‘At least he’s home now,’ said Asha.
‘He’s sleeping. All Naseem wants to do is sleep,’ said Razia, staring at the floor.
‘Rest is good,’ said Pran. They were visiting Razia and Naseem, who’d finally made it home after his disappearance.
‘Here, let me put this away.’ Asha took the bowl of mogo and samosa that she and Jaya had made for the family to the kitchen. The house was silent; she didn’t ask where the children and their grandparents were. Probably best that Naseem had some peace.
When Asha came back into the sitting room, Razia was telling Pran what happened. ‘We kept going back. We went every single day to ask the army where he was but they wouldn’t tell us. Then yesterday, an army truck just left him at the side of our road. Naseem just had this strange look on his face, wouldn’t say anything at first.’ She brought her hand to her mouth. ‘We’ve been trying to piece it all together.’
‘And now?’ said Pran, the concern on his face clear to see.
‘They stopped him in his car, but we knew that already, that’s how we knew he’d been taken,’ said Razia. ‘They told him they were arresting him and grabbed him. Naseem kept talking about the cell they kept him in. It was dark, there were dozens of other prisoners. He talked about the water at his feet, the stench.’
‘Oh, Razia,’ said Asha. She’d heard the rumours of the squalid conditions in which prisoners were kept, but she didn’t know the details. ‘How is he now?’
‘You should see him, he can’t stand up straight.’ Razia’s voice cracked. ‘His hands . . . his legs . . .’ She didn’t go on. She didn’t need to. The horror of what they’d done to him was written on her face.
‘And do you know why they took him?’ said Asha, putting her hand on Razia’s.
‘We heard they found his contacts in the government.’ Razia couldn’t look at them. ‘Their bodies, I mean.’
Pran gave Asha a look, warning her that it was best not to pry further. There was no need. The contacts must have done something to upset Amin, taking their own cut most likely. They’d paid the price for it.
‘Naseem?’ Razia called out. In the far corner of the vast room, Naseem appeared swathed in a thick blanket, head bowed. His steps were small and awkward, his broad frame shrunken. ‘I’d better go and check on him.’ She got up, talking to him in a tender tone, the way she usually spoke to her youngest child.
Asha whispered to Pran, ‘Do you understand now why you can’t even think about staying behind?’
‘It’s not the same,’ said Pran. They watched as Razia led Naseem back to the bedroom.
Asha leant forward. ‘Would you really do that to me? Did you see the look on poor Razia’s face?’ Anger burned in Asha’s veins so strongly Naseem could have been her own husband. How dare they treat people like that?
‘What’s happened to Naseem is terrible. But I’ve never got involved with the government like that.’
‘They don’t care. They could take you away merely for driving your car too fast. Or too slow. For anything at all. I couldn’t bear it. If they did that to you . . .’ Asha was surprised by the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
‘They wouldn’t.’ But his voice betrayed him. Asha could see Naseem’s ordeal weighed heavily on him.
‘You’re really going to stay here alone? There’d be no one left to help you if you got into trouble.’
Pran looked down at his hands. ‘I can’t believe what they’ve done to Naseem.’ Had he finally admitted defeat?
‘I can’t believe that he even came back. Not when you think what happened to the others.’ The bodies in the Nile flashed into Asha’s head, but there was no point trying to work out the logic of Idi Amin and his army.
‘At least their family can go to India together now,’ said Pran.
‘Pranbhai!’ Razia’s panicked voice carried across the house.
Pran stood up. ‘I think she’s out front.’ Asha followed him towards the door.
They heard the fire before they saw it, crackling in the metal sigri that the watchmen used to keep warm at night. Naseem was throwing something in.
Razia’s hands were red. She tried to stop him. ‘Naseem!’
As they stepped closer, smoke filling the air, they saw that he was burning money.
Pran tried to pull Naseem back, but though he flinched, it was as though he was made of lead. He carried on flinging piles of notes into the flames, ash floating in the air like black moths.
‘Stop it!’ Razia cried out. ‘We could have given it to the servants at least!’
‘Why should anyone else have what we worked so hard for?’ said Naseem. ‘Besides, it’s only paper. It has no value for us Asians any more, does it? It can’t keep us safe.’
