Where the Air is Sweet (15 page)

“Anger achieves nothing,” Khatoun says, finally.

“But we still feel it.”

“No. No, I don’t feel it. I asked myself many years ago what it is I expect from marriage, from a man. And the answer left me calm. There is nothing to be angry about.”

“You excuse his behaviour?” Mumtaz’s tone is not accusing, in spite of the words.

“It is not for me to excuse or condemn his behaviour.”

“If not you, then who? You are his wife.”

“I want for nothing. My children are all in school. They will be educated. We have the means to find them good marriages. They will live well.”

“What about you?” Mumtaz asks. “Don’t you want a partner? A husband you can trust?”

“You are young,” Khatoun says. “You have imagined more of life than you have lived. Let go of ideas, ideas of marriage, of men, of women.”

Mumtaz’s back stiffens.

“Hold on to what is real,” Khatoun continues, gluing her samosa shut and setting it on the plate. “Then you will be happy.” Carefully, she lifts a new strip of pastry and begins to fold it.

Mumtaz stares at her sister-in-law, at her pockmarked skin that she refuses to cover with powder, at her hair, oiled and tied back in a single long braid like a girl who has just left the village, at her plain, shapeless dress covering her plain, shapeless
body. She wants to feel pity for this pathetic woman, sympathy for this wronged wife. Instead she feels both disgusted and pleased. Khatoun is living the life she deserves.

14

S
OMEONE IS BANGING ON A PIECE OF METAL. THE
sound is coming from far away, from a room Mumtaz cannot see. With a start, she wakes. She is in her bed. The sound is coming from the window. She sees the shadow of a head behind the curtain. She shakes Jaafar until he is awake. Stumbling, his eyes only half open, he goes to the window.

“Bwana! Bwana!”

“It’s Yozefu,” Jaafar says.

Her mind cannot make sense of the scene.

“Our boy,” he says.

He is a man, with a wife and child, but he is called a boy. Jaafar has pulled the curtain aside. He opens the window.

“Bwana, help me. My son, he is sick.”

Mumtaz rushes to the window and sees Yozefu holding his two-year-old in his arms. The child’s head is lolling backwards; bubbling white foam is coming out of his mouth and nostrils. His eyes have rolled back into his head.

Mumtaz holds her hands over her mouth. Jaafar dresses and rushes to the door. She quickly follows, grabbing her shawl
from the end of the bed. They meet Yozefu at the front door.

She puts the shawl on the child and Yozefu wraps him in it.

“
Asante,
Mamadogo.”

“Nenda!”
she says. “Why are you wasting your time thanking me?”

Yozefu rushes to the Citroën. Jaafar starts the engine and Yozefu climbs into the passenger seat, the little boy on his lap. With one hand resting on top of her head, the other on her hip, Mumtaz watches Jaafar back out of the driveway.

When she returns to her bedroom, Karim is whimpering. She leans over his cradle and pats his back until he falls asleep. But she cannot sleep. Each time she closes her eyes, she sees the baby with the foam coming out of his mouth; she sees the whites of his eyes.

When Jaafar returns three hours later, she is lying on her bed in the dark. She sits up and looks at her husband. He turns on the lamp. He is holding her shawl. She wants to open her mouth and scream.

“He’s fine. I dropped them at home.”

She lets out a long breath and holds her head in her hands. Jaafar sits down beside her, the shawl in his hands.

“They were drinking and someone gave the baby
waragi.
”

Mumtaz winces. Even a sip of the local gin makes her stomach turn.

“He would have died if they hadn’t pumped his stomach,” Jaafar says.

Stupid Africans.

The thought has appeared unbidden in Mumtaz’s mind. She presses her eyes closed so that she does not see it, but she can do nothing to silence a silent thought.

“I wanted to scream at Yozefu for being so careless,” Jaafar says. “But he looked so broken as we drove to the hospital. And then I thought, How can I scream at a man whose child is dying? It’s his child. Not my child. Who the hell am I to shout at him?” He lies back on his pillow and closes his eyes.

She watches him. For minutes she does not move. Finally, she lies down beside him and watches his chest rise and fall, his hands still clutching her shawl. “You are a good man,” she says quietly, placing one hand on both of his. He has fallen asleep.

