From Somalia with Love

by Na'ima B. Robert

  Hamida met me in the corridor. “What happened with Miss Davies?” she asked as we walked down the school steps towards the bus stop.

  “Oh, nothing,” I mumbled, irritated. I didn’t want to talk about Miss Davies and my English homework. Besides, ever since Hamida had announced that she wanted to be a psychologist when she finished school, I wondered whether she considered me her first patient. More than once, I had felt funny about her interest in my family affairs and her desire to be as involved as possible.

  “She just wanted to know why my work’s been so bad lately…”

  “And did you tell her?”

  “Tell her what?”

  “About your dad, about Ahmed…”

  “No, I didn’t!” I snapped. “It’s none of her business what goes on in my house. It’s none of anyone’s business!” Hamida looked hurt then and I felt glad. I wanted her to hurt, to feel some of what I was feeling. “That’s right, it’s none of your business either, OK? Why d’you always have to be on my case, asking how I feel about this, how I’m dealing with that?”

  “But Safia, I’m only trying to help…”

  “But it’s got nothing to do with you! It’s not your problem, yeah, it’s mine! And the sooner everyone leaves me to deal with it, the better!”

  I had never in my life said something so mean to someone so close to me. But I couldn’t take the words back. For the first time in the eight years that I had known her, Hamida’s eyes filled with tears and she just stood there staring at me, her bottom lip trembling. After a moment, I couldn’t bear the pain in her face so I looked down.

  “I…I…I’m sorry, Hamida,” I stuttered as she backed away from me, shaking her head. I tried to grab her, to let her know that I hadn’t meant it, any of it, but she was too fast. She turned away and started to run, her bag full of Jacqueline Wilsons bumping against her back.

  I stood there like an idiot, watching her go, tears running down my own face.

  Just then, my new mobile phone rang. I jumped, thinking it was Ahmed.

  “Hey, girl, what’s up?” It took me a moment to recognise the voice, to realise who it was. Firdous!

  “Oh, hey, Firdous,” I said in a shaky voice, wiping away my tears. “What’s going on?”

  “Well, I saw Ahmed the other day…”

  “You saw Ahmed?” I couldn’t believe it. “Where?”

  “Don’t watch where I saw him,” she answered mysteriously. “Anyway, I managed to get your number out of him. I was wondering whether you wanted to meet up sometime? You know, have a chat?”

  I thought of all the tension and misery of the past few weeks since Abo had been with us and I realised that there was nothing in the world I wanted more.

  After all I’d been through, I deserved a break.

  Chapter 6

  I had arranged to meet Firdous at the big bus station in Stratford. Wrong move. Not only was it full of people – schoolchildren, college students, people on their way to catch their trains – but it was full of Somalis too.

  Now, why was that a problem for me? Well, I didn’t want to see anyone I knew. Hoyo would have assumed that I was in Whitechapel, possibly at Hamida’s house. She would never have guessed that I was in Stratford on my own and, even worse, waiting to meet up with Firdous. Being here was a problem because, if anyone I knew saw me, they would most probably mention it to Hoyo. Such was the community: everyone in everyone else’s business.

  I saw a group of Muslim girls walking together, their arms linked. I could see from their bags that they were in high school like me but they were all wearing abayas and long hijabs. One of them was even wearing a niqaab that covered her face. They chatted together as they waited for their bus, their faces smiling and joking. Even the one whose face was covered was smiling – I could tell from her eyes. One of them glanced across at me and her smile broadened.

  “Asalaamu alaikum, sis,” she called over.

  I lifted my hand awkwardly and did a semi-wave. “Wa alaikum salaam,” I smiled back. They weren’t Somali – they all looked Asian to me – so how come they were so friendly?

  Just then, a group of schoolboys came past. I sensed a restless energy, an aggression looking for a target. You could smell it on them like sweat. Just one look at them told me that these were the kind of boys I always avoided around my estate. During the weekends, they smoked cigarettes in the lifts and had dogfights on the patchy lawn outside while their little brothers and sisters looked on.

