by Tina Athaide
“But you did,” Asha said quietly.
Yesofu leaned forward and then fell back in his chair. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right. I don’t.”
“It wasn’t about you.”
“Then who?”
“Me.”
Yesofu made no sense. Asha gripped the bedsheet, waiting for him to explain how him telling Akello had nothing to do with her.
“Asha, you’re my best friend. But we were never equals, not really. I’m African and that meant I would never be as good as you. It’s the way things are . . . or were.”
“You could have talked to me.” Asha spoke slowly, trying not to show how hurt she felt.
“That’s just it,” said Yesofu. “With Akello, I didn’t have to. He already knew.”
“But you never gave me a chance,” Asha shot back.
“You’re supposed to be my best friend. How come you never asked how I was doing . . . not even once?”
A barrier, like the roadblocks along Entebbe Road, settled between them, and neither said a word. Deep down, Asha knew Yesofu was right. She’d never worked in the sugarcane fields. She’d never drawn water from a well for cooking. She’d never even had to wash her own clothes. Yesofu deserved to have everything she had or used to have. She wished she’d realized sooner how not having these things did make a difference. But still it didn’t change what had happened.
Yesofu sat stoop-shouldered and silent.
The clock on the wall ticked, counting the seconds. Minutes.
Asha could see that Yesofu still cared. He didn’t have to come here today and tell her the truth, but he did. That had to count for something. If she held on to her anger she’d not only be hurting him, she’d be hurting herself too. And she’d have to live with that for the rest of her life. There’d be no way to forgive him.
Yesofu stood. “I should go.” He sounded beaten down, as if all the life had gone out of him.
“I’m sorry.”
Asha took a deep breath.
“Me too.”
Yesofu looked up, his eyes wide.
“I was selfish. I didn’t stop to think how your life was changing too. I didn’t ask how you were doing or what was happening. And I should have. I wish I had.”
Yesofu didn’t sit back down. He didn’t walk over to her. He stood, saying nothing.
Asha waited.
The clock ticked.
Maybe it was too late for sorry. Or maybe the difference between his life and hers was like the divide in the Great Rift Valley—too wide and too big to be bridged.
54
Yesofu
YESOFU LOOKED AT Asha.
“You told me on the night of my birthday party that we were different,” she said. “I didn’t understand then. But I do now. I never really thought about what your life was like outside my world.”
“You’re right . . . you are kind of selfish.”
Asha sat up too quickly and winced. “Hey!”
Yesofu tried hard not to smile, but the sides of his mouth twitched until he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He grinned at her. With her good arm, Asha flung a pillow at him. He ducked and it sailed over his head. At that moment Sister Masani walked in carrying a medical chart. The pillow landed at her feet.
“Time to check your temperature and—” She stopped when she saw Yesofu.
Yesofu moved toward the door and tipped his chair, catching it just in time. “Sister Masani, I w-w-was just . . . I mean, I came to—”
“I think I hear the phone ringing,” she said, and spun around on her heel and walked out. “I’m sure Asha will be resting quietly and alone when I return,” she called from the corridor.
Yesofu picked up the pillow and handed it to Asha.
She gripped it tight, pulling at the seams of the case. “I don’t know if I’ll see you again.”
The realness of everything started to sink in. “When are you leaving for London?”
Asha shook her head. “Canada, not London. Keep Britain White. They’re like Idi Amin. They don’t want us either. Our plane leaves tomorrow.”
Canada. That was on the other side of the world. Yesofu reached into his pocket, keeping the surprise hidden in his fist. Then he opened his fingers and held out his hand.
Asha leaned forward, too quickly. “Ow!” She winced. “Those look exactly like my beads . . . the ones from my bracelet. Did you buy new ones?” She pulled Yesofu’s hand closer. “Wait. These are mine—aren’t they?”
Yesofu nodded.
“But it snapped when I fell into the well.”
“Esi saw them and grabbed what he could before he came out,” said Yesofu. “That’s why there’s only four. It’s all he could find.” He dropped the beads into her hand. “Red for hibiscus flowers. Brown for sweetgrass. Blue for Lake Victoria. And orange for the sunsets.” When the last bead dropped, Yesofu closed her fingers.
