Last weekend Hoyo, my mum, gave me the best news ever and the most shocking news ever. After five long years of looking, waiting, meeting and negotiating, my habaryero, my mum’s sister, is finally getting married. That is the best news ever.
And then the most shocking news ever: after twelve years of absence, of being missing, Abo, my dad, is finally coming home from Somalia.
It was last Saturday morning that Hoyo got the phone call. Abdullahi, Ahmed and I were sitting in the kitchen, eating hot anjero with loads of butter and sugar. Ahmed was entertaining us with another one of his crazy stories when Hoyo came in. As soon as I saw her face, I knew that something major had happened. She had tears in her eyes and the colour had drained from her face.
“That was Abo,” she whispered, her lips trembling. “He’s coming home…”
And I felt everything around me freeze: silence from the street, steam frozen in mid-air, me, unable to move or think or say anything. Abo? Coming home?
Just over a year ago, we had received the news that Abo was still alive. Before that, we all assumed that he had been killed during the fighting in Somalia. So many other families had lost relatives in the war – we thought that we had too. That was until last year when Uncle Yusuf received a letter from his cousin’s nephew, telling him that Abo was alive and that he was trying to find us. But I don’t think we understood; don’t think we thought it was real. We knew about the war, about stolen passports and smuggled visas. But I don’t think any of us thought we would really see our father again.
Abdullahi was the first to speak. “Abo’s coming home, Hoyo? Wallahi? Really?”
Hoyo nodded as the tears began to run down her cheeks. “Haa, haa! He finally found a way to get out, to come to us.”
Abdullahi smiled and shook his head. “Alhamdulillah! Praise be to Allah! That is fantastic news!” He gave Hoyo a hug and she laughed through her tears.
“Alhamdulillah!” she cried. “Allah is Great!”
Then Ahmed went to hug her and, though I was numb with shock, I got up too. She held us all, looking into our faces with new pride, her eyes shining.
“Just wait until he sees what a fine family he has, masha Allah,” she said proudly.
***
I crept into the boys’ room later than night. I couldn’t sleep.
“Ahmed,” I whispered. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah,” came the voice from the mound of covers. He was wide-awake: I could tell from his voice.
“Ahmed, I want to talk to you…” I waited for him to disentangle himself from the sheets and sit up. “What do you think about Abo coming home?”
He sighed and ran his fingers through his mop of tight curls.
“Safia-girl, I don’t know… I really don’t know what to think.”
That was not the answer I had been expecting. “But aren’t you pleased he is finally coming over?” I needed Ahmed to make me happy about Hoyo’s news, to change my heart from the awful heaviness that I had been carrying all day to something lighter and easier to bear. But he didn’t.
“All I know is that things are gonna be different with Abo around.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, playing dumb.
“Well, for a start, he hardly knows us and he doesn’t know this country – it’s gonna be a livin’ culture shock for him when he gets here and finds us all westernised and not even speaking proper Somali! You know Muhammad, from Ealing? His old man came home and had a fit when he saw that his kids were all smoking, clubbing and going out with cadaan girls… he couldn’t cope in the end and went out to the Middle East – but not without beating them all first!”
I laughed because Ahmed laughed, but I wasn’t sure whether the last part was a joke.
The heaviness in my heart became worse, like a rock weighing down on my insides. I could feel dread spreading through my veins like the bitterest blood. And I knew then that I would not be getting much sleep that night.
***
It sounded strange to say that my father was coming ‘home’. My home was a three-bedroom flat on an estate in Tower Hamlets, in London. His home was somewhere I didn’t remember, in faraway Somalia. I’d never really wanted to go there.
For the first eleven years of my life, I had hardly thought about him, to tell you the truth. My family was Hoyo, Abdullahi, Ahmed and my mother’s extended family. But hearing that he was still alive, hearing his voice over the phone had changed all that. Now I had a father, but one I didn’t know.
I went over what Hoyo said a thousand times in my head. I let the words roll off my tongue: Abo is coming home. So many emotions were fighting inside me: anxiety, nervousness, fear and hope, all at the same time. It took me ages to fall asleep.
***
“Come on, class, settle down… settle down!”
I watched my favourite teacher, Miss Davies, hand out a batch of forms to my wild Year 9 class.
She smiled at me briefly as she handed me a creamy white paper. I looked at it: not another school survey! I rolled my eyes at my best friend, Hamida, who was sitting next to me as usual.
She grinned and shrugged her shoulders. “Less time for poetry today – woo hoo!” she whispered.
I stuck my tongue out at her – she knew how much I looked forward to English lessons. I sighed and looked down at the form.
