“Yeah, just a bit,” I said nonchalantly. I wasn’t about to admit that I saw her at least four times a week, especially since I hadn’t been asking Hoyo’s permission.
“Haa,” murmured Habaryero thoughtfully, rubbing her forehead. Then she closed the catalogue and looked at me, a deep searching look. I made my face as blank as possible.
“Be careful, Safia,” she said. “Firdous… Firdous is a lot of fun…laakinse she has a lot of issues, stuff, you know? I don’t think you should spend time with her, I don’t think your Hoyo would be pleased…”
“Firdous is all right, Habaryero, don’t worry. People misunderstand her, that’s all. She’s really cool – we’re cool…”
“I know you think you know her, Safia, but believe me, I have lived with her. There is more to her than meets the eye. Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying.” She reached out and stroked my face. “You’re very special, Safia, always remember that. Remember who you are… and where you come from.”
“I will, Habaryero,” I said, “I will, insha Allah.”
***
I thought about that conversation as I walked home with Firdous the next day. Firdous was going on about this new guy she had met, Amr.
“And he’s got a friend, Safia, who’d be perfect for you, just perfect!” She squeezed my arm, more excited than I had ever seen her.
“Perfect for me?” I rolled my eyes. “What on earth does that mean?”
“It means that he’s a nice guy and I think he would really like you – and you would like him.”
“Firdous,” I said, shaking my head, “you just don’t get it, do you? I wear hijab. Don’t you think that is going to kinda scare him off?”
“No, I don’t,” she said shortly. “There’s plenty of girls in hijab that have guys falling over themselves to take them out – you know you’re hot anyway!”
I blushed. These last few weeks with Firdous had opened my eyes to a lot of things – and one of those things was the way in which others saw me, as a young woman.
“I’m not saying you should marry the guy, just meet him, that’s all…” Then her eyes went all dreamy. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to have a guy tell you how gorgeous you are, how much he loves you?”
Part of me thought, yeah, right. But the other part of me thought, wouldn’t that be wonderful?
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt just to meet him…” I said at last.
Firdous squealed and squeezed my arm again. “That’s my girl! It’s going to be great, you’ll see!”
***
So that’s how we got to be standing on a scruffy residential street somewhere in Forest Gate. I saw them coming from a mile away. You couldn’t mistake the walk, the ‘bop’, the saggy pants and the lanky Somali frame.
I heard Firdous suck in her breath as she caught sight of them too. I glanced at her and saw her put on her lipstick smile, the one she always practised in the mirror at home.
They were coming closer. I looked around. Surely no one I knew would see me here of all places. I looked around again, worried this time. What if Abo saw us? Or Abdullahi? Or, even worse in its own way, Hoyo? I observed the scene from their point of view: their Safia, with the most notorious member of the family, Firdous, talking to two strange Somali boys… on the street… big-time ’eeb!
But I didn’t see anyone I knew. The street was unusually quiet, a few roads away from the hustle and bustle of Green Street. And I knew that Firdous had chosen this road on purpose. Green Street, although easier to find, was full of other Somalis, people who knew us, who knew our parents, and wouldn’t hesitate to call them to give them a full report.
“Iskawaran, walaalo.”
I looked up and saw them in front of us: Fuad and Amr. Fuad, tall and slim, wore a black leather jacket with red and white trim. His black jeans hung dangerously low off his waist and he wore a silver ring on each little finger. I could smell his aftershave and I looked down, my face burning.
“Nabat, what’s popping, man?”
I heard Firdous’s response, her voice dripping with honey.
Fuad jerked his chin at me. “Who’s your friend?” he asked.
“This is my cousin, Safia,” Firdous answered, pushing me forward slightly.
“She’s cute,” he said. Then he turned and looked right in my face. “You’re cute.”
I wanted to disappear into the graffiti-scarred wall behind me. My face was flaming, my tongue thick in my mouth, so thick I couldn’t speak. Shame, shame, shame! Shame on me for being so dumb! Shame on him for chatting up a girl in hijab! Shame on that girl in hijab for being there in the first place!
