Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

“Welcome to our home, AhlulKhair,” she says.

“Thank you, thank you.”

“Your presence in our home cheers me up.”

“Again, thanks.”

He takes his first mouthful of the excellent lamb dish she has prepared; he can taste the love that has gone into the making of the meal. He talks as he eats, the better not to be self-conscious at how much he is consuming. He tells her everything to do with Taxliil, beginning with when he and his stepson first met, up until the day when he vanished. He also tells her about Malik and Jeebleh and how they, too, are doing all they can to locate the young runaway.

When Ahl has eaten his fill, Xalan offers him dessert, but he says he will give it a miss, and passes on tea or coffee as well. She says, “Go and see what the men are up to at the majlis . I’ll ask the maid to clear the lunch things and will join you there in a couple of minutes.”

At Xalan’s call, the maid arrives: short, stocky, of indiscernible age; she has blue rings around her irises typical of Somalia’s river people. Xalan says to the woman, “After you’ve done the washing, please prepare the guest room for possible occupation, starting tomorrow morning.”

Ahl avoids looking at Xalan, fearing, perhaps, that one of them might say something that will upset the other.

When Ahl joins them in the majlis , Warsame and Fidno appear not to take notice of him. They are apparently wholly occupied catering to what their bodies crave. They slouch on the carpeted floor in sarongs, heavy cushions pushed against the wall, with incense burning at the far end of the room. Fidno is in an undershirt, Warsame in a singlet. They chew without interruption, chatting away about politics, piracy, terrorism, Shabaab, and every other topic that strikes their fancy.

He watches for a while as they stuff their cheeks and slurp water and Coca-Cola and sugared tea to avoid dehydration. After a while Ahl can no longer contain himself, and he yawns exorbitantly, complaining of his exhaustion after so much travel. Warsame calls to Xalan to arrange a lift for their guest. When she offers to drive him herself, he dismisses the suggestion. “There is no need. Ask one of the drivers to drop him off.”

Eager to depart, Ahl reminds himself not to forget his laptop, and makes sure he has it before he hugs Xalan and says, “Thank you, and so long.” The driver helps him into the vehicle, which is very high off the ground. Ahl is so tired that his eyes involuntarily close, and they stay shut for much of the trip. It is pitch dark, maybe because there is no street lighting, or maybe because of a power outage. But when they get to his hotel and through the security gate, the hotel generator is on and so are the lights, and he no longer feels as tired as he did in the car.

Back in his room, Ahl rings Malik. Malik is terribly agitated, his voice shaking and his diction rattled. He makes a jumble of statements, running his words together nonsensically.

“Wait, wait. Go back. Who are we talking about?”

“Dajaal,” Malik says.

Ahl has never met Dajaal, but he knows who he is.

“Now tell me. What’s happened to Dajaal?”

“They’ve made an attempt on his life.”

Ahl knows who “they” refers to.

“When did that happen, and how?”

“He had given me a lift back to the apartment and then drove home, alone,” says Malik. “Half a kilometer from the apartment block where Dajaal lives, a remote-controlled roadside bomb struck the passenger’s side of the car, the side where I normally sit when I am a passenger. Jeebleh and I are not sure if they meant to kill me .”

“How badly is Dajaal hurt?”

“Thank God, he is not hurt.”

“But there is damage to the car?”

“We’re taking it as a warning. To me.”

“You’re not planning to leave, are you?”

“No way.”

“Will you move in with Bile and Cambara?”

Ahl can’t help being cranky, the consequence of civil war crabbiness. He almost gives in to a tetchy thought that enters his mind, but thinks better of it, recalling that when they were younger and they could afford to be nasty to each other as siblings are, Ahl used to describe Malik as self-centered, someone who asked the world to come to him. But of course he won’t say that now.

“And you,” Malik says. “How have you been?”

Ahl tells him about meeting Fidno and his meeting with Xalan. For some reason he tells him about Wiila as well, and her connection to Fidno.

They agree to talk tomorrow. Malik gives him Bile’s phone number, along with Cambara’s and Qasiir’s, just in case, and then adds, as if for good measure, “You never know how things may pan out here.”

DAJAAL FINDS A DECENT PARKING SPOT IN A CUL-DE-SAC NOT FARfrom the market, but Qasiir advises him to look for another, “safer” place, as dead-end roads pose unnecessary security risks. Dajaal concedes that Qasiir has a point and drives off, saying that he will join them.

Now Qasiir and Malik wait for him in the road. Malik has close to two thousand dollars in the front pocket of his trousers, and he can feel the lump of it as they speak. He is sure that the money is enough to buy a computer and a color laser printer. Even so, he is overwhelmed with the feeling that something is afoot; he smells it in the air. The sun is in his eyes, the breeze light, but his heart is heavy, very heavy. “Do you know where we are going?” Malik says.

Qasiir replies, “We’ll go to a computer shop I know, and where a friend of mine works. He informed me that they have only one computer of this kind in stock and I’ve reserved it in my name, thinking it would be unwise to give yours.”

“Tell me more.”

Qasiir obliges. “Here is how things work at the Bakhaaraha. Traders bring in items for sale, items they describe as ‘new,’ ‘almost new,’ or ‘as good as new.’ What many buyers do not know is that someone else has bought these items singly in the Emirates, say, pretending they are for his own use, and then imports them ‘sealed.’ It’s all part of the trading method here. When you buy a computer, the seller will not provide you, the end user, with a warranty, even if he sells it to you as new, almost new, reconditioned, or just resealed.”

“They don’t describe the true state of affairs?”

Dajaal joins them; he has found a convenient spot close enough. He and Qasiir agree that he will keep a discreet eye out, in the event someone is following them, or him. He vanishes into the melee of movement; Qasiir walks ahead, Malik on his heels, listening. They can make out Dajaal one second and lose him the next; both of them are watchful as they continue their conversation.

Qasiir says, “Someone buys a computer, a BlackBerry, or an iPod in Abu Dhabi for export and does not pay tax. This person then sends it with someone coming here to give it to someone living here. The gadget arrives in place of cash, as money sent home has come under severe scrutiny since September 2001. This way, no cash is being transferred, and no one will bother about it.”

“Until someone discovers it,” Malik says.

Qasiir pulls a face. He continues, “Moving money has become dangerous, and a number of the banks have been closed, accused of supporting terrorism. Some Somalis have ended up in Guantánamo or are currently detained in Sweden. The motto is this: Goods may move freely; money, because it may be dirty, may not.”

“How come you know all this?” he asks Qasiir.

“I worked as a computer parts salesman.”

“Nothing is as it seems,” Malik says.