It made you laugh. More often, though, it made you weep; farce, fact and fantasy fused to create a stinging vapour. They had to pass round bin liners so that people could throw in their sodden tissues. The tears came out of a sense of triumph as much as relief. Twenty-five years ago, we, the Ugandan Asians, were humiliatingly thrown out of that country by Idi Amin, only to face more hatred and degradation in Britain. Today we were revelling in the fact that we are now the most successful immigrant group in Britain. (As Mr Patel said: "We can buy any part of this island and put it in our pockets. But we should still be humble.") To make matters even better, we were about to be serenaded by the current President of Uganda, Yoweri Museveni.
At least that was the expectation as 8,000 people gathered in a vast, beautiful hall in London last month. History was being made (and sometimes invented) and hardly a bird from the homomorphic flock of British journalists was there to bear witness. Perhaps they were put off by the fact that this event took place in the ghastly landscape between the North Circular Road and Neasden, although, to compensate, it was held at the exquisite marble Swaminarayan temple. They missed this wonder and some excellent vegetarian food, too.
Hundreds of temple volunteers ensured that you were seated in the exact spot marked out for you. A finely graded caste system defined you as very very important (chair and white card which allowed you to eat with the most distinguished afterwards), very important (chair and red card which meant you ate with those slightly less elevated) and the merely important who sat on chairs but were not catered for afterwards. The rest sat on the carpet. On a platform sat the awesomely important people-all men. All rich, save the sadhus in orange robes with shaved heads and vermilion marks on their pious, shiny foreheads. Billions of pounds silently pulsated in the temple; mobile phones went off intermittently showing how intrepid people could add to their riches even in a temple. Keith Vaz MP sat tickling his handsome son, adding a touch of normality to the surreal scene.
A band of young boys marched in with drums and trumpets, dressed in costumes which made them look like a Maharaja's majorettes. We all applauded, as we had been instructed to by the earnest comp?re, a priest who sounded like Roger Moore. "Clap to show appreciation," he said, "but don't stand up."
Asian women laden with jewellery shone out from the crowd. Several hundred people, brown, black and white, had their commitment to multiculturalism sorely tested as they squatted on the carpet for two hours. At last the president was announced. Sweet expectancy appeared on the young faces in the children's band and the music went awry. The entourage included Sugra Visram, special ambassador, an Asian woman who was an elected MP in Uganda (which is more than has happened here) and others who tried and failed to maintain diplomatic decorum as they faced the sea of faces before them. Museveni waved and clapped, to echo the claps that greeted him. On the platform, 17 garlands adorned necks. The speeches began: one after another, moneyed Asian businessmen poured honeyed words over the balding head of the president. They thanked him for his generosity in giving back their properties. They said he was a brave soul, and an inspirational international leader. The sadhu comp?re burst into a patriotic Swahili song. The president received, with elation, blessings and a gold pot from the swami whose spirituality radiated from the giant television screen above his head. Madhubhai Madhvani, the wealthiest (and most unassuming) of the speakers-a man universally admired by blacks and Asians-was the only one who spoke of the suffering of black Ugandans. The rest showed an embarrassing obsession with their lost wealth-most of which has now been handed back.
Then, with cultivated majesty, Museveni rose. This highly educated guerrilla fighter, now the most assertive and astute leader of central and east Africa, did not get where he is by wallowing in flattery. He warmly praised the Asians but warned, quite rightly, that we should stop indulging in self pity: "While I was in the bush, you were in Shepherd's Bush; I got rid of Amin. I don't have to apologise for what he did. Half a million of my people died." He then invited us back, listing the areas in need of economic regeneration: "You can keep your money. But you can help us rebuild our country. Your country." This is when the sobbing reached a peak. For so many of us Uganda is still home in our hearts. But can we really return and make it ours again? Not unless we can see ourselves as equal to the blacks and not superior to them; not if we go back with triumphalism. Not unless we accept that what happened in 1972 was our fault too. Not if blacks still see us as scapegoats. Jean Cocteau said that history is facts which become lies and that legends are lies which become history. That uplifting night in Neasden was a profoundly important act of reconciliation but it also bore witness to the truth of Cocteau's observation.
