Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

Kala-Saar pours more water into his glass and takes another mouthful of food before continuing. He says, “I am full of admiration for the young, because they perform sacrifice on a scale till now unknown in our part of the world. Think of Japan, of the Amhara ethnic group in Ethiopia. Two peoples with traditions in which sacrificing one’s life to cause heavy damage to enemy combatants has a noble history: kamikaze pilots flying small aircraft laden with fuel, explosives, and bombs into the Allied ships; the battle of Adwa, in Ethiopia, where barefoot Takla Haymanot of Gojjam fought against the Italian invaders, who were better equipped than the Abyssinians. We in Somalia have never had a tradition of putting our lives on the line for our nation. Thomas Jefferson is worth quoting here: ‘the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.’”

“So you approve of Shabaab?” asks Warsame.

“I do not approve of Shabaab’s actions. They are not fighting for liberty but to gain power. They are not fighting for the national interest; they are fighting for sectional interest, insofar as they are fighting on behalf of a specific segment of Somali society, the radical fringe.”

Ahl says, “What about fighting for Islam?”

Kala-Saar says, “Islam is under no threat. Nor do I think that stoning a thirteen-year-old accused of adultery and then sparing her rapist constitutes preserving the good name of Islam. Rather, it denigrates the reputation of the faith. Do you think that imposing a type of veil indigenous to other societies on Somali women is a good thing? Or banning music, disallowing sports on TV, stopping veiled women in the street on their way home or to the market and checking if they are or aren’t wearing bras?”

The conversation continues along these lines, with Kala-Saar pontificating on various aspects of the same topics, or subjects related to them.

Then they hear Faai shouting from the kitchen to Xalan, “Please come and listen to this.” Xalan joins Faai and then returns, slack-jawed.

“What’s happened?” Ahl asks.

Xalan replies, “A suicide bomber has blown himself up in the center of Bosaso, killing at least ten people and injuring several more.”

Ahl sucks in his breath, his skin loses its natural color and he sits still, unmoving. Kala-Saar, too, falls silent, seemingly shamefaced, as though he has been the cause of such terrible things. Ahl stands up and moves to the window.

His mobile phone rings. It brings him unexpected news, far beyond his expectations, news he thinks he can’t cope with, his heart nearly bursting out of his chest. The phone nearly drops out of his hands. He pulls himself together to listen.

Xalan, Warsame, and Kala-Saar watch him in silence as he asks, “Wh25ere are you now?” He waits for an answer and then says, “Shall I come and get you from where you are, right now?” Then, the mobile phone almost slipping out of his hands, “If you know how to get to where I am, then I will wait.” A pause. “I, too, my dearest, I am so pleased to hear your voice, so pleased to know that you are alive and well, and that I’ll see you shortly.” Then just before disconnecting, he adds, “Yes, of course I love you, too, my darling.”

They all look in his direction, waiting to hear his news in full. But Ahl has difficulty speaking, not only because he cannot convince himself that he has just talked to Taxliil, but also because he doesn’t wish to share the good news with Kala-Saar. He doesn’t want to hear a man who, delighting in his superb turns of phrase, will embark on the exercise of distinguishing between a suicide bomber, whom he will cast in the vanguard of selfless young Somalis setting a new revolutionary trend, and Taxliil, a milksop unable or unwilling to bring his martyrdom to completion.

“Was that Taxliil?” Xalan asks.

By way of answer, Ahl’s cheeks flow with tears that gather momentum as they pour down. He wishes he had the luxury of privacy so that he could cry his heart out with joy, alone. Just as in Somalia’s civil war, the intimate affairs of this nation are fodder for gossip, shock, amazement, and newspaper headlines elsewhere, but not to the victims of the strife.

Xalan helps Ahl to his seat before his knees collapse from under him, his face and cheeks wet with tears, making him look like a child who has clumsily painted his own face. Then Xalan realizes something else: that Ahl’s trousers are soaked. Has he wet himself? When? In the name of heavens, what is happening to this poor man?

Xalan, standing behind Ahl, motions to Warsame and Kala-Saar to leave the room. Then she, too, departs and joins them in the living room.

MALIK, FOR ONCE, IS UNABLE TO CONCENTRATE ON LISTENING TOthe radio at news time; he has other worries on his mind. Showered and shaved, his mobile phone by his side, he is waiting for a confirmation call from Qasiir to inform him that he is on his way, bringing along the man with information about Somalis with foreign passports at the Kenyan border. But when the phone comes to life, it is Ahl, excitedly informing him that Taxliil has been in touch.

“When?” Malik asks.

“He rang me yesterday, late afternoon.”

Malik takes an apprehensive glance at his watch, wishing Ahl hadn’t called this instant, because he doesn’t have time to talk for long. Why didn’t he call right away or even late last night to let him know he had heard from Taxliil? But in their near falling-out a few days ago, Ahl accused him of caring more about his work than about anyone, so he treads with caution — let Qasiir wait, he thinks. Then he chides, as genially as he can, “You kept that secret to yourself, didn’t you?”

Ahl replies, “I didn’t keep it a secret intentionally. He called, saying that he would come along shortly, and then didn’t do so. I’ve been waiting to hear from him again since then. No idea if he has changed his mind or if something has happened to him between the time he rang and now. I didn’t sleep the entire night.”

“If he rang you on your mobile, then you must have his number,” Malik reasons. “Did you try it?”

“The readout on my phone said ‘number withheld,’” Ahl explains. “I pressed the redial button but it gave me a busy signal.”

“So what are you doing now?”

“Waiting,” says Ahl. “What other choice do I have?”

“Ring Fidno and No-Name, see if they have news of him. It sounds like they’ve played a hand in his release from Shabaab’s clutches,” Malik says.

“No answer from either; their lines busy as well.”

“I wish I could assist,” Malik says.

Ahl says, “I am sure you would if you could.”

“Can I call you later, then?” says Malik.

“I’ll call you myself if I hear anything.”

But just as Malik is ready to hang up, Ahl asks, “What would you do if you were in my place?” He sounds vulnerable, desperate not to end the conversation.

“I’d wait, just like you are doing.”

“What else would you do?”

Malik reflects that he wouldn’t do well as a Good Samaritan, or even as the manager of a help hotline. He has no idea how to take in hand a situation that has gone uncontrollably wrong. He hopes that his failure at rescuing Ahl from his despair won’t lead his brother to do something rash.

“What do Xalan and Warsame suggest?”

“That I wait until he contacts me,” Ahl says.

“Where are they now? Can I talk to them?”

“They are in their room, sleeping.”

Malik says, “Why don’t you do as they suggest, sleep off your exhaustion, with the phone by your side, so you can answer it immediately if he rings. Meanwhile, I will think of something and call you.”