akello’s dad cut him off. “You don’t need no more.”

  Yesofu didn’t feel like he should be listening.

  “I’m not leaving school.”

  “Well, I’m not wasting another shilling on school fees. You aren’t going back!”

  Akello flew outside, almost crashing into Yesofu. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” Yesofu said quickly, not wanting Akello to know that he’d heard everything.

  “Well, let’s go.” Akello set off. “We’ve got a uniform to buy.”

  For the next thirty minutes, they walked side by side in awkward silence. Bicycles, cars, and carts pulled by cattle passed, lifting red dirt onto them.

  50 Days

  16

  Asha

  ASHA STARED AT the crowds spilling into the park. Papa had got them seats behind the wicketkeeper so they would be right on top of the action, but today they set up their chairs and mats on the grassy slope. Asha preferred sitting here. It’s where she and Teelu always sat. Asha rolled out her woven mat and settled down. It was the perfect view to see Yesofu when he threw the first pitch to the bowler. And she was going to be the one cheering the loudest. She’d even worn her bright orange tunic to stand out. Asha kicked off her sandals and lay back. Behind her, she could hear Coach, his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Patel, and Papa and Mama talking in hushed voices as they unpacked the food. Their words floated past Asha in bits and pieces.

  “Worried.”

  “For now.”

  “Move him soon.”

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Asha didn’t want to think about President Amin today. Papa was still waiting to hear news about his Ugandan citizenship, and once he did, they’d be fine. Today was about Yesofu and the cricket match. Lost in her thoughts, Asha didn’t he
ar the footsteps that crept up behind her.

  “Move over!” Leela plopped down and handed Asha an Indian flag.

  Asha waved a Ugandan flag. “I’ve already got one.”

  “You can’t wave that,” Neela said.

  “Why?”

  “Here we go again.” Neela kicked off her sandals and stretched her legs out.

  Asha opened her mouth to argue, but Neela cut her off.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Neela said smugly. “And you’re wrong. Just because you were born here doesn’t make you African.”

  “Come on,” said Leela. “Can we not fight?”

  Asha pushed down her anger. Neela always talked like she knew everything. Asha’d promised herself that she wasn’t going to let anyone or anything ruin this day. She raised her arm and waved her Ugandan flag.

  It was just the three of them today. Simon was with the school cricket team, and some of their friends that usually sat with them at sport events had either left Entebbe or weren’t coming.

  “I’ve been looking for Yesofu. Have you seen him yet?” said Asha.

  “I thought you were done with him,” said Neela. “Or he was with you.”

  “No,” Asha snapped, trying hard not to poke Neela with her flag. “We’re still friends.”

  “Really, so you made up after that uniform mess?” Leela asked.

  Asha looked away, her face growing hot. “Not exactly. Well, kind of.”

  “Which is it?” Neela looked at her.

  “We’re friends again. Okay.”

  “I’ve told you. You can’t be friends with your servants.” Neela sniffed.

  Cheering swept across the park. A couple of players from the Ugandan team had come onto the field, and they huddled together in one corner. Yesofu was with them. He had on a new cricket uniform. Asha’s cheeks grew hot, remembering his face when she gave him Rajeev’s old uniform. She’d felt awful, especially when Fara told her that Yesofu’d saved up to buy a new one.

  “Yesofu!” Asha stood, waving her arms. “Over here!”

  He turned in her direction and waved back. He was still waving when Akello walked up and clapped him on the back. A couple of weeks ago it would have been her down there on the field with him. Not Akello.

  “Looks like Yesofu’s with his new best friend,” said Neela.

  Asha sat down and let out a long breath.

  “It was different when you guys were younger,” said Leela. “But you’re now . . .”

  Asha crossed her arms. There was that word again. Different. She’d never given much thought to it before—opposites. Boy-girl. Black-brown. Rich-poor . . . she wasn’t rich like those Indian families that lived on the hills in Kampala, but compared to Yesofu, yes. She’d never been to his place, but he talked about getting water from the well and having to share a room with Esi. Was she being foolish to think that those things didn’t matter?

  “Look!” Neela shouted.

  Five soldiers stepped onto the field. Asha stood to get a better look. Dressed in their army fatigues, the soldiers marched together.

  Arms straight.

  Strides steady and even.

  “Why would Idi Amin send his army here?” Asha asked.

  Neela rolled onto her knees and stood. “Who knows why he does what he does.”

  “You sound just like Daddy,” said Leela.

  Across from Asha, another cluster of soldiers appeared. They moved forward like a swarm of wasps, holding rifles tight against their chests. The crowd parted. Neela gasped next to her, and she felt Leela’s fingers dig into her arm.

  “Dada Amin,” a woman cried out, and the crowd fell silent.

  Stuck inside her TV at home, President Amin didn’t seem so scary. But this man . . . this giant standing in front of Asha looked like he could crush her with a swipe of his hand.

  17

  Yesofu

  THE PRESIDENT WAS here. Yesofu couldn’t take his eyes off him. Idi Amin towered over everybody as he strutted onto the field. He wasn’t right beside him, but Dada Amin was close enough for Yesofu to see all the medals that covered the front of his uniform. Not like one or two, but so many that the president almost glowed in the sunlight.

  A crackling cut through the silence and then the Ugandan anthem boomed.

