When Making a Call

Bowing slowly, Yahya fears the swirling combination of porridge, beef stew, garden salad, mixed melon fruits, and black mint tea he broke his fast with two hours earlier might be expelled onto the newly purchased navy carpets of the Al-Hidaya Centre at the slightest irritation of his timid stomach. He moves into the seated position slowly, preparing to prostrate once more.

Remembering his wife’s solemn request for him to pray that she lives to be a virtuous woman, he finds distraction from his physical incapacity and focuses his supplications on her. Upon completing a most sincere prayer for his beloved, a chilling tremor runs the length of his spine.

When will he finally call her parents?

Filled with anxiety, Yahya forgets to follow the congregation in rising from the prostrating position and rushes to stand in unison once again. Not once since leaving Zainab in her hometown, Harar, has he spoken to her parents on the phone. He knew the long and elusive journey that was obtaining a partner visa, but his wife’s nonchalance made him complacent. Such a content soul she is, never burdening him with the mental gymnastics demanded by some trying to manage a spouse from abroad. Despite fulfilling the first most important matter—keeping the missus happy—he had neglected the second.

In the six months since leaving eastern Ethiopia, he had only passed on his greetings via his wife. Although as cool as Zainab herself, he knew this wasn’t enough. But since realising the gravity of it, he only grew more ashamed with each passing chance, to the point of continued and permanent procrastination. Fortunately, it was now the month of Ramadan, a month of charity, and forgiveness. If there was ever a time to redeem himself, it was now.

Leaving the small mosque in Mount Cottrell just before 11:00pm, he could not let this weight burden him any longer. Sometimes you just have to hit call and see what happens. Does he apologise? Does he start with a joke? It can all be left to fate and charisma. The phone rings and rings, but there’s no answer.

Admittedly, he’s relieved. The heart-taxing task is now destined for another day. He thumbs ‘Files’ on his phone and opens the Audio folder in search of a song to close the night, his heart rate having risen dramatically at the thought of holding a conversation with his in-laws. He chooses Sualih Mohammed and Ashref Naser’s Jemalul Alem 2. It opens with three minutes of soul stirring humming and vocals. Yahya doesn’t understand the Amharic words coming from the RAV4’s JBL speakers, he doesn’t speak Ethiopia’s national language after all, but it’s trance inspiring. Speeding down the vacant stretch of Dohertys Road, the cow-skinned drum is introduced, two thumps then one, the drummer preparing to complement the soothing vocals. Then, the phone rings.

Zainab <3 calling…

He steadies his breathing and answers. “Hello.”

“Hello,” replies Zainab, her voice as soft as fairy floss itself.

“How’s my beautiful wife?”

“Two calls in one day. I’m pleased.”

“I’m glad.” He hesitates for a moment. “My love, is your mum home?”

“You’ll speak to her today?” her voice hinting surprised excitement.

“Yeah, put her on.”

“Okay, here.”

“Assalamu alaykum! Abaya, how are—”

“Baby, wait…” Embarrassed, Yahya composes himself, takes his over enthusiastic entrance as a lesson and prepares himself for round two.

“Yahya! Ramadan Mubarak! How’s my son?”

“Abaya, upon us and upon you! Forgive me for not calling sooner. You know—"

“Who are you apologising to?”

“Abaya, I really wanted to—"

“Shush! We’re not strangers.”

“I know, still, I really—"

“Hey! Hey!”

“Sorry, Abaya?”

“Hey!!”

The sound of her loud voice grows distant.

“Hello? Abaya? Zainab? My love?”

“Thief!”

The large metal apparatus travels the remainder of the course home in utter silence. Driving automatically to a destination he knows like the beat of his heart, Yahya meditates about his next move. After such an absence, his appearance cannot be coloured by such misfortune. He calls Zainab’s twin sister, Binet.

“She’s fine. Her phone was stolen. Do you need her?”

Yahya hesitates. “As long as she’s fine.”

It wouldn’t be the first time her phone was stolen. The last time, Zainab let a homeless man enter her rickshaw to help him get down the street and as he signalled the driver to pull over, snatched her phone. She would continue to let strangers jump in if it would help them get to where they were going faster. It was always worth doing a good thing.

Days later, the newlywed couple would be reminded of the phone’s importance, although both may respond differently. Zainab’s biometrics collection appointment for her partner visa application was scheduled for Monday morning at the Inter Luxury Hotel in Addis Ababa. From Harar, the journey can take from 3 to 6 hours by land and air. On Saturday, she would remember the many things her phone kept safe: passwords, photos, appointment details, a copy of their marriage certificate, the flight confirmation needed to board a specific plane. Things like that. Yahya receives a WhatsApp message from Binet: “My sister wants to know if you can reschedule the appointment.”

For her sake, he considers it. For her sake again, no temporary convenience can be allowed to derail the tedious application process. The lawyer employed to manage their application had clearly stated the importance of keeping appointments and promptly replying to correspondences from the Department of Home Affairs. He had to get her phone back.

