by Ellen Wiles
He set off with a welcome sense that he finally had a purpose to be outdoors again. How much of the voucher should he spend in one go? Perhaps £25, he thought, leaving £10 spare. He’d buy something celebratory: a pack of beer cans maybe – unless his new flatmates were teetotal. They were Muslim, after all. But then, he could always drink it himself. If only Gebre were here to share it though! Soon he would come, surely. But was he right not to mention to Veata that Gebre was still trapped in the factory? He was pretty sure he was wrong, actually – she’d said he was unlikely to be punished, and if he was still there, it was surely in his best interests to be found. Osman was almost certainly still there, needing help. He resolved to call Veata and tell her, and then maybe she could take on Gebre’s case as well, and Gebre could move in with him in different accommodation – Osman too if the kid was well enough – and they could finally make the best of this rubbish asylum support situation together while they waited for a decision.
He went up and down the supermarket aisles, carefully picking things out, calculating their value and making substitutions, until he was satisfied he’d made the best possible use of £25. He queued at the till and unloaded his items onto the conveyer belt. For dinner he’d gone for two frozen lasagnes and a bag of fresh salad, with two mangoes and a tub of ice cream for pudding, and beers to wash it down. His mouth was already watering, and he wanted to rip open the chocolate bar he’d slipped in and wolf it down, but waited impatiently until the spotty teenager at the till had scanned them all through. He packed them neatly into plastic bags, then presented his voucher.
The spotty teenager took it. Looked at it, then examined it more closely, apparently puzzled, then sceptical. He looked up at Yonas, frowning. ‘What’s this?’ Yonas had to explain that he was an asylum seeker, while the queue behind him listened, tutted, muttered. The spotty teenager frowned even more, then called the manager to come to till number 3. In the meantime, Yonas waited for several other people to be served.
The manager finally turned up, a beige-skinned man with a horizontal, lipless mouth. ‘Oh yeah, it’s just one of them vouchers – it’s legit,’ he said to the spotty teenager, without giving Yonas so much as a glance, then muttered something, pulled a sheet of paper out of a cupboard, handed it over and sauntered off.
‘Okay, he says we can take it,’ the spotty teenager said. ‘But you’ll have to put your items through again. Also, some of your stuff isn’t valid, according to this list. Like this.’ He pulled Yonas’s bottle of conditioner out of the bag and put it aside, even though it was a two for one offer when you bought shampoo, so the bottle should have been free. He pointed to the sheet of paper from the manager. ‘Shampoo you’re allowed – that’s it. Oh, and beer’s not allowed either. No alcohol. And no ready meals – you can’t have that lasagne. No exotic fruits so the mango will have to go.’
It seemed absurd, but not worth contesting, so Yonas kept quiet. Finally, his bags were re-packed, six items down, and the spotty teenager processed his voucher. He waited for his £20 or so change, but the spotty teenager just called the next customer.
‘Excuse me, I need some money back,’ Yonas reminded him. ‘I would have had £10 back, but you took those things out…’
‘Nah, sorry, you used the voucher up. Don’t get no change.’
‘But… I only spent about £15 out of £35 after you took out–’
‘That’s how it works, sorry. You have to use it all up at once.’
‘Why? I did not know. Okay, wait, I will go and pick some more items…’
‘Transaction’s processed now, it’s too late for that.’
‘But then I’ve lost…’
‘Sorry, not my rules – guess you’ll know for next time. All right? I need to serve the next customer now, if you could move out of the way?’
Yonas took a step back, silenced. Not only had he wasted his precious money – or money’s worth – but if he always had to spend his whole voucher at once like this, there was no chance of saving up for anything that would cost more than the weekly amount. Like a new jumper, after his only warm one had shrunk to Lemlem–size in the wash.
Walking back to the flat, fuming, he remembered the stories his grandfather used to tell about the Italians, how they’d marched in and stopped Eritreans from using the same shops, bars, schools, and then forced them to give up their currency.
