Kololo Hill Page 17

  His fingers fumbled at the zip of her bell-bottoms, struggling to pull them down. Salty tears stung her skin. No way out now. How dare he? How dare he do this?

  A gunshot.

  The soldier stepped back, as though Asha had slapped his cheek. Had she? She scanned his body for blood, a wound. Nothing.

  Asha looked down. Bruises were already forming on her arms where the soldier had grabbed her, but no sign of blood.

  Another shout from the roadside. ‘Hurry up, William. Take your little gun out of those dirty places. We have more guests.’

  The lieutenant must have fired the rifle to hurry him up.

  The soldier looked at Asha as she tried to cover her chest, then up at the roadside. He muttered something under his breath as he grabbed her arm and dragged her along.

  Asha felt the others’ eyes on her, her hands clutching her torn shirt across her bra. She was almost glad that the soldier was pulling her along; she lacked the strength to move one foot in front of the other.

  The soldier pushed Asha. She fell onto Cyrus. He steadied her with his hand on her shoulder. Though he did it as gently as possible, she recoiled, the memory of the soldier still fresh.

  ‘Get rid of them,’ the tall soldier told the others.

  Jaya put her arm around Asha, but she couldn’t help but flinch. They got into the car. In the rear-view mirror Asha could see the sparkling blue BMW from the previous checkpoint slowed down by the army truck. She could see the passengers as they climbed out of the car. There were two tall men with matching maroon turbans and, next to them, three women, all a similar age to Asha, with the same look of dread. As the Mercedes drove off at full speed, she saw the soldier who’d attacked her walking towards them.

  No one spoke. Everyone was still except for Cyrus, who edged the steering wheel back and forth.

  Asha felt herself shrinking into the seat, her skin sticking to the leather. Because of the hurry to get away, Vijay was now sitting in the back. He seemed to move as close against the car door as he could, doing everything possible to create a safe distance between them, not wanting to unsettle her further.

  To her left, Jaya lifted a hand. It hovered over Asha’s leg before settling on her knee. It gave Asha something to focus on, and it gave Jaya the courage to speak.

  ‘We’ll get some water at the airport,’ Jaya said. ‘To clean it up.’

  Asha looked over to her. Only then did she feel the salt on her tongue, the sting on her cheek. She put her fingertips to her face, then looked down at her hand. Not tears but blood, already turning from scarlet to rust.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Asha,’ whispered Jaya.

  Cyrus caught her eye in the rear-view mirror. He looked away swiftly. Guilt, as though he had done it himself. As though it was somehow his fault.

  Night loomed as they approached Entebbe airport. The car followed the bend of the road along the banks of Lake Victoria, the water disappearing over the horizon.

  Asha climbed out of the car with the others. The airport car park was cluttered with badly parked cars: Citroëns, Peugeots, Mercedes Benzes, Morris Minors. At the far end, soldiers were already driving some of them away. People pulled suitcases off the tops of their vehicles and found their bags as they came off government buses, crying, praying and saying goodbye to one another.

  ‘Come on, let’s get through this fujo and onto the plane as quickly as possible,’ said Cyrus.

  They walked into the squat, flat-roofed airport, to be greeted by stale air and chaos. Frantic parents tried to quieten their crying children, afraid of angering the soldiers. In the corner, an older woman stared into empty space, her earlobes smeared with blood: a soldier must have torn her earrings off without waiting for her to take them out. Other people waited in line to be searched by yet more soldiers.

  ‘What else could there possibly be left to take?’ said Jaya.

  Asha clutched Jaya’s saal around her despite the heat, the only way to keep herself covered now that her clothes were in tatters, but she had no energy left to respond. Haven’t you had enough, Asha screamed inside her head, so close to shouting it out loud it scared her, haven’t you taken all you can from us? She jumped every time a soldier walked by, as though they were charged with electricity. Their voices grated, their arrogant laughter rang in her ears. The soldier at the roadside was touching her, holding her down all over again.

  But they’d never touch her again. They’d taken all they’d ever take.

  ‘Here, have some water.’ Vijay walked over, a shyness in his voice. He handed her the thermos.

