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  When she is finally done with her orders, she sits down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and reviews the elaborate menu for Ashif’s luncheon. It’s been so long since she has had a chance to cook for him and she does not want to skimp on a thing. The main dishes will include masala tilapia with thick-cut chips, Kenyan-style chicken biryani, and spinach curry served with rotli bread. For appetizers, dhorka, a semolina cake, with tamarind-date chutney, fried sticks of mogo-cassava, and potato-champs with green-chili chutney. She will end the meal with faloodha—a milky pudding—and sweet meats. She knows she is making too much, but she would rather have more than less. It was a guiding principle every time she hosted. She loved entertaining. So did Mansoor. But that was so long ago. They haven’t entertained for years now.

  * * *

  Layla pushed open the swinging door to her kitchen, holding a flute of passion fruit juice and sparkling water. Her hair was in an updo and she was dressed in an Audrey Hepburn–style dress, a gift from Mansoor, who insisted she buy something new for every celebration—from Eid to New Year’s. This time it was for their third wedding anniversary. She’d special-ordered this dress from Dubai. The kitchen buzzed with African staff, some of whom were hired for the party. They were in smart white coats and carried trays of steaming kebabs and crushed-ice cocktails.

  “Mary, Mary, where are you?” she called out in Swahili.

  On the radio, a news announcer read out the headlines, “General Idi Amin Dada visited Kampala University to attend a massive rally in support of our great new leader.”

  “Yes, Mamma?” Mary asked, making her way to Layla.

  “Is the cake ready?”

  “Yes, everything is ready, Mamma.” She pointed to a trolley with a three-tiered white cake decorated with jasmine and rose petals, a replica of their wedding cake. A ribboned knife rested next to it.

  “Okay, good. Please bring it out in half an hour.”

  “Yes, Mamma.”

  “And please turn off the radio. It’s noisy enough in here as it is.”

  “Yes, Mamma.”

  Layla weaved through the house, past her guests dressed in smart cocktail attire—all of them Indian, many of them Ismaili—past walls pocked with family portraits and Mansoor’s athletic trophies, to the garden where a band was playing a marimba song. Guests were dancing, and she knew exactly where she would find her husband.

  Mansoor stood at the centre of a group of friends. He was in an Italian-cut, dark blue suit, which he’d bought in London for their wedding and only wore at their anniversary parties. With it, he wore a red silk scarf tucked into the jacket pocket and metal-tipped shoes. He still looked so dapper in it. As she walked to him, she remembered the first time she met him, a formal introduction brokered by her mother in Kisumu and Mansoor’s aunt in Kampala, a ferry ride across Lake Victoria. Layla’s family was poor, but she still garnered many suitors. She was known for her beauty, her cooking skills, and her family’s reputation as upstanding members of the community. Mansoor was known for his charm, his intelligence, and his family’s wealth. He would, her father was confident, give his daughter a life his salary never could. Mansoor wasn’t especially handsome, but he was tall and strong, and Layla could see the outline of his muscular arms through his muslin shirt. With him, she felt nothing would go wrong. Three months later, they were married. Their wedding night was the first time they kissed. The first time any boy had touched her.

  Layla reached for her husband’s elbow to indicate she was back; he stepped aside to make room for her. Rose, Ashif’s ayah, brought the baby to her, just as she had asked her to. Ashif was a few weeks old and many of their friends had yet to see him.

  “Look who’s come for dinner,” Layla said, pulling back his blanket.

  The women leaned in, oohing and ahhhing. Bilkis, a neighbour in a gold silk sari, tapped the baby’s cheek, as if testing a fruit for ripeness. “Such a sweetie, he is.”

  “Mumbarki to you!” Tariq, Mansoor’s friend and golfing partner, shook Mansoor’s hand. “Is he ready to take over the business yet?”

  “Soon, very soon,” Mansoor said, raising his whisky glass.

  “Aye, don’t encourage him, Tariq Bhai,” Layla said. “He’d have my son at one of his stores by tomorrow if he could.”

  The group laughed.

  “So, when’s the stork bringing the next one, Visram?” another friend asked.

  “Soon, if I have it my way,” Mansoor said with a wink.

