The Afghans

The previous day, Abdul rode the tram for more than three stops. He had never travelled beyond tram stop two since arriving in Springvale, so for first time, at the sound of the third ding, the tram came to a halt, and he exited. Abdul walked through the new territory with a newborn curiosity, staring through shop front windows, kicking the weeds growing on the side of footpaths, staring at people with different complexions to him, until finally he smelt the burning embers of charcoal chicken drifting through the air.

The moment Abdul entered the restaurant, he felt as if he’d been transported to another part of the globe. It was a busy operation, large sticks of meat being grilled on one side, chefs throwing lettuce and tomatoes and sauce at shredded meat on bread on another, waitresses taking orders in a hurry and dropping plates in front of customers even faster. He knew he didn’t have any money, but Abdul wanted to try one, just one of these iron rods crowned with perfectly charred cubes of meat.

The cashier spoke something incomprehensible to Abdul that snapped him out of the trance he was in. He pointed at a meat skewer and signalled for one with his finger. As soon as he stepped aside to wait, it was already in his hand, the waitress smiling at him. His focus was now on the creation before him. He could hear her speaking to him, but his senses were focused, heightened purely for taste, his mouth salivating as he determines how to start. He tore a piece from the skewer and rejoiced, “Bismillahi Masha’Allah!” It was the tastiest thing he’s tried since coming to Australia. He could not wait to tell the others at the hostel.

He finished the skewer and placed the iron rod on the nearest bench, grinning from one ear to the other. As he exited the store a man, round faced and small eyed, grabbed him by the shoulder. Abdul looked at him perplexedly. The man seemed to be angry at him. A woman begins yelling at the man from behind the counter. The situation confusing Abdul greatly. He looks around but sees no one that looks like him, nor anyone he imagines speaks the same language as him, and for the first time he regretted travelling past tram stop two. Abdul pushes the man away and runs in search of the tram stop.

“Where’d you go today? Did you learn anything new?” 

Every night at the hostel, most of the East African residents gather in the main hall to share what new things they experienced that day. Abdul is one of the more enthusiastic partakers but today he remains quiet. Fethi always keeps to himself and rarely attended these sessions, so when he walked up to Abdul and told him to go to the door, Abdul knew he wasn’t playing any games, just simply passing on a message. The sharing came to a halt as Abdul left the room, the conversation now imbued with a curiosity to his departure.

At the front door to the hostel, a group of men, round faced and small eyed, are talking to the hostel manager. Guled is at the door too. Abdul stands behind him.

“What’re they saying?” whispers Abdul.

“Wait, I’m listening,” hushes Guled. Although he knows English, Guled needs to pay close attention to understand. One of the men catches a glimpse of Abdul behind Guled and their conversation seems to take a turn.

“Are they talking about me?”

“Hold on, I’m trying to listen.”

“They’re talking about me, yeah?”

“Wait!”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Although he truly forgot in the moment, on the tram home he realised something—he didn’t pay. He was so overwhelmed with the restaurant’s enchanting aroma that he forgot he had no money, and if he returned, how was he supposed to communicate to them that he would pay them back. Now he was simply ashamed. The last thing he wanted to do is cause trouble for the hostel.

Finally, the hostel manager turns around, Abdul ready to defend himself. She says something only Guled can translate for him. He practices translating in his head first.

“Hurry up and tell me what she said man!”

Guled clears his throat.

“Members of the Afghan community would like to invite you to Friday prayer tomorrow afternoon!”