Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

When Qasiir announces for his benefit that they are now at the junction where the market complex begins, Malik thinks that “market” is an inaccurate name for the Bakhaaraha, which has become an institution unlike any other. This market looks nothing like anyone’s idea of an African market. It’s more a mix of trading traditions, with stalls made of zinc sheets on one side, proper shops farther up, and low stands where women sell tomatoes and onions, all of it smack in the center of what might once have been a thoroughfare. Then, to confound the visitor more, one sees all sorts of people milling around, and many more gathered at corners, loitering, watching, gathered in groups, bantering, a few strolling about with whips in their hands and conversing with men bearing guns. Then Malik remembers the Spanish proverb — that not everyone at a market is there either to buy or sell. This strikes him as no truer anywhere than it is at the Bakhaaraha Market in Mogadiscio.

The labyrinthine culs-de-sac of the market continue to play a political role similar to the one the Casbah performed in the Algerian struggle for independence from France. In 1993, when the Marines were engaged in a manhunt for StrongmanSouth, the rumor mills were in overdrive that the general held his meetings openly at his redoubt in a basement at the Bakhaaraha, that he had been at a wedding, or that he had said his prayers at one of the biggest mosques in the city. More recently, during the 2006 routing of the U.S.-supported warlords, it was the popular support of the unified management of the market complex that made the difference. The fact that the market supported the Courts with weapons and funds tipped the balance in their favor. There is a complexity to the Bakhaaraha, given its history and economic potential. It offers immense profits in a country where business doesn’t pay tax, as there are no state structures in place to levy or collect it.

Established in 1972 during the last tyrant’s reign, according to the research Malik gathered before coming to Mogadiscio, the Bakhaaraha functioned as an alternative to the state-imposed structures of economy, and provided political brinksmanship to those opposing the status quo. Those who manage this institution are aware that war is at a premium these days, even if peace is in great demand. Here at the market, they sell either commodity, at exorbitant prices. Qasiir says, “When you’ve lived in a civil war condition and have not known peace, you become someone other , someone different from your natural self, as many of us have done.”

The deeper they walk into the market, the more palpable the sense of excitement around them, an excitement brought on by a feeling of triumph. Maybe the Courts’ announcement that they “will defeat the invaders the moment they set foot on our soil, a Muslim soil,” is having its effect on the rabble. Malik catches snippets of conversation as they walk past, a couple of young men thrilled at the thought of volunteering to fight, one of them declaring that he is looking forward to drinking enemy blood. Malik finds it difficult to move forward, his feet leaden, his heart weighed down with sorrow. In his mind he plays host to many scenarios, in each of which he enterains similar premonitions: of terrible things afoot, of death making the rounds, of airplanes bombing cities, of tanks rolling eastward, of bullets, of lots of blood. A few young men gather into clutches near a stall whose owner offers to outfit anyone volunteering to fight with something that approaches a uniform — blue fatigues with a star in the center at the front and the back. Malik picks out Dajaal standing at the periphery of that group.

Malik says, “From what I’ve heard, many of the big businessmen are keener on war and funding it than they are on peace. Why is that?”

“Then they don’t have to pay tax.”

For an instant, he looks at Qasiir, almost unseeingly, because the sun is in his eyes. He squints and sees that Dajaal is joining them. Then he asks if in his opinion the invasion of the garrison town by the Courts is imminent.

“War is serious stuff,” says Dajaal, who doesn’t seem able to commit himself to a definite timetable, knowing the unpredictability of the men from the Courts, for whom he has nothing but disdain.

“But inevitable?”

“It does appear so.”

It feels as if a hurricane has been forecast. No one is safe.

Dajaal, moving forward with the habitual sure-footedness of an athlete embarking on a marathon, once again lets Qasiir lead the way, followed by Malik, and again he takes up the rear, alert for unusual movements, for men in balaclavas, wearing tunics with pockets big enough to conceal weapons. He knows that in the Bakhaaraha danger is a neighbor, lurking at the end of the labyrinth into which they are walking. An assassin may emerge from any shop, any corner; every passerby is suspect and suspicious. Here, everyone is moonlighting as something they are not, and there are many men and women, Dajaal knows, whose job is to inform on any unfamiliar face.

Dajaal notices a young man whose eyes are following Malik. When the young man brings out his phone and speaks briefly into it, Dajaal slows down, the better to take note of any immediate changes in the surroundings. He notices movement at the edge of another cluster of young men, as excited as track fans waiting for a derby. Dajaal catches a familiar face but can’t immediately place it from a distance. As he gets closer, he is surprised to see Gumaad, who is dressed in a motley combination of colors: his trousers a faded pink, shoes almost emerald green, the buttons of his shirt ranging from dark brown to orange and green. Yet neither Gumaad nor his mates seems aware of the clownlike clash of colors.

When Gumaad catches sight of Malik and Qasiir, then learns of their mission, he insists on accompanying them to the computer shop. He falls into step with them and his fellow revelers fall away. Dajaal waits. He checks the vicinity for hidden dangers and then assesses the situation before joining and walking alongside Gumaad.

He asks Gumaad, “What’s this merrymaking about?”

“We are celebrating a victory,” Gumaad replies.

“How can you think of celebrating the victory of a war not yet waged? This is war that has been lost before it’s been launched,” Dajaal says.

“We’re celebrating the triumph of the Courts,” Gumaad announces. He speaks loud enough for some of the passersby to overhear and approve of the sentiment he has expressed, by nodding their heads.

“Whom have the Courts defeated?”

“Ethiopia and her ally America,” Gumaad says. But this time he keeps his voice low.

Qasiir says, “You are crazy.”

“Why did I expect better of you?” Dajaal says to Gumaad.

Dajaal walks away, in truth because he wants to be alone with his thoughts for a few minutes. He is revisiting the three wars in which he served as an army officer, but what he pictures just now are not scenes of death in battle. The image in the forefront of his mind is of cattle running amok, chased by unseen lions; of goats driven by powers invisible from a place where peace reigns to a scrubland where nothing, absolutely nothing, not even cacti grow — a scrubland so barren and so waterless that the goats feed on stones that they dig from the drought-dry land. Close by, a short distance from where the cattle have now gathered to graze in the fenced-off brushwood, there are mines buried in the ground, mines planted by the various factions fighting for control of the scrubland. Now and then the goats unearth the mines and they blow up, slaughtering the goats that unearth them, as well as stray cattle; now and again, the mines blow up in the faces of humans, too.

As they make their way through the market, Gumaad asks Malik if he has received a message. Malik says that he hasn’t, avoiding eye contact with Qasiir, whom he sees is listening in. Then Gumaad explains that he came to the apartment earlier and brought along a young former pirate, straight from Xarardheere, the coastal town where he is based. “I thought you would be interested in talking to him,” he says.