Refugee Boy (19 page)

‘Father, why are you buying so many things in cans? You don’t like canned food.’

‘Well, young man, there is nowhere to store fresh meat in that place so if I want meat it will have to be canned.’

‘And Father, you don’t have anywhere to cook, do you?’

‘Yes, you didn’t see it but there is a place for cooking there. It’s downstairs and . . .’ He hesitated. ‘It’s a bit rough.’

At the checkout point Mr Kelo was paying the cashier while Alem was packing the carrier bags. When he looked over to another checkout in the distance, he saw a face that he recognised. For a moment he couldn’t remember where from, then it came to him; it was the man in the hotel who had directed him
to his father’s room. He still looked glum. Alem tried to catch his attention by waving to him but the man didn’t see him.

‘Who are you waving to?’ Alem’s father asked, joining in with the packing.

‘That man over there. I met him this morning in the hotel.’

‘Oh yes, I have seen him there too. I think he lives downstairs somewhere. You’ll see him again, I’m sure.’

When they got back to the hotel, Alem had an even bigger shock when he saw the kitchen. It was a communal cooking area between the communal toilet and the communal bathroom on the second floor. The walls were covered in damp, there was no storage space, only the tiniest of sinks, and the gas cooker was a survivor from the 1970s that had turned black and brown with spilt and burnt food.

Alem’s father looked at Alem and said, ‘That used to be white.’

Alem looked horrified.

‘Don’t say anything,’ said Mr Kelo. ‘Let’s go and put the food away.’

‘Where?’

‘I’ll show you.’

He led Alem up to his room and opened his wardrobe. Inside hung the few items of clothing that Mr Kelo possessed. At the bottom of the
wardrobe Alem saw two small pots and a box containing a couple of cans of baked beans and half a large onion.

Mr Kelo ran his hands over Alem’s head. ‘It’s a bit rough,’ he said smiling. Alem knew that his father was willing to endure the hardship and that nothing that he could say would change things.

‘Yes,’ he said, smiling back at his father, ‘it’s a bit rough.’

Later that afternoon Alem and his father waited their turn to use the kitchen and then cooked some boiled rice, corned beef and vegetables. Alem hated the meal, as did his father, but they both felt it was their duty not to show it.

After the meal Alem walked home relatively happy. It felt strange saying goodbye to his father and walking home to another family; it was as if his father had also become a friend. It was even stranger when Mr Kelo rang Alem on Sunday evening to find that Alem was inviting him to the Fitzgeralds for a meal.

‘Remember,’ Alem said, ‘I owe you some Italian spaghetti.’

And so it was that on Monday evening Mr Kelo ate at Meanly Road, spaghetti bolognese prepared by Alem with a little help from Mrs Fitzgerald and Ruth. On Tuesday after school Alem headed straight to the hotel, where he had a stir-fry cooked by his father,
and on Wednesday Mr Kelo was back at the Fitzgeralds’.

All the Fitzgeralds loved watching the Kelos build their relationship back up and they encouraged Alem to see his father as much as he could. Robert could see a big change in Alem; he walked and talked more confidently and he worked even more diligently, although it was obvious that he was missing his mother and he was continually thinking about Africa and war.

After the Wednesday-night meal, Mr Fitzgerald stood up at the table and gave what amounted to an after-dinner speech. ‘Alem is a great boy. We have had many children here over the years but I can honestly say that none have been as good as Alem. Don’t get me wrong, they haven’t all been bad children, but none have been as hard-working and well-mannered as Alem. Since he’s been in this house, we haven’t had one reason to tell him off, he’s even better behaved than my fish. I could say that his room could be a bit tidier but at least he reads the books, and anyway the fish ain’t got any books.’

Everyone laughed and Mr Kelo looked at Alem with pride.

‘We have had some sad times,’ Mr Fitzgerald continued. ‘When Mrs Kelo was killed we thought that we had lost a piece of our own family, but Alem is a
strong boy. And now it is great to see you both together. That’s all I want to say really.’ He stopped for a while and thought. ‘Oh yes, I remember,’ he said, picking up an envelope that was under his side plate, ‘we want to give you this, a little present from us.’ He handed the envelope to Mr Kelo, who opened it immediately.

