If this were Uganda, he could have shown up at any number of establishments to find a friend and, more likely, a group of friends. No need to call ahead to make an appointment. He could have gone to City Bar, a smoke-filled café in the downtown core of Kampala, for a game of cards and a whisky, and if not there, then he would have gone to the local gymkhana to play badminton or to swim, followed by dinner and drinks at the Hilton, sometimes not getting home until the family was either fast asleep or just waking up in the morning. Back then, a man could find reprieve from the pressures of everyday life, from family and obligation. Men could be men, they could relax, drink, smoke, play cards without the nagging interference of a woman. Mansoor could have told any one of these men his news and they would have helped him celebrate.

His closest friends are now scattered around the world like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Tariq was in England; Fateh in Sweden; Kamru in Mozambique; Mohammed in Texas. Men he’d spent his life with, gone. Holes in his history like a book riddled with paper punches. He spoke to Mohammed now and then. But it was too costly to call often. Sometimes they wrote to each other. But it was never satisfying. You only got the broad strokes. There was no way to have a real conversation, to share the news of the day. Instead, you trailed behind each other’s lives, learning what happened months earlier. Might as well be reading a history book. But maybe with the Internet, things will be different. Only recently, Mansoor read about something called search engines. Like having a worldwide encyclopedia at your fingertips. Imagine the possibilities! Maybe now he will be able to find his friends and connect with them on a regular basis. He hopes so.

He had hardly spoken to his sisters, either. But for different reasons. He had never been close to them. Not just because they were girls and so much younger than him, but also because he never considered them his real sisters. He had no interest in their company. Maybe if they lived here instead, he would have felt differently. Maybe then he would have joined forces with his brothers-in-law. But they had settled in Birmingham. Their fortunes from Uganda hadn’t amounted to much, but enough to start a business. A movie rental store, which was now one of the biggest in the city.

A few blocks from home, Mansoor catches a green sign with a flashing beer mug. HARRY’S SPORTS BAR. It’s not the kind of place he would normally go to, not that he really goes out. He would rather be in Canyon Creek, near his store, or any other professional neighbourhood than this one. You can’t walk a bloody block here without seeing a sari or a turban. But he’s too tired to drive all the way back to Canyon Creek. Not at this hour. Not when he’s this close to home. He pulls his car in front of the sports bar, gathers his winter coat and briefcase, and steps out into the cold.