Refugee Boy

by Benjamin Zephaniah

  ‘They said that they felt it was best if they left. But Mariam – you know, the young girl – said she’ll pick you up at ten tonight.’

  Ruth took a brown envelope from the table. ‘And she told me to give you this,’ she said, handing it to him.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Mr Kelo.

  ‘She said it was your money, your dollars turned into pounds or something like that.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mr Kelo said, smiling and opening the envelope. There was a small amount of money inside, which he took out and waved as if it was thousands of pounds. ‘I would like to take you all out for a treat,’ he said.

  Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald looked at each other, knowing that the amount he was waving around wasn’t the kind of money that could give five people a treat, and anyway they weren’t the type of people who ate out. They liked their own toilet, home cooking and home entertainment.

  Ruth jumped up. ‘Mr Kelo, we’re fine. You only have until ten and it’s seven now. You take Alem out, it’s your night.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said with Mr Fitzgerald nodding in agreement.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mr Kelo asked, looking around the room. All of them nodded. ‘And Alem, what do you think?’

  ‘Yes, Father, if it’s OK with everyone else it’s OK with me.’

  ‘No, Alem,’ said his father, encouraging Alem to think for himself. ‘Never mind everyone else, I’m asking you. Is it OK with you?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘All right, let’s go.’

  Alem still had his jacket on. He began to button it up quickly.

  His father watched him and could see the sheer excitement on his face, as did the Fitzgeralds. All smiled at seeing him as happy as he had ever been.

  ‘So what do you want to eat?’ asked Mr Kelo. That devious look returned to his face. ‘Remember we are in London, you can eat anything here.’ He paused. ‘Let me guess – Italian!’

  ‘No,’ said Alem with an even more devious look on his face. ‘Ethiopian.’

  They called a taxi and went to the Merkato, an Ethiopian restaurant that Ruth had discovered on Plashet Road. They ate traditional fairsolia beans and doro wot sauce on injera, a large bread made from flour and water, and to remind themselves of home they performed gursha, feeding each other with their hands. The other customers (all Europeans) watched them feeding each other while trying not to be openly nosy. Alem and his father carried on regardless.

  When they had finished eating, they talked for a while. ‘I want you to be absolutely honest,’ Mr Kelo said sternly. ‘How do you find this family?’

  ‘Father, I don’t have one complaint. They have given me a nice home; they don’t pressure me in any way. They let me do what I want but they are always ready to talk to me and they treat me very good. I can’t say anything bad about them.’

  ‘And your school?’

  ‘My school is good. There are children from all over the world there and the teachers are good. It is very different from school back home but I like it very much and I have made good friends there.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mr Kelo replied, ‘and who is Robert?’

  ‘Robert is my good friend, he’s a nice boy. I met him by accident on my first day and he was the one to show me around the school and help me fit in. The problem is he smokes.’

  ‘He smokes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alem replied. ‘Many children smoke here, no one really says anything.’

  Mr Kelo leaned forward over the table. ‘Do you smoke?’ he said.

  ‘Of course not,’ Alem said. ‘I can’t see its purpose.’

  After the meal they caught a taxi back to the house where Mariam was waiting to take Mr Kelo to a bed-and-breakfast.

  ‘What will you do tomorrow?’ Mr Fitzgerald asked.

  ‘Tomorrow I have a meeting with the Refugee Council in the morning, then on Monday morning I will have to report to the Home Office to make my application for political asylum. So I will see you all late afternoon, if I may.’

  Everybody agreed.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you are, and if it’s OK with you I’ll see you after school on Monday,’ he said to Alem.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Alem replied. He walked towards him and hugged him.

  As they were leaving, Mrs Fitzgerald said, ‘On Monday we would like to feed you, Mr Kelo.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied.

  Alem said, ‘Can I help you cook, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

  ‘Of course you can. If you like, you can do the cooking, we’ll just help you.’

  ‘Right, Father, that’s it, on Monday I’ll feed you.’

  Mr Kelo reached out and rubbed Alem’s jaw. ‘OK, young man, I look forward to that.’

