Solomon finds solace in being alone. It is a life skill he learnt as a kid. He’d always felt strange about how comfortable he was with his loneliness, how it froze his body and opened his pores.
“Loneliness lets us use our own body heat in the cold,” Solomon told his father one night. “It was what kept me warm after you left us, pa.”
That was the last thing he’d said to his father. Solomon had never felt so much rage as when his father died three months later. “Guilt killed him,” he would tell anyone who asked. Then one night, he woke to a storm of tears and uncontrollable shaking. The next morning, his ears were burning. Things were never the same again.
The night before his twenty-fifth birthday, he goes to sleep carrying all the mundane niceties of polite society. He has cloaked himself in the dullness of a life limited by a crippling union. His head swollen with the sameness of a nine-to-five routine. Death as a form of ordinary living has kept him alive up until now.
Solomon’s friends come over to celebrate his birthday. They make their way to the kitchen, their footsteps echoing softly around him.
Solomon thinks: This feels like university days.
Solomon says: “You guys didn’t have to do this,” as he places the bowl of scrambled eggs on the dining table. “Feel free to stay as long as you want. I’ve gotta go to work in a few hours.”
“Don’t sweat it, Solomon,” says Rami. “It’s a good excuse for us to all hang.”
Solomon sits and listens to the others talking. “Time works differently for us,” Sahal says as he spreads butter on his toast.
Something about those words makes Solomon feel arrogant and depleted at the same time.
“It’s like our aging process is different,” Sahal continues.
Sab looks at Sahal with an empty face. “Survivor’s guilt plays a big part in this premature aging process,” Sab says, as he plays with his beard.
“Do you think we’ll ever escape the expectations of the world around us?” asks Rami.
“Don’t be so silly, man,” huffs Sahal. “We all have expectations. Heck, the only reason you see fault with expectations is because others haven’t met your expectations of them.”
Silence overcomes everyone in the room. Even the eggs stiffen.
Solomon receives a text from Zain. Will you be in the city any time soon? If so, let’s hang.
Solomon replies: When did you get back from overseas?
Today.
“Who are you texting?” asks Sahal. Before Solomon has a chance to answer, Sahal smugly spits: “Is there a lady-friend in your life we should know about?”
Solomon rolls his eyes and keeps typing. I’ve actually started working in the city. I can hang for a bit before work.
Solomon grabs his keys, bag, and jacket and tells everyone he has to leave for work. Solomon shouts on his way out: “Thanks for the birthday love, fellas!”
His phone vibrates. Zain has sent him a selfie of himself with his thumb up. Solomon laughs out loud. Something in him tells him to zoom into Zain’s face and for the first time he notices how big his forehead is. He continues to look before he catches himself, as though he is an outsider observing himself. Shame begins to warm the insides of his mouth. He leaves his house feeling like his dream has come true. He doesn’t understand why he feels this way.
When Solomon arrives in the city, he checks his phone but there’s nothing. He is reminded of his father. The ground seems to shrink.
Solomon messages: I’m at the State Library.
Zain replies in seconds. Where in the State Library are you?
I’m near the steps.
He rubs his head anxiously as he waits for Zain’s reply. He doesn’t understand why everything feels so desperate, why he feels like his stomach has left him.
I can see you. Turn around.
He sees Zain waving one arm in the air, smiling. Solomon knows he is never going to forget this moment and suddenly, he begins to believe in permanence. Finally, there is something that cannot be undone. Even when the world breaks him, when grief wraps its cruel hands around his tongue, nothing will be able to touch this memory.
This is how you beat suffering, this is how you stop its ugly claws from grabbing at you, he thinks to himself.
Solomon’s twenty-fifth birthday makes him feel like his youth has escaped him. He has fallen into depression. There was something terrible about the way his youth left him, the way it abandoned him, left him with scars. His youth leaving him naked felt as harsh as a mother leaving one child for another child. There was no warning to this suffering. It was like death.
Solomon walks towards Zain, waving like a schoolboy. Zain looks like he’s walked off the set of a 60s film, with his shirt tucked into pants that are pulled up to his bellybutton. Solomon extends his arm for a handshake as he reaches Zain.
“Are you kidding me,” says Zain, his arms wide open. “Give me a fucking hug, you asshole.” They hug. Zain wraps his arms around Solomon’s small frame.
The embrace feels like home. There is something in the world Solomon can finally hold. Friendship as clear as a white canvas. There’s something different about Zain, something naked about him. I can see him, thinks Solomon. I can see all of him.
Zain points to his luggage on the ground. “I haven’t even gone home yet,” he says.
