Hello Africa

’Hello Africa’ is an excerpt from ‘No Place For Me, A Memoir of an Indian Doctor in East Africa'

The year is 1952. The month is May, season of the elite mango and earthborn watermelon. To bite into the flesh of the mango is bliss; to crunch into the watermelon, ecstasy. The sun is brilliant, shade nowhere to be found, air heavy with humidity no fan can move. Nights are uncomfortable, sleep impossible. Only the monsoons coming down in torrents, day after day after day, will cool the city.

I am now a doctor and it is time to head home. I have lived in euphoric, post-independent India and not given much thought to Britain and its colonies. There was no occasion for it. On the verge of change that will bring me face-to-face with a land of black locals and white rulers, apprehension seizes me. I do not know what the future holds.

I board the SS Karanja, pride of the British India fleet. The steamship that sails seasonally between Bombay and the East African coast will cross the Indian Ocean once more before the heavy monsoon rains of June roil the sea, making it impassable.

As the vessel slowly pulls away, I find a vantage spot on the upper deck and wave to friends who are here to see me off. Most are companions from medical school, all dear to me. Among them is the love of my life, Doulat “Dolly” Burjorji Irani, whom I plan to marry the following year. I leave behind her closeness and the promise of a life together. All I carry is blind faith that Africa will recognise and accept me and that this young woman will join me when she is done with her residency.

Dolly, bravely attempting to be cheerful, wishes she were accompanying me. But her home is Bombay, mine Tanga. She belongs to the Parsi community, I to another. She is Zoroastrian; I, Catholic. Yet we have dared to fall in love. This is not accepted in the land of arranged marriages. We are aware problems abound for both of us. But how could I not love this vivacious, empathetic lady? Will my father and mother approve? I am not sure.

The whistle gives two long blasts and the steamer picks up speed. I stand frozen to the railing. Though there are myriads of people on that bustling wharf, I keep my friends in sight. As they became smaller and smaller until mere specks, I get a lump in my throat and my eyes grow misty.

The ship swings south to round the pulsating island of Bombay. For the first time, I observe its large busy port, piers reaching out to liners of every size from every nation. A magnificent arch of yellow basalt looms through the bright haze, the Gateway of India, commemorating the 1911 visit of King George V and Queen Mary. The iconic Taj Mahal Palace Hotel follows. A sense of awe slowly gives way to regret that I may not pass this way again.

The yaw of the ship is unsettling, the cabin oppressive and berth hardly bigger than me. I am alone, my thoughts my sole companion. Five years at Grant Medical College being groomed for a profession where much was expected; those glorious years held a rich store of memories.

The graduating class of 1951 was an extraordinary collection of 150 students, a third of whom were women. We came from different communities— Gujaratis, Marathas, Parsis, Anglo-Indians, Goans—and religions—Hinduism, Islam, Sikhism, Zoroastrianism, Catholicism, Judaism. Most of us were middle class, some well-to-do and a few wealthy. Our backgrounds did not matter as we were socially and intellectually compatible. Everyone was proud to be part of the medical school, privileged to be an alumnae in the making.

There was a happy mix of enthusiasm, rapport and competition, combined with innocent flirting and high fashion. Our motto was to grasp life in its fullness. We’d finish round-the-clock Praful Shah, a quiet, shy, well-to-do gentleman in his forties, is in the cotton ginning business. clinical terms and burn the midnight oil. Spurts of intense application alternated with periods of relaxation. Sports thrived—cricket, football, field hockey and tennis. Serious discussions on Bertrand Russell, Mahatma Gandhi, independence, and the folly of the British in partitioning Pakistan and India were plentiful.

Friendships flourished and weekends were spent on daylong picnics, watching cricket, or at the cinema. My roommate Aziz Kazi, a tall, handsome, popular Indian from South Africa, and I did yoga headstands in our dormitory at the old hostel. A daily morning ritual, we stood inverted facing each other, running through a quick revision of the anatomy dissection from the previous day.

In 1946, a year before the British left, the air was charged with fiery nationalism and demonstrations. I marched with a band of student protesters outside the college gate, chanting, shouting slogans and waving Quit India placards. Our fervour could not be subdued. There was nothing beyond the scope of our resolve and nothing we could not achieve. We were invincible. Suddenly, the sound of firecrackers. Pop-pop-pop. It was the police opening fire. We ran in all directions, seeking safety. Later that day, I tossed my expensive tie into a bonfire to rid myself of all things British. An eloquent protest.

With simmering tensions, communal rioting was common. One evening, six of us, all second-year medical students, were in a streetcar heading back to campus. Someone shouted riots had broken out. My insides twisted. I knew this meant stabbing, killings, revenge. Hindus and Muslims settling old scores. We fled the tram, jumping into a gharry, only to be intercepted a couple of blocks later by Muslim rioters.