He let himself back in, with his one pathetic shopping bag, and hovered again by the kitchen door. His new flatmates were all still occupying exactly the same positions around the radio, and still didn’t acknowledge him – they could have been engaged in some kind of sonic séance. ‘Hi, everyone,’ he said, walking through the kitchen to the fridge to unload his meagre spoils. ‘I just went to get some food for dinner. I thought I would cook for you all tonight. To celebrate… our meeting. But they wouldn’t let me spend my voucher money on what I wanted, so all I can make is beans and rice. I tried to buy beer as well, but it was not allowed.’
For a few moments, nobody responded, the radio voice jabbered on, and Yonas wondered if he were being deliberately ignored. But finally, he got a tight smile, and a nod of acknowledgement from one of them – Ali, was it? ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But no alcohol.’ He returned to his fixed gaze at his tea.
‘Right.’ Yonas waited, unsure whether they’d understood what he’d just said about dinner. ‘Anybody want more tea?’ he asked, switching the kettle on. He noticed mould growing around the little window, grease all over the hob, the plastic edging of the kitchen units hanging off at one end.
A couple of them shook their heads.
He wondered whether to say any more, or whether he would just annoy them with further interruptions, and how much they would understand anyway. He tried to work out what they were listening to, summoning up his smattering of childhood Arabic. It sounded political… something to do with education… but he was too rusty. The broadcasters spoke at an insane speed, as if someone had pressed fast forward, or as if they were sprinting along towards a seemingly vital rhetorical goal.
‘Have any of you had any problems with the vouchers?’ he asked. ‘Is it right that you have to spend one voucher all in one go or lose it?’
A couple of them looked up at him, as if confused.
‘Vouchers?’ said the one he thought was called Hassan. ‘Total shit.’ He promptly descended into a tirade in Arabic, to which the others chipped in for a few minutes, before they all reverted to their silent radio worship. Fortunately a song came on then, and the singer had a beautiful, soothing voice. Almost in unison, the five guys sat back in their seats, teacups in hand. Yonas poured his own cup of tea, picturing those beers that he’d basically paid for now being stacked back onto the supermarket shelf.
He went back to his room, laid the ridiculous children’s postman duvet cover on the yellow-splodged mattress, then sat in his plastic bucket chair to drink his tea. He stared at the frayed, football-sized hole in the brown carpet, and wondered who or what had caused it. He got out his mobile phone and tried calling Bin Man Joe for what must be the fiftieth time now, but again he got a recorded message: ‘This caller is not currently accepting calls.’ At least he’d left his mobile number now with Bilal the shopkeeper in case Gebre ever made it to town. He reached into his bag for his library book, The Wizard of the Crow. He should have returned this before coming all the way up to Enfield, but he had wanted to finish it too much. He read a couple of paragraphs… But this was the world’s most uncomfortable reading chair – hard, bent like a spoon, with no lower back support – and the letters seemed to be swimming together. He closed it, and climbed up onto his bed, which was so short that his feet hung over the end. A couple of mattress springs poked into his back, and he shifted position slightly.
He was already nostalgic for the squat, with its threadbare sofa in the chaotic living room where he could sit and read or chat with Emil or Joachim or whoever was around. He even missed the squat kitchen, in which it was normal practice to sp
read butter over toast without bothering with a plate, flick jam around like flecks of blood on the floor, tip baked beans straight onto a plate and leave the remains sitting on the sideboard like gloopy rabbit droppings, and allow a pan thickly lined with lumpy porridge to congeal on the hob. But at least there were people there who would ask how he was doing, and make some sort of conversation in English, or just give him space to read.
