We Are All Birds of Uganda

by Hafsa Zayyan

  6

  To my first love, my beloved,

  3rd June 1953

  I miss you, my jaan. I see you in the reflection of every surface, I hear your voice in the silence between moments. I close my eyes and I can feel my head resting on your breast, your small heart beating, your hands – always smelling faintly of garlic – gently caressing my forehead. I have not stopped needing you. I don’t believe I ever will.

  Shabnam and I do not speak about things. Instead, she shuts herself in the bedroom and cries. It makes me despise her; the little hiccups escaping in sobs from her plump lips, soft body shuddering with each release. She is no small woman, and her doughy folds roll like the hills of Kampala across our sheets. Not like you – I could lift you, firm and steady, with one arm. We could talk for hours. I often think that Shabnam could not be more the opposite of you. She has settled into this life with ever-expanding hips and bosom and a comfortable ease that eludes me. This life of ayahs and boyis, ascari and dogs, of more money than she ever could have imagined, of shopping for things that can be stored carefully in our multiple display cabinets, a life in which her clothes have their own bedroom. It is a million miles away from her life in India, a place of which she no longer speaks.

  You would be surprised to see all the help we have now – even with Farah and Noor gone to Mbarara, we still need it. Things were so different when it was you and me, when we did not live in this house, and when we did not move in these circles. We have the ayah, looking after the children, and – you will not like to hear this – we also have a cook. There are now two drivers – it seemed necessary for Samir and Tasneem to have their own, and given our slowly growing collection of cars. An ascari stands at the gate, whilst the dogs snap at his feet. Can you believe it – dogs! Two large German shepherds, barely restrained by their long leashes, saliva dripping from snouts wet like damp sponges, barking madly whenever a stranger passes. You did not like dogs. Papa says that they chase away angels and gives them the widest berth whenever he passes.

  Despite our abundance of servants, I miss Abdullah. He has not worked in the house for some time now. But you would be pleased to hear that this is because he now works as the manager of our retail business, from an office in Old Kampala six days a week. Of course some members of the community were surprised when we did this. But I did not care. You always used to say that Abdullah had a sharp mind and that he deserved to do more with it. I never found the courage to listen to your words back then. Ironic, isn’t it, that it was because of you that Abdullah could not reach his full potential. But now that you are gone, I have put your words into action, and he has not disappointed. I’ve tripled his salary from what it used to be. He still comes to the house every Sunday to join the family for lunch, and afterwards he will make us cardamom chai, just like he used to, and we will sit in the drawing room and talk. Why is it that I feel closest to you when I am with him?

  As it turns out, my darling, wealth takes you to many places. I only wish you were here to see it. I sent Shahzeb to England to the London School of Economics to study law. He is enamoured of London, but he comes home at the end of every term, and when he returns, smelling of rain and earth and concrete, the children clamour around him, climbing on top of him and searching through his pockets for English treats. Every time without fail, his suitcases open, spilling with gifts for all – slightly damp copies of the local London newspaper, slabs of vanilla fudge, key rings from which hang miniature red telephone boxes and red double-decker buses. Shabnam, who has a particular affection for all things British, will be gifted an additional, special treat: perhaps a lavender-scented handkerchief, or a tin packed with English Breakfast tea.

  It is whilst attending university in London that Shahzeb has become an excellent squash player. You know it is a sport that I have always had a deep fondness for; the first sport I played as a child when I was finally introduced to the British education system, after leaving behind the Gujarati school in which I had spent my primary years.

  But squash was never ours to keep; it is a sport that belongs to the British, brought here to be sampled by the select few who can afford a British education. And it continues to tease those who go to Britain for higher education, like my son, only to find upon his return that there are no public squash courts in Kampala. So when Shahzeb came home at the end of each term, we began to sneak into our old secondary school at the weekends to use the squash courts. It became a routine, father-and-son bonding over the thrill of the game amplified by the risk of being caught. And we were caught eventually – by one of the schoolteachers, Mr John Clapham, a fine specimen of a Brit, perhaps only a year or two older than Shahzeb, tall, with blue eyes and a barely there tuft of fine blond hair. He watched us play a full game before he alerted us to his presence. We stood ready to be chided – but instead he challenged Shahzeb to a game! I stared at this lovely white man and wondered whether he was mocking us. But no: he rolled up his sleeves, removed his tie and jacket, took my racquet and they began to play. I watched as Mr Clapham’s white shirt became completely transparent and sweat began to run into his eyes. The games were close, but Shahzeb won, four to one. Mr Clapham insisted that he was handicapped by his attire, but he shook Shahzeb’s hand very sincerely and invited us to join him in the Kampala Sports Club. Shahzeb and I looked at each other nervously. You remember the Kampala Sports Club? For Europeans Only.

