by Dirie, Waris
Bursting into the room, I called to Aunt Sahru, “Auntie, I need a conversation.”
She looked at me in exasperation. “What is it, Waris?”
“Please in here.” When she walked through the door and out of his sight, I grabbed hold of her arm fiercely. “Please. Please tell him to take me. I can be his maid.” She looked at me and I could see the hurt on her face. But I was a strong-willed kid only thinking about what I wanted, instead of what she’d done for me.
“You! You don’t know nothing about nothing. What are you going to do in London?”
“I can clean! Tell him to take me to London, Auntie! I want to GO!”
“I don’t think so. Now, stop bothering me and get to work.” She walked back into the other room and sat beside her brother-in-law. I heard her say quietly, “Why don’t you take her? You know she really is good. She’s a good cleaner.”
Auntie called me into the room and I leaped through the door. I stood there with my feather duster in my hand, smacking my gum. “I’m Waris. You’re married to Auntie, aren’t you?”
The ambassador frowned at me. “Would you mind taking that chewing gum out of your mouth?” I spat the wad into the corner. He looked at Auntie Sahru. “This is the girl? Oh, no, no, no.”
“I’m excellent. I can clean, I can cook and I’m good with children, too!”
“Oh, I’m sure you are.”
I turned to Auntie. “Tell him’
“Waris, that’s enough. Get back to work.”
“Tell him I’m the best!”
“Waris! Shush!” To my uncle she said, “She’s young still, but she really is a hard worker. Believe me, she’ll be okay…” Uncle Mohammed sat still for a moment looking at me with disgust. “Okay, listen. I’m taking you tomorrow. Okay? I’ll be here in the afternoon with your passport, then we’ll go to London.”
Going to London
London! I didn’t know anything about it, but I liked the sound of it. I didn’t know where it was, but I knew it was very far away. And far away was where I wanted to be. It seemed like the answer to my prayers, and yet too good to be true. I wailed, “Auntie, am I really going?”
She wagged her finger at me sternly. “You shut up. Don’t start.” When she saw the look of panic on my face, she smiled. “All right. Yes, you’re really going.”
On fire with excitement, I ran to tell my cousin Fatima, who was just starting dinner. “I’m going to London! I’m going to London!” I shouted and began to dance in circles around the kitchen.
“What? London!” She grabbed my arm in mid spin and made me explain. “You’re going to be white,” Fatima announced matter-of factly “What did you say?”
“You’re going to be white, you know..” white.” I did not know. I had no idea what she was talking about, since I had never seen a white person, and in fact didn’t know such a thing existed. However, her comment didn’t trouble me in the slightest. “Shut up, please,” I said in my most superior fashion. “You’re just jealous that I’m going to London and you’re not.” I resumed my dancing, swaying and clapping my hands as if I were celebrating the rain, then chanted, “I’m going to London! Ohhh-aiyeee – I’m going to London!”
WAR IS Aunt Sahru called in a threatening tone.
That evening Auntie outfitted me for my journey; I received my first pair of shoes fine leather sandals. On the plane I wore a long, brightly colored dress she’d given me, covered by a loose African robe. I had no luggage, but it didn’t matter because I had nothing to take, except the outfit I’d be wearing when Uncle Mohammed picked me up the next day. As we left for the airport, I hugged and kissed Auntie Sahru, dear Fatima, and all my little cousins goodbye. Fatima had been so kind to me that I wanted to take her with me. But I knew there was only a job for one person, and since that was the case, I was glad it was me. Uncle Mohammed gave me my passport and I looked at it in wonder my first official document since I had never owned a birth certificate, or any paper with my name on it. Getting into the car, I felt very important and waved farewell to the family.
