Orange for the Sunsets

by Tina Athaide

  “I’m not a part of this. You’ve got to believe me, Asha.”

  “After everything she’s done and said, you show up here like she’s your best friend.”

  Asha tuned back and faced Akello. “Usinisumbue!”

  “Don’t use our language.” Akello grabbed her backpack. “You want me to leave you alone. Ask in English.”

  Asha snatched her bag back. “Ninaweza kuzungumza Kiswahili.”

  Swahili was her language too, and she’d told him as much. The boys with Akello laughed.

  Yesofu looked back and forth between Asha and Akello. He didn’t want anything to happen to Asha. But stopping them meant going against Akello. A flicker of orange and yellow caught his eye. Their friendship bracelet.

  Yesofu faced Akello. “Let her go.”

  Akello ignored him and stepped forward, closing in on Asha. She moved away, but he reached out and grabbed her arm.

  “Get off!” Asha yelled, and kicked him in the shin.

  “Filthy Mhindi pig.” Akello shoved her.

  Asha fell backward, hitting her head on the hard dirt.

  “Simama!” Yesofu shouted.

  “Stay out of this, Yesofu,” barked Akello.

  “No! Leave her alone.” Yesofu stood up to Akello.

  “Why are you still protecting her?” Akello’s voice was thick with hatred. He kicked a rock at Asha. “She thinks she’s better than us.”

  Salim snickered. “So much better that she thinks she’s too good to be a real Ugandan.”

  “I am Ugandan!” Asha yelled. “I was born in Entebbe. This is my home.”

  Akello seized Asha’s arm and pulled her up. “You’re nothing but a filthy Indian,” he said through clenched teeth. “You look down your nose at Yesofu and laugh at his dad.” He shoved Asha and she fell into the scrub brush.

  A boy Yesofu didn’t know laughed and spat at her. Asha wiped her cheek and winced. She must be hurt.

  “Acha!” Yesofu shouted for them to stop. He rushed to get to Asha, but Akello grabbed him, pinning his arms.

  The same boy picked up a clod of dirt and threw it at Asha. Yesofu kicked and struggled to get away, but Akello held him tight in his grip.

  “Leave me alone.” Asha lifted her arms as another clump of reddish dirt hit her cheek. She clenched her fists. “Go away, please . . . tafadhali.” Asha’s words came out as barely a whisper.

  “Look at the Indian begging. . . . Please . . . Tafadhali.” Salim and Akello laughed.

  Asha pulled her knees to her chest.

  Yesofu’s fists balled up. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He wrenched free from Akello and punched him in the stomach. “You better leave her alone,” he threatened.

  Akello’s eyes filled with rage. He socked Yesofu in the chest. “That’s for being a traitor.”

  The punch knocked the wind out of Yesofu and he doubled over. Akello grabbed his shirt collar and pushed Yesofu down, pinning him against the ground.

  “Get off me!” Yesofu struggled under the weight of Akello.

  “I was there for you. We all were. And you still pick her.”

  “Stop!” A sharp voice broke into the hubbub. “Get off him.”

  It was Esi. He reached down and pulled Akello off Yesofu and held them apart. He glanced at Asha but made no move toward her. Asha uncurled and pushed herself up from the dusty ground. Smudges of reddish-black dirt covered her face. Bits of sand and gravel were matted in her braid. She brushed the dirt off her school uniform and picked up her backpack, holding it tightly against her chest like a shield against all of them. Even Yesofu.

  “What’s going on?” Esi asked.

  “Akello and his . . . ,” Yesofu started, but his voice was lost as everybody started talking at once—except Asha. Esi looked from Yesofu to Akello and then Asha.

  “Go home,” Esi told everyone.

  “I’ll go with Asha.” Yesofu took a step forward.

  “No.” Asha stared at Yesofu. She turned and limped away.

  Yesofu watched her shoulders moving up and down. He wanted to talk to her, but Esi had a firm grip on his arm.

  Akello walked up to Yesofu and stared him hard in the eyes. “You don’t deserve to be Ugandan.” He spat on the ground and kept going.

