Refugee Boy

by Benjamin Zephaniah

  The rest of the band could be heard making their way back down the cellar stairs.

  ‘We better go,’ Robert said, ‘we got lots to do.’

  ‘What we got to do?’ Alem asked, unsure what Robert had in mind.

  ‘Lots,’ he replied.

  Alem stood up. ‘OK, see you soon,’ he said to Buck.

  They bid the rest of the band goodbye and were soon walking down Katherine Road with nowhere to go.

  ‘So, what are we going to do now?’ Alem asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Robert said as if he was surprised by the question.

  ‘But you said we got lots to do.’

  ‘I just wanted to get out of that smelly cellar, it stinks. I know, let’s go to Stratford Centre,’ Robert replied.

  ‘What is there?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just a shopping centre where we can hang out until we get moved on by the security or the police.’

  ‘So you just go there and wait around until you get told to move?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Robert said excitedly, ‘then we go away and come back later.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Alem said. ‘You get moved, then you return?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s fun.’

  Alem shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, it doesn’t sound like fun to me.’

  ‘I got an idea,’ Robert shouted. ‘Yeah, I know! Let’s go to Asher’s house – you’ll like him, he’s Ethiopian or Eritrean or something like that.’

  Alem became very thoughtful and didn’t respond straightaway. Then he asked, ‘What do you mean “something like that”, don’t you know where he’s from? Are you sure he’s even from Africa?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure he’s from Ethiopia, he keeps going on about it. Anyway, why do you look so worried?’ he asked, noticing Alem’s change of mood.

  ‘Because you don’t know where he really comes from and I told you about my situation. He could be Ethiopian and not like me because I’m Eritrean, or he could be Eritrean and not like me because I’m Ethiopian.’

  Robert laughed. ‘Are you joking – Asher? Asher couldn’t hate anyone if he tried; all he talks about is peace and love. He goes on about world peace and vegetarianism, he wouldn’t even know how to make a fist. And anyway, just because Eritreans and Ethiopians are fighting in Africa, that don’t mean the kids are fighting here.’

  Alem agreed to go and see Asher but he was still a little concerned. Asher lived about ten minutes away from the cellar, in Halley Road. As they approached the house, Alem began to ask questions, partly out of genuine curiosity and partly to cover up his nervousness. ‘So how old is he?’

  ‘Seventeen, he’s at college.’

  ‘What does he study?’

  ‘Music technology and business studies.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He used to go to our school but he’s left now.’

  Robert rang the bell of the first-floor flat. The door was opened very quickly by a brown-skinned boy with a broad nose and the beginnings of a moustache. He had thick dreadlocks that hung down to just below his chest. He was wearing large baggy jeans, the baggiest Alem had ever seen, and a deep-blue fleece.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Asher with a broad smile. He looked at Alem. ‘How’s it going, brother?’

  ‘OK,’ Alem replied almost shyly.

  ‘Come in,’ Asher said, gesturing to them with his hands.

  The living room was painted red, yellow and green and all the walls were empty except one which had a large picture of Haile Selassie, the last emperor of Ethiopia. Furniture in the room was kept to a minimum. One three-seater settee, a coffee table, a small portable television in one corner and a bookshelf in the other. A large West African drum doubled up as a stand for a Nubian head carving, and large beanbags on the floor made for additional seating.

  Alem was captivated by Asher’s demeanour. Around his neck from a gold chain hung a piece of wood, carved in the shape of Africa. Alem took to him immediately but he was sure that he wasn’t from Ethiopia or Eritrea; in fact, as far as Alem could see, he didn’t even look as if was from East Africa.

  Alem and Robert sat on the settee; Asher sat on a beanbag. ‘What’s happening?’ he said, still smiling.

  ‘Nothing,’ Robert replied. ‘I wanted you to meet Alem, he goes to Great Milford.’

  ‘Cool, man,’ Asher said, nodding his head and looking at Alem. ‘So how long you been going there?’