  “Ewe Uganda!” Yesofu sang loudly. “. . . Nchi ya uhuru.” The land of freedom. “Twaishi kwa amani na undugu.” In peace and friendship we’ll live. His voice choked and he stopped.

  Freedom.

  The people in his village were free. They worked as servants, drivers, cleaners because that’s all there was for them. Was that really freedom? He looked at Baba and Mamma. President Amin was trying to change things for Africans. Yesofu wanted that for himself . . . for Mamma and Baba . . . for Esi and Akello. But also, Idi Amin was kicking out Indians. Kicking out Yesofu’s friends. That didn’t feel like living in peace and friendship. Everyone around him was singing, so he joined in.

  As the final words of the national anthem were sung, cheers rose up. President Amin raised his hands to silence the crowd. He stepped up to the microphone at the edge of the field.

  “Where’s the Indian team?” His voice was loud and strong. “And they say Africans are always late.” President Amin threw his head back, filling the air with laughter.

  Yesofu looked around. He’d also been wondering what was keeping the other team. Did Dada Amin have something to do with them being late?

  “You call me the hero of Africa.” People started hushing one another as the president continued. “But it is you who are the real heroes of Uganda—our country. You who are born with the blood of Africa. With the heart of Africa.”

  Cheers rose up.

  “These people, the shopkeepers, the landowners, the bankers, the government workers, they robbed us. They took our land and our jobs and have made us into servants. These British and Indians. That is why they need to go.”

  The crowd cheered. Yesofu glanced toward the sidelines. Akello, Salim, and Yasid stood tall and straight, their eyes shining, like Dada Amin was the greatest in the whole wide world.

  “I said a professional group could stay, but now I worry that those Indians remaining cannot serve the country in good spirit. So, this morning I made an announcement to my soldiers.”

  Yesofu gripped the ball tighter. There was silence throughout, as if the crowd took one giant breath together and then held it. Waiting.

  “I revoked the exemption!” President Amin raised his fist into the air and shouted. “Sent the Indian team home.” The cricket park exploded with cheers so thunderous that Yesofu could barely hear President Amin’s voice over the crowd.

  “Uganda belongs to us,” President Amin continued. “I have taken back Ugandan citizenship from Indians. There is no room for Indians in Uganda! Let’s play without them.”

  The noise of the crowd swelled. “Africa for Africans!” Yesofu turned to look out at the sea of hostile African faces staring at the area where most of the Indians were sitting.

  Now everyone had to go. Asha. Coach. Simon. His whole cricket team. Yesofu wanted Dada Amin to help them get a better life. He wanted more for Baba and Mamma. But did Asha have to go for him to have a better future? He couldn’t imagine her leaving and he couldn’t imagine what it would be like if she stayed. How could he hang out with her? He’d look like a traitor to Dada Amin . . . to Akello and his friends.

  President Amin walked closer to the crowd, smiling and waving.

  “Wahindi waende nyumbani!” the crowds chanted.

  In his head, Yesofu heard the words in English—Indians go home.

  The crowd cried out. An Africa for Africans. One of the players from the Ugandan cricket team nudged Yesofu. He looked up. Sam Walusimbi. He was standing inches from his hero.

  “An Africa for Africans!” Sam said to Yesofu.

  The players’ voices grew louder.

  The crowd chanted and clapped. The sound was overpowering, like hundreds of beating embuutu—
the big drums used for ceremonies or dances. Sam grinned at Yesofu and nudged him again. Yesofu smiled weakly. He opened his mouth and tried to join in the chanting. He tried, but the words stuck in his throat.

  18

  Asha

  “THERE IS NO room for Indians in Uganda!” President Amin raised his fist into the air.

  Cheers and applause exploded. Asha repeated his words, feeling them ricochet back and forth inside her head.

  Idi Amin couldn’t just change his mind.

  Not again.

  Back and forth.

  Go. Stay. Go. Stay.

  She wished she could snap her fingers and make everything stop.

  Had Papa been right all along? Was she foolish to think that President Amin would change his mind for good? She looked at the field, where Yesofu stood with the Ugandan team. If they left, she’d never see him again, and the thought scared her.

  Leela clutched her stomach. “I feel sick.”

  Neela, her eyes full of panic, grabbed her sister’s hand. “Let’s find Mummy before you throw up.” They took off, leaving Asha alone.

  “Wahindi waende nyumbani!” the crowds chanted.

  Those were the same words she’d heard that night in India Street. Today they chanted louder, in one unified voice. Like everyone . . . the Africans . . . had decided as a group that all Indians should go. She looked at Yesofu standing next to a Ugandan cricket player. Did he want her to leave too?

  Mama rushed over and put her arm around Asha’s shoulders. “Have you seen Papa?” Her eyes darted back and forth like a trapped animal. Her frown eased a little when she saw him hurrying toward them.

  “Amin refused to allow the plane to land,” Papa said. “He’s sent the cricket team back to India.” Papa started folding the chairs and stuffing mats into empty bags. “Pack up. Quickly.”

  “Why is President Amin doing this?” Asha asked.

  “Not now!” Papa snapped.

  Mama shook her head and pulled Asha close to her. “Help me put the food away.”

  Asha started closing the containers, but Papa snatched them from her hand and threw them into the basket. Samosas and vegetable pakoras spilled onto the picnic blanket. Asha leaned to pick up the fried pastries.