Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

“How do you mean?” Qasiir asks.

Jeebleh says, “We hear of unknown assassins roaming around the country, a group known as ‘fifth columnists’ creeping up on their prey and killing former senior army officers, intellectuals, journalists. Who are these assassins who operate by means of stealth and dare murder a man when he is coming out of a mosque?”

“We may think we know who they are, but we can’t say for certain,” Qasiir says.

Dajaal adds, “We suspect we know who is behind the killings, because we know who the victims are — mostly professionals.”

Jeebleh asks, “Is it possible to know where the two dozen young recruits from Minnesota have ended up, or by which route they have come?”

“We base what we say on a kutiri-kuteen , on hearsay, no evidence,” Dajaal replies. “In days of old, the functioning principle was the primacy of the clan. We knew that this was just a cover. Nowadays, the primacy is religion. The killer is described as a mujahid, who, if killed, becomes a martyr.”

Malik says, “How are the victims described?”

“To justify killing them, the victims are defined as apostates,” Qasiir responds. “I suppose there is nothing new in this.”

Then Dajaal speaks knowingly about how the killers move in on their prey like cat burglars. Once they kill, off they go — unseen.

Jeebleh says, “We’ll all have to be cautious.”

“A small indiscretion can lead to death and disaster,” Dajaal warns. “We’ll all have to be aware of where we are at all times, conscious of how we go about our daily business. As a journalist, Malik has to remain alert. Every minute of the day.”

“Caution at all times,” Jeebleh says.

Malik assures them that he is used to all that.

Jeebleh looks at his watch discreetly and says to Dajaal, “Time we went, you and I. For my lunch with Bile.”

“I’ll wait by the car,” Dajaal says, “and Qasiir will start working on the computer, to repair it, if possible, or at least to recover the deleted files.”

Jeebleh is becoming anxious that he will be leaving in a couple of days, and may not bring the tasks he has set for himself to a successful end in such a brief time. Still, he hopes at least to lay a foundation for Malik to have help in searching for Taxliil, without sacrificing his resolution to pursue his writing. He joins his son-in-law in the room facing the sea before going down to join Dajaal. No sooner has Jeebleh embarked hesitantly and longwindedly on laying out the strands of his reasoning than Malik gently cuts him short, informing him that the thought of involving Qasiir has already occurred to him; he will do it at the opportune time.

Malik adds, “I’ll discuss the matter with Qasiir, and then we’ll firm it all up in your and Dajaal’s presence later. I’d like to receive Dajaal’s backing; it’s proper to do so.”

“Good idea,” Jeebleh agrees.

WHEN JEEBLEH IS BUZZED INTO BILE AND CAMBARA’S HOUSE, HEfinds the maid preparing to leave. Bile, seated, welcomes him with a warm handshake. He looks better. As Bile motions Jeebleh to a chair, the maid says, “Please, Bile, tell Cambara that you’ve asked me to leave early before I finished the job she asked me to finish. Please, please do so, because I don’t want her to be upset with me.”

Jeebleh thinks she can’t be very good at her job, considering the unswept corners where the dust has gathered, the unwashed dishes in the sink. Surely jobs as cushy as this are hard to come by in a city with one of the highest unemployment rates in the world.

Bile says, “I’ll tell Cambara that.”

But the maid lingers until Bile shakes his head in annoyance and says, “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

With her gone, Jeebleh and Bile cursorily revisit their shared past, as childhood playmates raised like brothers in the same household through their years in Padua.

Now Bile gives Jeebleh news that pleases him no end: of the three lemon trees that Jeebleh planted at his mother’s grave site, two have already fruited, and the mango tree is producing fruits the size of a monkey’s head as well as providing shade to visitors at the cemetery. Bile says, “I’ve been there only twice in the past year, I am afraid, once in Dajaal’s company, the second time in Cambara’s.”

“I will treasure the memory of your kindness.”

“Come, come, she was my mother, too.”

Moved, Jeebleh begins to blink away tears, and the palms of his hands reach upward, bloodlessly pale as a lizard’s underside. Bile looks away, tracing the life line, the head line, the love line, the sun line, and finally the fate line of his own palm with his forefinger, as a blind man might. What a journey it has been, two friends taking parallel roads for a lifetime informed by the same ideals. Each served long prison terms as well, the last few years of Bile’s in solitary confinement. Then their fates took them to opposing destinations: Jeebleh’s, as a professor at a college in the United States and as a father of two daughters, one of whom has blessed him with a grandchild. Bile dedicates his life to the ideals of philanthropy; it is a great pity that civil wars do not admit the principle of charity toward others.

Bile is often off-kilter, prone to mood changes when he takes medicine and sick like a dog when he does not. His back and knees are the death of him, thanks to those years in cramped confinement. Today his shirt buttons are in the wrong holes, but Jeebleh won’t draw attention to this, or to the sleep in the corners of his eyes, the dried toothpaste on his chin, or his unzipped fly. He’ll only embarrass his friend; no one is else around, anyhow. He and Bile are no strangers to each other. Bile involuntarily issues a sound without being conscious of it. Jeebleh thinks, It happens to the best of us, like talking in our sleep, or snoring.

Taking their time, unrushed, they move to the kitchen. Bile sits while Jeebleh prepares a light repast for him; he must eat before taking his tablets. While Jeebleh prepares noodles in lemon and garlic sauce with freshly chopped chilis, Bile snacks on cheese and other delicacies Jeebleh presents to him. Unasked, Bile talks about the rapport between employers and employees in civil war Mogadiscio, pointing out that the maid is tetchy. Harmony between employer and employed is highly prized here in these troubled times, everyone fearing that things can quickly get out of hand when one party resorts to using the gun as the arbiter in the smallest dispute.

“Is that what she’ll do if you tell her off?”

Bile replies, “If you have a dispute about the overtime due to her or, God forbid, fire her, a couple of youths bearing guns will turn up to waste you in less time than it takes to stub out a cigarette.”

It has become a common feature of the civil war for armed youths to kill volunteer doctors working for Médecins sans Frontières or one of the UN bodies because of a spat over some paltry sum of money.

“Haven’t the religionists put a stop to that?”

“Everyone, including the religionists, is playing a wait-and-see game,” Bile says, “and no one has done anything about the firearms. Gun owners will bury them, stash their weapons, waiting to spot the weaknesses in the structures the religionists have put into place, in hope of exploiting them. The current situation is no different from that of 1993, when the U.S. Marines were first deployed. Then the warlords and their allies engaged in wait-and-see trickery until they identified the fault line in the indecisive ineptitude of the Americans. Basically, every gun-wielding youth wanted to know whether the Marines were peacemakers or peace enforcers. StrongmanSouth pursued the weakness of the U.S. rationale, and he maneuvered matters to his advantage when he played dirty, dragging an American corpse through the streets of the city. You can be sure the same will happen to the Ethiopians when they invade and one of their numbers is wounded or killed. They, too, will consider withdrawing — mark my words — just as the Marines did.”