Nadifa Mohamed - Black Mamba Boy

Jama held his finger to his lips. “Don’t say things like that, you never know who is listening,” he admonished. With Shidane out of earshot, Abdi whispered, “Did you ever find your father?”

“Nearly. He’s buried over the border in Sudan.”

Abdi grabbed Jama’s shoulder. “I will pray for him, and one day you will do hajj for him, agreed?”

Jama nodded.

“Good. Inshallah, we can get rich here and travel to Egypt, or at least steal that airplane you always wanted,” smiled Abdi.

Abdi and Shidane brought joy back into Jama’s life. He laughed deeply, with his head thrown back, for the first time in months. They compared scars, and Jama showed them the two neat nicks Shidane’s blade had made on his arm; Shidane rolled up his sleeve to show off the yellow scar running from his elbow to his shoulder and declared himself the winner. They worked together, ate together, slept together. As a team they spelled out messages for planes that never came near enough to read them. Jama taught them to recognize the letters and they spelled out swearwords when they ran out of official messages. Their commander was relaxed and preferred visiting other Italians to supervising the playful young askaris. Every day more Somalis appeared in clouds of dust along the road, some of them joining the signalers, some traveling to other battalions.

As their messages became more ordered and professional, boredom set in. They were stuck on the outskirts of Omhajer, swallowing dust, so the commander decided to set them on a march. In double file, their packs on their backs, rifles slung over their shoulders, they marched a hundred and thirty kilometers to K’eftya and Adi Remoz, then back again. Shidane carried Abdi’s pack and askaris from Jama’s clan looked after him, carrying his rifle when he dragged it along the ground on the long, thirsty marches. The Somali and Eritrean askaris sang in their own languages, jokingly taunting each other, and a young lieutenant taught them songs; Jama’s favorite was about a Habashi girl taken to Italy after being freed by a Fascist from slavery. “ Faccetta Nera, bell’abissina, aspetta e spera che già l’ora si avvicina! Little black face, beautiful Abyssinian, she waits and hopes that the hour is already approaching!” Jama sang loudly. The Italians were obsessed with the local women, and Eritrean girls trailed behind many Italian battalions; some of the camp followers barely had breasts but had already been mistresses to many soldiers. The infants they carried on their backs were not recognized by the Italians and were known officially as the children of X. Jama felt sorry for the thin bundles on the girls’ backs. Despite everything, he had his name and his grandfathers’ names and that made him someone. When he recited his abtiris he felt important; as if he was meant to exist to keep that melodic line going.

Once the signalers had completed the unnecessary marching, the Italian commanders decided to invade Sudan. Flush from their victory in Somaliland, the Italians told the askaris that they were going to kick the British out of Africa completely. Jama was part of another Roman Empire that would conquer this vast antique land. They set off from Omhajer early one morning, their flour rations safely packed, water in their flasks, bullets in their rifles. Shidane had pilfered a few tins of unknown goods and promised to make a delicious meal for the three of them.

“Do you think there will be serious fighting over there?” asked Jama, a ball of nerves gathering in his stomach. He was crossing an invisible boundary in his mind, from the land he knew into the unknown territory that had claimed his father. His footsteps slowed the closer they got to Sudan and it was only Shidane and Abdi’s presence that made him control his rising panic.

“I doubt it. The British can’t fight anyone armed with more than a sharpened banana,” Shidane replied. He was fearless. His name meant “alight,” and he was on fire with intelligence and courage, he could burn with a look, warm with a touch. They passed through plains where grass grew higher than the tallest man, and the singing and dancing quietened as they approached the border with Sudan. Two Eidegalle men were dragging a howitzer on a large-wheeled carriage, and Jama, Shidane, and Abdi hung back with them, smoking and talking.

“Have you had any girlfriends, Ascaro Jama?” Shidane smiled.

“Yes, Ascaro Shidane, women love me.”

“Yeah, yeah, in your dreams they do. I’ve got eight girlfriends.”

“What! You think there are eight days in a week?” Jama scoffed.

“No, I know exactly how many days there are in a week, but you need an extra girl for those special times when you’ve worn one out.”

“Dirty bastard. What about you, Ascaro Abdi, got any girlfriends?”

“No,” cut in Shidane. “He’s already had enough trouble. He made us leave Aden when he was caught with an Arab girl. I saw her with a baby just before we left, and guess what, even from far away I could see the light bouncing off that baby’s big forehead.”

“Ya salam!” Jama laughed. “What really made you leave Aden?”

Shidane and Abdi giggled. “We were caught stealing shoes from outside the mosque. We had new shoes every Friday! Sometimes we even sold the idiots back their shoes saying we had found them in an alley. It was working well until we stole the shoes of a detective, then we were put on the first ship back to the homeland.”

The Italian officers rode on horseback ahead, trying to hide their fear from their charges, but many of them kept ducking into bushes to ease their loosened bowels. When they finally reached the border, panic and jubilation took hold of the hundred askaris and they charged in all directions, searching for something to conquer. There was only desolation; deserted homes, burnt cooking pots, and the paraphernalia of refugees, forgotten shoes and sheets. The invaders passed along dirt tracks, their guns and artillery useless against the oppressive susurrations of cicadas. Just as Jama was about to fall asleep on his feet, he heard shooting, and clambered up a date palm to get a better look. With a pounding heart he saw two white-robed Sudanese policemen on horseback fleeing from the Italians. Their black stallions evaded the bullets and Jama could see puffs of dust where the bullets hit. Askaris fired into the air in excitement and it felt like a genuine battle was taking place rather than a routing of two sleeping policemen by a hundred soldiers. Italian officers chased one another to the saddles that the Sudanese policemen had abandoned in their haste, and held them aloft as if they had found the Ark of the Covenant. Everyone cheered and whistled. “We are part of a victorious army,” the Italians said. “Every man should be proud of what they have achieved here today.”

Shidane, Jama, and Abdi laughed deliriously at the sight of the Italians fighting over the busted old saddles, pushing and shoving one another for the glory of taking home a souvenir from the day they conquered the mighty British Empire. Eventually, some agreement was reached and the saddles were handed over to the askaris to carry back to Omhajer. Four askaris proudly carried the saddles on their shoulders and even Jama and Abdi reached over to touch the old leather for remembrance’s sake.

“We are the testicles of the Ferengis,” sang the askaris, but Shidane frowned at them. “We have thrown our balls away,” he grumbled.

Despite their victorious foray into Sudan, the war was not going well for the Italians. British Hurricanes made raids on Asmara and Gura, shooting to pieces fifty Italian aircraft before they could ever leave the ground and read Jama’s messages. Although the Italian army in East Africa outnumbered the British by four to one and Jama had yet to see the enemy, the Italians were fighting a losing battle. Agordat fell even though the Italians had inflicted heavy losses on the small contingent of Indian and Scottish troops. All it took was for a turbaned sepoy to get too close and yell “Raja Ram Chander Ki Jai,” and Italian officers would drop their guns and head for the hills, they had not come to Africa to die. Barentu was left to the British without so much as a fistfight while the generals in Rome and Asmara desperately tried to find a town for their last stand.