  “Poor you,” Bilkis whispered in Layla’s ear. “You went through so much with this pregnancy as it was.”

  Layla nodded. Her labour had been twenty-four hours long. The baby refused to come. “A bit shy, that’s all,” the doctor said reassuringly. “We’ll just have to coax him out into the world,” the nurse added as she wheeled Layla to the operating room for an emergency C-section. But when Layla held the baby in her arms, her happiness was pure and full. She decided then that she wanted a big family and when she told Mansoor, he heartily agreed. It was, he said, what he had always wanted, too.

  “Should I feed him, Mamma?” Rose reached for the baby.

  “No, no. I want to.” Layla folded the baby back into his blanket. “I’ll be back soon,” she announced to her guests.

  “Take your time,” Mansoor replied, and she could see the glow of pride and admiration in his eyes.

  As she nursed Ashif in her bedroom, she felt a deep sense of comfort and joy. Here in her home, with her husband, the murmur of their friends downstairs, the weight of her child in her arms. She never imagined that their lives could be so easily uprooted. In a blink of an eye. Idi Amin’s expulsion order was just months away.

  * * *

  The doorbell rings. It’s her neighbour, Ramzan. He delivers her orders to her customers and they pay him directly. Under his down-filled jacket, he’s in an undershirt, his necklace visible, a tiger-eye gold chain that his girlfriend, a Turkish woman, gave him. “To keep the evil eye away,” he explained to Layla. “You know, with my good looks, she can’t be too careful,” he joked.

  When he’s finished loading the orders into his car, she gives him an extra container of chicken pilau for himself, not that she charges him. He doesn’t charge her for the personal rides he gives her either. Ramzan runs multiple businesses. Besides delivering her orders, he sells knock-off handbags and perfumes from a street cart, and he runs a private taxi service for women in the neighbourhood who don’t drive or don’t have cars.

  “Thank you. Smells delicious as always, Bai,” he says. “I’m taking some of the ladies shopping tomorrow morning. Big sale at Sears. Want to come?”

  She hesitates but thinks better of it. With the continued increase in orders, she can afford a new dress. When she started her business, most of her customers ordered only for big occasions like Eid or when relatives were coming, but now more and more families were on a daily schedule—mostly the youths, who nowadays hired people do everything in their house: cooking, cleaning, mowing, shovelling, fixing-bixing. Just like back home. But who knew that one day she would be the servant?

  “Yes, why not?” she says. She hasn’t gone shopping for such a long time and she wants to look nice for Ashif.

  “Good-good. See you in the morning, Bai.”

  In the pantry, Layla pulls out a tiffin box tucked in with her spices. A makeshift cash register she uses for her business. One compartment has cash, the other, expense receipts, and the last, her tithe. She submits the first two to Mansoor each week when he does the accounts. The third is her secret. “Charity begins at home, Layla,” she can hear him say if he ever found out. But dasond isn’t charity. It is her duty as a momin. She counts out fifty dollars from the customer compartment and tucks it into her apron pocket. What you give always comes back tenfold. This is barakat. The secret of life.

  Chapter 6

  WHEN ASHIF COMES HOME from work, he finds Caity waiting for him in the lobby of his condo building. She’s in yoga gear and her long blonde hair is tied ba
ck in a ponytail. He met her at his gym and they’ve been dating for a couple of months. Though he made it clear to her right from the beginning that he’s not interested in a relationship. He didn’t say it, but he doesn’t want to be tied down. Even thinking about it makes him feel claustrophobic. Caity agreed. That’s all she wants, too. But after last weekend, he’s not so sure. She needed a date to a wedding, and he reluctantly agreed to go.

  * * *

  During the dinner reception, the table toasted Caity’s recent call to the bar and she told them about Ashif’s possible promotion—how he was pegged as the guy to nail it. Everyone then raised their glasses for him. A woman added that they made a beautiful couple. Another guest told Caity she’d look stunning in a wedding sari. Her husband agreed and joked that they wanted an invitation to their wedding. They’d never been to an Indian wedding before and had heard how lavish they were. Caity played along and so did he, but what bothered him was how much she seemed to enjoy it. It also bothered him that people assumed that he was Indian. Not that he said anything. He never does. It’s just easier. Like an olive branch that saves him from explaining his roots.

