Refugee Boy

by Benjamin Zephaniah

  Alem rang the bell and Robert opened the door.

  ‘This is Robert,’ Alem said to his father.

  Robert stretched forth his hand. ‘Hello, Mr Kelo, we’re glad you could come.’

  Mr Kelo shook his hand.

  ‘Follow me,’ Robert said, ‘we were just about to start the meeting.’

  Alem could hear noises coming from the cellar but was very surprised by what awaited him. The cellar was packed with kids, some that he had never seen before and some familiar faces from school. As Alem and his father entered the room, they all stopped chattering and clapped. As the clapping died down, Robert made his way to the front of the cellar where the band’s equipment was. He stood on a makeshift podium made from the reinforced shipping cases used for the instruments, and opened the meeting.

  ‘All right, we are here today because we all want justice for our friend Alem. We have all agreed that we’re willing to help out in any way we can to get him and his father to stay in this country for as long as he needs to.’

  There were shouts of approval from the crowd. Robert continued.

  ‘It is easy to understand that some people may think we’re starting trouble, but any campaign that we start must be a peaceful one. We must be in control and have discipline, because we know that the trouble has already been started. All we want is fair treatment for our fellow human beings. Now this is the plan of action. We shall march to the town hall on Saturday 11th March to deliver a petition to our MP or one of her people. The week before that, on the fourth, we’ll have a benefit gig at the school featuring none other than Pithead, our own local protest band. We need to let all the churches, mosques and temples know what’s happening and we need to tell the local press.’ He paused and looked around the room. ‘We’re ready and we’re willing! But anything we do, we must do it with the consent of both Alem and Mr Kelo, all right. So before we go any further we need to know from you –’ he looked towards Alem and his father – ‘if we have your permission to campaign on your behalf.’

  The whole room fell silent. Everyone looked at Alem; Alem looked at his father, then everyone looked at Alem’s father. Mr Kelo gazed around at all the eager young faces, obviously raring to go, and he considered for a moment how they had given up their time to be there. He looked towards Robert and nodded his head.

  Everyone in the room shouted, ‘Yes!’ Many jumped for joy as if their team had scored a winning goal. Robert took control of the situation; it was as if he had been watching proceedings in the House of Commons.

  ‘Order, order! he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Now, any volunteers? We need as many volunteers as possible.’

  Mr Kelo watched in amazement as kids volunteered to do various duties. Alem could tell that his father was fighting back the tears that had begun to form in his eyes. Ruth went forward and volunteered to take the job of press and public-relations person and when she returned she hugged Alem, who was holding back his own tears.

  Slowly, the crowd dispersed. It was as if they had all gone on a mission, a young army of resistance working for a cause they all believed in. Before they left, Mr Kelo spoke to as many of them as he could, including Asher and Buck, and he thanked them all for what they were doing. Then Mr Kelo, Alem and Ruth made their way back to Meanly Road.

  Chapter 21

  ˜ The Freedom Dance ˜

  The view from the bedroom window was deceptive. The morning sun shone as if it was midsummer and there was not a cloud in the sky but it was still cold outside. Alem packed his belongings slowly. He had come to the house with all he had packed into one sports bag; now he had to be given a large suitcase by Mr Fitzgerald to carry his things. As he packed, Mrs Fitzgerald came into the room. Alem looked sad.

  ‘Don’t worry, Alem, you’re not really going anywhere. And Alem, you must take a couple of books. Bring them back when you’re done with them, but do take some.’

  Ruth stuck her head round the door. ‘Hey, Alem, leave your family picture on the computer for now. If you really don’t want it to stay on, we can take it off later, but I reckon you should leave it for a while. You gonna be around.’

