From Somalia with Love Read online

  It was my turn to look around my tiny room: the single bed hopelessly jammed up against the wall, my window draped in some see-through sari fabric that Hamida’s mum had given me ages ago, and my poetry collection plastered over every piece of lilac wall available.

  As the only girl, I had my own room and I relished the privilege, even though the room was, literally, hardly big enough to swing a cat. I used my room as my retreat when the rest of the house became too hectic. Fights between Abdullahi and Ahmed (common) would send me scurrying up here, as would getting into trouble with Hoyo (much less common). And, once here, with the door closed, I would write poetry, pouring my feelings out on paper.

  Most of my poetry I kept hidden in my bottom drawer, behind all my old clothes. But some of it would find its way up on to my wall, along with all the other poetry I had collected, from Shakespeare to Wordsworth, from Zephaniah to Milligan: all my favourite poems were up on the wall for me to read whenever I liked. My version of boy band posters.

  “Actually,” I said to Hamida, “there’s this one…” I handed her a piece of paper from my drawer. She read it silently, according to my rules: if you want to read my poetry, fine, but don’t even think about reading out loud – way too embarassing!

  ‘I didn’t see you standing there

  Somali-British girl

  East African-East Londoner

  Council estate wanderer

  Fish ‘n’ chips and banana

  Tracksuit and bandana

  I didn’t see you standing there

  Somali-British girl

  I didn’t see you standing there

  Somali-British girl

  Somali

  British

  Girl.’

  She nodded her head, smiling. “I like it… especially the bit about the fish ‘n’ chips and banana – Somalis have banana with everything!”

  “Remember the time you tried to eat banana with your curry at home and your dad nearly choked on his food?” I laughed.

  “Yeah,” she giggled, “he thought I’d gone mental!”

  Hamida often teased me about Somali culture and I’d poke fun at her Bengali roots. We both knew all the punchlines but we still found it hilarious. Then I glanced at my watch.

  “Hey,” I said, jumping up, “it’s time to pray. Are you in wudhu?” Hamida nodded.

  “Just a sec then,” I said, “I’ll be right back…”

  I turned on the tap in the bathroom and looked at my reflection in the mirror above the sink.

  Brown girl

  Dark hair

  Mother’s smile

  Father’s eyes

  I wondered what Abo would think of me when he saw me. Would he recognise himself in me, his only daughter? Would he think I was pretty? Would he be proud of me?

  As I let the cold water splash on to my hands and began to wash – hands, mouth, nose, face, arms, head, feet – I tried to wash away that sense of dread I could feel creeping through me again.

  By the time I had finished making wudhu, I felt better. And after the prayer, while Hamida and I were still sitting on the floor, I felt stronger, ready to face this new challenge, ready to take it in my stride. There were not many days to go. Not many days at all.

  ***

  The rest of the week was a whirl of activity. We had received the news that Abo would be arriving on Saturday afternoon and the news sent Hoyo into a flurry of feverish excitement. The whole house had to be spotless, and everyone had to help. Abdullahi and Ahmed grumbled but Hoyo was determined. Every day we went out to Whitechapel to shop for Somali delicacies and the best local produce: the fridge and cupboard had to be full of food. We went up to Shepherd’s Bush to shop for new hijabs, long skirts for me to replace my usual tracksuits, and have our hands painted with henna. Hoyo sent the boys to have their hair cut, but Ahmed point-blank refused, starting another row with Abdullahi.

  By the end of the week, the house shone like new. Fresh linen on the beds, the wooden floor polished to perfection, every room scented with bukhoor: we were finally ready to receive our guest.

  ***

  In the midst of all the excitement, there was a quiet moment, a period of stillness that stuck in my mind. I came to Hoyo’s door to ask her for something and saw her old suitcase on the bed. I stood in the shadow of the doorway and watched as she lifted out a delicate dira’, a traditional Somali dress, and held it to her face, breathing in its faint smell. She took out another and another and another, making a pile of translucent jewel colours on the bed. Then she sat down and took a big batch of papers from the inside lining and, as she looked through them, tears began to fall from her eyes.

