Chapter 9
Xemi's surroundings still had their freshness despite having lived there for a week. He had brushed away sleep's embrace and after doing his morning routine, washing his face, cleansing his mouth, he tumbled down the still unfamiliar steps towards the lower floor, sensing a welcome discomfort by the new wire which tightened his teeth. He felt them moving closer to beauty.
He found two of his new housemates in the kitchen. One was the mother of the other, who had vestiges of good looks. Her eyes were soft and so appeared her full lips. Her voice, however, was raucous, dispelling whatever sensuality she had. Her daughter had short spiky hair and was slim. After Xemi greeted them, entering the kitchen to make coffee, a game was played on Xemi which had the air of a party trick.
'How old do you think my daughter is?' the mother asked.
'Unusual question, why would I care?' a bemused Xemi asked himself. He turned to the girl about to squeal in pleasure. He studied the childish roundness of her face, the immature body beneath, and decided on:
'Fourteen?'
'Ha! See what he thinks ! See, Mama! Look, I am older than you,' the girl exclaimed in delighted triumph.
Startled at her childish exuberance he stared at her.
'Something is off about her,' he thought immediately.
'She's twenty eight,' the mother announced, smiling at her daughter's excitement.
'No !'
'Yes I am !'
'How is it possible ?' he demanded to know. He had never seen such dissonance between age and appearance.
'She's different.'
'Mhm,' added the daughter in support of her mother.
Xemi met her smiling mother's eyes, smiling with an almost sad smile, and understood her wordless expression. While Xemi had enough tact not to ask further questions and restricted himself to the platitude of 'you'll be young forever', he thought of the import of this party trick.
'She looks fourteen, is twenty eight, but has the mental age of God knows what. What would that mean in practical terms as she has the room closest to mine ? What does she get up to ? This party trick was to give me fair warning,' he decided inwardly. He was sure of it.
He ended up never having any problems with her. She tended to keep to herself, not speaking much when they were alone, which rarely happened. When they did on occasion speak, there was something that resembled fear in her eyes. Fear of betraying something about herself, fear of saying or doing the wrong thing. The mother would sleep through most of the day and go out dressed up at night in clothing that flatters and deceives. Xemi was under no illusions as to how she paid the bills.
One day as he went to work, Xemi left some money on the microwave. He then went to work, walked in the foul morning, rain and wind beating down man and woman. He was wary of those around him, thinking his mother might be staking out the area to find him.
He worked in a shoe shop in Stratford. When Xemi first started there he followed orders, found it difficult and managed little sales. Then he did what he thought was sensible and became an exceptional salesman. He had a system which boiled down to a script. This made him less anxious compared to the fluid nature of the intercourse between peers. By this time, he had stopped going to college altogether.
The shop was managed by a Jamaican man named Richard whose definitive feature was that he had the most monstrous hands. His hands when he shook yours looked like black smoke swirling around your enveloped hand and the amazed Xemi, who had big hands himself, had trouble matching his grip, feeling like a child grabbing a man's hand. The assistant manager was a girl named Samira and she was completely unconcerned with the sales targets, nor was she ambitious, preferring to wait until her marriage was realised when domesticity would lay its hands on her. The last salesperson was a girl named Hyacinthe. She was a mixed race girl, Pakistani and Portuguese, and Xemi had fallen in love the moment he had seen her.
'It's the eye shadow that gets me, make-up master, cosmetic enchantress,' he told himself as he peered into her soul, leaving his own soul naked for her to take.
Xemi spent most of his time in this shop and on this particular day, once he had changed into a black and white uniform and went onto the floor, he heard someone call his name.
'Aye, Xemi, hear what this man is saying.'
This was King, the security guard, dark, handsome, muscular who spoke through laughter.
'What did you say again, Richard? What was that about Africans?'
Richard was unperturbed.
'Are there more Somali criminals in Somalia or outside?'
'Excuse me?'
'This guy is lost!'
'Do Somalis commit more crimes here or there?'
'Who said I'm Somali first of all?'
