We Are All Birds of Uganda

by Hafsa Zayyan

  I had nothing to say in response to this. Just a few days later, Shahzeb told me that both he and Samir had, behind my back, applied for the voucher scheme. ‘We are not trying to leave the country,’ he said. ‘It is just a precautionary measure.’

  ‘And then what happens when you get the voucher, eh? You’re just going to leave your mother and me here, leave me to run the business alone?’

  ‘Papa,’ Shahzeb said gently, coming closer and trying to take my hand. I batted him away, turning so that he would not see the hurt in my eyes. ‘Papa, we’ve been told that it is a five-year wait.’

  This, I must say, caught me by surprise. The Mehtas had obtained their vouchers so quickly only a few months earlier – how had things changed so drastically in the space of such a short period? I looked at my son then, suddenly feeling sorry for him. ‘Well, that is the British for you,’ I said.

  Now, nearly a year has passed and Shahzeb and Samir are still in the queue for a voucher. I am still a non-Ugandan, non-British, non-Indian nobody. And Amin has staged a coup.

  It has been exactly one week since the coup. We were at the airport when it happened, dropping off Zakir, who was to return to the UK for university after the winter holiday. The flight was at one in the morning. We arrived just before 11 p.m., just myself, Zakir and Samir; I had told Shabnam not to come because it was so late. The airport is wonderfully quiet at that time – midweek, late night – there must have been about ten other people in sight. Almost peaceful, really. The three of us were having chai at a small table in the waiting lounge, when suddenly, at midnight: a piercing, rapid firing noise – gunshots! ‘Get down!’ Samir grabbed his brother with one hand and me with the other and shoved us under the table. I looked around: the other passengers were also on the floor. Within seconds, a troupe of Africans in military gear, slinging assault rifles from their shoulders, marched in.

  ‘Get up!’ the front officer barked. Nobody moved. ‘There will be no flights until further notice!’

  The majority of the soldiers left the room; two stayed at the door.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Samir muttered. One of the other passengers rose from the floor and sat back down in his seat; the soldiers did not react and eventually the rest of us resumed our seats.

  ‘What does until further notice mean?’ Zakir whispered. ‘The flight is delayed, or the flight is cancelled?’

  ‘I don’t know, beta.’ I scanned the faces of the other passengers for clues – we were all passengers for the same flight, but nobody seemed to know what was going on. Time passed slowly – 1 a.m., then 2 a.m., then 3 a.m. At 3.30, one of the soldiers made an announcement: ‘There will be no flights today! Take your things and leave.’

  Nervous glances were exchanged. Samir took Zakir’s trunk and we made our way out of the airport and back to the car.

  Army tanks had materialised in the car park and they sat staunchly, guns poised and waiting; soldiers stood to attention, some smoking, some snapping at us to move along quickly. We reached the car: the driver was sleeping on the back seat. I rapped sharply on the window. How he could sleep with the noise going on around him I will never know. By this point, the sky was tinged with the faintest thread of light, a pink-and-orange hue against a starless night. The road began to illuminate as we drove homeward.

  What can I tell you next, Amira? We came across a body five minutes into the journey, on the road. I did not realise what it was at first – perhaps a deer? But the shape was too long, too slim. The driver swerved to the other side of the road as we approached and it became clear: it was a man. In military uniform, twisted awkwardly. ‘Should we stop?’ Samir breathed.

  ‘There is nothing we can do for him,’ I replied.

  It was not the last body we saw.

  It was nearly six in the morning when we reached home. The roads were crawling with soldiers. The whole house was awake and seated in the drawing room on our arrival; Shabnam ran into my arms and burst into tears. ‘We were so worried! We’ve just been hearing gunshots and explosions. I think they set off a bomb somewhere in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Obote was not in the country, he went for the Commonwealth conference,’ Samir remarked. ‘There must have been some kind of coup by the army.’

  ‘Abdullah’s son is in the army,’ I said. ‘Ibrahim.’ Silence. ‘I will go to the office to see Abdullah today.’

  ‘No, please,’ Shabnam said. ‘The roads are full of tanks, you can still hear the soldiers firing shots. None of us should go anywhere today.’

