Homegrown Hero. Khurrum Rahman
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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 than divulge. It helped. They were a good group of guys‚ genuine. They seemed to like me‚ which wasn’t much of a surprise; I’m pretty likeable! But‚ I wouldn’t let them get too close to me. They were forever inviting me out‚ outside of this environment‚ but I always had an excuse ready. As harsh as it sounds‚ they just weren’t my type of people.
Tahir came back with a cup of water for Ira and a fresh pack of Jaffa Cakes for the massive. Like scavengers‚ all hands reached out and cleared the packet of its contents. We enjoyed the silence as we munched on the biscuits‚ and shared optimistic glances at each other – a look that said everything probably won’t be alright‚ but as long as we have Jaffa Cakes then it can’t be all that bad.
I caught Ira looking at the entrance‚ not for the first time that evening.
‘Have you messaged Naaim?’ I asked. Naaim was the missing fifth member and also the youngest. Ira was pretty protective towards him‚ in that way girls are when they sense damage. Naaim was pretty fucking damaged. His mother was wheelchair-bound. His father an abusive alcoholic. Yeah‚ pretty fucked up‚ full of that teenage angst that I keep hearing about. Me against the world kind of character. Probably why he and Ira connected.
‘Yeah‚ Jay‚’ she said‚ ‘messaged him‚ called him. He ain’t come back to me.’ Her voice drifted. ‘Not heard from him in a couple of days.’
‘Is he still seeing that bird?’ Zafar asked.
‘You wanna try asking me that again?’ Ira threw him a look.
‘Layla‚’ Zafar smiled nervously. ‘Is he still seeing Layla?’
‘Yeah. Getting serious‚ too.’
‘Has young Naaim been introduced to Layla’s father‚ yet?’ Tahir asked.
‘They’re just kids!’ I said. ‘What’s the rush?’
‘It’s better that he knows that Naaim has no untoward intentions towards his daughter‚’ Tahir said. ‘If he was to find out another way...’ Tahir shook his head. ‘He should know‚ that’s all.’
I was getting bored with this conversation. I shrugged‚ glancing at the time on my phone. There’s worse things happening around the world than boy meets girl‚ parents don’t understand drama‚ and we’d heard all about this particular saga in recent weeks. I’d never met Layla‚ but the way that Naaim harped on about her‚ I felt like I could write a dissertation on her.
Layla Shah‚ I now knew‚ was a homely Pakistani girl‚ as halal as a cucumber. I’ve known plenty of girls like that – strictly Muslim at home‚ but as soon as they step out of that environment‚ they transform into Beyoncé. And I’m talking about Crazy in Love Beyoncé!
But I don’t think Layla was like that.
Her Mum had been out of the picture since a while back‚ so it fell to Layla‚ from a very early age‚ to take on the household responsibilities – pandering to the needs of her strict father and over protective brother‚ whilst balancing her studies and her dedication to Islam. The last thing she needed in her life was complication. But complication came‚ in the form of Naaim.
They’d met at school‚ both studying for the same papers – Naaim’s a year older but he had spectacularly failed his exams the year before. She started to help him study‚ every day in the romantic setting of the school library – knees touching under the desk‚ you get the picture. Anyway‚ shit happens‚ and they got close‚ like proper close. Their relationship moved fast‚ they talked marriage‚ even went as far as to discuss what they would name their kids. Fuck‚ man‚ they’re only teenagers!
On top of which‚ Naaim is Bangladeshi‚ and Layla‚ Pakistani.
Paki relationships which haven’t been sanctioned by parents are‚ at best‚ a fucking minefield. Throw another colour‚ creed or religion into the mix and it’s just asking for a slap.
Yeah‚ there wasn’t going to be a happy ending to this story.
I yawned. I didn’t even attempt to hold back‚ it came out like the roar of