This was ignored.
'Someone was telling me that immigrants who commit crimes in Western countries flee back to where they came from to escape punishment. So I wonder if the reverse is true too. How many Africans that came here have criminal histories that they're running away from?' he said in a low trombone voice. 'Near total.'
'Really?' Xemi said and turned to King and asked:
'Have you ever killed anyone? '
'No.'
'Committed a crime?'
'No.'
'Not here, not there?'
'Nowhere.'
'You think we busted prisons there and came here to be free? Not me, anyway, because I was never there. Oh, no, wait -'
Richard pressed further and asked King:
'You never committed a crime ? Tell the truth, King. If you're honest you will tell the truth.'
Richard spoke with a clear and unambiguous English accent. Culturally, he did not have a trace of foreign roots. And if he had any, he would have erased them. Xemi thought that if he could he would have erased his black skin too. Whenever there were these turf wars between the two black men Xemi would always be dragged into it, mainly by King. He was careful not to get too personal as no matter what, this man was still his superior.
Xemi asked Richard:
'Excuse me. What's your crime rate over in Kingston, Jamaica ?'
'Lower than any city of Africa's.'
'Lies. Do you know the city of Dar es Salaam?'
'Don't know, don't care.'
'So you malign them for what reason? I say them but these are your people. This is where you come from.'
"I'm not African.'
'That's not what your face tells me. Have you seen your hands, brother?'
King then tagged himself in.
'See how he is? He hates himself. The entire island was stolen ! Who are the criminals?'
'Say it from the pulpit. Shout it loud from all of the pulpits !'
'How was it stolen?'
'That country was a slave colony. You think you are native Carib?'
'Maybe, you never know.'
'That's a joke. The purest of African blood flows inside of you and nothing more !'
'How do you know? I don't recall taking a heritage test.'
'How can I know? Look at your face, man !'
'That means nothing.'
Xemi turned away in disgust. He caught the eye of someone who wanted service while this manager continued to bash Africans. 'No wonder he's under pressure,' Xemi thought. He wrapped up the sale and glanced at Hyacinthe who was helping a customer. Xemi looked in the mirror.
'Hmm. Maybe,' he mused to himself. 'Why not?'
This shop was like a whirlpool. One couldn't help but come closer at different intervals. Xemi started talking to Hyacinthe.
'You look like Jessica Alba with your hair gold and black like that,' Xemi told Hyacinthe, his heartbeat making his body vibrate. She smiled and said:
'You should see my sister. She looks more like her than I do.'
Hyacinthe had a deep voice which belied her femininity.
'I want to see your sister. Invite me and I'll come.'
Hyacinthe had a warm smile on her face as they were the only ones on the shop floor with King discreetly next to the door and Richard on a break.
'Hehe. My house is really small. Me and my sister share a room together.'
'How old are you?'
'Twenty.'
'And your sister?'
'Nineteen.'
Xemi was surprised,
'Are you two in love ? Is that why you're still rooming with her?
Her smile became warmer.
'It's been like this since my father left us.'
Xemi was taken aback at this sudden confidence and studied her momentarily. She gave a sheepish grin.
'Your mother is Pakistani?'
'Yeah. My father is Portuguese. I might see my father next year in Portugal.' She shrugged her shoulders and continued wistfully, longing lowering the depth of her voice: 'If he wants to see me. He's there with his new family.'
'Why on earth would you chase after someone who left you?'
She sullenly shrugged her shoulders again while touching one of the braids that fell past her shoulders.
'Do you need him? A grown woman like you? I can't understand that.'
Xemi didn't want to look her in the eyes. He was too embarrassed for her.
'I just can't understand why people feel such an attachment to their parents. It's one thing if you're raised by them but when they weren't there? It's so easy for me to cast blood away from me, especially if they did the same to me.'
