From Somalia with Love Page 5

  “Don’t worry, Safia,” Hamida had said, “he’ll come home soon. They always do…”

  But what if he didn’t? I kept imagining my brother sleeping in a cardboard box under a bridge somewhere, hungry and scared. He acted so tough and streetwise but deep down I knew he was all talk.

  I wasn’t sure that he would survive out on the streets of London on his own.

  Then, on the fourth day, Hamida came round to work on our English coursework.

  Two weeks ago, we had the idea of designing a tabloid newspaper, featuring the exploits of all Shakespeare’s characters. So far, we had written about Romeo and Juliet (‘Star-crossed lovers in double suicide pact’ was the headline) and were working on Hamlet. It had been my idea to put all the tragedies together as news pieces and describe the comedies in the Society pages.

  “So, do we portray Hamlet as completely off his rocker or as the victim in all this?” she asked as she chewed the end of her pencil.

  “Hmmm, I don’t know,” I mumbled before flipping over on to my bed. Hamlet was the furthest thing from my mind. I looked up at the little sheets of paper stuck all over my wall and felt an ache behind my eyes. Whenever Ahmed would come into my room, he would always look for the latest additions and read them out, either ‘bigging them up’ or pronouncing them rubbish.

  I missed him so much. The house was like a morgue without him: his laughter, his jokes. But then, even those had been in short supply since Abo came back. I sighed and rubbed my eyes.

  Hamida sat down on the bed next to me. “Are you thinking about Ahmed?”

  I nodded.

  “What happened when the police came over?”

  “Hoyo told them that he had been missing for two days and they said not to worry, that he should be back soon.”

  “We see this kind of thing all the time, Mrs Dirie,” the lady officer had said. “Was he having any trouble at home, any difficulties?”

  Hoyo looked over at me then.

  “No, not really,” she said, “everything was quite normal.” I had known she wouldn’t tell this cadaan stranger what had happened between Abo and Ahmed. I looked down. If anything happened to Ahmed, I would never forgive Abo, never.

  “So, you haven’t heard from him at all?” asked Hamida.

  I shook my head.

  “Tried calling his friends?”

  “Abdullahi said he spoke to a few of them but they said they hadn’t seen him.”

  “Yeah, but they aren’t going to tell him, are they? They know that those two don’t get along.” She looked at me. “You should call them – they’d tell you if they knew anything.”

  She was right. Ahmed’s friends, Faaris, Rageh, ODB and the others all knew that I was his ‘little sis’ and they were all as protective of me as he was. It was Faaris and Rageh who had bought me a bus ticket and called Hoyo when my bag was stolen. And if Ahmed had contacted anyone, it would have been them.

  “Come on then,” I said, jumping up, “what are we waiting for?”

  I opened the door to the boys’ room and Hamida came in after me. She wrinkled up her nose.

  “So this is what teenage boys’ rooms smell like, eh?”

  I smiled. I had long ago grown used to the smell of sweaty socks and deodorant spray that clung to the bed sheets. “Yeah, just don’t look under the bed, OK?”

  I stood in the middle of the room and looked around. Where would I find Ahmed’s telephone numbers? I knew looking for some sort of address book was useless: Ahmed hardly ever wrote things down anyway. I opened the drawer next to his bed and began to move the clothes around, feeling underneath them with my fingers: nothing important, just some coins and a box of matches. I opened the next one and then the third, peering under his T-shirts and tracksuit bottoms. Just then, my fingers felt something hard and smooth. I grasped it and pulled it out: his old mobile phone!

  “Look Hamida!” I shouted, waving the phone at her.

  “Does it still work?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Yeah, it does,” I replied. “I remember that he got an upgrade as soon as the new Nokia came out. He said I could have this one.” I got up. “Come on, let’s find a charger…”

  It didn’t take us long to find a charger and turn the phone on. I immediately opened his address book and began scrolling until I found Faaris’ number. I took a deep breath. It wasn’t my thing to call my brother’s friends and, for a moment, I wondered whether I was doing the right thing, what Hoyo would say. I looked over at Hamida and bit my lip.