  ‘About three months now,’ Alem replied.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Alem said, ‘but I don’t know how good it is compared to others because it’s the first school that I have been to in England.’

  ‘Yeah, I get what you’re saying – where do you come from?’

  ‘I come from Africa – Ethiopia, Eritrea – that’s where I come from.’

  Asher’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, Rasta, I knew it! Ethiopia, the motherland, the land where the gods love to be! As soon as I saw you I said, There’s a God son, a true child of Africa.’

  Alem struggled to keep up with him and got the gist of it. ‘So where do you come from?’

  ‘I is an Ethiopian that happens to be born in England.’

  Robert jumped into the conversation. ‘I told you he had some connection with Ethiopia! You see, it’s his mum and dad.’

  ‘So your mother and father come from Ethiopia?’ Alem asked.

  ‘No, I mother and father is Jamaican and I is a Rasta, you know. Ethiopia is our spiritual homeland, the land of Rastafari, God’s country.’

  ‘So you’re not really Ethiopian!’ Robert asked, feeling a little let down.

  ‘I am really Ethiopian,’ Asher replied, confusing Robert even more, ‘really, really Ethiopian, I just happen to be born in England.’ He turned to Alem. ‘Alem, my man, do you know Shashamene?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve never been there but I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘That’s where I want to go one day. I know it’s not perfect but my journey through Africa must start there.’

  ‘Where’s Shashamene?’ Robert asked, not wanting to be left out.

  ‘Well,’ Asher said, pointing to the carved shape of Africa hanging from his neck, ‘Shashamene is the land given to all Rastafarians by Emperor Haile Selassie the first, so that we can return to the motherland and help to rebuild the great continent of Africa.’

  Robert was intrigued. ‘So when are these Rastas going then?’

  ‘They gone already,’ Asher said, almost leaping out of his seat, ‘and they keep going. But hey, many now go to other parts of Africa as well. You want a drink?’

  Alem and Robert asked for colas. As soon as Asher was back in his seat, he continued. ‘The thing is, Africa has been divided up by the Europeans, you know, the slave drivers and the colonisers, so we say Africa must unite. Without uniting, Africa will continue to be exploited by Babylon, so we want to unite Africa.’

  ‘Yes, but look at all the wars. Look at Alem – tell him why you’re here, Alem?’

  Alem gave Asher a quick outline of his story. This time he included how he had arrived in Datchet, which surprised Robert.

  Asher listened carefully and let him finish before responding. ‘I know where you’re coming from, brother. We don’t support any kind of tribalism, we deal with one love.’

  Soon they finished their drinks and were saying goodbye. ‘Remember,’ Asher said on the doorstep, ‘this is I house and this is I bell, you can check I any time.’

  Alem felt he had met a genuine friend and someone who had an interest in and an understanding of what he was going through. ‘I like him,’ he said to Robert as they walked up Romford Road.

  ‘He’s cool,’ said Robert casually. ‘He lives on his own, he studies hard and he never hurts anyone. I told you, he hates nobody, he’s like you.’

  As they stood outside Alem’s house, Robert startled Alem with another one of his great ideas. ‘I know – on Saturday, let’s go out on our bikes. I’ll take you to Beckton, guy, there’s th
is cycle path there that goes on for miles.’

  ‘OK,’ Alem replied. ‘What time shall we leave?’

  ‘I’ll come for you about eleven. Best if we try to get back before it gets too dark.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ll see you at school tomorrow anyway, but don’t forget now,’ Robert said, walking away. He turned around and began to walk backwards. ‘So you like Asher then?’

  ‘Yes, he’s different.’

  ‘But is he an Ethiopian?’

  ‘Well, he makes some interesting points and he feels African.’

  ‘Ah,’ Robert interrupted, ‘he says he’s African and all Black people come from Africa, right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Alem.

  ‘Well, if you look at it another way, all human life started in Africa, so I’m an African too,’ he said, laughing. ‘I’m an African that just happens to be born in Manor Park. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll see you, brother,’ Alem shouted as he closed the gate.

