Layla glances, yet again, at the clock. The fear she feels at the sight of the doctor quells with the thought of Ashif. He will be by her side soon.

Chapter 18

MANSOOR‘S CAR IS PLUGGED into a low post, a tangle of extension cords, like the reins of a horse, heaped under the front bumper. When weighing all the options, the Chevy Impala always comes out on top.

He unplugs his car from the post and retrieves a snow brush from the back seat. He circles the car, occasionally patting it with a gloved hand as he brushes off the snow. Inside the car, he pulls out an organizer from the glove compartment. It folds open like a wallet. From one of the pockets, he removes a small black notebook with grid-lined paper. He flips on the light, checks the odometer reading, and scribbles the number under today’s date. Not only was this a good way to monitor gas consumption and costs, he also used it as a formal record for tax writeoffs.

He reaches for the CD organizer on the passenger side floor and pulls a disc out. He holds it to the soft glow of the dashboard. Kenny Rogers & Dolly Parton, Greatest Hits. Mansoor enjoys all country music but this is one of his favourites. He loves Kenny’s deep voice, his rhythm, his lyrics, many of which provide apt advice, not only on love, but on business, too. Kenny is a man’s man. The best part of Kenny, of course, is that he often pairs himself with Dolly Parton. What a beauty! Mansoor knows all of her lyrics, too, from her earlier songs like “I Will Always Love You” to more recent hits like “Yellow Roses.” Dolly moves like a doll on stage, a ballerina in a box, perfectly balancing her gorgeously imbalanced body. Her mass of golden hair, her rhinestone-tasseled blouses, her studded jackets. Mansoor can watch her for hours, in country music specials like From Nashville with Love and The Queens of Country. Dolly is, as far as he’s concerned, the perfect woman. She gives you the feeling that you can hold her in your palm, like a bird, but she won’t fly away over the smallest of difficulties. So much like Layla when he first met her. Whatever happened to that woman?

Mansoor had his choice of any woman he wanted. Not only did he come from one of Kampala’s top families, but his father, unlike most fathers, gave him free rein to choose his bride rather than submit to a match. His only criteria was that the girl had to be from Africa—not India.

Applications started pouring in as soon as people heard. Parents sent their daughters’ photographs along with a portfolio of personal qualities and skills. He made a short list of ten. Layla was one of them.

Mansoor crossed Lake Victoria by ferry, from Kampala to Kisumu, to meet her. Her family lived in a small two-room bungalow in the bustling city centre. It was clear they did not have much money, but he admired how well-kept the house was. Layla was even prettier than her pictures with her stunning ivory skin and high cheekbones. She was also, as promised, a superb cook. She had made a lunch of chicken kalyo, a creamy curry flavoured with saffron, that she served with hot chapattis and rice. He had three helpings. After lunch, he was allowed to accompany her on a walk along the beach, but only with an escort, her young cousin, Hanif.