She looked at Xemi with a frown before they were pulled away from each other by a customer. Xemi mused over his words, hurled out of him without aforethought. He smiled a little at his fluidity and a man entered who thought his smile was directed at him. Xemi however was looking without seeing when he suddenly noticed a hand lifting upwards and then speeding down towards him. His body reacted before his mind did and a bro hug was exchanged before he consented. The breath of a drunkard and a smoker, its combination the foulest of all smells, smothered his senses like a mountain mist, and he reeled slightly, decrying his smile and muscle memory. His body was trained to accept warmth like ascetics were trained to reject it. The man laughed for some reason and when he laughed, the sound was the most infectious laughter, instantly dispelling every negative feeling that Xemi may have had. He was a black man, spindly and bald; wearing a traditional Nigerian outfit in the green of emeralds with a necklace of black beads. Xemi glanced at King who was on the verge of hysterical laughter.
'Are you happy, brother?' the man asked Xemi in a strong and exaggerated Nigerian accent. He was still holding Xemi's hand and kneading it as he tapped his shoulder with his other hand. Xemi hated it when males held his hand for too long but this man's good nature was irresistible and the permanent grooves of his labial folds were a testament to it.
'I'm happy, brother,' Xemi replied, raising his voice in an attempt to match the man's enthusiasm. 'Not as happy as you though!' He tried to uncouple his hand from something that was threatening to become sexual. The man broke into drunk laughter.
'Of course, eh, we are here. We have to be happy,' he said, smacking his lips all the time.
'Did you come from work just now?' Xemi asked in reflex.
The man changed his demeanour but retained his dramatism.
'The wok, ah!' he said in a mock whimper, raising his hand to his forehead, shaking his head while his hand remained on his forehead.
He snatched a shirt from a pile next to him. He unfolded it, flapped it in the air, and gave one end to Xemi who took it. He then enacted a forward, diving motion, shaking the shirt like he wanted Xemi to make the same forward motion. Xemi was nonplussed.
'Imagine this is a wet sheet now ! Bending down to pick one after the other. Oh!'
He now noticed King laughing bewilderedly and the man's face turned from tragic to amused in an instant. Again he laughed his infectious laughter and bro hugged King asking: 'Where are you from, brother? Eh? Haha.'
'Ghana,' was the reply.
'Love for Ghana,' he exclaimed with his finger in the air.
'What did you say about Nigeria the other day, King?' Xemi piped up, grinning as he folded the shirt used for exhibition. The drunkard stopped smiling, but his lips kept smacking.
'I've been to Ghana before. My hands were always like this.' He put his hands in his pockets and violently moved them, searching for coins. 'Here, here I said.' He then took his hand out with a languid wave as if he were throwing seeds to soil. 'Love for Ghana!'
Xemi smiled to himself, thinking of that man, when he opened the front door to his home. He hadn't come across such immense good nature before and he was in high spirits. He found Rachel, the mother, in the kitchen. She called him over as he was ascending the stairs and a feeling of foreboding passed through him. She sounded bilious and asked where the money for gas was. It had been Xemi's turn and he had put money on top of the microwave, as per request, for she said she would go to the shop and put the money on the utility sticks they used for gas and electricity. She informed Xemi that the money wasn't there when she looked for it. Xemi frowned.
'But I put it there,' he told her, hating the subject of conversation.
'No, you must have forgotten,' she said abruptly, turning away from him.
Xemi clearly remembered putting the money on the microwave and so repeated that he had placed it where they had agreed he would place it. Rachel turned out to have a louder voice than he thought.
'You put no money there! Tell me no damn lies!' she shouted at him.
Xemi was taken aback at the suddenness of her outburst.
'There is no thief here ! What are you saying?'
'You asked me to put it there and I did what you wanted,' he replied firmly, with a raised voice himself.
'Where is my son, let me not call my son! There is no thief here!'
Xemi didn't think it was possible but she had become even louder.
'What do you want me to say? I called no-one a thief.'
He noticed a man with dreads and a beard crouching on the stairs smiling. After initial confusion he determined this man was her daughter's boyfriend. Though he knew he existed he hadn't seen him before.
'Calm down, miss. All the shouting. I'll pay it. How much?'
