Kololo Hill Read online

  Pran brought the car to a halt near the trucks. ‘Let me do the talking.’

  The soldiers suddenly seemed to spring into action, as though they’d only now remembered they were on duty. They pulled their rifles across their shoulders and adjusted their maroon berets.

  ‘Get out,’ shouted one, a stout young man with a voice so deep it seemed to vibrate through Jaya’s chest.

  Pran spoke through the open car window, his voice surprisingly calm. ‘We’re just trying to get home before curfew.’

  The other soldiers hurried over, staring at them through the windows as though the family were animals in a zoo.

  ‘You wahindis think you can ignore us? I said, out.’

  They hurried out of the car. Pran stood in front of Asha and Jaya as he squinted at the soldiers through the sunlight. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t—’

  ‘Still talking. Like the sound of your own voice, don’t you? Well, you listen to mine now,’ said the deep-voiced soldier. ‘Get down on your knees.’ He shoved the rifle butt against Pran’s shoulder.

  ‘We don’t want any trouble.’ Pran’s knees thudded to the ground.

  Jaya’s breath quickened, her sari blouse tightening against her chest. Please don’t hurt him.

  ‘Still going on and on.’ The soldiers laughed and circled around the group now, except for the tallest who had stayed by the truck, smoking a cigarette. The low-voiced soldier loomed over Jaya, his eyes on her throat. How could she have been so stupid? She was still wearing her mangalsutra, her wedding necklace, a thin gold chain woven through with tiny black beads. She’d forgotten it was there, tucked under the front of her sari; she should have taken it off before she left the house. And here it was, burning against her neck.

  The soldier’s eyes widened as he pointed at the necklace. ‘I think my girlfriend would like that.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’ His comrade laughed, revealing the lines in his forehead. He smelt sweet, what was it? One of those sugar-filled fizzy drinks Vijay liked as a boy. ‘Which one?’

  Jaya knew she should move fast, take it off before they got angry, but it was as though her arms were made of lead.

  ‘What are you waiting for? Is she deaf?’ said the deep-voiced soldier, looking at Pran. ‘Is she deaf?’ he shouted this time, his comrade laughing along with him, so close, his hot breath in her ear.

  Asha stepped towards her, fiddling with the clasp until finally it was loose. The gold snaked together in her hand; she dropped it into the soldier’s palm.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ the tallest soldier who had hung back by the truck shouted, grinding his cigarette into the door. ‘We need to start patrolling for curfew soon.’

  ‘Always spoiling everyone’s fun,’ the soldier with the necklace called out, but he stayed put. He lifted the gun high and fast into the air, rifle butt pointing towards Pran.

  ‘No, please!’ Jaya shouted, hands reaching out. As though she could stop him. The soldier’s rifle froze inches above Pran’s head. He stared at Jaya to savour her reaction as the other soldiers’ laughter rang out behind them.

  ‘At least Mama loves you.’ He ruffled Pran’s hair and strolled away.

  5

  Asha

  They drove home in silence, too tired to speak. Asha couldn’t get the vision of the soldier with the gun out of her head. What if Pran had suffered the same fate as the bodies she’d seen by the river? Fear seized hold of her again, but so did the anger that he’d lied to her.

  Jacob, the askari who kept watch outside, opened the gate and waved them through. Inside, the house was quiet. Motichand and Vijay were still out.

  ‘How could they do that to us?’ Pran shook his head, his outrage awakened by the familiarity of home. ‘And we just had to take it.’

  Jaya looked at the floor in the hallway. ‘The chain. I should have remembered.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Ba,’ said Pran. ‘It’s their fault. Helping themselves to things that don’t belong to them.’

  Jaya clung to the doorway. ‘How is that right?’

  Pran laughed, his voice twisting with each word. ‘They think they can do whatever they want.’

  Asha stared at him. His anger filled the air, trying to force out her own. Not this time. She’d put her feelings aside for long enough. ‘Let’s not dwell on it,’ she said. ‘We just have to be more careful in future, that’s all.’ There was no point going over the details again and again, it would eat them up. Besides, she needed to speak to him alone. Pran started to head towards the sitting room.

