Nadifa Mohamed - The Orchard of Lost Souls

A group of civilians creeps up to the barrier, with bundles wrapped in blankets on their backs. The solitary male with them is around twelve years old and struggles to manoeuvre a cart full of their worldly possessions.

They stop beside the barricade and wait.

‘Where have you come from?’ Filsan asks.

‘Iftiin,’ a young woman says, a strap across her forehead to secure the load on her back. She seems to lead the group, while the eldest woman leans against the wall panting.

‘What is your name and who are these people?’

‘Nurto Abdillahi Yusuf. These are my mother and siblings.’ She waves back without turning her head.

‘Her father used to work in the cinema; they are a well-known anti family. Check that cart, they are probably giving supplies to the enemies,’ shouts Ahmed, rushing to the cart himself.

‘Stand back,’ Filsan orders before cutting through the tethers that hold the contents of the cart in place. She rummages within it: a foam mattress, a paper bag of medicines, sacks of flour and rice, a girgire cooker, and then something that surprises her.

She digs the revolver out of the hole it has been hidden in within the mattress.

‘There!’ exclaims Jimaale. ‘Caught like a cat with a piece of chicken.’

‘It is for protection against bandits, we are just women and children, we need something for our safety,’ pleads Nurto.

‘Who gave it to you?’ Filsan checks the gun over; it is an old police model.

‘We have had it for years, my father bought it after we were burgled in the seventies, everyone has one, drunks and glue-sniffers were breaking in at night.’

‘Liar! Liar!’ Jimaale shoves the girl. ‘You are an anti ! Why not call the police if you are broken into?’

‘We have seen you at protests against the government, you can’t lie to us.’ Ahmed kicks her to the ground.

Filsan pulls him away. ‘Take them to Birjeeh. They will discover the truth.’

Ahmed and Jimaale pull the bundles off their backs while Filsan ties Nurto’s wrists and then her mother’s. Her children fight Filsan’s hands away, but she resists striking them and orders the two youngest conscripts to march the whole family to headquarters. As their figures recede, it strikes Filsan as ironic that they had delayed fleeing so they could take as many of their possessions as possible, but now those very possessions impede their flight.

The crackle of the radio breaks into Filsan’s thoughts; on the end of the line is Lieutenant Hashi, the logistics officer, ordering she move to the checkpoint beside the radio station. She leaves Ahmed and Jimaale to pilfer what they want from the cart and rushes to the next position.

Kawsar hears snatches of the chaos outside: the scrape of corrugated tin as it is pulled off the neighbouring homes, the whoompf of deep-throated cannons firing behind the hotel, the ominous approach of footsteps in the courtyard. She senses her death is imminent; every part of her is cold and her heart beats sluggishly, hopelessly. A weight presses down on the bed and she turns her head. Farah sits there in his favourite narrow-shouldered pinstripe suit; he leans back and sighs a bottomless sigh, ‘Who would have thought it would come to this?’

It is so good to hear his deep, clear voice that it brings abrupt tears to her eyes.

‘ Kawsar-yaaro, little Kawsar, you have struggled too much without me. Put it behind you now.’ He smiles and she recalls the shallow dimple in each cheek. ‘We have been waiting for you.’

Teasingly, Hodan steps out of the kitchen, smiling her father’s smile and dressed in a satin wedding dress that pools on the floor around her.

‘Take me with you.’ Kawsar holds out her arms and lifts herself as far as she can.

As Hodan nears, Kawsar watches her perfect, luminous face fade until she sees nothing but dust motes floating in the air. She turns to Farah but the bed is empty. She drops her arms and cries out, cursing herself: why can’t she at least have a simple death after such a long, complicated life? What is this trial that she has been forced to endure? If she had a knife she would end it herself.

Deqo winds back to the villas. The trees are bare; all the birds have flown away, leaving an ominous silence in their wake. She wants to see those grand kitchens again, touch the gleaming copperware and empty those cupboards groaning with mysterious, exotic packages. The guttural thump of mortars booms behind her and she picks up speed, keeping close to the wall and hiding beneath the shadows of flowing pink bougainvillea bushes. Ducking into the largest villa she runs up the concrete steps and enters its cool, green-tiled reception room. A heavy wooden-framed armchair is close enough to the door to push back and use as a barricade. The overhead fan stirs at the change of air she has brought in with her, but the rest of the house is eerily still. Vast sheets shroud the other furniture, dust and dead insects already gathering within the folds on the floor.

Deqo paces through the hall and into the kitchen. White-painted cupboards dominate one wall and hide the pans, cutlery and provisions that would have crowded the floor of Nasra’s kitchen. A straw mat beside the window has the dark imprint of a body clearly visible, two plastic slippers and a caday the only other reminders of the maid who lived and worked in this room. Instead of a makeshift girgire she had had a permanent charcoal-burning range to prepare meals with, four circular hobs and an oven underneath that must have shortened her labour by hours. A huge enamelled sink holds the dirty plates that the family had used before fleeing. Deqo prods the congealed red sauce on a plate and puts her finger to her tongue; it still tastes good. Two large taps drip onto the dishes and she decides to wash them as a kind of payment for the family’s unknowing hospitality With difficulty she turns the stiff taps and water gushes out, clear and abundant; a cloth and dishful of detergent are within her reach and within moments the sink is empty.

Shaking her hands dry Deqo marvels over how all this luxury has been hidden from her. Work in a place like this isn’t work; there are no buckets to lug from the standpipe or collapsing piles of pans and knives to dodge. The kitchen has a high ceiling and two wide windows that funnel the midday sun inside, pale yellow walls casting a gentle light over everything. Three giant copper pans hang from the wall and their shifting bottoms shine beams of gold onto Deqo’s skin. She breathes deeply, knowing she has found where she belongs.

Opening the nearest cupboard she fills her arms with packets of imported biscuits she has seen in the market but has never eaten. Shoving a bottle of cordial under her arm she heads for a bedroom. She settles for the largest one and throws her stash onto the silken pink quilt that covers the gigantic bed; it is like reclining on a cloud, floating magically on a carpet. She extends her limbs into a star shape and then pulls them back and forth, caressing the silk and sending shudders of pleasure up her spine. Unscrewing the bottle with her mouth, she spits out the top and swigs the dark liquid, as thick and sweet as caramel. Scrabbling a hand over to the open biscuit wrapper, she draws three out and stuffs them into her mouth, letting crumbs cascade over her and flicking them carelessly away onto the bed, onto the floor. She is free to do as she pleases without punishment, guidance or scrutiny.

Waking up in a dim, strange room, full of shadows and dark recesses, Deqo panics at the wet sensation over her legs. She leaps from the bed and finds a pool of dark red cordial splattered over the quilt. Grabbing the sticky bottle, she curses herself for making this palace so filthy so quickly. She rips the cover away and to her relief the sheets beneath are still pristine: bundling the quilt up in her arms, she carries it to the bathroom to wash later.