by Tina Athaide
“How come you’re so quiet?” Akello looked right at Asha.
She held her hand over her eyes, blocking the glare of the sun. “Well, I don’t like that he wants all Indians to leave, but . . .”
“I told you.” Akello’s voice swelled. “She’s like all the other Indians. They only care about themselves.” He stepped closer to Yesofu. “Not like you and me.”
Asha jumped up, her words impossible to hold inside. “I don’t want to be like you, Akello. Nobody does! You’re a shamba boy . . . working in the fields. You’re nothing!”
The anger in Akello’s eyes disappeared as a smug grin spread across his face.
Oh, no. No. Asha’s words burned her mouth. Yesofu’s father worked in the fields. So did Yesofu. She placed her hand on Yesofu’s arm. “I d-d-didn’t mean it like that,” she stammered.
Yesofu shook off her hand. “How did you mean it? Baba isn’t nothing.”
“I wasn’t talking about him.” Asha’s mind scrambled, trying to think of what she could say to fix this.
“What about me?” Yesofu asked. He looked at Asha with the same hurt in his eyes as the night of her birthday party.
“Forget her,” Akello scoffed. “Let’s go.”
Asha watched Yesofu walk away with Akello, fighting the urge to run after him. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway. There was nothing she could say to make it better.
26
Yesofu
AFTER SCHOOL, YESOFU took off. This morning Mamma had given him a list and asked him to stop at Evergreen Grocers and Provisions Mart. On the long hot miles to India Street, Yesofu tossed his cricket ball up and down. Shamba boy. Nothing. He clutched his ball tightly. She’d sounded like the other Indians, looking down their noses at Africans. And she called herself his best friend.
Yesofu turned onto India Street and stopped. It was like he’d walked into another universe. Half the shops were shut. Rolling gates covered the front windows and rusted padlocks chained the doors. Yesofu peered through the window of Eagle Shoe Center. Boots, sandals, slippers, and heels lined the shelves, but there was no sign of the Indian shopkeeper. He counted how many shops had closed. Four. Five. Six. He stopped at the shop where he’d bought his cricket uniform. Its windows were smashed and inside the shelves were empty. This didn’t feel like opportunity waiting.
Across the street, a woman stood holding a small girl. Two soldiers stepped out of a shop, dragging an Indian man by the arms. A soldier motioned for the woman to put down the girl. As soon as she set the child down, the soldier grabbed her and pulled her against him. The man, his face red as his turban, fired a rapid slew of words. The soldier spun around and hit him with the butt of his rifle. The man staggered backward and fell.
Yesofu’s heart thumped, making it hard to breathe. He clutched his cricket ball to his chest. These soldiers seemed even more vicious than the ones at Asha’s. He stared at the bleeding man lying in the street and wondered if President Amin knew what his soldiers were doing. The woman who had been holding the girl rushed toward the man. The little girl screamed, pulling at her mother’s sari. A soldier shouted, his rifle inches from the man’s forehead.
Yesofu couldn’t stand here doing nothing. He went to take a step forward, but then he remembered Esi’s warning and stopped. Mamma wasn’t here to save him this time, and there was no telling what these soldiers would do. Yesofu looked up and down India Street. The cries of the man and woman were piercing. He had to get out of here. Mr. Kapoor’s shop was nearby. He started running. Eyes down. Legs pumping. Be open. Be open. Sale signs covered the front window of Evergreen Grocers and Provisions Mart. Yesofu pushed the door and fell inside. His cricket ball dropped, rolling across the floor.
“Yesofu?”
It was Mr. Gomez. Asha’s dad stood with Mr. Kapoor at the counter. Yesofu tried to speak, but his words caught in his throat.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Gomez rushed over. “Are you hurt?”
Yesofu’s breath came in short gasps.
“Pole pole.” Mr. Gomez put his hands on Yesofu’s shoulders. “Slowly. Take a breath.”
The warmth of Mr. Gomez’s hands eased Yesofu’s panic. He pointed outside. “Soldiers everywhere. They’re beating him. It’s awful. I didn’t know what to do—”
“It’s not your fault,” said Mr. Gomez.
