by Tina Athaide
“I don’t think that’s a problem. The bank’s not the only place for passports.” Yesofu picked up a chip. His hand froze inches from his mouth. Oh no! What had he just said?
Akello’s eyes got wide. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” Yesofu glanced at the counter . . . at the soldiers.
“Doesn’t Asha’s father work for the ministry of tourism?”
Yesofu saw a soldier look in their direction. “Shhhh! Just drop it.”
Akello wouldn’t. He leaned closer. “It’s Mr. Gomez, isn’t it? You should report him.”
The soldiers got up. Akello lifted his arm like he was going to wave them over. Yesofu wasn’t going to let that happen. He grabbed Akello’s arm and pulled it down, holding it against the table until the last soldier left the café.
“I’m not going to do anything that gets Asha’s dad in trouble,” said Yesofu. “Besides, I don’t know anything for sure.”
Akello didn’t blink. “You may be fine with Indians always getting what they want . . . doing whatever they want. I’m not.” He clamped the edge of the table, his hands shaking. “Asha has everything, living in that big house, going to private schools. But what about me?”
“This has nothing to do with you.”
Akello stared at Yesofu. “It has everything to do with me. When is it my turn?” Akello yanked out of Yesofu’s grip and took off.
“Wait!” Yesofu shouted. “What are you gonna do?”
39
Asha
SWEAT TRICKLED DOWN Asha’s back as she ran with the small bundle clutched in her hand. Her mind swarmed with so many questions. What if Coach wasn’t there? What if there were soldiers on the street? What if she got caught? Her legs were starting to get tired, but she ignored the ache and kept running. She passed a couple of houses she recognized as belonging to families from the club, but nobody was out riding bikes, or walking, or sitting on their porches. Most of the houses seemed empty. Up ahead Asha saw the sign for Suna Road and ran faster. The green house was right on the corner. Asha stopped in the front yard and collapsed against the generous trunk of an umbrella tree to catch her breath.
The shutters in the front of the house were closed, tight and unwelcoming. It didn’t look like anyone was home. Asha unlatched the gate and stepped through. Should she knock or just walk in? Asha wrapped her hand around the doorknob and turned. It was unlocked. She pushed on the wooden door, just a little, and slipped through the opening, closing the door behind her. With the shutters closed in the late afternoon, the room was dark. She blinked as her eyes adjusted. White sheets covered the furniture and the shapes looked like shadowy crouching beasts in the dimness. She walked farther into the house and paused at the bottom of the stairs. Everything was silent.
“Coach?” Asha whispered, her voice vanishing into the quiet. “It’s me, Asha.” Her words bounced off the walls. Where was he? “Coach, are you here?”
A floorboard creaked above Asha’s head. She froze. Please be him. She climbed the stairs, willing her feet to move one step at a time. She stopped briefly when she reached the top. Someone stepped out of the shadows.
“Coach.” Asha stumbled over the top step in her rush toward him. “You’re here. I came as fast as I could.” Asha stopped to catch her breath. “I didn’t see you outside and got worried.”
“Did you bring it?”
“I found the package in Papa’s office.” Asha thrust her hand into her pocket. “Are you sure he won’t be mad I took it?”
“I’m sure,” said Coach. “Give it to me and then you better go.”
“What about you?” asked Asha, running her finger over the papery edge of the package still in her pocket.
“I have to wait until—” Coach froze. Downstairs, something had slammed into the front door—once, then twice, then . . . Coach grabbed Asha and shoved her behind him as the door downstairs burst open and boots thundered down the hallway.
“We have to hide,” said Coach.
Hide? Where could they hide? Any minute now the soldiers would swarm like angry hornets.
Downstairs, glass shattered. A voice bellowed, “Find him. Now!”
Panic flashed like lightning across Coach’s face. He pulled open the door to the wardrobe in the corridor. On one side, towels and sheets lay on rows of shelves. On the other side, empty hangers hung from a small rod.
“Get in,” said Coach.
Asha crawled through the narrow opening and scooted to the far corner. She looked back.
