We Are All Birds of Uganda

by Hafsa Zayyan

  ‘Zara!’ he yells. ‘I’m starving, come down!’

  ‘Salaam bhi na kay?’ The disapproving voice of Mhota Papa, his father’s eldest surviving brother, appears from behind him. He doesn’t even say hello? Mhota Papa hobbles towards Sameer and hits him gently with his walking stick. Sameer bends down to embrace his uncle’s small form.

  ‘Salaam, Mhota Papa,’ Sameer says apologetically. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Mehne koi joi nee,’ Mhota Papa mutters in response, but returns Sameer’s embrace. Nobody notices me.

  ‘Sameer bhai!’ Zara bounds down the stairs and flings her arms around her brother’s torso. There is an eight-year age gap between them; Sameer’s parents had struggled to have another child after he was born and, after years of trying, eventually managed to conceive with IVF. Sameer can remember that a lot of drama surrounded Zara’s birth, but he is hazy on the details. He is sure that Zara had been born a twin, but her twin had not survived. His family do not speak of it, and he would never ask. He is not even sure if Zara knows.

  ‘How’s revision going?’ he asks, as the family head through into the kitchen and breakfast room. Zara is in her final year of sixth form, studying for the A levels she needs to meet her offer from Edinburgh University. There had been an awkward period last year when Zara had been condemned by their mother for applying to go as far away as Scotland, berated by their father for failing to apply to Cambridge (as Sameer had done), and reviled by both of them for selecting anthropology of all things as a degree. But now that it had been done, and they had realised that (although it was a waste of their hard-earned money) because she was a girl it didn’t really matter what she studied anyway, the family narrative around her revision focused on the simple goal of achieving good grades – rather than getting into university.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Zara replies, as the men take their seats at the table. She retrieves drinks from the fridge and begins to fill their glasses. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m taking this weekend off to spend time with you.’

  ‘But your exams are in three weeks?’ Sameer takes a sip of Pepsi. His mother sets a casserole dish down on the table and steam rises from a layer of browned cheese.

  Zara brings a bowl full of salad and a plate of garlic bread to the table. ‘Don’t make me change my mind, bhai,’ she warns. ‘It’s just a day. One day isn’t going to hurt.’

  Sameer gives her a wry smile. He doesn’t ever remember thinking that when he was studying for exams. He remembers the opposite.

  Dad, can I go and watch the game? Jeremiah’s got tickets through his brother. Please, Dad, Premiership clubs never come to Leicester. It’s just one day! It was the summer of Year 8 and Leicester City were playing Liverpool at home for a pre-season friendly. It was also the summer that Sameer had been told that he needed to get into Leicester’s best grammar school, a school that prided itself on not being limited to a catchment area, but instead asked prospective pupils to write personal statements and sit a three-hour entrance exam. Up until that point, Sameer had been going to the local comprehensive school in the Belgrave catchment area. It was not a bad school, but his parents wanted to move him out for his GCSEs and A levels. Sameer did not want to leave Jeremiah and his other friends. But his parents had insisted that Sameer sit the entrance exams for St Thomas High. The Patels’ son was there, after all. Look, his mother had explained patiently to her young son, if you’re with stupid people, it brings you down to their level. If you’re with smart people, it brings you up to theirs.

  The day that Sameer had asked his father if he could go to watch the football match, there were still two weeks until the exam and Sameer had not spent a single day of his summer holiday outside his bedroom. It’s just one summer, he remembers his father saying. Everything we’ve done, every sacrifice we’ve made, we made for you, son. Now you’re getting an opportunity we never had. Get into this school and you’re set for the future: GCSEs, A levels and then Oxford or Cambridge. And you’ll pave the way for Zara too – because if you’ve been to this school, she can go to this school. Think about it this way: do you really want to throw away your whole future, and your sister’s future, just to go to one football match today? Sameer did not want to do that, and so he did not go to see the match. Instead, he continued to study, passed the entrance exam – and then his GCSEs and A levels – with flying colours, gained admission to Cambridge and secured a job at one of the top law firms in the world.

  ‘So, tell us about your deal then,’ Sameer’s father says, as his mother begins to serve up. ‘You’ve been so busy.’