“Is this goodbye?”
Yesofu shook his head. “Tutakutana tena.”
“Not goodbye. Until we meet again,” Asha repeated.
Yesofu nodded. He didn’t know if he’d ever have the chance to leave Uganda, much less get to Canada, but he couldn’t begin to believe that this was forever.
They stayed there—hands clasped together—in the soft silence. Then, slowly, Asha’s hand slipped out of his. Yesofu took a step back. He tried to make a move to leave, but his feet wouldn’t listen. He took a deep breath. “Count to five?”
Asha nodded.
“Moja.”
“One.”
“Mbili.”
“Two.”
“Tatu.”
“Three.” Asha opened her hand. The light from the window caught the beads, sending a burst of color across the hospital room.
“Nne, tano.” They finished counting together in Swahili.
“Goodbye, my friend.”
“Kwaheri rafiki yangu.”
1 Day
55
Asha
ASHA SAT ALONE in her bedroom. Packing was a lot harder with only one hand, and her sling kept getting in the way. Until the soldiers took Papa away, she didn’t think it would really happen. Everyone else had left, but somehow she’d never imagined the day would come when she would have to do the same. The thought of never again waking up in her bedroom, or hearing Fara singing, or running home from the Entebbe Club to Mama’s banging on a saucepan, or walking home from school with Yesofu . . . the list went on and on. After tomorrow Asha would never see this house again.
Beyond her bedroom, Asha heard Fara moving about. It was hard to imagine that she’d never again hear the clatter of Fara’s footsteps. Mama had told Fara to look through the boxes and take what she wanted. If she didn’t, the soldiers would take everything for themselves.
“Asha!” Mama called from downstairs. “Have you finished packing?”
“Almost,” Asha replied. She was only allowed one small suitcase, and it lay open on her bed filled with sweaters, long-sleeved shirts, and pants—clothes for the cold weather in Canada. Everything else she was leaving behind. Her favorite salwar kameez and statue of Ganesh. The sound of chirping weaverbirds. The sweet scent of the bougainvillea shrubs. None of it was coming with her.
Her eyes fell upon the wooden framed photograph sitting on the edge of her desk. She picked up the frame and looked at the boy and girl in the black-and-white photograph taken last year at Lake Victoria. Papa had taken her and Yesofu fishing that day and they’d caught three huge tilapia.
Asha pulled the photograph out of the frame to take a closer look. The lake was still, and only a few frothy white ripples lapped around the base of the small wooden fishing boat. Asha, in her shorts and cotton tunic, stood perched on her tiptoes, leaning slightly into Yesofu. He held up the three fish in one hand and had his other arm around her shoulders.
“Remember to pack only what is absolutely necessary,” Mama called out.
Asha’s stomach tightened. The photo was small and f
lat. She pressed her fingertip against Yesofu’s face, and then tucked the photo between two sweaters. Asha closed the suitcase and clicked the metal snaps shut. She paused in the doorway and cast one last look at her bedroom. Ganesh sat on her nightstand. Idi Amin was one obstacle that the elephant god hadn’t been able to remove.
Asha picked up her suitcase and walked downstairs. On the table were receipts attached to a declaration of assets form. Mama had to itemize almost everything they owned . . . car, house, jewelry, furniture. They couldn’t leave without it. Another form from the Bank of Uganda so Mama could buy their airline tickets. Fifty shillings was all they could take out.
Mama looked up as Asha came into the sitting room. “Ready?”
Asha nodded. Mama wore her orange salwar kameez, the one Papa said lit up her face and brightened a room. But today the orange only darkened the circles under her eyes.
“Take your suitcase out to the verandah. I still have to pack a few more things.” She hugged Asha, careful to avoid the sling holding her shoulder, and hurried upstairs.
