“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?”