From Somalia with Love Page 10

  “When I awoke, they had gone. It was nearly dark and you children were huddled around me, asleep. It was by the grace of Allah that a truck passed by, full of other people fleeing, on their way to Kenya. I bribed the driver with one of the rings your father had given me and they took us to Kenya, to the refugee camps there. After many months, we found Ayeyo and Awowo and, from there, we were able to come to Britain. That is when your memories start, alhamdulillah.”

  I drew a ragged breath. So much about my parents I hadn’t known. “But why, Hoyo,” I asked, “why did you never tell us?”

  “You know, Safia, that was our story; that was our pain. We wanted better for you. And, anyway, you children live a different life from us. Sometimes, we find it hard to talk to you, to understand this life you live. In Somalia, everything was simple: we all spoke the same language, believed the same things, had the same culture. Children did as their parents did: they did as they were told. Now, we live in Britain, Canada, America, Holland and we look at our children and we see strangers. We don’t understand the ways of these countries; they are not our ways…”

  “But we’re the ones who have to live here, Hoyo. We’re the ones who have to find who we are… if you don’t try, you’ll never understand what we are going through. It was easy for you in Somalia – everyone was doing what your parents expected you to do. Here it’s different: everyone is doing exactly what your parents don’t want you to do – and it’s hard to be different all the time, it’s hard to feel like you don’t belong anywhere.”

  “But you know where you belong, Safia: here, with your family…”

  “I used to know that…” I said, faltering, on the verge of tears again. “But since Abo’s been here, I’m not so sure… I don’t know anything for sure any more.” Then I turned to her. “Why doesn’t Abo talk to me, Hoyo? Why does he act like I don’t exist?”

  Hoyo took a deep breath. “It’s hard for him too, habibti. He doesn’t know how… you are so different from when you were a little baby. He doesn’t know what to talk to you about… He’s a Somali man, so he won’t admit it but I know… I know how hard it is for him to be weak, to be unsure. But I’ll speak to him, insha Allah, I’ll speak to him about all this that you have told me.”

  “But, Hoyo, won’t he be angry with me?”

  “No, Safia, I know your father well, very well. He hasn’t changed in all these years…” Her eyes went all misty then. “Do you know, through all those years, wherever he was, your father wrote me a line of poetry every night?”

  Poetry? Abo? I stared at Hoyo. “Abo writes poetry, Hoyo?” I just couldn’t believe it. That was the last thing I had expected to hear – that my father and I actually shared an interest, had something in common!

  She smiled proudly. “Haa, your father was considered one of the finest Somali poets before the war. People used to come from all over to listen to his verses. That’s where you get it from, masha Allah.”

  Then I remembered the rhythmic voices I had heard at Awowo’s place, the meetings with groups of other Somali men, Uncle Yusuf’s comments – and I realised what it had all been about.

  “But how come you never mentioned it? How come you didn’t tell me?”

  “I was going to tell you but so much happened before I got the chance: all the excitement, then Ahmed’s disappearance, Habaryero’s wedding, so much to think about… but I will speak to your father tonight, don’t worry.” She patted my hand and got up. “You’re a special girl, Safia, don’t ever forget that…”

  “Oh I won’t, Hoyo,” I said, with feeling, “I won’t.”

  I got up then to go and pray. When I prayed, I asked for forgiveness, for myself, Ahmed, Firdous and all of us. We all knew better. Now it was time for us to act like it.

  ***

  Afterwards, I got my phone and sent Firdous a long text message.

  Slmz, Firdous, hope u got home ok. Been doing a lot of thnkng about evrythng: who I am, wot I want, where Im going. Been a bit cnfsed lately but now thngs r clearer. I wont b c-ing fuad again or any othr guy. Its not rite – I thnk we both no dat. I want bettr. I want more. And I thnk u do 2. I thnk u deserve bettr. U r a gr8 grl. U don’t need Amr or any1 else to make u feel special: u r special. Just rememba dat. Anyway, mayb c u at da aroos? Until then, take care plz. I will miss u. Luv Safia. XXX

  I read over it again before pressing the button to send. A part of me felt glad to have ‘ended’ it with Firdous. But I couldn’t help thinking of her, alone in that awful house with only Auntie Iman for company. I knew now why she looked for love wherever she could find it: she hadn’t had it at home for so long. I hoped that things would come right for her. I would speak to Habaryero tomorrow – there had to be a way to help her.