  29

  Asha

  ASHA CLIMBED UNDER the covers and pulled the blanket to her chin. She’d told Mama and Papa she was tired, but really she couldn’t stand the way they kept looking at her. She had a gash above her eye that Mama had treated. A crisscross of cuts and scrapes covered her legs, and she had red welts where Akello had grabbed her arm. The worst was her hip. A nasty bluish-black bruise, the size of her carrom striker, had started to form, and it throbbed.

  Asha leaned over and picked up the photo frame on her nightstand. She and Yesofu stood on the banks of Lake Victoria with their arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning into the camera. She didn’t want to think what could have happened if he hadn’t been there today. For a split second, she’d thought he was in on it with Akello, their way of getting back at her for calling them shamba boys. But then he’d stepped in to help her and she didn’t know what to think. Asha laid her head back.

  Fara peeked inside and smiled at Asha. “How’s my malaika?”

  Asha hugged the photograph against her chest. Fara sat on the edge of Asha’s bed. Gently she removed the picture from Asha’s hands.

  “This is one of my favorites too.” She set the frame back on the nightstand. “A lot has changed since that photo was taken.” Fara took Asha’s hand and clasped it between hers. “You and Yesofu have been good friends—”

  “He’s my best friend,” Asha cut in.

  “I know,” said Fara. “But right now things are hard. Sometimes, malaika, you have to let go of the things precious to you. Some people know when to let go . . . others hold on too tightly.”

  At that moment Mama appeared, holding a bottle of iodine and a wad of cotton. “I need to disinfect your scratches again.”

  Fara got up. She brushed a loose piece of hair behind Asha’s ear. “I am glad my boys were there today.” Then she turned and nodded to Mama as she left.

  Mama had undone her braid, and her thick, dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders as she came to sit on the edge of the bed. Two small lines nestled just above her nose, in between her eyebrows. She unscrewed the lid on the bottle of medicine.

  Asha pulled back the gauze. The gash on her leg looked worse. The skin around the cut was red and puffy. “Will it leave a scar?” she asked.

  “It shouldn’t,” said Mama. She tipped the iodine bottle upside down. The white fluffy ball turned yellowish-brown as the medicine soaked into the cotton pad. A pungent, sharp smell burst into the air and Asha wrinkled her nose.

  “Did you know that Leela and Neela were leaving?” Asha asked.

  Mama nodded. “I didn’t want the time you had left together to be filled with sadness.” She paused for a minute and then continued. “You should know, Simon’s family got their papers to leave.”

  “How soon?”

  “In two days. They were accepted into the US.”

  Asha shut her eyes. All she could think about was how fast everything was changing.

  “This will sting a little,” said Mama as she dabbed the cotton ball on Asha’s leg. She always said that when she applied iodine. Not that it ever made it hurt any less.

  Ting. Ting. Ting. Mama’s gold bangles jingled as her hand moved in quick, gentle flicks. The iodine burned and Asha focused on the sting. It gave her something else to think about other than Akello and Yesofu and that all her friends were leaving. She felt Mama staring at her and opened her eyes.

  “What?” Asha said, unable to keep the anxiousness out of her voice.

  “I’m thankful you’re safe.” Mama pulled up the blanket and tucked it around Asha tightly. “None of this is your fault. You know that, don’t you?”

  A warm breeze blew into the bedroom and the curtains billowed. Asha nodded and felt
her stomach tighten. “Then whose?” she asked. “Yesofu for being friends with Akello? Akello wanting to help his friend?” Then more softly, she added, “Me? For being friends with Yesofu and making fun of Akello?”

  For a long while Mama didn’t say anything. Her eyes filled with tears. “This shouldn’t have happened to you. All I want is for you to be safe. For my family to be safe.” Mama pressed her lips against Asha’s forehead. Then she added softly, “Maybe your stubborn mama is to blame. For refusing to leave.”

  Asha glanced at the shelf behind Mama where the passports were hidden. She thought how she was just as stubborn. Maybe even more. Maybe that’s what Fara meant by holding on too tight. Asha threw her arms around Mama’s neck and squeezed, breathing in the familiar and comforting scent of sandalwood and coconut oil. They stayed together for a few minutes, holding one another. Then Mama kissed Asha on the forehead and shut off the lamp. The room went dark, but as the door clicked shut, Asha heard Mama whisper, “I love you, sweetie.”

