From Somalia with Love

by Na'ima B. Robert

  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.

  Chapter 3

  After the emotional meltdown at the airport, Abo became very subdued. He hardly spoke as we drove home. He answered Uncle Yusuf’s questions about Mogadishu, but I could tell from his voice that his mind was somewhere else. He stared out of the window at the tall buildings that rose on either side of the road, at the massive billboards, at the rows of shops whose windows glowed welcomingly, offering us things we could never afford. And there was the rain. It didn’t stop, coming down from a grey sky in a miserable drizzle.

  But if Abo was uncomfortable, if he was wondering what on earth he was doing here, that all changed when we reached Shepherds Bush. Here, there were Somalis everywhere: tall, broad Somali women doing their shopping in their brightly-coloured jilbabs, phoneshops selling blankets and mahlabiyyah oil, xalaal meat being sold, lanky old men wearing crumpled suits, their beards stained orange with henna, sitting in Somali coffee houses. I could see Abo start to relax.

  And if Shepherds Bush made Abo relax, arriving at my grandparents’ terrace house must have been like coming home.

  Uncle Yusuf knocked on the door and smiled at Abo. Then the door swung open and there was my Awowo, with a bigger smile on his face than I had ever seen, his arms open wide, ready to embrace my father. My other uncles, aunts and cousins crowded the narrow passageway behind him, all eager to see their long-lost son-in-law.

  “Asalaamu alaikum, yaa Hassan!” cried Awowo and the two of them shook hands and embraced, Awowo thumping Abo on the back. Then my grandmother stepped forward, beaming.

  “WarHassano!” she said in her singsong voice. Abo took her hand and kissed it, our way of showing respect to someone older. The rest of the family cheered and shouted out greetings, welcoming Abo back, inviting him inside, giving salaams and congratulations to Hoyo and the rest of us.

  The house was packed full of family: my Awowo, Ayeyo, my aunts, uncles and all our cousins. In all, about forty bodies were crammed into the four-bedroom house. Abo, Abdullahi and the men of the family all went into the living room while Ahmed went upstairs with Faisel, one of my cousins. I could hear my uncles’ voices rising above each other. Most of them hadn’t seen Abo for over ten years, and I could tell from their beaming faces and firm handshakes how much they had missed him.

  No sooner had Abo been pulled into the living room by the men, than we were dragged down the narrow corridor to the kitchen, where Hoyo’s mum and her sisters were putting the finishing touches to the dinner. The kitchen was like a furnace and there was steam everywhere. Ayeyo wiped her forehead with a corner of her scarf.

  “Asalaamu alaikum, Hoyo,” said my mum, taking Ayeyo’s hand and kissing it.

  Ayeyo did the same. Then Ayeyo took Hoyo in her arms and rocked her to and fro, praising Allah for my father’s safe return.

  “Alhamdulillah, yaa Nawal! My daughter! What a blessing for you: Hassan safely back with you and the children. Allahu akbar, wallahi, this is a great day!”

  Then she turned to me and put her hands up in the air. “Allah! Even more beautiful than the last time I saw you, masha Allah, Safia!” I kissed her hands and she kissed mine before turning back to the onions that sizzled on the stove. Then she began talking a mile a minute about everything: Abo’s return, the food, the guests, the state of the kitchen…

  I had a peek inside some of the massive pots that were perched precariously on the tiny stove top. My mouth watered as I smelt the delicious smells of raisin fried rice, fried steak and vegetable rice.

  Feeling brave, I dipped my hand into the biggest pot and took out some rice and meat with my fingertips, right hand of course!

  “’Eeb, yaa Safia!” my grandmother screeched, knocking my hand with her wooden spoon. But it was too late: I had already put the delicious cumin-flavoured rice in my mouth.

  “Sorry, Grandma,” I said with my mouth full, “your food is just too delicious to resist, wallahi.”

  She smiled and clucked disapprovingly. “Stop it now!” she said as she kissed me again.

  “Now,” she said, folding her arms over her chest, “have you been to see your Habaryero yet?”

  Habaryero! Of course! In all the excitement about Abo’s arrival and everything else, I had completely forgotten that I had not even seen my aunt since the announcement of her wedding plans.

  Excusing myself, I rushed out of the kitchen. As I passed the living room, I could hear a st
range chanting in Somali. I couldn’t make out the words, just the regular rhythm and repeated sounds.

