Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

“Can it be that Gumaad put it into your head?” Jeebleh asks.

“How is that?”

“Because Gumaad explained the derogatory term Injirray , which Somalis reserve for the Ethiopians. Maybe that is where your obsession with itching springs from.”

Malik asks, “Why do Somalis allude to lice, when it comes to Ethiopia?”

Jeebleh tells him, “You see, the only Ethiopians that Somalis have met in large numbers are the ill-paid, ill-clad barefoot soldiers in the outposts of the Empire, extending down to Somali-speaking Ogaden. Unwashed and wearing the same uniforms for weeks on end, they itched and scratched. Ancient contacts between Somalis and Abyssinians shaped the terms each had for the other. ‘Lice’ defines the Abyssinian/Ethiopian foot soldiers in these outposts, the insect with which Somalis have associated these unwashed, ill-paid soldiers. For their part, the Amhara ethnic group refer to Somalis as ‘ass washers,’ or ‘skirt wearers,’ denigrating descriptors for Muslims who perform ablutions before their prayers, or who, like women, wear skirts. Nothing new in this. After all, the English call the French ‘frogs,’ don’t they? No wonder then that you’ve dreamed of armies of lice invading.”

Jeebleh recalls how, in the 1977 war between Ethiopia and Somalia, they found laughter in the treacherous nature of head lice, and discovered the punning potential in speaking figuratively about matters of political import. As a schoolboy, he came down often enough with fevers brought on by malaria and all sorts of other bites. His mother would use kerosene to rid him of the lice or shave his head.

Malik says, “A flea-bitten nation lying dead by a roadside, spotty, dirty, and armpits itchy, head crawling with lice. Battalions of bedbugs on the move and in fatigues, light green their carapace of choice. In my dream, I saw battalions of lice moving in an eastward motion, coming toward the Somali — Ethiopian border town of Feerfeer.”

Jeebleh says, “The stakes are high and everyone is jittery, with the drums of war and the saber rattling, which are becoming deafening.”

Jeebleh then recalls to himself a brief passage from Günter Grass’s Local Anesthetic, in which the dentist describes tartar as “enemy number one” to the teeth. Imagine — tartar laying traps, ensnaring the tongue; and the tongue, busily searching for crust formations, rough surfaces that nurture tartar, so that it can destroy them. No wonder diseased gums are rich with pockets in which germs find homes; no wonder nations breed all sorts of persons, some of whom will cause the death of their own kind, betrayers, sellouts, subhuman suicides.

“Politics is a living thing, and you can never tell with living things,” Jeebleh says. “Living things kill or are killed; they walk away, they change alliances; they bite, they are crushed underfoot. Lice or not, living things are the darkness upon the face of the deep.”

Malik thinks, Nits, knocks, bites, and bellyaches, frets, furies, and mind-numbing fevers are little local pains. Little local aches caused by a chipped front tooth!

Breakfast is a simple affair: medium-size bowls of natural yogurt, a homemade gift from Cambara, eaten with two spoonfuls of marmalade for Jeebleh, who then makes an omelet with tomato and onion for Malik. Jeebleh has tea before joining Malik in coffee.

Dajaal telephones to say that, as Malik requested the previous night, he is bringing along Qasiir, his grandson, to try to repair Malik’s computer.

“Give us half an hour,” Jeebleh says.

Dajaal asks, “What about you, Jeebleh?”

Jeebleh replies, “I know that Malik wants to stay behind with Qasiir to work on the machine, but I would very much like to visit with Bile. From what she has told me, Cambara will be out shopping, and Bile will be alone, an ideal time to visit. He is expecting me, says he feels a lot better today, thank God.”

“Then I can come and fetch you from Bile’s after the business with Malik’s computer?” Dajaal suggests.

“We’ll arrange that when you come.”

Barely has Jeebleh given a bear hug to Qasiir, whom he remembers fondly from his previous visit as “cool,” using the idiom of the young, and introduced him to Malik, when it occurs to him that he must discuss with Malik the possibility of drafting Qasiir in their attempt to locate Taxliil. Jeebleh feels certain that Qasiir will have contacts among his former fellow militiamen, some of whom must be serving the current Courts dispensation.

By Jeebleh’s recollection, Qasiir was quick, bright, and trustworthy, a levelheaded young man with a reputation for calculating risks before making a move; he was different from many of his peers. Today Qasiir has on a pair of ironed jeans, a shirt a size too small, and sneakers that look overused. His belt has a buckle the size of a fist and on his chin he sports a tuft of hair too sparse to bother with. He wears a shoulder holster, too, with a pistol in it.

“Look at you,” Jeebleh says, “all grown up and with a family of your own. You have a child, don’t you? Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A boy, such an active one he keeps us awake.”

Jeebleh observes that Qasiir is physically and temperamentally different from the teenager on whom he had last set eyes a decade or so ago. He has put on some weight around the waist, but he carries it with ease.

“I am surprised you’re still wearing jeans,” Jeebleh says. “Don’t your peers who have gone over and made common cause with the robed, bearded lot look upon a jeans-wearer with suspicion?”

“Many do, but those close to me know the score.”

“You don’t go to mosques wearing jeans, do you?”

“As if that matters,” Dajaal says.

Qasiir says, “Not on Fridays, Grandpa.”

Malik is momentarily distracted by the fact that Qasiir addresses Dajaal, his granduncle, as “Grandpa.” Then he remembers that the term granduncle has no equivalent in Somali. He knows from his own experience how taxing it can be to address Jeebleh in any tongue, for he cannot bring himself to address him as “uncle,” as a Somali son-in-law might, but “father-in-law” is too awkward and formal. Maybe the problem of how to address in-laws is a problem nobody has resolved in any language, anywhere.

“You go to mosque only on Friday?” asks Malik.

“I want to be seen, don’t I?”

“It’s all part of the show,” Dajaal says.

Malik asks, “If it’s true that the religionists give women so many lashes if they are seen in the streets unveiled, how do you explain that jeans-wearing men are not penalized? I wouldn’t be surprised if some thought you were sabotaging the Islamic way of life.”

Qasiir is, as Jeebleh expects, quick on the uptake. “It is possible that they let me be because several of my mates are active Shabaab members, with considerable clout. I know these friends better than anyone, know that they exchanged their status as clan-based militiamen for a white robe and a beard because many are too lazy to bother finding razor blades and shaving daily.”

Dajaal says, “Copycats, that’s what they are.”

Jeebleh remembers a French proverb that says that while a man with one watch knows what the time is, a man with two may become uncertain as to the precise time, because of the watches’ disparity. He thinks that because Qasiir’s peers, Janus-faced, look to both the past and the future, they may be likely to help.

“Received wisdom has it that everybody knows everybody’s business in Mogadiscio,” Jeebleh says. “But tell me, Qasiir. Has this wisdom become inoperative under the current conditions?”