  Alem nodded his head in agreement. Then he began to pick up all the books from the floor and place them back on the bookshelves. Mrs Fitzgerald left him to it. When the books were on the shelves he realised that he hadn’t chosen anything to take with him, so he began to browse over the titles until something caught his eye. It was An Encyclopaedia of the English Language. Alem took it off the shelf and flicked through a few pages. It wasn’t just a dictionary, it had whole sections on how the English language had evolved, the differences between spoken English and written English, and it would also explain the history of some individual words. Alem placed it in the sports bag before making his way downstairs, where the Fitzgeralds were waiting for him.

  The taxi pulled up outside and sounded its horn. Alem shook Mr Fitzgerald’s hand on the doorstep, hugged Ruth and said goodbye, and then hugged Mrs Fitzgerald. ‘I don’t know what all this emotional stuff is about! You and your father will be back here tomorrow for a meal.’

  ‘And we have a campaign committee meeting here on Wednesday,’ said Ruth.

  Mrs Fitzgerald placed a folded ten-pound note into Alem’s hand and said, ‘Taxi fare – keep the change. Now you go, say hello to your father for us, and we’ll see you round here at six tomorrow.’

  At the other end of the journey, Alem was struggling to get up the stairs with his luggage.

  ‘Let me help you,’ came a voice from the bottom of the stairs. Alem turned to find the young man who had previously directed him to his father’s room when he first came to visit him and whom he had last seen in the supermarket.

  ‘Thanks,’ Alem replied. ‘If you take this bag, then I can carry the big one on my own. Carrying them both together is what I find difficult.’

  When they reached the top of the stairs, the man began to question Alem.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Alem, Alem Kelo.’

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘Africa.’

  ‘Let me guess where in Africa – Somalia?’

  ‘No, close.’

  ‘Sudan.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘I come from Ethiopia and Eritrea.’

  ‘I knew it was somewhere around there. This place has people from everywhere. There are a few Somalis and there was an Ethiopian family but they have gone now.’

  Alem now began to question the man. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My name is Abbas Noor and I am Palestinian.’

  Alem began to think. ‘I can’t remember now, where is Palestine?’

  ‘That is the problem. Palestine has been taken off the map.’

  Alem was tempted to ask more questions about this country that sounded so familiar but wasn’t on the map. However, he decided to pursue another line of questioning just in case he risked upsetting him. ‘So how long have you been here?’

  ‘I’ve been in the hotel for one year and before that we were in another place, it was worse than this.’

  ‘What?’ Alem couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘You mean there are places called hotels that are worse than this?’

  ‘Listen, you see lots of them all over London. Even on this road there are a few hotels, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, this is the best one around here.’

  ‘Honest?’

  ‘I am serious, you should see some of the others. And I tell you something else. If you take some money and go into any of these hotels to rent a room, you will find that you will never get a room, they won’t give you one, and most of them won’t even have a reception.’

  Alem thought about his first visit to the hotel and how he had looked for a reception desk but couldn’t find one. He remembered never even seeing anyone who looked as if they were in charge. ‘Why is that?’ he asked. ‘Why no reception? Why no rooms for hire?’

&nbs
p; ‘Because they only want business from the Social Security. Money paid straight into their bank accounts. So they only take refugees and homeless people who the council send – regular money, you see.’

  Mr Kelo heard them talking and came out to see who it was. ‘Oh, it’s you, Alem. Come on in and bring your friend.’ He reached out and took the large suitcase.

  ‘I must go – but I’ll see you again. So you live here now?’ Abbas asked, pointing into the room.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. Goodbye, sir,’ he said to Mr Kelo. ‘See you,’ he said to Alem. ‘What’s your name again?’

  ‘Alem.’

  ‘Alem,’ he repeated.

  As soon as Alem entered the room he noticed that another piece of furniture had been added. A single bed made up with clean sheets, a duvet and a small flat pillow.

  Mr Kelo saw that it had caught Alem’s eye. ‘Sheila had it delivered this morning,’ he said. ‘It’s good to have friends in high places.’