  “What are they up to?” I wondered. But I didn’t stop. I went upstairs, stopping briefly to say salaams to various aunties and uncles and a quick ‘what’s up?’ to some of my cousins. There were people in every single room, so it took me a while to get to the third floor where Habaryero has stayed for all her single life.

  When I got to the door, I knocked and heard Habaryero’s voice call out, “Soogal!”

  I opened the door and saw my mother’s youngest sister, my Habaryero, sitting on her bed getting her hair plaited, surrounded by a whole group of my female cousins: Suad sat on the floor with her sisters, Halimo and Hoda, Fadumo leaned against Habaryero’s desk, Aisha was trying on some of Habaryero’s jewellery, turning from side to side in front of the mirror.

  I hadn’t seen my cousins for ages and, after giving salaams and kisses all round, I perched on the side of the desk, eager to hear all the latest news.

  Of course, the main topic of conversation was Habaryero’s wedding.

  “So, Naima, what are you going to wear?” Aisha put Habaryero’s jewellery back in the box and turned to her. “I think you would look wicked in this white wedding dress I saw down Selfridges last weekend. Nayaa, it was hot, walaalo!”

  “No, Aisha,” answered Habaryero, turning her head so that Asma could start on another plait. “I thought about getting a wedding dress from here laakinse I think I’m going to wear one of those new dira’ that have just come in from Dubai.”

  I thought Habaryero would look gorgeous in a dira’, a semi-transparent one with sequins and a heavily embroidered underskirt, but Aisha wrinkled up her nose.

  “Dira’?” she squealed. “Boring! Every downtown xalimo wears a dira’. That’s dry, man! Don’t you want to be different?”

  “For real,” added Suad, “dem dira’ are so out of date! I wouldn’t be caught dead in one, nayaa, no way!”

  “Shut your mouth!” retorted Hoda, snapping her fingers in her sister’s face. “What do you know about style anyway? I swear, sometimes I have to wear shades coz of the amount of bling you’ve got on!”

  “Wallahi, that’s so true,” Fadumo added. “It’s like some Somalis wanna deny their roots, forget where they came from. Weddings these days are all about the big white dress, diamond rings and cutting the cake. A girl can’t even wear dira’ without getting cussed…”

  Aisha flicked her hair away from her face and turned to Habaryero. “I suppose you’ll be getting henna as well, eh?”

  “And what’s wrong with henna, ha?” Fadumo and Hoda turned on Aisha and Suad and a heated argument began between the pro-Somali lot and the break-with-tradition camp. I just looked at all of them, laughing at how different they were, and how alike at the same time. But I wasn’t fazed by the hot exchange: the women in my family had big mouths, for sure.

  “Oh, shut up, you lot!” laughed Habaryero, kicking Suad playfully. “Whose wedding is this anyway?”

  We all laughed then and I seized the chance to ask the question that everyone else already knew the answer to. “Habaryero, you haven’t even told me: who is the lucky guy? What’s he like?”

  Habaryero put her head back as Asma started a new row of plaits and a dreamy look came into her eyes.

  “Well…” said Habaryero at last, “he’s Somali…”

  “Yeees..?” we all said together.

  “He’s from Holland…”

  “Yeees…?”

  “He’s an accountant…”

  “Yeees…?”

  “And nayaa, he’s fine, masha Allah!”

  We all started whooping and cheering and my cousins began teasing her, about her dress, about her henna, about her wedding night. Habaryero blushed and tried to get us to stop but I could see she was enjoying it anyway.

  Somehow or other, I got to the bottom of Habaryero’s wedding story. Habaryero had met a Somali lady at the school where she was working and this lady had a brother. It turned out the brother was looking for a wife and so he got his sister on the case for him. After working with my auntie for about 6 months, the lady, whose name was Rahma, thought that she would make a good match for her brother. So she called him, he called her, he called my Awowo, Awowo called Habaryero, the guy came over from Holland, they had a meeting, she accepted his proposal and they set a date – next month!

  Habaryero’s husband-to-be had already sent the traditional gift of gold to Habaryero’s family and she brought it out to show us.

  Even Aisha and Suad had to admit that the 24-carat gold jewellery that Habaryero held in her hands was gorgeous. The gold was nothing like the gold I had seen in Asian jewellery shops – it didn’t have that bright yellow glitter and the intricate designs. This was a warm, almost coppery colour – Arab gold. The designs were bold yet simple and looked stunning against Habaryero’s caramel skin.

