Read Online A Man of Good Hope (Jonny Steinberg) (NF8) by Jonny Steinberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonny Steinberg
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with such exquisite and gentle nostalgia that Asad would sometimes find himself weeping. He did not always follow what the men were saying. But as the sounds of their voices washed over him they became the voices of his own father and
his
friends; and if he closed his eyes for long enough, his mother was there, too, somewhere in the background, cooking the men dinner.
Ahmad Noor Galal was often away. He had a job with CARE International, for which he drove a supply truck between Nairobi and the Dadaab refugee camps. He would head off before daybreak for northeastern Kenya and not return for days. While he was gone, there were only enemies in the house.
Asad began to drift. He would wander from the house after breakfast, skip lunch, and not return until the sun was setting. Staring at the tips of his bare toes, trying as hard as he might to imagine the American world in which Yindy now lived, he walked through Eastleigh street by street.
Looking back, Asad thinks that at this time his thoughts of his mother took on a new intensity. The image of her two thick plaits, the feeling of her smooth hair passing through the webs of his open fingers: he associates that image with the beginning of his time in Eastleigh. He believes that this was when he installed the feeling of her inside him, permanently, such that, whatever he did and wherever he went, he took with him a mother’s love.
One afternoon, during his daily wanderings, Asad came across a group of Somali men leaning against a wall chewing
mira.
He is not sure why he chose to linger. Cautiously, he picked a spot close to them and crouched on his haunches. They eyed him lazily and then returned to their conversation. He drew a little closer to them and, finally, pushed his back against the wall, closed his eyes, and listened. He sat there a long time. The sun slanted, the street became fuller and noisier; still, nobody chased him away.
When night fell, the men retired indoors, and Asad followed behind. They laughed at his precociousness and cuffed the back of his head and asked his name, but they did not shoo him out. A woman served food. Once the men were eating, she called Asad over, handed him a bowl, and invited him to fill it.
Sometime during the course of the evening, there was a rap on the door. Somebody answered it, and Asad heard urgent voices; he recognized one of them as that of Ahmad Noor Galal. He had been searching the length and breadth of Eastleigh for Asad and now called him in a firm and angry voice. Asad walked past the men he had befriended as if through a gauntlet, his cheeks burning with shame.
He followed Galal through the streets of Eastleigh, his head bowed. He trembled when he thought of the beating he would receive once they were home. Still some distance from the house, Galal suddenly stopped and turned. Instead of striking Asad, he knelt on one knee. He put his hand on Asad’s shoulder and asked him quietly what was wrong. It was such a gentle, sensitive gesture, this tall man lowering himself to put his face so close to Asad’s. Willing himself not to burst into tears, Asad was mute.
And then, with the wind of Galal’s breath brushing his cheeks, something silent and unpleasant passed between them. Asad knows now, if he did not then, that it was the chill of a new estrangement. They walked home together in silence. Dimly, but palpably enough, Asad understood that in that moment Galal had given up. He had weighed the costs of forcing his wife to accept Asad, and he had calculated that it was too high a price to pay.
“The family ate breakfast together every morning,” Asad tells me. “When it was finished, everyone was responsible for washing their own plate. One morning, the other two children did not wash their dishes. They put their dirty plates in the washing bowl and went out to play. At lunchtime, my aunt sees these dirty dishes, and she starts to shout at me. Automatically at me. I tell her I have already washed my plate. She
his
friends; and if he closed his eyes for long enough, his mother was there, too, somewhere in the background, cooking the men dinner.
Ahmad Noor Galal was often away. He had a job with CARE International, for which he drove a supply truck between Nairobi and the Dadaab refugee camps. He would head off before daybreak for northeastern Kenya and not return for days. While he was gone, there were only enemies in the house.
Asad began to drift. He would wander from the house after breakfast, skip lunch, and not return until the sun was setting. Staring at the tips of his bare toes, trying as hard as he might to imagine the American world in which Yindy now lived, he walked through Eastleigh street by street.
Looking back, Asad thinks that at this time his thoughts of his mother took on a new intensity. The image of her two thick plaits, the feeling of her smooth hair passing through the webs of his open fingers: he associates that image with the beginning of his time in Eastleigh. He believes that this was when he installed the feeling of her inside him, permanently, such that, whatever he did and wherever he went, he took with him a mother’s love.
One afternoon, during his daily wanderings, Asad came across a group of Somali men leaning against a wall chewing
mira.
He is not sure why he chose to linger. Cautiously, he picked a spot close to them and crouched on his haunches. They eyed him lazily and then returned to their conversation. He drew a little closer to them and, finally, pushed his back against the wall, closed his eyes, and listened. He sat there a long time. The sun slanted, the street became fuller and noisier; still, nobody chased him away.
When night fell, the men retired indoors, and Asad followed behind. They laughed at his precociousness and cuffed the back of his head and asked his name, but they did not shoo him out. A woman served food. Once the men were eating, she called Asad over, handed him a bowl, and invited him to fill it.
Sometime during the course of the evening, there was a rap on the door. Somebody answered it, and Asad heard urgent voices; he recognized one of them as that of Ahmad Noor Galal. He had been searching the length and breadth of Eastleigh for Asad and now called him in a firm and angry voice. Asad walked past the men he had befriended as if through a gauntlet, his cheeks burning with shame.
He followed Galal through the streets of Eastleigh, his head bowed. He trembled when he thought of the beating he would receive once they were home. Still some distance from the house, Galal suddenly stopped and turned. Instead of striking Asad, he knelt on one knee. He put his hand on Asad’s shoulder and asked him quietly what was wrong. It was such a gentle, sensitive gesture, this tall man lowering himself to put his face so close to Asad’s. Willing himself not to burst into tears, Asad was mute.
And then, with the wind of Galal’s breath brushing his cheeks, something silent and unpleasant passed between them. Asad knows now, if he did not then, that it was the chill of a new estrangement. They walked home together in silence. Dimly, but palpably enough, Asad understood that in that moment Galal had given up. He had weighed the costs of forcing his wife to accept Asad, and he had calculated that it was too high a price to pay.
“The family ate breakfast together every morning,” Asad tells me. “When it was finished, everyone was responsible for washing their own plate. One morning, the other two children did not wash their dishes. They put their dirty plates in the washing bowl and went out to play. At lunchtime, my aunt sees these dirty dishes, and she starts to shout at me. Automatically at me. I tell her I have already washed my plate. She
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