Before this day I had seen airplanes from the ground; occasionally I would even see them fly overhead in the desert when I was out tending my goats, so I knew such things existed. But I certainly had never seen one up close until the afternoon I left Mogadishu. Uncle Mohammed walked me through the airport, and we paused at the door leading outside to the plane. On the tarmac, I saw a gigantic British jet gleaming in the African sun. It was at this point I heard my uncle jabbering something about ‘… and your Aunt Maruim is expecting you in London; I’ll join you in a few days. I’ve got some business to finish up here before I can leave.” My mouth gaped as I turned around to stare at him. He thrust the plane ticket into my hand. “Now, don’t lose your ticket or your passport Waris. These are very important documents, so hang on to them.”
“You’re not coming with me?” It was all I could do to choke out these words.
“No,” he said impatiently, “I have to stay here for a few more days.” I immediately started to cry, scared of going alone, and now that leaving Somalia was imminent, I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea after all. For all its problems, it was the only home I’d ever known, and what waited ahead of me was a complete mystery.
“Go on you’ll be fine. Somebody’s going to meet you in London; they’ll tell you what to do when you get there.” I snuffled and let out a little whimper. Uncle pushed me gently toward the door. “Go on now, the plane is leaving. Just get on GET ON THE PLANE, WAR IS
Stiff with dread I walked across the sizzling tarmac. I studied the ground crew scurrying around the jet, preparing for takeoff. My eyes followed men loading luggage, the crew checking the plane, then I looked up the stairs, wondering how I was supposed to get inside this thing. Deciding on the stairs, I started up. But unused to walking in shoes, I had to struggle to make it up the slick aluminum steps without tripping over my long dress. Once on board, I had no idea where to go, and must have looked like a perfect idiot. All the other passengers were already seated, and as they sat looking at me inquiringly, I could read their faces: “Who on earth is this dumb country girl who doesn’t even know how to travel on an airplane?” I spun around just inside the door and sat in an empty seat.
This was the first time I ever saw a white person. A white man sitting next to me said, “This is not your seat.” At least I assume that’s what he said, since I spoke not one word of English. Staring at him in panic, I thought, Oh, Lord. What is this man saying to me? And why does he look like that? He repeated his statement, and I repeated my panic. But then, thank God, the flight attendant came and took the ticket from my hand. Obviously, this woman knew that I was completely clueless. She took my arm and led me down the aisle to my seat which was certainly not in first class, where I’d originally deposited myself. As I passed, each face turned to stare at me. The attendant smiled and pointed to my seat. I flopped down, grateful to be out of view; with a goofy grin, I jerked my head at her by way of saying thanks.
Shortly after takeoff, the same flight attendant returned with a basket of sweets, which she held out to me with a smile. I took one hand and picked up the fold of my dress to make a pouch, as if I were gathering fruit, and with the other, grabbed a huge handful of candy. I was famished, so I planned to load up. Who knew when I’d see any more food? As my hand came back for a second swipe, the attendant tried to move the candy out of my reach. I stretched, grabbing at the basket as she moved it farther and farther away. Her face said, “Oh, my. What am I going to do with this one?”
While I unwrapped and devoured my candy, I examined the white people around me. They looked cold and sickly to me. “You need sun,” I would have said to them if I had known English; I assumed this problem was a temporary condition. They couldn’t always look like that, could they? These people must have turned white because they’d been out of the sun too long. Then I decided I wanted to touch one of them the first chance I got, because maybe the white
would rub off. Perhaps underneath they were really black.