“Come, sit down.” Mr. Kapoor pointed to a wooden stool.
Mr. Gomez led Yesofu over. “You shouldn’t be in town. The commissioner and soldiers are checking all the shops to make sure owners have immigration papers or identity cards. If they don’t, well . . .” He glanced at Mr. Kapoor and stopped.
Yesofu caught the look between them. Did Mr. Kapoor have his papers? He dug out the crumpled shopping list from his pocket.
Mr. Kapoor shook his head. “I’ve stopped filling the shelves. My family already left back to India. I should be leaving soon.”
“I’ll take what you have,” said Yesofu.
“Give me a minute.” Mr. Kapoor disappeared into the storage room.
“How come you’re here?” Yesofu asked Asha’s dad. “Usually Mamma does the shopping.”
Mr. Gomez got up and peered out the window. His forehead wrinkled in the same way that Baba’s did whenever he was worried. “Um, yes.”
Mr. Kapoor came out with a bag. “I found some sugar, but no flour, salt, or spices. With all the Indians closing up shop, supplies are running low everywhere.”
“You better lock up and go.” Asha’s dad cut off Mr. Kapoor. “I’ll be in touch.”
Mr. Kapoor thrust the bag at Yesofu. “Don’t worry about paying.”
“Come on.” Mr. Gomez led Yesofu outside. “Don’t hang around. Here’s money for the bus. Go straight home.” With those final words, he turned and hurried off.
On the bus ride home, Yesofu wondered at the real reason why Mr. Gomez was in the shop. He wasn’t buying supplies. That was for sure. The bus pulled into its last stop and Yesofu walked the short distance home. The steady thumping, thad-da, thad-da, of heavy, wooden pestles quieted Asha’s words—shamba boy—and his questions about Mr. Gomez and Mr. Kapoor. Everything in his village looked normal. Firewood smoked and crackled beneath pots of bubbling stews. Salim’s twin brothers, Wemusa and Wasswa ran around barefoot, chasing one another. Akello’s sisters were heading to the well, swinging empty pails in their hands. It was exactly like it should be.
Unchanged.
Safe from soldiers.
Later that night, Yesofu practiced cricket with Akello and Yasid. The ugliness of the day slid off him and into the red dirt as they tossed the ball back and forth. Here, on this makeshift field, he belonged. Here, he mattered. Here, he didn’t have to hide in the kitchen or come through back doors.
“Heard you saw some soldiers taking care of an Indian man,” said Akello.
Yesofu shivered. “Beating him.” He reached his arm back and threw the ball.
“He got what’s coming,” said Akello.
Yesofu looked at Yasid. He looked as shocked as Yesofu. Neither of them said a word. A couple of weeks ago Akello had been bugging Yesofu for ignoring Asha because she’d broken her birthday bracelet. Now he was all for soldiers beating Indians.
“You don’t mean that,” said Yesofu.
“Don’t tell me what I mean and what I don’t,” Akello shot back. “That Indian probably deserved it.”
“Not all of them.”
“Really?” Akello asked. “What about Asha calling you a filthy shamba boy?”
“I’m mad at her, but I’m not going to beat her up.” Yesofu didn’t want to think about Asha or any other Indians. He just wanted to play cricket and forget about it all. He tossed the ball to Yasid.
“I’ve got you covered.” Akello winked at Yesofu. “We’re real friends. And real friends take care of each other.”
An uneasy feeling crept up the back of Yesofu’s neck. Yasid sent the ball spinning. Yesofu missed and it flew into the shrubs.
“I’ll ge
t it,” said Akello, and took off.
Yasid hurried over. “Listen.” He glanced in Akello’s direction.
“What?”
“Akello’s mad . . . like really angry at Asha for making fun of you guys.”
“He has every right to be.”
“He’s gonna get her back for what she said.”
Yesofu rubbed the back of his neck. Lately, Akello strutted around like he was one of Dada Amin’s soldiers, blaming everything wrong in his life on Indians. He hated them. But this was Asha. Sure, he had every right to be mad at her for calling them shamba boys. Yesofu was mad too, but not enough to do something stupid.