  ‘I think I need to – I’m going to rest.’ Jaya wouldn’t look Asha in the eye; she clutched her hands together, distracted.

  ‘Let me know if you need anything,’ Asha said softly, then hurried towards the bedroom. She had to take off this stifling sari, the pins and hooks, the layers of silk and cotton digging into her. She pulled on a cotton kameez, undid her hair from its tight bun. She longed to bury her head in her pillow, pull the sheets over her and wait for the haven of sleep, but she needed to speak to Pran now.

  Asha headed outside, almost bumping into December on the veranda.

  He smiled. ‘Is the house on fire? We’d better save the whisky first or your father-in-law will be angry.’

  She looked up at him, confused for a moment. ‘What? Oh no, sorry.’ He held a pile of shirts in his hands. ‘I nearly made you drop the washing.’ She took in his grey hair – though he was called a house boy as all male servants were in Uganda, he was as old as Jaya. It made Asha think of Florence, the house girl back at her childhood home, who had been with the family for decades, forever holding her tongue when Asha and her brothers touched the flowers in the garden or ruined her newly polished floor, because it wasn’t a house girl’s place to tell them off. They’d been such brats as children, it made Asha’s cheeks flush to think of it. But it also made her long to be back in Jinja, amongst the people she knew the best.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ said December.

  She blinked, then smiled. She felt shy all of a sudden, trying so hard to hide how she was feeling, but he’d seen right through it. She knew the family was far closer to December than most were with their house boys, but it felt strange to talk openly with him. And most of all, she worried that December’s kindness might start tears that she couldn’t stop.

  ‘It must be very different to Jinja, yes? I remember feeling the same when I first moved down here from the north,’ he said. ‘It got easier eventually.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. I’m fine, really.’ She gave him a look of gratitude. ‘I was looking for Pran, actually, have you seen him?’

  ‘He’s in the sitting room, I think.’

  She thanked him and started to walk away.

  December called after her, ‘And if you – if there’s anything you need, let me know.’

  She turned briefly and smiled.

  In the sitting room, Pran sat in the armchair, resting his head on the seat back. She shut the door behind her, her shoulder blades pressed against the wood. ‘I heard you and Vijay earlier. Talking about the money.’

  A glint of surprise on Pran’s face. ‘Money?’

  ‘I heard everything.’

  ‘So that’s what that was all about? At the dukan.’ Pran rubbed the back of his neck, acting as if this was nothing.

  ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘We needed the cash,’ he said. ‘We helped some people get their money to some banks in England. That’s all.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘That’s it? It’s OK to lie and smuggle money now? Break laws?’

  Pran sighed. ‘Are you planning to stand against that door all day or do you want to sit down?’

  Asha took a deep breath. She crossed the room and stood over him. ‘Is this better?’ He’d assured her there was nothing going on before. Looked her in the face, made her feel as though it was all in her head. ‘And you made Vijay do all your dirty work.’

  ‘I
didn’t make anyone do anything. Besides, I couldn’t go again.’

  ‘Again? You’ve done this yourself?’ New information unravelled like a frayed rope every time he opened his mouth.

  ‘Papa had left the dukan in such a state. I had no choice.’

  ‘Wait. That trip when we were about to get engaged?’ Pran had said it was a holiday with a friend. He’d laughed about how Buckingham Palace seemed on the small side for him, how much he’d missed drinking his daily chai, how much he’d missed her. ‘Making out it was just a bit of fun?’

  ‘I did have fun, I just had some business to deal with at the same time, that’s all.’

  ‘The things you told me when we first met. Going on about how you’d turned around the dukan, how well it was doing.’

  ‘But that was the truth.’ Pran sat forward.

  ‘You made it sound like you’d done it all. The hero who saved the family business,’ said Asha.

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you, that’s all.’

  ‘There must have been another way.’

  ‘I told you, we had to sort out the mess Papa had created.’ Pran sounded irritated, as though Asha were the one in the wrong and he shouldn’t have to explain himself, least of all to her. His wife.

  ‘You know what people say about us, the way we Asians hide and cheat.’ Her voice unsteady. ‘And all along I thought, no, that’s not fair, we’re just trying to get by like everyone else. And now you’ve given them another reason to hate us.’ The stony way the soldiers had stared. The fear in Pran’s eyes.

