Kololo Hill Read online

  Vijay took in the framed film posters that lined the far wall of the compact sitting room. He tried to catch his breath; he’d bounded up the stairs to the flat as fast as he could, making sure none of the neighbours were around. He was glad to see that the window blinds were pulled down, to stop prying eyes from looking in and to keep the sun out.

  ‘I definitely need this,’ Vijay said, opening a bottle of whisky he’d brought with him and pouring it into the tumbler glasses that Steven had left out for them. Vijay hoped the soldiers outside didn’t come back; he had to sneak out before curfew started.

  ‘Vijay, there’s no need for that,’ said John, leaving a faint scent of fresh cotton in the air as he moved. ‘I’m happy with waragi.’

  ‘Why save it?’ Vijay shrugged, pouring them both a generous measure. He knocked it back in one, hoping it would settle his nerves.

  ‘How are you doing?’ said John, quietly. It was the first time they’d seen each other since the expulsion announcement.

  ‘All right,’ said Vijay. ‘I just can’t believe we have to leave so quickly.’

  ‘I can’t believe any of this.’ John took a sip.

  ‘Doesn’t look like I’ll be joining you at Makerere now.’ He’d hoped that after the trip to London and with the dukan back on track, he’d be able to join John at university.

  ‘Thank God for that, and all it took was Amin Dada making you leave the country.’ John smiled. ‘But I hear they have one or two universities in England too.’

  ‘Yes, just a couple!’ Vijay humoured his friend; they both knew he’d have bigger preoccupations like finding a job and somewhere to live. ‘What’s going on with you? Your family OK?’

  ‘What is OK nowadays?’ John looked down at the floor. ‘My neighbour at the university halls was taken by the army last night. We’re still waiting to hear what happened. They’ve been hounding the lecturers too.’

  ‘Amin’s frightened of anything that he doesn’t understand,’ said Vijay. ‘Perhaps it will get back to normal once we wahindis have left?’

  ‘Nothing will change, you know that. Amin Dada is after blood. He doesn’t care whose it is.’

  Vijay remembered December’s words, how ordinary people felt that their troubles had been ignored. ‘He really feels the country will be better without the Asians here.’

  ‘But he’s acting like every single one of you is at fault.’ John shook his head.

  Vijay shifted in his seat, the guilt burning his throat as much as the whisky. What would John think, if he knew what he’d done, smuggling money out of the country? Blindly going along with Pran’s plans. ‘Let’s forget all that, we’re going, whatever the reason.’

  The sound of men shouting outside. Vijay put down his glass and hurried over to the window. He pulled the edge of the blind back an inch. Bright light pierced his sight. Once his eyes had adjusted, he looked down towards the street.

  ‘Are the soldiers back?’ said John, starting to get out of his seat.

  ‘No, it’s a couple of locals, maybe they’re drunk. I should probably head back soon though, while the coast is clear.’

  ‘OK, after this one.’ John poured more whisky.

  ‘Have you heard what people are saying?’ said Vijay, sitting back down. ‘That the reason our dear president wants us to leave is because he tried to get a Hindu girl to marry him. But her father sent her out of the country before Amin had a chance to get his hands on her. He got so angry he took it out on all us Asians.’

  ‘That sounds so crazy . . . it could actually be true,’ John laughed. ‘But imagine if you started holding grudges against every girl who said no to you?’

  ‘I know—’

  ‘There’d be no girls left!’

  ‘It’s not like you had much luck with the girls, remember?’ Vijay thought of Jaspreet, the prettiest girl at school. Both boys had spent their entire time trying to impress her, and she’d milked it for all it was worth, getting them to do her homework, carry her books, bring her gifts. Not that she’d ever really been interested in either of them. Still, Jaspreet was only a girl. Asha, on the other hand, knew her own mind, hadn’t been afraid to confront Pran when she found out about the smuggling, and fought to make sure they got their time at the High Commission.

  For a moment Vijay forgot why he was there, as though they’d see each other next week, next month; the alcohol mellowing his thoughts, smoothing away the horror.

