Orange for the Sunsets

by Tina Athaide

  Asha’s worry was growing.

  32

  Yesofu

  YESOFU STARED AT Asha’s empty chair. Five days later, and he still hadn’t seen her. At least he knew where she was. Simon hadn’t shown up one day, and only later he found out that he’d left. Yesofu wanted to know if Asha was okay, if she was coming back to school, but he couldn’t ask Mamma, not when he’d promised that he’d stay away from her. A wet wad of paper struck Yesofu in the back of the head. He spun around. Two seats back in the next row, Salim laughed and stuck out his tongue.

  “Yesofu.” Coach walked over and tapped the desk. “Turn around.”

  Salim snickered. Yesofu folded his arms across his chest. The past five days had been torture. Now Yesofu felt like he didn’t belong anywhere. Not with the kids from the neighborhood and definitely not with the couple of Indian players left on the cricket team.

  “Everything stinks,” Yesofu said to himself.

  The lunch bell rang, and he crammed his books inside his desk.

  “I want to see the cricket team on the field five minutes before lunch ends,” said Coach.

  The team was starting playoffs in two days. Yesofu needed to practice his bowling. Officers from secondary schools would be watching, and if he played well, he had a good shot at getting a scholarship. It’d be great if they offered him one for all four years, then he’d show Baba how cricket wasn’t a waste of time.

  By the time Yesofu got outside, all the lunch tables with African kids were totally filled.

  Except one. It was bad enough having to put up with Salim in class, but now he’d have to sit with him too.

  “Hey,” Yasid shouted, waving.

  Yesofu walked over and sat down.

  Salim turned around. When he saw it was Yesofu, his eyes narrowed. “Potea! No room for traitors here.”

  “Leave him alone,” said Yasid. Salim looked surprised, but kept quiet. Yesofu opened his tiffin. Mamma had packed vegetable stew and a piece of ugali.

  “How’s your girlfriend?” Salim asked.

  Ignore him. Yesofu ripped off a piece of ugali and dunked it into the stew. He’s an idiot.

  “Did you make Asha feel better?”

  Salim made gross kissing noises that sounded like snorting pigs. He punched the guy next to him and laughed like he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world. Yesofu’s hands shook as he took another bite. His jaw moved faster and faster as he swallowed his anger.

  “Shut up!” Yasid snapped.

  “But—” Salim started.

  “You’re being a jerk.”

  Yesofu kept silent and watched Salim and Yasid stare at each other. Finally, Salim looked away.

  “You’re the jerk,” muttered Salim. He got up and left.

  Yasid turned to Yesofu. “Don’t let him get to you.”

  Yesofu glanced at his watch. It was almost time to meet Coach. He sopped up the last bit of stew. With a lot of Indian players leaving, Coach had held some extra tryouts to add new players. Yesofu had convinced Yasid to try out. He was pretty good at batting from playing with Yesofu on their makeshift field at home, and he’d made the team.

  Out on the field, a couple of team players had gathered. Yesofu and Yasid joined them.

  Yesofu looked around. Where were the others? There couldn’t only be five of them. Had that many Indian players left since the last practice?

  Coach blew his whistle. “I wanted to talk to the team about the upcoming playoffs. You guys have worked really hard to get ready, especially with all the changes.”

  Yesofu didn’t like the way Coach was fidgeting with his whistle. He had a bad feeling.

  “But the playoffs have strict rules and we’ve lost more than half our team . . .”

  Yesofu curled his hands into tight fists.

  “I’m sorry, guys; I pulled us out of the playoffs.” Coach paused. “I had no choice.”

  No, they couldn’t be done. Yesofu needed cricket. He needed this game. He got up and stepped forward. “But our team actually had a chance of winning this year.”

  “There is no team,” Coach said. “We have five players.” He stopped and looked at Pran, Samir, and John.

  “What about holding more tryouts?” Yesofu asked.

  Coach shook his head. “The deadline is getting closer . . . and by finals, we might all be gone, except for you and Yasid.”

  Yesofu couldn’t give up. There had to be a way to get more players for their team.

