by Tina Athaide
“What’s going on?” Yesofu asked.
“Meet us at Akello’s.” Salim took off with Yasid right on his heels.
Yesofu set the water pails down right where he’d stopped and ran after Salim. Please don’t let it be too late. He had to make sure Akello hadn’t said anything. Outside Akello’s hut, a crowd had gathered. Yesofu had a bad feeling.
Akello’s little sister ran over and grabbed Yesofu’s hand. “Come see what my brother got.” She pulled him inside the small hut. “Look!”
In the middle of the room was a brown, plastic-cased, sixteen-inch, black-and-white television set. It looked exactly like the one Asha had in her house, except that it was connected to a humming portable electric generator. Salim and his twin brothers, Wemusa and Wasswa, sat inches away from it, digging their elbows into each other, jockeying to sit nearer. President Amin’s face filled the whole screen.
“I’m sitting next to the president.” Salim pressed his head against the television.
Wemusa pushed him out of the way. “I’m touching his nose.”
Yesofu couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. One of these would have cost around nine hundred shillings or more.
“So, what do you think?”
The voice came from behind and Yesofu jumped. He turned and saw Akello.
“Where—” Yesofu’s words caught in his throat. He swallowed. “Where’d you get it?”
“It was a gift.” Akello smiled.
No one just gave gifts like that, and it wasn’t even close to Akello’s birthday. “For what?”
“A job well done,” Akello said.
Yesofu couldn’t shake the feeling that Akello wasn’t telling him everything. Had he gone to Amin’s soldiers with what Yesofu had told him? Was that who’d given him the television . . . to thank him? Was that the job?
“Can we talk?”
Akello pushed past Yesofu and stepped outside.
“That stuff I told you. About the passports?” Yesofu needed to be sure Akello hadn’t told anyone. He couldn’t be responsible. Especially not if anything had happened to Asha’s dad. “It wasn’t for sure. You didn’t . . . go to the police, did you? Because, you know, it was just a stupid rumor.”
“You calling me stupid?”
“What? N-n-no,” Yesofu sputtered. “I just meant I don’t want you to get in trouble for telling the soldiers wrong stuff.”
“You don’t have to worry.” Akello pulled Yesofu into a headlock. “I’m not in any trouble.” His breath was hot on Yesofu’s face. “I thought about what you said and asked myself, what would Dada Amin do? And then I did it.”
Yesofu wrestled to get free. “The soldiers . . . is that who gave you the TV? If you told, I’m going to—”
“What?” Akello twisted Yesofu’s arm behind his back and shoved him. “What are you going to do?”
Yesofu spun around and wrenched free. He stared Akello down. From behind he heard rumbling. A Land Rover with two camouflage-clad soldiers pulled up outside Akello’s hut.
“Get inside!” one of the soldiers shouted.
Yesofu didn’t wait to see Akello climbing into the jeep.
He was too late.
45
Asha
ASHA GLARED AT the soldier.
“I have my orders,” he said.
“Over here!” a voice called out from another part of the house.
The soldier standing glanced over his shoulder toward Mama and Papa’s bedroom. He looked back at Asha, then walked away. From downstairs, Asha heard Mama’s cries. A jumble of voices and shouting rose up. Asha thought she heard Papa, but she couldn’t be sure. She scrambled off the bed and ran into the corridor. Soldiers stomped down the stairs and then it grew quieter.
Slowly Asha crept down the stairs and inched closer to the front door. She stepped outside and crossed her arms, pressing them tightly against her chest. Cold air blew through her thin cotton kurta pajamas. Where were Mama and Papa? She saw two soldiers standing in the driveway, leaning against their rifles. The gate into the garden hung open, dangling off its hinges. Parked in the street were three military jeeps and a smaller white car.
“He’s done nothing wrong. You can’t take him!”
Mama. Asha spun around. A thin soldier gripped Papa with one hand while pushing Mama back with his other hand. He stared at Mama with open hostility, his eyes cold. The soldier yanked Papa’s arm and began dragging him to the gate. Mama lunged forward. Her fingers gripped the thin cotton collar of Papa’s tunic. “No!” she screamed.
