Nadifa Mohamed - Black Mamba Boy

Ismail fluttered around, moving dirty dishes to the basin on the floor. “Get here, boy, and wash these dishes. Do them well and you’ve got yourself a job.”

Jama’s eyes widened with happiness at the prospect of regular money and he rushed toward the pyramid of dishes. The hot water scalded his arms but he scoured and rinsed the heavy pots and pans without complaint. His nimble, strong hands reached the dirty corners that the adults missed, and he imagined he was scrubbing the roof like he used to for his mother. Ismail stood behind him, scrutinizing his work, but soon left to talk with new customers. Within a few minutes the dirty pyramid had been transformed into a sparkling display of almost-new-looking dishes. Jama turned around with a jubilant look but the two cooks were uninterested in his achievement. Ismail came back into the kitchen and, after casting an eye over his rejuvenated dishes, said, “Come back tomorrow, Jama, you can start at seven in the morning. There’s a plate of rice waiting for you outside.”

Jama skipped past as Ismail slapped the back of his neck. A large white plate of steaming rice and stew was placed on a table, and he stopped to smell the delicious aroma and wonder at all this food that was entirely his own. Eating slowly was a luxury he rarely allowed himself but he chewed the lamb meditatively, removing all the meat from the bone and sucking out the marrow. He licked the plate clean, then sat back as his stomach strained against his knotted sarong. As soon as he felt able, he waddled out toward the beach, eager to boast to Shidane and Abdi about this unexpected good luck at a place they were used to stealing from. Shidane’s idea had been to tie a fresh date to a stick, and use the contraption to pick up paisas left on tables for the waiters. Jama was the best at casually, innocently walking past and stabbing the coin with the stick. When they had finally been caught by a waiter who knew Shidane’s reputation, they had moved on to the Banyali quarter. Shidane would throw a bone into the shops of the vegetarian Hindus and Jama would offer to remove it for a price.

Shidane and Abdi were kicking at the surf. The waistcoat Abdi had stolen looked ridiculous hanging from his bony shoulders, and Jama burst into laughter at the sight of Abdi in a fat Jewish man’s clothing. Jama skipped up and jumped onto Shidane’s shoulders. Shidane shook him off in irritation, and said, “Leave me alone, you donkey.” Abdi looked gloomily at them both, rubbing his red, teary eyes with the back of his hand, silently gathering the waistcoat around his ribs to stop the sea breeze blowing it away. Shidane was in one of his moods. He kept staring at Jama, his nostrils round and flared, his face set in a hostile grimace. “Something has happened to Shidane’s mother,” Abdi tried to explain, but Shidane hushed Abdi with a stern finger against his lips.

“What’s the problem, walaalo? You need money? I’ve just had some good luck.”

“What?” asked Shidane defensively.

“I’ve got a job starting tomorrow at the Camel mukhbazar, Ismail wants me to do the dishwashing from now on.”

“Ya salam! You Eidegalle really know how to look out for each other, don’t you?” interrupted Shidane.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Jama in shock.

“Well, it just seems strange that you’re always getting work and you never think to ask for us as well, all you care about is yourself.”

“Have you gone mad?” exclaimed Jama.

“Don’t raise your voice to me, saqajaan, do you hear me? What do you want from us, anyway?”

“Stop it, stop it,” pleaded Abdi. “Just leave Jama alone.”

“Why are you acting like this, Shidane? You know I’ll look after you, you can come and eat there anytime, now.”

“You think we need your charity? That it? Do you think we need the charity of a saqajaan bastard like you?” spat Shidane.

Jama froze, Abdi froze, the children playing nearby froze, even Shidane froze once these spiteful words had left his mouth. Jama felt his pulse beating hard in his temple, in his throat, in his chest, and he felt a trickle of shame running down his back.

“Take that back now, Shidane,” threatened Jama.

“Make me.”

There was only one way to save face after Shidane’s insult, and Jama threw up his fists and charged. A crowd of boys surged forward, emitting a savage cry for blood. Jama pounded his fists clumsily against Shidane’s soft face and slapped away Abdi’s attempts to tear them apart; unable to watch his friends hurt each other, he preferred to take the blows himself. Jama pinned Shidane down on the sand, between his knees the face he had looked for in crowds, the body he had slept next to for months; it was as if the world had been turned upside down. Jama couldn’t bring himself to look into Shidane’s eyes as they fought; a shadow Jama stood to the side and frowned at the pain he was inflicting on his friend. Abdi, unable to stop this cataclysm, gave up and waded in to defend his nephew, pulling at Jama’s hair and feebly trying to pull him off Shidane. Jama turned around and punched Abdi hard in the mouth. Seeing this, Shidane pulled the trophy dagger from his sarong and plunged it into Jama’s arm. Jama tried to jerk away as Shidane lunged forward for another stab but was knifed again. Blood poured onto the sand and was lapped up by the surf. Jama rose woozily from Shidane and squeezed his bleeding arm. Tears gathered, burning hot behind his eyes, but he kept them hard and unblinkingly focused on Shidane.

“Jealous of me, you’re just jealous of me, because you’re a sea beggar, diving for the pennies that Ferengis throw you, and your hooyo opens her legs for them,” Jama yelled.

Shidane clutched at the howling Abdi with one hand, the bloody dagger in the other. “Don’t ever let me see you again or I will cut your throat.”

The crowd of children, who all knew the combatants, kept a respectful distance and noted this shift in alliances. From now on Jama was on his own, a true loner, a boy without a father, brothers, cousins, or even friends, a wolf among hyenas. Jama slunk away, intending to walk and walk until he found himself at the end of the world or could just disappear into the foaming sea. He wanted to escape like the fake prophet Dhu Nawas, who had ridden his white horse into the waves and crests of the Red Sea, who let the sea bear him away from pain and misery.

Approaching the Camel mukhbazar the next morning, Jama’s eyes were sunken and dark, his back aching, but worst of all, his hand bled every time he tried to use it. He had a strip of his sarong tied around his arm which stopped it bleeding, but he was unable to stanch the flow from his hand. He had walked around the eating house from dawn, watching the white walls become more and more luminous against the dark cloth of the sky. He now saw Ismail walking with that camel-like gait that had named his mukhbazar.

“Nabad, Jama,” hollered Ismail.

“Nabad,” mumbled Jama, wringing his hands behind his back.

“You have a long day ahead of you. Start by sweeping the floor and wiping the tables and, when the first customers have eaten, start on the dishes.”

Jama nodded and followed Ismail into the yellow-painted room. He picked up an old broom propped up in the corner and started attacking the piles of sand that had rushed in during the night through the cracked door. Pretty soon springs of blood popped up from Jama’s hand, rivering down the brown earth of his skin and the broom handle to splash red pools on the white cement floor. Ismail returned to find Jama trying to sweep away the blood but just smearing it over a larger area.

“Hey, hey! What are you doing? Why is there blood all over my floor?” shouted Ismail as he lunged toward Jama. Ismail pulled Jama’s hand up into the air and marched him back outside. “Kid, why is your hand bleeding?”