Gripped by fear for the future, Grandpa partook of the bonanza of cheap sales by going up Mpande Hill to the shops. He got himself a fifty-kilo sack of sugar, a ten-liter tin of cooking oil, a twenty-liter tin of paraffin, and cement for repairing cracked graves in the family burial ground near my favorite tree. Grandpa could see that Amin was a robber baron, a corporate raider, a mafia boss, a man who, in other circumstances, would have built himself a financial empire as big as Barclay’s Bank, for he had the guts, the luck and the ruthless drive of a successful pirate. What bothered Grandpa, however, was that Amin had far too much power and was too unpredictable. No one seemed to know what he was capable of. The future thus looked overcast.
Grandpa remembered that when Serenity migrated to the city after Independence, he found the place still as segregated as ever, with the proliferation of slums the newest development. Life still went on in diaphanous chambers of adjacent experience, with every race, every class and every tribe separated by a glass wall. This was the post-Independence city, and the former classroom teacher was dazzled by its aggressive energy.
The whites, in their marble fortresses, were locked in their privilege and elitist corporate power. They enjoyed the protection of nuclear arms in silos back home and warships in the Indian Ocean over here. They were the goldfish in mobile aquariums, gawked at as they rolled through the city on the way to their schools, their clubs, their power jobs. Serenity could feel the locusts of envy nibbling at his thorax.
The Indians in “Mini Bombay” were sealed off in their mansions, their schools, their hospitals, ever a mystery to the Africans, certainly a riddle to Serenity, whose feet were heavy with mud as he negotiated the city. The nearest he came to knowing an Indian was his departmental boss, a man who issued orders and directives in a thin high voice. All Serenity knew of his boss’s private life was that the man had ten children and that his parents had come from Gujarat, where he had never been.
Serenity was shocked by the ugliness of tribal strife. All the soldiers he saw were tall, dark sons of northern Uganda. The policemen were a mixture of northerners and easterners. There was palpable hostility toward the people from the central region, his region, and mud sucked at his feet and locusts nibbled at his thorax and gut whenever he saw the armed soldiers. They looked at him with envious annoyance because he was a civil servant, with better pay, a better job and more security. They made him feel like a potential victim of armed frustration, money hunger and tribal hatred. Steeped in village civilities all his life, Serenity found it hard to get used to cosmopolitan hatreds. The forlorn arrogance with which his people tried to defend themselves against accusations of colonial collaboration made him uneasy: Serenity had never been an arrogant man. He had always survived by making himself inconspicuous. He avoided conflicts, understated his opinions and ducked the limelight. Now it seemed he was onstage all the time, watched by a hostile audience, playing roles he never cared for. It seemed everyone was onstage, playing roles cut out for them by fate or by strangers. He could sense danger brewing.
The Africans were loosely united by their dislike of Indians and Europeans, by their past of building castles and falling off the scaffolds of mansions they never lived in. Race was class, and class was still determined by race. Africans wanted to emerge from the dregs at the bottom to the salubrious air on top. The majority believed that time was on their side, which in a way was true. But with bills piling up, Serenity did not feel comfortable with waiting. He wanted a worry-free future, a better job and a pilgrimage to the land the blackbirds migrated to annually. Thrust into the vortex of competition, hatred and uncertainty, he faltered, he doubted. How would he make enough money to give his children the best education and still save some for himself?
The post-Independence political elite had what he wanted, but the pressure, the gore, the mire they waded through to achieve what they had terrified him. It was the way of hardened thieves. His neighbor and friend Hajj Gimbi often said that change was in the offing, but what was in it for him? Change for the better was for those who waded in gore, and Serenity was not that desperate.
He had always been afraid and suspicious of authority, and Amin terrified him in a special way. A man who came to power in a coup and led thousands of soldiers and was not afraid of death was to be feared. He brought into sharp focus the contrast between book law, social law and armed law. By the look of things, armed law was in, random arrests and detentions were becoming commonplace, and it all frightened him. His main consolation was that Hajj Gimbi had connections, courtesy of his religion and his friendship with people who knew people who mattered. Hajj Gimbi had reassured him that in case he fell into trouble with the army or the police, he would help him.
The news of the Indian expulsion order left Serenity speechless, the balming fingers of euphoria stroking his thorax. He could smell hope in the air as the horizon trembled with the change and the possibilities it suggested. Serenity was shocked to realize that his childhood fantasy had come true. The conspirators in the destruction of his childhood, and part of his adult life, were leaving! Their dream was over, damaged irreparably! He knew that the Indians would not leave without a fight: the geese that lay golden eggs would claw, and flutter, and bite, and break the eggs if possible. Suddenly things looked different; all the abuse, all the suspicion, all the hatred, all the fear, all the power of money and monopoly, floated uselessly in the air like degraded poison. Suddenly, neither goodness nor evil could save them.
Serenity was puzzled to learn that the British did not want to have the Indians back after all the Indians had done for them, after all the money they had made for them, after the hundreds of years of British occupation of India. For the first time in his life, Serenity realized how precious it was to have a nation, a homeland, a place to go. He fleetingly recalled Padlock’s expulsion from the convent, except that this was a far worse tribulation for those involved. As he watched the tears, the fear, the pain, he realized that he had overestimated the nature and the extent of Indian power.
Rumor was rife of Indians taking their own lives, selling all they had, pouring salt in car engines, giving things away. There were moving sales everywhere, anxious Indians lining up for travel documents outside British Embassy buildings. Watching these people in endless lines, pounded by the iron sun, helpless and confused, made Serenity distrust power even more.
He returned home one evening with a beige-plastic-cased, sixteen-inch black-and-white Toshiba television set, which had the peculiar habit of stinking like a mixture of burned leather and rotten fish after only two hours of service. The stench diminished when the set was switched off, but returned fifteen minutes after it was turned back on. This stench intrigued me, because I was not allowed to watch television. Padlock and Serenity believed that television was a subversive entity which could irreparably damage a mind with a propensity for sin by feeding it better ways of transgressing and rebelling. So, to save me from myself, and to save themselves the extra energy needed to police a sophisticated miscreant, they banned me from watching the box. The shitters were charged with the duty of reporting me if they saw me watching when the despots were away or when they were unaware of my presence.