Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

With Qasiir at the wheel, Gumaad is in a feisty mood. Unprompted, he says, “We’ll singe the hairs off their heads if they come.”

“Who are we talking about?” Malik asks.

“Who else, the Ethiopians of course, and their lackeys, the so-called Federal Government,” he replies. “We’ll teach the Ethiopians a lesson the Eritreans haven’t taught them, when they invade.”

Qasiir looks from Malik to Gumaad. “In times of war, you need to act grown up. There is talk and there is war. It is high time you tell the difference between the two.”

“And I’ll tell you what,” Gumaad says.

“What?”

“TheSheikh has assured me that I’ll be appointed to the position of spokesman of the Courts the moment the first bullet is shot by either party.”

Qasiir roars with derisory laughter. “Get away. You can’t be serious. How can anyone appoint you to the position when you have little English, do not speak any other European language, and have only a couple of short articles to your name?”

“I’ll make you eat your words one day.”

“We’ve had enough of your fibbing.”

Malik pleads, “Please. Let peace reign.”

To Malik’s relief, Gumaad desists from saying anything offensive or provocative from then on; Qasiir’s behavior becomes agreeable, too. Malik, who doesn’t see himself as a peacemaker, is relieved that so far his intercession has worked well.

As they approach their destination, Malik asks Gumaad to put Ma-Gabadeh in his civil war context, since nothing in Somalia makes sense until one places it in the “before,” “after,” and “during” of that frame of reference.

Gumaad obliges. “Ma-Gabadeh was a junior clerk in the Accountancy Department of the Ministry of Fisheries,” he says.

“He was no junior clerk and you know it,” Qasiir says. “He was a peon who worked his way by dint of coercion up to the rank of head janitor, and was eventually assigned an office. But he was no clerk. The fellow doesn’t know how to read or write.”

Dreading the thought of getting bogged down over whether Ma-Gabadeh was a junior clerk or head janitor, Malik urges Gumaad, “Please continue.”

“Anyhow,” Gumaad says, “he was at the desk managing the Somali-owned, Italian-funded SHIFCO — an acronym for Somali High-seas International Fishing Company — charged with exploiting Somalia’s marine resources. SHIFCO, set up by the last central government, owned a dozen trawlers. A couple of them are still operational, although more than half the original number have been lost, several of them confiscated by Kenya and other countries for nonpayment of dues, others because of lack of maintenance.”

After the collapse of the country’s state structures, Gumaad goes on to explain, Ma-Gabadeh returned to Xarardheere, where he built a business partnership with an Italian fishing firm with whom he had dealt before in his Ministry of Fisheries capacity. He issued a backdated license to the Italian firm, a license that was to be valid for three years. Then he relocated to Mogadiscio and, once there, struck an alliance with StrongmanSouth, who was on the run then. From the proceeds, Ma-Gabadeh established a frozen-food company centered on the fishing business, harvesting lobster and exporting it to Italy.

Following the death of StrongmanSouth, Ma-Gabadeh entered into a more lucrative alliance with StrongmanSouth’s former financier, the man accused of killing the warlord and heading up a breakaway faction. Ma-Gabadeh then fell out with the Italian fishing firm, and to recover the assets in dispute, took two of their ships and crew hostage. He released the ships on payment of large sums of money, with which he funded an armed militia unit based in Xarardheere and specializing in the hijacking of the ships.

During the past few years, Ma-Gabadeh has diversified his business operations, branching out into the importation of qaat from Kenya and the exportation of charcoal from Somalia to the Gulf States. In addition, he runs other moneymaking ventures, many of them illegal. A heavyweight businessman with some fifty gun-mounted Technicals, he has lately thrown in his lot with the Courts, whom he backs with funds, and to whom he offers his thousand-strong armed militia whenever he is called upon to do so.

The car slows down and Qasiir heads into the hotel parking lot. He pulls around to the rear of the hotel and turns to Gumaad. “Since you know Ma-Gabadeh well,” Qasiir says, “please go ahead. Malik and I will join you in a minute in the hotel foyer, as arranged.”

Miffed because he senses Qasiir is making a point of putting him at a distance, Gumaad does as advised, but not without making his feelings known. “He’s a busy man, Ma-Gabadeh is, and he won’t want to be made to wait.”

After he leaves, Qasiir goes over the security arrangements he has put in place and points out where a couple of his men are. He phones his men to make sure they are in their proper positions, then he cuts the engine and they step out together and walk side by side into the hotel, pretending to chat while Qasiir takes the measure of his surroundings, eyes darting this way and that. He nods discreetly to his two men at the entrance to the hotel, as they stride into the foyer.

Inside, there is a market feel to the place. The foyer is spacious and bathed in sunlight, yet it feels cramped, because it is thronged with people standing around and talking loudly, and it is also crowded with furniture that strikes him as belonging to a different period. When Qasiir moves, Malik follows him closely, but he finds he has to pause often to avoid colliding with people. Gumaad is standing with two other men in a huddle near the reception — a one-desk affair manned by three men, two of them in uniform and all of them focusing watchfully on the threesome’s movements.

They join Gumaad and he makes brief introductions, naming them in order of importance. “Here is Ma-Gabadeh. Meet Malik. Malik, meet Fee-Jigan, a journalist.”

Malik takes Ma-Gabadeh’s short-fingered hand, and then his own hand vanishes in its entirety into Fee-Jigan’s long-fingered shake.

Ma-Gabadeh says, “Shall we?”

Qasiir leads the way to the alcove. Following on his heels, Ma-Gabadeh duckwalks and sidesteps to make room for Malik to walk alongside him. He is a short man, balding, mustachioed, boasting a prominent paunch and a chinless face. His arms sway at his sides in rhythm with his hips. Ma-Gabadeh makes an immediate impression on Malik: that he is the type of man who comes to an engagement with a drawn face and leaves it with a smile when he has convinced himself that he has made a killing large enough to warrant the risk involved. Otherwise, what is in it for him to talk to a journalist? Despite the sweet expansive smile, which is probably part of a repertoire he deploys on occasions such as this, Malik finds nothing genial about him.

Fee-Jigan has on a baggy pair of khaki trousers, and his sandals are missing a buckle. Tall and slim, he is a big-eyed man in his mid-thirties, with ears almost as large as saucers. His handshake is firm, his smile charming. Malik is eager not to alienate him unnecessarily, assuming that he is an ally of Ma-Gabadeh’s.

He asks, “Are you a print or radio journalist?”

“I am a recent returnee from Cairo,” Fee-Jigan replies, “where I was a simultaneous interpreter in Arabic and English. Here I am a stringer for several Arabic wire services. I also report and do the occasional feed for Al Jazeera.”

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

As if to further impress Malik with his importance, he says, “I have the ambition to write a book about Somalia. In fact, I’ve already done the first couple of chapters.”

“But that is wonderful,” Malik says.