After about nine or ten hours on the plane, I was desperate to pee. I was absolutely bursting, but I had no idea where to go. I thought, come on, Waris, you can figure this out. So I watched closely how all the people sitting around me got up and went to this one door. This must be it, I reasoned. I got up, and went to the door just as someone else was coming out. Once inside, I closed the door, and looked around. This has to be the right place, but where’s the right spot? I looked at the sink, but disregarded it. I examined the seat, sniffed, and decided this was the right spot for my business. Happily, I sat down and phew! I was greatly relieved until I stood up and realized that my pee-pee was just sitting there. Now what do I do? I didn’t want to leave it there for the next person to come in and see it. But how do I get it out of there? I couldn’t speak English or read so the word Flush printed over the button meant nothing to me. And even if I’d understood the word, I’d never seen a flush toilet in my life. Studying every lever, knob, and screw in the room, I wondered if this one was the right one to make my urine disappear. Time after time, I returned to the flush button, as it seemed the obvious choice. But I was afraid if I pushed it, the plane would blow up. In Mogadishu, I’d heard of such things happening. With the constant political fighting there, people talked of bombs and explosions, blowing up this and blowing up that. Maybe if I pressed this button, the whole plane would explode and we’d all die. Maybe that’s what this button said; it warned: DO NOT PRESS! WILL BLOW UP PLANE. Best not to chance it over a little pee-pee, I decided. Still, I didn’t want to leave the traces of my business for others to find. And I knew they’d know exactly who left it, because by now, they were all outside pounding on the door.
In a flash of inspiration I grabbed up a used paper cup and filled it from the drizzling faucet. I poured this into the toilet, reasoning if I diluted the urine enough, the next person in would think this bowl was simply full of water. Steadily I set to work, filling the cup and pouring, filling the cup and pouring. By now, people were not only pounding on the door, they were shouting, too. And I couldn’t even answer them with “Just a minute…” So, in silence, I kept working at my plan, filling up the soggy cup from the dripping faucet, and pouring it into the toilet bowl. I stopped when the water level was right under the rim of the seat; I knew if I added another drop, it was going to pour out onto the floor. But at least the contents looked like ordinary water, so I stood up, smoothed down my dress, and opened the door. Looking down, I pushed past the throng gathered outside, grateful that at least I hadn’t poopooed.
When we landed at Heathrow, my fear at coping with the strange country was outweighed by my relief to get off that plane. At least Auntie would be there to greet me, and I was thankful for that. As the plane descended, the sky outside the window changed from foamy white clouds to a gray blur. When the other passengers stood up, I stood up, and let myself be swept along in the tide of bodies exiting the plane, with no idea of where to go, what to do. The crowd pushed forward until we reached a set of stairs. There was only one problem: the stairs were moving. I stopped cold, watching them. The sea of people parted around me, and I watched them smoothly step on the moving stairs and rise to the top. Mimicking them, I stepped forward too, and boarded the escalator. But one of my new sandals slipped off and stayed on the floor. “My shoe! My shoe!” I cried in Somali and rushed back to retrieve it. But the mob packed on behind me wouldn’t let me pass.
When we got off the escalator, I limped along with the crowd, wearing only one sandal. Next we reached customs. I looked at the white men in their very proper British uniforms only I had no idea who these people were. A customs official spoke to me in English, and seizing my chance for assistance, I gestured back toward the escalator, shouting in Somali, “My shoe! My shoe!”
He glared at me steadily with a bored, long-suffering expression, and repeated his question. I giggled nervously, temporarily forgetting my shoe. The official pointed at my passport, and I handed it to him. After examining it closely, he stamped it and waved me through.
Outside customs, a man in a chauffeur’s uniform walked up to me and asked .in Somali, “Are you here to work for Mr. Farah?”
I was so relieved to find someone who could speak my language, I cried ecstatically, “Yes! Yes! That’s me, I’m Waris.” The driver started to lead me away, but I stopped him. “My shoe, we have to go downstairs and get my shoe.”
“Your shoe?”
“Yes, yes, it’s back there.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s at the bottom of those moving stairs.” I pointed in the opposite direction. “I lost it when I got on.” He looked down at my one sandaled foot and one bare foot.
Luckily, the driver also spoke English, so he got permission for us to re-enter the gate and fetch my missing sandal. But when we reached the point where I’d left my shoe, there was no sign of it. I couldn’t believe my bad luck. I took off my other sandal and carried it in my hand, scanning the floor as we came back upstairs. But now I had to go through customs all over again. This time the same official got to ask me the questions he’d wanted to ask the first time around, by using the chauffeur to translate.