  ‘Come on.’ Pran reached for Asha’s hands but she pushed him away. ‘They’re not jealous of a little bit of money. They’re jealous of everything that we’ve built here. Idi Amin wanted someone to blame.’

  ‘And why is it that? Because they think we’re leaching their money. You’ve made us all into money-grabbers.’ All the gifts, the updates to the dukan, all of it bought with his tainted cash.

  ‘I was just trying to help my family.’ Sweat had seeped in patches onto Pran’s shirt. He spoke in a hushed tone, but nevertheless it betrayed his annoyance. ‘I want us to have a different life to the one I grew up with.’

  ‘Was it worth the risk?’ She shook her head. ‘Like earlier, with the soldiers. They could have taken you away, or worse.’

  ‘But they didn’t hurt me. And we didn’t get caught.’ His voice lost its edge. ‘I did it for us. For you.’

  ‘There must have been another way to help the business. Perhaps my Papa—’ She stopped. Pran stared at her. They both knew he’d never accept money from anyone, least of all her parents.

  ‘You shut me out.’ She leant against the wall, the plaster cool against her skin. ‘There was no need to keep the debt from me.’

  ‘I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you to see that I was failing.’

  ‘Are we just like everyone else? Husbands off doing whatever they want, wives sitting at home, no idea what’s going on. What kind of marriage is that? I don’t want us to spend our time pretending to be people we’re not.’ She blinked back the tears. ‘What else have you kept from me?’

  ‘Nothing, I swear.’ Pran stood up, taking her by the shoulders. ‘I should have told you. I’m sorry.’

  She shrugged him off. How could she believe anything he told her?

  ‘I’m sorry, Asha. I’m sorry,’ he said, as though saying it over and over again might make it right.

  *

  For decades, the Europeans had lived at the top of Kololo Hill, looking down on the city from their villas and mansions. The scent of jasmine and frangipani wafting in between the houses hidden by mango trees and rose bushes, papaya and hibiscus. After Independence, most of them went home, back to the colder climes of Britain, Ireland, Germany and France. The wealthiest Asians had swiftly moved in to take their place.

  Jaya’s friend Mrs Goswami lived in one such home, a house with a pink-tiled roof and white walls flanked by proud pillars. Asha decided to join Jaya on one of her afternoon visits: anything to fill the long day that stretched before them. During the drive further up Kololo Hill to Mrs Goswami’s house, Asha watched the narrower streets and compact single-storey homes give way to broader roads and vast, gated two-floor houses that looked out across the city centre below. Your place on the hill was directly connected to your wealth, with the richest at the very top. Below them all, the poorest Asians lived in cramped old apartment blocks and crumbling houses, and at the foot of the hill were the cement blocks and corrugated-iron roofs where many of the black Ugandans lived.

  Once inside, they were led to a vast reception room filled with statues carved out of soapstone and wood. Asha would much rather have been outside amongst the bright-pink flowers of the bougainvillea and the fluttering monochrome butterflies, but instead, here she was getting a headache from the gaudy knick-knacks in every corner.

  ‘Come in, besi jaaaowo.’ With each sentence, Mrs Goswami’s voice got louder, the vowels more elongated, as though she was in pain. ‘Abuja aaaawo,’ she said, gesturing to sit next to her, but Asha swiftly took a place next to a baby elephant (carved, although a real one wouldn’t have surprised her). She nearly slipped off the seat as her bottom hit the plastic protector that Mrs Goswami had wrapped around all the furniture. Jaya sat opposite, feet dangling from a huge velvet armchair.

  ‘Gres!’ called out their host. ‘Where is that girl?’

  Mrs Goswami eased herself onto the seat with her walking stick. Her hair was slick with coconut oil and pulled back so tight into a huge low bun that her hairline had started to recede. That morning, Motichand had joked that he could see his reflection on Mrs Goswami’s hair, his face shining back at him in the curve of that black mirror.

