Nine Lives

"Alright sir, you're free to go." I looked at him blankly, still with a sense of wonder.

He placed the brown paper beside me. It had become torn and wrinkled.

Not like how it was before, neatly wrapped over a small box of memories.

When I landed at the airport, I had to go through immigration and customs like everyone else. But my situation was a bit different.

I was a refugee seeking asylum. I brought all of the necessary documents, was questioned of course, went through the whole procedure.

I'd become used to it by now.

The immigration officers found the brown package in my luggage and proceeded to ask me what it was before opening it up themselves.

They thought it was contraband.

When they saw that it wasn't, I bowed my head down and looked away. My mother compiled some photos from my childhood which included the joyful smiles of my brothers and sisters, grandparents, and a few aunts and uncles.

I missed her so much. All of them, really. The busyness of the airport had slowed down. I was just glad to be out of the small and poorly ventilated room.

I could see Kwame as I made my way down the escalator. He looked slightly older and had clearly lost weight.

"Ah, my friend, it has been such a long time." His voice was still deep, and English, greatly improved. We embraced each other and made our way to the exit where his car was parked outside.

Kwame was like me. We were both born in Ethiopia. The difference being that he won some sort of diversity visa lotto which brought him to the UK. Because of that opportunity he was able to become a pharmacist.

He married a woman who was born here but parents were from Tigray.

People back home from the village saw him as a hero. He was an inspiration to all of us.

"So, young Yared, this will be your room." Kwame with the kind of excitement in his voice which made one feel excited too.

I placed my luggage to the side and thanked him with an extra nod of appreciation. For now, this would be my private room within a basement apartment. I shared the kitchen, living room and bathroom with two other male roommates. Both Ethiopian.

I knew how to take care of myself. I wasn't lazy and always put in a hard day's work. I had a bunch of jobs. Mostly physical labour, like construction, moving services and the occasional cleaning houses.

I was pretty good at making money. Sent a lot of it back home to help my family while still trying to save for myself. Also, I had to learn how to cook. This was very strange for me. In my culture, traditionally speaking, women were the ones who cooked.

I shopped at only one main grocery store in my neighbourhood.

Before I improved my English, the purchasing of items became a real problem for me.

"What was that you said?" This was the typical response of a store clerk to whenever I would ask a question. They didn't understand my accent and would walk away.

I didn't really understand their accent either, so I'd say we were even.

That all changed when I met Tanya. She was a regular customer. I saw her a lot but never had the courage to talk to her out of fear. Thought she would judge me like everyone else.

"Hello, you're looking for some vegetables and rice, right?" She gazed right at me. Her eyes blue and lashes long.

I responded with a simple yes.

"Pardon me, but I overheard you asking the clerk and thought you could use some help." "I'm Tanya by the way."

"I'm Yared, good to meet you." The words came out of my mouth so effortlessly that I was surprised.

We both smiled.

I was the first Ethiopian man Tanya had ever dated. Two years had past and we were still together. I knew that I was going to marry her.

Beautiful, smart and kind, she had my full heart. However, my future was kind of up in the air. The turning point happened after my immigration hearing to obtain permanent residency status. I was denied for the second time.

Furious, I didn't believe that it was fair. I spent three hours trying to convince a judge that my life would not be spared if I returned back to Ethiopia. There was a lot going on over there. Violence due to land conflict, opposing tribes killing each other.

I experienced all of it first hand.

I told the judge I was scared and that I didn't want to die. Most people believe that I'm not scared of anything. Truth is, we're all scared of something.

I've escaped death many times before. Had bullets enter my body, only to be nursed back to health by my mother and the local healing medicine. Could have fallen into deep sea waters while traveling to unfamiliar destinations for the sake of survival. It all sounded so frightening, and it was. Still is.

I appealed the decision, this time with the help of a new lawyer. One who genuinely understood me as an African man. I sometimes wondered if I was out of my depth, trying to navigate this new world.

Five years, yet in some ways it still felt like I had just touched down at the airport.

When I told Tanya that I wanted to get married to avoid anymore roadblocks with my immigration, she was hesitant. She said we weren't ready for marriage. I disagreed.

"Maybe in a few years babe, but not now." She looked at me all confused, like those clerks in the grocery store. If she loved me, and we loved each other, then what was the problem?

Who knew if I even had a few years. I was in survival mode. Told Tanya that I'd look for someone else since she didn't want to marry me. Words I'd come to regret.

I wanted to be like Kwame, to have it all figured out. I was losing faith, hope. Then I remembered my father used to say that a man's soul is never unburdened. He and my brother were both killed back home.

I owed it to them to make something of myself despite the obstacles.

Folded in a drawer was the brown wrapping paper I had kept all these years. Every now and again I would look at it to remind me of how far I'd come.

Torn and wrinkled, it was still here, and so was I.