Earlier in the morning a young Somali was complaining about the parking meters.
What do they think this is?! In Footscray…
Rich people: Sudanese, Somali…
At the coffee machine Abdou Razzak stirring the pot from the side, as usual. Cheeky boyishness etched here. Usually AR’s delivery was more deadpan.
… In Chapel Street they don’t have meters on the street. They should have them there. Not Footscray.
…Sunshine. Braybrook. Too much money. Government know. Somalis pay.
Which revealed the young lad’s nation.
They think we’re pirates, that’s why.
This produced an outburst of laugher from a number of the tables, regardless of national lines.
The local Liberal candidate, a regular at the café, had highlighted the problem of the parking meters on his advertising material.
The older men at d’Afrique didn’t drive. Some of the younger able-bodied walked from Flemington & Maribyrnong to join their brothers. 10-12kms.
It was a broad church at Abou R.’s place. Christians from the Horn intermingled with the dominant Muslims—Somalis, Sudanese, Eritrean, Ethiopian, Lebanese & Egyptians at adjacent tables. Some Vietnamese Buddhists and Koreans were added to A. R.’s mix too. One of the latter was killed a few years before at an outdoor table by a Sudanese hitting the wrong pedal while backing out of a parking spot across the road.
Recently, Mr Mohammed No. 3 was encountered at the front window table, the prize viewing perch in the house. After being shut away in hospital couple months following a fall, Mr M. enjoyed the show out on the street.
Mohammed was the most popular and common name in Somalia, Mr M. informed.
Unlike many of his generation there, Mr Mohammed No. 3’s English was good and formally correct. Almost certainly he had not been sighted previously; the disability would have been recalled. In childhood Mr M. had contracted polio. Since diabetes had added to his afflictions, and then the fall in the shower had resulted in a break in his good, straight leg.
Because his father was a rich cattle & livestock trader, Mr Mohammed had completed primary, intermediate & high school in Mogadishu.
Hearing that his countryman Mr Mohammed No. 1, the shopkeeper around the corner—three shops now, selling cheap China product—had said that Somalis who declared they came from Mogadishu usually hailed from a goat track 40kms off, Mr M. No. 3 gave a wan smile.
In Mogadishu city this Mr Modh confirmed he had lived, was schooled and treated for his affliction.
Six languages were in his command. In order of accomplishment: Somali, English, Arabic, Italian, Russian… and one other, possibly not a colonial language.
In an exchange of mobile numbers with Allen, a fellow Somali who hadn’t seen Mr M. No. 3 for a long while, English was used.
Asked why the Africans resorted to English instead of Somali or Arabic, Allen replied with pique, Because we are not Arabs.
In a recent news-report one of the Somali pirates had been ridiculed for accepting a ransom of only a few thousand dollars for some particularly rich booty. In reply the man had defended himself by explaining he hadn’t known there existed a number greater than ten thousand.
Ten years the Italians were in Somalia. The first and most accomplished buccaneers, the English, before them and later returning again for a second stint. Mr M. No. 3 was not alone at the café in possession of relevant history; deeply personal history of course.
For a time the Russians had supplanted the English in Somalia.
Many of the men in the café spoke a smattering of the various Euro languages.
Mr Modh’s superior English had been bolstered by fifteen years he spent in Christchurch, before he crossed the Ditch to the continent. Understandably, the weather in Melbourne he found more congenial, he explained.
Late-60s or early-70s, of a sunny, good-natured disposition, with the disability confusing the initial picture.
Mr M. had been too young for Mussolini, but the Italian in the schools had continued for some while after the failure of that new, short-lived Roman dawn.
Club and broken foot could be carefully co-ordinated with the walking frame to get the man out the door here and onto the pavement. At the café Mr Mohammed received much deference and respect from all; in making his slow exit, however, he politely declined helping hands.
Taking up the window chair after him, Faisal, A. Razak.’s elder brother, told of Julian Assange’s recent interview on Al Jazeera he had watched. The strikingly white white man had greatly surprised Faisal.
— They kill him? he wondered.
Very nearly of course some years later. There was not much the African there didn’t know about international relations and politics.
Café d’Afrique
Footscray, Melbourne
December 2010
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