  Vijay. Pran. The money they’d smuggled. The anger that had spread across Uganda against the ‘greedy’ Asians. Amin had stoked the resentment until it burned bright with hate. Yes, Vijay had played his part, but it was Pran who planned it all, made it possible in the first place. Hadn’t Pran helped light the touchpaper?

  She gulped the water down, tried to wash away the bitter taste in her mouth.

  ‘There’s a bathroom there. Do you want me to come with you?’ said Jaya.

  ‘He didn’t—The gunshot stopped him,’ Asha whispered. She needed to say it out loud, not for Jaya, but for herself. The words gave her comfort, reminding her that it could have been worse.

  Jaya patted Asha’s arm, with a look that said she understood.

  Asha changed into another blouse in the toilets, her muscles sore as she lifted her arms, her fingers tender as she did up the buttons. She washed her hands and dabbed the cut on her cheek with a damp tissue, although she longed to scour her entire body clean of the soldier’s touch.

  Outside, the others were already in the queue to leave. The British Caledonian airline officials rushed through the ticket checks. All the passengers were hurried along the baking tarmac, past the grass and palm trees that lined the runway, the grey airport seeming so out of place in this lush landscape. Climbing the stairs onto the plane, her legs felt stiff with each step.

  No need to turn around and say goodbye to her home. It was already gone.

  *

  On the plane, Jaya sat by the window while Asha took the aisle seat. They looked around at the hundreds of tons of metal and plastic, at all the people crammed in. Cyrus and his wife found seats at the back. Some of the younger men like Vijay had to sit on the aisle floor, no more seats left. Rules bent so that lives could be saved.

  She helped Jaya with her seat belt, then looked around. A man up ahead was praying, or perhaps talking to himself as he found a space. He lit a cigarette and sat down. The swirls of smoke rose up and over his scarlet turban, as though he’d been set alight himself.

  The plane was a jumble of Gujarati, Hindi, Punjabi, Urdu, broken with cries of anger and grief. Swahili was no longer needed, already cast away with their homes and belongings. The tannoy boomed, the pilot spoke in a tight English accent about their journey: Entebbe, London Stansted.

  She turned to Jaya, who clutched her handbag tight, looking out of the window at a group of soldiers standing under the airport lights. Their guns stabbed down into the red earth, some soldiers slouched against their rifle butts, while others joked around. Jaya stared at one of them. His cheeks were filled with the chubby fat of youth. The soldier stared back at Jaya. Asha expected her to pull her sari chundri over her head and look away. And yet she kept staring. Even now, there was little to stop the boy boarding the plane and pointing his gun at them. But still Asha willed her to keep looking. Why should Jaya feel intimidated by him? He was not too old to be taken by the ear, and she was not too old to make it hurt. Jaya held his gaze until the soldier’s comrade flicked his arm. He turned away and laughed, as though they were fooling around in a playground.

  The plane began to wheeze and rumble down the runway. The cabin went quiet as people prayed for a safe journey; next to Asha, Jaya’s eyes were closed as she whispered under her breath. Asha considered praying too, but what good would it do now? What help had it been so far?

  Outside, the wings seemed to flap like cardboard in the
night sky but Asha felt no fear. They were in the air, the sky black, as Uganda disappeared beneath them.

  PART TWO

  England, 1972

  19

  Asha

  Asha stepped off the plane. A wisp of her breath escaped into the icy air, as though the life was seeping out of her. In front, Jaya clutched her cardigan close, flimsy sari rustling around her ankles in the wind. Vijay followed behind, joining the lines of people as they hurried towards the terminal. The chill clung to Asha’s clothes as she looked at the trees beyond the runway. The bare branches were like ancient fossils, the sky above a wash of blotchy grey.

  Inside Stansted airport, Asha was surprised to see the bright lights were on even though it was the middle of the day. They were ushered into cordoned-off lines by airport officials in white shirts. Compartmentalized, told where to go, led along like children. Still being bossed around, even now.