  Once, I had taken my auntie’s children to the playground near our flats, just to get them out of the house while their parents were visiting. They had been having a great time on the big slide when, all of a sudden, we heard barking and a horrific growling, snarling and snapping of teeth. The children screamed and ran to me, not knowing what it was. I held their trembling bodies tight and tried to calm them. When I looked across to where the sound was coming from, I saw a whole group of kids from the estate in a circle, cheering, laughing and taking pictures with their mobiles of these two vicious dogs attacking and mauling each other. I swear I saw one draw blood.

  I shivered. I would never forget that sound – ever.

  The boys glanced at me but must have decided that I wasn’t worth it. Besides, one of them, the tallest one, had already seen the girl in the niqaab.

  “Oi, fellas, look!” he called out. “It’s Bin Laden’s missus!”

  They all fell about laughing at that and I saw the girls huddle together, ever so slightly.

  The boys started hissing and calling out. “Ninja! Ninja!”

  “Why don’t you just leave us alone?” said one of the girls, her voice shaking.

  “You’re the one who should leave,” sneered the one in the middle. “What’re you doing here anyway? Why don’t you go back to where you come from – Kabul, isn’t it?” He laughed harshly and the others tittered, watching to see what would happen.

  “Listen mate,” the one in the niqaab spoke then, her voice unexpectedly deep with a thick Cockney accent, “I was born here, just like you. So I ain’t going nowhere, right? I’ve got just as much right to be here as you, OK?”

  “Yeah, you Muslims got too many bloody rights! You’re bloody terrorists, the lot of you!”

  “You sure you ain’t hiding a bomb under all that?” shouted the tall one.

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out, innit?” cried the other and he ran up behind one of the girls and tugged at her headscarf. Her head snapped back and her hand flew up to hold on to the front.

  “Oi, don’t you touch her!” shouted the one in the niqaab. She turned to face him, her hands on her hips but he looked her square in the eye and spat a huge gob of spit in her face. It landed on her niqaab, pale and glistening in the afternoon light.

  I was too shocked to say or do anything but a squat, middle-aged English woman next to me had obviously seen everything.

  “What d’you think you’re doing?” she screeched, her face red with anger. The boys all started at her, not sure of what to make of her. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Now clear off before I call the police! Go on! You make me sick!” She spat that last bit out with so much venom that the boys backed away and legged it down to the train station.

  Then the woman turned to the group of girls who were all huddled around the one in niqaab, their faces pale, their hands shaking.

  “I’m really sorry about that,” she said, going up to them. “Are you all right?”

  They all nodded and tried to smile but I could see that they were shaken.

  I thought about the spit from that boy’s nasty mouth and I went up to the girl in the niqaab. “Here, d’you need something to wipe that?” I took a pack of tissues out of my bag and handed them to her.

  The girl nodded, her eyes crinkled at the corners, smiling gratefully. She took a piece of tissue and turned away, dabbing at the cloth over her face.

  “JazakAllahu khairah,” she said in that deep voice. Once again, I was struck by the contrast bet
ween the strong East End accent and the Arabic words, the niqaab and her bravery at confronting that boy.

  The others all smiled at me and murmured their thanks. Then their bus came and they were gone.

  I looked behind me for a seat and an elderly West Indian woman sucked her teeth and said, “What do dem expect if dem dress like dat?”

  I looked away and decided to stand.

  ***

  I told Firdous about what happened as we walked to her place.

  “You should have seen the one wearing the niqaab, Firdous!” I said. “She was fearless, man, fearless!”

  “Either that or plain stupid,” retorted Firdous, rolling her eyes. “I’ll never get girls like that, you know. Like, why they got to be so extreme? As long as you a good Muslim on the inside, why should you have to be all covered up like them women in Saudi Arabia? Nah, man, that ain’t for me!” She flicked her blonde-tipped curls and spat out her gum.

  I thought about whether I agreed with her or not. Covering your face in the UK was like asking for trouble – but I didn’t think that was why she was doing it.