  Then my phone rang and Hamida’s number flashed on the screen. I smiled and pressed the button to answer.

  “Asalaamu alaikum, you,” she said, between chews of gum.

  “Wa alaikum salaam, you, what’s up?”

  “Nothing much. What happened at the movies?”

  I heaved a huge sigh. “Long story, girl, I’ll have to tell you tomorrow, insha Allah.”

  “But are you OK?”

  “Yeah, a lot better, alhamdulillah. What are you up to?”

  “Just sitting here wondering what I’m going to wear to your Habaryero’s wedding…”

  “Oh, Hamida!” I cried. “Are you coming? For real?”

  “Yeah,” Hamida chuckled. “Mum couldn’t believe that I actually wanted to attend a wedding so she agreed straight away. ‘It’s not an Asian wedding but at least it’s a wedding!’ she said. A step in the right direction, as far as she’s concerned.”

  We both laughed and I felt a surge of relief. It was all so normal, just like the old days.

  “So have you decided what you are going to wear?” I asked, remembering that I hadn’t even thought about it myself.

  “Well, I saw some wicked Asian trouser suits in Farzana’s copy of Asian Bride – I think I might wear one of those. They really are quite funky…”

  We chatted for a bit longer then said our salaams, agreeing that I would go to Green Street with her to choose her outfit.

  ***

  After the Isha prayer, I heard Abo come home from the mosque. I heard Hoyo greet him at the door and start to prepare his food. There was silence after that and I wondered whether she was talking to him about me, about what had happened today.

  An hour later, I heard footsteps coming along the corridor towards my room. Then there was a knock at the door.

  “Safia?” For the first time, I heard my father’s voice outside my room.

  “Abo?” I replied. “Kaale…”

  And Abo opened the door and stepped in, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling.

  “Asalaamu alaikum, Safia,” he smiled at me, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.

  “Are you OK now?”

  I nodded, swallowing hard.

  “Alhamdulillah.”

  Then he looked around the room and a puzzled look came to his face. “What is all this?” he asked.

  “Poetry,” I said, simply.

  “Your poems – or other people’s?”

  “Hmm, a bit of both…”

  He laughed then. “SubhanAllah! Some girls have movie stars on their walls, you have poets! Masha Allah, that is good, very good.” He nodded, sitting down on the other end of my bed, still looking around.

  Then he spoke again:

  “Hear me, poem.

  Fertile mind,

  Sing your lines,

  Verse rise up,

  Fluent words,

  Don’t run dry…”

  “What’s that?” I asked, curious, captivated by the delicate rhythm of the lines.

  “You don’t know who that is?” Abo’s eyes were wide. “That is Gaarriye, one of our greatest Somali poets!” He shook his head. “It’s true when they say that our youth don’t know their own culture, their own history!”

  “Well, Abo,�
� I said slowly. “Maybe that’s because we are waiting for you to teach us.”

  He looked at me then and I saw a glimmer of recognition in his eye, a spark of pride.

  “Haa,” he said, nodding. “Spoken like a true poet’s daughter.”

  I blushed then. A true poet’s daughter – I had never been called that before! It made me feel special, part of something great and meaningful.

  “Haa, I see that, in this country, Somalia means war, nothing else. But we have so much more to offer the world: we have our deen, our customs, our poetry, our art and, of course,” he paused and looked at me, “your mother’s famous baaris iyo hilib!”

  He let out a great roar of laughter then and I laughed too, giddy with happiness. This was what I had wanted all along: a father, an Abo of my own.