  I felt awkward and suddenly ashamed to have seen her like that. I walked back to my room feeling weird. I had seen a side of Hoyo that I had never seen before: wistful, yearning, vulnerable. I didn’t understand. What was the deal with those outfits? And what was written on those papers? Why were they coming out now?

  I sat on my bed, holding my knees.

  Abo hadn’t even arrived yet, but already things had begun to change…

  Chapter 2

  The day that Abo was due to arrive dawned dark and grey. When my alarm went off for the Fajr prayer, I switched it off, thinking it was still night time. It was only when Hoyo came into my room to wake me, warning me that the prayer time was almost over, that I realised it was dark because it was raining.

  I made wudhu quickly and hurried myself into one of Hoyo’s huge prayer gowns before joining her on the silky prayer mat, facing south-east, towards Mecca.

  As I listened to Hoyo’s beautiful voice reciting the Qur’an, my rushed spirits eased and my mind focused on the day ahead: we would bring Abo home today and a new era would begin.

  “Allahu akbar!” said Hoyo.

  Soon, we were in prostration, our faces to the floor.

  “Oh, Allah, Ar-Rahman, Ar-Raheem, please make everything all right today…”

  After prayer, Hoyo took down her favourite copy of the Qur’an and opened it. She began to read, her voice rising and falling with the Arabic words, sometimes long, sometimes short. I recognised the verse: it was the story of the prophet Yusuf, Joseph as they called him at school. I had always loved that story: his strange dream, his brothers’ jealousy, his journey to Egypt as a slave, his time in the prison and then his ultimate rise to honour at the end of the story, always patient, still compassionate towards those who had hurt him. Yes, I liked that verse.

  “Safia, kaale, come,” said Hoyo, holding out her hand. I took it and she hauled me up off the floor. My feet always managed to get tangled in those prayer gowns!

  “It’s time to get ready…” she said, heading up the stairs.

  “But Hoyo,” I protested, “Abo only arrives in the afternoon!”

  She nodded. “I know, Safia, but we have a lot to do. And besides, your uncle Yusuf will be here with the car at ten o’clock to pick us up to go to the airport and I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  I made a face. No, we did not want to keep Uncle Yusuf waiting. Unlike his namesake, he was not known for his patience and compassion: no way!

  I hadn’t heard the boys up and about yet and I smiled. Yes! I would be able to use the bathroom before all of them. But I had to be quick and quiet. If just one of them got there before me, I was finished: it would be a case of playing the waiting game, showering in lukewarm water and, even worse, cleaning up the mess after they had all finished – ughh!

  I quickly grabbed my towel from my room and headed towards the bathroom door. But then I saw Ahmed stumbling out of his room, rubbing his eyes, a towel over his shoulders. Before he knew what was happening, I made a dash for it and got in and locked the door, smiling to myself as he banged his fist against it.

  “Safia!” he croaked. “Come on, let me in first, please!” Bang, bang.

  “Dream on, Ahmed!” I sang as I turned the shower on full blast.

  “Safia! Come on! You know I can’t survive without my hot shower!” I cou
ld just imagine him running his finger through his hair in frustration. But today I would ignore him. I wanted to be ready to meet Abo. I needed all the confidence I could get. And confidence does not come from a cold shower on a rainy day and a messy bathroom to clean up. I got into the shower and the hot water drowned out Ahmed’s pleas.

  Now, normally, our kitchen is pure madness in the mornings: Hoyo calling us downstairs every five minutes, Abdullahi talking about some household stuff to Hoyo or trying to engage Ahmed and me in some sort of meaningful discussion or burying his head in the paper in frustration, Ahmed making a joke out of everything, texting his ‘boys’ about the day’s plans and me trying to watch what I eat and remember whether I have packed all my school things. It’s hot, it’s noisy and it’s fun.

  But on the day Abo was due to arrive, everyone became more subdued, reflective. Even Ahmed kept a low profile.

  We had cereal and hot sweet tea because Hoyo didn’t want the house to smell of frying when we got back. At about 9:30, the phone rang. I could feel everyone tense up as Abdullahi answered it. Was it bad news?

  “It’s for you, Safia,” he said, handing me the phone. For me?

  “Hello?” The receiver was damp with sweat – mine or Abdullahi’s?

