By Martin Pevsner
Greg wakes up in a distant battle quarter, sole survivor of an air crash brought on by a suicide bomber. Aman faces the disappearance of his spouse and youngsters in a relations blood feud. Samira is compelled to deal with the complexities of existence as an asylum-seeker within the united kingdom. Nuala needs to care for the scoop that her husband is lacking, presumed lifeless, sufferer of a terrorist atrocity. Divinity highway, Martin Pevsner's first novel, lines the lives of 4 participants and the unforeseen hyperlinks that bind them jointly. From violent clash in Africa to the suburban streets of Oxford, it inspires a global of alienation and separation, fanaticism and cruelty, yet eventually celebrates the facility of human harmony and resilience.
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That would in any case be in the hands of the smugglers. Once you had set yourselves up in the new country, you would then contact me via my brother – I would have been recently released – and I would join you in the new home. Typically, you wrote with such enthusiasm for the scheme that you made this escape seem like the brightest of opportunities. I had no choice but to bide my time and serve my sentence. The final months – the period following your supposed departure from Africa – were a constant battle to avoid plunging into depression, all my strength concentrated on refusing myself the easy slide into self-pity.
Oh, Kassa, those were crazy times. Women and their children crammed together, everyone’s fuse shortened by exhaustion and despair, no outlet for the tension, no escape, Yes, this flat is only temporary, but who knows what that means in real terms, so I have decided to make the best of it and treat this corner of Bristol, a suburb they call Lawrence Weston, as my new home. I do what I can to lay down roots. I take Yanit and Abebe to the nearby parks and the local library. We do our shopping at the Ridingleaze row of stores or sometimes venture further afield, to the ugly Broadmead shopping mall to browse, or for the sake of our souls, to the vast grounds of Blaise Castle where we can spread our wings, fill our lungs, run and scream and fight and laugh.
The fragility of happiness. You remember the evening, don’t you? A day of national celebration, Eid ul-Fitr, the end of the month of fasting. The streets of Asmara heaving with crowds dressed up in their finest, the usual stream of families enjoying the passeggiata along Harnet Avenue, the stalls and cafés and restaurants buzzing. You at home with the children, supervising their efforts to decorate the house, preparing a delicious family feast of Eritrean specialities you had taught yourself over the years: the lamb’s tongue sember, the spicy zilzil keih, the milder derho alicha.