‘Naseem, chaal, come away,’ Pran said, putting his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘We shouldn’t draw attention to ourselves.’
Asha looked around; luckily no one else was nearby to see the money. Many neighbours had already packed up and gone, with the expulsion deadline only three weeks away.
‘Please stop,’ said Razia, tears running down her face, clinging to her husband.
But Naseem carried on, flames reflecting in his eyes as though they too were on fire.
*
Later that week, Asha was hurrying back from the storeroom when she saw a movement in the corner of the yard. She stopped. A chill travelled up her neck despite the warm evening air.
A figure was crouching on the ground, digging.
A soldier? She gasped so loudly that the figure turned around.
Moonlight revealed their face. Pran.
‘What are you doing?’ she said. ‘You scared me.’
‘Nothing.’ He tried to hide something behind him.
‘Let me see, Pran. Are you keeping things from me again?’
Pran hesitated, then showed her what he was doing. ‘We’ll need this again one day.’ He was wrapping a cloth around a metal box, ready to place it in a small hole in the ground.
‘What do you mean?’ She recognized the box as the same one Motichand had kept valuables in. They kept it hidden in the sitting room behind a bronze clock cut into the shape of Africa. Had the stress pushed Pran over the edge, burying things in the ground under cover of darkness?
‘We’ll come back for this.’ Pran didn’t look up at her. ‘I’m just keeping our money safe.’
‘What are you talking about? The government will give this house to other people to live here.’ It still angered her to say it out loud. Strangers living in their home.
‘It’s all temporary.’ Pran finished patting the earth down and stood up. She’d felt such relief when he’d given up his talk of staying, realizing that it was far too dangerous. But the things he said still concerned her. ‘We’ll get this house back. They’re not taking my Papa’s home, nor my business. I’m going to fight for it one day.’
‘Pran, what are you saying?’ She didn’t bother to hide her annoyance, or her wariness. The idea of coming back to this nightmare. Pran was sapping everyone’s energy with his anger. She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You want to come back here, after everything?’
Pran turned and looked at her. ‘Don’t you?’
*
Later, they ate dinner by candlelight and kerosene lamp, breaking the diamond-shaped dhebra with their hands and using it to scoop up the lentils in the mugh ni daar. Asha sipped the last of her bland chai, craving a teaspoonful of sugar. It was difficult to come by now that the plantations were in such a mess.
At least the gunfire hadn’t started yet. Some nights, it seemed to get louder and louder, as though the soldiers were in a ridiculous battle with the crickets. She knew it was important to listen for the sound, measuring the distance by how loudly it rattled through the air. But the moments to watch out for were those brief times when she realized she’d tuned the noise out in her head. That was far worse: to become so used to the terrible sounds that they blended into ordinary life.
When they’d finished eating, Asha and Jaya went to check on December. The storeroom door was ajar, but out of courtesy, Jaya knocked as she always did.
Inside, December was lying down on the bed, the plate of matoke and beans that Jaya had made especially for him sitting untouched beside him. It was strange to see him so subdued, so different from the first days after Asha had arrived, when he bounded around the yard, sweeping the veranda, painting the walls and tending to the shrubs in the garden. In the dimness, his skin looked ashy, the weeks without sunshine taking their toll.
Recently, he’d spoken to Asha about Jinja, where he had a few friends. They recalled the places they both knew, the local market, the nearby waterfalls, close to the source of the Nile. Old times, when you could make conversation about everyday life, without care or worry.
‘Adenya, you’ve not eaten?’ Jaya asked.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not hungry,’ he said.
‘Why not eat something, keep your strength up for your journey?’ Asha said, picking up the plate. Pran had confirmed that he’d found a way out for December, he could leave in a couple of days’ time, making a trip to the border, getting out through Kenya. Yet sorrow had replaced hope in his eyes.
‘Have you heard anything?’ December asked Jaya.
She shook her head. He asked the same thing every time any of them came to the storeroom. But the answer never changed. No news about the northern territories, no word from his daughter, nothing to cheer him.
‘Pran said we’ll be able to get you to the border in a few days,’ Asha said, in a vain attempt to make him feel better.