  “It’s for Ahmed,” she said, her hand on my arm.

  I nodded and pressed the button to call. It rang a few times, then I heard the opening lines of a rap tune I knew Faaris liked: it had gone to voicemail. I rang off and tried again.

  This time, Faaris answered. “Yeah?”

  “Faaris? It’s Safia, Ahmed’s little sister…”

  “Ah, yeah, safe, iskawaran,” he answered. “What’s up, girl?”

  “It’s Ahmed,” I said and tears stung my eyes again. “I need to know where he is. I need to know that he’s safe…” There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “Faaris? You there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” his voice sounded guarded. “Look, Ahmed’s OK, yeah? He’s OK… I’ll tell him to call you. Is this your number?”

  I looked at the phone in my hands. “Yeah, he can call me on this number.”

  “OK, I’ll tell him.”

  “Thanks, Faaris.”

  “No problem,” was the reply.

  “And Faaris?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Please tell Ahmed to come home…”

  “I’ll tell him to call you, OK, sis?”

  “Ok, asalaamu alaikum… bye…”

  ***

  Hoyo served baasto and hilib for dinner. I didn’t feel much like eating but came down anyway to help Hoyo serve it.

  “Here, Safia,” said Hoyo, handing me a knife, “just cut up the banana for me. Make the slices thin – you know Abo likes them that way.”

  I took the knife and silently began to cut the bananas at an angle, arranging them on the side of the tray in a row. I liked my bananas cut thick and so did Abdullahi – but we hadn’t had them that way since Abo had come back. I quickly cut a few thick slices and put them on the other side of the tray.

  “OK, get the ice from the fridge, Safia, quickly – Abo and Abdullahi are waiting.”

  “Why doesn’t Abdullahi come and help?” I asked as I took a bottle of cold water from the fridge and put it on the table along with the ice. “He always used to before.”

  “Ah, ’eeb, Safia,” Hoyo clucked, banging the serving spoon on the tray to dislodge a clump of baasto. “Abdullahi’s a man now. He doesn’t have any business in the kitchen… now, where’s that mat for the floor?”

  I had heard this many times before: as far as Hoyo was concerned, the kitchen was her kingdom and she had no interest in having men involved – not even to make themselves a cup of tea.

  “A woman’s pride is her kitchen,” she had always said. “If she can’t keep that in order, how can she keep the rest of the house in order?”

  So, Hoyo ruled the kitchen – which was fine except that she often drafted me in to help her!

  I preferred Ahmed’s approach: if he needed something from the kitchen, he helped himself. But Abo and, lately, Abdullahi too, waited to be served.

  “Safia!” I heard Abo calling me from the living room.

  “Haa, Abo!” I answered, picking up the bottle of water and some cups that Hoyo had just finished rinsing. I took everything into the living room where Abo and Abdullahi were sitting. Abdullahi was watching the news and Abo was reading a Somali-language newspaper.

  “Ah, Safia, you brought the water – good.” Abo waited for me to pour him a drink of water and then took a sip.

  “Ai, Safia, where is the ice?”

  “Sorry, Abo,” I murmured, mentally kicking myself for forgetting that Abo always took ice in his water, especially af
ter a hot day. I took the cup and put a few cubes of ice into it.

  “That’s better,” said Abo, turning back to his paper.

  “Could I have a drink too, Safia?” asked Abdullahi, grinning at me. He was really trying it!

  I smiled my sweetest smile and said, “Sorry, Abdullahi, I have to help Hoyo in the kitchen – but I’ll leave the water here for you. If you still remember how to pour it, that is!” I spoke in English so that Abo wouldn’t understand and skipped out of the door before Abdullahi could say anything else.

  Just then, I heard the sound of a phone ringing upstairs. At first, I wondered whose it was then, all of a sudden, I remembered and my heart skipped a beat. I dashed up the stairs and caught it just in time.

  “Hello…?” I said breathlessly, leaning against my closed door, my heart hammering.

