Homegrown Hero

10

Imy

Like always‚ Khala announced her latest plans in a particular way. Not a request‚ not a question. She was simply telling me that it had to be so. Knowing that nothing could ever come of what she was setting me up for‚ I should have battled it‚ made my excuses. She was wasting her time and mine‚ and she was definitely wasting the time of the family who were looking to make a Relationship‚ a Rishta.

But‚ again like always‚ I couldn’t bring myself to fight it. Reluctantly‚ I agreed and ended the call. A minute later‚ Khala messaged me a photo of the girl that I had to meet tonight. I could see Shaz curiously peering at me from behind his computer.

We were in the office. It had been a quiet morning. Two of my clients had cancelled viewings and Shaz’s next client was due late afternoon. So we had set about carrying out some rare admin. Kumar’s Property Services was a small set up. Two branches‚ one located in Cranford and the other‚ our one‚ in the parade of cheap shops in Hounslow West. The office had two rooms. A separate office for Kumar to lock himself in‚ and the main room which Shaz and I operated from‚ our desks situated opposite each other‚ separated by a seated waiting area against the back wall which the clients never used.

‘What’re you looking at?’ Shaz enquired.

‘Khala just sent me a photo.’ I sighed. ‘I’ve got a Rishta tonight.’

‘Another one?’ He smirked. ‘Just go with it. Shit man‚ you never know. She might be the one.’

‘Come on‚ Shaz.’ I said‚ rubbing my face. ‘I have Steph and Jack.’

‘Ooh‚ Steph and Jack‚’ he imitated. ‘You’re not going to marry Steph‚ mate. You know that‚ right? It’s not even possible. Khala will throw a fucking fit!’

‘I’ll find a way.’

‘Course you will! I can see it now. Khala‚ I’m seeing a white chick called Stephanie. Slap! She’s a divorcee. Slap! Oh‚ and she’s got a kid from a previous marriage.’ Shaz mimicked loading a shotgun. ‘You get the picture: Khala stood over you with a sawn-off; you‚ lying on the floor with a hole in your chest‚ wishing why-oh-why did I not do the simple thing and marry a Muslim girl.’

‘Alright‚ Shaz. You’ve made your point.’ I busied myself with work‚ looking for a way out of the conversation. But Shaz had other ideas.

‘Show me the picture of this girl‚ then‚’ Shaz said.

‘No‚’ I said.

‘C’mon‚ man‚’ Shaz pleaded. ‘Just show it.’

‘There’s no point.’

‘Of course there’s a point.’

‘What? What is the point?’

‘I want to see it!’

‘That’s not a valid point.’

‘It’s what mates do‚’ Shaz said.

‘I swear‚’ I said‚ as I unlocked my phone and located the picture. ‘You’re such a child.’

‘Am not!’

I faced the phone in his direction.

‘Here‚’ I said. ‘Happy?’

‘Hang on‚ let me call NASA‚ see if they can lend me their telescope!’ Shaz said‚ from behind his desk. ‘Fucking hell‚ Imy. Bring it over here.’

‘You want to see it‚ you can come to my desk.’

‘I’m your senior.’

‘Why don’t you start acting like it?’

I had hoped his lazy nature would win out‚ but his perverted nature prevailed. He approached my desk with his hand out. I reluctantly handed my phone over.

‘Oh my‚’ he said‚ softly as he took his time making eyes at the photo. ‘And you’re going to say no?’

‘I’m going to say no.’

Shaz bit down on his fist.

‘Imy… Imy… Imy!’

‘I’m not in the mood‚ Shaz. Here‚ give it back.’ He stepped back before I had a chance to swipe it from him.

‘I don’t mean any disrespect‚ Imy. I want to make that clear.’

I scratched my head‚ it was either that or pin him to the ground‚ wrench my phone away and smack him over the head with it.

‘Steph is fit‚ yeah. But this girl is next level. I’d give both my kidneys just to deliver her mail.’

‘I don’t even know what that means‚ Shaz. Give me my phone back.’

Shaz watched it all the way as he handed it back to me‚ as though he was trying to commit her to memory. I hit the home button and the image disappeared.

