Abdourahman Waberi - Transit

1. Autonomous Nomadic Groups. — Author's note

GAME REALLY OVER this time. President he said OK, civil war, over. Scud 1, Scud 2, an Scud 3 said hey put it there! even if a little skinny group (Scud 4) stayed in Goda mountains with a spokeman hidden in Paris. All over for us too. War sweet as sugarcane, finished. Period. Binladen given you his word. The chiefs said: leave everything; get out right way. Clowns think it easy, like taking bus to see karate movie at the Odeon. OK, we didn't try to be wiseguys. We left quick-quick. Game ended 0–0. Tie game, OK, but hey, that business-there not zero killed. Lot of guys killed even, but that not really my problem. We took our gear, plus a few souvenirs we lifted here-an-there. We got on military truck to Camp As-Eyla then into other police truck to Ali-Sabieh, an there we got onto the roof of the old train to Djibouti. That way we travel free. To give our hands something to do, we took khat from people by force an we sung “I'm Bad” (that, American song cause Michael Jackson, he sing like he chewing big fat chewngum). We horsed around a lot, but OK, big problems come later mostly. At the station everybody said bye then they left.

In city-there, I got no more house, see, no more family. The others, they went home: Haïssama went back to Einguela, Warya to District 5, Ayanleh to Balbala an all. An so, all the other guys left but hey, no problem. They said: we gonna get together in front of headquarters tomorrow, ask for demobilization money, OK? Aïdid an me, we were too mad after that. Without thinking we just went to Siesta beach, where there's French faggots — military looking for little kids. OK, first of all, us, we not kids; an then, we don't look like faggots; an then watch out, we got weapons. We told old war stories for fun. We smoked a lot too; we thought about cool nice job to make money. We thought too much. We flipped out. Aïdid, he wanted to be smuggler in Loyada (that, border with Somaliland. Somaliland, maybe you don't know it yet, that OK, it not known like me Binladen, is all). Then, I said stop to Aïdid, we not gonna put demobilize money into this business-there, that too dumb. Me, I said we gonna go party well-well, then we gonna look for vitaminized job without paying a franc. Aïdid he OK-OK with that but hey, he don't know my secret yet, right? He said, how we gonna find vitaminized job? So I played boss. I yelled real-real loud: let's smoke first; after that, I give you solution. I was assawayed, scuse me, I'm out of it a little. Haha-haha, Assoweh I almost said like an ass, Assoweh that my old name cause now my name Binladen, the terriblific boss. Wait, don't make strategic mistake (that true military language) right away even if Aïdid a brother, right? So I said like that, gotta use survival technique, tomorrow or day after we see bout finding vitaminized job. Aïdid, he didn't have mistrust. An me, I didn't play my last card. Not so dumb, Binladen, right?

FALL 1892. They were exhibiting Ka'lina Amerindians from French Guyana completely naked in a Parisian park at the same time as our grandfathers in traditional dress, gathered in a flimsy hut indicating their generic name — Somalis — in the Zoological Garden of Acclimation. Take the Chemins de fer de l'Ouest, the Western Railroad, and get off at Porte Maillot station, said the poster announcing the attraction in all the French newspapers. All that memory is available with one little click. Thanks, Internet. To think that Grandpa served as a soldier whose assignment was to watch the borders for the Republic that had put his grandfather in a cage of a zoo open to the winds. And what do I have to with all this? Now that I think about it, I'm closely connected to that past, that colonial memory not always the color of the pink panther. That's why I sometimes reject that shared memory, and at the same time reject myself, reject my maternal side and my skin, which in fact isn't all that light. Repress my whole being, express myself loudly too, and shout from the rooftops: “Do not call me a mulatto, a métis. Metis was the first wife of Zeus, king of the Olympian gods. She died horribly.” But people here don't know that, either. So? So, don't breathe a word of it.

IF YOUR BODY germinates and swells, if your heart pounds like the surf, what could be more normal? I push the rumpled sheet away with my hand; I crush the doubt that assails me under my heel. I seek in vain the heat of his body. I can sense his smell floating through the room; I still have the taste of his sweat in my mouth. I resonate with him with every fiber in my body; my skin spontaneously catches fire at his contact. I curl up with love inside his arms. Hold your breath; repeat without opening your mouth “I'm so happy!” Suddenly I can see the world with the eyes of the heart. Every second is an eternity; I flame with a joy I cannot hide. My head is resting on his lower belly, which goes up and down with the rhythm of his peaceful breathing. The two tips of my breasts are delightfully compressed by his shins. With one hand, I stroke the light moss of his ebony hairs, watching the dark honey of his eyes from the corner of mine. With the other hand, I stroke my sex wet and hot as burning spices. I hold my breath to prolong the exquisite moment.

A metallic sound attracts my attention. It's coming from the outside, from the street perhaps. Really, I have a hard time believing that right now he may be at police headquarters in a tiny room reeking of the urine from a whole gang of delinquents, the vomit of drunks, and the blood of the poor crucified people relegated to the basement. And all that because of a goddamn petition asking for peace and the official recognition of the martyr Mahmoud Harbi. I spend my time running after his absence. I am going stark-raving mad, it couldn't be clearer. In the darkness of my memory, nothing comes knocking. I stroke the cold bed. No, he's right in front of me. He's coming out of the bathroom; he's modest, as usual. He lowers the shade of his eyes. His underpants are tight on him; I look at it insistently, detect an erection. My senses are fooling me; I'm imagining things. No, he is here, in front of me, his eyes fogged over by modesty. He's still astonished by my relaxed immodesty after all these years. Why is he hiding his virility with his right forearm? He slips in at my side; his hairless calf bumps my hip. I breathe in; I want his sex; I want it to find its way back into my humus, and roughly. I read somewhere that the female hyena has an erectile penis and even false testicles. As she's bigger than her mate and dominates him, it seems natural for her to possess the genital attributes of the so-called stronger sex, don't you think? Wait, I just found a hair finer than an eyelash in the bed, and it's black. It must be his; it's the only thing that connects me to him at this moment. I am hot and cold at the same time. I would like to be somewhere else — far away from here, in any case. To live through a night of love with him. The last one?

I can see myself back on a beach in Brittany; I'm fourteen. It's in Saint-Lunaire, to be exact. I am part of a group of adolescent girls in bathing suits. Young girls in bloom with their budding breasts, a spot of sweat under each armpit. All the grace of human clay. Men's eyes are concupiscent, and we drown our fear under an avalanche of giggles. It must be three or four in the afternoon. A sea breeze, an angry word or a ray of the sun, and a shiver runs through our skin, freezes us. Our bathing suits and bras shield from indiscreet glances the ripe fruit, ready to be weighed with a trembling hand. Danger is approaching; it's the silhouette of two men in the prime of life. A slight sensation of dizziness. They draw closer still, talking all the while. Suddenly we get up and run over to our parents, who have remained on the beach.