“How long are you staying?” the customs man asked me. I shrugged. “Where are you going?”
“To live with my uncle, the ambassador,” I said proudly.
“Your passport says you’re eighteen; is that correct ?”
“Huh? I am not eighteen!” I protested to the driver. He translated to the customs man.
“Do you have anything to declare?” This question I didn’t understand.
The driver explained, “What are you bringing with you into the country?” I held up my one sandal. The customs official stared at my shoe for a minute, then shaking his head slightly, returned my passport and flagged us through.
As the driver led me out of the crowded airport, he explained, “Look, your passport says you’re eighteen, so that’s what I told the man. If anyone asks you, you should say you’re eighteen.”
“I am NOT eighteen,” I said angrily. “That’s old!”
“Well, how old are you?”
“I don’t know maybe fourteen but I’m not that old!”
“Look, that’s what your passport says, so that’s how old you are now.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t care what my passport says why does it say that, when I’m telling you it’s not true?”
“Because that’s what Mr. Farah told them.” “Well, he’s crazy! He doesn’t know anything!” By the time we reached the exit we were shouting and Uncle Mohammed’s chauffeur and I had developed a hearty dislike for each other.
As I walked out to the car barefoot, snow was falling on London. I put my one sandal back on and shivered, pulling my thin cotton robe around me. I had never experienced weather like this before, and had certainly never seen snow. “Oh, my
God it’s so cold here!”
“Get used to it.”
As the driver eased the car out of the airport and into the London morning traffic, I was overcome by such a sad, lonely feeling, in this completely foreign place, with nothing but white sickly faces around me. Allah! Heaven! Mama! Where am I? At that moment I desperately wanted my mother. Even though he had the only other black face around, Uncle Mohammed’s chauffeur was no comfort to me; obviously he considered me beneath him.
While driving, he filled me in on the household I was joining: I’d be living there with my uncle and aunt, Uncle Mohammed’s mother, another uncle I hadn’t met one of my mother and Aunt Maruim’s brothers and the seven children, my cousins. After he told me who lived in the house, he informed me when I would get up, when I would go to bed, what I would be doing, what I would be cooking, where I would sleep, when I would go to bed, and how I’d fall into that bed exhausted at the end of each day.
“You know, your aunt, the mistress, runs this household with an iron fist,” he confided ma
tter of-factly. “I warn you, she gives everybody a hard time.”
“Well, she may give you a hard time, but she’s my aunt.” After all, she’s a woman and my mother’s sister, I reasoned. I thought of how much I missed Mama, and how good Auntie Sahru and Fatima had been to me. Even Aman had meant well, but we just couldn’t get along. The women in the family cared, and looked after each other. I leaned back against the seat, suddenly very tired after my long journey.
I squinted out the car window, trying to see where the white flakes came from. The snow was gradually turning the sidewalks white as we glided through the posh residential section of Harley Street. When we stopped in front of my uncle’s home, I stared at the house in astonishment, realizing that I was going to live in this grand place. In my limited experience in Africa, I’d never seen anything like it. The ambassador’s residence was a four-storey mansion, and it was yellow, my favorite color. We walked to the front door, an impressive entrance with a fanlight above. Inside the door, a large gilt-framed mirror reflected a solid wall of books from the library opposite.
Auntie Maruim walked into the foyer to greet me. “Auntie!” I cried.
A woman slightly younger than my mother, wearing stylish Western clothes, stood in the hall. “Come in,” she said coolly. “Close the door.” I had planned to rush to her and hug her, but something about
the way she stood there with her hands pressed together made me freeze in the doorway. “First I’d like to show you around and explain what your duties are.”
“Oh,” I said quietly, feeling the last spark of energy leave my body. “Auntie, I’m very tired. I just want to lie down. Can I please go to sleep now?”