“Umm…er, thanks,” I managed to mumble, pulling at my scarf.
“So what are you girls doing?” said Amr, his eyes sweeping Firdous’s body, taking in every detail she’d been perfecting at the house. I felt embarrassed for her – didn’t she feel exposed? But I could see her blossoming under his gaze. She smiled that dazzling smile of hers, the one that confused me the most, the one that said, ‘I’ve got it all, baby’, even though I knew it wasn’t true.
“Ah, just hanging out, y’know, waiting for you guys to show us a good time.”
“Ah, yeah?” Amr smiled. “Well, we was hoping you were going to show us a good time.” He nudged Fuad who let out a little chuckle, his eyes never leaving my face.
This was all too much, way, way too much. Show them a good time? This had gone far enough. I started backing away, pulling Firdous by the arm.
“We really need to get home,” I tried to explain. “It will be dark soon.”
Firdous shot me a look and I shot her one right back. I wasn’t about to stay there a minute longer and she knew it. She had to smooth things over.
“Hey, why don’t we meet you guys again for a movie or something? Maybe this weekend?”
“Sure,” said Fuad, still looking at me, “but only if you come.” And he winked at me, a lopsided smile on his face.
It sounds like such a cliché but, at that very moment, I felt weak, weak in every way.
I managed to blurt out a hurried, “Maybe”, before turning on my heels and walking away. I had to force myself not to run down the road. I could hear Firdous making hurried plans with them before running to catch up with me.
“Safia!” she hissed, “what is wrong with you?” I knew she didn’t want them to hear us arguing so I kept walking fast, ignoring her, until we were safely on Green Street. Only then did I start walking at a normal pace… and breathing again.
“Safia,” she said again, less urgently this time, reaching out to touch my arm, “what happened to you back there?”
I stopped walking. “What do you mean ‘what happened’?” I snapped, my cheeks burning. “Look Firdous, I’m not like you, OK? It’s one thing trying on clothes, make-up and stuff in your house – that’s cool, it’s fun and no one gets hurt. But meeting up with boys, going to movies, it’s not my thing. Imagine if my dad had seen us! We’d be finished! Besides, Hoyo always says…”
“Hoyo?” she sneered, “you’re still going by what your Hoyo says? I thought you were a big girl, Safia, big enough to make your own decisions…”
“I am, Firdous, of course I am,” I said, wanting to believe it myself. “It’s just that I’m not sure if this is what I want…”
“How do you know this isn’t what you want?” She smiled at me then, almost kindly. “Fuad thinks you’re cute – isn’t that what you want? Doesn’t that feel good?”
What could I say? That moment – when Fuad had looked right at me and said those words ‘You’re cute’ – was etched in my brain. I could hear his voice, see his stupid lopsided smile. I knew where all that was going, what it was leading to – hadn’t Firdous been there a thousand times? Did I want what she had? Sure, she was free to do what other teenagers do, what all the kids at school do all the time, every weekend: dress up, go out, have fun, have boyfriends.
But Firdous also had the worst reputation, was the leas
t respected and the most disapproved of child in my whole family. She had been kicked out by Uncle Ismaeel and was constantly in battles with Auntie Iman. Even Habaryero, never one to judge, had warned me to stay away from her. I had heard girls use the awful word ‘dhilo’ about her when she wasn’t there.
Was it worth the aggro from Abo, Abdullahi and everyone else?
And what about Hoyo?
At the thought of Hoyo, my heart grew cold. Hoyo? Would she even notice? Since Abo had come home, it was as if we were living on two different planets. We had never had problems between us, never, until he came along. I still wasn’t really talking to her because of what had happened with Ahmed. She hadn’t even noticed how little I was eating, how much time I spent away from home, how much time I spent with Firdous.
Right then, I made up my mind: I would go to the movies with Fuad. Chances are, Hoyo would never find out anyway and if she did, well, maybe then she would remember that she had a daughter, not just a husband who had come home from Somalia.