  Chapter 17

  ˜ Campsfield ˜

  After school on Monday, Alem ran home as fast as he could to cook his father’s meal.

  ‘Did you get the spaghetti?’ he asked Mrs Fitzgerald as he hung up his jacket and went into the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, I got it,’ she replied.

  ‘And is it Italian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Actually made in Italy?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes! It says “produce of Italy” on the packet and the shopkeeper said he knows the Italian family who export it.’ She handed him the packet. ‘You can’t get more Italian than that. Now wash your hands.’

  Mrs Fitzgerald guided him around the kitchen and helped him prepare the spaghetti and the sauce. Ruth came home as the cooking was ending and laid the table for them before going to her room to listen to some music. Not sure exactly what time Mr Kelo was coming, the household went into a state of limbo. Mr Fitzgerald was happily rearranging things in the garden shed, Mrs Fitzgerald began washing used pots and cleaning the kitchen, and Alem went upstairs and started to tidy his room.

  Then the doorbell rang and everybody headed for the front door. Alem leaped down the stairs and beat everyone to it. He opened the door to find Mariam and Sheila standing there. He looked beyond them and to the left of them and to the right of them, hoping that there was a surprise or a trick in store, but he could see by the expressions on their faces that they were playing no games.

  ‘Where’s my father?’ Alem asked.

  Mrs Fitzgerald came up behind Alem. ‘Let them come in, Alem.’

  They all went into the living room without saying a word until Mariam spoke. She directed her words to Alem. ‘I went with your father today to the Home Office to help him with his application and he was arrested and taken to Campsfield.’

  No one spoke. Alem stared at her. He felt like crying, he felt like shouting, but instead he just whispered, ‘What is Campsfield?’

  ‘Campsfield is a detention centre where they detain asylum seekers.’

  ‘You mean it’s a prison?’ Alem asked.

  ‘Well, officially it’s not a prison,’ Mariam replied, ‘however, I’m afraid that everyone I’ve known who’s been there has said it’s just like a prison.’

  ‘What can we do?’ said Ruth.

  ‘There’s not much we can do,’ Mariam said. ‘We’ll be using Nicholas Morgan again, Alem’s barrister. He’ll get to work first thing tomorrow. Until then there really is very little that can be done.’

  Sheila reminded Alem that she was there if he needed her. Alem thanked them both and went to his room. He felt as if his life was a roller-coaster going from one extreme to the other. He considered his age and asked himself if this was the way his life would continue. He sat silently. He heard Sheila and Mariam leave. He heard the Fitzgeralds talking; he had no intention of joining them.

  When Mrs Fitzgerald stood outside his door urging him to eat something before the food went cold, he just said, ‘I can’t eat now, Mrs Fitzgerald.’

  As the Fitzgeralds were eating, he went to the bathroom, but after that he never left his room for the rest of the night.

  The next morning to everyone’s surprise Alem was up early. He had breakfast as usual and went to school. Mrs Fitz
gerald tried to get him to stay home but he insisted on going, saying that he had to learn as much as he could. But at school everyone could see that something was wrong with him. Robert knew it was serious but instead of asking, he hoped that Alem would tell him what it was.

  Alem walked home alone and when he arrived, Mrs Fitzgerald, who was in the middle of a phone conversation, opened the door. ‘Alem has just come in now,’ she said to the person on the phone. ‘Would you like to speak to him? OK, here he is,’ she said, handing him the phone.

  ‘Hello. This is Nicholas Morgan here, Alem.’

  ‘Hello,’ Alem replied.

  ‘Look,’ Nicholas continued, ‘I don’t want you to get too worried. We’re going to apply for bail. He really doesn’t have to be in there and we think that we have a strong case. So don’t worry too much, all right?’

  ‘All right,’ Alem said.

  ‘I’ll let you know what’s happening as soon as I know anything. Now can you put Mrs Fitzgerald back on?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alem. He handed the phone back to Mrs Fitzgerald.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘OK – will do – no problem – thank you – goodbye,’ and she put the phone down. ‘Don’t worry, son,’ she said to Alem.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Alem replied. He went to his room, turned on his computer and changed his clothes.