Solomon laughs. He is both touched and uncomfortable that Zain asked to hang out with him right after his trip. It feels intimate. “C’mon, let’s go somewhere quiet,” says Zain.
“Alright.” Solomon carries one of Zain’s bags as they walk to the Flagstaff Gardens.
“I brought us some fruit to share,” Zain says sheepishly. He passes Solomon the bag of fruit. “Can you carry this?”
Solomon wraps the bag around his hand like a piece of cloth. The bottom of the bag swings low. “I feel like tea. Let’s go past the Starbucks at Melbourne Central,” he says. They make their way into the café, which is full.
“I haven’t been to this Starbucks since it opened,” he says.
“Neither have I.”
“Would you like me to order you tea? Coffee?”
“Nah, I’m all good.”
Zain waits in the seating area while Solomon orders his tea. The line is long. Solomon considers buying a slice of carrot cake to share with Zain but decides not to. He orders peppermint tea, pays the cashier, and waits for his change. “Your name will be called out when your order is ready,” the cashier tells him. “Please wait in the waiting area.”
Solomon walks back to Zain, feeling slightly awkward wading through the crowd. “You looked concerned when you were ordering. What was on your mind?” asks Zain.
“Oh, I was just deciding what tea I was going to order.”
Suddenly the lights feel dim. Zain looks at Solomon and puts his hand on his shoulder.
“You know, you didn’t kill your father,” Zain says.
Solomon’s chest fills with all the air in the world. His body sheds anxiety like a tree casting off falling leaves.
Solomon hears someone calling: “Peppermint tea for Sol-o-mon.” Without meaning to, he walks off to collect his order, having said nothing to Zain. When he returns, his throat locks. He wants to tell Zain that he appreciates his support, that those words have left him changed. He murmurs a few words.
The traffic is stubborn on their way to Flagstaff Gardens. Zain sighs. “Do you think people think I’m a foreigner?” he asks.
“Probably.”
Solomon drops the bag of fruit. When he picks up the bag, he notices Zain strolling ahead. When did his shoulders get so broad? he wonders. His back has filled up too. His body is claiming more space in the world.
Solomon races to catch up. He taps him on the shoulder and says, “You feel and look different, my friend.”
And as though Zain has something to be ashamed of, as though he is to be blamed for this broken world, he looks at Solomon confused and a little brittle as he asks, “How so?”
Solomon is taken aback. He realises how loaded his words were. The question is moving into his body.
“I mean. You just seem different. Almost vulnerable without choice,” says Solomon. “I didn’t mean much by it, buddy, it’s just some energy I’ve picked up on.” The question is floating in his head looking for a place to land.
“I did just come back from overseas,” says Zain.
“That you did.”
Zain and Solomon track through the garden looking for a place to sit that has some shade. The sun is proud.
“What about there?” Zain points.
“Yeah, sounds good to me,” says Solomon. “I can soak up the sun until I can’t take it and then cool down under the shade.”
“I don’t know why you refuse to wear sunscreen,” says Zain. “Black people get sunburnt too, silly.”
“You know I know that,” snarks Solomon.
“Well, act like you know it then,” Zain replies.
“Whatever.”
Solomon stretches out his legs. “I feel like my body is deteriorating, like a bike with a rusty chain. My knees crack every time I extend my legs.”
“I remember fit Solomon back in 2010,” Zain says.
“Me too,” Solomon sighs.
Zain takes out a packet of rollies from his bag, rolls a blunt, and asks Solomon if he wants to smoke.
“Sure,” Solomon says, gleefully watching Zain inhale like he is sucking a drop of water from a cup with a straw. He passes the blunt to Solomon, who smokes it with just as much intensity.
“Is this all there is?” Zain asks.
“What do you mean?” asks Solomon as he passes back the blunt.
Zain inhales as though his life depends on it and blows it out like it’s an act of revenge. “Getting high to escape our lives,” he says.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m getting tired of wanting to be anywhere other than in this body.” Zain leans back on his hands.
“I’m going to pay for this tomorrow,” says Solomon. He moves closer to Zain. “I swear my sadness grows legs sometimes.” He rests his head on Zain’s shoulder. Tears roll down his face.
About the author
Magan Magan is a Somali Australian writer. He is the author of From Grains to Gold, a collection of poems about grief. He is published in various anthologies: Australian Poetry, Hunter Anthology of Contemporary Australian Feminist Poetry and more. He was a 2018 Wheeler Centre Hot Desk Fellow and a co-editor of Black Inc anthology Growing Up African In Australia. Read more about his website: www.maganmagan.com.