“So,” I said, taking a deep breath, “when did you arrange to meet at the movies?”
***
Late, late that night, Ahmed came home. He came with Uncle Yusuf and my mum’s cousin. He looked tired and pale, and much thinner than the last time I had seen him and he walked with a limp. Hoyo burst into tears when she saw him and held him tight.
Abo’s face was stony and Uncle Yusuf asked him to step into the lounge.
I could hear their conversation from outside the door.
“Why did you bring him here?” Abo’s voice was angry. “You know he has problems. And there’s Safia to think about…”
Me?
“Safia is only a young girl,” he continued. “I don’t want Ahmed’s rubbish influencing her.”
“I understand that, Hassan,” replied Uncle Yusuf, “but this is not Somalia. You can’t just send your child away and expect them to be OK. There are no uncles or aunties to keep him safe. There is no community to make sure he goes straight.”
“He’s right,” added Hoyo’s cousin. “If you send Ahmed away now, you will lose him. It’s too dangerous out there: there’s drugs, gangs, diseases… This is London, my brother, not Mogadishu.”
“You have to let him come home,” said Uncle Yusuf, with finality.
There was a long pause.
“All right,” sighed Abo, resigned. “All right.”
***
I went to see Ahmed in his room after Hoyo and Abo had gone to bed.
“Ahmed?” I whispered, tapping on the door as I pushed it open.
“Safia-girl!” he smiled weakly and turned to me. He had taken his top off and I saw the long ugly scar across his side. I gasped and tears filled my eyes.
“What happened to you, Ahmed?”
He frowned down at the scar. “Just some foolishness, sis, just some foolishness… That ODB, man,” he ran his fingers through his hair. “That ODB is a real crackhead.”
I nodded, my hand to my mouth, still unable to believe that the scar was real, that it had happened and I hadn’t known, that this pale, thin boy was my brother for real.
“Ahmed… are you all right now?”
“Yeah, sis, I’m getting there, insha Allah, I’m getting there.” Then he turned to me, his eyes so tired, so sad. “I just wanna catch some zzzzs now, you know?”
I nodded again. “Goodnight, Ahmed,” I said as I turned to leave. “I’m really glad you’re home.”
“Me too, sis,” came the voice from the bed. “Me too.”
Ahmed slept for the next two days and, when he emerged from his room, his smile was brighter and he started praying at the mosque with Abo and Abdullahi.
Chapter 7
“Your hoyo is worried about you, you know,” said Habaryero as she flipped through a magazine full of bridal hairstyles: updos, chignons, French braids and other, funkier ones like flat twists and cornrows with little shells.
We were sitting in the living room of a Somali lady who had converted one of the rooms in her flat to a hair salon. From there, she offered braiding, hair cuts, straightening, the occasional dye job and henna for brides. The house smelt of bukhoor and hot hair – no doubt from the straightening tongs that she heated up in a little stove for those clients who wanted to get rid of their natural curls for a while.
When she applied the red hot tongs to the hair, there was always a hiss and a small cloud of steam would rise up, carrying with it the smell of burning grease and singed hair. Sounds like torture but, for some, it was a small price to pay to be able to toss their silky straight locks at an aroos.
I was fortunate in that my hair was wavy and quite fine. Hoyo had forbidden me to go anywhere near the iron tongs.
“They will burn the hair off your head, Safia,” she had warned me. “You have soft hair like mine – I don’t want you to go ruining it.”
Anyway, wearing hijab meant that a quick brush and an elastic band were enough for my hair. I had watched Firdous use the ceramic straighteners on her hair – and I couldn’t help but laugh at all the fuss. First was the wrap lotion: smoothed on from root to tip. Then came the protective cream – to guard against the effects of the heat. Then, after the laborious and muscle-straining pulling on sections of hair all the way round with the tongs, there was the shine spray – to get it looking just right. I always found it amusing that all that effort went to waste if we happened to get caught in the rain on the way to the bus stop. Then she would pull her hood up over her head to stop it all frizzing up again and I would laugh at her.
