Nadifa Mohamed - The Orchard of Lost Souls

They drive slowly back to Hargeisa without headlights, hoping not to attract rebel attention or the increasingly common friendly fire from jittery conscripts. Filsan knocks against Roble as the jeep hits one pothole after another; they are squeezed together in the back, hidden from view and he puts his arm around her shoulder. She takes his rifle and leans it against the side with hers. A pirter patter of tracer fire sends white lights into the sky; it reminds Filsan of the cheap Chinese fireworks occasionally set off in her neighbourhood during Eid. The whites of Roble’s eyes glow for a second in the light of a checkpoint flash and then dim.

‘The moon’s going to be strong tonight,’ he says softly.

‘How do you know?’

‘We old nomads know these mysteries.’

She elbows him gently in the ribs. ‘You know as much as I do and that’s nothing.’

‘You’ll see. Give it another two hours and you will think there are floodlights above us.’

‘I’ll be asleep in my bed in two hours, not staring up at the moon like a fool.’

‘Well, I’ll be joining the other fools for our midnight social club.’

The jeep brakes suddenly and Filsan hits her mouth against her knee.

‘What was that?’ yells the driver.

‘What?’

‘Something was just thrown at the windshield.’

‘Don’t stop, then! Drive on!’

‘Go!’ shout the other soldiers.

Filsan tastes blood and rubs a finger on the stinging area of her tongue.

A flash of light illuminates the red smear on her index finger. Less than a second after the flash, an elephant charges into the jeep; that is how it seems to Filsan, an angry bull elephant dashing through, flinging her and Roble out onto the street.

Splayed out, holding the earth as if it might move, she turns to Roble and reaches out. ‘Get up, Roble. Get up.’

No answer.

‘How many?’ someone yells.

‘Seven, they’re all down!’ cries another.

Peeling herself up from the grit, Filsan scrabbles around her and grabs the strap of a submachine gun that has been blown out of the vehicle, pulling it near her.

Footsteps run towards her, voices calling unintelligible commands, flashlights scanning the massive wound in Roble’s back.

‘Abbas? Abdi? Can you hear me?’ she croaks.

‘I’m here, Corporal,’ whispers Tall Abdi. ‘I’m still here. Get ready.’

The rebels begin firing before she can pick any of them out. She sprays bullets into the darkness beyond the flashlights. Her grip is weak and the force of the gun makes it jump in her arms.

‘You’re going to hell,’ a fighter screams.

They turn off all of their torches and surge forward.

Filsan doesn’t stop shooting. Her gun spits out bullets and unlike in Salahley everything feels wholly real: her heart is thumping hard, she is aware of the smallest sound, feels like an animal about to be ripped apart. The smell of burning flesh blows over to her and she holds her breath.

Somewhere beside her Tall Abdi is shooting too. Bullets ping off the frame of the smouldering jeep and hit the sand with a small puff. The rebels are around four metres away; she can’t tell how many of them there are but she needs to maintain that distance, and she drags Roble’s Kalashnikov closer to use when her magazine runs out.

‘I’ve been hit!’ a rebel cries.

A flashlight switches on and off but it is enough for Filsan to train her sights at the figure who has briefly appeared: a bony young man in glasses who might have been any one of the science students at her university. She squeezes the trigger and aims a barrage at him in particular.

The fire from the rebels decreases. Her eyes have adjusted to the darkness and she can make out two silhouettes, one dragging, the other limping desperately behind.

‘Don’t stop, Corporal, don’t stop.’ Tall Abdi is somewhere behind her, his voice weaker than before.

She doesn’t need any encouragement. The preservation of her small, inconsequential life — the life she has so frequently wanted to end — is now all that matters.

Another layer is added to the cacophony when a vehicle skids to a stop behind the jeep.

Still firing, Filsan glances back to see if more rebels have arrived, but instead it is a unit of soldiers in an armoured personnel carrier. She continues shooting, her whole body shuddering with relief and fear.

The soldiers fan out around the jeep and soon two rebels crumple and hit the ground; the others try to melt back into the darkness from which they emerged but are pursued on foot.

As gunfire echoes around her, Filsan crawls on her hands and knees to Roble. His eyes and lips are open as if he has been caught mid-sentence. She puts two fingers to his jugular vein and presses hard. Nothing.

After seven attempts, the television finally comes to life; alarming voices shouting from the wooden box make Deqo duck under the bed. A woman’s face fills the screen; she smiles conspiratorially and talks directly to Deqo. ‘We have such a show for you, between now and ten o’clock you will be regaled by comedians, serenaded by singers and moved by poets. Gather the family and neighbours, prepare a flask of tea and put your cares aside.’

‘OK,’ replies Deqo, peeping out.

‘Our first guest is well known to all of you. Please welcome Sheikh Sharif to Mogadishu.’

The screen expands to include Sheikh Sharif, the garish orange backdrop and the heads of the live audience. Sheikh Sharif, to Deqo’s surprise, is dressed like a poor nomad in a ma’awis and vest in the middle of the elegant theatre, a caday clamped between his jaws; he races on, narrowing his eyes against the lights trained on him.

‘Take those things off me, I can’t see where I’m going,’ he hollers, holding a hand to his eyes and stumbling exaggeratedly.

Deqo laughs along with the audience.

‘ Joow! Don’t I know you?’ He points to a man in the front row. ‘Aren’t you Hassan Madoobe’s sister-in-law’s cousin’s best friend’s nephew? Sure you are! Wasn’t it your mother who was trampled by ostriches?’

The camera zooms in on the audience member shaking his head with mirth.

‘Sure it was! Have you brought your whole reer with you tonight? The place is packed as tight as the purse my wife keeps her black market dollars in.’

‘What are you telling strangers our business for?’ bawls a harsh voice from the wings.

The audience cheers and then an old woman, decades older than Sheikh Sharif, emerges waving a cane at him, chasing him around the stage while he pleads for help. ‘Tollai ! Won’t someone stop her? Ostrich boy, come and restrain her! This is what happens when you leave the miyi, your manhood is left behind with the camel bones.’

Between her giggles, Deqo picks up on a commotion near the window. She wriggles from underneath the bed and pushes the curtain aside.

Four men chase a lone, suited figure. ‘Stop where you are!’

‘I’m innocent! I swear on my faith,’ the fugitive shouts, but continues to run.

‘Shoot!’ orders the captain and the soldiers obey.

Deqo watches as the bullets hit his back, twisting him into one wild pose and then another. His legs propel him a good distance before he falls to his knees by the villa gate.

‘Swear on your faith now, dead man!’ exclaims a soldier.

Deqo regards his death with the same detachment she does the television show. She has no comprehension of why these grown men are tormenting each other and is grateful for the glass separating her from them.

Returning to the programme she watches the exploits of Sheikh Sharif and his wife impassively until a singer takes the stage. She recognises the songs from the cassettes Nasra used to play, but this woman makes them sadder and slower. Deqo fetches an overripe banana and a packet of lollipops from the kitchen and watches the rest of the variety show until only white snow cascades over the screen. She sleeps with the television on, bathed in blue light and shushed by white noise.