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  ‘I’ll pac you on a plen and fly you back to Uganda and then you shall see.’

  The teenagers laugh.

  ‘They don’t jok over there! They’ll bit all that madness out of your hed and then we shall see.’

  Luzinda laughs too; Ugandan parents are the same everywhere.

  With the eating over, the women clean up and join the men in the lounge to talk. Like the men, Mum never helps. Younger men and women, university students and all the unmarried remain standing in the dining area and kitchen. This time they are marvelling how they survived all that beating in high school. Teenagers bring down their plates, drop them on the table and return to Tush’s bedroom without a care, without a care! How can a child with parents be without a care? Now even Mum has got hold of Stella.

  An hour later, when he comes down to check on them, the signs have begun to manifest. First, her eyes become lazy. Then her lower lip droops. Luzinda runs back upstairs agitated. When he comes down again, there’s a suspicious film of perspiration on Mum’s face. There is nothing he can do but keep an eye on her. When he comes down for a drink, she’s animated and laughing extravagantly.

  By six o’clock, Luzinda cannot stay long upstairs. Mum’s body has started to lose harmony. Her head drops fast and heavy. She’s gone quiet. Luzinda’s heart knots up. He glances at Dad: surely he has seen the signs. He wills his father to go to his wife and say That’s it, Sikola, you’ve had enough, or It’s time to go home, but Dad is talking to an uncle.

  Luzinda turns away. The teenagers crowding Tush’s bedroom are oblivious to his distress. Some are listening to music, trying out the latest dance moves in music videos. African music is all the rage now. Some are sharing songs on their phones, others are on Facebook and Instagram. Luzinda stares at them, at the way they laugh at mundane things, unaware that he’s choking on fear. Where is Jesus?

  He runs downstairs and out of the house, but winter is waiting. It clobbers him, whack, and he runs back into the house and upstairs. Don’t go back downstairs: stop watching her. He even attempts to join the carefree teenagers, enthuses at Nigerian music. Stay up here. Calm down. He walks over to Mulungi, an intense girl, who rarely comes with her mother. Luzinda has heard his parents describe Mulungi’s father as a rich, spoilt, Afghan brat with hair to below his backside. Apparently he could spend five hundred pounds on a book, or he could travel to France and check into a luxury hotel just to borrow a rare book from a nearby library. Mulungi is ‘messed up’. Her mother tried to impose a Ugandan identity on her, but she rejected it. When she’s fallen out with her mother she is Tajik and her name is Mulls. She’s British when she hates her father. Today she is wearing a headscarf. Luzinda asks what her mother has done. She starts to explain that somewhere in Europe someone banned the niqab. After a while, Luzinda half-listens: his heart has run to the lounge. Soon he excuses himself.

  Mum’s face is so swollen her nose leans somewhat to one side. It would be hard for an outsider to notice but when she’s really drunk her face swells more and her nose leans. And when it leans, you brace yourself: the monster is about to break loose. Luzinda’s skin starts to itch like he’s wearing low-grade cashmere. He claws at his arms and at his back.

  He runs upstairs but stops on the landing out of breath. There is a small window here but the glass is frosted. Three large vanilla candles stand on the windowsill. Any minute now. The staircase becomes claustrophobic. He is hot. He opens the window. He breathes in out, in out, until he cools down. Then the draught gets too cold and he closes the window. He plops onto the steps and holds his head. Don’t go back downstairs. Stay right here.

  Raised voices.

  First, Luzinda runs upstairs to check on Bakka. Bumps into Tush coming down the stairs. ‘What’s with you, Luz!’ He stops, smiles, ‘Nothing. I’m sorry,’ but Tush does not wait long enough to listen. Thankfully, his brother has not heard: he’s playing. This time Luzinda walks carefully downstairs. He’s in time to hear his mother insult Aunty Katula; something about a sham marriage:

  ‘Bring that husband you claim to have; let’s see him.’

  ‘That woman again; she’s started!’

  ‘I’m tired of her spoiling our parties.’

  ‘She does it on purpose.’

  ‘I know we’re in Britain and we have our women’s rights, but some women take it too far.’

  ‘Equality or not, there’s something ugly about a drunken woman.’

  Luzinda hovers, prays.

  Dad sits with his right hand propping his chin, defeated. It makes him look like a helpless wife.

