THE SHOP

Saba was queuing for the weekly ration one afternoon when the businessman arrived in the square with a group of men carrying thatch and wood.

A crowd assembled.

Here, he said to the men, pointing at a spot where he wanted his shop to be built, opposite Saba’s hut and to the left of the aid centre.

Once the aid coordinator and his assistant appeared in front of him, Eyob shook the Englishman’s hand and turned to his assistant and translator. Please tell your boss that when I am excited I prefer to speak my own language. I am now ready to open my shop and start the path to self-reliance for us all.

The aid coordinator looked at Eyob with his usual calm. When he spoke, though, Saba detected irritation in his voice: But, Mr Eyob, he said through his translator, you need a permit first. These are the rules.

We have waited long enough, said Eyob. Waiting for school, clothes, better food since the first day here. And there is no need to wait for things we can do ourselves.

I understand, the aid coordinator said. But you must be aware of the sheer volume of similar requests authorities in the city have to deal with. There are hundreds of refugee camps around the country.

That’s why it is best we take matters into our own hands, said Eyob. That way, we will alleviate the burden on you and the donors in the long term. And let me tell you something I learnt about capitalism in your economy.

The translator shook his head. Don’t, he said to Eyob in Tigrinya. This man is a socialist. I can’t translate this.

I will do it, said Eyob. Addressing the Englishman directly in English that Saba understood in parts, the businessman said, You see, this is going to be a simple shop, but we must start somewhere. Dignity and self-worth are doubly important in shoring up our spirits and so forth. Thereafter, we hope our people will be in a position to open their own businesses. As your Adam Smith said: The real tragedy of the poor is the poverty of their aspirations.

When the Khwaja translated Eyob’s words to those around him, a rapturous applause erupted. He can have his three huts as long as he gives us words like this, said Samhiya, to everyone’s laughter.

Before long, Eyob had built a thatched kiosk. Saba’s eyes darted around its interior. Light flickered through the windows. Since there were no shelves, boxes were lined up against the wall on three sides, with representative samples placed on top of each: green coffee beans, sugar, frankincense, cigarettes, heart-shaped lollipops, berbere and shoro. Next to the incense deposited in straw baskets were rectangular tin containers filled with halva.

The excitement that followed the opening of the shop faded after a few weeks. Saba, who saved every penny she earned, didn’t buy anything, but instead took a journey down the memory lanes evoked by the shop’s products, back to her homeland, just as many others did.