  The room was very different from the one Alem had just left, and everything about it made his skin crawl, but he thought that if his father could endure it, he should endure it with him. He had to share the wardrobe with his father’s clothes, which were already sharing the wardrobe with the food. Alem now had nowhere but the floor to put his personal belongings and there was very little space in the room to move around. Later in the evening when no one was using the kitchen, they went down and cooked boiled potatoes and tinned mincemeat. Then Alem did some homework and Mr Kelo listened to the news on the radio until late into the night.

  In the morning the cold and the sound of heavy traffic woke Alem. He blew into the air and watched his breath turn white. Then he put his head under the duvet and curled up tightly into a ball, hoping that he would quickly get warm, but it wasn’t working so he got out of bed and prepared himself for school. School was now a bus ride away but he made sure that he arrived early.

  After school he met up with his father at the Fitzgeralds’ house, where they had a meal as planned.

  The next day after school Alem was back at Meanly Road again, this time for the first campaign meeting. It was held in his old room, which had now been transformed into the co-ordination office of the campaign. The computer had been left on so that the Kelo family watched over them.

  Alem had come from school with Robert and Buck, and then Ruth arrived from work. Soon afterwards Asher and other volunteers turned up, including one girl that Alem had not seen before.

  Asher introduced her to Alem. ‘Hey, Alem,’ he said, guiding her between them, ‘this is Tibra. She’s cool, man, from Ethiopia, a true Ethiopian princess.’

  Alem shook her hand. ‘Hello, pleased to meet you.’

  She looked Ethiopian but Alem was shocked by her accent, which was completely east London with not a trace of African.

  ‘I heard what was going down and I thought I gotta do something to help you.’

  ‘Thank you. Where in Ethiopia do you come from?’

  ‘My family come from Addis but I was born here. Never see Ethiopia in me life. Well, only on telly, like, and then we only see the bad bits.’

  By now the room had nine people in it, which made it seem very crowded. Robert called the meeting to order and began the proceedings.

  ‘Now, first of all I have to report that we have hired the school hall for the benefit gig. Now we need to get the posters designed and made up.’

  Asher spoke. ‘No problem. I’ll deal with that, my friend works in a print shop. I’ll arrange something with him. He’s great at design as well.’

  ‘Good,’ Robert continued. ‘Now what about the petition?’

  ‘I’m doing that,’ said a boy standing by the door. Alem didn’t recognise him. He whispered to Buck, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘That’s Ajay Kumar, Mrs Kumar’s son. Well-educated geezer, both parents are teachers, innit?’

  ‘This is the wording,’ Ajay continued. He began to read from a piece of paper. ‘We, the undersigned, protest in the strongest terms against the planned deportation of Alem and Mr Kelo. As British subjects we believe that it is our duty to offer them protection until it is completely safe for them to return to their homeland. Furthermore we demand that our elected government set up an inquiry to look into the general treatment of refugees and asylum seekers.’

  Ajay stopped and looked at Robert. ‘If that’s OK I’ll get these photocopied tomorrow.’

  ‘Does anyone object to that wording?’ Robert asked. Everyone shook their heads. ‘All right, get them photocopied, and Ruth,’ he said, looking in her direction, ‘what do you have for us?’

  Ruth stepped into the middle of the room. ‘Today I spoke to the Newham Echo. They said that they’d like to do a piece on Alem. They said they can’t campaign on our behalf but they could do a kind of human-interest story. I’ve also been in touch with Newstalk South East, the TV programme. They said they’d cover both the march and the gig – if there are no major disasters in London when they’re on. And I’ve also been on the phone to the local MP, who promised to take the petition on the eleventh and deliver it to Number Ten Downing Street.’

  Ruth sat down and Robert thanked her. Some other duties were delegated, including the job of planning the route of the march and notifying the police, which was shared between Tibra and Robert.