He took some money out and put it on the counter, smiling at everyone, and it was too big to belong to someone sober. Without another word, while Rachel was still relentless about there being no thieves there, when, evidently, there was at least one, Xemi walked up to his room hellbent on avoiding Rachel for as long as possible. He sat and waited, starving, for her to leave the kitchen. He couldn't see how else he could have handled the situation. Xemi concluded that someone desperately needed the twenty pounds he had placed there. He thought it might have been her herself and that this tirade was merely an act. Or it could have been her daughter, Xemi mused. Does she know right from wrong ? Whatever it was, this was bad news. After a matter of weeks, such a short time, harmony was completely broken in this household. When she finally did leave the kitchen, he quickly went downstairs but not until he held still for fifteen minutes to obscure the fact that he had waited for her to leave, and went downstairs to make some sandwiches and quickly made his way back upstairs.
Not long after, he heard noises which he was so familiar with in various different settings until there was a sharp, acute sound that will always descend into breathless wails. Gasping for air, the howling girl cried:
'Bastard !...You bastard!...I told you...slowly...bastard you!'
Xemi stared at the wall separating their bedrooms like he wanted to burn a hole in it. The loud screams in the dead of silence disturbed him and he wasn't sure what to do. In the end he did nothing but muse on the romantic life of his housemate.
'Is he a rapist or a lover? It seems like he's fulfilling his fantasies with her, something she will never have herself, nor desires, for desires of this kind can't be born in the mind of a child.' He nodded his head at his own reasoning and continued: 'There must have been pressures otherwise she wouldn't be in a relationship. A person like this will only be ripe for exploitation.'
He wasn't surprised when her mother kept to herself amidst the audible sounds of her daughter crying. He determined that she was one of those pressures.
'Cesspit,' he muttered aloud.
The tumult next door abated, the man was doing things slowly now; and while eating he fell into a pleasant reverie, imagining what the courtship between the two was like.
Mother and daughter walk along the high street. The mother goes into a shop and tells the daughter to wait outside. The lover goes up to the girl who has the awkwardness of a child. He hesitates in surprise once he realises something isn't right. Suddenly the mother is in front of them both and says 'yes, yes, she is single!' The nervous girl who doesn't know what to do takes her cue from her mother. She smiles and says 'yes, yes, I'm single.'
'This is her number.'
'My number.'
'Yes, she's free any day you are.'
'Any day.'
Xemi almost choked to death with laughter with this scene in his head, stamping his feet on the floor in delight. His imagination travelled further:
The first date night, which is the day they met. The mother the whole day tells the nervous girl to do what the nice man tells her. In her loving heart and mother's soul she thinks renting one room in a house is cheaper than renting two. And of course the nice man does what he wants to with her that night. And this night. And the next one.
'What did he say earlier? 'I'll pay.' Oh you'll pay alright. Disgusting pimp of a woman,' cursed Xemi.
He made preparations to leave the next day and within a week he was sleeping in a new bed.
Chapter 10
Samia was rubbing her right arm as she, Farhia and her smallest child walked up to the Southwark Crown Court. It was a light ochre coloured building with its name blazoned in the middle, looking new and modern; a building belonging to justice, giving off an air of justice, of clean justice and to Samia's curious mind, of new justice.
'Does it still hurt?' asked Farhia as she watched her mother rub her arm. 'I didn't know if I should have untangled you last night or not. In twenty years people can change the way they sleep.'
'I don't know how I fell asleep like that, or even stayed asleep. It must have been because my hand got stuck in between the bar and the mattress, not allowing my arm to fall into a natural position.'
'I actually would have thought that kind of thing was impossible. But you must be a deep sleeper.'
'I was always like that, sleeping in all kinds of positions all through the night.'
'I remember now. I used to think you were dead the way I used to find you. It's really a gift to be able to sleep any which way all through the night. That's the sleep of the dead.'
'Dead indeed. Dead limbs that I have to wake to life every morning. It's really not pleasant, terrible even. But I'm hardly ever tired at least.'