‘Thank you, Mr Fitzgerald,’ Mr Kelo replied. ‘Thank you all! Alem, look, they are tickets for the Millennium Dome.’

‘The Millennium Dome!’ said Alem. ‘I’ve heard so much about it, it’s always on the television. Thank you, Mr Fitzgerald.’

‘I just hope you haven’t got anything planned for Saturday,’ said Mr Fitzgerald, uttering a sigh of relief as he sat down after all the excitement.

On Saturday Alem and his father travelled by train to the Dome. Alem was cold but his father was feeling it the most; he had not really acclimatised and it was a particularly cold day. Alem wasn’t impressed with the architecture of the Dome but he liked its size, and the displays and the interactive installations amused him. Most of all he was just happy to be sightseeing with his father once more.

When they left the Dome late in the afternoon, Mr Kelo said that he wanted to take Alem somewhere else. They got on the Underground train and made
their way to Seven Sisters station in north London. After leaving the station they walked for about two hundred yards to what looked like a shop.

‘Do you know what this place is?’ Mr Kelo asked Alem.

‘No.’

‘This is the office of EAST,’ he said, pressing the bell.

The door was opened by a man in his forties who greeted them in Amharic and waved them in. Inside, the room was full of people, either Ethiopians or Eritreans. They were talking and joking. Alem’s father shook hands with all of them, showing off his son at the same time. The walls were covered with posters depicting scenes from Somalia, Kenya, Sudan, Ethiopia and Eritrea. Many of them looked as if they had been up there for years. Some of them were straight from the office of tourism. ‘Come to Ethiopia, 13 months of sunshine,’ said one, showing a tribal woman carrying a basket on her head.

Within fifteen minutes of arriving, Mr Kelo was saying goodbye to everyone. On their way back to the station he told Alem, ‘The only reason why I brought you here today was to show you our only surviving office and just to show you some Ethiopians and Eritreans who are getting along fine. Peace is possible and peace will happen; the thing is, we want it now. Some people want it but will not do anything about
achieving it. We already have what they call a United States of America. They may be debating what the coins will look like or what shape the cucumbers will be, but they are also creating a United States of Europe. All we want is a United States of Africa but we realise that before we can unite a continent, we have to unite the regions. That’s all we want. We are not a political party trying to make a government, we just want people to sing and dance together. We want peace, we want a united Africa.’

‘Me too,’ Alem said as they entered the Underground station and made their way back to east London.

Early on the morning of Tuesday 15th February, Mrs Fitzgerald picked up Mr Kelo in a taxi. From the hotel they went to Stratford station, where they caught the Underground train into central London. In the court Alem checked the list for their names and saw that they were to appear in the same courtroom in front of the adjudicator he had seen previously. They made their way to courtroom number nine; this time it was Alem who led the way. They sat on the same bench outside the courtroom next to a young Asian couple who were speaking to their barrister through an interpreter.

Just as the Asian couple were being taken into the court, Nicholas Morgan arrived. Tired but smiling, he apologised for being late. He had been dealing with another case in court four, which had run on longer than expected. As the three of them sat on the bench, Nicholas stayed standing and began to outline how he thought things would proceed.

‘The adjudicator is seeing you for the second time,
Alem, and he is seeing you for the first time, Mr Kelo. Now that he is being asked to deal with you as a couple, I think he will request another adjournment to give us time to make a more detailed representation of your case, Mr Kelo, and to present you as a family, so to speak.’

‘I understand,’ said Mr Kelo.

‘Do you think they will have to speak?’ asked Mrs Fitzgerald.

‘It is possible, but I don’t think so; they will only have to confirm their names and addresses as normal. It will be pretty much like the last time but –’ he was now addressing Alem and Mr Kelo – ‘I may use the letter as evidence. The adjudicator already has a copy of the letter but it may have to be quoted.’

‘I understand,’ said Mr Kelo.