  India-Africa-Muslim. He doesn’t fit into any category easily. He looks Indian but he isn’t. He was born in Africa but isn’t African. He’s Muslim but not that kind of Muslim. Saying anything would only lead to endless questions, as if he was an expert, a guide at a museum. But he hardly knows enough about Ismailism, let alone Islam. He wouldn’t be able to discuss his family’s history, either. All he knows is that his mother is from Kenya and his father is from Uganda. He has no idea which city either was born in, though he knows he was born in Kampala. It says so on his passport. He was just a baby when they left and there are no pictures of him from there. None of his parents, either. As if they never existed until they arrived in Canada, which is fine by him. He has never been back and has no desire to go, either. Uganda has nothing to do with him. He is Canadian. Not that people always accept that when they ask him where he’s from. No, but where are you really from? As if they are border guards and he’s trying to enter the country illegally. It leaves him feeling that he doesn’t belong here. But he doesn’t belong anywhere else, either. He’s perpetually in limbo. No man’s land.

  * * *

  “What are you doing here?” Ashif asks, kissing Caity hello.

  “Our date,” she says, lifting a paper bag from the floor. “I brought groceries for us to cook together. Did you forget?”

  “Sorry, I did,” he says.

  “Want to reschedule?” she asks.

  He’s exhausted and still needs to pack for his trip. It’s already eight. But he feels bad that he’d forgotten and kept her waiting. “No. Let’s go up.”

  Ashif’s condo isn’t luxurious, but it’s close to work and has everything he needs. Not that any of the things are his. The furniture, the artwork, the dishware. Nothing except his clothes and personal items. Like he’s living in a hotel. He can check out anytime he wants.

  After dinner and sex, Caity leaves, and he’s relieved to have his place back to himself. He can breathe again. He powers on his desktop and settles into his evening routine. The computer whirs, taking a few minutes to turn on. Meanwhile, he makes himself a gin and tonic. He knows he’s not supposed to drink while he’s on anti-depressants. But it’s only one drink. Maximum two. He looks forward to it, like his reward at the end of a long day. He clicks open a file called “Mummy.” The spreadsheet tracks his salary, his expenses, his investments. He’s asked his broker to put all his money into safe instruments. GICs, bonds, T-Bills. Some stocks. He doesn’t want to take any risks. Not until he’s got enough money to leave his job. For years now, Ashif has been saving his money with one goal in mind: his mother. She’s already fifty-four, and he wants her to stop working and start enjoying her life.

  He’s saving enough for both his parents to retire. His mother won’t stop working unless his father does, too. The retirement plan includes all their monthly expenses including luxuries, health insurance to supplement Alberta’s health care, yearly vacations and visits abroad to see family, and a trade up from their house to a condo. A good life. If he stays on track at the company, he’ll have enough in ten years. He’ll be close to forty. His mother, sixty-five. He traces a finger to the top of the line graph, 2008. That’s when he’ll get out. Like a prison sentence. But he knows he can do it. He has to. Then, he’ll finally be free to do whatever he wants.

  * * *

  Al-Karim asked Ashif if he wanted to go to the Ismaili career fair with him. He didn’t. Al-Karim said, neither did he. But he reminded him of the real reason they should go: hot girls.

  Al-Karim was a visa student from Nairobi studying Hotel and Restaurant Management at a local college. He was a star athlete and voted MVP at the Ismaili Triangular Games the last three years running. The girls loved him and the guys admired him, too. Ashif was fifteen but had never kissed a girl, never even held a girl’s hand yet. He was too skinny, too shy. Not the kind of guy girls noticed.

  “Good, take him,” his mother said to Al-Karim. She approved of any Ismaili event he wanted to go to and anything with Al-Karim. He had a beat-up old Datsun and helped her with their errands—grocery shopping, fixing things around the house, rides to jamatkhana. Ashif was still a year away from getting his driver’s licence and even if he had it, it wouldn’t do any good. The family car was with his father in Rocky Mountain House. He’d moved there over three years ago to take care of the family business, a gas station and convenience store. He only came home on Sundays for dinner. But it was never enough time and Ashif missed him constantly.