  ‘Leave her, don’t argue with her,’ Nnalongo says. ‘She’ll only get worse.’

  ‘Why do you invite me? Stop inviting me, then.’

  ‘Sikola, that’s rude,’ Dad pleads.

  ‘Oh, you shut up.’

  Mum looks up and sees Luzinda hovering. ‘Heeeeeey.’ She holds out her hands. ‘There he is—my beautiful, beautiful boy.’ Her hands invite him into a hug. Luzinda does not budge. ‘This boy’s so clever, have you seen the size of the books he reads? Come to Mummy, come, Luzinda, come to Mummy.’ After a while, her hands fall at the rejection. She whispers to the guests, ‘He doesn’t approve of Mummy drinking—even a little like this.’ She indicates a pinch. ‘He’s just finished The Long Walk to Freedom. He’s a real man now.’

  ‘Go back upstairs, Luzinda,’ Dad says, but Luzinda does not budge.

  ‘All the Harry Potters’—Mum licks a finger—‘soup to him.’

  ‘Leave him alone.’

  Mum glares at Dad. Now she’s really miffed. ‘Leave him alone, leave him?’ She grabs a cushion and whacks Dad with it. ‘Isn’t he my son?’ Dad takes the cushion off her as if she’s being playful. Now Luzinda doesn’t care for any other humiliation: he’ll soon be the son of a battered husband. While Mum has lost her sense of judgement, she’s still strong. If she’s forced to go home, her frustration could turn Dad into a drum. And Dad never stops her. Unless, before she starts, Bakka acts fast and pushes Dad into Luzinda’s bedroom, where the boys would protect him. Otherwise she would pace up and down the house, shouting, hitting him, while the boys cowered in their bedrooms. Now it’s best to stay here and let her drink until she drowns. Luzinda hopes his dad’s using his head.

  Dad leaves the sitting room to pack the dishes and pans they brought. The party is dead. Most of the younger men and women have left. The few remaining are talking quietly; something about a celebrity sex tape back home. Uncle Mikka is calling his children, his face disdainful, his tolerance unwilling to extend to exposing his children to such drunkenness. Guiltily, Luzinda watches them leave. In the sitting room, only Mum yells. She tells the guests that she’s not a labourer like them. Her husband was a paediatrician back home. Luzinda realises too late that everyone is staring at him instead of her. He unclenches his fist and attempts to smile. The grown-ups look away but not the children—the children stare hard. He did not see them come downstairs; he did not see them break into little groups. Bakka is pushing the younger ones back upstairs. Somehow, he’s got hold of Luzinda’s console and he’s offering it to anyone willing to go upstairs and play. But the children are not having it; they prefer to stay and stare.

  Now Dad makes his way to her. He whispers that it’s time to go home. Mum taunts him—‘Good for nothing,’ she feeds him: ‘Calls himself a man?’ But Dad insists. Finally, she stands up. There is a telltale wetness on her jeans.

  ‘Why don’t you man up and feed your family?’

  She lunges at Dad. Dad does something he’s never done before: he steps out of the way. Mum falls like a log. She remains motionless on the floor.

  As Mum is being picked up, Bakka springs into action. He runs to the middle of the lounge, pulls down his trousers and whips out his willy as if to pee right there on the carpet, in front of everyone.

  Uproar.

  ‘Stop that boy!’

  ‘Oh my goat, someone hold him.’

  ‘What is this?’

>   ‘We’re dead!’

  Some hold their mouths, some clap, some go ‘This is a calamity!’

  When he sees Mum being led away, Bakka tucks his willy back into his trousers, a triumphant grin on his face. Luzinda grabs him and pretends to slap his butt—‘What’s wrong with you?’—but hits the jacket.

  ‘I didn’t do it.’ Bakka laughs. ‘Just joking.’

  Mum must have fallen on her drink because when she was picked up off the floor, her jeans were wet.

  The children whisper. They steal glances at Luzinda and Bakka and whisper. They don’t laugh but whisper. Luzinda is mad that they are whispering. Why don’t they laugh, the cowards! He turns and follows his mother being carried—feet dragging—through the dining room. One of her shoes slips off. Luzinda picks it up. Then the other: he picks it up, too. Mum has the softest, palest feet. See the folds? This house has the longest hallway in the whole world.