  What you would have thought of all this, I do not know. You always had a certain wariness of the British. But back then, my dear, we were not friends with any British people. I think you would like Mr Clapham. He is a good man.

  So we told Mr Clapham that should he wish to apply for us to be permitted to play squash at the club, we would have no objection. Mr Clapham made an application – that Shahzeb and I, as upstanding members of the Asian community, Shahzeb being an excellent squash player studying at the London School of Economics and myself being none other than Hasan Saeed of Saeed & Sons, should be permitted solely to use the squash facilities and to play games against any members of the club. And lo and behold, his application was granted.

  The Europeans regarded us at first with suspicion. I do not know why it is the case, whether it is a rule of the club, but the Europeans there dress exclusively in white – white tennis skirts and white polo shirts, white visors and white sports shoes. On the trim green grass, sprawled over loungers, flipping through magazines, reclining at the bar, the Europeans in their whites, sipping through straws on fluorescent cocktails, stared at us as we passed. But we walked with Mr Clapham straight to the squash courts, and after the third or fourth time, they stopped staring. A few of them came to observe us playing and I believe that they were entertained.

  Before our friendship with Mr Clapham, I did not often spend time with our British counterparts. Oh, we used to laugh as we passed their empty, shiny stores! How those stores survive I don’t know, stores of hats and bags and ready-made dresses, seemingly bereft of any custom, yet somehow chugging along. Somehow managing to make a success out of doing nothing; leaving their mark everywhere like an overexcited, untrained puppy: Elizabeth Avenue, Windsor Crescent; Lakes Victoria, Edward, Albert, George. I have dared to hope that we Indians will be able to leave our mark on this country too. I have dreamt of Saeed & Sons being a household name across the whole length of Uganda; I have dreamt of being a someone whom people will remember the way that I remember you.

  You see, the thing is that no matter how much you try, my darling, you cannot avoid the British. And we have a lot to thank them for – if it was not for them, we may not have made it to Uganda at all. Would Papa have followed his uncle here had it not been for the British? We were simple peasant farmers before Uganda – and now we are millionaires. It is through the British that we have become resilient. When the British have attempted to restrain us, we have risen above their restrictions to find a way to succeed, like pests of which they cannot seem to rid themselves. Had it not been for the British laws restricting the sale of cot
ton to Indian ginneries, we would not have been forced to find new ways to make profits – which we did, by leveraging our networks, our community. We should be thankful to the British. They are a part of us now. They have crept upon us, unwittingly seeped through our skin and into our bones, and settled comfortably inside each of us like veins.

  Yesterday, it was the coronation of our Queen. The royal family may not have meant much to you, but had you been here, even you would have felt dizzy with exhilaration. The streets were alive with processions of marching bands, members of the British army and their African soldiers; schoolchildren dutifully waving the British flag. There was a sense of jubilant excitement in the air; the coming together of all of Her Majesty’s subjects to celebrate the crowning of Queen Elizabeth II; a palpable sense of pride.

  The build-up to the coronation had gone on for several days. There were talks of parties and festivals and cross-country motor rallies to celebrate the new Queen. The children have come home from school singing God Save the Queen and carrying purple tins of coronation memorabilia; Shabnam pounced upon each of these tins as they crossed the threshold and refused to allow the children to eat even one Cadbury’s chocolate. Shahzeb had finished the final term of his second year of university but stayed for a few days in London so that he could watch the coronation procession live from the streets. Shabnam could barely contain her jealously when she realised that Shahzeb was to be bestowed with such an opportunity. But the coronation was to be televised for the first time in history: a reel of film would be brought to the Kampala Sports Club by a visiting officer the following day, and an event would be held at the club to watch it. After an afternoon game of squash (in which I beat Mr Clapham four games to three), Mr Clapham told me that Shabnam and I were invited.

