Refugee Boy (16 page)

‘But it won’t be your own thing,’ Alem insisted, ‘it will be owned by the company.’

‘Look, man,’ Buck said. ‘At the end of the day it don’t matter, it’s all in the mind. Check it out, all this stuff is not happening, it ain’t real. Death is real, geezer, nothing is the truth.’

Alem’s expression was blank. He looked towards Robert, who raised his eyebrows and looked around
the room. Robert then looked at Buck and said, ‘Do you know any jokes?’

‘Are you trying to be funny?’ Buck retorted, sounding deadly serious.

‘No, I’m serious, guy. You’re always on a downer, you’re always being miserable, guy, and you got the money in the bank – your dad’s loaded. Why don’t you make some dance music instead of making everyone depressed?’

Buck stood up. ‘The masses are brainwashed, people need to hear the truth.’

Robert stood up too. ‘Yeah, guy, but can’t you put the truth on a nice beat?’

‘Listen, geezer,’ Buck said, smiling for the first time. ‘You can’t make the truth funny and anyway, look at the state of you! You depress me.’

‘Yeah,’ Robert replied, laughing, ‘and I hope you remember me when you make lots of money from depression.’

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 this 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.

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?’