A Man of Good Hope (Jonny Steinberg) (NF8) by Jonny Steinberg Page B
Authors: Jonny Steinberg
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Noor Galal said, “we have heard nothing of him. But there are many possible reasons for the silence. He could turn up here in Islii any day.”
“Did you ever meet him?” Asad plucked up the courage to ask.
“No,” he replied. “There are so many AliYusuf men one only hears about but never meets.”
The following morning, Yindy prepared to return to Lang’ata alone.
“No, I am coming with you,” Asad said.
It was not a question. It was a demand.
A distraction was found. Asad was sent on an errand with his new stepbrother and -sister. When they returned, Yindy was gone.
He does not have a final image of her. Instead, he has a series of numbers.
“Yindy either flew on 09-03-1993 or on 03-09-1993. It is one of the two. I don’t remember which.”
“Why do you remember the date in that particular way?” I ask. “Did you see it written down like that somewhere?”
“I don’t remember where I saw it,” he replies. “I just remember the numbers.”
—
When Asad first mentions Islii, I ask him to spell it.
“I-s-l-i-i,”
he says.
That evening I begin reading about Somalis in Nairobi and immediately come across a place called Eastleigh.
Islii. Eastleigh.
I discover later that all Somalis say and spell it this way. I will come to see what they have done to the English name of the neighborhood as an analogue for what they have done to the neighborhood itself.
“Islii was dirty back then,” Asad says. “It rains a lot in Nairobi. There was no tar on the streets, no bricks on the pavements. There was a lot of mud. And there was nobody to come and take the rubbish. The place stank. It was overcrowded with Somalis, at that stage, all Daaroods. They were streaming in, more every day. But the kiosks and the shops were all run by Kenyans. The Somalis were not yet the businesspeople they are in Islii today.
“There is the Ring Road around the whole of Nairobi. Islii is just outside the Ring Road. People would watch the taxis and buses going to the rest of the city. But they were not for us. Most Somalis stayed in Islii the whole time.
“Although Kenyans ran the kiosks,” Asad continues, “Somalis ran the lodges. They were overcrowded with families and with children. Sometimes there was more than one family in a room. There was the Hotel Taleh, Morion Lodge, Alfalaah Hotel, Garissa Lodge. They were full of wives and children. In general, each hotel was occupied by a different clan. The Hotel Taleh was full of AliYusuf people. Most had nothing to do. They would sit all day and talk and talk and talk about other AliYusuf people and where they might be.”
Unlike most Somalis in Eastleigh, Ahmad Noor Galal had a steady, well-paid job. There was no need for his family to squeeze into a hotel room. They rented a house all their own. They ate three square meals a day. Their clothes were new.
For Asad, this was, on the face of it, manna from heaven. A house, a family, a patriarch who put meat on the table: just a week earlier, it had been doubtful that Asad would ever again be exposed to such precious normalcy. But his new home also had its politics.
“My uncle was very nice,” Asad recalls, “but it was clear from the beginning that his wife was uncomfortable with a strange child in the house. Us three children would play inside and make a mess. My aunt would shout at us, punish us. The children would say, No, Asad did it. She would immediately take their side. Soon, it became the way of the house. If there’s a problem, the children automatically point my way: Asad did it. I was very, very lonely, my brother. More lonely than if there had been nobody else there.”
Sometimes, Asad would take refuge with his uncle, who whiled away many an afternoon in the yard at the back of his house chewing khat, which Somalis call
mira,
and talking to friends. Asad would sit a few paces away, the back of his head against the wall. He would close his eyes and listen to the men’s voices. They spoke of Mogadishu
“Did you ever meet him?” Asad plucked up the courage to ask.
“No,” he replied. “There are so many AliYusuf men one only hears about but never meets.”
The following morning, Yindy prepared to return to Lang’ata alone.
“No, I am coming with you,” Asad said.
It was not a question. It was a demand.
A distraction was found. Asad was sent on an errand with his new stepbrother and -sister. When they returned, Yindy was gone.
He does not have a final image of her. Instead, he has a series of numbers.
“Yindy either flew on 09-03-1993 or on 03-09-1993. It is one of the two. I don’t remember which.”
“Why do you remember the date in that particular way?” I ask. “Did you see it written down like that somewhere?”
“I don’t remember where I saw it,” he replies. “I just remember the numbers.”
—
When Asad first mentions Islii, I ask him to spell it.
“I-s-l-i-i,”
he says.
That evening I begin reading about Somalis in Nairobi and immediately come across a place called Eastleigh.
Islii. Eastleigh.
I discover later that all Somalis say and spell it this way. I will come to see what they have done to the English name of the neighborhood as an analogue for what they have done to the neighborhood itself.
“Islii was dirty back then,” Asad says. “It rains a lot in Nairobi. There was no tar on the streets, no bricks on the pavements. There was a lot of mud. And there was nobody to come and take the rubbish. The place stank. It was overcrowded with Somalis, at that stage, all Daaroods. They were streaming in, more every day. But the kiosks and the shops were all run by Kenyans. The Somalis were not yet the businesspeople they are in Islii today.
“There is the Ring Road around the whole of Nairobi. Islii is just outside the Ring Road. People would watch the taxis and buses going to the rest of the city. But they were not for us. Most Somalis stayed in Islii the whole time.
“Although Kenyans ran the kiosks,” Asad continues, “Somalis ran the lodges. They were overcrowded with families and with children. Sometimes there was more than one family in a room. There was the Hotel Taleh, Morion Lodge, Alfalaah Hotel, Garissa Lodge. They were full of wives and children. In general, each hotel was occupied by a different clan. The Hotel Taleh was full of AliYusuf people. Most had nothing to do. They would sit all day and talk and talk and talk about other AliYusuf people and where they might be.”
Unlike most Somalis in Eastleigh, Ahmad Noor Galal had a steady, well-paid job. There was no need for his family to squeeze into a hotel room. They rented a house all their own. They ate three square meals a day. Their clothes were new.
For Asad, this was, on the face of it, manna from heaven. A house, a family, a patriarch who put meat on the table: just a week earlier, it had been doubtful that Asad would ever again be exposed to such precious normalcy. But his new home also had its politics.
“My uncle was very nice,” Asad recalls, “but it was clear from the beginning that his wife was uncomfortable with a strange child in the house. Us three children would play inside and make a mess. My aunt would shout at us, punish us. The children would say, No, Asad did it. She would immediately take their side. Soon, it became the way of the house. If there’s a problem, the children automatically point my way: Asad did it. I was very, very lonely, my brother. More lonely than if there had been nobody else there.”
Sometimes, Asad would take refuge with his uncle, who whiled away many an afternoon in the yard at the back of his house chewing khat, which Somalis call
mira,
and talking to friends. Asad would sit a few paces away, the back of his head against the wall. He would close his eyes and listen to the men’s voices. They spoke of Mogadishu
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