  Shabnam was giddy with excitement. She spent the whole day preparing herself for the event: squeezing herself into a halter-neck dress that Shahzeb had brought for her from England, covering her shoulders with a pastel-pink cardigan; powdering her face to give her a ghost-like appearance, disturbed only by a bright slash of red on her lips. On her feet, a pair of Mary Jane heels – again, a gift from Shahzeb – but they are a size too small and her flesh oozed out around the shoe. Her hair was piled atop her head and framed by a white cloth headband. It was almost comical, and mildly confusing, to see her dressed like an Englishwoman.

  We left for the sports club at seven o’clock. The overwhelmingly strong smell of orange blossom, sprayed generously across Shabnam’s neck and wrists and in her hair, tickled my nose as she climbed into the car. She had forced me to wear a suit – I insisted it was too formal, but she would not take no for an answer. I took the Mercedes and we drove the twenty-minute journey in silence.

  When we arrived at the club, the door was locked. But the noise of cheering and laughter could be faintly heard in the background. There is no doorbell – only a small keypad at the side of the building, but I did not have the access code. Shabnam began to scratch her wrist erratically. ‘I’ve been bitten,’ she whispered. I felt very foolish and said that Mr Clapham would be there soon. He had invited us for seven thirty. I banged on the door quite forcefully. Shabnam flinched, looking around sheepishly, and asked me in a low tone what I was doing. I stopped.

  Perhaps fifteen minutes or so passed while we waited, saying nothing to each other. Though I did not look at her, I could sense Shabnam’s weight shifting from pinched foot to pinched foot and I began to resent her presence. At quarter to eight, I started to bang on the door once again. Shabnam opened her mouth to say something – but then a light, the sound of footsteps, a clicking sound, and the door swung open. Relief, at last. It was a friend of Mr Clapham’s with whom Shahzeb and I had occasionally played squash. He leaned against the door frame, beer bottle in hand. His shirt was unbuttoned enough to see the beginnings of chest hair. I said his name loudly, cheerfully, and Shabnam’s face lit up.

  ‘I just popped out to go to the loo and I heard some dreadful banging,’ the friend said to me. ‘Now, what are you doing here, old chap? And might that be your lovely wife?’

  Shabnam blushed and smiled. ‘We’ve come to watch the coronation,’ she declared.

  The friend looked at me sideways.

  ‘Mr Clapham – John – invited us,’ I clarified quickly, taking a step forward. The friend did not move from the doorway.

  ‘Ah,’ he said carefully. ‘Now, that’s slightly awkward, as I’m not sure he cleared that one with the rest of the club.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My voice came out strangely small. ‘I think there has been a misunderstanding. Please, would you mind fetching John?’

  The friend looked straight back at me, unmoved, although his tone was apologetic. ‘I don’t think that’s going to do any of us any good,’ he said slowly. ‘You understand, don’t you?’ He wrinkled his nose, and I suddenly became conscious of the sour smell of fried onions seeping through Shabnam’s perfume.

  Before another word could be said, I grabbed Shabnam’s wrist and yanked her back towards the car. She stumbled behind me, her fat little legs struggling to keep up. ‘You’re hurting me, Hasan.’ A hiccup. The sobbing began in the car on the way home, amongst muffled half-sentences: the shame, treating us like dogs, I thought he was your friend. I did not say a word in response. At home, the children asked us why were we back so early, surely it could not have finished already – it was a three-hour ceremony – what had happened? Shabnam stormed straight past them to bed and I locked myself in the study to write to you.

  It was a mistake – a foolish, stupid mistake – to think that we might be permitted to join the club, even if only for one night, even if only to celebrate the Queen’s coronation. I do not know what I will say to Mr Clapham when I see him next. But I cannot blame him; he cannot be expected to make a stand for a people of whom he is not a part. It is not his duty. I thank Allah for the community that I do belong to, the community that we have built here, our little India. I don’t think that I will be returning to play squash at the sports club again.

  7

  Everything is different now that Ramadan is over and Sameer is no longer fasting.

  He has a beautiful and deep sense of gratitude for the access he has to water he can drink and food he can eat. As he does every year after Ramadan, he starts to buy sandwiches and bottles of water when he sees a person begging on the street. After a few weeks, the feeling will wear off; it will not be so immediate, and he will pass the homeless without looking at them once again. But for now, he sees them and he tries to help in his own small way.