They had been kind to let him stay without making any contribution to bills while he was waiting for his asylum support decision. He’d offered to be their resident cleaner in return. He remembered how restless he’d been, then, to get his letter so that he could leave and move into his own place; how he’d imagined his new asylum accommodation being a tiny but light and airy studio flat, above a friendly local grocer’s shop nearby, where he could live as peacefully as he wanted, and drop in on the squat to say hello to the guys every so often. So much for that. Of course the squat had its problems: now he remembered being back in the bathroom, scrubbing at an array of dried urine spots on the toilet floor, complaining how it might as well have been one of the pissing areas in the bushes out in the Eritrean hills that you could wander into and make line drawings in the dust, and how someone – he suspected Joachim – apparently had continual squits and yet could never recall the purpose of the fluorescent orange toilet brush sitting right there… Still. He missed Emil calling him Professor Jojo. He missed having a living room. And he missed the Brixton buzz and markets and geography that he’d only just started to get to know.
Why should he have been forced to move up here, to the other side of the river, five hours’ walk away, with these Middle Eastern guys he’d never met who barely spoke English and hogged the only living space, just so he could qualify for those stupid vouchers? Why shouldn’t he be allowed to work for cash and pay his way and live where he chose like any normal human being? He was perfectly healthy, capable and willing! And it wasn’t as if he wanted to enrich himself – he just wanted to be able to shop for basics and send money home to Melat. If there was work to be done, how was it not good for the British that people like him were around and keen to do it for them cheaply, at least until a decision was made?
He hadn’t called Melat yet to tell her why the money had dried up since he’d made his claim. He felt too ashamed and guilty, especially since he’d sort of led her to believe he was already on track for a permanent visa and was working legitimately. He couldn’t help hoping Veata might call with a decision soon so that he’d be able to phone Melat and say: ‘Sister! I have news you might actually want to hear…’
He flipped over onto his stomach, but another spring dug into his rib, so he shifted again, then pillowed his head on his arms. The mattress smelled of mildew and dust. He sneezed. If only Gebre would arrive. He felt a sudden hunger to see an Eritrean face again, to hear a friendly Tigrinya word. He knew nobody at all up here in north London, except Molly and Nina of course – but they were history in his life now, and lived nowhere near Enfield anyway. But then he thought of something.
He climbed down from the bed and rooted through his bag for the slip of paper he was sure should still be there; it had been thrust into his hand by one of the Eritrean women ages ago, that day he’d gone along to Molly’s class at the Refugee Council. ‘You should come and join us one Sunday,’ the woman said as she left the classroom, and he’d thanked her, thinking he probably never would, but kept her piece of paper just in case. And yes, here it was: Eritrean Church. Sunday service 10.30–1.
When Sunday came, he set off down to Wood Green early, on foot, with Molly’s old A–Z in hand. He found the street without much difficulty, but it appeared to be residential; he couldn’t see any building that looked like a church. But he walked along it anyway, and sure enough, there, at the end, was a peeling white sign, with Tigrinya script under the English font. The script alone was reassuring – the mere shapes of the lettering seemed beautiful in a way they never had before. He turned down a little alleyway piled each side with crates, and saw a white door in a wall ahead. A couple of women were about to go in, ahead of him, and as they opened the door, out floated the sound of ululating, clapping, Amens and the slow cascade of a voice leading a prayer in Tigrinya. Pentecostal, it must be, he thought – churches like this were banned now back home.
He made his way inside, and was greeted by a pretty woman wearing a satin sash with ‘USHER’ printed on it, whose wide smile was full of friendly curiosity. Her almond eyes reminded him with a jolt of Sarama’s – oh, if only she were Sarama, alive after all – and this in turn made him think of Udaze’s strategy of finding a woman in church and having multiple children with her, before reapplying for asylum, and he felt embarrassed at the thought, as if he’d come to this church with that agenda himself. He nodded and smiled awkwardly back at the pretty usher, but gestured that he would be fine seating himself, and slipped into an empty row near the back.