  ‘Finally,’ she said, watching the house girl, who hummed as she went. A slender girl with almond eyes, she set a tray of food on a table. ‘Biscuits for the guests. And a small banana for you, madam, I know you need to watch your weight,’ Grace said.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ mumbled Mrs Goswami, a look of embarrassment on her face. ‘And the chai, Gres!’ She gave Grace a thwack on the ankle with her walking stick, interrupting the house girl’s flow for a moment, before she hummed louder.

  Asha caught Grace rolling her eyes. She gave the house girl a conspiratorial smile.

  Mrs Goswami turned back to her guests. ‘Kemcho? Everyone well?’ They exchanged pleasantries while Grace left and returned, humming the entire time.

  Mrs Goswami must have caught Asha looking at her house girl as she finished serving the tea. ‘I know, I know, that humming is so annoying,’ Mrs Goswami waved her hand dismissively. ‘I tried to hit it out of her a couple of times, didn’t I, Jayaben? Give her a thappat or two!’

  Jaya’s gaze remained fixed on her cooling chai.

  Mrs Goswami continued, ‘But she doesn’t clean as well when I tell her to be quiet. If I want floors that glitter like Lake Victoria, I have to let her make that racket, neyi? Even if she does sound like a drowning hornet.’

  Mrs Goswami thrust a stainless-steel tray under Jaya’s nose, the ginger biscuits slipping and sliding across it. ‘Don’t be shy now, eat, eaaaaaaaat.’ The biscuits were overbaked and had caught at the edges, but Jaya took one anyway, so aggressive was Mrs Goswami’s insistence that she try one. When Asha refused a third time, Jaya gave her a look.

  ‘And how is married life, beta?’ Mrs Goswami peered at Asha through thick glasses.

  ‘Good,’ Asha said, for what else could she say? ‘Different, I suppose. I worked in an office for a while, back in Jinja, so I’m trying to get used to the new routine here.’

  ‘Ah, leave the work to the men. Otherwise, what’s the point? Why do you girls want to be like them?’

  ‘But it’s nice to be able to do things on your own.’ Asha shifted in her seat. ‘Earn money.’

  ‘Bapre, did someone put ghee in your ears or what? That’s why you put up with a husband. To provide for you, neh?’

  Asha stared back. What did Mrs Goswami know? She wa
s a widow with four sons who kept her in the lavish lifestyle she was used to. She didn’t know what it was like to have a husband who couldn’t be trusted. Asha had barely spoken to Pran in the days since she’d found out the truth, though he’d tried to reach out to her. She couldn’t bring herself to forgive everything.

  Before Asha had a chance to respond, her mother-in-law piped up, ‘Well, it’s not safe to go out to work nowadays, so there’s no point talking about jobs.’ She gave Asha a look, a warning not to get into a debate. Jaya changed the subject, telling Mrs Goswami about the soldiers that had stopped them on the way back from the dukan.

  ‘Eh bhagvan! This country has gone mad – again. But it will pass, it always passes,’ Mrs Goswami said. ‘Idi Amin got power from Obote and someone else will get power from him in time.’

  ‘But it was never this dangerous before,’ said Asha.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Jaya. ‘We used to be able to go out, never worrying. We used to visit all sorts of places when the children were younger. Murchison Falls. The gardens at Entebbe. You know, we stopped somewhere one day when they were little, for a picnic lunch. We always had to pack jelebi, or Vijay said he wouldn’t go. We were dozing in the shade afterwards but Pran went missing, we couldn’t find him anywhere. Motichand walked a mile looking in the trees and shrubs, calling out for him.’ She shook her head. ‘Even Vijay started to worry, poor thing.’

  ‘What happened?’ Mrs Goswami said.

  ‘He’d been sleeping on the back seat the whole time. No one had thought to look in the car.’ Jaya laughed. ‘He had no idea we’d all been looking for him.’

  Asha thought of Pran, how carefree he must have been as a boy. She couldn’t imagine him like that now. ‘I remember times like that,’ she said. ‘I’d go out with my brothers too, around the neighbourhood. We wouldn’t come home until nightfall, playing outside. My Ba would call out for us.’

  Mrs Goswami shook her head. ‘You’re too young to remember – you’re both too young.’ She twirled her thick gold bangle around her wrist. ‘Those first years after I came here from India. We used to live near the border, did I tell you, Jayaben?’