  20 Days

  30

  Yesofu

  YESOFU SHOVED HIS feet into his shoes, curling his toes as they pushed against the tip. Mamma and Baba were arguing about him and Asha again. You’d think they’d be tired of the same conversation. He was. It was hard not to hear Mamma and Baba. Hanging straw mats served as walls in their hut to separate the space into three sections. A main room for eating meals, cooking, and relaxing. A room for Mamma and Baba. Another room for him and Esi to share. His whole house could fit inside Asha’s kitchen and sitting room. Yesofu glanced at his watch. School started in forty minutes and he still had to eat breakfast and grind the maize into flour for ugali—a grainy, doughlike bread made from cornmeal.

  The second Yesofu stepped into the kitchen, Mamma pointed to the wooden mortar on the ground and the three-foot wooden pestle leaning against the wall. Yesofu looked inside the wooden bowl. Kernels of dried maize covered the bottom. Breakfast would have to wait. He picked up the wooden pole and started crushing the small yellowish kernels.

  “We’ve taught our son not to judge people by their skin color,” Mamma said to Baba. “African or Indian. He could be friends with both.”

  Yesofu pounded the corn, wishing this conversation would end. He hated that he was the reason Mamma and Baba were arguing.

  “That was okay before, but now . . . ,” Baba said. “He’s forgotten who he is, where he comes from.”

  Yesofu froze. Baba sounded just like Akello. They were wrong. Hanging out with Asha and Simon didn’t make him less African. “I know where I come from,” he blurted.

  Baba’s head snapped in Yesofu’s direction. “You think you do. But you don’t. This never would have happened if you just—”

  “What?” said Mamma. “If he just hung out with Akello and Yasid? If he stood there and let Akello hurt Asha?”

  “He wouldn’t have had to step in to defend Asha against Akello.” He stared at Yesofu, daring him to say something.

  Thud. Thud. Thud. Yesofu banged the long stick against the side of the bowl. Baba didn’t come right out and say it, but Yesofu knew what he meant. He wanted him to stay away from Asha. Well, Yesofu wasn’t going to.

  “You’re being unfair,” said Mamma. “We taught our son to be a good person, and that includes being a good friend and helping not just Asha, but anyone when needed.”

  “Life is unfair,” said Baba. “There’s no telling what state our country will be in once the Indians are gone. Amin’s soldiers are getting more forceful. Until then—”

  “I know,” said Mamma. Her voice quieted to barely a whisper. “Mrs. Gomez and I talked. She doesn’t want Yesofu near Asha any more than I do.”

  Yesofu dropped the wooden pestle, catching the bowl of ground maize flour before it tipped over.

  “Good,” said Baba. “And you?”

  “What about me?” Mamma asked.

  “There’s been talk about Mr. Gomez,” said Baba. “And I don’t want any trouble. Amin’s soldiers are arresting anyone even suspected of working against Amin . . . Indian or African.”

  Yesofu wondered what Baba had heard. He’d thought it was strange when he’d bumped into Mr. Gomez at the Evergreen Grocers and Provisions Mart and he left without buying anything. But that didn’t mean he was doing anything illegal. Did it? But if Baba was worried about Mamma, that meant Asha could also be in danger. He had to see her. It didn’t matter what Mamma and Baba said. Yesofu glanced at the basket in the corner next to the metal water pails. He’d better add an offering to the ancestors, especially since he planned on disobeying Baba.

  “I’m off to work while I still can. Jobs are getting harder with the Indians leaving.” Baba came over to Yesofu and pulled him in for a quick hug. “Ninakupenda.”

  Yesofu watched Baba leave.

  “He means it,” said Mamma. “He loves you.” She took him by the shoulders and looked into his face. “Stay away from Asha.” Mamma paused. “It’s for your own safety. And hers.”

  Yesofu stared at Mamma. Her fingers dug into his shoulders like they were pleading with him. He had to say something, even if he didn’t mean it. “Fine. I will.”

  31

  Asha

  “ASHA!” PAPA SHOUTED. “Let’s go.”