Yahya called Zainab’s phone every half hour, hoping for an honourable thief on the other end, hoping the SIM card hadn’t sunk to the bottom of the sewer or that the phone hadn’t been pawned off to a merchant who would rather die than return an item to its rightful owner.

In the quiet hours of the early Sunday morning, rummaging through his pantry for something to fill his stomach before the sun rises, Yahya inhales anything that looks filling into his mouth, gulping whatever liquid might quench his thirst and relieve his dry mouth. He returns to his bed and checks the time. 4:45am and 1 missed message from Zainab <3.

“20,000 birr for mobile”

The greatest decision Yahya made came next. Instead of agreeing hastily, the first thing he did was call Binet. Diasporas have a knack for making things worse without realising it. The time in Harar is 8:17pm. His in-laws broke their fast earlier and enjoyed the traditional hulbat marakh, beef and potato stew, now sitting around the mat indulging in black tea and halawa. Binet answers the phone and puts it on speaker for all to hear. “I can get the phone back. We just need to give him 20000 birr,” announces Yahya. Then, in one synchronised voice her entire family shouts, “NO!” There’s a shocked silence on Yahya’s end. At this moment, 20000 birr could be purchased for 250 AUD on the black market. He didn’t understand.

“Baby, thank you for trying, but it’s best to let it go,” advises Zainab.

“Why? I know it’s a lot of money over there, but we need your phone.”

Finally, her father chimes in. “If word got out that we paid 20000 birr to get a phone back, everything in this house will be missing by the time we wake up.”

Yahya realises his shortcoming. “Isn’t there another way?” asks Yahya, determined to redeem himself.

“If we know someone that knows the local crooks, then maybe,” adds Binet.

He ponders on it for a second, considering the consequences. “I think I know someone.”

Yahya considers all the timelines that might be born from his next conversation. His cousin Abdul is a money hungry schemer, sometimes scammer, with the vernacular of a middle-aged man, and the fashion sense of a member of a Korean boy band. Determined to prove himself to his in-laws and show them that he can handle things in Ethiopia too, he calls Abdul on Telegram.

Abdul answers after three rings, the soothing autotune from Najjaash Mohmmad Ibraahim’s yaarabbi an niin hinbeeyne playing in the background. “I need your help,” confesses Yahya.

“Anything you need. What’s up?”

“Someone stole Zainab’s phone. He wants 20000 birr. She needs her phone before she leaves for Addis tomorrow.” Yahya cannot hear if Abdul’s following along or not. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, continue,” replies Abdul. He doesn’t lower the volume at all, the song fusing with Yahya’s very serious delivery.

He continues. “If I send you the money, you think you can get it back?”

“Yeah. Send me her number. You know my account. Send the money too.”

Zuko, Abdul’s best friend and right hand, waits idly for details. Abdul doesn’t turn to update him, watching the three dots change in opacity before Zainab’s number finally appears on his screen. The duo is known around town for their pairing of arrogance and aggression. Abdul tries to call the thief.

The thief messages instead, “Text only.”

“Your gift is ready, but it has to be today,” replies Abdul.

“Can we meet in Selassie, the Gurage spot, last bar with the big pool table, go to the back room on left. I’m wearing a blue and white hat.”

The sound of billiards hitting against each other and the laughter of drunken men fills the smoky lounge as Yared Negu and Millen Hailu’s Bira Biro fills what little remains, spilling out from the bar and into the dark laneway. Abdul and Zuko enter suspiciously. “Wait in the toilet,” orders Abdul.

Abdul continues to the room agreed upon. An old man is wearing a white and blue traditional Harari kufi indeed, sitting wide eyed in the far corner, his back to two adjacent walls looking this way and that without a drink in front of him. Abdul draws closer to him. “Abdul?” the old man asks, his chest tightening.

“Ferid. It looks like you’ve seen a monster.” Abdul pats him on the shoulder and takes a seat in front of him. “Show me the phone.”

“Why are you here? This isn’t right. Wait, wait, is Zuko here too?”

“Do you see him?” Ferid rises from the table and inspects the adjacent rooms before returning to theirs.

“Where’s…where’s the money?”

Abdul opens the inside of his jacket and reveals the wad of money in his pocket. Ferid, with trembling hands, reaches into his underwear and withdraws the phone, placing it on the table. Abdul grabs the phone and then, with all his might, smacks him across the face with the bottom of the phone, sending him flying against the wall, blood gushing out from his nose, “How dare you steal from my family!” He rises with the phone gripped tightly in his hand and turns to leave.

“Abdul! Abdul! Please!” cries Ferid, crawling from the corner to Abdul’s feet. “Have mercy! Have you ever known me to be one to steal! I’m desperate.”

Abdul turns to Ferid, his eyes locked, the sclera of them yellow and menacing, “Everyone in this town is!” He kicks Ferid aside. Then, Zuko emerges from the toilet with an excited smile, the blood on Ferid’s face and hands inviting him to help it flow some more. He kicks Ferid in the face, stomping on his chest and arms, the aged man now sobbing, drooling, struggling to rise from his defeated state.