They approached the glass doors that opened in front of them. Farhia looked around and said:
'We have to go to room four. This way.'
Farhia was preoccupied but moved through instinct guiding them through the dark gray corridors and pushed the doors open to room four. The courtroom opened to four rows of benches on either side, which were, for the most part, entirely occupied. Samia was startled at the number of people at this trial and eyed her daughter who was making her way to a free space on one of the benches. Her daughter didn't flinch and made it seem like that was how it always was. Curious, she thought to herself and followed her to sit next to her. There were a couple of looks directed at them as everyone there was dressed in the modern fashion, with suits or skirts whereas both Samia and Farhia were wearing traditionally Somali outfits. Both of them were wearing yellow dresses with matching hijabs.
'Why is there such interest in the trial of a Somali man?' she asked herself. 'What is it they want?'
She looked around and met curious glances and questioning voices that had the high fluctuations of surprise, saying, which she was none the wiser of:
'Wow. This case has more reach than I thought.'
'It's good to see engagement and interest from the different communities in public justice.'
'Are they Somali?'
'Yeah. Definitely.'
'But why this case in particular? What does the prosecution of a fertility doctor have to do with their community?'
'Maybe it's them showing good citizenship, like I said. They support justice and wish to show their support with their presence.'
'It's a strange case to do that with. There's no one here but journalists, people affected and a couple medical professionals.'
'This fertility doctor was a public danger. He inseminated thousands of women with his own sperm. I'm glad to see women, especially of those communities not affected, showing their solidarity with the women who were affected.'
'How do you know that they weren't? Maybe they were?'
'You mean…'
The two journalists took a closer look at the women and the child they had brought. Suddenly Farhia rose, awake now, and with wide eyes of shock told her mother to get up, quickly, quickly! Finally realizing that they were in the wrong courtroom. Samia was glad that it was a mistake, not liking the idea that so many non Somalis were watching the trial of a Somali, her grandson notwithstanding.
'I forgot that they had changed the room for this week,' she said outside with a voice tearful with embarrassment.
'So that was another trial going on there?' said Samia, turning around to look at the door of the room they had just come from. 'I wonder what that trial was about. Seemed popular.'
They made their way to room three and once they had entered were relieved to see a Somali man on trial of murder. He glanced at them and gave them a sad smile of recognition. The prosecution stopped his speech to also look at the newcomers and then returned to his spiel.
The gallery of this room, as opposed to the other room, was virtually empty. The floor had two male lawyers, one for the defense, the other for prosecution, and the female judge. The jury was seated on the far end of the room. There was one other person who was seated on the left side of the gallery, a young Somali man who gave the two Somali women a curt look, and then turned his attention back to the man speaking. The two women once again made their way to the rows on the right, taking a seat in the middle row. The two women were late but just in time to see this young Somali man be called up to the witness stand by the judge.
Samia looked up at the man or boy rather, he was in his late teens, going up to the stand, her look going from him to the judge.
'What is she?' asked Samia, marveling at the woman wearing black robes and a white wig.
'The judge,' said Farhia, who was looking at the boy with a piercing look.
'A judge? What is a judge?'
'She's in charge,' answered Farhia, waving her hand to indicate that she was in charge of the room.
They spoke in whispers.
'She decides if he's guilty or not?'
'No. It's those people over there. They decide if he's guilty or not.'
Samia looked at the jury, an assorted bunch, some with all greys, others pregnant. Two of them in Samia's mind looked like kids.
'And who are they? Do you know them?'
'No.'
'They know the victim's family?'
'No. They are some random people chosen to be part of the jury.'
'Ah. Is that how it goes?' she said wondrously, noting a hijabi on the jury, staring at her, and relaxed a little.
'Can you state your name?' the judge asked the witness, taking the attention of the courtroom.
'Mohamed Sharmarke.'
'Sharmarke?' whispered Samia to Farhia. She nodded in reply. 'And…' She looked closely at his light features; 'Carab Salah. So this is how it is?'
