The Thousands

Since moving to Footscray I’ve done my best to fit in. I eat Pho at all the right restaurants, spit paan on street corners with my South Asian fellows, and dismiss hardworking drug dealers with a cheerful dip of the head whenever the good ship Heroin steams down the dusty arcades and alleyways.

So why do I feel like a coloniser pressing into the Heart of Darkness each time I take a seat at my favourite haunt the Cafe d’Afrique? You may find deceptively grim the tiled interior of this Eritrean stalwart. The real action is to be found at the packed curbside tables and down a narrow corridor to the rear terrace, where crowds smoke hookah al-fresco over the blare of Arabic satellite news.

When I raved to my white neighbour, she sniffed that she would rather drink her coffee somewhere she can ‘just go and relax’. I would have condemned her fear of the Other were my own attempts to fit in at d’Afrique not just a little affected, my hearty Salaams not entirely self-conscious, my sincere orations on politics and the Islamic world not quite so over-eager.

And yet a coffee and baklava leaves you with change from five dollars and my friend Faisal never burns the milk.