  ‘Shabnam,’ I began sternly, but – seeing the look on her face – I tailed off. ‘OK. I won’t go. It’s OK.’

  Nothing aired on television. Radio Uganda blared out the processional, clanging sounds of horns and trumpets, nothing else. At around 7.30 a.m., we heard a news bulletin from the BBC: fighting, troop movements, gunfire in Kampala city.

  We ate lunch in terse silence. Cups of chai circulated, largely left untouched. Finally, in the late afternoon, the music playing on Radio Uganda stopped and a heavily accented man’s voice began to speak in stumbling English: ‘The army has taken power from Obote and handed it over to a fellow soldier, General Idi Amin Dada. Obote’s government is corrupt. He has failed to hold elections in eight years. His policies benefit only the rich, big men, who have fleets of cars and buses and even aeroplanes, while the rest of Uganda suffers high taxes and prices and becomes poorer. Obote has favoured the Langi, his own tribe, who have the most senior roles in army and government.’

  It went on like this for a few minutes, and we all listened attentively. Was it really the end of Obote’s regime? I began to feel a nervous sense of excitement.

  That evening, Amin Dada himself graced our ears with a personal broadcast.

  ‘Fellow countrymen and well-wishers of Uganda. I address you today at a very important hour in the history of our nation. A short while ago, members of the armed forces placed this country in my hands. I am not a politician, but a professional soldier. I am therefore a man of few words and I shall, as a result, be brief. Throughout my professional life I have emphasised that the military must support a civilian government that has the support of the people, and I have not changed from that position.

  ‘Matters now prevailing in Uganda forced me to accept the task that has been given to me by the men of the Uganda armed forces. I will, however, accept this task on the understanding that mine will be a thoroughly caretaking administration, pending an early return to civilian rule. Free and fair general elections will soon be held in the country, given a stable security situation. Everybody will be free to participate in these elections. For that reason, political exiles are free to return to this country and political prisoners held on unspecified and unfounded charges will be released forthwith.’

  There is jubilation in Kampala. The streets have been filled with people cheering, waving green branches in front of army vehicles, drinking and dancing with men in military uniform. But after 7 p.m. there is a strict curfew and soldiers patrol the streets.

  There is a change in the breeze, my dear; the air is different somehow, perhaps sweeter. A new era has been ushered in with the dawn and now all we can do is wait to see what it will bring. I pray to Allah it is for the best for my family and me.

  Part II

  * * *

  13

  The lights have been dimmed, but Sameer cannot sleep. He looks out of the window; small ice crystals are collecting behind the plastic, patterns against the bluest sky. He raises a fingertip to the window, pressing the place where the snowflake shapes are beyond his reach; a sticky impression of him is left on the windowpane.

  He has not slept in over twenty-four hours: since boarding the flight, through the short stopover in Dubai, and on to his final destination, Entebbe. His AirPods remain in his pocket, the remote control for the miniature television screen has not been touched. His mind races continuously: It’s about time you saw your brother for what he truly is – selfish; We were doing what
is best for the family, you’ve never thought about that, have you, always doing what’s best for you; You have no right to go to Singapore. The awkward week that followed, during which he spent most of his time out of the house, hanging out with the boys or visiting a friend who no longer recognised him; his surprise that he had felt hurt when his mother did not ask where he was going or when he would be coming back. When he was in the house, there was no conversation at mealtimes, and neither of his parents would look him in the eye.

  He had waited until the morning of the flight to tell them that he’d been in contact with Mr Shah, and that he was going to visit him in Uganda. His father had looked at him properly for the first time in a week. ‘Why are you going there?’ he’d asked, shaking his head disbelievingly. Sameer had shrugged and said nothing. He did not really know why he was going. He just knew that he needed to get away from Leicester and London. Uganda seemed as good a place as any. ‘You won’t find whatever it is you’re looking for there,’ were the last words his father said to him before he left for Heathrow.

  A loud, two-toned beep jerks Sameer from these thoughts as the flight attendant announces through the intercom: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning our descent into Entebbe. Please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in the upright position. Thank you.’

