Refugee Boy

by Benjamin Zephaniah

  ‘English,’ his father replied abruptly, ‘speak English.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Alem continued. ‘What will we do tomorrow, Father?’

  ‘The holiday really starts tomorrow, young man. We will get a train into London and you will see all those famous places that you have seen in the books.’

  And so it was. The next day they got a bus from Datchet to Reading and then a train from Reading into central London. In central London they boarded a sightseeing bus that took them to all the places they had seen in the books: Marble Arch, Piccadilly Circus, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, the Houses of Parliament and the Tower of London. Back home Alem had lived only in small cities or towns and although he had been to the Ethiopian capital, he had never seen anything like London. Cities back home were busy with cars racing everywhere, but here it was so busy that the cars were standing still in traffic jams most of the time. The fumes emitted by the cars made Alem cough, he wondered why everyone else wasn’t coughing until he got used to it and stopped.

  When Alem was small he would always say that he wanted to make buildings when he grew up. Now he was sophisticated enough to say that he wanted to be an architect, so the buildings in London really caught his imagination. What he really liked about the city was the way the old and the new stood side by side. He thought this was also true of some parts of Ethiopia. He had seen places like the ancient obelisks at Axum and the churches carved out of the mountains at Lalibela. He always thought that if he became an architect he would try to bring the old and the new together, he would try to put old features into modern buildings.

  He spent the whole day imagining how he would change London if he had the chance, and working out what bits of London he would take back home if he could.

  After a visit to the British Museum they wandered down Charing Cross Road and found themselves in Leicester Square. Alem’s father wasn’t sure where to go. Darkness began to descend and the people around them looked younger. Alem’s father gave him a choice; they could go back to Datchet straight away or stay in London to eat and return later. Alem decided to stay in central London.

  ‘So what do you want to eat?’ Alem’s father asked, looking rather devious. ‘In London you can eat anything, the choice is yours.’ He opened the guidebook he was clutching. ‘Not far from where we are standing there is French food, Indian food, Chinese food, Mexican, Spanish, Italian –’

  ‘Italian,’ Alem interrupted quickly. ‘Italian food, they have Italian food here?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ came the reply. ‘Don’t forget we are in Europe and Italy is not that far from here – so you want Italian?’

  ‘Yes please, spaghetti, please!’ Alem was jumping with excitement.

  Spaghetti was one of Alem’s favourite foods. The Italian army invaded Eritrea in 1882, and then in 1935 they entered Ethiopia. Unable to conquer the country, they were soon chased out, but they left behind tanks, unexploded bombs and spaghetti. It wasn’t the kind of food that was cooked in the house but sometimes Alem had spaghetti at school or on special occasions in restaurants.

  Alem’s father checked his map and as they headed for Covent Garden, he began to question Alem. ‘So, Mr Spaghetti Lover, do you know where spaghetti comes from?’

  ‘Easy,’ Alem replied confidently. ‘Italy.’

  ‘That is where it originated but where does the spaghetti we eat back home actually come from?’

  ‘Italy.’ Alem insisted.

  ‘No, that’s not so true.’

  ‘Of course it comes from Italy. You told me that spaghetti comes from Italy, Father.’

  ‘Well, the truth is that most of the spaghetti we eat back home is made back home, but the spaghetti that we get here will be the real spaghetti, spaghetti from Italy.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I am very sure. I know these things, you know,’ Alem’s father replied jokingly. ‘Spaghetti back home tastes African, spaghetti here will taste Italian, you wait and see.’

  But Alem had a comeback. ‘You may know that spaghetti back home is made back home, but how can you be sure that spaghetti here is not made here? Maybe every country makes its own spaghetti.’

  His father was genuinely stuck. ‘Well, now – you have got me there. You have a point.’ He paused for a moment before letting his alternative theory be known. ‘Well, OK, the spaghetti you get in England may be made in England – but,’ he said, raising a finger in the air, ‘I bet that even the spaghetti that is made in England is made by Italians.’

  Alem looked up at his father and raised an eyebrow, signifying that he was not so sure about his theory. Just then they found what was advertised in the guidebook as a genuine Italian restaurant, and there they ate spaghetti. Both agreed that the spaghetti tasted better than the spaghetti they got back home, but because neither of them could pluck up the courage to ask a waiter, the country of origin of the spaghetti was still unknown to them.

  Soon they found themselves hurrying by Underground to Paddington station, where they managed to get the last train to Reading and from there the last bus to Datchet. The rush home seemed desperate but Alem loved the excitement of being out so late.

  As the village clock struck midnight, they were just getting into bed. Alem was now reading the London guidebook while his father lay staring at the ceiling in deep contemplation.

  Alem stopped reading and looked at his father. ‘Father, can you hear that?’ he said, turning his ear towards the window.

  There was no response from his father.

  ‘Father, can you hear that?’

  Alem had caught his attention. ‘I’m sorry, hear what?’