“They took my Lulu. They took my Lulu!”

Zuko punches the man’s visibly swelling face repeatedly, as he cries his daughter’s name in between blows. The man’s cries reach Abdul’s hardened heart. “Zuko, one second. What happened to Lulu?”

“Tesfaye’s men. They crashed their truck into ours but demand we pay them. They took her from me until I show them the money,” cries Ferid. “What do I do?”

It’s crushing news for Abdul. Imagining Deker’s finest Harari girl ravaged at the hands of Amharas is a devastating thought. His head drops, angered by the revelation, and from a strange fragment of pity, he concedes. “I’ll give you half. Ten thousand.”

“Where will I get the rest! I’ll do anything. Just get her back to me.”

“Can I keep hitting him?” asks Zuko.

“Leave him.” The news of Lulu affects Abdul more than he can comprehend. Amidst the fallen chairs and shattered glasses, he recalls running into Lulu at her aunt's home in Stadium. Despite working for hours in the hot kitchen, preparing rice and meat in large steel pots for someone else’s wedding, the scarf loosely thrown around her hair, the red sleeves of her shirt rolled up, stained and worn out, and the soulless sandals she wore. Despite all this, he couldn’t speak before her.

Abdul scoffs in the darkness of the bar. He looks at the phone in his hand, turning it over once, then twice. He reads the model: ‘S23.’ Sliding the phone into his inside pocket, he pulls out the plastic bag filled with purple 200 birr notes and tosses it onto the ground before him. “You’ll return it to me, understand?”

“On my daughter’s life, you will have it before I ever eat again. May God reward you!”

“Let’s go.”

Abdul walks out from the bar, into the street that runs from Selassie to Shenkor, usually bustling with widowed women selling khat, beggars looking for the warmth of community, or crazies wandering off into the dark, unlit streets. Returning to the old walled city of Jugol, the two friends pass by Najaha’s fried potatoes and pastry store in the towns’ maze. Her store stays open as long as the electricity holds up, with a single 6500K bulb hanging from a loose socket, keeping the entire alleyway lit while the boiling oil bubbles in the night. “Najaha! Two sambusas, potatoes, and tomato sauce.” She reaches for the recently cooked sambusas and fried potatoes. “Don’t be a donkey! Make them fresh!” Najaha mumbles under her breath as she plunges the sliced potatoes into the hot oil.

Hands in pocket, sitting on the concrete block across the store, Zuko watches Abdul carefully. “What’re you thinking?” he asks.

Abdul inspects the phone once again. “Money to diaspora and money to us is not the same.” He takes his phone out, a Samsung Galaxy S passed down to him from an uncle visiting from Memphis. He calls Yahya. “Do you want the phone or not?”

“Of course. I already told you.”

“He’ll shop around until he finds the price he wants. Unless you give him something worth taking now. He’s not dumb, he knows how much the phone costs. He asked for 100,000 birr but I talked him down to 50. But it has to be now or else he walks. I can’t wait much longer.”

“I can’t send the money right now. I only have 20,000 sitting with Zainab, maybe 10,000 with grandma.”

“I’ll cover the rest as long as you send it.”

“I’ll send it first thing tomorrow.”

Hours before taking a private minibus to Dire Dawa for her flight to the capital, Abdul arrives at the Feki family home near the Bedri gate to deliver the phone. He walks past the sidewalk sleepers disrupted by the rising sun and the scavengers searching for what was lost in the dark the night before. He retraces his steps to their home, remembering Yahya’s marriage ceremony at Zainab’s house. Now arriving for a different purpose, he bangs on the steel door three times, each knock filled with a tempered power.

“Abdul, come inside.”

“No, thank you, Aunty. Yahya asked me to deliver Zainab’s phone. Is she home?” Zainab arrives just as he finishes the question.

“How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Here’s your phone. Your husband made some calls and had it returned. Nobody will bother you about it. Don’t worry. If anything happens, call me.”

Zainab holds her phone in her hand, surprised that her husband was able to pull such a thing off.

“Come inside for breakfast.”

“No, no, I have things to do. Bye.” He waves goodbye and leaves.

On Monday, once lunchtime arrives, Yahya jumps into his RAV4 and speeds to Tawakal Express in Footscray. He finds a convenient half-hour parking spot and speed walks into Footscray Mall. As he enters the store, his left hand retrieves his driver licence as his right grabs his phone, opening the NAB app and beginning the transfer to the PayID details printed at the counter.

“Brother, here’s my ID. How much is 50,000 birr?”

“650. Write the account details.”

He completes the transfer on his phone, finds the account details Abdul sent him, and writes them on a piece of paper.

“Brother, I need to get back to work. Can you text me when it’s done?”

“No worries. Go.”

Yahya jumps back into the car, his movements quick and efficient. He takes a moment to select a track for the drive home. Ramadan Tajalla, produced by the Hararian Organization Australia. It’s local, something he can understand. The track runs for 7:07 minutes. He’ll need to restart it three times to get home. Four times if there’s congestion on the West Gate Freeway entry ramp.