The day that Abo was due to arrive dawned dark and grey. When my alarm went off for the Fajr prayer, I switched it off, thinking it was still night time. It was only when Hoyo came into my room to wake me, warning me that the prayer time was almost over, that I realised it was dark because it was raining.
I made wudhu quickly and hurried myself into one of Hoyo’s huge prayer gowns before joining her on the silky prayer mat, facing south-east, towards Mecca.
As I listened to Hoyo’s beautiful voice reciting the Qur’an, my rushed spirits eased and my mind focused on the day ahead: we would bring Abo home today and a new era would begin.
“Allahu akbar!” said Hoyo.
Soon, we were in prostration, our faces to the floor.
“Oh, Allah, Ar-Rahman, Ar-Raheem, please make everything all right today…”
After prayer, Hoyo took down her favourite copy of the Qur’an and opened it. She began to read, her voice rising and falling with the Arabic words, sometimes long, sometimes short. I recognised the verse: it was the story of the prophet Yusuf, Joseph as they called him at school. I had always loved that story: his strange dream, his brothers’ jealousy, his journey to Egypt as a slave, his time in the prison and then his ultimate rise to honour at the end of the story, always patient, still compassionate towards those who had hurt him. Yes, I liked that verse.
“Safia, kaale, come,” said Hoyo, holding out her hand. I took it and she hauled me up off the floor. My feet always managed to get tangled in those prayer gowns!
“It’s time to get ready…” she said, heading up the stairs.
“But Hoyo,” I protested, “Abo only arrives in the afternoon!”
She nodded. “I know, Safia, but we have a lot to do. And besides, your uncle Yusuf will be here with the car at ten o’clock to pick us up to go to the airport and I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
I made a face. No, we did not want to keep Uncle Yusuf waiting. Unlike his namesake, he was not known for his patience and compassion: no way!
I hadn’t heard the boys up and about yet and I smiled. Yes! I would be able to use the bathroom before all of them. But I had to be quick and quiet. If just one of them got there before me, I was finished: it would be a case of playing the waiting game, showering in lukewarm water and, even worse, cleaning up the mess after they had all finished – ughh!
I quickly grabbed my towel from my room and headed towards the bathroom door. But then I saw Ahmed stumbling out of his room, rubbing his eyes, a towel over his shoulders. Before he knew what was happening, I made a dash for it and got in and locked the door, smiling to myself as he banged his fist against it.
“Safia!” he croaked. “Come on, let me in first, please!” Bang, bang.
“Dream on, Ahmed!” I sang as I turned the shower on full blast.
“Safia! Come on! You know I can’t survive without my hot shower!” I could just imagine him running his finger through his hair in frustration. But today I would ignore him. I wanted to be ready to meet Abo. I needed all the confidence I could get. And confidence does not come from a cold shower on a rainy day and a messy bathroom to clean up. I got into the shower and the hot water drowned out Ahmed’s pleas.
Now, normally, our kitchen is pure madness in the mornings: Hoyo calling us downstairs every five minutes, Abdullahi talking about some household stuff to Hoyo or trying to engage Ahmed and me in some sort of meaningful discussion or burying his head in the paper in frustration, Ahmed making a joke out of everything, texting his ‘boys’ about the day’s plans and me trying to watch what I eat and remember whether I have packed all my school things. It’s hot, it’s noisy and it’s fun.
But on the day Abo was due to arrive, everyone became more subdued, reflective. Even Ahmed kept a low profile.
We had cereal and hot sweet tea because Hoyo didn’t want the house to smell of frying when we got back. At about 9:30, the phone rang. I could feel everyone tense up as Abdullahi answered it. Was it bad news?
“It’s for you, Safia,” he said, handing me the phone. For me?
“Hello?” The receiver was damp with sweat – mine or Abdullahi’s?
“Asalaamu alaikum, you!” I heard chewing over the phone and relaxed immediately: it was Hamida.
“Wa alaikum salaam, you,” I smiled. “What’s up?”
“What time’s your dad arriving?” Her voice was perky as usual and I was grateful for the normality of it all.
“We’re leaving at ten to go to the airport. Hoyo doesn’t want us to be late.”
“Hmm, smart move,” she said. “Better you get there early than him arriving and you not being there. Remember what happened with my Auntie Begum?”
It had been Auntie Begum’s first trip to the UK and she could only understand a few words of English. Well, Hamida’s disorganised dad had written down the wrong terminal and they hadn’t realised until an hour after her aunt was due to arrive. By the time they had found her, she was an emotional wreck: hopping mad and spooked by all the people who stared at her in her bright green sari and couldn’t understand what she was saying.
“No, insha Allah, Hoyo’s not taking any chances,” I replied. “She’s got Uncle Yusuf to take us.”
“You had better be ready then!” she chortled. Hamida knew my family so well! Even my mum had long since stopped treating her like an ajanabi, a non-Somali. She always ended up using Somali words when she spoke to her, especially when she was telling us both off!