  ‘Can you hear the nothing, Father? There are no animal noises – no birds, no donkeys, no hyenas, nothing.’ As he finished speaking, a car roared through the streets.

  ‘I don’t think they have so many wild animals here, only wild drivers in loud cars,’ his father replied as he sat up and looked towards Alem, whose bed was on the other side of the room. ‘Did you have a good day, young man?’

  ‘Yes, it was very good, Father. I liked all the buildings and the museum and I like also the food.’

  ‘You should not say “I like also”, you should say, “I also liked the food”.’

  ‘Yes, Father, I also liked the food,’ Alem said, concentrating hard on his word order. ‘Mother would like it too,’ he continued, ‘don’t you think so, Father?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He got out of bed and crossed the room to sit on Alem’s bed.

  ‘What’s the matter, Father?’ Alem asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied, sounding very serious. ‘I just want you to know that your mother and I love you, son, and you know that anything we do is for the best. I have never been here but I know that England is a nice country, there are some good people here, you must remember that. And back home there are some good people too, not everyone back there wants to fight the war, most people would love to just get on with their lives. So remember, there are good and bad everywhere and your mother and I have always tried to do the best for you because we want you to be one of the good ones. Not a brave African warrior, not a powerful man or a rich man or a great hunter, we just want you to be a good person. Always remember that.’ He leaned down and kissed Alem on his forehead, then made his way back to his own bed.

  ‘Father, is something wrong?’

  ‘No, young man, I just want you to try and be a good person,’ he said, turning off the light. ‘Good night – Dehinaider.’

  ‘Good night, Father – Dehinaider, abba,’ Alem replied.

  Chapter 2

  ˜ Alone in the Country ˜

  After a long, peaceful sleep, Alem woke up late the next morning to the sound of people moving in the hallway outside. For a moment he forgot where he was. For the second time in his life he was waking up outside Africa, to the strange smell of full English breakfasts being cooked below. He looked quickly to his father’s bed but his father wasn’t there. He presumed that his fa
ther had gone to arrange breakfast and he wanted to surprise him by being wide awake when he returned. He jumped out of bed and headed straight for the bathroom, where he showered as quickly as he could. Soon his hair was combed and he was dressed, waiting for his father.

  After sitting silently for ten minutes, he turned the television on. The news was on and he watched in amazement as the newsreader told of how a baby had been stolen from its mother in a shop, and of how a homeless man was beaten as he lay sleeping in a doorway in the West End. Before ending the programme, the newsreader smiled and said, ‘And finally on a lighter note. The people of Tower Hamlets were the happiest people in the land this morning when the Queen visited a local factory to thank the workers for their service to the community.’ Alem watched as the workers waited in line for the Queen to greet them. He watched their faces, wondering if these were really the happiest people in the land; he wondered whether the Queen would also visit the homeless man that had been beaten when she was returning to the palace. He knew that the palace was not far from the West End.

  There was a knock on the door. Alem turned the television off with the remote control. ‘Hello,’ he said curiously.

  ‘Hello,’ came the reply, ‘it’s Mr Hardwick, the hotel manager. Can I come in and have a word?’

  ‘I don’t think you can come in now,’ Alem said nervously. ‘My father is not here, but he will be back soon. I think he has gone for food.’

  Ignoring this, Mr Hardwick opened the door to see Alem sitting on the bed. ‘I need to speak to you,’ he said solemnly as he entered the room. He went and sat down on a chair and continued to speak. ‘Did you hear your father get up early this morning? It could have been while it was still dark – in the very early hours of the morning?’

  ‘No,’ Alem replied.

  ‘This is a tough one, lad, I don’t know how to say this but it seems that he did leave the hotel early this morning and he’s left us all in a very awkward position.’

  Alem was very puzzled. ‘Awkward position?’

  ‘Yes, he left two letters, one for me and one for you,’ the manager said, reaching out and handing Alem a letter still sealed in its envelope. Alem opened it. It contained a photograph of Alem with his mother and father, and a handwritten letter. Alem read it silently as Mr Hardwick looked on.

  My dearest son,

  You have seen all the trouble that we have been going through back home. What is happening back there has nothing to do with us but we are stuck in the middle of it. You are the product of two countries, Ethiopia and Eritrea, and we love them both equally but they are pulling themselves and each other apart. We hope that it does not go on like this much longer but until the fighting stops and our persecution is over, your mother and I think that it would be best if you stay in England. Here they have organisations that will help you, compassionate people who understand why people have to seek refuge from war. We just cannot afford to risk another attack on you; we value your life more than anything.

  Your mother and I will try to use our organisation to help bring about peace but if we fail and we see no hope, then we may be joining you soon. If things get better, you will be joining us soon, but you must understand that we don’t want to see you suffer any more, and we don’t want you to go through what we have been through.

  We shall be writing to you soon, young man. Be strong, learn more English, and remember to love your neighbours because peace is better than war, wherever you live.