“Go back in the house,” said Papa. He spoke calmly as he held Mama’s hands, placing them at her sides. “I will be fine, but Asha needs you . . . both girls will need you.”
The soldier jerked Papa forward. “Enough!”
Mama fell to her knees, sobbing; her shoulders shook and her body trembled. The soldier shoved Papa toward the car. No! They couldn’t take him away. Asha raced across the garden. She had to get to Papa. She scrambled through the gate, running to get to the white car.
“Wait!” Asha shouted.
The soldier holding Papa looked at Asha and then turned his head in the opposite direction. Asha followed his gaze and saw the big soldier who’d pushed his way into the house. He crossed the street coughing and spitting into the road. The one with the cold eyes stopped, still gripping Papa’s shoulder. Asha rushed forward and threw her arms around Papa, holding him tightly.
“What’s going to happen?”
He looked down at her as she tilted her head up. “I’ll be okay . . . and so will you.”
“Let’s go!” said Cold Eyes, his hand on Papa’s arm.
Papa set his solid, steady gaze on Asha, and she saw a strength and determination that Amin’s men would never break. He cupped her face, his palm warm and clammy. His fingers carried the faint scent of boric powder from the carrom game they’d played earlier. “I love you, sweetie,” he said before getting into the car.
“I love you too, Papa.”
Tires crunched as the car moved forward and drove off. One by one the soldiers climbed into their jeeps and followed. Across the street, a soldier flicked his cigarette into the bushes and climbed into his jeep. He turned and spoke to someone sitting in the passenger seat. As the jeep did a U-turn, the person looked out, a satisfied smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
Akello.
Asha bit down on her lip until it hurt. Was he the one who led the soldiers to Papa? Asha stood at the edge of the driveway, staring into the empty road where only seconds ago, she’d stood with Papa.
This was her fault.
4 Days
46
Yesofu
“WHAT’S TAKING THEM so long?” Yesofu asked again.
Mamma sat cross-legged on a mat, a bowl of dried nambale beans in her lap. She picked out the bits of stones and dirt, leaving the broken or chipped beans. “They have to be careful. We’ll hear something soon.”
Baba and Esi had gone into town to see if there was any news about Mr. Gomez. Yesofu hovered in the doorway, playing out all the possible scenarios in his head. Just because Akello had told the soldiers about the passports didn’t mean that they’d arrest Mr. Gomez. What was Mamma always telling him . . . Naye abasatu babisattula. A secret is better kept by two than three. He should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe they’d let Mr. Gomez go if he promised to leave Entebbe. Please let that be what happened. Yesofu’s guilt sat on both of his shoulders—all that he had done and could not undo.
The announcer on Radio Uganda was talking about the foreign minister. Yesofu turned up the dial on the transistor radio and listened.
“Wanume Kibedi announced that Asian non-citizens who do not leave by the deadline will be rounded up and kept in camps. Idi Amin’s soldiers continue to arrest people known to be working against the president and urges Africans to come forth if they have information.”
And they will be rewarded with big TVs. Yesofu got up and switched the radio off. Outside, he saw Baba
and Esi, walking through a crowd of cheering villagers, and he ran to them.
“What’d you find out?” Yesofu asked. Baba silently placed a hand on his shoulder, leading him back inside.
“Mr. Gomez’s been arrested.”
No. Yesofu felt every muscle in his body tense. And what about Asha? The bowl in Mamma’s lap fell, spilling beans onto the ground. Baba walked over and helped Mamma into a chair.
“You suspected something was going on for a while now,” Baba said to Mamma.
Yesofu crouched on the floor and started picking up the beans. Did Baba and Mamma know about the packages . . . about Mr. Gupta? But they hadn’t told on Asha’s dad. Was it because they didn’t want to get involved or because what Mr. Gomez was doing wasn’t really illegal? Yesofu put the bowl on the table and sat with Esi, Mamma, and Baba. Mamma reached over and wrapped her fingers around his hair.
“What is going to happen to Mrs. Gomez and Asha?” she asked Baba.
Baba shook his head somberly. “From what I heard, they’re at home . . . for now.”