  From her bedroom, Asha heard the front door slam shut. She shoved her feet into her sandals and snatched her carrom striker off the nightstand. At Mama’s insistence, she’d spent the past five days stuck in the house. No school. No meeting friends at the Entebbe Club. So, when Papa asked if she wanted to go into town with him this morning, of course she’d wanted to. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Papa had spent time together. Phone calls, late night meetings . . . there wasn’t any room for her. She’d make sure today was different—convince him to stop for a snack at Café Nile, and even a game of carrom.

  “Bye,” Asha called to Fara, and stepped outside without waiting for a response. The passenger door was open and Papa crouched against the seat, pulling papers out of the glove box.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Papa stood, leaving the papers scattered on the seat and floor. “I’m looking for our passports. I can’t find them anywhere. You haven’t seen them . . . have you?”

  “What?” Asha couldn’t look at Papa. Her eyes would give her away. She stared at the open glove box and reached for the carrom striker in her pocket. “Passports. I don’t know. Um . . . N-n-no. I haven’t seen them. I don’t have them . . . why would I?” Shut up, Asha, she said to herself. She stopped talking, the knot of lies gathering in her throat.

  Papa ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know where they are. . . . Maybe I left them at the bank.”

  Asha tightened her fingers around the striker. She pictured the passports hidden inside her carrom bag and blinked faster, wondering why Papa wanted their passports now. There’d been no talk of them leaving. “Why do you want them?”

  “Better to be safe,” said Papa. “It’s getting harder to get out. London is making trouble about taking us. . . . If we don’t get our vouchers now, who knows where we’ll end up.”

  So this trip with Papa wasn’t about spending time together. It was about him getting them out of Entebbe. Asha wondered if Mama knew. She sank into the seat. Good thing she’d taken their passports. They’d probably have left already if she hadn’t hidden them.

  Cars honked the closer they got to India Street. Papa stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel like it was about to fly off. A brown envelope lay tucked against his leg. Asha picked it up. It was tightly sealed—licked and taped—with no name or address. Her fingers traced the outline of something thin and hard inside. It felt like a small book—too small for a novel . . . but about the right size and shape of something familiar—a passport book. But if she had their passports, whose were these?

  “Stop it,” Papa said sharply. He snatched the envelope out of Asha’s hands.

  Asha slumped back against her seat. The blast of a car horn yanked he
r attention outside. Traffic clogged the street as cars and motorbikes changed lanes, fighting to enter the narrow entrance into the petrol station. A bicycle taxi swerved in front of them and Papa slammed on the car brakes. “We never had a gas shortage before . . .” His words trailed off, but Asha knew what he meant . . . he meant, before President Amin ordered the Indians to leave.

  As Papa neared India Street, the traffic lessened and he parked the car beneath a cluster of overgrown eucalyptus trees. Before getting out, he tucked the package inside the inner pocket of his jacket. He opened the back door and the menthol-cool scent of the trees rushed inside. Asha stepped outside and breathed in the freshness, pushing aside the questions about the packet tucked inside Papa’s pocket.

  “Come on,” said Papa. He took Asha’s hand and tucked it inside the crook of his elbow. “First stop is Evergreen Grocers and Provisions Mart.”

  “Can we can stop for a snack at Café Nile?” Asha asked.

  Papa remained silent. He stared ahead, searching the crowd like he was looking for someone. Asha clenched her jaw. She unhooked her arm from Papa’s and followed him around the corner onto India Street. It looked familiar . . . the same shops, the same signs, but the shops lining the long narrow street were empty now—the windows broken. Asha stopped outside the Sari House, remembering the hours she’d spent inside watching Teelu try on sari after sari. They’d even planned a trip there for when she came home in a few weeks. It was her sister’s favorite shop. Wait until she found out what had happened.

  “Things are getting worse—aren’t they?” Asha asked. She stared at Idi Amin watching her from the posters pasted on the shop windows and telephone poles.

  Papa ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want you to worry.”

  Asha chewed the inside of her cheek. She and Yesofu weren’t talking. Papa was walking around with hidden passports. Black-booted soldiers teemed in the street.

  Every second.

  Every minute.