‘You definitely going to say no?’ Shaz asked carefully.

‘Don’t say it‚’ I said.

‘Say what?’

‘Just don’t.’

Shaz blinked and stayed stood at my desk‚ and I just knew that he was going to ask anyway.

‘Maybe you could give me her number?’

‘No‚ Shaz. The hell is wrong with you!? Just go back to your desk.’

Shaz liked to paint himself as quite the ladies’ man‚ but his tales of sexual escapades were like those created in the mind of a teenage boy. I’d never met any of his so-called conquests. He would constantly tell me that once he found somebody he was serious about‚ he’d introduce her. I knew him and I indulged him‚ but Shaz was well and truly cemented in the lonely hearts club. His heavy consumption of weed had turned him into a wreck when it came to the opposite sex.

‘At least send me her photo.’

I couldn’t help but laugh as he sheepishly trudged back to his desk.

‘What’re you going to tell your Khala? What fault are you going to find with this one? That she’s just too beautiful?’ He shook his head in disappointment. ‘You need to man up‚ Imy. Tell Khala the score and then deal with whatever she throws at you.’

For once‚ Shaz was right. Khala deserved to know the truth and I had to be a man about it and deal with the consequences. But I wasn’t ready. As always‚ the time wasn’t right.

*

I signed off from work early with a list of viewings for the next day‚ and went back to the flat to get ready. I didn’t overdo it with the outfit. If it was up to Khala she would have had me turn up in a suit. As it was‚ I opted for smart casual dark denim jeans‚ a navy blue shirt and Chelsea boots. I drove the short distance to Khala’s and pulled up outside her modest home. I was about to hit the horn when I noticed her waiting impatiently at the kitchen window‚ even though I was ten minutes early.

I got out and opened the passenger side door for her as she walked down the path‚ wearing a parrot-green Indian suit that I hadn’t seen before. Khala eyed me up and down before deciding it’ll do‚ then planted a kiss on my cheek. She handed me the address. It was an East London post code. I cursed under my breath as I entered it into Google Maps. I was going to be so late for Stephanie and Jack.

I indicated and pulled out‚ as she filled me in at customary breakneck speed.

‘Both parents retired but still involved in running an Indian fashion boutique on Green Street. I can’t remember the name. You would have seen the advert on Star Plus.’

‘I don’t watch Star Plus‚ Khala.’

‘You don’t watch Bollywood films anymore?’ She seemed shocked. We had spent many nights together eating our way through a three hour song-and-dance fest.

‘Anyway‚ you were saying?’

‘They have lot of money‚ I saw picture on Facebook‚ they have gold fence around their big house.’

‘Okay‚’ I rolled my eyes discreetly.

‘They have two sons‚ Nadeem and Kareem‚ one is accountant and one is lecturer. They both live at home with their parents.’ I could sense her eyes lasering into me. I kept mine straight ahead on the road‚ praying for the traffic to open up.

‘Are you going to tell me about the girl or...?’

‘Her name is Rukhsana. She is graduate!’

‘What subject?’

‘Don’t know. Just know she is graduate.’

‘Okay‚ graduate‚ got it.’ I thought I could just ask Rukhsana directly in the name of small talk. ‘Anything else?’

‘I told them that you still live at home with me.’ She said it straight faced.

‘Why couldn’t you just tell them the truth?’ I asked‚ redundantly.

‘Astaghfirulah. That you live in a chicken shop.’

‘Above a chicken shop.’

‘Sometimes it is better to tell small lie than to lose face‚’ Khala said‚ in fortune cookie wisdom.

‘I’m thirty-six‚ Khala. I can’t live with you forever.’ She didn’t reply. Stony-faced silence. I understood. You don’t leave home until you are married. ‘Anything else?’

‘I told them that your parents died of natural causes.’

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.

11

Jay

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 Isis had been nothing more than a sweet-sounding Muslim girls’ name. Though with shit being the way it was‚ she felt she had no choice but to change her name. It would have been nice though if somebody had advised her not to change it from an Islamic Terrorist group to an Irish Terrorist group.

‘Did you notice how he didn’t once look at any of the Somalis?’ Ira asked with a smile.

I 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.’