I was never sure which box to tick on those ethnicity forms. Sometimes, I was ‘Black African’, other times I was ‘Somali’. On some forms, I was labelled ‘British’ (because of my passport) and on others I was down as ‘Muslim’ (because of my religion). Although, for most people, the word ‘Somalia’ reminded them of war and bloodshed, it held a different meaning for me. I grew up surrounded by the Somali daqaan – the food, the clothes, the language, the unspoken rules – and they were a part of me.
I couldn’t tell anyone what it’s like to be a Muslim: it was all I had ever known. It was also a part of me, just like eating and sleeping. I had always been aware of the existence of Allah. I had been learning about the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, since I was knee-high and, while other children had nursery rhymes, my mother recited the Qur’an to get us to sleep.
Praying five times a day, fasting in Ramadhan, going to duksi to learn how to read and recite the Qur’an, wearing hijab, not eating ham sandwiches – all these things were all second nature to me now. So there you go.
Strictly speaking, Dirie was not my surname. Dirie was my grandfather, Awowo’s first name but that’s the way we Somalis name ourselves: you are ‘so-and-so the daughter of so-and-so’ and you stay ‘daughter of so-and-so’, even when you get married. But my mum didn’t understand about surnames when she had to fill in birth certificates and NHS registration forms for us: she just put down my Awowo’s name as our last name. So that was how she became ‘Mrs Dirie’ on school letters, even though her name is actually Nawal bint AbdelQadir: Nawal daughter of AbdelQadir.
In some ways, I felt a lot older than I was. I always considered myself mature for my age, especially compared with the other kids in my class. My theory was that it was because I had quite a lot of responsibility at home and had to be ‘sensible’ most of the time. I didn’t get the space to behave like a spoilt baby at home – I had to do my bit, especially as the only girl! I remember complaining to Hoyo once about how all my friends got to do absolutely nothing at home and never had to worry about cleaning or looking after younger nephews and nieces. She gave me a funny look then.
“Safia, do you know how easy you have it here compared to back home in Somalia?”
I had heard this speech before.
“By the age of 11, I was cooking meals for the family and, as you know, your auntie was married by the time she was your age!”
Married? At my age? No way! Hoyo took one look at my horrified face and laughed.
“Don’t worry, Safia,” she giggled, “I’m not planning to marry you off just yet… you still need to learn to make anjero!”
At that we both laughed. There was one thing that Hoyo wanted me to have almost more than anything else: a good education.
“With a good education, Safia,” she often said to me, “you can do anything, insha Allah.”
But some of the things the girls talked about in the changing room made my eyes bug out of my head. If Hoyo only knew! The parties, the drinking, the clubbing, the boys – she would have a heart attack. So, although I was more mature than the other girls in some ways, in others I was still a baby. I didn’t know anything about guys and going out and, to be honest, I didn’t think about it that much. In our school, everyone knew that the Muslim girls who wore the hijab were ‘straight’. Some were nasty about it and called us ‘boring’, ‘uptight’ or worse. Any guy with an atom of sense in his head knew that it wasn’t worth chatting us up or asking us out: it was a complete non-starter. Besides, my brother Ahmed always said that a guy who chatted up a girl in hijab had no respect and deserved a beating!
So, anyway, fourteen-and-a-half, half responsible young woman, half baby.
“Safia,” Hamida hissed, “you’ve been ages with that form! What are you day dreaming about?”
I smiled at her ruefully and then quickly answered the rest of the questions. Nothing exciting there, just the usual demographic data.
Then Miss Davies was at the head of the class again, looking mildly frazzled. “OK, class, please open your books. Did anyone memorise the poem I gave you for homework last week?”
There was a collective groan.
So far, so predictable.
My classmates were not into poetry at all and there was always a huge outcry when we had to read poetry in class. The other kids really tried their best to spoil it: they read in flat, boring voices, or completely missed the rhythm, or skipped out words or pretended that they don’t understand even the simplest metaphor. “But Miss, why’s he have to call Juliet a sun when she ain’t: she’s just a bird!”
Miss Davies was patient though. She didn’t give up trying.
I admired her efforts to get Year 9 to appreciate clever similes or interesting metaphors. She had even started introducing modern poets and urban spoken-word artists to the syllabus, anything to get the class to respond.
Benjamin Zephaniah had gone down well the week before, but fourteen-year-olds have short memories. Seven days was enough to erode that small victory so, here we were again, stuck with Stacy Haversham reading…
We know who the killers are,
We have watched them strut before us
As proud as sick Mussolinis,
We have watched them strut before us
Compassionless and arrogant,
They paraded before us,
Like angels of death
Protected by the law.
… as if it was the menu at McDonalds! I could have cried!
At last, the bell, and the pain was over. I was the last to leave the class and I saw Miss Davies sitting at her desk, her head heavy in her hands. She sighed and lifted her head, massaging her temples with her fingers. Then she saw me and a smile lit up her face.