He’s gonna get her back for what she said. Akello sauntered out of the bushes. He smiled and tossed the ball to Yesofu.
Akello knew what Asha was like.
He knew she had a temper.
He wouldn’t hurt her—would he?
27
Asha
A WHOLE WEEK. And Yesofu still refused to have anything to do with her. Asha wanted so much to talk to him and apologize for what she’d said, but at lunch and breaks, he hung out with Yasid and Salim. He’d even switched seats, moving to the opposite side of the classroom into Akello’s empty desk.
Today Asha was one of the first to get to school, and she snagged the only seat by the window. Even after combining classes four, five, six, and seven, the room felt empty. The principal appeared at the door at least three times a week to collect someone . . . another Indian leaving Uganda. More than half the class was Indian, so now six rows had shrunk to three.
Coach wasn’t even in yet, and Asha wondered if he’d make it to school. He had been at the house again last night, talking behind closed doors with Papa and Mr. Gupta. It was the third—no, fourth—night in a row she’d heard her teacher’s worried voice as she walked down the hall to bed. When Asha asked Papa what they talked about all night, she always got the same answer. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
But she did.
Clamoring at the door startled her and Asha looked up. Simon came into the room loaded down with his cricket gear. He jerked a hello with his chin before collapsing into the seat closest to the door. Leela followed, minus her sister.
“Leela,” Asha called out. She waved to get her attention, but Leela hurried to her seat with her head bent and her chin tucked low. Only when she turned to pull out her chair did Asha see her red, puffy eyes. She rushed over. “What’s wrong?”
Leela said nothing.
“Where’s Neela?”
“She’s not coming.” Leela’s eyes filled up and she shook her head.
Twenty-three days. That’s what the announcer shouted this morning from the radio. They were running out of time, and with each day, more and more people were leaving. And now her friends were leaving too.
The morning bell rang and Asha returned to her desk. A group of kids fell through the door, laughing loudly. Yesofu wasn’t one of them. She slumped back into her seat, listening to the classroom chatter buzzing around her.
“They had to leave their money in the bank . . . fifty shillings is all they’re allowed to take.”
“Can’t drive anywhere . . . all the stations are out of petrol.”
“Making us carry identity cards.”
Asha missed when they used to gossip about the latest movie stars or fashions. As she looked around, she hardly recognized her classroom. Used pencils, opened textbooks, and bits of eraser lay scattered upon the many empty desks, almost as if the kids had gone out to recess or lunch. But Asha knew the truth. Nobody was returning to put their stuff away.
The second buzzer rang. Coach Edwin walked into the room. “Settle down!” he shouted, and clapped his hand against the desk for quiet. Asha’s teacher looked like he’d rolled out of bed and come straight to school. His shirt—the same one as yesterday—had more creases than the crumpled paper on her desk and his hair lay matted on his head like a thick, black cap. Asha wondered how much of last night’s conversations had to do with the way Coach looked this morning.
“We’re continuing with chapter two. History of the East African Railways.” He picked up the textbook. “Let’s start with . . .”
Asha flipped the pages in her text. What was it Simon had said? That their parents were working together against President Amin. Maybe they were helping people stay or helping them to leave. She glanced at Leela and thought about Mr. Gupta. His byline was almost always on the front page under the headlines, but it hadn’t been there lately.
“Asha!” Coach Ewin called out.
Startled, Asha looked up. Everyone was looking at her. Coach pointed to the textbook. Asha cleared her throat and started reading. “The first large arrival of Indians to Uganda came with the building of the railroads at the turn of the twentieth century.” Before she could continue, Simon’s hand shot up.
“If we’ve been here so long, how come the president is kicking us out?”
“Because you Indians are trouble,” Salim called out. Some African students snickered, but quickly stopped when Coach turned to look in their direction.
“It’s what happened after the railway was built.” Coach rested against the edge of his desk and explained how when the trade in Uganda boomed, the British turned to the Indians to run their businesses. “The British brought in Indians to work for them. Africans tried applying for jobs, but they were turned away.”