  Outside, winter has stopped to stare. Bakka runs ahead and opens the rear door. Mum is thrown into the seat but Luzinda does not get in. He stands at the door. His mother is sprawled all over the back seat and Bakka has taken the passenger seat. Disgust twitches his nose. Dad, seeing him standing outside, comes around the car. He moves his wife into a sitting position. A huge bump has formed on her forehead where she fell.

  When he has made space, Dad says, ‘There, get in.’

  The car stinks. Why does alcohol smell so foul on the breath? Wait until she goes to the toilet; then you’ll know what stinking is. And if you go to their bedroom, that wet warm stench of stale alcohol breath will wrap itself around you. God knows how Dad sleeps through it.

  As Dad reverses the car, Mum tips and her head slips onto Luzinda’s right shoulder. The disgust of it! As if a huge bluebottle fly has landed on his shoulders. He tries to shake her head off—he can’t bear to touch her—but the head keeps coming. He shifts his shoulder, fidgets, but her head gets heavier. He tries to move away but she falls towards him. He looks up. Dad is watching in the rear-view mirror. ‘Luzinda, please! Your mother’s tired.’ That’s Dad’s favourite phrase: your mother’s tired, Mum’s tired; Luzinda is tired of pretending. ‘Hold her head, Luzinda. Her neck will hurt if her head hangs like that.’ But Luzinda will not touch her. She’s drunk, not tired! Several times, he lifts his shoulder to shove his mother’s head back onto her neck, but it keeps collapsing back on him. When they stop at a red light, Dad turns. ‘Mum loves you, Luzinda. You cannot forget that.’

  ‘Then let’s go back to Uganda. Mum didn’t drink in Uganda.’

  The traffic lights turn amber. He does not tell his father that the lights have turned green.

  ‘Alcoholism is a disease. It can come anywhere.’

  ‘A disease? You walk into a pub and pay for disease? She even hits you, Dad!’

  The cars behind have started honking. Bakka is silent.

  ‘She doesn’t mean to. We’ll get help,’ Dad turns to drive.

  As he pulls away, an impatient driver tries to overtake them. Dad drives faster. He races the man until he is level with him. He turns to the man and shouts, ‘You want to kill my children, eh? You want to kill my family on Christmas Day?’ Then he races forward.

  Mum snores.

  PART ONE

  Departing

  Our Allies the Colonies

  FIRST HE FELT A RUSH OF DIZZINESS like life was leaving his body, then the world wobbled. Abbey stopped and held onto a bollard outside the Palace Theatre. He had not eaten all day. He considered nipping down to Maama Rose’s for fried dumplings and kidney beans, but the thought of eating brought nausea to his throat. He steered his mind away from food. He gave himself some time then let go of the bollard to test his steadiness. His head felt right, and his vision was back. He started to walk tentatively at first then steadily, down Oxford Road, past the Palace Hotel, under the train bridge, upward, towards the Deaf Institute.

  Abbey was set to return to Uganda. He had already paid for the first leg of the journey—the passage from Southampton to Mombasa—and was due to travel within six months. For the second and third legs of the journey—Mombasa to Nairobi, then Nairobi to Kampala—he would pay at the ticket offices on arrival. He had saved enough to start a business either dealing in kitenge textiles from the Belgian Congo or importing manufactured goods from Mombasa. Compete with the Indians even. As a starter, he had bought rolls of fabric prints from Summer Mist Textiles for women’s dresses and for men’s suits, to take with him. All that commercial development in Uganda he had read about—increased use of commercial vehicles; the anticipated opening of the Owen Falls Dam, which would provide electricity for everyone; he had even heard that Entebbe had opened an airport back in 1951—was beckoning.

  But his plan was in jeopardy. It was his one-month-old baby, Moses. He had just returned from Macclesfield Children’s Home, where the baby’s mother, Heather Newton, had given him up for adoption, but he had not seen his son. In fact, he did not know what the baby looked like: he never saw him in hospital when he was born. Abbey suspected that Heather feared that one day she might bump into him and Moses. But Heather was fearful for nothing. Abbey was taking Moses home, never to return.

