Free Where the Air is Sweet by Tasneem Jamal

behaviour undermines that.”
    “Maybe it isn’t more important.” Baku still does not look at Jaafar. “For some people, tribe will always come first.”
    “If the kabaka didn’t believe in the idea of Uganda, he shouldn’t have accepted the post of president.” Jaafar places his glass firmly on the table.
    Baku spoons pickled mango onto his plate.
    Raju takes two more large bites of curried okra, chews them slowly and deliberately and then swallows. He sips the last of his chaas, leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, nodding. He opens his eyes and looks at Jaafar. “You are right. This young kabaka is unwilling to accept that his Baganda are no longer the most important tribe.”
    Jaafar is pleased. Raju sees a smile forming on his lips. He chooses this moment to strike.
    “On Sunday, you will meet a girl with your mother and me. Her father has not done well. They are not wealthy. But a Malia family. A girl from our village. Apra gham ni chokri. In Toro.”
    Raju watches the skin of Jaafar’s face go slack.
    Jaafar is repeatedly biting his lip and then releasing it. He is driving and Raju is watching him from the passenger seat. Normally, when Jaafar drives his car, his beloved Citroën, he is relaxed, smiling, sometimes smoking, always speeding. Today, his body is stiff, both hands on the steering wheel, as though he is being forced to drive, as though a gun is being held at his back.
    They have been driving silently for close to an hour. Rehmat is sitting alone in the back seat.
    “This girl’s father, Popat, has had no luck,” Raju says.
    Jaafar turns to look at him and then at the road.
    “But it isn’t luck, is it? Luck alone cannot save a man. He has no head for business. Years ago, in the early 1930s, he ran a shop in Kabale. People were very poor there at the time. The Africans would carry ninety pounds on their backs for you and charge only one cent a mile. This is how poor they were. And they had no clothes, no fabrics; they wore animal skins. How can you make a profit among such poor people? But Popat would not give up. He let people buy on credit. Finally he lost everything. He was in debt for years.” Raju shakes his head. “But his daughter Malek is a good girl. She will make a good wife. Though they had some trouble with her recently.” He looks out his window. “For months she was carrying on with a Hindu boy.”
    It is a clear day. The Rwenzori mountain range is clearly visible.
    “The Mountains of the Moon,” Raju says, turning to Rehmat. “We are nearing Fort Portal.” When he turns back to the front, Jaafar is looking at him; then he looks at the road again and lets out a long breath, his cheeks puffing out.
    “Now Popat has another shop in Toro, a small fancy-goods shop. He isn’t making much money.”
    Jaaafar clears his throat. “What about the Hindu boy?”
    “That is finished. When Popat learned about Malek’s affair, he didn’t let on to her that he knew. He told her only that they have found a proposal. At first, Malek refused to meet us. Popat told me she cried for days and refused to eat. And then, one day”—Raju snaps his finger—”just like that, she changed her mind. She is excited for this meeting. She is ready for marriage.” Raju turns to the back seat. “She even let her mother pick out the saree she will wear today.” Rehmat smiles. Raju laughs. “A good girl who has found her good senses. She will be an excellent choice for Jaafar.” Raju smiles. He is satisfied.
    When they arrive at the Popat home, Raju sees a group of seven or eight men standing outside the front door, speaking with lowered heads. Jaafar switches off the engine. Loud wails come from the house. Raju looks at Jaafar and then turns to look at Rehmat. Her fingers are pressed over her mouth.
    Popat emerges from the group of men and walks towards Raju. He quickly steps out of the car and holds his palms heavenward. “What has happened?” he asks.
    Popat stops in front of Raju.