15

M
UMTAZ IS WATCHING KHATOUN BOUNCE
Karim in her arms. She is standing on the threshold of Mumtaz’s bedroom. Her body is shaking, the rolls in her midsection, visible through her chiffon saree, jiggling like bright orange halva. Karim is crying and Khatoun is humming in a low moan.

Without any warning, recently digested eggs shoot out of his mouth, falling over his chin, onto the bare skin of Khatoun’s chest, down the front of her blouse, her saree. She laughs. “Oh, my poor, poor boy,” she says, her voice artificially high-pitched, the falsetto grating. Khatoun lowers her voice, turns her head and screams, “Esteri!
Leta kitambala!
Esteri!”

Mumtaz, who is lying on her bed, breathes out of her mouth so that she does not have to smell the vomit. Karim reaches his arms out to her, crying even more loudly.

“Give him to me,” Mumtaz says, gesturing with her hands. “You will need to change your clothes.”

Khatoun is dressed for
jamat khana.
It is the only time she wears a saree. Khatoun shakes her head and turns her body so
that it is between the child and its mother. “You need to rest. I will clean it just now.”

Mumtaz is pregnant. She is nauseated. Her pregnancy with Karim was pleasant. She felt strong and energized. This time she is weak; she cannot keep food down; she is miserable. There are four months left in her pregnancy. She had not expected to make it this far. Two months ago, she decided that she wanted to terminate it. At the hospital for a routine visit, the words abruptly came out of her mouth. “I want an abortion.” She explained to the startled doctor that her mother died in childbirth.

“It’s not likely a difficult pregnancy was the reason,” he said. “Women hemorrhage in childbirth for many reasons.”

She nodded and looked out the window. A group of women, Banyankole she guessed, sat on the lawn of the hospital, their babies and their young children beside them. Gaunt, sallow, sick. How far did they walk to come here and wait, Mumtaz wondered. For the off chance of charity.

“My dear,” the doctor said, swallowing his
r
in the manner of the English, in the manner Mumtaz was taught in school.

She turned and looked at him. He was sitting on a desk, leaning towards her, his almost-brown, almost-green eyes round behind his black frames.

“Times are different. Mbarara Hospital is well equipped. I am overseeing your pregnancy. If need be, we will admit you for bedrest when you are closer to term. You will be fine. Your baby will be fine.”

Mumtaz lowered her eyes and winced as she felt the nausea rising up in her.

“Have you tried ginger tea?” he asked.

The doctor is a kind man, a kindly man. But Mumtaz wanted to slap him.

Esteri arrives with the towel. Khatoun takes it without looking at her and begins to wipe her chest, balancing a flailing Karim in her other, free arm. Mumtaz calls Esteri over and asks her to bring another towel, this time a wet one, for Khatoun.

“Please, Bhabi,” says Mumtaz when Esteri hands her the new towel. “Give the baby to her. His crying is making me feel worse.”

“
Hai, hai.
I’m sorry,” says Khatoun, taking the towel and handing Karim to Esteri, who takes him out of the room.

“She should have brought a wet towel in the first place,” Khatoun says, wiping her saree blouse, her chin pushed into her chest, so that the fat between her chin and neck juts forward in two clearly discernible rolls. “These girls have no sense.”

“You didn’t ask her to bring a wet one.” Mumtaz spits the words out so they fly, hard and fast, like sharp arrows, towards her. Khatoun looks up at her, wounded, her face flushing.

“No, I didn’t, did I?” she says, laughing. It is a nervous laugh.

“I’m sorry he threw up on you,” Mumtaz says. She does not try to soften her voice. Khatoun shakes her head, her face still pink.

“He is only a small baby. There is nothing to be sorry for.”

Mumtaz spends the final three weeks of her pregnancy in the hospital, being rehydrated intravenously every few days, crying uncontrollably. But when the baby girl comes, she comes easily, effortlessly, after forty-five minutes of labour. When the doctor holds her up in the air so that Mumtaz can see her, the child has an angry scowl on her red, pinched face.

After the baby has been measured and weighed and washed, Rehmat wraps her tightly in a white cotton blanket. “Our Sakina has arrived,” she says, looking at the girl’s face.

“No,” says Mumtaz sharply. “Not Sakina. Her name is Shama.”