  I was so happy for her. Habaryero had been single so long (in Somali terms, that is!) that I think a lot of people in the family had given up on her ever finding someone suitable. Sure, there had been guys who had been interested, but Habaryero wasn’t about to settle for just anyone! If you ask me, I think she was biding her time. She had always wanted to finish her education, get a job, find herself, that sort of thing. And now, she had found him Mr Right. I wondered whether I would know the right man for me when the time came.

  Then everyone turned to me.

  “Masha Allah,” Habaryero smiled, “your Abo’s come from Somalia, after all these years? Alhamdulillah, you must be very pleased…”

  I smiled and nodded, a lump in my throat, thinking of holding my mother, father and brothers at the airport.

  My cousins all murmured about how happy I must be, how amazing it was that he had survived the war. But I didn’t miss the raised eyebrows and the look that passed between Aisha and Suad. Suad’s dad was the one Ahmed had told me about, the one who had come from Somalia to find his kids ajanib through and through. I tried to catch Suad’s eye, but she didn’t look at me. I could feel the bad feeling start to grow again in the pit of my stomach.

  “Hey, has anyone seen Firdous lately?” I asked, changing the subject. “I haven’t seen her for ages!”

  Again, I saw a look pass between my cousins. I knew why I was not part of the silent communication. Not only was I younger than most of them, but living in East London meant that I didn’t see my cousins as often as they saw each other. Not only that, Hoyo wasn’t too keen on me going to West London to spend time with them. She never said why but I had heard her muttering about bad influences so I never pushed it. Anyway, Hoyo and I were tight, always had been, so our weekends were quite busy anyway. And I had Hamida too. That had always been more than enough. But now, I felt a pang of regret, a surge of envy for their comfortable closeness, their shared conversations and their secret looks. I felt left out of the loop.

  So what was the deal with my other fourteen-year-old cousin, Firdous?

  “Walaalo, you know Firdous is staying with Auntie Iman now?”

  “Huh?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Why’s that? She was staying with Uncle Ismaeel and his family – what happened?”

  Another look.

  Firdous’s parents had split up when she was still in nappies and her mum was in Holland, her dad in Canada. She and her sisters had been staying with different relatives but I had thought that Uncle Ismaeel’s house was her home. I couldn’t imagine why she would have left there – and to stay with Auntie Iman? The one the kids secretly nicknamed ‘Witch of the Ogaden’? It didn’t make sense…

  Just then, the door opened and everyone turned to see who it was this time.

  She stood there at the door for a moment, poised, taking in everyone’s stares. She wore tight-fitting black trousers with a strappy white top that showed every inch of her petite frame. Her blond-streaked hair was straight and smooth, curving over one eye then into a sleek ponytail. Heavy gold earrings hung from her ears and she had rings on e
very one of her fingers. She looked at everyone steadily, her plucked eyebrows arched, her glossy lips in a half smile.

  It was Firdous.

  “Iskawaran, walaalo!” she said at last, grabbing Suad and hugging her. “What’s up, man? Whatcha all starin’ at?” That broke the tension and, all of a sudden, everyone was all smiles. Everyone started laughing, talking again. Only Habaryero was silent, looking at Firdous with a worried expression on her face.

  I had to fight not to stare, not to let my mouth hang open like an idiot. The last time I saw Firdous, she was on her way home from school: hijab, loose grey trousers, blazer, face scrubbed clean, a regular Somali girl like me. But now? She looked completely different: older, sophisticated, more self-assured, more knowing – everything I was not.

  Suddenly, I felt small and plain in my pale pink hijab and denim skirt. I knew that, even without my loose-fitting clothes, I would never look as good as Firdous did. And I was jealous.

  I bit my lip and looked down at the books on Habaryero’s desk. Among her Qur’an and Islamic books, I spotted a few glossy magazines, her ‘guilty pleasures’, as she called them, and her collection of books from her school days. I was just about to pull one out when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  I spun round to see Firdous smiling at me. She was so close I could see the tiny nose ring in her left nostril and smell her perfume, heavy and cloying.

  “Nayaa, Safia, long time no see, ha?” She hugged me and laughed when I fumbled with my words.

  “Umm, yeah… uh, too long,” I said. “So, what have you been up to? I heard you’re staying with Auntie Iman now? How’s that going?”

  Firdous raised an eyebrow and popped her gum. “Yeah, well, you know what adults are like!” She said that as if she and I were partners in this great conspiracy, this teen rebellion, and I felt grateful for her attention, as if I too could someday be so beautiful that heads turn, that I too could have that sophistication. Strange: I had never wanted it before that day.