Homegrown Hero. Khurrum Rahman
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I could see her looking at me‚ checking like a mother would that I was okay. She placed her hand on mine. I just nodded to no one and nothing in particular. She couldn’t exactly tell them that my father was beaten and my mother raped‚ before both being shot dead in their home by British soldiers.
Khala was right. Sometimes it was better to tell a small lie.
*
The gold fence around the house was as tacky as a gold fence around a house‚ but behind it‚ the house was spectacular. They had set the security light to constant‚ probably for our benefit so we could fully appreciate just how rich that they were. The grounds were beautifully manicured with a double garage‚ no doubt home to a couple of luxury motors. We approached the door coolly‚ without acting like this was the first nice house that we had ever been invited to. Either side of the door sat a lion statue.
‘Plant pots would be better‚’ Khala whispered loudly‚ as I pressed the doorbell.
The door was opened by four beaming faces who had gathered around the large hallway. The men heartily shook hands and the women embraced. Aslamalykum’s bounced from one to another as quick introductions were made. The sheer excitement as to what could potentially be was apparent. The two sons‚ Nadeem and Kareem‚ sized me up from behind their wide judging smiles and cardigans. Mr Bashir‚ Rukhsana’s father‚ carried an air of contentment‚ a man of pride‚ happy with the cards that life had dealt him. He snaked his arm around my shoulders and escorted me to the living room. Mrs Bashir seemed like one of those modern Aunty-Ji’s; she was wearing a sari‚ with a good portion of her stomach showing through the sheer drape of the fabric. She slipped her arm into Khala’s as if they were old friends and they followed behind us.
In the dining area within the stylishly-decorated living room‚ I wasn’t surprised to see the food on display. The Bashir’s didn’t seem like the kind of people who would dream of getting away with shop-bought samosas and watered-down chutney. They indulged us with fish pakoray‚ sizzling seekh kebabs on skewers‚ papdi chaat‚ and a carrot salad that both Khala and I avoided.
As we sat around the dining table they casually bombarded me with questions‚ a hair’s breadth away from an all-out interrogation. They tried to make it sound casual‚ a friendly getting-to-know-each-other conversation‚ but everything was covered. Childhood‚ education‚ hobbies‚ occupation‚ all of which Khala answered on my behalf – Imran is in the property market‚ sounded a damn sight better than estate agent. I wasn’t taken aback by the sheer intensity of the social dynamic; I’d been to plenty of Rishta’s before‚ so I expected the examination. Fair play‚ they had to think about their daughter. It was‚ after all‚ her future in question. But they did expel a touch of arrogance‚ as though they were above us. Little gestures‚ I noticed. An amused glance amongst themselves as Khala used her hands to eat the crumbly fish pakora‚ rather than the fine cutlery laid out. The way Mrs Bashir addressed her‚ speaking in crisp English – the exact opposite of Khala’s diction – and using unnecessary words to highlight their superior grasp of the language.
After the questions and the food‚ the men moved into the living area with our cups of masala chai‚ whilst Khala was led away by Mrs Bashir for a tour around the house. As soon as she was out of sight‚ the men of the family seemed to visibly relax. Nadeem switched on the television and Kareem turned his attention to his phone. Mr Bashir started to comment on whatever cricket match was being shown. It was clear that Mrs Bashir pulled the strings of the household. I wondered what that would have meant for me if I was here with genuine intention. Would she be the kind to interfere in her daughter’s marriage? Yes‚ almost certainly. I didn’t give it too much thought as my phone vibrated in my pocket.
It was a picture message from Stephanie. Jack had built a small camp in his bedroom. A single mattress on the floor and a few plastic chairs acting as walls with a large bed sheet thrown over as a makeshift ceiling. Jack’s favourite book‚ Dear Zoo‚ sat by the lamp‚ waiting to be read to him. By me.
They were both sat on the mattress looking rather pleased with themselves. He looked as cute as a lost button waiting to be found‚ and Stephanie looked as though she had spent time at the hairdressers. She had 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