I heard Hoyo calling me from the kitchen: the dishes weren’t washing themselves, apparently.
“Look Hamida, I’d better go, OK? I’ll chat to you later…”
“OK, girl, call me later, yeah? Asalaamu alaikum.”
As I washed the dishes, I thought about Hamida and her dad. Out of his five daughters, she was the rebel, the one most likely to speak her mind. No doubt about it, Hamida was feisty. If she didn’t like something, she would say so and no amount of embarrassed ‘shushing’ on her mum’s part would make her shut up: ‘a true Bengali social disaster’, was what she called herself. And in a community where ‘what people will say’ is the measure for what is socially acceptable, she was probably right. So, as much as Hamida’s mum tried to get her to tone down her opinions and stop reading ‘so many nonsense-rubbish books’, Hamida just would not conform. “I refuse to live like an Asian stereotype,” she would say, sounding just like her dad.
Now, while her dad didn’t appreciate the heartache Hamida caused her mum, I could tell that, out of all his daughters, she was his favourite. Maybe it was because she was the spitting image of him; maybe it was because, in her, he could see his own passion and zeal. And although she tried hard to maintain her rebel credentials, I knew that Hamida totally looked up to her dad and copied him in practically everything: from his broad Cockney accent to his left-wing politics. So, if anyone ever wondered where Hamida got her strong opinions from, they didn’t need to look far: her father was her role model in everything. She was the son he never had.
I thought of Abo then. Would he be proud of me, like Hamida’s dad was proud of her? I thought of my achievements to date: doing OK at school, not getting into any trouble, not hanging out with ‘the wrong crowd’, wearing hijab. Yes, I was sure that would please him: hijab to us was a symbol, a symbol of faith and modesty, something every Muslim parent wanted for their daughter. So, even if the other stuff didn’t mean much, the fact that I was wearing hijab would have to count for something.
I tried to think of something else that Abo would approve of, but couldn’t. How could I? I didn’t even know him. We would have to wait and see.
***
Uncle Yusuf arrived at ten on the dot. And we were all ready of course, except Ahmed. Don’t ask me what he does but that boy always manages to be late, no matter what time he gets ready.
We were all waiting in the car: Uncle Yusuf was making a racket with his horn, Hoyo was apologising, saying ‘Sabr, sabr lahow!’ and Abdullahi was huffing and puffing. I could see another argument looming. I just stared out of the window at the estate door, willing Ahmed to come down before Abdullahi lost his rag.
Just as Abdullahi was about to go up and fetch him, the door opened and Ahmed came out, holding his jacket over his head to keep the rain off.
As soon as he got into the car next to me, Abdullahi gave him the obligatory blasting. For once, though, Ahmed didn’t retaliate. He just nodded and said, “sorry, man, sorry.” I think he had seen Hoyo’s face and didn’t want to upset her. She hated it when they argued.
“OK, Abdullahi,” she said at last, “isdaya! He’s here now, let’s just go!” Then she apologised to Uncle Yusuf again. Uncle Yusuf shot Ahmed a dirty look through the rear view mirror. I felt sorry for the gear stick as he slammed the car into reverse. I shook my head at Ahmed, then squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back.
***
Ahmed and Abdullahi had fought the previous night too.
“Where have you been?” Abdullahi hadn’t waited for Ahmed to take off his shoes before the interrogation began. It was nine o’clock and we had been expecting him home by seven to eat dinner with us. Hoyo had gone over to her friend’s place in a neighbouring estate, leaving me to finish off my homework. But when Ahmed came in, I knew that there was not much chance of that happening.
“None of your business, man,” Ahmed mumbled as he pushed past his older brother on his way up the stairs. But Abdullahi grabbed his arm and swung him round.
“I asked you a question!” he barked. “Where have you been?”
Ahmed, a bit unsteady on his feet, looked up into his face and I could see the battle going on in his mind: defy or deny?
“Nowhere, man, I was at college,” he said at last, pulling his arm from Abdullahi’s grip.
“College?” Abdullahi sneered, looking at Ahmed’s empty hands and messed-up hair. “No books, no homework, no studies? What kind of college is this?”
“Ah, leave it off, man,” Ahmed waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t try your detective work on me, OK? You ain’t my dad, you ain’t Hoyo, so just keep out of my life, yeah?”
My heart, my stomach, both of them were in knots. I couldn’t bear to see my brothers argue, I couldn’t stand Abdullahi’s cruel words, I couldn’t stand Ahmed’s ugly voice. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for them to stop: for the phone to ring, for Hoyo to come home, anything to stop them going at each other.
But they kept on and on, neither of them willing to back down.
“You think you’re a big man, yeah?” shouted Ahmed finally, his face contorted with rage, his arms out to his sides, ready to take Abdullahi on. “You think you’re a big man? You’re nothin’, yeah, nothin’ to me!”
“Don’t you come in here with your gedoboy filth, Ahmed!” Abdullahi was furious and the veins stood out on his forehead. “Wallahi, when Abo gets here, he’ll beat some sense into you for sure! You’re a waste of space, Ahmed! A loser! You hear me? A loser!”