  Cyrus and his wife joined another queue nearby. The waiting people spoke in whispers, through exhaustion and the angst of not knowing what would happen next. In the farthest line, a young family with a baby and a toddler approached the booth at the front. The official inside looked at the man’s blue passport, then paused at the woman’s, which was maroon. He pointed at it. The couple glanced at each other, then back at the official, speaking in low tones.

  The woman shook her head frantically, then said, ‘No.’ She sat down in front of the booth with the baby. ‘Not moving,’ she said in English.

  ‘You can’t split us up. Two young children, you not see?’ said the father.

  The official shook his head, looking embarrassed as he turned towards his colleague. A security guard approached and tried to help the woman up but she shook her head. The baby started crying, which set the toddler off.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Jaya.

  ‘The woman doesn’t have a British passport,’ Vijay whispered.

  ‘How did they get here, then?’ said Jaya.

  ‘They must have bribed their way out somehow,’ he said.

  Had Jaya already forgotten the rules of the place they’d called home? Asha rubbed her eyes; the bright light was giving her a headache.

  The official and the security guard stood near the family, glancing at the crowds of people who stared. Both men seemed to have decided to leave the woman alone for the time being while they guided more people from the queues to the booth.

  ‘Maybe we should have tried the same thing with Pran?’ said Jaya.

  ‘I don’t think it’s that easy, Ba.’ Vijay shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘They have young children, it’s different.’

  They watched and waited as more nervous and weary people took their turn. Finally, they were called to come forward.

  The man in the booth wore thick, black-framed glasses. He picked up the three navy British ‘D’ passports, curving his gnarled knuckles around them. ‘We’re going to check the passports, yes?’ He looked through the photos. ‘And we’re going to check them against the papers, yes?’ Everything he said seemed to be in the form of questions, as though he wasn’t sure what he should be doing and wanted them to guide him along.

  Vijay and Asha glanced at each other and found themselves responding with a ‘Yes’ too.

  He wrote some details down and observed the passports again, ‘You’re all related, yes?’ Eventually, even Jaya nodded along, though she didn’t understand what he was saying.

  Asha wished he’d just hurry up. They had no idea where they were going to sleep that night, why couldn’t she have one moment of peace?

  To their right, they watched as the official returned to the young family who’d been left in the corner. The woman rocked the baby, trying to calm her down. But the relief on the father’s face spread to the mother as the man said something to them. Smiles appeared on their faces. They must have been told that they could stay.

  Asha watched the official in front of her as he stamped the passports and handed them back to Vijay.

  After passport control, they were led to an area with floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the wet runway. A plane took off in the distance, determined nose lifted in the air. Trestle tables and chairs had been set up in rows on one side of the room. They were guided to the other side, where racks of clothing lined the walls.

  ‘You can each help yourself to a coat,’ said a young woman who stood in front of a table, waving her hand at the mismatched clothes behind her as though she were selling luxury items in a shop. She wore a navy-blue uniform and a matching hat, and though the clothes reminded Asha of the Ugandan army, she felt comforted by the badge that said St John Ambulance.

  ‘You must be ever so chilly.’ The woman’s voice was full of cheer.

  Asha couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. Chilly was an understatement. Even in the warmth of the airport Arrivals area, the cold lingered on her skin like the sting after a slap. Jaya shivered; her bare toes were grey-blue where they peeped out from beneath her sari.

  ‘Well, you carry on, just let me know which items you’ve picked and I’ll write them in my little book.’ The woman pointed at a huge black ledger.

  Asha wondered who the items had belonged to, the lives they’d lived, whether any of them had been through anything like this. The smell lingered, musty yet medicinal, but at least it was warm amongst the fabric, the heat caught between the layers of wool and leather, suede and velvet.

  ‘They are giving us brand-new clothes?’ said Jaya.

  ‘They’re donated, people didn’t want them any more.’ Asha pulled out one of the wool coats with a rash of tiny bobbles along the sleeves.

  Jaya looked horrified. To her, donated clothes were what you gave to the poor, not people like them. ‘But what if they haven’t washed them?’