  “Asalaamu alaikum, you!” I heard chewing over the phone and relaxed immediately: it was Hamida.

  “Wa alaikum salaam, you,” I smiled. “What’s up?”

  “What time’s your dad arriving?” Her voice was perky as usual and I was grateful for the normality of it all.

  “We’re leaving at ten to go to the airport. Hoyo doesn’t want us to be late.”

  “Hmm, smart move,” she said. “Better you get there early than him arriving and you not being there. Remember what happened with my Auntie Begum?”

  It had been Auntie Begum’s first trip to the UK and she could only understand a few words of English. Well, Hamida’s disorganised dad had written down the wrong terminal and they hadn’t realised until an hour after her aunt was due to arrive. By the time they had found her, she was an emotional wreck: hopping mad and spooked by all the people who stared at her in her bright green sari and couldn’t understand what she was saying.

  “No, insha Allah, Hoyo’s not taking any chances,” I replied. “She’s got Uncle Yusuf to take us.”

  “You had better be ready then!” she chortled. Hamida knew my family so well! Even my mum had long since stopped treating her like an ajanabi, a non-Somali. She always ended up using Somali words when she spoke to her, especially when she was telling us both off!

  I heard Hoyo calling me from the kitchen: the dishes weren’t washing themselves, apparently.

  “Look Hamida, I’d better go, OK? I’ll chat to you later…”

  “OK, girl, call me later, yeah? Asalaamu alaikum.”

  As I washed the dishes, I thought about Hamida and her dad. Out of his five daughters, she was the rebel, the one most likely to speak her mind. No doubt about it, Hamida was feisty. If she didn’t like something, she would say so and no amount of embarrassed ‘shushing’ on her mum’s part would make her shut up: ‘a true Bengali social disaster’, was what she called herself. And in a community where ‘what people will say’ is the measure for what is socially acceptable, she was probably right. So, as much as Hamida’s mum tried to get her to tone down her opinions and stop reading ‘so many nonsense-rubbish books’, Hamida just would not conform. “I refuse to live like an Asian stereotype,” she would say, sounding just like her dad.

  Now, while her dad didn’t appreciate the heartache Hamida caused her mum, I could tell that, out of all his daughters, she was his favourite. Maybe it was because she was the spitting image of him; maybe it was because, in her, he could see his own passion and zeal. And although she tried hard to maintain her rebel credentials, I knew that Hamida totally looked up to her dad and copied him in practically everything: from his broad Cockney accent to his left-wing politics. So, if anyone ever wondered where Hamida got her strong opinions from, they didn’t need to look far: her father was her role model in everything. She was the son he never had.

  I thought of Abo then. Would he be proud of me, like Hamida’s dad was proud of her? I thought of my achievements to date: doing OK at school, not getting into any trouble, not hanging out with ‘the wrong crowd’, wearing hijab. Yes, I was sure that would please him: hijab to us was a symbol, a symbol of faith and modesty, something every Muslim parent wanted for their daughter. So, even if the other stuff didn’t mean much, the fact that I was wearing hijab would have to count for something.

  I tried to think of something else that Abo would approve of, but couldn’t. How could I? I didn’t even know him. We would have to wait and see.

  ***

  Uncle Yusuf arrived at ten on the dot. And we were all ready of course, except Ahmed. Don’t ask me what he does but that boy always manages to be late, no matter what time he gets ready.

  We were all waiting in the car: Uncle Yusuf was making a racket with his horn, Hoyo was apologising, saying ‘Sabr, sabr lahow!’ and Abdullahi was huffing and puffing. I could see another argument looming. I just stared out of the window at the estate door, willing Ahmed to come down before Abdullahi lost his rag.

  Just as Abdullahi was about to go up and fetch him, the door opened and Ahmed came out, holding his jacket over his head to keep the rain off.

  As soon as he got into the car next to me, Abdullahi gave him the obligatory blasting. For once, though, Ahmed didn’t retaliate. He just nodded and said, “sorry, man, sorry.” I think he had seen Hoyo’s face and didn’t want to upset her. She hated it when they argued.