  ‘There’s a lot to tell.’ Sameer takes a deep breath; a mouthful of pasta bake has settled in his stomach solidly.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to tell all the best parts again tonight,’ his mother warns. ‘Yasmeen Foi and Haroon Fua will be here for dinner.’

  Yasmeen Foi is Sameer’s auntie, his father’s older sister who lives across the road with her husband, Haroon Fua, both of whom work in the family business. Their daughters, Shabnam and Samah, are both married. Shabnam is six years older than Sameer and had married when she was young, into a well-known family from the local mosque. She has a little boy. Sameer had always remembered her as aloof, not wanting to play, and just wanting to do girly things like paint her nails and call her friends. Samah, on the other hand, is only a year younger than Sameer, and the two of them had done everything together growing up. They particularly enjoyed the fact that both of their names could be shortened to Sam, and in the earlier years of their childhood, when their small selves retained that androgynous look of bowl cuts and dungarees, they used to pretend to be one another. Whenever Sameer spoke about his family, he always referred to his sisters, as he saw Samah as one of them. There had been a considerable amount of controversy a couple of years ago when Samah had brought home a white man, wanting to marry him. But once he had converted to Islam, the family relented, and the couple married and moved to Leeds, where Samah’s husband was based. Sameer had not seen her since the wedding.

  ‘How’s Samah?’ he asks, helping himself to salad.

  ‘Hard to know when she’s all the way in Leeds,’ his mother sniffs.

  ‘You can ask her yourself if you come home next weekend,’ his father says. ‘Her and John are coming to visit.’

  ‘Well, she’s coming to visit Shabnam, actually,’ Zara says, reaching across Sameer for garlic bread. ‘Shabnam’s pregnant – I hope this one isn’t going to be as fat as little Ayaan though.’ Sameer stifles a giggle.

  ‘He’s only four years old, leave him alone,’ his mother tuts. ‘You can’t be fat at four.’

  ‘Yes you can.’ Zara stares at her mother, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘But I suppose that’s what happens when you move in with your in-laws, they fatten up your kids like Christmas turkeys.’ She sighs. ‘I’ll never move in with in-laws, I’m going to stay here forever.’ Sameer’s parents look at each other and smile. He can almost hear his father’s thoughts: That’s my girl!

  ‘But you know that’s what happens when girls get married, sis,’ Sameer teases. ‘You won’t be a part of this family any more – you’ll be a part of that family. My wife, on the other hand. She’ll join this family.’

  Zara rolls her eyes, but sees an opportunity. ‘Speaking of which. When are you getting married, Sameer? I so want a little niece or nephew.’

  ‘Hah,’ Mhota Papa’s ears perk up and he stops chewing for a moment. Yes. He sticks a finger in his ear, pushing in his hearing aid. His voice shakes, but holds. ‘Shadi kyareh karwanoh? Shadi karvou ta tarou dharam che. Shadi karva ma dhiel nahi karai!’ When will you get married? You know marriage is part of your deen. You shouldn’t delay it!

  ‘I know, Mhota Papa,’ Sameer says kindly. ‘But there’s no rush. In your day it was different. Things have changed.’

  ‘Kayanj nathi badalyoon shadi bara maa,’ Mhota Papa mutters in response. Nothing has changed when it comes to the matter of marriage. Mhota Papa returns t
o masticating slowly, the skin under his neck wobbling like a wattle. Pity pulls at Sameer’s heartstrings. Mhota Papa’s wife is dead, his children have abandoned him – one lives in America, there are two who live in Leicester but did not want to live with him after Mhoti Maa died. Too wrapped up in their own lives. But at least he has Sameer’s father, and is in reasonably good health for eighty-four.

  ‘Now, Sameer,’ his mother says, eager to give her tuppence worth to the marriage conversation, ‘I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you countless times again. When you find a nice Muslim girl that you like, you marry her, you understand? None of this dating-shating.’

  Sameer rolls his eyes. ‘Mum. Again. That was your generation. You can’t expect us to get married to people we don’t know.’