“How did the soldiers find out?”
Yesofu knew the answer even before Mamma asked the question. He didn’t move, his breath trapped inside him.
“Akello,” said Esi. He shot a quick glance at Yesofu. “He was there.”
“What does Akello have to do with any of this?” Mamma looked at Yesofu. “Do you know?”
Yesofu swallowed hard. “This is all my fault.”
Everyone was silent, staring at him. Waiting.
“Talk!” Baba said.
At last Yesofu found the voice to tell them everything. “If I’d kept my mouth shut, then Mr. Gomez would be home with Asha instead of—”
“There’s no way to know what part Akello played in Mr. Gomez being arrested,” said Baba. “The soldiers were already suspicious. But you’re right. You shouldn’t have got involved. We told you to stay away from Asha and you didn’t listen.”
Mamma reached for Yesofu’s hand. “I know it’s been difficult.” Mamma squeezed his fingers. “Asha . . . she’s been a good friend . . . but it’s time to let her go.”
Yesofu clenched his fists, fighting the knot in his chest. He didn’t know how to let go. Or if he was ready to say goodbye.
“I am sure Mrs. Gomez will take Asha and leave before the deadline.” Baba looked at Yesofu. “Stay away from her . . . do you hear me?”
“Sawa sawa,” said Yesofu.
“I mean it, Yesofu.” Baba went back outside.
Yesofu picked up a long bean pod and pressed his fingernail against the edge. What Mr. Gomez was doing was wrong, but he was doing it to help people . . . save lives? He squeezed, and a green bean slipped out of the pod. Mamma said it was time to let Asha go. Maybe that meant helping her see that it was time to leave Entebbe. He probably should have done it sooner. But first he had to tell her the truth.
47
Asha
ASHA STOOD OUTSIDE Papa’s office, feeling the weight of the passports inside the carrom bag. There’d been no word about Papa, but friends had promised Mama they’d contact her as soon as they learned anything. Mama sat at his desk, dumping out drawers and searching through papers. She had an appointment at the immigration office to get travel vouchers. London. Canada. Australia. United States. Asha had no idea where they’d end up. With the deadline in four days, whatever country would take them . . . that’s where she and Mama would go. Asha removed the passports from the bag and walked into the office.
“Where could they have disappeared to?” Mama muttered.
Asha clutched the two passports in her hand, their accusations of guilt burning into her palm. She took a deep breath and gathered her courage.
“Mama.”
“Where are they?” Mama pushed her hair off her worried brow. She pulled out a thick file, sifting through the papers.
Asha’s hands began to sweat. She gripped the booklets tighter, trying to find the courage but not knowing where to start. “It’s my fault Papa got arrested.”
Mama dropped the papers in her hand and looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Papa wanted us to leave Entebbe. You didn’t want to go. Neither did I.” Asha placed the passports on the desk. “That day after Papa went to apply for our travel vouchers, I found the passports and hid them in my room.”
Mama stared, saying nothing. Was she disappointed or angry? Asha couldn’t tell. The silence was unbearable, so she continued. It was better to get it all out. “That day Papa and I went into town, he was looking for the passports and I lied. If I’d given them to him, then we would have left and the soldiers wouldn’t have taken him away.” Asha sank into the chair. “I’m so sorry, Mama.”
“It’s not your fault.” She pulled Asha up and wrapped her arms around her. “He could have got us passports like he’d done for others. If anything, I’m to blame for refusing to listen to Papa and leave when he wanted.”
Asha buried her head in Mama’s neck.
With the passports in her bag, Mama set off for the immigration office. She was determined they leave in the next day or two. Asha couldn’t imagine actually leaving, but she knew they had to. She watched the clock. Eight. Nine. Ten minutes. Mama was far enough from the house. Asha went outside and hopped on her bike.
“Where are you going?”
It was the African boy who had moved into Uma Auntie’s house next door. He was only about four, and every time Asha saw him, she was surprised. His was the first African family to live in her neighborhood. But it wouldn’t be her neighborhood for much longer. Asha showed him her bracelet and told him that she was going to see her best friend. Then she started the four-mile ride to Yesofu’s house. She had to see him. Say goodbye.
