Where the Air is Sweet (20 page)

Three days later, Idi Amin reverses his latest edict. Citizens of Uganda are exempt from the order. But non-citizens must still leave. Citizens’ documents must be in order. He will not accept forgeries or citizenship obtained through corruption. Since his order, Asians have been told to visit the immigration office to verify their citizenship. Mumtaz reads that many are
found not to meet the standards. And they are given no reason for being stripped of their citizenship. They are rendered stateless. Amin continues to insist that a second phase of expulsions will occur. “Asian tactics are not in the interests of the people of Uganda,” he says. Then he announces that certain Asians will be specially invited to stay, non-citizens who will help the transition from the Asian to the African economy. He does not say who these Asians are.

Jaafar shakes his head, laughing. Mumtaz cannot laugh or shake her head. She feels dizzy. She is beginning to lose track of who can stay, who must go.

“It’s as though he is a spoiled girl planning a party and she wants to use invitations to exert her power,” Jaafar says. “Who to include, exclude? Each moment her mood shifts and so does the invitation list. It’s ludicrous.”

“Why a spoiled girl?” Mumtaz asks. “Why not her insane father?”

Jaafar laughs and nods enthusiastically.

Mumtaz hears on the BBC that the British are wringing their hands at the huge numbers of Asians being thrust on them and their tiny island and their high unemployment. Canada steps in to offer help, to accept refugees. But still, Mumtaz does not believe they will have to leave.

He is crazy. He will change his mind. He changes it constantly.
This becomes her calming refrain, her mantra.

A ban is placed on airfreighting of Asian possessions. Until checks can be put in place to ensure Asians are not sending out expensive goods in an effort to skirt foreign-exchange controls, the crates will remain in Uganda. East African Airways, Idi Amin announces, must fly the Asians out. It is the airline of
Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania. He is, he says, “duty bound to support it in every way.” He is a patriot.

He is crazy. He will change his mind. He changes it constantly.

Radio Uganda is devoted almost entirely to describing the president’s activities: his constant verbal attacks on Asians, the “economic saboteurs”; his threats to destroy Kigali for, he says, harbouring Israeli operatives; a twenty-minute operation he undergoes to remove warts; his warnings to a group of African traders not to consume so much alcohol, lest they become the laughingstock of the expelled Asians, who did not touch alcohol and ran successful businesses. Idi Amin, the man who supported Britain’s right to sell arms to South Africa shortly after toppling the staunchly anti-apartheid Obote, now calls on his army to liberate South Africa. He offers to solve the Northern Ireland problem. He says the United States asked for his help in ending the Vietnam War.

He is crazy. He will change his mind. He changes it constantly.

Mumtaz listens as an announcer on Radio Uganda reads a telegram from President Idi Amin to United Nations Secretary-General Kurt Waldheim days after Israeli athletes are murdered at the Olympics in Munich: “Germany is the right place where, when Adolf Hitler was the Prime Minister and supreme commander he burned over six million Jews. This is because Hitler and all German people knew that the Israelis are not people who are working in the interests of the people of the world and that is why they burned the Israelis alive with gas in the soil of Germany.”

The same day, the foreign minister, Wanume Kibedi, announces Asian non-citizens who do not leave by the deadline will be kept in concentration camps. Those whose citizenship is
valid will have to carry an identification card at all times.

The spinning in Mumtaz’s head begins to settle into something. Something heavier than disorientation. Something more painful. The mantra becomes less and less effective in calming her. Soon it frightens her. Soon it becomes truncated.
He is crazy. He is crazy. He is crazy.

“Canada is accepting Asians who are Ugandan citizens,” Baku says. Raju, Baku and Jaafar have just sat down to eat lunch. “It is a good opportunity to go to the West.”

“Go?” asks Jaafar. “Who would go?”

“Things are becoming bad here for us. Some boys today walked past me and shouted, ‘Bloodsucker!’“ He laughs. “Imagine.”

“This is too much,” Raju says. “Even for Idi Amin. He can’t carry out this threat. It’s too much. It will destroy Uganda. He will stop or be stopped.”

“But if he is not,” Baku says, “we should be prepared.”

“Fewer than three months,” Jaafar says. “We would never be prepared, even if we started preparing this minute.” He smiles. “Baku
bhai,
why are you talking like this? Ready to run? Come now. I didn’t know you were such a mouse.”