Pictures of galaxies were projected on screens at the front, above a stage where the prayer leader was walking up and down, proclaiming the grace of the Lord into a microphone. The seats were about half full so far, and most of the congregation were already on their feet, raising their hands, swaying, murmuring to a her stream of speech. Yonas had heard so little Tigrinya lately, not having spoken to Melat in a while, that the waves of familiar vowels and throat sounds felt soothing and mesmeric. Gradually, the hall filled up completely, and then, seamlessly, as the prayer leader went to take her seat, the choir filed up onto the stage – about twenty Eritreans dressed in red and blue robes – and singing began to swell around him. The sensation of being physically surrounded by so many fervent, joyful voices joining together in song, in his own language, so many Eritrean faces, so many passions uniting in this one yearning melody, this longing moment, growing their collective sound in spirals, in tunes familiar to him from years ago, singing on and on in a perpetual, glorious torrent, many of them closing their eyes and turning their faces to heaven, enraptured, wet-cheeked and smiling, adding claps, ululation, swaying hips, moving feet, raising arms, throwing their whole beings into the sound, into the place – it was overwhelming. Yonas soon found his own eyes stinging, his imagination flooded with memories. ‘Ade,’ he mouthed silently. ‘Abo.’ He found himself searching the faces of the choir on the stage for traces of his parents’ faces, for Melat and the twins’ faces, for his grandparents’ faces, for Gebre’s face, as if a strong enough force of will and faith could morph one of these familiar strangers into one of them.
Adeln, Adeln, Adeln kabaka
Zelalemawi qewami rstey
Zeyteffe zeytebers
Menberey…
Whatever you have in life, you can never be satisfied unless you have God… But no. No, no, no. Yonas just couldn’t believe that. No God could satisfy him as much as having any one of his family back, even for a week, a day, an hour. But then, this music…
It shifted a gear, to a happier, more upbeat tune, which got everyone around him properly dancing, moving their feet and their arms, their heads and their hips. Yonas wished he could join in, throw himself into the thrill of their expressive, exuberant release – but he couldn’t. He felt tied down to his seat in the corner. He was a hypocrite by being here. Everyone else seemed to be passionately religious. On the other hand, just the look and sound of all these Eritreans was so comforting, so familiar and so tempting to slot into. He could be part of a community again here, part of the diaspora, part of a new, extended family. Maybe here he could make peace with losing Sarama, and find himself another girlfriend, a wife, create a real family of his own… But before that could happen he would be questioned, interrogated, judged. He would have to introduce himself, talk about his past, yet again, and step back into the wasps’ nest of Eritrean politics. He would have to pretend he still had faith…
The singing was over, and the minister was speaking. ‘Any newcomers here today? Please put up your hand and introduce yourselves, so you can be welcomed!’ He was looking direc
tly at Yonas now. His face was so kind and smiling, his voice so warm and inviting. This minister seemed like a genuine, kind man, someone with a twinkle in his eyes, someone who might be good to chat to in Tigrinya, someone who would probably deliver a sermon with character and depth. There was a collective pause, as everybody waited for the chance to hear who this newcomer was, and to put their metaphorical arms around him in a loving embrace, as if welcoming a prodigal son. It would be so easy to surrender, to accept, to join. But Yonas found himself grabbing his coat, and pushing along the row of puzzled people. He saw the almond-eyed usher gaping at him as he rushed out of the door, and ran blindly back down the alleyway and the street.
Chapter 16: Jude
ONE-LEGGED ALBANIAN KILLER WHO PRETENDED TO BE A KOSOVAN ASYLUM SEEKER TO GAIN UK CITIZENSHIP WILL FINALLY BE DEPORTED AFTER 14 YEARS OF LIVING ON HANDOUTS?
Alec is running like a lunatic in circles around the submarine in the Imperial War Museum, until another child leaves the captain’s seat, when he immediately beelines for it and clambers in. ‘Daddy, look, I’m driving the eNORmous submarine!’
‘Pure euphoria!’ Max says, looking on and radiating pride. ‘Why haven’t we brought him here before? Apart from the fact that you’re always working.’