  Even though I had heard people voicing Firdous’ opinion loads of times before, I couldn’t forget the feeling of welcome, of genuine friendliness, when that girl had said Asalaamu alaikum to me, out of the blue like that.

  I still had that feeling of a shared sisterhood inside me, despite Firdous’ cynical words.

  Auntie Iman lived on the ground floor of a quiet residential estate, nothing like the high rises down my end. In fact, it looked quiet and pretty – the neighbours grew flowers in window boxes and, a few doors down, someone was growing sunflowers. I smiled when I saw their giant heads turned to the sun.

  But inside, Auntie Iman’s house was a different story. It was dark and it smelled of stale cooking oil. The overstuffed chairs were a dingy green and grime clung to the walls.

  This place is in need of a little TLC, I thought as Firdous threw down her bag and walked into the kitchen. I noticed she kept her shoes on so I did too. Probably safer.

  She opened the fridge and swore under her breath.

  “She hasn’t done the shopping, man!” She looked around at the dirty table, the sink piled high with dishes, crusty with dried cereal and pots streaked with the remains of a stew. A rickety clothes basket overflowed on to the dull grey tiles and there was a strange musty smell in the air. I walked across to the sink and tried to open a window, just to let in some fresh air, but it wouldn’t budge. Greasy dust clung to my fingers and I wiped them on my skirt.

  I couldn’t get over the difference between Hoyo’s kitchen and this one. Our kitchen was spotlessly clean, every surface shining and clutter-free. Hoyo had always said that a woman’s kitchen is her pride and she had instilled that in me, so much so that I couldn’t even have a cup of tea without washing and drying my cup. It was just reflex for me.

  Obviously, Auntie Iman didn’t feel the same way. I wondered then why she was known as ‘the witch of the Ogaden’. I had only seen her a few times at family gatherings, her scarf wrapped over her chin, her eyes red and fierce. If she wasn’t arguing loudly with one of my aunties, she was muttering to herself, fingering her hijab, jiggling her leg incessantly. Hoyo once said that Auntie Iman had seen terrible things during the war, that she was not well.

  So why on earth was Firdous living with her?

  “Welcome to my humble home,” said Firdous, a sardonic smile on her face. “Sorry, yeah, we should have picked up some drinks from the corner shop…”

  “It’s OK,” I replied, “I’m not thirsty anyway.”

  “Let’s go up to my room,” she said, wrinkling up her nose. She led the way up the stairs, pausing to kick some clothes down past me. “Have to wash those…” she murmured.

  Firdous’ room was small and cluttered and smelt of perfume mixed with dust. The walls were covered in posters – Fifty Cent, Usher, Orlando Bloom… She saw my expression when I saw that one and laughed.

  “Hey, my one weakness, what can I say?”

  Once again, I was struck by the contrast between Firdous’ house and mine. There were no books here that I could see and no Qur’an, no prayer mat tucked away on a shelf. Just loads of cosmetics spilling over the dresser and a stack of glossy magazines. I looked around for somewhere to sit but couldn’t decide between the unmade bed and the chair covered with clothes. I didn’t trust the dark-coloured carpet so I perched gingerly on the side of the bed and smiled up at Firdous.

  “So, how long will you be staying with Auntie Iman then?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know,” mumbled Firdous, taking clothes out of her bulging wardrobe. I got the feeling she didn’t want to talk about it. “Here,” she said at last, tossing me something on a hanger, “try this on.”

  I held up the strappy red dress and gulped. Me? Wear that? Hoyo would have a heart attack! I would probably have a heart attack, just seeing myself in the mirror!

  “Go on,” she cajoled, “I think it will look great on you…”

  “OK then,” I said, looking around for somewhere to change. Firdous saw me hesitate and laughed.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to put some clothes in the wash anyway.” She got up and went to the door. “Call me when you’ve got it on, OK?”

  When Firdous had gone, I quickly slipped the dress on over my school trousers. The top looked all right but it bunched up over my trousers. I’d have to take them off to really see how it looked.

