A few days following Christmas in 1994, at the age of ten, I found myself in London, having fled from Somalia. Upon my arrival at Heathrow airport, I was captivated by the sight of the escalators. These so-called “walking machines” had been described to me by an elderly Somali woman in Addis Ababa, who sold confections and chilled Fanta from a corner. She had painted a vivid picture of London, a city she had never visited, filled with marvels.
“You won’t need to walk there; they have machines that transport you,” she said, causing my excitement to swell. I had never encountered such devices in Addis Ababa. Back in my neighborhood, Bole Mikael, there were no sidewalks, only puddles of murky water.
In the mid-1990s, my family found themselves among thousands of predominantly Somali refugees in the Ethiopian capital, all awaiting their documents for new beginnings in Europe or North America.
Eventually, I embarked on my inaugural airplane journey with my family to London. Upon landing at Heathrow the following day, fatigue washed over me, and I was dismayed to find only a handful of “walking machines”—it appeared I might still have to rely on my legs after all.
My aunt and uncle, who resided in London, welcomed us at the airport. On the train to their council flat, my aunt introduced me to my first taste of British snacks: a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. I took a handful, only to be overwhelmed by their intense sourness, spitting half of them onto the floor, much to the shock of fellow travelers. It took me until my late twenties to attempt salt and vinegar crisps again, but I did discover the joys of custard cream biscuits and yum yum doughnuts. I also encountered salad cream, but in my ignorance of its intended use, I doused it liberally over everything, from plain bread to goat meat to pasta. My time in Britain marked a significant transformation; I evolved from a frail, sickly child into a plump, curious one.
As I took my inaugural steps on British soil, I soon recognized I would need my legs for much more than I had anticipated. They became my means to explore my bustling new city, navigating through a culture entirely foreign to me. With only a limited vocabulary—“hello,” “yes,” and “thank you”—I quickly understood my lack of preparation for the life ahead.
Residing in London was a different experience, but not necessarily an easier one; I had much to learn. It felt as though everyone was perpetually rushed, and people tended to keep to themselves, lending an air of loneliness to the city. In shops and at bus stops, individuals queued in silence, a stark contrast to the vibrant noise of Addis Ababa. The enormity and complexity of my new city were overwhelming, compounded by the cold and grayness that permeated the atmosphere. Soon after arriving, snow fell for the first time in my presence; I rushed outside to feel the delicate snowflakes upon my hands.
For several weeks, I lived in a dilapidated Victorian hotel for refugees in Camden, where I gazed out from a small attic window at the fast-paced streets below, captivated by the sight. I didn’t start school right away, so I spent my days indulging in television, often sitting so close that my nose grazed the screen. The TV, with its vibrant colors, size, and clarity, seemed almost otherworldly. Back in Addis Ababa, televisions were often grainy, typically still black and white, watched in shared spaces where many gathered around the screen as if it were a campfire. Choices were limited, usually revolving around football or action films—genres I didn’t particularly enjoy. In London, I would vie for control of the remote, and when I succeeded, I watched pop music videos, one of which, “Stay Another Day” by East 17, played incessantly, forever imprinting itself on my heart.
Gradually, I began to explore London and manage my expectations. I started appreciating the quieter, more structured aspects of life in this new environment. I learned to be independent and place trust in myself to navigate a city that initially felt insurmountable. Thrust into a new life on a council estate, I left behind the innocence of childhood. Reflecting on my journey three decades later, I understand that moving to the UK wasn’t about discovering magical “walking machines” to propel me forward but rather about learning to walk on my own two feet, progressing one deliberate step at a time.