“Baku has always readily accepted things,” Raju says, looking at him. “It is both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.” Baku nods, his mouth full. He is smiling, but his cheeks are flushed.

“Mgeni iko?”
The soldier is looking at the ground in front of Mumtaz’s feet, even as he speaks.

She pulls Shama against her, her hand flat and firm on the child’s chest.
“Hapana,”
she says, shaking her head.

It is evening and the sun has set. Mumtaz, Rehmat and the children have finished eating dinner. Jaafar drove to Kasese this afternoon and is due to return later tonight. Raju is playing cards at a friend’s house. Three soldiers are standing at the threshold of the family home and one of them has just asked, of all things, if there is a guest inside. The soldier points into the house with his flashlight. Mumtaz tells him her husband is not home. He nods and steps over the threshold, past her, without looking at her. He stands in the sitting room, his black boots on the rug. The beam from his flashlight is weak in the dimly lit room. Two other soldiers walk in behind him. They begin pointing their long guns throughout the room, as though they expect an animal to suddenly leap out, as though they have stumbled into the bush. Mumtaz glances at the weapons and then quickly lowers her eyes, as if she has glimpsed an obscene photograph. They point the guns behind the curtains, in the dining room, under the table. Two of them get down on their knees and point their guns under the sofa, moving the weapons slowly from side to side.

Rehmat walks into the sitting room, her eyes on Mumtaz. “What’s happening?” she asks in Gujarati.

“They’re looking for someone.”

“Here?”

Mumtaz shrugs. She tells the soldier with the flashlight that she needs to call her son from the bedroom. He nods without looking at her. She calls Karim in Punjabi. He comes running out of the bedroom he shares with Shama. When he sees the soldiers, he stops running. Mumtaz lifts Shama into her arms and gestures for Karim to come closer to her. The men move
into the kitchen, where Esteri is washing dishes. Karim walks towards them, stopping in the hallway, staring into the kitchen. Mumtaz moves slowly to stand beside him.

The soldiers emerge and walk into Raju and Rehmat’s bedroom. Mumtaz follows. One soldier opens the wardrobe. He points his gun inside, using it to push the clothes aside. The second soldier bends down next to the bed and shoves his gun below it. He proceeds to move down the length of the bed, the gun pointed underneath. They move to the window, where one soldier presses his hands against the curtain while the other stands with his gun pointed at the lace fabric, ready to fire. They repeat all of this in Jaafar and Mumtaz’s bedroom. In the children’s bedroom, one of the soldiers kneels beside the bed and lifts up the blanket. There are two small dolls lying on the sheet, staring up at the ceiling with wide, blue eyes. He replaces the blanket, using the flat of his hand to smooth the creases he has made. One of the soldiers enters the bathroom, peering into the tub as he points his weapon towards the tiles. In the hallway, another soldier asks Mumtaz for keys to the two cars parked in the driveway. The soldiers go outside and look inside the cars. They search in the backyard and in the front yard. Mumtaz sees them pointing their flashlights and then their guns behind bushes, up towards the branches of the trees. They enter the servants’ quarters and emerge a minute or so later. They return to the house and hand the keys back to Mumtaz. Then they are gone. Not once did the soldiers raise their eyes to Mumtaz. They were deferential. They were polite.

Late the next afternoon, Jaafar, Mumtaz and Raju sit at the dining table. Karim and Shama are in the backyard with Mary, and Rehmat is resting in her bedroom.

“The barracks were attacked yesterday,” Jaafar says. “Obote supporters crossed the border from Tanzania. There was some fighting and then scores of them fled. The soldiers yesterday were checking houses to see if people were hiding any of them.”

“There was fighting in Mbarara? But we heard nothing.” Mumtaz is sitting across from Jaafar.

“The fighting was entirely at the barracks. You wouldn’t hear anything here. It’s too far.”

“How do you know all this?” Raju asks. “Have you talked with Major Al-Bashir?”

“No. I talked with a corporal who comes with Al-Bashir or Abdul Fattah to the garage sometimes. I saw him in town and I asked him about the house searches. Yozefu later told me he saw trucks with soldiers carrying UPC flags driving eastwards late yesterday morning when he brought
nasto.
That must have been them. The guerrillas.”

“They drove into Mbarara like it was a holiday parade?” asks Raju. “In the middle of the day, with flags to identify them as Obote’s men? Are these people idiots?”