  Chapter 16

  ˜ Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? ˜

  That Saturday Alem enjoyed his longest bike journey yet. Robert turned up at eleven as promised and they made their way to Beckton in the busy Saturday morning traffic. They connected with the cycle path at a place called Beckton Alps. It was an old slagheap that formed a large hill that had been converted for use as an artificial ski-slope. The path was called the Greenway and underneath it ran a sewer that went right into central London. In the summer it would stink but on cold days such as this one the only clue that gave away the filthy slime underneath was rising steam that could be seen seeping from the manhole covers.

  Every few hundred yards they would stop to get through barriers that were built to allow only pedestrians, bikes and prams through. The path was surprisingly empty; they saw only a few old ladies walking small dogs, a few macho men walking big dogs and a couple of bikers and joggers.

  It wasn’t very long before they reached Bow. ‘This is Bow,’ Robert said as if he had reached some place of great significance.

  Alem looked around him to see if he was missing something. ‘What happens here?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Robert replied. ‘There’s just a big flyover – we can carry on, we can go back up the path or we can make our way back on the streets.’

  Alem opted for the streets, so Robert took him on a long trip through Stratford, Leyton and Forest Gate before returning to Manor Park. It was only three-thirty but Alem felt that he had experienced another great day. On the pavement at the corner of Romford and Meanly Roads they parted, with Alem politely saying thank you and Robert raving about how much better it was in the summer.

  ‘See ya later,’ Robert said and he rode away.

  Alem turned his bike around to head down his road when two boys suddenly blocked him. ‘Get off the bike,’ one of the boys growled.

  At first Alem thought they were upset with him for riding on the pavement. ‘I’m going to ride on the road,’ he said.

  The same boy responded, ‘You ain’t going nowhere, you pussy! Get off the bike.’

  ‘No, I will go now. I am sorry if—’

  Alem didn’t have the chance to finish. The boy who hadn’t spoken pushed him off the bike and snatched it from him as he was falling. He tried to get up and grab the bike but the boy who had been growling at him just growled again. ‘Stay down, you stupid boy,’ he said, tripping Alem over.

  Fearful that they would start kicking him, Alem curled up into a ball and within seconds they were gone. Alem stayed curled up on the cold concrete until he felt a hand touching his shoulder. He began to straighten his body out and open his eyes.

  Kneeling over him he saw a middle-aged woman. ‘Shall we call the police?’ she said, rubbing his shoulder.

  ‘They deserve to go to prison,’ said another voice.

  Alem looked to his left, where another woman was standing looking down at him.

  ‘No, I’m OK,’ he said, trying to stand up.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said the first woman, who was now brushing him down.

  ‘I’m OK,’ Alem insisted politely.

  ‘If you ask me, they should bring back hanging,’ said the woman who was standing. ‘How can you be on the streets and someone just come and tek your bike? What kind of world is this?’

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ Alem said, now fully standing. ‘I would like to thank you both.’

  ‘It’s all right, you go now,’ said the first woman. ‘And when you get home, you mek sure that your mother calls de police,’ the second woman said. ‘It’s a damn disgrace!’ The short walk down Meanly Road was a long one. Alem walked slowly, head down and hands in pockets. He just couldn’t believe how a good day had turned so bad so quickly.

  Inside the house Mrs Fitzgerald went crazy. ‘They must not get away with it! We must call the police!’

  ‘No,’ Alem said. ‘Please don’t call the police. I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ Mrs Fitzgerald replied. ‘When they took your bike away, that was trouble and the police are there to deal with trouble, so call the police,’ she said, looking towards Mr Fitzgerald.

  Mr Fitzgerald picked up the phone and was just about to speak when Alem raised his voice. ‘You gave me the money and I bought that bike. I thank you very much for that but it is my bike and I don’t want to call the police.’

  Mr Fitzgerald put down the receiver and said, ‘Well, I suppose it’s up to you. But what’s the problem? Do you know the boys that did it?’

  ‘No, I don’t know them. I have never seen them before.’