As Asha neared Katabi—the rural area where Yesofu lived—thorny scrub brush replaced fragrant frangipani trees. At the rounded hilltop, Asha stopped and caught her breath. Tin shanties stretched out like rows of dominoes, mixed in with clay huts. Up close the shanties were only a little bigger than her bedroom. A jumble of plywood, planks, and tin, they looked more like the play forts she and Yesofu used to build than homes where people lived. It was strange that he’d never told her about his home. But then, she’d never asked, and she should have. It made sense why he desperately wanted that scholarship for secondary school. He wanted to make a different life for himself.
As Asha pedaled into the maze of shacks, she heard laughter and saw three teenagers bent over large tubs, washing clothes. She’d ask them where Yesofu lived. Asha pedaled over and rang her bicycle bell. The three girls, their arms in the grayish water up to their elbows, stopped and stared at her.
“Toka hapa!” one of them shouted. “Go away!” She scooped some water into her palm and flung it at Asha. The murky, cold water hit Asha in the chin and trickled down her neck. Yuck! She recoiled with disgust. The other two girls laughed and then also started flinging water. Asha whipped her bike around. Her foot slipped on the pedal just as another handful of water hit her. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She didn’t know where Yesofu lived or even if he was home. Up ahead, two young boys, barefoot and in shorts, chased after a soccer ball.
Asha pedaled up to them. “Mambo,” she greeted them. One of the boys darted behind the flapping sheets hanging on a clothing line. The other boy picked up the worn soccer ball and clutched it tightly, as if he was afraid that Asha would snatch it. She thought she recognized him from a lower class at school, but couldn’t be sure. “I need your help,” she said. “Esi and Yesofu.” Asha thought she saw a quick flicker of recognition in the boy’s eyes. “Do you know them . . . unawajua?”
The boy nodded and pointed farther down the road.
“Ondoka hapa!” a loud voice shouted behind Asha.
The boy’s eyes widened and he ran away. Asha looked over her shoulder. Akello stood outside one of the shacks, balancing a wooden rod across his shoulders. On either end hung two metal buckets. He lifted the rod over his head and lowered the buckets to the ground. Wa
ter sloshed and spilled onto the red dirt around his feet. His eyes never left Asha’s face. “You don’t belong here.”
Asha wanted to scream at Akello for what he’d done to Papa, but fear held the words and they burned her throat. Clutching the handlebars, she started pedaling in the direction the boy had pointed. She heard Akello’s feet coming up from behind and leaned forward, pedaling faster.
Suddenly a rock hit the bike. The wheel jammed. Asha tumbled over the handlebars and landed on her knees, scraping her skin against the rocky dirt. She got up and faced Akello.
“You need to leave.” Akello’s lips curled. “You’re just making things worse.”
Asha took a step back. She looked down in the direction of Yesofu’s house, where the boy had pointed. She really wanted to see Yesofu, but not if it would cause problems for him with Akello. She remembered Fara telling her that some people know when it’s time to let go . . . others hold on too tightly. Asha had thought Fara was talking about holding on to life in Entebbe. But maybe Asha needed to let go of both Yesofu and Entebbe. She looked Akello right in the eye. “You’re right. I don’t belong here anymore.”
Akello seemed surprised at first, but then a slow smirk spread across his face. Asha didn’t care. Akello may think he’d won, but he was wrong. Someone in Katabi would tell Yesofu she’d been here. He’d know she’d come to see him and that she still cared. She picked up her bike and rolled it forward.
“I’m leaving,” she said, and brushed past him.
“Not soon enough for me.” He spat the words at her.
Asha dropped her bike. She spun around and shoved Akello hard. Startled, he stumbled and fell. Asha turned and broke into a run. Behind her, Akello’s feet beat against the ground. She darted between two huts and hid behind large sheets hanging from a clothesline. Don’t let him see me.
“I know you’re here somewhere!” he called out.
She spotted big metal tubs near a cluster of eucalyptus trees. They were big enough for her to hide under, but she had to hurry. Akello was getting closer. Asha ran.