  He didn’t say much but he ate with the family as normal that evening, retiring to his room early again. Soon after there was a knock on the door.

  It was Ruth.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she said, opening the door ever so slightly.

  ‘Of course.’

  She entered the room and sat on the bed next to Alem. ‘I really don’t know what to say. If I were in your place, I would have cracked up by now. You’ve had to deal with so much.’

  ‘I suppose it’s my life so I have to deal with it.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that. You have to be tough.’ She had a small package in her hand which she handed to Alem. ‘I have a present for you. I took a chance – you may hate them but I thought I’d give it a try.’

  Alem took the gifts from her. They were in a brown paper bag. He held it at one end and let the gifts fall into the other hand. It was two CDs, one of Eritrean traditional music and one of Ethiopian traditional music. The minute beginnings of a smile appeared on Alem’s face.

  ‘There is a problem,’ he said mock seriously. ‘You didn’t get me any Tigrean music nor any Somalian music.’

  ‘Gosh, Alem, I don’t know the difference. I’ll take them back if you don’t like them,’ Ruth said, holding her hand out.

  ‘Only joking, silly,’ Alem said, holding the CDs to his chest. ‘They’re great.’

  Ruth rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘I looked hard for those. I was trying to find an Ethiopian band but I couldn’t find any.’

  After Ruth left the room, Alem went to his computer and played the CDs. He had never been interested in music and he certainly was not the type to listen to traditional music, but this was different. The recording quality was basic, as if recorded in a field or by someone simply placing a microphone in front of the musicians. It didn’t have the clean, polished sound of a studio recording but it had a profound effect on Alem. The stringed instruments, the drumming and most of all the chanting meant that he was hearing the sounds of home. These were the birth songs, the death songs, the wedding songs and the love songs that he had for so long taken for granted. He closed his eyes and drifted from the Ethiopian town of Harar to the Eritrean city of Asmara; then he drifted into sleep.

  There was a knock on the door. Alem woke up. It was Mrs Fitzgerald. ‘Alem, maybe you should get in bed now, it’s almost midnight.’

  Alem couldn’t believe he had been asleep so long. ‘Yes, Mrs Fitzgerald. I’m sorry, I fell asleep.’

  The next time Alem woke up it was morning. The sound of pop music was blaring out from Ruth’s room as she was busy getting ready for work. Before she left, Alem caught her on the landing and thanked her for the CDs again. ‘I don’t know what you were thinking but all I can say is that it was just what I needed.’

  His mood that day at school was a bit better and he managed to explain to Robert and Buck what had happened, how his father came and how he went.

  ‘We have to do something,’ Robert said. ‘It’s not fair!’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do now,’ Alem replied.

  When Alem arrived home, Mrs Fitzgerald had a message for him. She told him to go and get changed and then to wait in the living room. Alem just didn’t know what to expect but the seriousness of her tone made him very worried. She came into the living room and sat opposite Alem.

  ‘Well, Nicholas Morgan has been on the phone to me again today and he sounded hopeful. Tomorrow morning your father will appear in court and Nicholas will be making an application for bail on his behalf. He thinks that there’s a good chance that bail will be granted but he said he couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure.’

  Alem didn’t know how to take the news, he wasn’t sure whether it was good or bad.

  ‘Do I have to go to court as well?’ he asked.

  ‘Nicholas said no. He said that we don’t want to be seen taking you out of school for this and that he will have your file with him anyway because it may help your father’s case.’

  ‘So I just carry on as normal?’

  ‘That’s just what he said,’ Mrs Fitzgerald replied. ‘It’s going to be difficult waiting for the results of the hearing but Nicholas does know his business.’

  Alem looked her in the eye and said, ‘I’m sorry for being such a problem.’

  Mrs Fitzgerald rose to her feet. ‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘The only problem I have is you thinking you’re a problem. Now stop saying sorry and stop saying problem, will you?’ She looked down at him most seriously but then quickly winked at him.

  Alem smiled. ‘Yes, Mrs Fitzgerald.’

