“I like your gold” I complimented while pointing to her ears
“Ah, you like my gold. Thank you” she beamed
She looked very Eastern. I placed her as either Indian, Afghan or Pakistan.
I stood by the Coffee Stand making a cup when she approached the volunteers and enquired about someone.
“Those earrings alone can buy a set of that my Saudi gold” I mused thinking of a jewellery set I got as a birthday gift
My eyes quickly placed it as either Saudi or Indian gold. It had that unique yellow colouring and fragility of a 24k.
Sauntering off with my coffee, it amused me how some folks equate refugees as beggars or the lowest of humanity. They are not to blame though, growing up I also exhibited a similar mindset.
It would take all the wars and displacement happening within Nigeria, Africa and the Middle East in my adult years for me to truly comprehend who a refugee is. Then spending time with WW2 historical books opened my eyes wider.
Those, helped switch my definition of a refugee to — you can go to sleep rich and happy on your bed, in the comfort of your homeland and wake up running away for your life with only the clothes on your back. Also I have come to understand that anyone, irrespective of status, can become a refugee.
As I sat across the hall at the Refugee Hub and cradled my coffee, I cast surreptitious glances at her. It swirled effortlessly around her — that classy grace I recognised from growing up in the North amongst wealthy Northern women. The sheer muslin fabric and intricate designs on her Shalwar Kameez, those exquisite gold earrings and her bearing. That languid gait which comes from being born into wealth always stands out from the other forced one of trying too much. I found myself quite curious to hear her story.
“Well, well, since when did we start backing down from a story?” my mind jabbed
“I do not feel like engaging” I whimpered and sank further into the seat
“So why are we not at home?”
“I merely needed to get out of my head by being around people I could relate to” I responded
“Hold on! you dragged me out of the house because you wanted to be around other humans. And now, you do not want to engage?”
I was becoming pissed. My mind is a hard taskmaster and never lets go once it starts. So, picking up my mug, I ambled towards the table where she sat with a group of women.
“Salaam Aleikum” I greeted. That singular greeting is a heavy arsenal in my toolbox. Back when I used to wander through the Francophone regions; whenever I got stuck in a market, there was always another Hausa speaker around and all I needed was to Salaam Aleikum.
“Wa Aleikum Salaam” a chorus response rose back at me
“I like your earrings. Are they Saudiya?
“No, they are Indian” she smiled caressing one absentmindedly
“Oh, I assumed it was Saudi”
“Where are you from?” I engaged further
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