  From the window, he can see squares of different shades of green, neatly organised like a patchwork quilt, rising into hills, scattered with red and white buildings. He was not expecting to find that it almost looks like the English countryside – this is not how he pictured Africa; he had imagined a dry, arid landscape, dusty and barren. As the plane draws closer to the ground, passing over a gleaming body of barely rippling water that stretches beyond view, a nervous pang passes through him and he wonders for a moment what he is doing: why has he travelled here to meet someone he barely knows? Then the plane doors are opened and warm air hits him. He inhales deeply.

  Mr Shah is waiting in arrivals, waving, a huge smile spread across his face. Standing slightly behind him is a tall, wiry black man, hopping from foot to foot.

  ‘Sameer, beta,’ Mr Shah pulls Sameer into a hug that smells like cigars and cologne. ‘Hope you had a good flight. Long, isn’t it, from London? Nothing direct. Did you sleep? You must be tired.’

  The man standing behind Mr Shah exclaims: ‘You are welcome!’ and takes the handle of Sameer’s bag. There is a short tug of war – Mr Shah says: ‘Let him take the bags, this is Paul, our driver. He’s been with our family for years’ – and Sameer lets go reluctantly.

  Paul nods, revealing beautifully white teeth. ‘I am happy you have come to my country,’ he says, and his smile is filled with such joy that Sameer’s face can’t help but respond.

  ‘We both are,’ Mr Shah says, patting Sameer on the back. ‘Come on then, to Kampala.’

  Outside, the sky is a bright and brilliant blue, with not a cloud in sight. The ground underfoot is concrete, but not grey like English concrete. It is concrete the colour of warm orange dust. Against the blue sky and the red land the grass is a sharp, bright green. It is a trinity of colours that Sameer will see again and again. A Pepsi advert looms overhead on a blue sign: WELCOME TO THE PEARL OF AFRICA.

  There is no abeyance of colour as they walk towards where the car is parked; among the greenery of the trees spring red and yellow flowers. A huge flock of birds suddenly swoops over their heads, blotting the sun momentarily. Sameer stares as one of the birds breaks off, landing on the side mirror of the car in front of him. It’s beautiful, with a black head melting into grey and white wings. ‘What are these birds?’ he asks as they stop in front of a silver Mercedes S-Class. Paul flips out the keys and remotely unlocks the car, hurriedly moving around to open Sameer’s door for him before placing his bag in the boot.

  ‘Ah, you’re a bird lover?’ Mr Shah says, climbing into the car, and before Sameer has the chance to respond – ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. We have over a thousand species here in Uganda. Those you just saw are nothing special, common migrant birds from Europe and Asia. White-winged terns. Actually, they brought bird flu here a few years back, so we were trying to exterminate them for a while. Couldn’t work out how to stop them from coming back, though – you can’t exactly stop birds from flying, can you? They don’t recognise borders – they go where they will …’ Sameer shivers: the AC has been enthusiastically cranked up by Paul; it feels sub-zero. ‘In a way, I suppose, we are all birds of Uganda,’ Mr Shah chuckles. ‘Anyway, just wait until you see what else we have to offer. You’ll be blown away. I’m going to take you to the safari parks, the gorilla reserves – there’s so much to see, two weeks hardly feels like enough time! Well, I might not take you myself, personally –’ he adds quickly, as his phone starts to ring – ‘but you’ve got to see it all. Will you excuse me?’

  Mr Shah speaks rapidly, and only partly in English – Sameer tries to follow the conversation but quickly gets lost. His hand moves instinctively for his phone; he wishes they had waited a bit longer at the airport – perhaps he could have got a Ugandan SIM card. Instead he stares out of the window, drinking in the landscape rolling by: rust-red earth barely holding back jungle foliage, trailing vines and leaves the size of a dog, red-roofed housing developments sprouting between trees on either side of the highway. There are birds everywhere: swooping between the leaves of the jungle and in front of the cars on the road; watching them disinterestedly from the grassy mounds; silhouetted resplendently atop tall, branchless trees. Black hadada ibis with iridescent green wings; small, fluttering, yellow-bellied weavers; marabou storks with hooked beaks and wrinkled, wobbling necks.