Asha stepped outside. Her neighborhood hadn’t felt normal in a long time. It couldn’t with nobody walking along the streets or out riding their bikes. Nobody. The silence was so complete that when she lowered her suitcase, the worn wooden planks creaked and she jumped. She glanced at the carrom board. A few days ago, she’d been playing with Papa. Asha pressed her eyes closed against the pain of missing him.
Fara was in the driveway, opening the hatchback of their neighbor’s old car. Mama’d given Papa’s car to Esi. Their white Mercedes would attract the soldiers’ attention. Fara lifted Asha’s suitcase and set it inside the back of the car. Asha sank onto the steps leading onto the verandah and rested her chin in her hands. Fara walked over. Asha said nothing, just shifted slightly to make room for her ayah.
“Yesofu came and saw me,” Asha whispered.
“I know, malaika,” said Fara. “Letting go of those we love is never easy.”
“I didn’t want to,” whispered Asha.
“Neither did he.”
Fara hugged Asha tightly. She smelled like the lemon soap she used to scrub saucepans. Like chai with cloves and cardamom. Asha buried her face in Fara’s shoulder, trying to lock in every memory. The door rattled open.
“It’s time,” said Mama.
Fara squeezed Asha tightly once more before they stood up together.
Mama clasped Fara’s hands. “Asante sana.”
Fara nodded, keeping her eyes lowered. Something shimmered in Fara’s hand. A key. It belonged to Mama’s jewelry box. “You take this. I hope it’ll help.”
She looked up. “Thank you.”
As Mama walked toward the car, Asha felt Fara’s gaze rest upon her. “Kwaheri, malaika.” Fara’s eyes glazed. “Ninakupenda.”
“Goodbye,” said Asha. “I love you too.”
Asha crawled into the back seat and squeezed between the suitcases, her legs feeling as heavy as wet cement. She glanced at her bedroom window. The light was on. She wanted to run back in to turn it off, but what was the point? She slumped against the seat. Mama took her place behind the wheel and turned the key. The car shook and the smell of petrol filled the air.
“Ashok—” Mama whispered.
Asha waited, imagining her father’s strong, gentle hands turning over his carrom striker.
Finally, Mama shifted the gear and they pulled out of the driveway. Asha turned and glanced back . . . one last time.
56
Yesofu
YESOFU PEDALED TO the fish market, weaving between the tangled mess of cars and buses wrestling for space on the narrow road. Asha would be gone soon. And this time she wasn’t coming back, not as far as they knew. The stench of car fumes flooded the air. He sucked in his breath and held it. Up ahead the road curved, and he followed the bend. He was alone now, apart from the odd car. All the other traffic continued to the airport. His shoulders relaxed and he could breathe normally again.
As Yesofu pedaled past the goats and cattle, the smell of burning oil floated past in the wind. A tea stall owner sat along the roadside, frying cassava in metal pots. The smell made his mouth water, and Yesofu wished he had a few extra shillings, but money was tight at home without Mamma and Esi working for Asha’s family and hardly any jobs in the fields for Baba. These opportunities that President Amin had talked about seemed to have disappeared with the Indians. Even the loan that Baba’d tried to get had been rejected. Yesofu waved at the tea stall owner. The man lifted his head and smiled.
Mr. Bhatt.
Yesofu wobbled off the road and he almost fell off his bike. What was the Café Nile owner doing frying cassava at a tea stall? He rode over and stopped.
“Surprised to see me?”
Yesofu nodded. “How come you’re still here?”
“Why should I leave?” Mr. Bhatt held out a plate. Steam curled off the fried mhogo chips. “I have Ugandan citizenship. I have a right to be here. Just like you.”
“But what about the soldiers . . . aren’t you worried?”
“Ha!” Mr. Bhatt wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. “What else can they do? They’ve taken my home, my business, and my money. But they can’t get in here.” He pointed to his chest. “It may take a couple of years, but there will be another Café Nile.”
Yesofu licked the grease off his fingers and set off. It had to take guts to stay when almost every other Indian was leaving, especially knowing you weren’t wanted. Idi Amin had promised that once the Indians left, he’d return the country to the people, to Ugandans. Where would that leave Mr. Bhatt?