My heart was breaking as I watched Ahmed’s face. All the ghetto fire was gone and there he was, a seventeen-year-old Somali boy, trying to get his GCSEs for the second time.
Just then, the adhan alarm clock rang out: it was time for Isha, the night prayer.
“Astaghfirullah,” Abdullahi muttered, shaking his head. He pushed his feet into a pair of slippers and left to go the mosque, slamming the door behind him.
Then I could breathe.
I went into the kitchen and found Ahmed leaning against the counter, a glass of water in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. He was trying to send a text – but his hands were shaking so much that he gave up and threw it on to the counter beside him. He wouldn’t look at me and I felt awkward, not knowing what to say.
“Ahmed..?” I whispered finally. He looked at me then, and that mischievous smile came back for a moment.
“Ah, Safia-girl,” he said, “don’t worry about it, man. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about old Abdullahi – I can handle him.”
I plucked up courage. “But where were you, Ahmed? We were waiting for you…”
“Had some stuff to sort out, innit?”
“What, college stuff?”
“Yeah, Safia, college stuff.” He saw my doubtful look. “Don’t worry,” he crooned, “trust me, yeah?”
I nodded. I wanted so much to believe him.
“Now look,” he said, sitting me down. “You’re a good girl, Safia, I want you to stay that way, yeah? No fooling around, OK? You listen to Hoyo and Abdullahi.”
“But you don’t…” I interrupted but he put his finger to his lips.
“Me is me and you is you, OK? We are not the same – you ain’t gonna be a loser like me…”
“Oh, Ahmed, I’m sure Abdullahi didn’t mean that…” But again he waved his hand.
“It doesn’t matter, man, it doesn’t matter. All I know is Abo is coming and he’ll be expecting certain things. So don’t you go disappointing him, or Hoyo. Stay sweet, Safia-girl, stay sweet…” And then he was off, ready to send that text message.
I sat in the kitchen, my arms around my knees, waiting for Hoyo to come home. A poem beat its way into my head.
Fine words, my brother, fine words
Good advice
Keep it nice
Slice of life
Keep it clean
Keep away
Keep the dream
Keep your name
Stay the same
Stay the course
Don’t use force
Don’t give in
Just stay in
Just be strong
Don’t go wrong…
Fine words, my brother,
Fine
Fine
Words.
I drew a ragged breath as I came back to the present.
The drive from East London to West London was long and slow. The drizzle didn’t help the situation. Uncle Yusuf tried his best to stay out of the Saturday morning traffic as we crossed the River Thames but even he couldn’t avoid some of the worst bits.
Hoyo turned on the radio to ease the tension in the car. The drone of the radio, the slow-moving traffic and the sound of the rain on the window made my head heavy. I shifted into a more comfortable position…
***
“Safia, Safia!” I could hear Hoyo’s voice from far away. “Wake up, Safia, we’re here!”
It was only then that I realised where we were. We were outside the Heathrow Arrivals Hall and Uncle Yusuf was negotiating a tight parking spot. I had missed the whole journey!
“Come on, sleepy head,” Ahmed chuckled, “your snores were killing us!”
Even Uncle Yusuf laughed at that one while I hurriedly wiped my face and smoothed my hijab: shame!
When we reached the arrival hall, Uncle Yusuf went to look at the monitor. Abo’s plane had landed fifteen minutes ago.
“Kaale,” called Hoyo, marching ahead, clutching her handbag. “Come on!”
By the time we had reached the crowd of people waiting for their relatives and friends, we were out of breath and panting.
I scanned the crowd as my heart thumped hard in my chest. Somali men were coming out of the customs area every minute, most of them with woven plastic bags and strange-looking packages. How would we know which one was Abo? Would Hoyo recognise him? Would Abdullahi? I saw a short man with glasses holding a large blue suitcase: was that Abo? But he turned to speak to a little girl who was holding his hand – no, it wasn’t him.
I looked at every Somali man, searching for something familiar, a look, a smile.
Then a tall, dark man in a grey suit came walking through the doors. On his head, he wore the koofiyet that Somali men often wear. In his hands, he held a pair of battered suitcases. He frowned as he looked across at the sea of unfamiliar faces. And then his eyes met mine and something changed in his face – and I knew immediately that it was him. I felt heat flood my cheeks and a thousand butterflies danced inside me. Abo?
“There he is!” I heard Hoyo cry out.
At the sound of her voice, Abo turned away from me and towards the sound of her voice. He saw her and his face broke into a smile. He began walking, faster and faster, until he stood in front of her. Tenderly, he took her hands. I watched Hoyo as she gazed into his face, tears rolling down her cheeks. Finally, she broke away from him and held out her arms to us, Abdullahi, Ahmed and I. It was only then that they could embrace, holding all of us together.
“Masha Allah, masha Allah,” Abo kept saying, over and over again. “This good thing is as God intended.” And, for that moment, squashed between my brothers, my mother and my father, I felt completely safe.