  “OK, Abdullahi,” she said at last, “isdaya! He’s here now, let’s just go!” Then she apologised to Uncle Yusuf again. Uncle Yusuf shot Ahmed a dirty look through the rear view mirror. I felt sorry for the gear stick as he slammed the car into reverse. I shook my head at Ahmed, then squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back.

  ***

  Ahmed and Abdullahi had fought the previous night too.

  “Where have you been?” Abdullahi hadn’t waited for Ahmed to take off his shoes before the interrogation began. It was nine o’clock and we had been expecting him home by seven to eat dinner with us. Hoyo had gone over to her friend’s place in a neighbouring estate, leaving me to finish off my homework. But when Ahmed came in, I knew that there was not much chance of that happening.

  “None of your business, man,” Ahmed mumbled as he pushed past his older brother on his way up the stairs. But Abdullahi grabbed his arm and swung him round.

  “I asked you a question!” he barked. “Where have you been?”

  Ahmed, a bit unsteady on his feet, looked up into his face and I could see the battle going on in his mind: defy or deny?

  “Nowhere, man, I was at college,” he said at last, pulling his arm from Abdullahi’s grip.

  “College?” Abdullahi sneered, looking at Ahmed’s empty hands and messed-up hair. “No books, no homework, no studies? What kind of college is this?”

  “Ah, leave it off, man,” Ahmed waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t try your detective work on me, OK? You ain’t my dad, you ain’t Hoyo, so just keep out of my life, yeah?”

  My heart, my stomach, both of them were in knots. I couldn’t bear to see my brothers argue, I couldn’t stand Abdullahi’s cruel words, I couldn’t stand Ahmed’s ugly voice. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for them to stop: for the phone to ring, for Hoyo to come home, anything to stop them going at each other.

  But they kept on and on, neither of them willing to back down.

  “You think you’re a big man, yeah?” shouted Ahmed finally, his face contorted with rage, his arms out to his sides, ready to take Abdullahi on. “You think you’re a big man? You’re nothin’, yeah, nothin’ to me!”

  “Don’t you come in here with your gedoboy filth, Ahmed!” Abdullahi was furious and the veins stood out on his forehead. “Wallahi, when Abo gets here, he’ll beat some sense into you for sure! You’re
a waste of space, Ahmed! A loser! You hear me? A loser!”

  My heart was breaking as I watched Ahmed’s face. All the ghetto fire was gone and there he was, a seventeen-year-old Somali boy, trying to get his GCSEs for the second time.

  Just then, the adhan alarm clock rang out: it was time for Isha, the night prayer.

  “Astaghfirullah,” Abdullahi muttered, shaking his head. He pushed his feet into a pair of slippers and left to go the mosque, slamming the door behind him.

  Then I could breathe.

  I went into the kitchen and found Ahmed leaning against the counter, a glass of water in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. He was trying to send a text – but his hands were shaking so much that he gave up and threw it on to the counter beside him. He wouldn’t look at me and I felt awkward, not knowing what to say.

  “Ahmed..?” I whispered finally. He looked at me then, and that mischievous smile came back for a moment.

  “Ah, Safia-girl,” he said, “don’t worry about it, man. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about old Abdullahi – I can handle him.”

  I plucked up courage. “But where were you, Ahmed? We were waiting for you…”

  “Had some stuff to sort out, innit?”

  “What, college stuff?”

  “Yeah, Safia, college stuff.” He saw my doubtful look. “Don’t worry,” he crooned, “trust me, yeah?”

  I nodded. I wanted so much to believe him.

  “Now look,” he said, sitting me down. “You’re a good girl, Safia, I want you to stay that way, yeah? No fooling around, OK? You listen to Hoyo and Abdullahi.”

  “But you don’t…” I interrupted but he put his finger to his lips.

  “Me is me and you is you, OK? We are not the same – you ain’t gonna be a loser like me…”

  “Oh, Ahmed, I’m sure Abdullahi didn’t mean that…” But again he waved his hand.

  “It doesn’t matter, man, it doesn’t matter. All I know is Abo is coming and he’ll be expecting certain things. So don’t you go disappointing him, or Hoyo. Stay sweet, Safia-girl, stay sweet…” And then he was off, ready to send that text message.