Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

“You were his only living relative?”

“May I ask where these questions are leading?”

“You see, before leaving, Jeebleh informed your grandfather that he would set up a monthly check. Did you know about this?” says Malik, who doesn’t mention his own discussion with Bile and Cambara, who were also of a similar mind, ready to put some money aside for Dajaal.

Qasiir asks, “That is very good of Uncle Jeebleh. But tell me, what is your question?”

“Did your grandpa have dependents, like a young family — you know, men in this part of the world continue producing until they are dragged off to their graves.”

“No, he had no young family.”

“None at all?”

Qasiir broaches the subject of his own younger sister, deaf from the noise generated by the helicopters of the U.S. Marines when they invaded the district in which StrongmanSouth had his base. He goes on, “She was a baby then. Sadly though, she hasn’t spoken since and can’t look after herself. Grandpa was her lifeline after I started my own family. She was dependent on him.”

“Let’s talk in more detail about it when we have the time,” says Malik, seeing that they are nearly at the apartment. “In the meantime, I need to ask: do you know anyone with firsthand information about what happens at the Kenyan border to Somalis with foreign passports who are suspected of being sympathetic to the Courts? Because according to a HornAfrik commentary I heard, there are a handful of FBI officers present when the Kenyan immigration officers conduct the interviews.”

“That’ll be easy,” Qasiir says. “In fact, I know a man, one Liibaan, who served in the National Army with Grandpa and who owns a fleet of buses that I think ply the route between Mogadiscio, Kismayo, and the border crossing. Maybe he will help find us someone, or better still, he may be prepared to talk to you. Leave it with me, and I’ll find somebody.”

What a beautiful phrase—“Leave it with me”—Malik thinks, especially when spoken with such confidence. He takes comfort in it and delights in its meaning: “Trust me, and everything will be done to your satisfaction.”

“You’ll call me if you can’t find Marduuf?”

Qasiir says, “I know where he lives, I know the mosque at which he prays, the teahouse at which he plays cards with a couple of his pals. I’ll get him. So see you shortly.”

While waiting for Qasiir to return, Malik wanders aimlessly around the apartment and ends up in his workroom. He picks up a piece of paper from the floor, and a few lines in his own hand catch his eye, part of a longer piece he has completed and sent off to some editor, he cannot recall which: Somalis are a people in a fix; a nation with a trapped nerve; a country in a terrible mess. The entire nation is caught up in a spiraling degeneracy that a near stranger like me cannot make full sense of. It is all a fib, that is what it is, just a fib.

On second thought, the scribbler has run a hesitant line through that last sentence and continued with these words: This conflict has nothing to do with clan or religious rivalries. Rather, it has everything to do with economics. There is a Somali wisdom that it is best that the drum belongs to you, so that you may beat it the way you please. If not, the second best thing is for the drum to belong to someone close, like a relative, who will share it with you. In other words, the Somali civil war has a lot to do with personal gains and personality conflicts.

Qasiir waits in the TV room, watching sports, while Malik gets down to the business of interviewing Muusa Ibraahim, aka Marduuf.

Marduuf has the deportment of a man whom, if he walked into your home and declared himself the owner, you wouldn’t feel fully entitled to challenge. He is of medium height, with a broad chest and the fists of a pugilist. Veins run all over the back of his hands, and they move as he gesticulates. He is soft-spoken, though, for a man his size, and his smile is disarming.

Malik asks him where and when he was born, how many siblings he has, and where, if anywhere, he was schooled. Marduuf’s voice is so soft that Malik brings the tape recorder closer to his mouth and adjusts the volume. There is something of the hillbilly to his accent as well, and Malik has to pay a great deal of attention to catch his nuances.

“I was born in Daawo, the twin sister to Eyl,” Marduuf says. “I am the firstborn. My family started large, but became reduced to three. Five of my siblings died before they reached the age of four; there were deaths from diseases like TB and malaria, or because there was no doctor in our village to cure a cough. Very few of the children born in our area survived. You had to be very strong from birth to live.”

Malik cannot decide if it is nerves or anger, but something makes Marduuf pause every few words, like a reader who has come late to literacy.

“How old are you?”

“I am thirty-five.”

“Where are your remaining siblings now?”

“My sister works on planes, as a stewardess.”

“And your brother?”

“He is recently dead. Shabaab killed him.”

Malik wants to ask why, but he doesn’t want to get diverted from his real interest in Marduuf’s story.

He asks, “How old was he when he died?”

“He didn’t die. He was killed,” Marduuf says, with emphasis.

“But how old was he?” Malik says.

Marduuf bristles slightly, then collects himself and says only, “He was small for his size. He had the face of an old man, but the body of a boy. He was sixteen, maybe a little older. Now that he has been killed, he has become large. In our memory.”

Malik notes that Marduuf’s voice goes up a decibel when he speaks about his murdered brother.

Malik asks, “Do you know Fidno?”

“Yes. I worked with him several times.”

“What work did you do for him?”

“I was a pirate,” Marduuf says.

“And Fidno — what was he? A pirate, too?”

Malik thinks he catches a slight sneer or even a snicker. Maybe he finds the thought of Fidno becoming a pirate either ridiculous or amusing. Malik waits. Ultimately, his patience pays its dividend.

Marduuf says, “If you are educated, you do not want to become a pirate.”

Now that is something new to Malik. He feels certain that it is equally new to many others: that it is the barefaced privation of opportunities, the total absence of any chance to improve your life that turns one into a pirate, especially when one’s livelihood has been threatened, interrupted, and destroyed. This runs counter to the theory that the presence of a strong central state guarantees a cessation to piratical exploits. He thinks of maybe one day writing an article titled “Poverty Is the Invention of Piracy.”

“What work did Fidno do?”

Finally, Marduuf is in his element, and the words pour out of him, with little stammering and fewer pauses. “Fidno is book-educated,” he says. “He reads all the time. Every time we saw him he had a new book in his hands, books in the white man’s language, not English. Maybe German, or so somebody said, because he lived in that country, a very powerful man there. When he talked on his mobile in one of these languages, he spoke fast, as fast as water running down a glass window after it has rained. But he is a bad man. He cheats his own pockets. He is the kind of cheat who puts something in his shirt pocket but makes sure that the ‘thief pocket’ in the front of his trousers has no idea what is in the shirt pocket. Do you know what I mean? You can’t trust him. He is too clever. With money, Fidno is a dangerous man.”