  ‘OK, OK, no need to remind me. You’re the heartthrob around here, right? I suppose you’d give yourself a ten out of ten then, such a catch?’

  Vijay didn’t miss a beat. ‘Nine and a half.’

  ‘What have you taken the half off for?’

  ‘I’m also modest,’ said Vijay.

  They laughed and clinked their glasses together. ‘OK, you try out your wonderful luck with the ladies the next time we go out—’ John stopped laughing, realizing what he’d said.

  ‘Next time we go out. It’s OK. We’ll go out again soon enough. I’ll hold you to it,’ smiled Vijay, but they fell into silence, the sound of shouting in the street cutting through the quiet.

  John lifted his head. ‘You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Vijay swallowed his whisky in one gulp. ‘And we’ll go out when I come back. I promise.’ But as soon as he said it, he wondered whether the words were already a lie. Would it really be Idi Amin that stopped him returning, or would it be his own bad memories of the place that he’d once called home?

  *

  Vijay leant against the countertop, willing someone to come into the dukan, anything to fill the time. Since the expulsion announcement last month, fewer and fewer people came to the shop. This week, the family had only opened to say goodbye to a few loyal customers. It wasn’t as though they could take any money they earned with them when they left Uganda.

  ‘Right, I’d better go,’ Pran said, an endless afternoon of goodbyes stretching ahead for him too, driving Jaya around to visit the few friends that were still left in the country.

  ‘Wait, Pran,’ Vijay called out. ‘Ba’s been talking about December again, she’ll probably ask you about it today. She’s really worried.’

  ‘I’ve got it under control, I just need to pick the right time.’

  Vijay came out from behind the counter. ‘Are Popatlal and that rich family going to help? They’re still in the country?’

  ‘Leave it, Vijay. It’s not like you to worry so much.’

  ‘Things have changed, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Vijay didn’t bother hiding the annoyance in his voice.

  Pran opened the door. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  Motichand came out from the storeroom at the back.

  They stood behind the counter, watching people go by, not bothering to come inside. What need was there to spend money elsewhere when they could simply take what they wanted from their own newly acquired businesses? An hour passed and just as Vijay was about to suggest that they close up, the door opened.

  ‘Motichandbhai!’ Sardarji’s familiar silver beard glinted as he came inside.

  ‘Hello!’ Motichand beamed, slapping Sardarji’s hand.

  ‘Vijaybhai, you’re well?’ Sardarji shook Vijay’s hand vigorously.

  ‘What a mess we find ourselves in, Motichandbhai!’ Sardarji leant forward against the countertop, ruffling Vijay’s hair as though he was still a kid. Vijay tried to straighten it out again discreetly while the older men spoke. In the old days, Sardarji would ease his way onto the wooden platform at the back of the dukan, legs creaking as he sat down. He brought his own soundtrack: the cricking of his neck, the rusty sigh that punctuated his sentences, whiling away the hours with Motichand.

  ‘Have you made plans? Where will you go?’ His Papa put his hand on Sardarji’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Motichandbhai, I’ll be fine.’

  Vague answers were common with Sardarji. No one even knew where he lived. ‘Over there, past the road to Namirembe,’ he�
��d say whenever he was asked, waving his hand in the general direction, although Vijay noticed that sometimes the location seemed to have moved further south or north. Long before expulsion, he could often be seen walking along the streets, off to visit one of his many friends, and at mealtimes he’d head to one of the places that the community gathered. Sardarji could breakfast on paratha at the gurudwara, lunch on biriyani at the mosque and have a dinner of shaak rotli at the mandir; he had many friends who would feed him, yet no family to speak of.

  When Vijay was a boy, he would sometimes stay inside the dukan and listen to Sardarji’s stories rather than play outside in the street with Pran and the other kids.

  ‘I came here before your father was even born, you know that?’ Sardarji would tell him, as he stuck his finger under his huge white turban and scratched, while young Vijay sat next to him on the platform with his legs folded. Sardarji’s silver hair was wrapped up in cloth but Vijay imagined it was so long it tickled his ankles, trailing down his back like a waterfall.