  ‘I’m not saying you have to have an arranged marriage,’ his mother snaps in response, flicking her spoon in Sameer’s direction. A piece of pasta lands near his plate and he pinches it off the table and puts it in his mouth. ‘I’m just saying that nothing has changed about haraam and halal. Love comes –’

  ‘After marriage,’ Zara quips, finishing her mother’s sentence and bursting into laughter.

  Sameer does not join in and looks at his father imploringly to save him from this conversation.

  ‘So let me tell you what we’re planning next,’ his father obliges. Their plates are nearly empty and Sameer’s mother rises to scoop the last of the pasta bake onto Sameer’s plate. He protests and she ignores him. ‘Our next big job – we’re building an extension to the house.’

  Sameer looks out through the doors of the conservatory into the large, expansive garden. He squints; the sun is blinding and he cannot see the end of the garden from where he is. ‘An extension? But why? What for?’ The house already has five bedrooms and three bathrooms. Sameer finishes the last of the pasta and his mother immediately takes his plate and begins to clear the table. Zara gets up to help.

  ‘We need more space,’ his father says. Mhota Papa rises and hobbles off towards his bedroom. ‘Since the girls left home, Yasmeen and Haroon have had to live in that large house all by themselves. We were thinking that it would make more sense for them to move in here. And, well, your mother’s right – you’re getting to that age now where we need to think about what we’re going to do when you marry. You’ll need your own space.’ Sameer is about to say something, but his father continues. ‘And when Zara marries too – I’m talking in the future, but I want our house to be a place where there is room for all of us to live comfortably.’

  Sameer fidgets in his chair. He wonders whether he should tell his family about Singapore now, give them time to digest the news before his aunt and uncle arrive. He opens his mouth, closes it and opens it again. His father gets up before Sameer has plucked up the courage to tell him. He is smiling at Sameer, bathed in the afternoon light. ‘Come into the garden with me, Sameer,’ he says. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

  Sameer obeys and heads through the conservatory into the garden. The air is crisp, but the cloudless sky removes the need for a jacket. He tilts his face up towards the sunlight and closes his eyes, letting the sun warm his face.

  The garden is vast, ending with a hedge that poorly hides a full-size tennis court that Sameer has not used for a long time. There has been some attempt near the conservatory, where the ground is paved, to add colour – a white trellis intertwined with ivy leads to a swing, but flowers do not bloom here yet. His father steps down onto the grass, hands clasped behind his back, balding head shining in the afternoon sun. Standing behind him, watching his small figure potter forward, Sameer is suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of affection. This is quickly followed by a wave of guilt.

  They start to walk towards the end of the garden slowly. ‘Ramesh tells me that Rahool is coming home,’ his father says eventually, voice soft. Sameer presses his lips together, hard, as if the action might stop his father from speaking any further. ‘You know, Sameer, I can still remember the day you were born. A Friday – an auspicious day, of course – at three minutes past two in the morning. You cried and cried, and then they let me hold you and you stopped crying. That was even before your mother got to hold you.’ His father pauses. Sameer watches a magpie bounce around on the grass in front of them. One for sorrow, he thinks.

  ‘You still remember, hey?’ he eventually offers, because he does not know what else to say.

  ‘It is quite something, having your first child. You never forget that moment. And then, before you know it, they have grown up.’ And completely disappointed you, Sameer thinks. ‘We have worked very hard, Sameer, to give you this life you have,’ his father says. ‘We made so many sacrifices that you wouldn’t understand. We’ve built an empire from nothing.’

  ‘I know, Dad. And I’m grateful.’

  ‘There comes a point, son, at which it is only right that you should start to give back.’

  Sameer swallows. ‘But isn’t this what you wanted for me, Dad?’

  ‘I am proud of you, son.’

  A warm sensation courses through Sameer, ending in a stupid smile. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ he says. They reach the hedge towards the end of the garden and stand there for a moment, looking out on to the tennis court. A breeze makes the net dividing the two halves of the court ripple and Sameer shivers.

  ‘But that was only ever a temporary arrangement. You were always going to come back, weren’t you?’ But it is not really a question. His father sighs deeply. ‘We are not getting any younger. We need your help.’

  ‘Dad,’ Sameer begins, taking a deep breath, ‘the thing is –’

  ‘Son,’ his father interrupts, ‘it is the right time. You have been in London for five years now, and away from home for eight. Isn’t that enough? Rahool is coming home, he thinks it is the right time.’

