Nadifa Mohamed - The Orchard of Lost Souls

No sound seems to penetrate the house from the war beyond the walls; it echoes and hums and ticks as if she has been swallowed by a giant and caught within his ribs. Deqo dances and slides over the tiled floor; she feels completely safe, hidden away, with only the pad of her feet for company. Light seeps from under a door and she remembers the other rooms, each of them as well furnished as the one she has slept in. She pushes the door open and discovers the room alive with shadows, fluttering, monstrous shadows that span each wall. Deqo looks up to see six white moths beating their wings between the bulb and floral lampshade. She wonders if this is the only light they could locate, if the rest of the town has descended into lifeless shade, and if like her they are afraid of what might happen in that darkness.

Approaching the window, she notices the hole in the mosquito mesh through which the moths must have entered. It is just a few moments before nightfall and a swipe of watery indigo separates the brooding sky from the sullen earth. Distant flares shoot up like stars but leave a sickly green vapour in their wake. It is an alien world being destroyed, one that she doesn’t belong to or feel any ownership over. Turning away from the window and drawing the curtain across, her attention turns to the key in the wardrobe; it clicks like a stiff knuckle and the thick-mirrored doors fall open. It is packed tight with clothes, the metal pole sagging with the weight of them, the bottom of the wardrobe covered with rows and rows of shoes. Deqo takes out a pair of silver high heels and slips her feet inside, a gap the size of her fist left behind the heel. She spies sequins between the layers of clothes and pulls out the garment, a kind of short-sleeved top heavy with embellishment, a palm tree picked out in jewel-coloured beads on the front. A wide-brimmed black hat finishes the look and Deqo totters back to look at herself in the mirror; for the first time she likes the girl smiling back at her.

After a motionless couple of hours at the theatre checkpoint, another order from Hashi comes, this time telling Filsan to join Roble on the Jigjiga Road to Ethiopia. A jeep collects her and she jumps in eagerly despite the danger of the district they are entering. Hundreds of rebels are hidden in the hills around Hargeisa and the exchange of fire between them and the soldiers reverberates down into the valley. Filsan covers her nose against the acrid smoke drifting over from burning houses and rolls the side window up. She has nothing to bring Roble, not even a bottle of cola; the only comfort she has to offer is her presence and she hopes that will be enough. Small dots clamber along the hills as the jeep sweeps past; the refugees appear nothing more than bundles of multi-coloured blankets moving in columns like ants.

‘Should just stay in their beds rather than dying out there,’ the driver says in an accent that reminds her of home.

Filsan turns to him, suddenly interested. ‘When did you arrive from Mogadishu?’

‘Three days ago. I have barely slept at all, just drive, drive, drive.’ He makes a cutting motion with his hand at the road.

‘How are things there?’

‘Difficult, the city is full of northern refugees.’

That isn’t what Filsan cares about; she wants to know if any new singers have broken through in her absence, if the Lido beach café is still open, if the television reception has improved at all.

He tells her he was born in Wardhiigley but brought up in Hamar Weyne, had attended a school she has only vaguely heard of, and worked as a mechanic before joining the army. They have no family, acquaintances or interests in common and the conversation quickly drifts to an end.

The jeep abandons the tarmacked road and climbs a dirt path up into the hills. ‘I can’t get any closer than this, just follow the curve to the right and you will see them.’

Filsan wipes her brow, hoping she doesn’t look or smell too bad. This isn’t how she would choose to be reunited, but it is better than waiting.

Suddenly he is there, leaning against a boulder with a pair of binoculars to his eyes; she stops to enjoy the sight of him, calm and nonchalant, as the din of machine-gun fire hitting rock clatters only a few dozen metres away. He notices Filsan after an age, the binoculars still to his eyes but a broad smile stretching beneath his four-day stubble. He holds his arms open, despite knowing she will not fall into them; instead she rushes up and shakes his hand between both of hers.

‘Welcome, welcome, Jaalle !’ He beckons her to the others. ‘This is Corporal Abbas, and Privates Samatar and Short Abdi. Tall Abdi is refreshing himself behind the boulder.’

She salutes and they jokily click their heels to attention.

‘Have you brought anything to eat?’ Abbas asks.

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t eaten myself.’

‘We’ll die of starvation up here, I swear,’ he groans.

Filsan looks up to Roble. ‘When did you last come down to the city?’

‘Two days, it’s a shambles! They keep telling us just a few more hours, just a few more hours, but still no one has come to relieve us, apart from you that is.’

‘They didn’t tell me to bring any provisions.’ She makes a show of checking her pockets for some chocolate.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Roble pats her shoulder. ‘At least we haven’t had any trouble.’

‘None?’

‘Nothing. We have just been watching through the binoculars — it’s better than being at the cinema. Here, have a look.’ Roble lifts the binoculars from his neck and passes them to Filsan.

Hargeisa looks beautiful for once, the sky an unusual haze of pink and purple, clouds tinted with smoke, tin roofs like golden pools reflecting the huge orange setting sun. The devastation is lost within deep shadows. She puts the binoculars to her eyes and scans until something comes into focus: a slice of road and the wheels of a car. The burgundy Toyota stops by the side of the road and about eight civilians disgorge from it. Other refugees run along the road and then walk a few breathless steps before resuming their flight. Swinging back to the car, she watches a father escort his young daughter — a girl of five or six in a spotty dress — to the scrub along the track to urinate; he holds her up by the arms and keeps his shoes far away in fear of splashes. A hail of mortars falls nearby, one of them only a few feet from where the father and daughter stand, and all the passengers jump out of the bushes and scurry back to the car. The father darts after them and gestures desperately for the girl to catch up. She stumbles behind, dragging her underwear up with one hand. The father jumps in just as the car begins to pull away; he holds the door open but the driver speeds off, leaving the little girl behind a screen of exhaust fumes. More missiles fall but the girl doesn’t stop her pursuit until she is engulfed in a volley of Katyusha rocket fire. Filsan drops the binoculars in disbelief that the father has just left his child to die. The car, now just a dark speck, continues up the winding road to Ethiopia.

She imagines herself in the girl’s position and feels a sudden longing for her father back home, seeing him clearly in her mind’s eye with a tumbler of whisky in front of the television, his right foot hitched up under his left thigh. For all his severity he would never have abandoned her like that. She had ignored the last two calls he had made to the barracks; he wants her transferred back to Mogadishu, away from the war.

The sun has set, the silhouetted hills resembling the spines on a lizard’s back, and the town within the valley is lit here and there by fires. A call has come through declaring that they are all to be relieved from the checkpoint for a briefing at Birjeeh and now they wait, blowing warm air onto their chilled hands. Abbas and Short Abdi have gathered twigs and built a pitiful fire, and Roble and Filsan huddle together in silence. Tall Abdi approaches and asks for a cigarette; he is shivering and scrawny in a short-sleeved shirt. Roble gives him his half-empty packet. At last they hear the crunch of tyres on grit, and five soldiers laden with assault rifles and an RPG arrive to replace them.