  As they cruise down the dual carriageway (which is better than Sameer thought it would be: he had, for some reason, imagined potholed dirt tracks rather than maintained roads), Sameer does not tire of the scenery or the wildlife. It feels like barely a moment has passed before Mr Shah’s call has ended and he says: ‘Sorry, business …’

  ‘Speaking of business,’ Sameer says, tearing his eyes away from the window. ‘I’d really like to see what you do. Is there any opportunity for me to shadow you?’

  ‘Of course, beta – nice that someone takes an interest. Settle in, enjoy your first weekend in Uganda, and I’ll bring you along on Monday if you like.’

  ‘That would be great – thank you.’

  ‘It’s a family business; my brother and I, we run it together. My nephew’s involved as well, we try to keep the management in the family, know what I mean? I’ve got two daughters, no sons I’m afraid. My eldest is married, she moved to Kenya, that’s where her husband is from, very wealthy family, almost as wealthy as us, ha ha. No kids yet, but it’s still early days, they’ve only been married for a couple of years. Nice ceremony, we had it here at the Kampala Serena, then we all went to Nairobi for the walima. My youngest is at university – in London actually, at the SOAS, did I mention this to you when I was in England? Bright girl but studying history of art of all things,’ he winces. ‘Doesn’t give me high hopes that she’ll want to come back to the business when she’s done, but let’s see. Anyway, she’s home for the summer, you’ll meet her …’ he tails off, not noticing that Sameer has not said a word during this monologue. ‘Anyway, enough chat about business! You just wait until we get home – Rehana has had a feast prepared for you, everything Ugandan. If you think you’ve had mogo before, you’re wrong, you can’t get cassava in England like the cassava you can get here,’ and then hurriedly, ‘though I must say I enjoyed your mother’s cooking very much when I came, of course. You like fruit? You won’t find juicier fruit anywhere else in the world, the pineapple, the papaya and of course the bananas …’

  Sameer lets Mr Shah carry on like this, nodding and smiling at appropriate intervals. As they enter Kampala, the traffic begins to thicken. The road is still good, but the foliage has disappeared, replaced by precarious-looking buildings, stacked atop one another and flanked by giant painted signs screaming the sale of various wares: frid
ges, tyres, batteries, sports betting. They pass a bank that looks like it was built in the 1920s and is in serious need of an update; the words ‘FIRST BANK’ have been painted on in letters that are fading so that the sign looks, from a distance, like it reads ‘R ANK’. Corrugated tin walls obscure some of Sameer’s view; the tin has been painted blue and advertises bottles that look suspiciously like Coke, Fanta and Sprite but are branded ‘Riham’. As they approach a roundabout, what seem to be thousands of motorcycles and pedal bikes appear from nowhere and flood the roads. Some passengers are wearing helmets, most are not; some of the bikes have as many as five people stacked on the seats.

  Eventually, the mania gives way to wider roads, the traffic dies away and the green foliage returns. Neatly trimmed hedges border Sameer’s left, interrupted only by towering steel gates. A large, grassy parkland borders his right. It is a completely different world from the frenzy of the town. ‘Welcome to Kololo,’ Mr Shah says.

  On a quiet road lined with acacia and banana trees, the car stops in front of a wrought-iron gate, its gunmetal-grey bars intertwined with gold leaves. The gates open – ‘We have a twenty-four-hour security system, manned in the day by our security guards, and at night by camera’ – into a wide driveway, with stone cherubs playing in a fountain centrepiece. Paul stops the car near the front patio and opens each of their doors.

  The Shahs’ house is palatial. In the entrance hall alone, huge patterned carpets rest on white marble floors; glitzy chandeliers hang from high ceilings; crystal bowls of potpourri sit on mahogany tables. A huge silver mirror hangs on the wall, spanning nearly the length of the room and exaggerating its proportions. The faint smell of food makes Sameer’s stomach grumble.

  A plump lady comes bursting through a door and into the hall, dressed in an embroidered turquoise salwar kameez that emphasises the greenness of her eyes. There is gold on her wrists and neck and ears; make-up sits in the creases of her face; she brings with her the scent of something floral and soft. She gives Mr Shah a quick kiss on the cheek and envelops Sameer in a hug. ‘I’ve heard so much about you, beta,’ she says, eyes following Mr Shah, who disappears through a door leading off the hall. ‘How lovely to have the Saeed’s son staying with us.’