  Stepping out of my school trousers, I looked up at my reflection in the mirror and gasped. I didn’t look like me. The dress was a bright red and the colour made my skin glow. It clung to curves I didn’t even know I had. That wasn’t Safia Dirie looking back at me, that was someone else, someone with style, someone with power – someone like Firdous.

  “Wow, girl, you look good!”

  I spun round to find Firdous at the door. I felt suddenly self conscious and wrapped my arms across my chest. She crossed the room and led me to the mirror. I smiled shyly as she undid my hair elastic and fluffed my hair out over my shoulders and down my back.

  “You should wear your hair out more often, Safia,” she crooned, “it really suits you…”

  “Firdous,” I said, pulling away from her, suddenly wary of what she was trying to do. “It might look nice and everything laakinse I wear hijab – and that isn’t going to change.” Insha Allah, I said inwardly.

  She laughed then, a knowing laugh. “Oh, I know, I know,” she said, stepping away and handing me back my hair band. “I used to wear it, remember?”

  I did remember – that image in my mind of Firdous in her school uniform, her face scrubbed clean, innocent. I decided to come out with what was on my mind.

  “Why did you stop wearing it?”

  Firdous looked me in the eye. “Safia,” she said, “it got to the stage where the hijab was all that I had left. I wasn’t praying, wasn’t doing nothing else so I thought, ‘why be a hypocrite?’ It’s better to be straight up than hide behind your scarf...”

  But I wasn’t convinced. “Why didn’t you just fix what needed fixing? Instead of throwing it all away?”

  She looked away. “I didn’t get a chance to fix anything. Uncle Ismaeel threw me out, remember? And I ended up here.” She made a face.

  “What’s it like, living here with her?”

  “Well, she’s crazy, for a start. She chews qaat for breakfast, lunch and dinner – she says it’s her medicine to make the pain go away. And you can see that domestic hygiene is not one of her interests. But I’ll be leaving here soon, though, as soon as I’m old enough.”

  “You’ll move again?”

  Firdous looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. “That’s been the story of my life, Safia. You know my mum and dad split up when I was only little. Hoyo lives in Holland now: she’s remarried and got her own kids. Same with Abo, except he’s in Canada. I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

  Firdous’ shoulders drooped and, in that moment, I saw
how sad, how lonely she was.

  “So how come you don’t hang out with Aisha and them anymore?”

  Firdous frowned and sucked her teeth. “Those xalimos are just haters, man, I don’t have time for them. You? I like you because I think you’re honest.” Then she smiled. “And just cos you wear hijab doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, right?”

  I nodded.

  Firdous seemed to flip a switch and become someone else altogether: bouncy, giggly, girly, full of jokes and crazy stories.

  And we did have fun.

  We tried on loads of her clothes and she did a makeover on me, cooing all the while about my skin, my hair, my cheekbones until I told her to shut up and give me a break.

  She didn’t ask me about Abo, didn’t ask me about Hoyo or Ahmed. I didn’t have to think, didn’t have to share how I felt. I was just cool, having fun.

  And I liked it.

  I liked it a lot.

  ***

  You make me feel free

  Free to laugh

  Free to smile

  Free to forget

  For a while

  ***

  Over the next few weeks, I went to Firdous’ house loads of times. Hamida was off school with a cold and, besides, things were still strained between us. I went to see her once, but it was so uncomfortable, I didn’t go again. I rang though, every couple of days, to fill her in on what was going on at school and all that kind of thing.

  But that distance was still there. We spoke carefully, never mentioned that day at school and she deliberately didn’t ask about Abo or Ahmed. A part of me was glad but another part was sad that she didn’t ask me to open up.

  Then I figured I would rather have fun with Firdous than pour my heart out to Hamida.

  ***

  “I hear you’ve been hanging out with Firdous,” said Habaryero. Ayeyo and Awowo had come to visit Abo and Hoyo to go over some details for the wedding and she had tagged along. We were sitting in my room, she as elegant as always, one leg crossed over the other, looking through a catalogue of evening dresses, bags and shoes. Habaryero was getting herself ready for married life in style.