Coach put his finger to his lips, then shut the door.
Asha pressed her back against the wall of the cupboard. Through the tilted wooden slats in the door, Asha could see the corridor and landing at the top of the stairs. But not Coach. Where was he? A storm of boots thundered. Asha pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them tightly. Two soldiers appeared at the top of the steps holding long, black batons. From all the stomping, she’d expected three . . . four . . . or even five soldiers—not two.
“Search every room,” said the taller of the two soldiers. “He’s here somewhere.”
Batons banged. Boots thumped. Asha cringed. The noise hurt her ears and her heart beat fast and loud. So loud that she was afraid the soldiers would hear.
“I’ve got him.” Through the slats, Asha saw a soldier with a big belly drag Coach out onto the landing.
“What are you doing here?” asked the skinny, tall one.
“This is my brother’s house,” said Coach. “I came to check on it. He’s away.”
Brother? Coach didn’t have a brother. Asha stayed still.
“We know what you’re really doing here,” said the tall soldier, and he nodded. The big-bellied one raised his baton, bringing it down on Coach’s shoulder with a crash that drove him to the floor. Asha gasped, and then pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth.
“President Amin knows exactly what you’ve been up to!” the tall soldier shouted.
“I d-d-don’t know what you are talking about.”
The big-bellied one grabbed Coach by the hair and pulled him to his knees. “Stop lying.” He whipped his baton down upon Coach’s head. Asha covered her head like she was the one being hit. She wished she had the courage to rush out there and stop them. The tall soldier brought the sole of his boot down on Coach’s back. The force knocked Coach against the wall. He collapsed. Asha covered her face, but she couldn’t block the sound of the blows or Coach’s cries.
“No. Stop, hapana,” Coach moaned.
“You’re a conspirator and the president won’t allow it.”
Asha opened her eyes. The walls of the closet felt like they were closing in on her. Out in the hall, Coach was slumped against the wall, blood running down the side of his face.
“I d-d-don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m a teacher.”
“Liar,” said the tall soldier. “Kizza, what do we do with liars?”
The round soldier smirked. “We shoot them.”
No! Don’t shoot. Please. She shouldn’t have answered the phone. She shouldn’t have promised to help. Coach would have already been far away from this house. Kizza pulled out his gun. His hand trembled as he pointed it at Coach.
“What’s going on up there?” a voice called out from downstairs.
“We’ve got him, sergeant,” the tall soldier replied.
A burly soldier, bigger and scarier than the other two, appeared upstairs. He held a gun steady in his hands.
The sergeant looked at Coach slumped against the wall. “Who is this?”
The tall soldier straightened his shoulders. “Ashok Gomez, sir.”
Was that who the soldiers were looking for—Papa?
“Idiots! This isn’t him.”
The tall soldier grabbed Coach’s hair and pulled up his head. “Sir, look. It is him. He was in the house just like you said he would be.”
“You’ve got it wrong. I’m Edwin. Edwin Patel. A teacher.”
Kizza put his gun away. He pulled Coach’s wallet out of his pocket and searched through until he found the identity card. The sergeant snatched the card out of Kizza’s hand. “It’s not him. This guy’s a teacher.”
“Now what?” asked the tall soldier.
“Leave him,” said the sergeant. “Let’s go.”
The two soldiers trailed behind the sergeant. Asha waited. Footsteps clomped downstairs. She gently pushed the door and peered into the corridor. Coach lay on the floor, curled in a heap. His hair was matted with blood and he had a gash on his cheek. She wanted to rush over and make sure he was okay, but not yet. She waited until she heard the sound of tires spinning in loose gravel. Then silence.
Asha got up, pins and needles poking at her feet and legs as she crawled out of the cupboard to where Coach lay sprawled at the top of the stairs. His right eye was swollen and he clutched his side, softly moaning. “Coach . . . it’s Asha. Are you okay? Can you walk?” She linked her arm inside her teacher’s arm and tried to pull him up, but he slumped to the ground.
“No,” he said through clenched teeth. His voice barely above a whisper. “Get out of here. Go warn your papa.”