There was no sign to identify the wooden fish shack. It sat along the edge of the roadside just up from the lake. Yesofu leaned his bike against a tree and made sure he had the money Mamma had given him. Fish was cheaper at the end of the day. Inside, the bloody hunks of king fish, tilapia, and Nile perch lay out on long tables. Flies buzzed. Yesofu picked up a whole tilapia. He looked into the eyes—cloudy and white. Once the Indians left, would the soldiers leave Entebbe? Would the beatings and bullying stop? Or would Idi Amin turn his army on another tribe? His stomach twisted. Yesofu dropped the fish onto the table and ran outside.
He lay up against a tree, taking deep breaths to settle his stomach. The sky rumbled as a jet pierced the clouds, climbing higher into the sky. The noise was so loud it filled all the space around him. Yesofu wondered if Asha was on that plane, as he’d done every time a plane passed overhead this afternoon. A Land Rover pulled up, loaded with camouflage-clad troops. More soldiers from Amin’s army.
One of the soldiers had a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. He held them up to his eyes and looked out toward the lake. The jeep jerked forward and the soldier slipped and fell into his seat with the binoculars bouncing against his chest. Yesofu tried to hide a laugh. The soldier spun around, and the look he gave Yesofu sent a chill down his spine.
It was Akello.
57
Asha
THE AIRPORT TERMINAL was complete mayhem. Masses of bodies pushed and shoved Asha as she hurried behind Mama through the sea of brown faces—some light, some dark, some in turbans, some with bindi dots nestled between their eyebrows.
“Chalaa, chalaa,” said Mama. “Hurry up.”
The hard edges of suitcases and boxes bumped against her as people lugged their own bags without help from the usual African porters. She recognized some faces from school and town, but nobody met her gaze. Staggering forward, Asha reached for Mama’s hand, squeezing it tightly.
“Over there,” said Mama, pointing to a large sign, and her steps quickened.
DEPARTING FLIGHTS FOR CANADA AND USA. The bold black letters glared at Asha. A soldier stood just outside the doors, his fingers wrapped tightly around the rifle he held against his chest. She felt his eyes on her as she stepped through the doors. Inside the crowded room, a cacophony of sounds burst on Asha like thunder—shouting, crying, thumping, shrieking. Mama joined one of the queues behind an elderly c
ouple. The husband’s gray hair hung below his shoulders, crooked and jagged.
The woman noticed Asha staring. “The soldiers did it.” She shook her head. “With a broken bottle,” the elderly lady said to Mama. She sliced her hand through the air. “Ripped off his turban and cut off his hair.”
Asha set down her suitcase in the line and sat on it. Two officers stood at the front, checking suitcases and stamping passports. Behind the officers, a large window overlooked the runway. A huge plane taxied, waiting to take off. The propellers spun faster and faster as it moved away from the terminal. The engine roared and lifted into the sky.
“Next!” shouted the security officer, waving and pointing at Mama.
A tall soldier stepped forward and tapped the tip of his rifle against one of the long, silver metal tables.
“Come on,” said Mama.
A metal table separated Mama and Asha from the security officer. He stood tall and straight, his tan shirt stretched snug across his round stomach.
“Passport.” His dark eyes sparked with anger as he waited.
Mama’s hand trembled as she placed her passport on the counter.
“How many in your family?” The officer didn’t even look at Mama when he spoke; his fingers were too busy flipping through the pages. He reached for the metal stamp, pressing it into the purple ink pad. “How many?”
“Two,” said Mama. Her bangles jingled as she pointed to Asha.
The officer’s hand froze, holding the stamp inches away from the open passport booklet. He looked up, piercing Mama with his gaze, then moving to Asha.
“No husband?”
“He has a visa for America.” Mama’s voice faltered. She gripped the edge of her sari in her hands. “What can we do? We have to go where they will take us.”
Asha felt Mama’s fingers close tightly around her arm. She couldn’t believe how easily Mama had lied. They waited for the officer to decide. Finally, he banged the stamp in the ink pad.
Thump. A stamp for Mama.