'What would you like to use for your oath?' asked the judge, smiling down at the witness. 'You have three choices. The Bible, Koran or a secular book, for symbolic purposes.'
The young man seemed to mull over it with everyone's attention on him. He chuckled a little and said:
'Let me get the Bible.'
The usher moved swiftly without embarrassment or surprise placing the book on the witness box, along with a piece of paper where the oath was written which the witness had to recite. The man's face suddenly showed a slight grimace but proceeded to recite the oath all the while keeping his voice steady.
'I swear by Almighty God and the holy Bible that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.'
He put the piece of paper back down, removed his hand for the Bible, and watched as the usher, again with impressive smoothness, took the items away.
Samia felt her daughter Farhia tremble beside her and hiss something. She glanced at her and then back at the Somali witness, the smooth court usher and the book he had carried, wondering what had just happened, but thought it best to keep quiet for now.
'Prosecution,' said the judge, turning to the prosecuting lawyer.
'Mr Sharkmarke,' said the lawyer, a chubby, balding and bespectacled man. 'Thank you for coming.'
'No problem,' answered the Somali witness. 'My pleasure.'
'Do you know the victim Abdi Sharkmarke?' the prosecutor asked.
'Yes.'
'You were friends?'
'More than that. We were cousins.'
'Were you there when he was killed?'
'Yes.'
'The defendant, Hassan Ali, do you know him?' the prosecutor now asked, pointing to the defendant.
'Yes…a little.'
'Did he kill your friend, and cousin, Abdi Sharkmarke?'
'I don't know.'
The prosecutor smiled like a man surprised, but a man surprised when he knows that the cause would be inconsequential.
'But did you not tell the police when they came to the scene that Hassan Ali was the one who ambushed you both, killed your cousin, with multiple stabbings to the neck, and body, and then tried to kill you?''
'I don't remember saying all that.'
'Oh really. Don't remember...all that! Oh really, now! Strange how things have changed in the space of weeks. Who killed him then, if not the man discovered with blood all over him?'
'I don't know.'
'And your initial testimony?'
'I can't remember what I said.'
'A few weeks ago.'
'That's right.'
'But you were there?'
'Yes.'
'Did you kill him?'
The witness's lips twitched momentarily as he glared at the prosecutor.
'You saw my oath, sir.''
'Indeed, I did.'
'I wonder if you had to swear an oath yourself and if the oath you swore allows you to ask me a question like that.'
'I think the jury would like to know why your story has changed.'
'I'm not a killer.'
'Was the defendant there the night your dear friend was murdered?'
'Mr Joseph,' said the judge, in reprimand.
'Sorry, let me say that in a different way. Was the defendant there when Abdi Sharkmarke lost life?'
'I don't know. I don't remember.'
'Strange how things change in a short time, stories shifting, testimonies contradicted. Strange. How to explain it? Maybe the jury should take into consideration the community that both the witness, the accused and the victim come from.' Both the defense attorney, a young man with flecks of gray in his hair, and the judge looked at the prosecutor closely like he was veering into a territory that he shouldn't enter. But the prosecutor continued, in an offhand manner, to say: 'Maybe the jury would understand that within the community, certain pressures may come to bear, resulting in stories changing, contradictions in testimony.'
Neither Samia and Farhia knew what was being said, the language being too florid, and watched it simply for the changes in faces, trying to interpret them, though Farhia knew that the witness would recant his statement having gone through family channels to arrange it.
After the prosecution came the defense who in obvious triumph cast doubt over his client's guilt, with the help of the witness who had recanted his initial testimony. There was a break when he was done and the witness let go, a lunch break, with the witness the first to go, avoiding eye contact with the two Somali women.
'Come, let's go, hoyo. You've seen him now and this is how this trial is.'
'Oh, we can't talk?' she asked, watching her grandson get up, along with a satisfied defense lawyer.
'No, we can't talk here. We have to go to the prison where he's held to arrange to talk, but I'm not going there.'
'Why?'
'There's just way too many Somalis there for me to feel comfortable.'
