Homegrown Hero: A funny and addictive thriller for fans of Informer. Khurrum Rahman
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gone all out to make an effort‚ and here I was‚ the other side of London‚ with potentially my future in-laws‚ waiting for potentially my future wife.
As I thought about what lie to reply with‚ Khala walked back into the living room. Her eyes were bigger than I had ever seen before‚ as she tried her hardest to suppress her smile. She took a seat adjacent to mine and reached across and squeezed my hand. She was trying to communicate something with her eyes‚ but before I could work it out Mrs Bashir walked in. Her smile was tighter‚ as though she was about to unveil something that she wasn’t yet sure we deserved to see. She moved to one side to reveal her daughter‚ Rukhsana.
She was quite possibly the most beautiful girl that I had ever laid eyes on.
My attitude towards Somalis was probably similar to the attitude towards Asians back in the day. We kind of got in the way. Took your spot on the bus‚ took away your jobs‚ we even took away your benefits. That’s how I felt about Somalis for a while. In the early nineties they seemingly turned up out of nowhere and planted themselves in our schools‚ libraries‚ and parks – all the regular haunts. The only good thing was that Asians up and down the country breathed a collective sigh of relief as a new target had been firmly established for the bigots and skinheads to direct their hatred towards.
At Heston Hall Community Centre‚ a third of the number was made up by Somalis. When I started to attend these evenings‚ I naturally gravitated towards the Paki Muslims. No offense intended‚ I just felt more comfortable amongst those who looked like me. Fuck! That sounds racist. But once I got to know the Somalis‚ they were alright‚ you know‚ they were just like me. Fuck! That sounds racist‚ too. They were just trying to get by‚ but it was harder for them.
That was the topic of the conversation we were having as a group‚ sat in a small circle‚ towards the last half hour of the meet. Most had gone home after the guest speaker. Just four of us remained‚ with one notable exception. I didn’t mind that the fifth member of the group hadn’t showed. He did my head in.
The guest speaker – Trevor Carter‚ middle aged‚ white‚ with shiny pointy shoes and a gelled quiff which had a bigger personality than he did – had spent the best part of an hour trying to convince us that we have the same opportunities as every other walk of life. He was trying to recruit for his expanding double glazing firm‚ and he was very generously offering jobs. Telephone sales jobs‚ minimum wage.
‘Have to give the man credit for trying though.’ Zafar tucked a business card into his top pocket. ‘I might give him a bell.’
‘Brother‚ you have a Masters degree‚ Mashallah‚’ said Tahir‚ a family man‚ a little older than the rest of us and the man responsible for organising these meets. ‘Do you not think you’re a little over-qualified for this role?’
‘Temporary role though‚ innit‚’ Zafar replied.
‘Look at their website‚’ Tahir faced his phone towards us. ‘Job section. They have senior roles‚ Brother. Accountant positions‚ senior salesman! Don’t you find it strange that he didn’t mention that?’
Ira snorted. She was a tiny little thing with one of the biggest voices. A proper little firecracker‚ approaching twenty but looking a decade older. Life’s cards had not been kind to her‚ and as a result she saw things through undiluted eyes. Ira was a second generation Somali who wore her hijab like a hoody; her laser-like eyes powered through from beneath it. She’d changed her name recently. It used to be Isis. It wasn’t that long ago that Isis had been nothing more than a sweet-sounding Muslim girls’ name. Though with shit being the way it was‚ she felt she had no choice but to change her name. It would have been nice though if somebody had advised her not to change it from an Islamic Terrorist group to an Irish Terrorist group.
‘Did you notice how he didn’t once look at any of the Somalis?’ Ira asked with a smile.
I was slouched down in my chair‚ engrossed in my phone‚ tuning in and out of the discussion as I popped from one social media site to another. But when Ira opened her mouth‚ it made you want to sit up and listen.
‘Sister‚ do not take it personally‚’ Tahir replied.
‘Save it‚’ Ira said‚ holding up a weathered hand. ‘You jokers think that you’re too good for a job like that‚ I’d kill for that opportunity.’
‘So go for it‚ what’s stopping you‚’ Zafar said.
‘Please‚’ Ira purred. ‘Are you thick? Why do you think Somalis have the highest unemployment figures in the country?’
‘Cos it’s easier to claim benefit‚ that’s why.’ Zafar threw up both hands to indicate that he was playing.
‘That’s a bit harsh‚ man‚’ I said‚ coming to the rescue of somebody who did not require rescuing.
‘Leave it‚ yeah‚ Jay‚’ Ira said‚ finger firmly in my face. ‘D’you think you’re funny‚ Zafar? You wanna know what’s really funny? That the only job we’re considered for is waitressing or security guard or here’s a mop and a bucket and there’s the floor. As soon we manage to get an interview for a half-decent job‚ the interviewer sees the not-quite-black interviewee sitting opposite them. Trust me‚ yeah‚ they’ve made up their mind before a word has even been spoken. You wanna think about that for a minute before you start making jokes‚ boy.’
Zafar attempted an apology. ‘I was only –’
‘Shut up‚ I haven’t finished yet‚’ Ira spat. ‘Jay‚ let me ask you a question.’ Fuck’s sake‚ don’t get me involved. ‘You’ve got a half decent job at the Council‚ tell me how many Somalis you work with.’
‘Uh‚ in my section... Or in the building... Including outstations?’
‘Quit stalling‚ Jay. We all know the answer. So what’s our alternative? We start our own business – plumbing‚ handyman‚ some shit like that? Wrong‚ nobody is going to hire us. Twenty or so years we’ve been rubbing shoulders with society and still we’re treated like outcasts. Look at the Poles‚ five minutes they’ve been here and they walk into jobs‚ start their own successful business. Why the hell are they not looked down on?’ Ira looked from face to face. ‘Anyone want to venture a guess? No? Okay‚ I’ll tell you. It’s because they have nice light milky skin.’
Nobody dared add that the Poles‚ part of the EU‚ came here specifically to make a living. The Somalis came here to escape from a civil war.
‘Would you like a drink of water‚ Sister?’ Tahir offered.
‘You trying to shut me up‚ Tahir?’ Ira said‚ her smile less alive than usual.
Zafar stood up from his chair and approached Ira. He didn’t attempt another apology. He just nodded knowingly and awkwardly rubbed her arm. The two of them always bickered on any number of subjects‚ but I could see that Zafar genuinely cared for her.
This was exactly why I came to these sessions. It was the perfect place to throw a tantrum‚ have a good old rant at the world. Most of these guys had given up. Zafar‚ a Masters degree in his pocket from a top London university‚ had hopes of strolling into a job to suit his vast skill-set‚ now he’s considering taking on a sales role for a fucking double glazing firm. Or Ira‚ pushing a mop night after night in a basement kitchen of a hotel‚ when it was clear that‚ given the chance‚ she had the intelligence and confidence to achieve whatever she set her mind to.
Everyone had their own issues. God knows I had mine‚ but I was happy to listen rather