Alem and Mrs Fitzgerald just nodded their heads. They waited for a short while and soon the Tamil couple came out of the courtroom. Alem watched them as they walked away with their barrister and interpreter, trying to see their expressions. He thought that if they had a good result they would be happy and this could mean that the adjudicator was in a good mood. But their expressions were neutral, just as they had been when they went in, and Alem couldn’t tell whether this was good, bad or just another adjournment.

They waited for another ten minutes, then the
same woman as before came and called for ‘Case Number C651438’.

Nothing had changed in the courtroom and the moment he entered it, Alem felt guilty of something again. Mrs Fitzgerald sat alone in the family seating area and Alem and his father sat together in front of the adjudicator’s seat. When the adjudicator walked in, Alem knew exactly what to do and he stood up quickly, quicker than anyone else in the courtroom, and when the adjudicator sat down, Alem sat on cue. The clerk announced the case number and identified the parties involved. For a couple of minutes the adjudicator read the papers in front of him.

He took off his glasses and looked at Alem. ‘Oh yes, I remember you.’ He put on his glasses and read a bit more before addressing the representatives.

‘I take it you,’ he said, addressing the state representative, ‘are representing the Secretary of State on both cases?’

He confirmed this.

‘And you – the adjudicator turned to Nicholas – ‘are representing both appellants?’

‘Yes,’ Nicholas said confidently.

The adjudicator looked back towards the state representative again. ‘Does the state have anything to add to that which was stated in the last hearing? I have your report and it seems very straightforward to me.’

The representative stood up. ‘No, sir. There has not been an escalation of hostilities in Ethiopia and Eritrea. We recognise that fighting still continues but this fighting is confined to very small areas in both countries. Most of the people in Ethiopia and Eritrea have not seen any fighting whatsoever. In the opinion of the state, the risk to the lives of the appellants is minimal and we see no reason why they should not return to their country of origin and consider living in an area where they do not feel threatened.’

He sat down. Nicholas stood up and began to speak.

‘The fact is, sir, that there has been a massive escalation of the fighting between both sides, and although the United Nations has appointed Algeria as mediator, both sides are refusing to come to the negotiating table. It may be true to say that most of the population of both countries will never see any fighting, but the people who live along the border and those that are living in cities within easy range of the opposing forces are being subjected to war every day. Furthermore, sir – and this is crucial to this case – my clients are not being persecuted because they are on one side or the other, they are being persecuted because they are on both sides. At this point in time there is no place for what is a mixed-race family in this conflict. When young Alem Kelo is in Ethiopia, he is persecuted because he is Eritrean, and when he
is in Eritrea, he is persecuted because he is Ethiopian. This young man is in an impossible position and it is clear that the only way he could return to either country and live safely is when there is a genuine peace throughout the region.’

Nicholas searched some papers on the desk in front of him and picked one of them up. ‘For this small family the matter of war is not academic. Since the last time Alem appeared in this court, his mother has been brutally murdered. Imagine how difficult it must have been for Mr Kelo to let his son know that his mother was found hacked to death.’

There was a thud and everyone in the courtroom turned to see what it was. Alem had collapsed in his seat and fallen forward. Even though he was already haunted by the death of his mother, it was the first time he had heard it being described as ‘hacked to death’.

Mr Kelo tried to move him back into an upright position as the usher calmly asked, ‘Would the young man like some water?’

‘Yes, water, please,’ said Mr Kelo.

The usher poured water from a jug and handed the glass to Alem’s father, who poured water into his hand and began to flick it on to Alem’s face. He shook him and Alem began to revive. Then he put the glass to his mouth and Alem drank slowly.

‘Would the young man like to leave the
proceedings for a while?’ said the adjudicator.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Kelo.

‘No,’ said Alem. He looked towards his father and whispered, ‘I’m all right, Father, I want to stay.’

‘Are you sure?’ Mr Kelo asked, concerned. ‘You can get some fresh air and then come back when you feel better.’

‘No, I’ll be all right, Father. I want to stay here with you and Mr Morgan.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

Mr Kelo turned to the adjudicator and said, ‘He would like to stay.’

‘Very well, please continue,’ said the adjudicator.

Nicholas looked towards Mr Kelo, who signalled to him to continue. Nicholas cleared his throat and began to speak.