  ‘They said we could go to Africa and make some money, that’s what they said. Big ships, big sails, big stories! But you know, these ships, they were made of wood, just like this,’ Sardarji said, giving a hollow knock on the platform. ‘Made of trees. How do they float, we said, how do they stay on the water with all of us inside? But then they promised us money, and the promise of money can silence all fears, all doubts.’

  Sardarji stared at Vijay, his eyes grey-blue like the sea. ‘We travelled for many days, all the way down, across the belly of Gujarat, to Porbandar. And the poor salas by the port, they were starving. Ribs on show,’ he said, moving his fingers across his own chest, ‘dark shadows, like zebra stripes across their skin. We were told we could just go up the coast and make some money. Sail on the kala pani. Go on the black water, they said. Easy, they said. But only for a day or so, they said, so short, so short. And all we had to do was dip our fingers in the ink, place them on the white pages of their big leather books.’

  ‘Like criminals?’ Vijay had jumped up. ‘Fingerprints, like in the films?’

  ‘Not like criminals,’ Motichand laughed, bringing over cups of chai. ‘To sign their names.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Sardarji. Flecks of spittle flew through the air as he blew on the tea. ‘Couldn’t write, couldn’t read anything. We climbed onto the dhows, watched the land disappear. I cried and cried, I was not much older than you, boy, imagine? It made grown men cry too, when we realized how long we were going to be at sea, when we found out where we were really going. But there was nothing we could do, the black ink on our fingers tied us to the black water. They took us away from the coast, all the way from Mombasa, through the jungle, to build the railways of the British.’

  ‘And some men were eaten by lions!’

  ‘Your father told you that?’ Sardarji’s eyes narrowed, he’d forgotten that he’d told Vijay the story before. ‘Yes, in Tsavo, the lions were as hungry as we were and some men disappeared into the night.’

  Sardarji put down his tea and lowered his voice. ‘And then we finally got to Uganda, and the railway was finished. Most went back. But I stayed.’

  ‘But the other week, didn’t you say you were taken from your home in the night, Sardarji?’ Motichand called out from behind the dukan counter.

  ‘What? I’ll tell you what happened to me if you let me.’ Sardarji lifted his eyes to the ceiling, raised his palm and let out a long, luxurious fart, punctuated with a sigh. ‘Bhai, don’t you think I’d know whether I ran away from my family or not? Now listen.’

  And this was how it went: every afternoon, a different story. Vijay loved all the tales, but wondered whether any of them were true. Perhaps they were Sardarji’s memories, or perhaps he’d gathered them together from the people he knew over the years, and woven them into his own.

  ‘And all these men,’ Sardarji continued, ‘when they came here, they’d not spoken to a woman for months, you know, let alone touched one. So some of those men started putting their dandiya in all those basuti skirts.’ Sardarji would giggle and nudge Vijay with his bony elbow.

  Vijay had been completely confused by this point. His childish mind couldn’t work out why men would put dandiya – the smooth wooden sticks that were used for dancing at the Navaratri festival – underneath the gathered skirts of the Ugandan ladies’ basutis?

  Papa seemed flustered, ‘Let’s not talk of such things now, Sardarji.’ His father had busied himself wiping an already clean shelf.

  Sardarji put his finger to his lips, bowing conspiratorially towards Vijay. ‘You see, no one ever wants to talk about it. But you’ll see them out there, those children with their curly hair and that cane-sugar skin.’

  Vijay hadn’t understood any of it as a boy, but he knew what it meant now. The clear lines of separation between Ugandan and Asian were forgotten in those earliest days before the Asian women came over. Yet years later, even though Asians and Ugandans lived in the same country, shopped at the same markets, went to school together, worked together, drank and ate together, the rules were clear: that was where it ended. An invisible line divided them. But no matter how much the Asians tried to stop it, there were people like his friend Silver, with his rounded nose and almond eyes, many people called them chotara, with a Baganda mother and an anonymous Punjabi father who pretended Silver didn’t exist. And now Silver and hundreds of others like him would have to choose: leave with the Asians or stay with the Ugandans. Like placing a bet where you lose either way.

