Nadifa Mohamed - The Orchard of Lost Souls

Deqo feels a pang of longing for the woman her life had once orbited around. She wonders how the Guddi will explain her disappearance to Nurse Doreen. They will probably just scratch her name off the register and give no explanation; no one dares challenge them, least of all the aid workers who have to do what they are told by the armed policemen who bounce around the camp in jeeps.

Just a few paces from the corrugated-tin store, Deqo’s attention turns away from the blue sky criss-crossed with vapour trails to the street, and the blur of flared jeans, afros and tight shirts as dozens of young men and boys pelt past her. They are pursued by soldiers in various vehicles. As the street narrows the soldiers disembark and chase on foot, jumping on their quarry as they scramble up walls and seek shelter in the rambling confusion of yards and alleyways. A young boy inside the store creeps out of the back of the structure and hides inside a derelict goat pen nearby. It is like a huge, furious game of hide and seek that Deqo is excluded from, one reserved just for boys.

A lorry pulls up to block the far end of the street and some of the captives are led to it, heads bowed, arms twisted behind their backs. A woman bars the entrance of her bungalow with her body, but two soldiers throw her out of the way and drag a boy out by his long hair. The woman trots behind, pleading for his release: ‘Let him go, he is all I have, he is too young for conscription, let him go, walaalo .’

Deqo stands on the outskirts of this scene, enveloped by dust and holding her arms protectively over her chest; she is reminded of the slaughter of animals during Eid at the camp, when nomads arrived with sheep and goats and sold them to the wealthier families, the animals separated violently, bellowing. She enters the empty store, takes a packet of sugar from a shelf and leaves the money in its place before fleeing to Nasra’s house. The women are at the door when she reaches the bungalow; they peer up the street. Stalin has a smirk on her face but the others look anxious.

‘It’s the second time this month. What do they want with all these kids?’ China shouts.

‘Cannibals, they want to eat the fruit of our wombs,’ replies Karl Marx.

‘Look at them run! Wasn’t that the bastard who threw a rock at my window? Not so tough now, is he?’

Nasra chews the corner of her headscarf and doesn’t join the conversation; she places a hand gently on Deqo’s back and leads her into the house.

Deqo stands in the gloom of the bathroom and shivers as cold water pours out of the bucket above her head.

‘Scrub your hair,’ demands Nasra.

Thick lather drops into her eyes and sits on her neck; the shampoo smells so good that Deqo keeps stopping to take deep inhalations.

‘You’ll look beautiful by the time I’ve finished with you.’

‘Where are the soldiers going to take those boys?’ Deqo asks with her eyes closed.

‘To the south, to train for the military.’ Nasra fills another bucket from the tap and throws it over Deqo.

‘Don’t they want to become soldiers?’

‘No! Why should they? This government isn’t on their side.’

‘But the President cares about us, he is our father.’

Nasra laughs. ‘Well, that is what the songs say, but I don’t think that is the truth. You learn that in Saba’ad?’

Deqo nods and shows off the dance that Milgo taught her, her feet squeaking against the wet floor.

‘Steady yourself, that dance won’t win you any friends here.’

Nasra slides her hand up and down Deqo’s bare back, washing away the last trail of lather.

Stalin appears and leans against the doorframe. ‘You have your work cut out with this bedu . Look at her chicken legs — and she’s not even circumcised!’

Deqo cups her hands around her privates; it had felt natural being bathed by Nasra, as if she was an older sister or mother, but the way Stalin looks at her makes her shrink. The woman’s eyes pick her apart and seem to say, ‘Look at you, no one loved you enough to even circumcise you; you’re wild and dirty.’

‘You don’t have anywhere better to be, Stalin?’ Nasra says dismissively.

‘Not now, no. I’ve got a knife if you want me to cut it off, hey Deqo?’

Deqo edges away from her, her legs pressed tightly together.

‘You think you looked any better when you arrived? You were followed by fleas wherever you went. Get out of here!’ Nasra scatters water at her.

‘If you’re not careful, I will sell her from under your nose,’ Stalin retorts before retreating.

‘What did she mean by that?’ Deqo asks, her eyes to the ground.

‘Nothing, she’s just a fool and jealous that you’re better looking than her.’ She cups Deqo’s face and squeezes her cheeks playfully. ‘Don’t let her bother you. I am your protector now and no one gets the better of me.’

Just as the curfew is about to bite, Deqo is stirring a lamb stew that Nasra has put on the stove when someone bangs at the main door.

‘Open it!’ shouts Nasra from her room.

Deqo finds Rabbit, the old drunk from the ditch, swaying on their doorstep. He pushes into the house and without looking at her makes a clumsy beeline for China’s room. ‘My darling, habibti, it is your friend here,’ he croons, beating his yellowed palm on the splintered wood.

‘Who told you to come here?’ China bellows, pushing the door open and shoving his shoulder.

‘My love, you have two things I want, let me have just one and I’ll be on my way.’

China reaches into the pockets of his grey trousers and pulls out the empty white lining. ‘Do I look like the Red Cross to you? I don’t service beggars or accept them in my house.’

‘Just give me a swig of whisky, then.’ He holds out his hands and cocks his head to the side. ‘I was a good customer when I had money, you know I was. I might even be that dear boy’s father.’

‘In your dreams.’ China grabs Rabbit’s padded shoulders and lifts him off his toes. ‘As if you have anything in you apart from disease and alcohol. You have nothing to do with my child!’

Nasra enters the courtyard with a smile on her face and then Stalin and Karl Marx join the audience.

‘Beat the fool!’ shouts Stalin.

‘You still owe me a hundred shillings.’ Karl Marx bends down and takes the bartered shoes off the man’s feet. ‘I’m keeping these till I get my money.’

They are like cats with a mouse, Deqo thinks, batting him around for pleasure.

‘Ladies, I am a poor man, I give when I can. You should have mercy on me.’

‘This isn’t a place for mercy, you know that, Rabbit,’ Nasra says, winking conspiratorially at Deqo. ‘The world hasn’t done us any favours, why should we help you?’

‘I’m not like the others, I have never hurt you. Don’t humiliate a helpless old man!’ He sounds pitiful, on the verge of tears.

Deqo giggles guiltily; it’s true he hadn’t hurt her, but it’s exciting to see him dangling in the air, being taught a lesson in respect by these women.

Stalin kicks him in the backside and then they all pounce on him.

‘Throw out the trash,’ they shout together.

While Deqo holds the door open, they each take a limb and carry him out, swinging his body a few times before slinging him into the street.

‘A curse on all your heads,’ he shouts as he hits the dirt with a thud. Deqo closes the door on him.

The women slap each other’s backs and seem more joyful than Deqo has seen them so far; it feels as if it is not just Rabbit that has been expelled, but some tension or cloud has been lifted too. They laugh and laugh until they are bent over and weak.

‘Poor man!’ wheezes Karl Marx.