Read Online A Man of Good Hope (Jonny Steinberg) (NF8) by Jonny Steinberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonny Steinberg
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gets even angrier. For lying, she says, I must wash the whole family’s plates.”
Asad imagined himself cleaning the dishes his lying stepsiblings had dirtied, and the humiliation of it flooded his cheeks and his head. He picked up a dish and threw it as hard as he could at Galal’s wife. He aimed for the bridge of her nose, but instead struck her square on the shoulder. The plate rebounded onto a wall and shattered.
Asad ran outside, his aunt close on his heels. When he had crossed the street, he stopped, armed himself with a handful of stones, and turned.
“We stood like that for a long time,” Asad recalls. “Me on one side of the street, the family on the other. Whenever one of them took a step toward me, I threw a stone. My uncle was out back eating
mira
with some friends. Somebody went to call him. I ran. My aim was to go to the furthest place in Islii, to get somewhere they couldn’t find me.”
It was by chance that Asad’s route took him past the house where the men had sat eating
mira.
There was just one man there now, and Asad stopped, walked up to him, and stared. The man chuckled and invited Asad to sit.
“What’s with you?” he asked. “What’s wrong at home?”
They sat together in silence for a long time. Finally, when the man got up to go, Asad followed. They walked several blocks before entering a hotel. The man’s room was on the second floor. Bare and simple, it had a single bed and a few possessions. The man told Asad that his name was Bashir.
He cut Asad a thick slice of bread and poured him a glass of milk.
“When you are finished eating,” Bashir said, “you must go home.”
Asad shook his head.
“Okay,” Bashir bargained. “You stay here. I will go and speak to your family. I will smooth everything. Then you will come.”
“No,” Asad said.
The stalemate was only broken when Asad drifted off to sleep. At some point, he felt himself being lifted and carried. Then he was gently settled on the bed. He woke during the night to find Bashir in the bed beside him.
The next time he woke it was morning. Bashir was dressed.
“I am leaving,” he said. “I will not chase you out now, but when I return this evening you must not be here. You must go to your family.”
Asad left about an hour later, but not for home. During the course of the previous three months, he had come to know several Somali children. He went to the house of one of them, sat down, and settled in. At nightfall, the adults of the household told him to go home. He refused and was allowed to spend the night. The following day, he visited another child and did the same there.
“Four nights in a row I spent in different homes,” he tells me. “Now, my story is out. The women talk among themselves. They bitch about my foster mother. ‘How can that woman…? The child has nobody. Who does she think she is…?’
“The story is now reaching Galal and his wife. It is becoming embarrassing for them. So I am caught. But I am not taken back to Galal’s house. A meeting is held among the AliYusuf elders. It is decided that I will live in the Hotel Taleh. The whole hotel is full of AliYusuf. Two floors. Wherever you go, families, full, full, full, mattresses in the corridor. Everyone offered me food. Everyone knew my story. I became friends to all the children. I slept in a different bed in the hotel every night.”
The AliYusuf allowed for this situation on the grounds that it was temporary. Sooner or later, Yindy would call for Asad to come to America. Or his father would turn up unannounced in Eastleigh. That was the thinking. In the end, Asad would live this way in the Hotel Taleh for more than two years.
—
That Asad spent so long in Eastleigh without ever learning its English name says a great deal, not only about his time there but about Eastleigh itself. Throughout its history, since long before Somalis came to live in its houses, Eastleigh was one of those twilight zones one encounters in great
Asad imagined himself cleaning the dishes his lying stepsiblings had dirtied, and the humiliation of it flooded his cheeks and his head. He picked up a dish and threw it as hard as he could at Galal’s wife. He aimed for the bridge of her nose, but instead struck her square on the shoulder. The plate rebounded onto a wall and shattered.
Asad ran outside, his aunt close on his heels. When he had crossed the street, he stopped, armed himself with a handful of stones, and turned.
“We stood like that for a long time,” Asad recalls. “Me on one side of the street, the family on the other. Whenever one of them took a step toward me, I threw a stone. My uncle was out back eating
mira
with some friends. Somebody went to call him. I ran. My aim was to go to the furthest place in Islii, to get somewhere they couldn’t find me.”
It was by chance that Asad’s route took him past the house where the men had sat eating
mira.
There was just one man there now, and Asad stopped, walked up to him, and stared. The man chuckled and invited Asad to sit.
“What’s with you?” he asked. “What’s wrong at home?”
They sat together in silence for a long time. Finally, when the man got up to go, Asad followed. They walked several blocks before entering a hotel. The man’s room was on the second floor. Bare and simple, it had a single bed and a few possessions. The man told Asad that his name was Bashir.
He cut Asad a thick slice of bread and poured him a glass of milk.
“When you are finished eating,” Bashir said, “you must go home.”
Asad shook his head.
“Okay,” Bashir bargained. “You stay here. I will go and speak to your family. I will smooth everything. Then you will come.”
“No,” Asad said.
The stalemate was only broken when Asad drifted off to sleep. At some point, he felt himself being lifted and carried. Then he was gently settled on the bed. He woke during the night to find Bashir in the bed beside him.
The next time he woke it was morning. Bashir was dressed.
“I am leaving,” he said. “I will not chase you out now, but when I return this evening you must not be here. You must go to your family.”
Asad left about an hour later, but not for home. During the course of the previous three months, he had come to know several Somali children. He went to the house of one of them, sat down, and settled in. At nightfall, the adults of the household told him to go home. He refused and was allowed to spend the night. The following day, he visited another child and did the same there.
“Four nights in a row I spent in different homes,” he tells me. “Now, my story is out. The women talk among themselves. They bitch about my foster mother. ‘How can that woman…? The child has nobody. Who does she think she is…?’
“The story is now reaching Galal and his wife. It is becoming embarrassing for them. So I am caught. But I am not taken back to Galal’s house. A meeting is held among the AliYusuf elders. It is decided that I will live in the Hotel Taleh. The whole hotel is full of AliYusuf. Two floors. Wherever you go, families, full, full, full, mattresses in the corridor. Everyone offered me food. Everyone knew my story. I became friends to all the children. I slept in a different bed in the hotel every night.”
The AliYusuf allowed for this situation on the grounds that it was temporary. Sooner or later, Yindy would call for Asad to come to America. Or his father would turn up unannounced in Eastleigh. That was the thinking. In the end, Asad would live this way in the Hotel Taleh for more than two years.
—
That Asad spent so long in Eastleigh without ever learning its English name says a great deal, not only about his time there but about Eastleigh itself. Throughout its history, since long before Somalis came to live in its houses, Eastleigh was one of those twilight zones one encounters in great
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