“But that’s not our fault,” said Pran. He was in the same class as Yesofu and Asha. His father owned a large sugar plantation, and he often brought bunches of raw sugarcane to share at school. Asha looked at her bracelet and thought about how Yesofu hated the dried canes that cut his fingers and arms.
Simon nodded in agreement. “Pran’s right.”
“But it’s not our fault either.”
Suddenly Asha felt ice cold. She turned and saw Yesofu standing in the doorway, his backpack slung over his right shoulder.
“My dad works in the fields, so why can’t he own a piece of the land? He’s tried to buy land and banks wouldn’t give him a loan.”
Had Yesofu’s dad always wanted a piece of land? How come she didn’t know? A bunch of hands went up and questions ricocheted back and forth. Why is Amin punishing us? Whose fault is it? Why are Indians being blamed? How come the British didn’t hire Africans? Coach clapped his hands.
“Take a seat.” He pointed to Yesofu. “These are good questions, but the answers aren’t simple. They are messy and tied to years of history in Uganda. There is no one person or group to blame. There is a lot that is unfair.”
More hands shot up. The class waited, but it seemed Coach was done answering questions.
Yesofu kept his back to Asha as he slipped into one of the remaining empty desks, right in front of her. She reached out her finger to poke him in the shoulder but changed her mind, quickly pulling back her hand.
“Yesofu,” she whispered.
He didn’t respond.
“Yesofu,” she said, a little louder this time.
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. Asha slipped off her friendship bracelet and tucked it into the front pocket of her school uniform.
Coach started reading where Asha had left off, but paused at the sound of footsteps. The classroom door opened and the principal gestured for their teacher to step outside. The whole class stayed quiet. Leela’s book fell to the floor. She looked at Asha. No. No. No. Asha wanted to jump up and lock the door behind Coach. Stop the principal from taking away anyone else. Stop him from taking Leela. The door opened. Please don’t be here for her. Please.
Coach walked over to Leela. “Your uncle is here.”
No. Asha twisted to get out of her seat, but froze when Coach shot her a warning glare. Leela’s chair scraped against the floor. The sound pierced Asha’s ears and she winced. Leela shuffled slowly, her head down. When she reached the door, she glanced over her shoulder. She looked at Asha and held her gaze before stepping outside. Tears pricked Asha’s eyes and she
clenched her fists. Her fingernails dug into her palm. She wasn’t going to cry. Not at school. Through a small gap in the door, she saw Coach reach into his jacket and pull out a small, brown bundle, which he handed to Leela’s uncle.
The door shut. Asha folded her arms on her desk and put her head down.
Leela and Neela gone.
Two more empty desks.
28
Yesofu
YESOFU KEPT HIS eyes on the clock, counting down the final seconds to the bell. After Leela left, he’d spent most of the afternoon sticking close to Yasid and avoiding the Indian kids’ stares. Even Coach seemed distracted, teaching a lesson on fractions and then handing out a science paper. His mind was elsewhere and his eyes kept darting from the window to the door. Did it have something to do with the brown packet Yesofu had seen Coach give Leela’s uncle?
Buzzzzzz!
A blast of hot air hit Yesofu as he burst outside. Playoffs were starting soon, but he’d have to miss practice today. There was no sign of Asha under the banyan tree, which meant she’d already started for home. Yesofu ran in the direction he and Asha always walked. He pictured Akello throwing fruit at her, or worse, shoving her around. He ran faster, until his lungs felt like they were burning. At the top of the hill, he stopped. A group of four boys huddled together, blocking the road. Apart from Salim, Yesofu didn’t recognize any of them. Like a herd of wildebeests, they moved toward Asha. The boys stopped a few feet away from Asha and then Akello stepped forward.
“No!” Yesofu shouted. He waved his arms, but nobody saw him, their attention focused on Asha. He saw her try and make a run for it by darting around them, but Akello blocked her path. Yesofu ran up behind her.
“These are friends of mine,” said Akello. “And in case you’re wondering, none of them are shamba boys. Isn’t that right, Yesofu?”
Yesofu saw Asha flinch. She spun around and looked at him, her face full of questions and hurt. “You’ve got it all wrong,” he said quickly.
Akello stared at Yesofu. “What are you talking about? I’m doing this for you.”