  At work, he is focused, faster, accurate: rejuvenated. There are no stupid mistakes, no proofing errors; the answer to a problem comes quickly and easily to his mind. Chris is noticeably less critical but stops short of any praise. For the first time in his life Sameer understands the feeling of being disliked for no obvious reason. The better he does, the more he feels Chris’s disdain intensify. It makes no sense. ‘He just doesn’t like me,’ he says to Ryan, swivelling his chair to face him.

  ‘That much is obvious,’ Ryan nods with a strange, wide-eyed expression that makes Sameer immediately feel wary. ‘You know he’s invited a bunch of us to his house for a barbecue?’

  Sameer shakes his head.

  ‘Yeah, I saw your name wasn’t on the email. Bit awkward seeing as I don’t even work with him and I’ve been invited. Don’t know what you’ve done, mate!’ Ryan starts to laugh.

  Sameer forces a smile. He doesn’t want to go, but it’s strange to have been excluded from the invitation, especially as they are going to be in Singapore together.

  Chris brings up the barbecue after a team meeting on the deal, reminding them to bring swimwear, as he wants his pool to be used, please. Sameer stares determinedly at his notebook, not meeting Chris’s eyes. So everyone on the team except him is going?

  ‘Oh, Sam –’ Chris says, forcing Sameer to look up. ‘I didn’t send you the original invite – just because it’s a barbecue, you know – and I wasn�
��t sure whether that was your kind of thing, what with the Ramadan and everything?’

  ‘Ramadan ended a couple of weeks ago,’ Sameer responds evenly.

  ‘Right, well – still. There’ll be a lot of booze there and you lot don’t drink, do you? You’re obviously still very welcome to come if you don’t mind being around all of that.’

  Sameer wishes that Chris would have had this conversation with him privately. He doesn’t know what to say in front of his colleagues. There is a long and uncomfortable pause. Finally, he says: ‘I’m good, thanks.’

  On the train that weekend – the third weekend in a row that they have been back to Leicester together since they found out about Rahool – Sameer tells Jeremiah about the barbecue. Jeremiah says that Chris sounds like a racist. Sameer reflects on this statement for a moment: he went to a selective school, to Cambridge University, obtained a well-paying job, and was selected from thirty-odd candidates for Singapore. There is nothing about his skin colour that has set him back. ‘Why do you say that, J?’ he asks. ‘What if he just doesn’t like me? People don’t always get along.’

  ‘It’s not that, man,’ Jeremiah shakes his head, one foot tapping to a beat Sameer cannot hear. Jeremiah has an annoying habit of always listening to music, even when he is talking to other people. One ear is covered by his wireless Bose headphones; the other ear is free for Sameer, where the headphone has been pushed back to rest on Jeremiah’s head. ‘It’s the fact that he is singling you out because of who you are. Like this whole Ramadan and not drinking thing. It’s all bollocks. First off, you do drink. And second, even if you didn’t – why assume you wouldn’t want to attend just because of that? He’s taking the choice away from you.’

  He snaps the headphones back onto both of his ears and looks out of the window. For a moment, Sameer stares at his friend and wonders what it would be like to be him: to be black. To have that ageless cocoa skin, those wide nostrils and that large sensual mouth. To have that naturally muscular build, and the springy island of hair that never fails to bounce back. To be effortlessly cool. What has Jeremiah experienced that bypassed Sameer because of the randomness of their pigmentation; the randomness of who they were born to? He thinks back to his childhood with Jeremiah, starting to feel uncomfortably warm at the possibility of his own naivety, scanning his mind for memories of times that Jeremiah was treated differently. He can’t think of any, and wonders whether he has missed something, whether he should ask Jeremiah if he saw things differently to how Sameer had seen them, but something holds him back. His friend looks up and smiles at him, tapping his fingers rhythmically on his knee. Things seem to be going very well for Jeremiah. He’s finally where he wanted to be after years of trying to make music in his tiny E3 bedroom. With this thought, Sameer reassures himself: surely the type of industry that Jeremiah has broken into is easier if you are black. He can’t imagine trying to do the same thing himself.