  Sameer stops walking. Several responses run through his mind: Well, I’m sorry Rahool isn’t your son and you are stuck with me; You don’t understand – it was pointless for Rahool to stay in London, he has nothing there; I’ve just been offered an incredible opportunity to launch a new office in Singapore – and they’ve offered it to me, Dad, because they think I’m actually pretty good. He says none of these things. His father has carried on walking and has nearly reached the house. Sameer kicks a dandelion in frustration. He cannot bring himself to tell his parents this weekend. Not the weekend that they have found out that Rahool is coming home.

  At dinner that evening, the house is filled with the fragrance of spices. Sameer’s mother has made a feast: guar curry – juicy beans in spicy tomato sauce; fluffy pilau, with lamb so tender it slides apart when touched; rich chicken curry. There are samosas, khichdi and kadhi for those who want it, hot rotli, kachumber. Yasmeen Foi and Haroon Fua are so happy to see Sameer; they pull him into hugs and shower him with kisses. Yasmeen Foi hands him a bag and whispers, ‘I was just shopping and saw these and thought of you. It’s just something small.’ Zara looks on enviously.

  There are seven of them, and they use the dining room to seat everybody. The ladies dish out the food while the men talk. Sameer’s father and Haroon Fua discuss the plans to extend the house. Sameer listens, half interested. His mind wanders to a life under this roof, days spent managing the business with his father and Fua, visiting the restaurants, opening new ones. Not having to answer to clients and partners at any hour of the day. Being able to create and control something. Overseeing other people working for him. Idyllic. Then he thinks of the fact that there had been a time, before he was born, when Yasmeen Foi and Haroon Fua had lived in London, where Haroon Fua had worked as a management consultant and Yasmeen Foi an accountant. Then, when Yasmeen Foi became pregnant with Shabnam, they had given up their jobs and moved to Leicester to help Sameer’s father with the growing business. Haroon Fua was the partner his father had always wanted, his father’s brothers all being too old or dead or far away. As a young child, Sameer had always admired their relationship, viewing it through the rose-tinted glasses that come with the innocence of chil
dhood. But as he had got older, he had started to notice things – and hear things from Samah – that made him uncomfortable. Haroon Fua was not a shareholder, or even a director of the company. He was an employee. He didn’t have the power to take the business in any direction, he just did what Sameer’s father told him to do. His salary filtered through Sameer’s father’s watchful eyes. There had been that argument about the car Haroon Fua had wanted to buy. Then there had been the really awful time when Yasmeen Foi had come to the house in tears with a young Shabnam and Samah, sobbing that she would leave him if he couldn’t put the family first. Sameer had only been about ten years old at the time, but he still remembers the bitty black streaks making trails down Yasmeen Foi’s face.

  He wonders what it would be like, not earning an independent salary. Needing to draw on the family account and ask his father for permission every time he wants to spend money. Being completely dependent on his parents, just like he was when he was a teenager. No scope for disagreement. A painful memory rises like a bubble to the front of his mind. No, of course we had nothing to do with that. Don’t be upset, just forget her, Sameer. You’ve got us, haven’t you? We know what’s best for you. We’ll always be here for you. He thinks of the freedom he will have in Singapore.

  As if he has sensed Sameer’s thoughts, Mhota Papa suddenly wails, ‘Mane mari dikri Amira bahooj yaad ave che.’ I miss my Amira – his daughter in America. ‘Hoon mari jaysh to paun enei kayi dukh nahi thai.’ I could die any time and it’s as if she doesn’t care.

  Yasmeen Foi’s eyes narrow as she grinds a piece of rotli between her teeth. ‘Such a selfish, thoughtless girl –’ she begins.

  Sameer’s mother cuts her off. ‘Mhota Papa,’ she says gently, touching his arm. ‘Khuda na kare.’ God forbid. ‘Of course she cares. All of your children care.’

  Yasmeen Foi glances at Sameer’s father; they know that their brother is about to start crying. ‘Bhai,’ Yasmeen Foi says loudly, ‘do you remember when it rained in Uganda? How it used to come down in sheets and sheets?’