  ‘And Alem?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

  ‘Remember, there’s a lot of people who love you.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Fitzgerald.’

  Chapter 18

  ˜ Real Men Cry ˜

  At dinnertime the next day after Alem and Robert had visited the chip shop, Alem stopped at a phone box to phone home. He had told Robert about the hearing so Robert knew how important the call could be as he waited outside.

  Mrs Fitzgerald answered the phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Fitzgerald.’

  ‘Hello, Alem.’

  ‘Have you heard from the court yet?’

  ‘Nicholas has just rung here.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said your father is on his way here.’

  ‘You mean they’ve let him out?’

  ‘That’s right, he’s free and I think he’ll be here before you get here. So go back to school and don’t worry.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Fitzgerald.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Robert could see that the news was good. ‘They let him out then?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alem said, ‘he’s already on his way here.’

  The afternoon just couldn’t go quickly enough for Alem. He was counting every minute down and he struggled to concentrate on his work. When he got home there was another emotional reunion, but Alem could see that the detention centre had had a negative effect on his father. He looked extremely tired and nervous. Mariam and Pamela were with him and as they all sat in the living room, Pamela began to speak.

  ‘We won a battle but we haven’t won the war.’

  Alem and his father looked at each other. They hated the war metaphor.

  Pamela noticed their reaction.

  ‘I’m sorry for using such an unfortunate phrase but you know what I mean. We still have a long way to go. Today the courts have agreed that your father’s hearing and yours,’ she said, looking at Alem, ‘should be combined, so the same adjudicator can hear both your cases. Your father will now be in
court with you on 15th February, which isn’t very far away – twenty days to be exact.’

  ‘But what will Mr Kelo do until then?’ asked Mr Fitzgerald, who was standing by the door.

  ‘Well,’ Pamela continued, ‘he can’t work. He can get a little state help – and I mean a little – and Sheila has fixed him up with a hotel. It’s not great but it’s somewhere, and it’s not very far from here.’

  ‘Can’t he stay with us?’ said Mr Fitzgerald.

  ‘Sheila reckons it might complicate things,’ Mariam said. ‘Apparently if the make-up of the household changes, the condition of the fostering may be invalid.’

  Alem knew it wasn’t perfect but he also knew that things could have been much worse. ‘Where is this hotel?’ he asked Pamela.

  ‘Well . . .’ she hesitated. ‘It’s called a hotel but these hotels are full of homeless families and asylum seekers. It’s not like a Holiday Inn or even like the nice little place you stayed at in Datchet. It’s a bit rough, to say the least. It’s at the Forest Gate end of Romford Road, so it’s not far at all.’

  ‘I think we should go now,’ Mariam said. ‘We have to buy a few things and get Mr Kelo checked into his new home.’ She handed Alem a business card. ‘That’s the name and address of the hotel.’

  Alem took it, and read it. ‘Father, can I come to see you tomorrow after school?’

  ‘No,’ his father said to everyone’s surprise. ‘Give me a couple of days to sort some things out and to talk to my barrister and then come. Why don’t you come on Saturday? You’ll have more time.’

  ‘OK,’ Alem said. His father’s reasoning made sense to him.

  On Friday night Mr Kelo rang Alem at home. ‘How are you, young man?’ he asked.

  ‘Everything is fine, Father.’

  ‘So are you coming tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Why don’t you come early, like nine o’clock? We could go shopping together.’

  ‘Yes, Father, I would like that.’

  The next morning Alem walked down Romford Road, remembering the last time he had ventured down there. He feared that he might meet the people who took his bike and at the same time he looked at every bike that passed, trying to see if it was his. He arrived at the Hartman Hotel at exactly nine and walked into the building looking for the reception. He couldn’t find it. As he stood trying to look for any signs that would point him to the reception desk, people passed him going in and going out but no one offered to help him. Then he saw someone looking at him as he was trying to find his way. The man stood silently watching at the bottom of the stairs. He was about eighteen, dressed in jeans and a heavy leather coat, and looked Arab or Mediterranean.