  ‘But why,’ Mrs Fitzgerald asked. ‘Why don’t you want to call the police?’

  ‘I just want to forget it. If I want another bike I will get one but now I just want to rest. These boys will not be happy, something will happen to them.’ Alem began to head towards his bedroom.

  ‘What did they look like?’ Mrs Fitzgerald asked.

  ‘I didn’t get a good look at them. One was Black and one was Asian.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone come and help you?’ asked Mrs Fitzgerald.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Alem. ‘Two women came to help me. I had a good look at them, one was Black and one was Asian as well.’ He then made his way to his bedroom, turned his computer on and fell asleep on his bed.

  Alem slept the kind of light sleep that meant he could hear noises from the house and still stay sleeping. He had fallen into bed wearing his jacket and shoes, and had chosen to sleep more as an attempt to forget everything than because of tiredness. At various times he heard Ruth in the house, he heard the bell ring a couple of times, he heard general communication coming from downstairs and at one point he even heard Mrs Fitzgerald telling someone to be quiet because he was sleeping. But he tried to block it all out. He was just about to fall into a deep sleep but then he could feel the presence of someone else in the room.

  The person sat on the bed and put her hands over his eyes. ‘Alem,’ she said. It was Ruth. ‘Alem, I’m sorry to hear about your bike. But listen, I have a surprise for you. I want you to keep your eyes closed, turn around slowly and then when I take my hands away you can open your eyes, all right?’

  Alem wasn’t in the mood for fun and games but he guessed that somehow his bike had been returned or a replacement bike had been obtained. ‘OK,’ he said almost reluctantly.

  He turned around to face the door and sat up with Ruth’s hands still covering his eyes. Ruth now pressed her hands against his eyes, making him feel slightly uncomfortable, and he felt she was doing this more for herself than for him.

  ‘Open your eyes after three,’ she said, pointing his head in the direction of the door and placing herself out of view. ‘One – two – three!’ She took her hands away and in a flash Alem’s world lit up.

  Standing before him was his father. His arms were outstretched and his smile said, Come and get me! Alem leaped from the bed straight into his arms. He hugged him hard, speaking to him in A
mharic.

  His father rubbed the top of his head with his hand and said, ‘English, young man, you must speak English.’ At which point they both burst into laughter and hugged some more, swinging each other from side to side.

  Alem didn’t notice all the other people standing just inside his room behind his father. It wasn’t until his father properly entered the room that he noticed them disappearing downstairs: Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald, Mariam and Pamela from the Refugee Council, and Sheila the social worker. Ruth was the last to leave, carefully closing the door behind her.

  His father looked around the room, noticing the picture on the computer. ‘Very clever, very clever indeed! Your mother – I don’t have a single picture of her. Do you still have the original?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘You have a nice room here, young man. So you know how to use this computer then?’

  ‘Yes, Father, I’m not great but I’m getting better.’

  ‘And have you read all those books?’ he said looking at all the books on the floor.

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘What does “not really” mean?’

  ‘Well, Father, I have read some of them but I have only read little parts of most of them.’

  ‘If you start something, you must see it through.’

  ‘I know, Father, I try,’ Alem said cheekily, ‘but there are so many things to see through.’

  Alem’s father sat with Alem on his bed and explained that he had landed at Heathrow Airport that morning. Then he made his way to central London on the Underground and contacted the Refugee Council. Not wanting to sadden the occasion too much, he only spoke a little about the way the war was impacting on the people. Alem knew that soon they had to talk about his mother but now he wanted to celebrate.

  ‘Do you plan to go back?’ Alem asked.

  ‘No, of course not,’ replied Mr Kelo. ‘Not now anyway. I told you in my letter that at the moment there is nothing back there for me, so I come here. Let us go downstairs.’

  They went downstairs to the living room to find that the other visitors had gone, leaving only the Fitzgerald family. ‘Where have they all gone?’ Mr Kelo asked Mr Fitzgerald, who was sitting next to Mrs Fitzgerald on the settee.