Outside, there was a loud rattle of the gate, followed by a shout in Swahili to let them in. Jacob, who used to keep watch outside each night, had long gone, taking up one of the Asian businesses. This voice didn’t sound familiar.
‘Why would anyone come to the house now? Curfew’s started,’ said Jaya, clutching her sari chundri at her neck.
December got up. ‘I could still try and get out, over the back wall?’
‘No,’ said Asha, heart drumming. Even if he escaped, soldiers would find him in the streets in no time. ‘You need to hide, we’ll go and find out what’s going on. Perhaps it’s nothing.’ Asha and Jaya hurried back to the others in the sitting room.
‘Perhaps it’s Naseem and Razia, or one of the other neighbours needing help?’ said Jaya.
Pran’s breath was shallow. ‘No. It must be soldiers.’
They’d talked many times about what they’d do if the army came, as they heard more and more stories about other houses in the neighbourhood, looted while the families were inside, the men beaten, the women shoved into bedrooms. But the closer the family got to leaving, the more Asha told herself that they’d get away with it and leave Uganda before the army got their chance.
‘Let’s just stay here like we agreed,’ whispered Vijay, his tone filled with impossible hope. ‘They won’t be able to see any lights at the front of the house. They might just be trying their luck.’
No one moved.
Another knock, another shout, this time more demanding than the last. ‘We know you’re in there,’ they said, then laughed.
‘We’ll have to let them in,’ said Vijay. ‘They might try and shoot their way in otherwise.’ How ridiculous it sounded, like something from a film, but there was a strong possibility that they’d actually do it.
Pran took Asha’s hands. ‘Hide in the bedroom, both of you. Lock the door and don’t come out, no matter what. Vijay, go and tell December to hide in the storeroom while I go and get them.’
‘Be careful, beta,’ Jaya whispered.
They made their way across the yard and into the bedroom.
Asha’s fingers slipped against the metal as she hurried to lock the bedroom door behind them. While Jaya stood close behind her, Asha peeked through a crack between the door and the frame. It smelt of old wood and oil. She looked out across the yard. Vijay had turned on the kitchen light so that it didn’t look like they’d been hiding in the dark. The light threw shapes across the yard, as though the frangipani tree, branches cast in dark shadow, was cowering in the corner. Asha strained to listen for voices beyond the thrum of the crickets. Thank God there was no gunfire in the neighbourhood tonight.
Nothing, no movement, no sounds from the kitchen.
‘What’s going on?’ said Jaya in a hushed voice.
‘I can’t tell. There’s no sign of anyone, not even Pran and Vijay.’ What if they’d already been attacked, lying on the floor? How long before the soldiers found the rest of them?
Behind her, Jaya whispered a prayer under her breath. Asha listened for a sound, a sign.
Four figures came out from the kitchen. Pran’s slim frame and Vijay’s stockier mass were flanked on either side by larger silhouettes with lopsided heads and jutting shoulders: the soldiers’ berets and upended rifles.
Asha held onto the door frame, her heartbeat pulsing through her. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. The soldiers didn’t have loud, demanding voices. Instead, they spoke in subdued tones, almost as though they were house guests, stepping outside to enjoy the fresh air after dinner.
The taller soldier turned to look towards the bedroom. Asha flinched, stopping herself from jumping back from the door. There was no way he could see her, but it was as though he was looking through the darkness, beyond the thick mahogany door, straight at her.
‘What happened?’ said Jaya.
Asha waved her hand to hush her. Laughter came from across the yard, but she didn’t recognize it. It must have been the soldiers. Perhaps that was a good sign. They weren’t angry, at least. She stepped towards the door again and peeked through the crack, no longer able to see Pran, Vijay or the soldiers. What was going on? She edged her face as far to the right as she could but it was impossible to see the sitting room or the storeroom.
The room grew stuffy; the only sounds were the ringing insects outside and the heave of Jaya’s short breaths. Asha kept close to the door, alert to footsteps or voices. She turned and surveyed the room. If it came to it, they’d have to slip under the bed and hide.
What could they be doing? Pran was supposed to show the soldiers the valuables to get rid of them. And if they were with December, there’d surely be noise by now. Shouting?
Gunfire?