“See?” I would say, “you might as well be wearing hijab like me!”
Of course, she would laugh and stick her tongue out at me.
I wondered whether she would ever wear hijab again.
I had heard some people say that a hijab is just a scarf, but to me, it went much deeper than that. It was a symbol of who I was, a way of telling the world what I stood for. But, more importantly, it was part of my Islam, my identity. To let go of the hijab takes a lot. Sometimes, it’s the last thing you hold on to before you lose it all completely. Wasn’t that what had happened to Firdous?
But if Firdous had lost it completely, where did I stand? I thought about that every time I got home from Firdous’ house, only to realise that I had missed my afternoon prayer, again. I felt sick to my heart, praying ’Asr in a frantic rush to catch the time, even as I heard the adhan clock announce that the next prayer, Maghrib, was due.
I was slipping, I could see that.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it. No one around me seemed to notice anything different – to them, I was still the same Safia. But I was changing and the only other people who knew that were Hamida and Firdous. But while Hamida was critical of the changes, Firdous encouraged them. She had become the closest person to me, not because she understood me or knew my innermost thoughts like Hamida, but because she was fun to be with. She let me be whoever I wanted to be. She was my escape from all the pressure at home.
I thought about my last conversation with Hamida.
“Can you come over after school on Friday?” she had asked.
Mentally, I weighed up the pros and cons of telling her the truth about my plans, that Firdous and I were going to the movies with Fuad and Amr. But we had made up since our fight and I decided to come clean.
“Firdous and I are meant to meet these guys for a movie…” I said quietly, watching her expression carefully.
“Whaaaat?” she breathed, a horrified look on her face. “Does your mum know about this?”
I shook my head. “Of course not, Hamida, be serious!”
She looked at me then, her eyebrow raised. “Why are you doing this, Safia?” she said at last. “What are you trying to prove?”
I shrugged. “It’s just a movie, Hamida…”
She laughed then. “You and I both know that it’s never ‘just a movie’.” Then she was serious again. “Are you going to take off your hijab?”
“Of c
ourse not!” I retorted. “Hamida, don’t worry, I’m not about to go wild. I just want to know what it’s like to be like everyone else.”
“I’m not like everyone else,” said Hamida quietly. “You never wanted that before.” Then she smiled ruefully. “But I suppose you have to discover that for yourself. I’m not supporting you in this, you know, but I know that you’re going to do it anyway. Just be careful, yeah?”
The night before, I had tried to get Ahmed on my side. He had sent me a text, asking me to bring him some fried chicken and chips on my way home. He had lost so much weight, I was happy to bring him whatever he wanted to eat and I smiled as he tore open the box hungrily.
“You want some?” he asked, shaking the box my way.
“No, thanks,” I said. I watched him eat for a while, then said, “Ahmed, what do you think of Somali girls who go to the movies, you know, with guys..?”
Ahmed’s eyebrows shot up immediately. “Nah, sis, don’t you even be thinking along them lines. It’s just asking for trouble. You know that it ain’t allowed and, besides, if I ever catch a guy trying to mess with you, I’ll kill him, OK? No man’s gonna be chirpsing my sister cos all of them got sick, dirty minds. Believe me, I know!”
I couldn’t confide in Ahmed, either.
I shook my head and looked at the page in front of me. I wanted Habaryero to have her hair braided in little plaits, possibly with beads on the ends. She always looked so pretty with that style – she reminded me of a picture I saw once of a Somali nomad, shy and pretty in a really natural way. But Habaryero wasn’t keen on the idea.
“It’s my wedding day, Safia,” she had reminded me, “I want something special, something different…”
“Like this you mean?” I had said, pointing to a woman with short Afro hair dyed blonde.
“Not that different!” she laughed, slapping my leg. “Imagine what the aunties would say about that! But did you hear what I said about your mum?”
“What did she say, Habaryero?”
“She says you’ve been very distant lately, not talking much, not yourself, you know?”
From Somalia with Love Page 7