  “The bigger problem is the school,” Coach added. “With so many teachers and students leaving, it might have to close.”

  Yesofu didn’t want to hear any more. He grabbed his tiffin and took off.

  “Wait!” Coach yelled after him.

  Yesofu ignored him and kept running. He got on his bike and started pedaling.

  President Amin’s plan was supposed to help him—not ruin his life.

  33

  Asha

  ASHA HURRIED TO keep up with Papa as he wove through the crowd. Today wasn’t turning out at all like she’d thought. She was with Papa, but his attention was only on the passports.

  At Mr. Kapoor’s shop, Papa pulled her inside. Asha blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The usual freshness that made her mouth water had been replaced by something else. A musty smell of empty rice sacks and the sweetness of overripe bananas hung in the air. Two African women with shopping baskets stood together and picked through a crate of cassava. Asha couldn’t remember a time that she’d been in the shop and hadn’t run into someone they knew.

  The wooden floor creaked as Asha trailed Papa to the counter. Instead of his usual smile, Mr. Kapoor stood looking anxiously toward the door. His medium-sized belly pushed against the front of his kurta and he puffed slow, shallow breaths. He nodded slightly at Papa and adjusted the turban on his head. The muscles in Papa’s face twitched.

  “Go get some mangos to take home,” said Papa.

  Asha’d seen half a case of mangos on the kitchen counter this morning. “But—” She swallowed her words as Papa stared at her with pleading eyes. “Okay,” she said quietly.

  “Thank you, sweetie.” Papa turned and walked over to the counter.

  “Hello, Ashok,” said Mr. Kapoor. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

  Papa patted his pockets. “I have a list here somewhere . . . give me a minute.”

  While Papa rummaged and searched, Asha peered inside the wooden crates stacked along the side wall. She’d heard Fara complaining that the shops were empty, but this was bad. The shallow crates—usually brimming with mango, guava, and green bananas—contained barely enough fruit and vegetables to cover the bottoms. There was only one mango left. Asha pressed it, feeling the soft flesh move beneath the skin. Ew. Suddenly a shadow fell upon her.

  She looked up.

  A soldier carrying a baton stood outside.

  Asha took a step back. He looked past her into the shop, his eyes dark and menacing. Then he smacked his baton against the palm of his hand and continued walking until he passed out of her sight. Asha let out her breath, snatched the mango out of the crate, and hurried to the counter. Her fingernail pierced the soft flesh as she plopped it down on the wooden surface.

  “Perfect choice,” said Papa, and he reached inside his jacket.

  Asha looked toward the window. There was no sign of the soldier. She heard the soft crinkling of paper and turned as Papa pulled out his package. He lifted the mango and slipped it underneath. Mr. Kapoor glanced at the two African women before snatching the mango and the package off the counter. Asha glanced at Papa, but his face was still and unyielding. Mr. Kapoor’s stomach rose and fell with every breath.

  Asha was sure the packet contained passports. And that meant Simon was right. Papa was working against President Amin to help people get out of Uganda. That was the too dangerous that Mama had talked about. And now with Simon’s dad and Mr. Gupta both gone, that left only him and Coach. What was Papa thinking?

  Mr. Kapoor pu
t a paper bag on the counter and leaned closer to Papa. “I can’t thank you enough, Ashok.”

  “Be safe, Sanjeev,” whispered Papa.

  Footsteps thumped up behind them and then suddenly stopped. Papa placed his hands on Asha’s shoulders and pulled her closer.

  “Mr. Gomez, isn’t it?”

  Papa gripped her shoulders, as if in warning, and then let go and turned. “Something I can do for you, officer?” His voice was calm and steady.

  Asha turned. The soldier had returned.

  “You work for the ministry of tourism?” The soldier smacked his baton against the side of his leg. “Heard you’ve been busy down there.”

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  Asha wondered what else the soldier had heard. Papa pulled her closer. From behind the counter, Mr. Kapoor’s breath came in short puffs.

  “Today I’m spending the day with my daughter.” Papa picked the plastic bag off the counter. “If there’s nothing else . . . I’ve got to get home.”

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  The soldier stepped aside. Papa pushed Asha out the door and they started down India Street.