  Then Robert made his final speech. ‘Don’t forget now, we don’t have much time. We really need to get moving. Get petitions any time after tomorrow from Ajay in school or from Ruth here after five o’clock, and get as many signatures as you can. Get them from your friends, your neighbours, shopkeepers, your parents, even your local policeman. Don’t stop getting them until those forms are full. Our next meeting will be here on the twenty-eighth at five. Hopefully by then we should be making some progress.’

  After the meeting, when people were making their way out, Alem managed to get Ruth and Robert together. ‘What can I do?’ he said. ‘I haven’t got a job.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ replied Robert. ‘We’re doing this for you. You and your father have other things to get on with.’

  ‘OK,’ Alem said, now turning to Ruth. ‘But what about your parents? We can’t keep using the house as a meeting place.’

  Ruth went up to him and put her arms around his shoulders. ‘You worry too much. Mum and Dad said it’s fine. They told us to use it and they said they’ll do anything to help, but only when asked. They want us to run this campaign ourselves. Adults must be accompanied by radical youths.’

  Many of the activists were seeing each other at school, and Alem went to visit Asher at his flat and to see Pithead rehearse during that week.

  At the next meeting it was obvious that all the jobs were being done; sheets of signed petitions were already being handed in, posters had been put up on the streets and the route of the march had been agreed.

  Early on Saturday evening Alem and his father made their way to the school by bus. Inside the hall records were already playing and the hall was half full. The event was attracting a diverse range of people; many of Alem’s fellow students were there, some of their parents, some teachers, more kids that looked like clones of Buck and many very familiar faces. Mariam, Sheila, Pamela and Alem couldn’t believe their eyes when they saw Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald paying the going rate at the door before coming into the hall.

  Soon the hall was packed and Robert appeared on stage. He took hold of the microphone and began to speak. ‘I would like to thank you all for coming here tonight to support this cause. We will not give up this struggle because we are strong and I think we are getting stronger every day. Before we begin the entertainment tonight, I just want to remind you all of the march next week. We will be leaving Great Milford School on Saturday 11th March at eleven a.m., and from there we will be marching via a pre-planned route to Stratford Town Hall, where I shall be handing in a petition to Mrs Leonie Ranks MP. It is very important that we get as many people as possible on that march so please come, bring your friends and mak
e sure that you have strong voices. Tonight we have a great local band to play for you. But before the band we have a local poet who is going to share his work with us, so please give a big welcome to Asher Obadiah.’

  Robert walked off stage as the crowd began to clap, shout and whistle. Alem did a double-take when he realised that it was his friend Asher who was now standing on the stage. Wearing a West African gown and a red, yellow and green headband around his dreadlocks, Asher stood and delivered five poems, one after the other. The crowd applauded after each one. When he was about to do the final one, he dedicated it to Alem and Mr Kelo and all those who were fleeing from persecution.

  When Asher left the stage, Robert reappeared. This time he was much quicker. ‘And now for the main act of the night, the band of the future with their own home-grown indie sound – please welcome Pithead.

  The band came on and started to play. Buck and the other band members seemed to have made no attempt to dress up, and Buck’s style of singing still sounded like moaning to Alem.

  Mr Kelo couldn’t believe what he was hearing or seeing. He had always known music as a form of celebration. Even the music he had heard at funerals was a celebration of the life of the deceased, but these guys sounded as if they were in mourning. Everyone started dancing, and the people dancing looked as if they were enjoying the music more than the band members were. Mr Kelo raised his eyebrows at Alem. In the middle of the hall Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald were dancing completely out of time, looking out of place but having the time of their lives. Teachers danced like vicars at weddings, and students tried to dance as far away from the teachers as possible.

  Buck introduced each song.

  ‘This one’s called, “Who Are the Living?”’

  ‘This one’s called, “She Took My Coat”.’

  ‘This one’s called, “I Believe in Acne”,’ and so on.

  At the end of the night Robert got back on stage and thanked everyone for coming. He reminded them of the march, then without warning he called Alem on stage to say ‘a few words’.