“No.” Asha shook her head. “I can’t leave you here.”
Coach dragged himself to the banister and used the railing to pull himself up. His left leg hung—bent and twisted. He clenched his jaw tightly. With a sigh, he leaned against her, and she faltered under the weight. They started down the stairs and he stumbled. Asha felt his breath come in short painful gasps against her shoulder. He slumped to the ground and lay on the steps.
“I can’t.” Coach’s face cringed with pain.
Coach was right. She’d have to go without him. “I’ll get help.” Asha took one last look at Coach before hurrying down the stairs.
Ashok Gomez. That’s what the soldier said. She had to warn Papa.
40
Yesofu
YESOFU BALANCED ON the back of Esi’s motorbike, clutching a bag full of spinach, potatoes, and cassava root for Mamma. Esi had shown up right after Akello took off. Yesofu hadn’t said anything about what happened, especially since Esi’d told him to stay out of it. Good thing they were on their way to Asha’s house. Yesofu needed to find out more about Mr. Gomez and the passports before Akello did something stupid—like talking to Amin’s soldiers.
“Can’t you go any faster?” Yesofu asked.
“Nope.” Esi wove between the jumble of cars and bikes crammed on the road, rolling to a stop when he couldn’t move any farther. “It’s the deadline. Everyone’s on the road.”
Yesofu replayed his conversation with Akello in his head. The bank’s not the only place for passports. That’s what he’d said. Akello had no proof that Mr. Gomez was doing anything illegal. Who’d believe him? Yesofu glanced at the soldiers standing on the street with their rifles clutched to their chests. The soldiers would want proof—wouldn’t they?
Shouts came from up ahead on the road. Another checkpoint. With the deadline so close, stops were now everywhere. Two soldiers stepped into the traffic and started walking toward them. Yesofu clutched the bag of fruit and vegetables against his chest with one arm and held on to Esi with the other. The soldier reached for something on his belt. Yesofu saw a gun and shivered, remembering the day at Asha’s house. He felt Esi tense.
The soldier pulled out a long, black baton and stopped at the white car up ahead. Ropes tied down a stack of suitcases to the roof. Another Indian family on their way out. The soldier motioned for the Indian man to get out of his car.
“What are they doing?” Yesofu whispered.
“Shhhh.” Esi waved his hand to silence him.
Another soldier started pulling the suitcases off the roof. The husband fired off words, clipped and angry. The soldier with the baton spun around and hit the man in the head. The man staggered backward, clutching his head. Blood spurted from his nose. Esi made a move to get off the bike, but Yesofu pulled him back, not wanting anything to happen to his brother.
The soldier with the baton looked up. “Enda!” He waved his arm. “Go!”
The traffic started moving and Esi moved with it, slowly passing the white car. Yesofu shut his eyes. What if the man with the blood spurting from his nose had been Asha’s father?
Yesofu had to find Akello. He couldn’t be responsible for anything happening to Mr. Gomez.
“You okay?”
Yesofu leaned over his brother’s shoulder. “Poa,” he lied.
Esi finally turned onto the road leading to the hospitals. They passed the Grade B hospital, used by the locals. Up ahead at the top of the sloped hill was the Grade A hospital where Mrs. Gomez worked. Asha’s house wasn’t too far away. The Grade A hospital—a small, whitewashed one-story building sat across from the health ministry. It was used by wealthy Africans, like President Amin. Yesofu had been to the Grade A hospital with Asha a few times to visit her mom, but Sister Masani, who managed the ward, always gave him the stink eye from behind her desk—wealthy Africans only.
Yesofu squinted. Someone in a bright orange salwar kameez was running up the hill toward the hospital. Asha. “Let me off. Stop!”
Esi pulled the bike behind a truck, and Yesofu jumped off.
“What’s wrong?” Esi asked.
Yesofu didn’t respond. He saw Asha run around to the back of the hospital and took off after her. In the back, steps led to a wide verandah that attached to six patient rooms. The ambulance was parked in the courtyard.
“Mama! Mama!” It was Asha. Her voice rattled the doors.