  Your loving father

  Alem held the letter and photo with both his hands on his lap and looked down in silence. Mr Hardwick looked around the room nervously, not sure how he should react. Then for a long moment they looked at each other before Mr Hardwick spoke. ‘I have to say, lad, this has never happened here before and I’m not sure what to do. As far as I’m concerned you can stay here for two more nights, your father has paid for your room and all your meals, but you can’t stay here for ever.’ He looked down at the letter in Alem’s hand, then at Alem himself, and spoke as if pleading. ‘Your father says you have no family here – is this true? Don’t you know anyone at all in England? Don’t you have any friends here?’

  Alem didn’t speak; he just shook his head to every question.

  ‘OK, well, the first thing we can do is to get you some breakfast,’ Mr Hardwick said with a sigh of resignation.

  Alem’s breakfast was brought to his room that morning but his other meals were taken in the dining room with the other hotel guests. He always sat alone by the window, looking out at the little pond and watching the birds that would come to feed from the bird table.

  That day Alem went for a short walk, which took him around the small grounds of Datchet, the parish church of St Mary the Virgin and the town centre. The town was as pretty as a postcard. At its centre on grassland between two roads he came upon a stone monument. He stood there to read the inscription, ignoring the cold wind that was making his eyes water. It had been erected by the inhabitants of Datchet to commemorate the Great War of 1914 to 1918. It spoke of the glorious forces and their allies by sea, on land and in the air who had fought against the combined forces of Germany, Austria, Turkey and Bulgaria. The monument simply reminded Alem of war. Nobody is glorious in war, he thought as he walked away to admire other more postive items from the past in an antique shop across the road.

  Back at the hotel, Alem sat for a while in the garden and then went to his room to watch television and read the guidebook. The staff and guests at the hotel seemed friendly enough and he was keen to know why Mr Hardwick called him ‘lad’ but he didn’t have the nerve to ask. He would exchange a few words with people at mealtimes but apart from that he spoke very little, which made the day seem very long. Trying to learn as much as he could about British culture from the television meant that his mind was kept occupied, but every time there was silence he began to think about how he had got where he was. When did his parents have these conversations where they decided to bring him to England? Was bringing him to England really the best thing to do? Did they really love him or was this a plan to get rid of him? Would they care so much about his upbringing, his health, his education and then dump him?

  At one point Alem even began to believe that this was some kind of rite-of-passage thing, a test of manhood, an initiation test to see how he would cope with being alone and having to fend for himself. As he walked down the different hallways in the hotel, he began to try and peep into the other rooms to see if his father was hiding in one of them.

  The next morning after breakfast Alem walked down the two miles of country roads to Windsor. He had read about the castle and thought that he might be able to see it, but when he reached the edge of the town he turned around and went back to the hotel. He was worried that he might lose his way in what looked from the outskirts like a much bigger town.

  Back in his hotel room he sat on his bed watching middle-aged women having makeovers on breakfast television when there was a knock on the door. Alem recognised the voice of Mr Hardwick.

  ‘All right, lad? Can we come in? I’m with a couple of nice young ladies who would like to have a word with you.’

  He entered the room, followed by two women who both immediately locked their eyes on Alem.

  ‘This is the lad,’ Mr Hardwick said, looking at one of the women. ‘Alem’s been a wonderful lad, everybody likes him, no trouble at all – I wish there were more like him.’

  Alem felt slightly uncomfortable. Everybody’s eyes were upon him, which made him feel a bit like an animal in a zoo. But when the woman spoke he felt different, much better.

  ‘Tena-yestelen, Alem.’

  ‘Tena-yestelen,’ Alem replied.

  ‘Ingilizinya tinnaggeralleh?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I speak English,’ Alem said as he breathed a sigh of relief.

  She was Ethiopian, she looked like someone from the Oromo tribe, dark, round-faced and slim. But what did she want? Alem wondered. Was she a good guy or a bad guy?

  ‘M
y name is Mariam and this is Pamela. We come from an organisation called the Refugee Council. We heard that you were here and we have come to help you.’

  Pamela was the taller of the two, white-skinned with cheeks highlighted with red blusher and short jet-black hair. Alem knew very little about the tribes of England but he was curious about the tribe that Pamela belonged to. He had never seen a European with a silver stud in her chin and six earrings hanging from each ear before. Still she spoke plain English.

  ‘First of all we need to know that you’re OK, and then – well, then we have to try and do whatever you need. We are here for you.’

  ‘I think I’ll go now,’ Mr Hardwick said, turning and heading for the door. ‘You three take your time now. I’m downstairs if you need me.’

  The moment Mr Hardwick left the room, the atmosphere changed. Mariam and Pamela sat on the two available chairs and Alem turned the television off with the remote control, which was still in his hand. Mariam’s eyes wandered around the room and took in the photo of Alem with his parents, which was propped against the bedside lamp next to his bed. ‘So what is it like here then?’

  Alem leaned back and rested on his elbows, now feeling more at ease. ‘It’s OK. The people are nice but the food is very strange.’