“I’m sorry,
beta.
I thought—”

Mumtaz shakes her head. “Look at her, Ma. She is Shama. Look! Please, look at her!” Mumtaz can feel her face tightening, the muscles in spasms. She is breathing rapidly. Her hair is tangled. She cannot remember when she last combed it. She feels frantic, panicked. They had agreed, she and Jaafar and Rehmat and Raju, that if the child were a girl, she would be called Sakina, after Mumtaz’s grandmother. But Mumtaz knew from the moment she saw this baby that the name did not suit her, did not fit.

Rehmat places her hand on Mumtaz’s forehead. “What you see is there. You are her mother.”

Mumtaz smiles and feels her face relax. She closes her eyes.

When she wakes, Raju is sitting next to Rehmat. He is holding her daughter in his arms. He did not hold Karim when he was a newborn. He did not visit Mumtaz in the hospital then. Today, he is smiling, nodding, talking to the girl. “Shama. A candle. A fire but a small fire. A light but a gentle light. Our newest daughter.”

Rehmat is massaging Shama. She is sitting on her bed and Mumtaz is watching her.

“When I would massage Mumdu, he would cry. I had to be very gentle with him. Shama is strong. She likes me to press
more firmly. Do you see?” She looks at Mumtaz. “We come to know the natures of each of our children, don’t we?”

Mumtaz nods. “Ma, when did you last see Mumdubhai?”

“He moved away more than twenty years ago. In the years after he left, when he was living in Kampala, I would go to see him.”

“Alone?”

“First, with Baku. Then alone.”

“Does Bapa know?”

Rehmat shakes her head.

“He would be angry?”

“Mumdu did not want to see his father. He did not want to hear anything spoken of him. It would hurt his father to hear this.”

“Why is Mumdu so angry at Bapa?”

“They disappointed each other. And then life disappointed Mumdu. Dilshad could not give him a child that survived pregnancy. They began to fight and to be cruel to each other. And Mumdu became very cruel to everyone, the servants especially. He beat them like dogs.” Rehmat’s hands are still. Shama is squirming under her.

“Was he cruel to you?”

Rehmat looks at Mumtaz. “The person I saw in Kampala then was not my Mumdu. He became something I did not recognize.”

“I’m sorry, Ma.”

Rehmat smiles. “He will come back,” she says, resuming Shama’s massage. “We did not bury him. My Mumdu will come back.”

Shama is in the sitting room chewing on the fabric of the curtains. Mumtaz is watching her while listening to a news report on the radio. “Stop,” Mumtaz says, with little conviction.
“Chafu.”
Dirty.

“Hapana!”
Shama screams, and yanks at the curtain.

“Shama,” Mumtaz says, “would you like something sweet to eat?”

The toddler is sitting on her bum, her hands and teeth gripping the lace fabric, blinking rapidly.

“I think Esteri has some
jalebi
in the kitchen,” Mumtaz says.

Shama’s eyes widen and she releases the curtain. She scrambles to her feet and walks unsteadily towards the kitchen. Mumtaz follows, asking Esteri to take Shama and the
jalebi
to the verandah.

Mumtaz returns to her spot by the radio. When she hears the sound of the front door opening, she turns it off and stands up. Jaafar is standing at the door, smiling.

“I thought it was Bapa,” Mumtaz says, sitting down again.

“
Baapre
! Not yet. I am slim and my hair is still black and full.”

She switches on the radio.

“Where are my children?”

“Karim still has a fever. He’s napping. I sent Shama outside to eat
jalebi
with Esteri. She was being so naughty I couldn’t listen to the report about Obote. It’s over now.”

“If you keep feeding that baby to keep her quiet, she’ll grow fat. Then who will marry her?”

“Baganda were likely behind it,” says Mumtaz, her eyes scanning the newspaper that is spread on the floor. “Revenge for throwing out their king.”

“Or the army,” says Jaafar, sitting down on the sofa.

“Do you think so?” Mumtaz asks, looking up at him. “So many people have come to hate him. He can’t survive without the army.”

“George thinks it might be small elements within the army. Anyways, we’ll know soon enough who was behind it when arrests are made.” Jaafar leans back and lets his head fall onto the top of the backrest, so that he is looking up at the ceiling. “Poor Obote. He meant well.” He sighs. “He was so determined to make all the pieces of this country fit together.”

“But the report said he’ll live.”

“This time.” He is silent for a few moments. “The bullet hit him in the mouth. Now that’s a message.”

“Or a bad shot.”

Jaafar brings his head forward to look at her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a man.”

Mumtaz turns to the newspaper, ignoring Jaafar’s comment.