“Safia,” she said to me, “you are like an oasis on a desert landscape.” She didn’t need to explain that simile. I’d often thought of our school as a barren desert.
“Coming to mine after school?” I asked Hamida, as we joined the eager home-going crowds outside the school building.
“Sure!” she said, a little breathless as she heaved her schoolbag on to her back.
“Are you smuggling out more Jaqueline Wilsons?” I asked.
Hamida rolled her eyes. “How did you guess?”
“I figured…” I smiled as we walked out of the school gate. Hamida had developed a habit of smuggling reading books since her mum caught her reading the latest Jacqueline Wilson novel about teen pregnancy or something. OK, so it wasn’t exactly x-rated but it was hot enough for Hamida’s mum to ban her from ever bringing them into the house again.
“But she didn’t say I could never read them, did she?” Hamida retorted.
Whatever you say, Hamida…
We took our favourite route to my house, through one of the few parks on our side of East London, past row upon row of scruffy grey tower blocks, all depressingly similar.
I thought about my estate: the long-forgotten rubbish in the courtyards, the graffiti on the stairwell, the steaming bins chucked just outside the chute. None of it surprised me any more. I found myself wondering what Abo would think of our estate, what he would think of the UK. Would he like the fact that there was peace: no warlords, no checkpoints? Or would he miss the sunshine, the friendly faces, the familiar sights and sounds of home? Would he feel proud to have running water all the time and lights that work or would he feel ashamed at the swear words etched into the lift door and the stale smell of last night’s pub-closing time?
Well, we would soon find out…
When we got to my block of flats, I punched in the code and pushed open the door to the main hallway. Immediately, Hamida and I both heard someone bounding down the stairwell two steps at a time. A young man’s voice echoed through the building, Somali words peppered with ‘yeah, man’ and ‘nah, blood’, punctuated by a crazy hyena laugh.
Hamida looked at me. “Ahmed?”
“How did you guess?” I laughed.
And, before we knew it, Ahmed, my crazy brother, had arrived on the ground floor.
His face lit up into a big smile when he saw us and he practically jumped on me, grabbing my neck in a wrestle-hug.
“Asalaamu alaikum, walaalo!” he said, as I struggled to get free.
“Wa alaikum salaam,” I spluttered. “Ahmed, get off me!” I finally managed to break away, and then tried to frown at him disapprovingly – but I couldn’t quite manage it. It didn’t help that Hamida was practically dying of laughter.
“You’re crazy, you know that?” I muttered, trying to assess the damage to my hijab.
“Yeah, I know, sis, I know,” he answered, nodding his head. He turned to Hamida and greeted her briefly, keeping a safe distance. He was always respectful to girls in hijab although I suspected that, for him, girls who didn’t wear hijab were another story.
Ahmed’s phone rang again and he answered it, backing away out of the door.
“Hey, Ahmed,” I called after him, “is Hoyo home?”
He shook his head. “Nah, she’s gone to see Habaryero… catch you later, sis!” And he was gone.
“Your brother is a nutter, you know,” said Hamida, shaking her head.
“I know,” I replied, smiling fondly at the thought of him, my favourite brother.
***
Up on the tenth floor, I opened the door with my key and stood there, relishing the peace and quiet: in a house with a mum and two older brothers, these precious moments were few and far between.
“So how come your mum’s gone to see your aunt?” This was Hamida’s second home so she needed no invitation to slip off her school shoes and put her bag by the stairs.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you my auntie’s getting married?” I got some juice out of the fridge and Hamida grabbed two apples out of the fruit bowl.
“Bismillah,” she murmured, taking a bite, and then opened her eyes wide. “Masha Allah! She waited long enough, didn’t she?”
“Yeah,” I replied, “not quite out of choice though.” Habaryero had wanted to get married for ages and ages and I think some of my family had given up on ever finding someone suitable. And then, all of a sudden, Mr Right shows up!
“Wow, two major events for you then: your dad coming over and your auntie getting married… are you excited?”
“About what?” I pushed open the door to my bedroom and put the drinks down.
Hamida followed me, looking around my tiny bedroom. “About your dad coming, of course,” she said, peering at the pieces of paper that covered the lilac paint. I was glad she wasn’t looking at me.
“I suppose so,” I tried to keep my voice steady. “To be honest, I haven’t thought about it that much.”
“Astaghfirullah,” she chanted, wagging her finger at me. “You should know it’s haraam to lie!” She was teasing me but it was true. I was lying. I couldn’t stop thinking about my dad coming over. I just didn’t want to talk about it, that’s all.
“Hmm, you’ll talk to me when you’re ready,” she said, taking her hijab off and draping it on the bed next to her. “So, have you written any new stuff lately? I didn’t see anything new up on the wall.”
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…