  The career fair was packed, mostly with teenagers. Booths circled the gymnasium showcasing careers like medicine, engineering, law, business, and teacher education. At the registration desk, students could sign up for tutorial help or workshops like “The Art of Building Your Resumé.”

  Al-Karim pointed to the tutorial list, “Arzeen Dawood, chemistry, biology, calculus.” “You know her, right?”

  Ashif nodded. Of course he knew her. Everyone knew Arzeen. She had huge doe eyes and perfectly straight hair dyed caramel-blonde. She was beautiful. Not that Arzeen had any idea who he was. Why would she?

  That’s when Al-Karim revealed his plot. He needed Ashif to keep her little sister, Shafina, company while he took Arzeen for a drive. “Her old man will have my head if he finds out.”

  Ashif agreed even though he was nervous. He had a hard time speaking to people, let alone a beautiful girl. But he didn’t want to lose his chance to meet Arzeen’s sister. He reminded himself of his father’s advice about meeting new people. Make a joke, smile, people always like a friendly face.

  “Excellent, man. Thank you.” Al-Karim pointed to the bleachers. “There’s your girl.”

  Ashif turned to see a girl sitting at the top with a massive book splayed open on her lap. She had thick glasses and a navy-coloured beret over a mass of curly hair. She wore a tartan skirt, fishnet stockings, and army boots. “Her?” he asked incredulously.

  “Sorry, man. She’s a bit of a freak, I know.” Al-Karim laughed. “Hard to believe she’s related to Arzeen, right?”

  “I don’t know, Al-Karim…” he said, trying to back out of their deal. If he hangs out with a girl like her, everyone will think he’s a weirdo, too. He doesn’t want to stand out, be called names as he was when he was younger. He was often teased for being too small by other kids. And at school, for being brown, too. The first time it happened, he didn’t even know what it meant. He was six and a new friend told him he wasn’t allowed to play with them anymore because he was a Paki. Ashif thought it was in reference to his lunches, which his mother always over-packed. But when he told his mother, she explained the real meaning and told him it didn’t matter. That boy wouldn’t have been a good friend, anyway. Ashif asked her not to pack his lunches with Indian food anymore and she agreed.

  “Next time I’ll set you up with someone beautiful, okay? You just need a little more
muscle, man.” Al-Karim squeezed his biceps. “That’s what all the babes want.”

  “But what am I going to talk to her about?” Ashif asked.

  Al-Karim picked up a flier from the registration desk and handed it to him. “Start with this.” The title read, TOP 10 CAREER CHOICES OF 1986. SPONSORED BY THE ISMAILI ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT COMMITTEE. “About time the two of you started thinking about your future, don’t you think?” he said with a laugh.

  Ashif plodded up the bleachers to Shafina and handed her the flyer.

  She glanced up from her book. “For me?” Under her thick glasses, her eyes were large and bulbous.

  “Yup.” He plopped himself next to her.

  “Are you with the Ismaili Students’ Association or something?”

  “Nope. A friend asked me to hand them out.” He planted his elbows on his knees and cupped his face.

  She scanned the form and handed it back. “Thanks, but I’m not interested in propaganda.”

  “Propaganda?” he said, sitting up. “This isn’t propaganda.” He nervously scanned the gym. Everyone could see them up here.

  “It is when it only gives you one side of the story. Besides, I don’t need a workshop,” she said using air quotes for the word workshop, “to tell me what to do. Please, people. I already know what I want to do.”

  “Really?” he asked, surprised by her confidence.

  “Yup. Liberal Arts.” She licked a finger and turned to the next page in her book. “Well, for my first degree, anyway.”

  The word arts felt foreign to him, reserved for rich white kids, like skiing and cottage vacations. “But what can you do with an arts degree?”

  “I don’t know.” She pushed her glasses back up. “But I’ll figure it out. I want to explore the possibilities and then I’ll decide. I mean, that’s the key to a good education, right? To broaden our minds and learn about the world. It can’t just be about making lots of money. What about you? What are you going to do?”