  “Asalaamu alaikum, little sis,” came the familiar voice.

  I let out a huge sigh. To hear that voice again after so many days and so much worry was so wonderful – I wanted to hold on to the moment and keep it forever.

  “Ahmed…” I breathed, “are you OK?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, sis,” he replied, sniffing.

  “What’s wrong? Have you got a cold? Where have you been sleeping? Don’t tell me you’ve been sleeping rough! And what about food? Have you been eating?”

  My questions tripped over each other and Ahmed laughed.

  “Easy, easy! One question at a time, sis! I’m fine, man, I’m fine. Just got a bit of a cold. Been stayin’ at my man ODB’s place cos his folks ain’t around…” He paused to cough, a nasty, raking sound. “How are you, though? You been behavin’ yourself?”

  I laughed – Ahmed had been AWOL for four days and he was asking me if I was behaving!

  “Aren’t I always behaving myself?” I smiled, so glad just to be talking to him. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine him sitting on the bed in my room, his smelly socks all over my duvet.

  “Ahmed,” I asked, “when are you coming home?”

  There was a long silence and I heard Ahmed cough again.

  “How’s Hoyo?”

  “She’s OK. She’s worried about you. She misses you… we all do.”

  “I bet Abo doesn’t though,” he said, bitterly.

  I bit my lip. Life seemed to go on as normal for Abo. But something told me not to tell Ahmed that.

  “He’s worried too, Ahmed. Of course he is.”

  “Yeah, right, I bet he’s been combing the streets looking for me, to finish what he started!”

  “No, Ahmed, don’t talk like that, please…” I was frightened by the hardness in Ahmed’s voice. It reminded me of when he used to watch Abo eat, a look of disgust on his face.

  “Sorry, little sis,” he said then. “I was out of line. Don’t you watch me, yeah? You keep being a good girl, listen to Hoyo and Abo…”

  I became impatient then. It was all very well for him to lecture me about being a good girl and listening to our parents – but he was the one who had been coming home late, smelling strange, cursing our father. The terrible scene replayed itself in my head and I felt anger build up inside me. Why did he refuse to grow up?

  “Ahmed,” I said, my voice hard for the first time. “You need to sort yourself out, you know.”

  “Huh?” There was no mistaking the surprise in his voice. “What d’you mean, little sis?”

  “Don’t ‘little sis’ me! How come it’s so easy for you to tell me how to behave but, when it comes to you, anything goes? Why can’t you follow your own advice? How many times are you going to tell me not to watch you? To do as you say and not as you do? It’s not right!”

  He was chastened and mumbled something about taking it easy but I wasn’t having it.

  “No, Ahmed, all I see every day is one rule for Safia, another for everybody else: I’m sick of it. You need to come home. You need to finish college. You need to stop smoking whatever it is you smoke with Rageh and ODB. And you need to start watching yourself as carefully as you and everyone else watches me!”

  I took a deep breath. I loved him too much to watch him mess his life up, but I knew I had taken a gamble. He could hang up the phone, never call again, and disappear forever. It was possible. But maybe, just maybe, I could get through to him. Maybe he would hear me, for the first time ever. I held my breath.

  “You’re right, little sis,” he said at last, his voice quiet and small. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Just give me a few more days, OK? Just a few more days…”

  “Are you going to call Hoyo?”

  “Yeah, I’ll call her in the morning…”

  “Insha Allah,” I added. “And will you call me again?”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow if I have enough credit. This is ODB’s phone I’m using now.”

  “OK, I’ll wait to hear from you tomorrow, yeah?”

  “Yeah, OK.”

  “Take care, big brother,” I said, half joking. But Ahmed didn’t laugh. He gave salaams and hung up.

  I was left sitting on my bed in the dark, the phone hot in my hand, my heart hammering in my chest, my own harsh words echoing in my ears.

  ***

  O my brother,

  Why do you swim out

  To fish in deep water?

  Don’t you know

  The current is strong there

  And the sharks hungry?