  Suppose the children’s home gave you the child, what then, hmm? the other side of his mind asked. What do you know about babies? The journey from Southampton to Mombasa is at least two weeks long on a cheap vessel. The bus ride from Mombasa to Nairobi would last up to two days. Then the following night you would catch the mail train from Nairobi to Kampala: who knows if it is still running? All those journeys with luggage and a six-month-old ankle-biter on your own. Yet Abbey knew that if he left Britain without his boy, that would be it. Moses would be adopted, given a new name and there would be no way of finding him. Then his son would be like those rootless Baitale children you heard of in Toro, whose Italian fathers left them behind.

  He was now outside Manchester Museum, by the university. He was on his way to his second job, at the Princess Road bus depot, where he cleaned Manchester Corporation buses. His shift began at 9 p.m. It was almost 8 p.m., but the day was bright. He could not wait to get home and tell people how in Britain the sun had moods. It barely retired in summer yet in winter it could not be bothered to rise. He could not wait to tell them things about Britain. It was a shame he had stayed this long. But having a job and saving money made him feel like he was not wasting his youth away in a foreign land. His day job paid the bills while the evening job put savings away in his Post Office account. His mind turned on him again: Maybe Heather had a point, you don’t have a wife to look after Moses while you work. You still have five months before you set off; if the home gives him to you, how will you look after him? But then shame rose and reason was banished. Blood is blood, a child is better off with his father no matter what.

  He reached Whitworth Park. It was packed with people sunning themselves, young men throwing and catching frisbees, families picnicking. At the upper end, close to Whitworth Art Gallery, he caught sight of a group of Teddy boys who, despite the warm evening, wore suits, crêpe-soled shoes and sunglasses, their greased hair slicked back. They looked like malnourished dandies. Abbey decided against crossing the park. Instead, he walked its width to Moss Lane East. The way the sun had defrosted British smiles. ‘Enjoy it while it lasts, strangers will tell you now.

  • • •

  Abbey arrived in Manchester aboard the Montola, a Dutch merchant ship, on 2 February 1950. That morning, the Montola limped into the Manchester Ship Canal on one engine and docked in Salford for repairs. It had been on its way to Scotland when it ran into difficulty. The crew had anticipated a delay of one or two weeks and would then carry on with the voyage. Abbey was hiding in the engine room when Ruwa, a Chagga colleague from Tanganyika, came down from the deck excited. ‘Come up, Abu, Yengland is here.’

  Since entering cold climes at sea, Abu had stayed in the engine room. Everywhere else on the ship was freezing. Ruwa, who was a ‘specialist’ on Europe, kept laughing: ‘What w
ill you do when we get to Scotland, the second coldest place on earth?’ (According to Ruwa, Amsterdam held the trophy for coldness.) The unnatural heat in the engine room had so swollen Abu’s hands and feet his shoes were too tight. At the time, Abbey’s name was Abu Bakri. He had named himself when he first arrived in Mombasa, even though he was not circumcised. Mombasa, especially the port, was run by Arabs and Zanzibaris who had a deep mistrust for non-Muslims and contempt for Africans. Luckily, his skin tone was light enough to pass for a Waswahili. Once he learnt the language, it was easy to pass himself off as Muslim. Soon, he was cursing and swearing like an Arab. When he arrived in Britain he changed Abu to Abbey like Westminster Abbey and Bakri into Baker like Sir Samuel Baker. But his grandfather had named him Ssuuna Jjunju.

  Wrapped in a blanket coat Ruwa lent him, Abu stepped out of the engine room and onto the short deck to see Yengland. The wind, like an icy blade, sliced through his lips, ears and nose. His puffed body deflated.

  On approach, the Manchester Ship Canal seemed vast, wide. But then the Montola had to wait outside the canal as the Manchester Regiment, a monstrosity—imagine a whole village elevated to treetop level—trundled out, making the Montola seem like a dugout canoe. Then they started again, slowly, towards docked ships where everything seemed to be in a rush. Now the canal looked compact, tightly packed. Everywhere, ships, ships, ships. The horizon was masts and funnels and smoke. The mist was dark. Men climbing up and down hulls by means of ropes, men cleaning, men standing on suspended planks painting hulls, cranes loading, cranes offloading, ships departing, ships arriving. The way everyone rushed, the gods must have been stingy with time in England.

  ‘Look, cotton bales have arrived too’—Abu pointed at a ship—‘they’re from home!’