  “Ha, Safia,” he continued, “I will teach you about our history, about our poets. If you want, I will even instruct you like my father instructed me. But our poetry is not like some of this mumbo jumbo: our poetry has rules, it takes discipline and precision – but I will only teach you if you want to learn.”

  “But of course, Abo,” I cried. “Of course I want to learn!” I couldn’t think of anything I would rather do.

  Abo patted my arm and got up to go.

  When he got to the door, he turned around. “But I don’t teach for free, you know. You also have to do something for me.”

  “Huh?” I was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “I am going to the local college tomorrow. I have decided to start taking some English classes and I need a clever girl to translate for me.” Then he winked at me and smiled again. “Now, Ahmed and Abdullahi are back with some cakes. Hoyo has made some tea. Come down and eat with us.”

  “Yes, Abo,” I replied, smiling, “I’m coming now.”

  ***

  That night, we all sat together, enjoying the cakes and Hoyo’s sweet cardamom tea. Abdullahi had saved me my favourite pastry and he gave me a smile as he passed it to me. The conversation flowed in a mixture of Somali and English, everyone adding their own flavour to it.

  That night, Ahmed told us some crazy stories that had us all in stitches and we all laughed together, for the first time since Abo had come home from Somalia. And I was happy, so happy, I could have cried. But I didn’t. I had had enough of crying for one day.

  That night, I fell asleep to the sound of poetry filling my ears. Shakespeare, Zephaniah, Plath, Wordsworth, Gaarriye, Angelou…

  And then, just before I slipped into the darkness of sleep, came those eternal words of comfort: bismillahir-rahmanir-raheem.

  In the name of Allah, the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful.

  ***

  As long as there is a dawn

  There is another day.

  As long as there is breath

  There is hope.

  Epilogue

  Habaryero’s wedding was great.

  Hoyo worked like crazy to get the food ready and Abo, Ahmed and Abdullahi spent the day playing ‘taxi’ for relatives and friends from all over London.

  I went with Hamida and Lisa. They got on really well and Hamida looked wicked in her trouser suit with the matching(!) shoes.

  The whole family was there, the men in one room, the women in the other: Habaryero had insisted. Firdous was there too. She was really happy because she had moved back with Uncle Ismaeel and his family.

  “Thanks for everything, girl,” she had whispered as we embraced. “I owe you one, big time…”

  I told her to forget about it. I hadn’t told her about my conversation with Habaryero – I figured she didn’t need to know that part. Alhamdulillah for everything, right?

  Habaryero was late, as is the custom, but she was well worth waiting for. She looked absolutely stunning in her braided hair and flame-red dira’. The gold at her throat and around her wrists and finger gleamed and her smile dazzled as she greeted friends, family and well-wishers.

  Hoyo and Ayeyo looked beautiful too, both of them wearing their wedding gold, their dira’s hitched up to show the gogorat underneath. Ayeyo led the way when it came time for the singing and dancing. And, when we all sang, “Bismillah, sallallahu alaya hooyalay” – in the name of Allah, may the blessings of Allah be on your mother – even Habaryero got up (which was not the custom) and had a go at dancing.

  It was during a pause in the dancing that I got a chance to recite my poem. I had been preparing it for weeks and, now, it was finally time to share it with Habaryero and the rest of the family.

  I had written it as a simple poem, from the heart.

  “Sister of my mother

  Know this:

  In you, I have seen:

  Inspiration

  Sincerity

  Honesty

  Compassion

  Faith

  Love

  Mercy

  Combined

  Enough to beautify all of womankind

  May you have:

  The skill of the nomads who carried the home

  The strength of the mothers who fled the fire

  The patience of the settlers on distant shores

  The dignity of the survivors, looking to a new day.

  Know this:

  You are an inspiration

  To this wanderer

  Still finding her path

  Still learning her lines

  Still making her way

  You were the one

  Never turning away

  Who spoke in the silence

  Reaching out in the dark

  Know this: I heard you

  Know this: I felt you

  Know this, sister of my mother

  You are my beloved Habaryero

  For now and always.