Yesofu pushed open the glass door and darted inside.
Sister Masani had a hold of Asha’s arm, but that didn’t stop her from grabbing Yesofu. His shopping bag dropped, sending vegetables flying.
“Shhh! Why are you screeching like monkeys? You’ll disturb the patients.”
Asha yanked her arm out of Sister Masani’s grip. “Where’s Mama? Is she still here?”
“She’s with a patient.”
“You don’t understand.” Asha’s voice crept upward, getting louder and louder. “I have to see her. Now.” Asha started down the corridor. “Mama!”
Yesofu had never seen Asha like this before, her breath coming out in short, explosive bursts. And those reddish-brown splotches all over the front of her tunic, they looked like—blood. He swallowed. Yesofu tried to wrench his arm free, but Sister Masani’s fingers tightened around his wrist.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Gomez stepped out of the first patient room and stopped when she saw Asha. She hurried to her side. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Coach.” Asha struggled to speak. “The soldiers beat him . . . called him a conspirator. He needs your help.”
The picture of the man with blood running down his face flashed in Yesofu’s head. Sister Masani’s eyes darted back and forth between Mrs. Gomez and Asha.
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Gomez shot Asha a warning glance. “Why would soldiers beat Edwin? He’s your teacher.”
“B-b-but . . . ,” sputtered Asha.
Mrs. Gomez put up her hand to silence Asha. Then she turned to Sister Masani. “I’m heading home. The patients should be good for the night, but ring if you need me.”
Yesofu stared at Mrs. Gomez. He could hear the fear in her voice, her words quivering and shrill. Sister Masani nodded. She let go of Yesofu and picked up her pen, making notes in a patient’s chart.
Mrs. Gomez looked at Yesofu and seemed surprised to see him, like she’d just realized he was standing there. She put an arm around his shoulder and pushed Asha and him out the back entrance. “I have to get my bag. Meet me around the front on the verandah steps.”
“What about the vegetables?”
“Sister Masani will take care of them.”
Outside, Yesofu reached for Asha’s hand. She didn’t look at him, but her fingers clasped around his as they ran to the front of the hospital. The verandah was empty
and all the doors leading to the patient rooms shut. Through the screen door, Yesofu stared into the dimly lit hallway. There was no sign of Mrs. Gomez. How long did it take to get a bag? He felt Asha’s hand slip out of his.
“What happened?” Yesofu asked.
Asha looked away. “It was awful—”
He put his arm around her and she trembled. “It’s okay.” As the words came out of his mouth, he knew it was a lie.
Asha shook her head. “They beat him, Yesofu. They hurt him really bad.”
“Why would they do that?”
Before Asha could answer, the doors swung open and Mrs. Gomez burst out, still in her white coat—but with no bag. Her eyes darted back and forth between him and Asha. She pointed to the steps. “Wait here. Your mamma is on her way to get you.” Then she grabbed Asha’s hand and led her away. “Come on. We better hurry.”
The hospital ambulance, lights flashing and siren blaring, sped past. When Yesofu looked back, Asha and Mrs. Gomez had reached the bottom of the hill.
What didn’t Mrs. Gomez want them to know?
41
Asha
“SUNA ROAD IS the other way,” Asha said. “Where are you going?”
“Home.”
Asha stopped. “What about Coach?”
“Don’t worry about him,” Mama replied. “I arranged for an ambulance to take him to the hospital and Papa is contacting his parents.”
Her bag was just an excuse. “You telephoned Papa, didn’t you?”
The bun at the back of Mama’s head bobbed up and down as she nodded. “What did he say when you told him?” Asha asked, and she hurried to catch up.
“Forget Papa. I want to know what you were doing.”
Asha tried to figure out exactly how much to confess—sneaking into Papa’s office, taking the package, lying to Fara. But with the next breath, she remembered the look of fear in Coach’s eyes and the blood spurting from his mouth. This wasn’t like the usual fibs she and Yesofu told. This was different. Dangerous. Scary. She met Mama’s stern gaze and told her everything.