Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

Malik knows well that during the war with the warlords, the Courts commanders inscribed the phrase “Allahu akbar” on the bazookas they launched, which fell in the most populous area of the city, killing hundreds. Still, he says, “At least this time they did not sack the city, or subject it to looting, as I have seen the Congolese and Afghan militias do when they fled.”

“Still, where are they when the city needs them?”

Malik says, “But they quit without firing a shot.”

“Why do you accept weapons as a gift from Eritrea, a pariah state, when you won’t fire a shot at your mutual enemy?” challenges Dajaal. “Rest assured that when they return, calling themselves ‘resistance fighters’ or ‘martyrs of the faith,’ they will resort to bombing the very people whom they claim to love.”

Anyway, according to Dajaal, only the men who are the known public face of the Courts have quit the city. The rest have stayed behind, supposedly to organize the resistance from within. Malik supposes that they have not yet released any statement because they must feel secure somewhere before doing so.

Dajaal goes on, fuming. “Shabaab, meanwhile, have assassinated three former military officers who came to Mogadiscio in advance of the interim president’s entourage, to prepare the way for the Transitional Federal Forces, such as they are.” One of the men killed was a former colleague of his. “But why provoke the Ethiopians, then flee the city? Nothing makes sense.”

Malik says, “If you weren’t under the weather, I would ask you to come straightaway. I would very much like to talk to you in more depth.”

“You know what?” says Dajaal. “I can’t afford to be ill on a day such as this, a day in which the city braces for the arrival of our archenemy. I’ll ask Qasiir to fetch me. We will be at the apartment shortly.”

Dajaal has barely entered the apartment when Qasiir says, “The Kenyans have caught the first big fish in their net. That’s the news we’ve just heard on the car radio.”

Qasiir is in a T-shirt and jeans, and he has on an elegant pair of painted leather shoes. Maybe he was on his way somewhere when Dajaal rang and requested a lift, Malik thinks. As for Dajaal, despite his claim that he is feeling better, his lips are swollen, as if freshly stung by a bee, and his eyes look dull, too.

Malik asks, “Who is this the Kenyans have caught? Does the big fish have a name?”

The big fish is Saleh Ali Saleh Nabhan, Dajaal says. “He’s considered the third most wanted on a list of so-called international terrorists and is suspected of planting bombs in two U.S. embassies and of attacking an Israeli-owned hotel in Mombasa. The Americans have always insisted that he lives in Somalia and enjoys the protection of a highly placed Courts individual.” But he ascribes the supposed Kenyan “coup” to rumor.

Malik, too, doubts if such a big fish will have fallen easily into Kenyan hands on the very day the Ethiopian invasion has started. The only fish, big or small, that are likely to fall into Kenyan nets will be those who might be fleeing the fighting or who will present themselves at the closed border between Kenya and Somalia, either as bona fide travelers or as asylum seekers. Since Saleh Ali Saleh Nabhan fits neither description, he has more likely thrown in his lot with the top Shabaab men said to be in the forest in Ras Kamboni, and it will take a few days to flush them out.

Malik makes tea for them, and as he passes them milk and sugar, the discussion resumes.

Dajaal says, “What worries me is not what they will do with the big fish they catch — the so-called terrorists and high-ranking Courts officials — but all the small fry, hundreds of them. When you send big trawlers into waters where a war is raging, you can’t help overfishing. The Kenyans have been fishing in troubled Somali waters for years now. In addition to the pirates who have been handed over to them to bring before their corrupt courts, the Kenyans have benefited in many ways from the collapse of Somalia.”

Malik knows from his research that Kenya is raking in millions in hard currency from the foreign embassies and all the UN bodies working on Somalia-related projects, all of which are currently based in Kenya, because of the chaos here. But he doesn’t understand all of what Dajaal has said. “What small fry are you talking about?” he asks.

Dajaal says, “Many Somalis who had left the country earlier and established citizenship elsewhere returned during the Courts’ reign, to lap up the milk and peace that was on offer. I worry what will happen to them now as they head back to their respective homes, bearing their foreign passports. The Kenyans will exploit the situation.”

There is a knock at the door. “Who is it?” Malik asks.

“It is I, Gumaad.”

Malik doesn’t ask if Gumaad has come alone or if he has again brought someone with him. He opens the door.

Gumaad is alone, but he is clearly not happy to find Qasiir and Dajaal with Malik. He looks as if he has been in a fight, and lost. His shoes have lost their buckles, and the back of his trousers are stained. His shirt is dirty and rumpled, and some of the buttons are missing. There is straw in his uncombed hair. In addition, he seems to be shedding dandruff at an incredible rate, as if he is suffering from some sort of skin disorder.

Qasiir asks, “Where have you been roughing it?”

Gumaad is noncommittal. “Here and there.”

Dajaal says, “You’ve been on the run, haven’t you, holed up with TheSheikh in a rat hole somewhere and preparing to sneak out of the city, like thieves in the night.”

“It’s been tough,” Gumaad says to Malik.

“A towel for your shower,” Malik says, handing him one. “And then we’ll talk.”

Dajaal is a model of restraint and says nothing more until Gumaad vanishes into the bathroom. Then he repeats the rumor circulating in the city, that TheSheikh is on a plane heading for Asmara, where he will be a guest of the Eritrean government. TheOtherSheikh, who is considered to be a more moderate force within Shabaab, is believed to be headed for the Kenyan border to seek political asylum.

As soon as Gumaad emerges from the bathroom, Dajaal asks where TheSheikh is. Malik thinks that you might as well ask a Mafia minion to tell where his boss is.

Gumaad replies calmly, “Somewhere in the city.”

“You’re lying,” Dajaal says.

Malik wonders if Gumaad is the kind that lies as unconsciously as he sheds dead skin. He has known pathological liars in his day, not all of them men.

Gumaad challenges, “Why would I be lying?”

“The city is small. Where in the city is he?”

“I can’t trust you enough to tell you.”

“If he is in the city,” Dajaal says, “I’ll bet he is secreting himself somewhere like a dog gnawing on a stripped bone. Imagine TheSheikh, on whom the hope of the nation has rested, hiding his face but showing his fear. Is that what you are telling us?”

Dajaal no longer seems ill; he is full of energy born out of rage — rage at the assassination of his friend, rage at what he sees as the Courts’ senseless provocation of the invasion.

“Please, Grandpa,” says Qasiir. “Why are you torturing Gumaad?”

“His lies upset me.”

Gumaad says, “I’ve told no lies so far.”

Dajaal says, “The foreign news agencies all place TheSheikh on a plane headed for Asmara.”

Qasiir says, “Why believe them and not Gumaad?”

“That’s right. Why not believe me and not them?”