  ***

  Ahmed called Hoyo the day after we spoke. I heard her take the call, her voice high and faint with relief. They spoke for a short time and then Hoyo came out of the living room, dabbing at her eyes.

  “So?” I said, trying to meet her gaze. “Is Ahmed coming home?”

  But she refused to look me in the face as she picked something nonexistent off my shoulder.

  “No, not yet.” Her voice was edged with tears. “Maybe next week, insha Allah.”

  “Next week?” I cried. “Why?”

  She pursed her lips. “Abo wants it that way… he thinks Ahmed needs some time away, some time to cool off…”

  I stared at her in disbelief. “And what do you think, Hoyo?” I whispered, unable to believe what I was hearing.

  “I think he’s right, insha Allah…” But her voice held no conviction and I saw the sadness in her eyes. Abo had made the decision. That was all there was to it.

  I was furious.

  I seethed every time I looked at Abo when we sat down to eat without Ahmed. It wasn’t fair! How could he come here out of the blue and start making these decisions, messing our lives up?

  But Hoyo accepted it. Now that she knew Ahmed was alive, safe, she was free to play the role of the aroosa once more. She began to hitch up her dira’ again.

  And I decided to stop talking to her.

  One night, Hoyo came to see me before I went to sleep. She sat on the edge of my bed and held my hand, something she hadn’t done since Abo had come back – she was too busy nowadays with a million-and-one things to do. But that night, she sat and tried to talk to me – about school, about Habaryero’s wedding, about getting new dira’ – everything except what I wanted to talk about: Ahmed and Abo. I looked at her and heard her voice in the distance and, for the first time, I felt disappointed in her. I was so far away from her at that moment, she could have been in the wilderness of Somalia for all I cared.

  I thought to myself, How can you? How can you sit here and talk to me about weddings and clothes when Ahmed has been gone for a whole week? How can you still smile with Abo when he is the one who chased him away? How can you be normal when our family is falling apart? Don’t you care?

  But I was well brought-up, our Somali way. All my questions stayed inside me. I turned away. I didn’t want her to see my face. And I felt ashamed for judging her; I knew that it was wrong to be angry with your own mother, the one who gave birth to you and sacrificed so much for you.

  Yes, I knew all that, and still I felt anger and disappointment churn in my stomach. Just like Abo, I would never forgive her if something happened to Ah
med. Never.

  ***

  Food sticks in my throat

  Drink burns my insides

  The stomach rebels

  Against common sense.

  Words swim before me

  Ideas run for cover

  The pen rebels

  Against every assignment.

  It’s all falling down

  Falling away

  Falling apart.

  ***

  “I’m concerned about your work.” Miss Davies’ pretty freckled face looked worried and she tucked a blond curl behind her ear for the fifth time.

  We were both staring at my English homework book, open in front of us. “Quite frankly,” Miss Davies continued, “this is the worst work I have ever seen you produce. Is everything all right, Safia? The Head told me that your dad came over from Somalia… is there…”

  “No, Miss Davies, I’m fine,” I said curtly. I was not about to discuss my family business with a teacher, not even Miss Davies. “I’ve just had a lot on, that’s all – I’m sorry.” I picked up my book. “Can I go now, Miss?”

  Miss Davies looked at me then, a strange, wounded expression on her face. She looked almost disappointed that I didn’t have a breakdown on the spot. Well, if she thought that I was about to spill the beans about my personal life, she was way wrong.

  “Yes, Safia,” she said at last. “You can go…”

  I turned on my heel and walked away.

  To think that only a month ago, I had been Miss Davies’ star pupil! She was always bragging about me to the other English teachers and, although I begged her not to, she would often use my work as an example in class, especially in poetry lessons.

  And now? I was failing my coursework and scoring the lowest marks in everything, everything but poetry. I still wrote, fiercely, hoping to let my fear and anger out somehow, in a way that wouldn’t hurt anyone. Sometime, it felt like squeezing blood from a stone, painful and fruitless. But most of the time, it came out by itself: everything I wanted to say to Hoyo, Abo, Ahmed, but knew I never would because that was not our way.