Tum kon hai? Kaham jatai?—Who are you? Where are you going?

Our Hindu companions shrank visibly. Our Muslim friends, helpless, yet wanting to protect us, mustered enough courage to say we were doctors on our way to the hospital.

Ham, jau, JAU—Okay, go, GO.

I step outside and look intently at the ocean. Judging from its long V-shaped wake, the ship is making a straight run. My mind churns with thoughts of the years spent in Goa and Bombay as an adolescent and young man and I realise the enormity of my father’s investment in me. Dutifully sending money to cover my expenses every month, I never had to worry on that score except for a situation of my own making.

Euclid de Souza, my avid race-going friend, convinced me there was a fortune to be made if we played the horses intelligently, so we go to Mahalaxmi Racecourse. Programmes in hand, we made meticulously calculated choices as we watched the beautiful horses at the paddock. It was an intoxicating afternoon, emotions peaking and ebbing with each race. I wagered all my money on Her Majesty! Dashing up the stands, eyes glued to her streaking form, wildly waving, cheering, yelling, and screaming, Her Majesty, Her Majesty, I was one of hundreds hoping our horse would win. In the lead from the start, I was ready to burst at the thought of my payoff. Down the home stretch, she began to falter and it was over before I knew it. I was ready to collapse. I could not see beyond the evening. We had no way to pay for a cab or bus to take us to the campus.

Cheer up, Leo, there’s always another day, my friend!

Following medical school, I spent a year doing my internship at Gokuldas Tejpal (GT) Hospital and felt important as patients called me Dr. Sahib. That designation placed me on a pedestal, though our professors constantly reminded us as young doctors we had a long way to go in acquiring competency in our chosen fields.

Over the next few days, I find my sea legs and begin mingling with other passengers. My social circle, determined by our customs, consists of men. We gather prior to dinner, pleasantly whiling away time as we drink scotch and become friends. They tell me about their families and new lives made for themselves in East Africa. I am amazed at how they survive and prosper while keeping their connection with the motherland strong and unbroken.

Praful Shah, a quiet, shy, well-to-do gentleman in his forties, is in the cotton ginning business.

How long have you lived in Uganda?

Oh, I born in Jinja, Dr. Sahib. Went for holiday to Gujarat. I look for husbands for my daughters. Two girls, one eighteen, one seventeen. No good men in Africa.

Did you find any?

Yes, yes. He blushes.

Anthony de Mello, short, balding, and friendly, never lacks for an opinion. He is one of several hundred hard-working Goans recruited to man the civil service. Starting at an entry-level position, he worked his way up through years of transfers in the undeveloped countryside of the British Protectorate of Uganda. After earning the trust of his superiors, he is promoted to accounting officer in the treasury department at Entebbe, Uganda’s colonial administrative and commercial centre.

How was your holiday in Goa?

Enjoyable. I retire when this tour of service ends. Then I will go to Goa for good.

Won’t you miss Uganda? You’ve been there most of your life.

Yaar, Goa is susegad. I won’t know what to do without work.

Ismail Badruddin, a jovial Dawoodi Bohra Muslim, whose grandfather emigrated from Kutch in western India to the island of Zanzibar, sells secondhand car parts in Nairobi, Kenya. He recently expanded his business to include a taxi service and had gone to recruit his younger brothers for his latest venture.

The fourth man, Mohandas Virgee, a shopkeeper, has a duka in Tabora, the interior of Tanganyika along the railway line. Tall and stout, with a moon face and engaging smile, he is a likeable person who tags along quietly, his presence benign. I enjoy his company, even though he says little.

I cannot wait to hear about East Africa. I want to understand what it is like to live there. To work. To play. In India, it was the British and Indians. Now it will be the British and Africans with us thrown in.

How is life with the British?

After a palpable silence, each one has an opinion.

You work, you be good with African, you all right. No need mzungu.

I not go to mzungu clubs. I stay with my friends. I okay.

They not shop at my duka, so I no worry. Mzungu let us stay in Africa. We work, earn money, have children, send money home.

And the Africans?

They live separate from us like we live separate from the mzungus. We don’t socialise outside work.

They have not much training and do simple work.

I go all way to Gujarat to marry my daughters. I not go to Nairobi to ask Ismail’s sons. Why? Ismail Muslim, I Hindu. Same with locals. Many things different. Our people, our religion, our customs. Harder than you think.

It is the eighth day, our last, yet none of us mentions it. We stay up later than usual, vowing to meet again, though we know this is unlikely.