  Passing by the empty shops, Asha counted all the things the soldier knew. Papa’s name. Where he worked. That he was working late. It all meant one thing—Papa was being watched. She wanted to scream. When they’d reached a safe distance from Evergreen Grocers, Asha turned to him. “What was inside that package?”

  “What package?” said Papa calmly, but the muscle in his jaw twitched like he was grinding a clove with his teeth.

  “The one you gave Mr. Kapoor?”

  “It’s nothing.” Papa glanced at Asha but moved steadily toward the car.

  Papa was lying. Asha took a deep breath. “Are they passports?”

  A look of alarm swept across Papa’s face. He stopped and grabbed Asha. “Forget about that package,” he said, leaning in closer. “Do you hear me?”

  Asha nodded. Papa’s fingers dug into the soft flesh under her arms and her eyes watered.

  Slowly Papa loosened his grip. “It’s better if you don’t know everything. Do you understand?”

  Asha frowned. She wasn’t sure. She remembered how frightened she’d been when that soldier appeared in Mr. Kapoor’s shop, glaring at her like he could see the thoughts in her head. What would she have said if he’d asked her about the package? What would have happened if she had revealed the truth? She looked at Papa, into his deep brown eyes, identical to her own.

  “I d-d-don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Papa cupped Asha’s chin in his hand, his palm warm with a slight scent of musk from his aftershave. “Mr. Kapoor needed my help. But that is all I am going to tell you. It will be okay.” He took her hand and together they walked to the car. With each step, her thoughts pounded beats like the rhythm of African drums.

  Mr. Kapoor.

  Passports.

  Soldiers.

  34

  Yesofu

  THE RAINS LAST night had left the dirt path to the well rutted and muddy. Yesofu squeezed his toes tighter to stop from slipping as his feet sank into the ground. Back and forth every day, carrying buckets of water and collecting firewood. This couldn’t be all he had to look forward to—spending hours under the hot sun chopping sugarcanes and then back home to his chores. He filled both buckets at the same time so he wouldn’t have to make two trips. The muscles across his back and shoulders pulled and strained with the weight, and his arms felt like they were about to fall off.

  Without cricket, there definitely wouldn’t be a scholarship. And with everyone leaving, who knew how long it would be before the primary school closed.

  Yesofu’s foot slipped and water spilled out of the buckets onto his leg. He caught his balance and continued, slower this time.

  “Want some help?”

  Yesofu stopped and turned. Akello sat on top of the planks of wood covering the old well. Water dripped down his face and neck, but it wasn’t enough to wash off the stubborn dust and bits of dried cane that coated field workers. It was the first time they’d talked since their fight. Yesofu found himself wanting to catch Akello up on everything going on at school, especially about their cricket team. But then he remembered how Akello had pinned him to the ground and bullied Asha. “From you? No thanks.” He kept walking.

  From behind, he heard Akello running to catch up. Yesofu fixed his gaze on the path ahead, focusing on making it to the bottom of the hill without falling on his bum.

  “You’re mad,” said Akello. “I get it.”

  “No, you don’t,” Yesofu snapped. “What you did to Asha was wrong.” Yesofu felt his anger reaching toward Akello. “You’re a different person since . . .” He wanted to say, Since your dad came back. Instead he said, “Since you quit school. What’s going on with you?”

  Akello took a long while answering. “Baba’s gone.”

  His words were low and heavy, like the buckets in Yesofu’s hands. Yesofu couldn’t tell if Akello was relieved or disappointed. “Is he coming back?”

  Akello shook his head. “Probably better if he doesn’t.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Get a job somewhere and then—”

  Yesofu saw his and Akello’s plans disappearing with every word out of his mouth. “You’re giving up.”

  Akello grasped Yesofu’s shoulders, and water sloshed out of the buckets onto their arms and legs. “You think I don’t still want to go to secondary school?” Akello burst out angrily. “I can’t. I have no choice.”

  “Coach says everyone has a choice.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s easy to say that when you don’t have to worry about food. I don’t want my sisters to go hungry.” Akello took one of the buckets from Yesofu and they continued down the hill. He stopped when he got to their makeshift cricket field. “When do playoffs start?”