  May Allah bless you.

  Amen.”

  I recited with confidence, with gladness, a strange peace inside me. All the women were still, listening to the words and phrases of home, both old and new. Some were crying, others smiling. When I finished, they ululated loudly and started calling out prayers and greetings to the bride and her family.

  Then it was time for the buraambur, the special dance that is always performed at weddings and, with a flurry of jewel-coloured dira’, the drumming and dancing began again. Hoyo and Habaryero came and hugged me, smiling, tears shining in their eyes while Hamida and Lisa pronounced the poem ‘wicked’.

  And as I watched Habaryero throw the veil over her head and dance into the centre of the circle, I felt my heart soar with happiness.

  Alhamdulillah, there I was: a Muslim Somali-British girl, come home at last.

  Glossary of words and phrases

  Some of the words in this glossary have Arabic roots, and others are from Safia’s Somali culture.

  Abaaya/Abaayas a garment worn by Muslim women over their clothes

  Abo father

  Adhan the call to prayer, made before the five daily prayers

  Ai hey

  Ajanab/Ajanabi a non-Somali person

  Alhamdulillah “all praise is for Allah.”

  Allahu akbar “Allah is the greatest.”

  Ameen amen

  Anjero type of pancake eaten in East Africa

  Aroos a wedding

  Aroosa the bride

  Ar-Rahman, Ar-Raheem “the Beneficent, the Merciful.”

  Asalaamu alaikum “peace be upon you.”

  ’Asr the mid-afternoon prayer

  Astaghfirullah “I seek Allah’s forgiveness.”

  Awowo grandfather

  Ayeyo grandmother

  Baaris iyo hilib rice and meat

  Baasto iyo hilib pasta and meat

  Bismillah “In the name of Allah.”

  Bismillahir-rahmanir-raheem “In the name of Allah, the Benificent, the Merciful.”

  Bukhoor an aromatic wood, burned as incense

  Buraambur a dance performed at weddings

  Cadaan a white person

  Daqaan culture

  Deen religion or way of life

&n
bsp; Dhikr remembrance of God

  Dhilo a loose woman

  dira’ a traditional outfit worn by Somali women made from light caftan and worn with an underskirt

  Duksi Qur’an school

  ’Eeb shame

  Fajr the morning prayer, prayed before dawn

  Gogorat an underskirt, worn with dira’

  Haa yes

  Habaryero a maternal aunt

  Habibti “my beloved.”

  Haraam forbidden

  Hijab Islamic headcovering

  Hoyo mother

  Insha Allah “as Allah wills.”

  Isdaya to leave each other alone

  Isha the night prayer

  Iskawaran “how’s it going?” Used as a Somali greeting

  Istinja cleansing after using the toilet

  JazakAllahu khairah “may Allah reward you with good.” Said in place of ‘thank you’

  Jilbabs an outergarment worn by Muslim women over their clothes

  Kaale come

  Kalab dog

  Kohl antimony, used to line the eyes

  Koofiyet a Muslim man’s hat

  Laakinse but

  Maghrib sunset prayer

  mahlabiyyah a fragrant oil used in henna preparation

  Masha Allah “it is as God intended.”

  Midgaan the name of Somali outcasts

  Nabat peace

  Na’am yes

  Nayaa hey

  Niqaab Islamic face covering

  Qaabil a tribe

  Qaat a narcotic

  Qahwa coffee

  Raka’a a single unit of Muslim prayer

  Sabr, sabr lahow be patient

  Salaam peace

  Salah prayer

  Sheedh a traditional Somali woman’s outfit, typically worn at home

  Soogal come in

  SubhanAllah “glorified be Allah.”

  suqaar a chopped meat dish

  ukhti “my sister.”

  Wa alaikum salaam “and upon you be peace.” Said in response to Asalaamu alaikum

  Walaalo sister

  Wallahi “I swear by Allah.”

  WarHassano a greeting after a long separation

  Wudhu ritual cleansing before prayer