I wake up unusually early, dress slowly and deliberately in my favourite attire—white, long-sleeved Arrow shirt, light rust polyester trousers and matching Tootal tie. I have no time for breakfast, just a cup of coffee. I rush to the deck. After seventeen years, I will land on African soil again. Inhaling the salty tang, I cannot suppress my excitement. It will be nice to see where the sky and sea touch Africa. This is the land of my birth.

As the island port of Mombasa materialises into view, I catch sight of delicate greens and dots of red; a mantle of grass, shrubs and lush creepers, through which peep tiled roofs of hidden bungalows. A long sandy beach, backed by coconut palms, rolls out in either direction. The sky glows brilliant orange and red. The grey ocean becomes a blue sea. The ship drones softly as seagulls fly alongside, guiding it to port. The day is unfolding, the town awakening.

At nine, the SS Karanja touches Kilindini Harbour on the south side. I will soon be with my father, brother and uncle, who are driving from Tanga. Time drags and impatience devours me.

It occurs to me I have to meet the immigration officer to rectify the date of birth in my passport, erroneously recorded as my baptism date. Issued by the British Embassy in Bombay, it identifies me as a British Protected Person of Tanganyika Territory. One of those unique creations of British ingenuity, I am neither British nor Tanganyikan. It is not even a true passport, mainly serving as a travel document. Any deficiency or irregularity raises concerns about the holder’s bona fides. If there is an error, as in my case, it would create suspicion, which I wish to avoid. I want to start on the right foot the first day of my return.

The officer will be British and that makes me apprehensive. If I confer with him early enough, I might avoid stalling the queue of passengers needing to fulfill immigration requirements.

I bound up the narrow, steep stairway to the captain’s office at the ship’s prow. A door, with a board marked IMMIGRATION, is open, and a tall Kenyan askari stands sentinel. On his head sits a fez at an angle. It is red with a black tassel hanging from the right side and metal insignia on the front. Tribal scarring marks his unsmiling face. Pressed khaki shorts, collarless khaki shirt and matching puttees cover his hefty, motionless frame. An old rifle in an atease position hangs from his left shoulder, and his feet are bare.

I hesitate at the door, then peer in. Seated at a cluttered desk, smoking a pipe and leafing through the East African Standard, is the immigration officer. He wears the customary white shirt with short sleeves and immigration badges where epaulets should be. I knock softly and prepare to step in.

The askari comes alive. He shoots his right arm across the door, barring entry.

Hakuna ruhusa—No permission, he says sharply.

All I am aware of is a giant blocking arm; everything else is blurred. Startled and shocked, I grab his arm with both hands and pull it away from the door. He loses his balance and falls. Rising, eyes wide and wild, he lunges and grabs me by my collar and tie. Unintelligible words sputter from his mouth.

That’s all right, let him go! Come in.

No, thank you, I don’t care to, I answer stiffly.

Struggling to control myself, I stumble away barely finding the way to my cabin. What just happened? Was I such a threat that physical interception was necessary? I have never been subjected to this kind of affront. The immigration officer could have easily prevented the ugly development by simply asking me to enter the moment I knocked at the door. He made himself inaccessible by sitting inside and placing an askari outside. I had expected an imperious attitude from the British but had not factored in the element of insulation exhibited by the African. It is not the pain of physical injury but the dreadful anguish of indignity. I am thoroughly shaken.

Among the many faces on the pier, I see my father trying to spot me. Santos is by his side, Uncle Robert behind him. I rush down the gangplank straight into Papa’s arms. We embrace. His face beams as tears of joy roll down.

You’re here, he whispers.

Santos, not demonstrative by nature, gives me a quick hug and enquires about the voyage. Uncle Robert, my father’s first cousin, pats me on the cheek. He is fifty-two, unmarried and from our ancestral home.

By noon, we are on the dusty road to Tanga. Uncle Robert is at the wheel of his regal 1938 black Ford. Santos sits next to him. Papa and I relax in the soft, plush back seat. Depending on weather, it will take us three to five hours.

We exit Kenya at Lunga Lunga, crossing the unmarked border into Tanganyika. The landscape is rugged, vegetation thick. The road begins to slope gently and Uncle Robert brings the car to a slow stop. He turns around, one finger on his lips, the other pointing to the road in front.

Resting in the middle is a pride of four lionesses and five cubs in one massive tawny heap. Three lionesses lie peacefully on their sides, asleep; the fourth keeps watch. Even in repose, they are astonishingly majestic and powerful. We watch quietly, waiting . . .

They must have just had a big feed, my uncle murmurs.

Half an hour later, the lions rouse, stretch lazily, look around and walk slowly into the dense bush.

Uncle Robert is relieved. The Swahili say if you wait long enough, even the lions will let you through the bush.

The lions, I am certain, will be no problem. They are, after all, my namesake.

But the mzungus?