Jaafar shrugs. “I think they wanted to get people excited so they would join them. From what I’m hearing, they were defeated fairly quickly.”

Mumtaz looks at Raju’s flushed face. “I’m disappointed, too, Bapa,” she says. “I wish they had done this properly and thrown that fucking animal back into the jungle where he belongs.”

Raju and Jaafar both look at Mumtaz. She glances at them quickly and then lowers her eyes.

Within days, Mumtaz hears radio reports of more fighting at the borders with Tanzania. A curfew is imposed.
Jamat khana
is closed; there will be no evening prayers until it is lifted. Radio Uganda continually reports heavy fighting with Tanzanian troops, but Mumtaz is dubious. The government-run radio station had described the invasion into Mbarara as massive, and this was a lie. But still she is frightened. Each evening, Rehmat goes to bed early with the children. Mumtaz sits at the dining table with Raju and Jaafar, listening to the BBC in the hopes of reliable information.

In days, the curfew is lifted but life does not return to normal. Mumtaz hears radio reports that local UPC members have disappeared. She hears that the chief justice was dragged from the courthouse by armed troops. She listens to Idi Amin rage at those who would challenge his rule. Public executions are held in fourteen towns to punish those who participated in the rebellion. Mumtaz stares at images on the front pages of the
Uganda Argus,
of the slumped bodies of young men, their arms attached to posts behind them, black hoods covering their heads, white aprons covering their genitals, until they disappear, until they are nothing, black and white blending into grey.

Jaafar, on his drive to Cooper Motors in Kampala three times a week, must pass through army roadblocks set up in the aftermath of the invasion. The army has announced that the roadblocks are in place to weed out guerrillas loyal to Obote. Jaafar tells Mumtaz that he passes through checkpoints at the Mbarara barracks, Lyantonde, Mbirizi, entering Masaka, exiting Masaka, Mukono, Nabusanke, Mitala Maria, Mpigi, Katwe
and four more directly on the highway. Between Mbarara and Kampala, a distance of a hundred and seventy miles, there are fourteen roadblocks, all patrolled by the army. Each week, he passes through a total of eighty-four roadblocks. He has never seen anyone but an Asian stopped. Black Africans are waved through, every time, without question.

Jaafar drives Raju to Kampala to obtain identity cards,
kipandes,
for him and for Rehmat. The government has announced that every Asian must obtain one. Jaafar has already obtained four, one each for him, Mumtaz, Karim and Shama. The
kipande
is a small red book with no pages inside. Embossed on its cover in gold is the Ugandan coat of arms: a crested crane and a Ugandan kob each lifting one leg onto a shield that displays waves, the sun and a drum in front of two spears. The creatures stand atop a banner reading:
For God and My Country.
Coffee and cotton grow behind them. Below the coat of arms, the words:
The Republic of Uganda.
And below that, in large block capital letters, the innocuous: IDENTITY CARD.

Raju is staring at Jaafar’s
kipande
as they drive. The
kipande
lists its owner’s nationality, address and occupation, and holds a small passport-sized photograph. “Why would a child need such a thing?” he asks.

Jaafar is quiet.

“What did you list as Shama’s profession or occupation? She is not yet in school.”

“Infant,” replied Jaafar, his eyes on the road.

“How far will they go?”

Jaafar turns to his father for a moment, then back to the
road. “Since independence, things have been unstable. Not too unstable, but we didn’t know what would happen. It has become worse, of course, with this madman Idi Amin. But now instability is a good thing.” He smiles. It is a forced smile. Raju sees it is for his benefit. “They can reverse this any moment. They will. He will. They will never throw us out.”

Raju nods.

In downtown Kampala, Raju and Jaafar stand in a snaking line that runs half the block. Raju looks at the people in line, all men, Asian men, heads of households. Those charged by order of birth to lead their families. They grip papers, photos, documents, proofs of identity in their hands. How tightly do we have to hold on to these lives we have built, Raju thinks, to ensure they are never lost?

At the immigration department, Raju and Jaafar meet Ramzan Jadio, Hussein Mawji’s youngest son. He runs a sweet shop in Katwe. He needed a citizenship to operate a business and so, like Jaafar and Raju, obtained one years ago, shortly after independence. But today officials have informed him that his papers are not in order, that in fact he is not a Ugandan citizen. They did not explain what is missing from his papers. They told him only that it cannot be rectified, and that, as a result, he is stateless. Ramzan punctuates the story with a laugh.