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.