  ‘Don’t think about it, Ba.’ Vijay browsed the rail for things that might fit his mother.

  Eventually, Jaya settled on a navy coat, intended to sit on the knee, which reached mid-calf on her tiny frame. Asha helped roll up the sleeves before they swallowed Jaya’s arms. She also picked out a black wool hat, but Jaya decided to pull her sari chundri over the top of it, leaving her with a lollipop head.

  Asha pulled on a long maroon coat and natty black scarf. What did it matter now what they wore?

  Vijay wanted a black biker jacket, like the one that he’d seen Steve McQueen wearing in one of his films, but Jaya insisted that it wasn’t warm enough. Instead, he chose a black wool coat.

  It was not just the unfamiliar things they wore, but the way their bodies tensed to keep the cold out, their heads bowed, dark circles around their eyes from lack of sleep. It made them all look like different people now, with different lives, as though they’d left Kampala behind many years ago, not hours before.

  After they’d finished at the clothing racks, they were invited to join other families and sit down at the trestle tables. More volunteers, mainly women in identical uniforms, came round with drinks. They poured tea from china teapots, which everyone drank because it was hot and free.

  ‘This isn’t at all what I expected,’ Jaya said, looking around at this strange world where white people served brown, where you were given free food and clothes.

  None of them had known what to expect, despite stories that had found their way back to Uganda about help that the British had given new arrivals, not after seeing those news reports with British protestors telling people to go back to their own countries. And yet here they were, surrounded by people who were willing to give up their day to look after a group of strangers in an airport.

  Asha looked over to the end of their table, where a couple sat with their daughter. The girl couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, oblivious to the weary look on her parents’ faces, immersed in her own delightful adventure: pointing out the gigantic planes on the tarmac; gleefully devouring orange squash and Marie biscuits; twirling around and around in her new – or almost new – red coat. Many of those who’d come over on the plane were families,
but in the far corner Asha spotted a young Punjabi man with a black turban, who seemed to have no one else, sitting with a pack of playing cards in front of him. He’d taken one of the cards, staring down at it as he tore off tiny pieces and made a little pile on the Formica table.

  She thought of Pran, making it out of Uganda, running the treacherous gauntlet of army roadblocks to reach India and find a way to England. She felt guilty for the anger she’d felt at Entebbe, somehow blaming him for what the soldier had done to her. She at least had Vijay and Jaya. Pran was alone. The sadness weighed heavy in her throat, like a teardrop about to fall.

  *

  Outside the airport, they said goodbye to Cyrus and Aruna, who had been allocated places in a different resettlement centre, hours away in Somerset. They all made polite but empty promises to stay in touch. Asha was glad: one less reminder of her last hours back home.

  By the time the family boarded their coach, it was already dark. Someone called from the back, asking what time it was. No one had a watch, all hidden away or stolen back in Kampala. So Asha asked the bus driver the time in English.

  ‘Four o’clock,’ he said.

  ‘Chaar vayga che,’ she called out to the whole bus.

  ‘How can they afford all this electricity?’ said Jaya, as they wound their way through roads lit by street lamps, a far cry from the dim suburbs of Kampala. The dark outlines of trees dotted the horizon but it was difficult to see beyond the road, out into the dark.

  The army barracks, empty for years and repurposed for new arrivals, were a cluster of long, flat-roofed buildings with one larger building at the centre. As far as Asha could tell, they were surrounded by fields. They got out of the bus, hurrying to collect their luggage. Inside, a familiar photograph of the Queen, resplendent in her coronation gown, hung on one wall. She had gazed down on them from framed pictures like these for decades, followed them around while they bought condensed milk or Vimto in the dukans; seen them off on their rail journeys in the station hall; turned her head aside on ten-shilling notes as they paid for their goods; greeted them on stamps before they’d had a chance to open the envelopes. But in later years, the Queen had faded away; as Uganda decided she wanted independence from Her Majesty’s great country, most of the photographs of her were put away or replaced with those of Milton Obote and, later, Idi Amin. On the opposite wall were a row of black-and-white photographs of young soldiers, as though they were lined up and ready for royal inspection.