  “We’re out. The team only had five players left.” Yesofu looked at the field they’d built. He couldn’t remember the last him he, Akello, Yasid, and Salim had played.

  Akello set down his bucket and picked up a ball. “Let’s play.”

  “Now?”

  “Why not? Unless you’re ready to admit that Rajeev was the better player.” Akello grinned as he tossed the ball up and down.

  Yesofu put down his bucket and snatched the ball in midair. “You’re on.” He gripped the worn red cricket ball in his hand, feeling the thick seam against his palm. Akello stood at the crease, tapping the edge of his bat into the ground.

  “You going to stand there stamping out ants or play?” Yesofu called out.

  Akello looked up and faced him.

  Yesofu tightened his grip on the ball and began his run-up. He raised his arm, and just as he was about to pitch, the sound of scrambling feet came up behind him.

  “Boo!” shouted Namata and Sabiti—Akello’s sisters. They were a couple of years younger than Yesofu, but they didn’t go to school like Akello. Instead, they sold fruits and vegetables in town with their mamma to help earn money. Only they didn’t make enough. Yesofu understood Akello wanting to help his family. He’d do the same if Mamma needed him.

  “Get lost!” Akello yelled.

  Namata put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. “Mamma wants you home.”

  “Yeah,” added Sabiti. “Now!”

  Akello leapt up and growled. He raced toward them, waving his arms. Namata and Sabiti screamed and took off running with Akello right on their heels. He stopped when he reached Yesofu. “You and me . . . we okay?”

  Yesofu nodded. “Sawa sawa.”

  Outside, the shadows deepened. Since Amin, everything had been changing so quickly. No cricket, no playoffs, and soon, no school. His future was just getting harder to shape.

  Yesofu picked up the two buckets of water and walked back to his hut.

  What was he supposed to do?

  35

  Asha

  CRACK!

  A sharp sound ripped Asha awake. Every nerve a
nd muscle tingled as she pushed her covers aside. Confused, she looked around, taking in the flowing fabrics by the window and the paisley bedspread. Then she remembered coming to Teelu’s bedroom in the middle of the night and crawling into her sister’s bed. She’d hoped it would make her feel closer to Teelu, but she’d fallen asleep missing her more. Asha turned toward the window. Through the sheer curtains, moonlight poured into the bedroom. The night was quiet. It was probably a dream. Asha straightened the sheets and was about to lie down when the crunching of footsteps prickled her ears. The shadow of a head rushed past the window.

  Someone was outside.

  Asha fumbled to pull back the covers. Fingers trembling, she freed her legs from the twisted sheets and slipped out of bed. Slowly, she crept to the window and peered into the darkness. A crescent moon cast a faint glow across the garden. Asha squinted, trying to make sense of the shadows. A small white car sat behind Papa’s Mercedes in the driveway. It looked vaguely familiar . . . white . . . a crooked antenna.

  Mr. Gupta’s car!

  But Leela and Neela’s family had left over a week ago. Two figures emerged from the side of the house and moved toward the car. One stood taller than the other. They stopped below the window and spoke in low voices: “forgot,” “servants’ quarters,” “right back.” Then the shorter figure darted in the direction he’d just come from. It had to be the person she and Yesofu had heard in the servants’ quarters.

  Bushes rustled and the shorter figure came back into view. Asha heard a soft click, and light from a flashlight swept across the garden. She immediately recognized Papa, but the other man . . .

  “Shut it off!” called Papa.

  Before the garden plunged back into darkness, the shorter person turned slightly toward the light. Mr. Gupta. Asha stumbled into the nightstand. Her hand hit the edge and the bedside lamp fell with a noisy clatter. How long had Mr. Gupta been hiding in the servants’ shack? Was he there when the soldiers came looking for his sister? Or was it someone else hiding? Asha shuddered, remembering the soldier waving his gun around. If he’d known about the servants’ quarters . . . if he’d found someone hiding there . . . she shut out the thought. Feet hurried down the corridor. The bedroom door opened and Mama appeared.