  Vijay thought of all the things he’d learnt from Sardarji, not quite sure what was true and what wasn’t. When Vijay had asked him sometimes to clarify a date or a detail, Sardarji had told him that even those few people who could write were too busy trying to survive to bother with putting pen to paper and indulging in thoughts and feelings, no time to think about what year they’d arrived or what day someone was born.

  ‘How will you get out? Do you want some help with your plane ticket?’ Motichand said.

  Sardarji moved away from the counter, looking around. ‘The dukan is looking very good.’ He wandered around, hands clutched behind his back, admiring the renovations.

  Did he even have a valid Indian passport or paperwork after so many years in Uganda? Who knew? But the old man ducked all their questions, and when it came time for Sardarji to leave the dukan, they all took part in the pretence, saying goodbye to each other as though it was an ordinary day, as though nothing at all had changed.

  By four o’clock, the yawns were catching. Mr Kagwa, another regular customer, came in, his long cotton kanzu rippling at his feet as he walked. He always moved with swaying shoulders, as though he was walking to music that no one else could hear.

  ‘How are you, bwana?’ said Motichand.

  ‘All fine.’ Mr Kagwa put up his palm and smiled. ‘And you, I suppose you’ve been busy making plans to go? Such a sorry business.’ At least there were a few people who didn’t want them to leave.

  Motichand nodded and they continued to chat for a few minutes. As Vijay finished packing up Mr Kagwa’s groceries, two young men stormed in, laughing as they leant over the counter.

  ‘You wahindis still here?’ said the shorter of the two men. He wore a bright-red T-shirt. ‘Sitting around taking our money?’

  His friend held back, staring at Motichand and Vijay.

  Vijay stepped closer to the counter. ‘Look, we don’t want any trouble. We’ll be gone soon enough. What can I get you?’

  Mr Kagwa edged towards the window.

  ‘Give me that.’ T-Shirt Man pointed towards the shelf.

  The quieter of the two spoke. ‘Let’s go, Michael, I’m bored.’ He didn’t look bored, he looked anxious. He met Vijay’s eyes and turned away.

  Motichand looked behind him, sweat gleaming in the light. A single shaving kit on the wooden shelf. ‘That’s all you want?’

  ‘Come on, Michael. Leave them alone. Let’s just get out of here,’ the quieter friend said, looking
out of the window.

  Mr Kagwa tried to appeal to them. ‘Bwana, they don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Shut up, no one asked you!’ the man with the red T-shirt shouted. ‘Just give it to me or I’ll come behind there and help myself. Hurry up, old man.’

  Motichand’s fingers stiffened as he stretched his arm out. Body twisted, face contorted. His hand tried to reach for the shelf but he fell short, grasping a bar of soap, his other hand clutching at his chest. He fell onto the floor behind the counter.

  Vijay rushed over. ‘Papa?’

  Motichand’s cheeks flushed.

  ‘What have you done?’ Vijay shouted at the men, but they were already out of the door.

  ‘I’ll get help.’ Mr Kagwa rushed out into the street.

  Vijay leant over Motichand. His father’s eyes were closed. White crescents of Lux curved along Motichand’s fingernails; the cake of soap lay nearby. Vijay pulled back Motichand’s tweed jacket, shirt damp with sweat. ‘Papa? Can you hear me?’

  Vijay put his head against his father’s chest, struggling to listen for a heartbeat. Papa had been fine just a moment ago. He’d get up soon. ‘Please answer me. Please get up.’

  More people shuffled around behind the counter, shouting a string of instructions in Gujarati and Swahili: get some water, give him air, move him, don’t move him, call for a doctor, drive him to a hospital: a sea of voices who all thought they knew best.

  Vijay put his hand to Motichand’s face, his cheeks clammy, his eyes full of anguish.

  Was it minutes or hours later that a doctor arrived, wading through the crowd? Vijay looked around the dukan for the first time since Motichand had fallen. Groups of people were talking, pointing, shaking their heads. A street hawker had even set up outside, selling peanuts in a bag.