Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

“Maybe that’s what I’ll do,” Ahl says. “Sleep.”

“Talk to you later, then.”

Malik, sighing, has barely put down his phone on the worktable when it rings. Qasiir is on the line. “Uncle Liibaan and I are down at the parking lot, wondering if you are ready for us to join you.”

Malik pauses, momentarily confused, then remembers that Liibaan is a former army colleague of Dajaal’s, hence the term uncle . “Please come up,” he says, and he unlocks the plate over the apartment door to welcome them.

Qasiir is the first to walk in, and he and Malik exchange a hurried greeting. Then both make room for a large man with a round belly, which he pushes ahead of himself, his feet in rubber flip-flops too small to bear his weight, the hair on his chin as sparse as the beard of a sixteen-year-old boy, and with eyes that squint into narrow slits as he concentrates.

As Malik goes off, saying, “I’ll make tea,” Qasiir assumes the role of a host and leads Liibaan into the living room, where they sit. Once the water is boiling, Malik joins them. He observes that Liibaan is comfortable enough to take off his flip-flops, and that the man’s toenails are perilous as weapons — long, with jagged ends.

“I am glad to meet you, Liibaan.”

Liibaan is silent, then he says, “Dajaal’s murder saddens me so. He was very dear to me — like a brother. He was my senior in age as well as in rank. A serious, honest man, and those of us who knew him admired him; we all adored him. May God bless his soul!”

Malik contributes to the chorus of “Amen!”

Then the kettle wails, and Malik gets up, relieved to have gotten that part of the conversation out of the way. He asks his guest how he likes his tea.

“Four sugars and lots of milk,” Liibaan says.

Malik says to Qasiir, “Come into the kitchen with me for a moment, please. I would like you to do something for me.”

Malik sets out cups, saucers, biscuits, and a few other nibbles. Then he puts two tea bags in the teapot and pours in the water. Qasiir watches and waits in silence, noticing that Malik has set places for only two.

“I would like to conduct the interview alone,” Malik says.

Qasiir says, “But of course.”

Malik goes into the workroom, leaving Qasiir in the kitchen, and returns with his recording gadgets. “Give us an hour and a half.”

“Okay,” Qasiir says. “I’ll see you in an hour and a half, unless I hear from you before then.” He goes to take leave of Uncle Liibaan.

Liibaan, obliging Malik, gives a brief biography of himself. He says, “I was born in Jalalaqsi and brought up in Belet-Weyne, Hiiran, but schooled in Mogadiscio until my second-year secondary, when I was recruited into the National Army as a noncommissioned officer. A year later, I went to Odessa, where I trained, specializing in the tank division and taking a diploma. I returned as a second lieutenant, and soon after was sent to fight in the Ogaden War — Dajaal was my commanding officer. I served in the army until the collapse of the state structures and, having no other choice, went into the import and export business with former army colleagues, some of whom made off with money stashed away when they looted the Central Bank of Somalia. Now I run a fleet of buses on behalf of a company with large holdings, and organize the security. That is how I make my living, in the field of security.”

Malik asks, “What does organizing security for a fleet of buses entail?”

“I have three dozen youths in my employ,” Liibaan says, “and I put them on the buses, three to four each, as armed escorts.”

“Do you go on the buses yourself sometimes?”

He replies, “Lately, I’ve been based in a village on the border crossing between Kenya and Somalia. It made business sense to move as soon as the men from the Courts fled. You see, I figured out that a large number of people, many of them foreigners — and these included Somalis with other nationalities — would be fleeing in the direction of the Kenyan border, aware that Somalia’s border with Ethiopia was closed, thanks to the invasion.”

“I presume you know how things are done at the border crossing,” Malik says, “since you go back and forth yourself. I presume, as a businessman, you know some of the Kenyan immigration officers, do you?”

“I do.”

“What are they like? How do they treat you?”

A knowing spark enters his eyes, as Liibaan answers, “They are easy to get along with if you are ready to part with a pocketful of cash. Then you are an instant success, their best friend, and you can come and go, no questions asked.”

“Is it true that they are prone to extracting money from every Somali who presents himself at a border post, whether the Somali has the right documents or not?” Malik asks.

“The salaries of the Kenyan immigration officers are low, and you can understand their greed, if not forgive it,” Liibaan says. “Besides, the Kenyans know that Somalis are by nature impatient, and do not mind paying what it takes to make their immigration problems disappear.”

Malik asks Liibaan to guide him through what occurs.

“The Kenyans instruct all travelers wishing to enter Kenya to form four groups: travelers with Somali passports are told to return for the process another day; they will be told when. It was suggested that they remain on the Somali side of the border. Somalis with Kenyan nationality are to form their own line: they are dealt with right away. Somalis with foreign passports wait in their own line, as do all non-Somalis.”

“Tell me about the Somalis with foreign passports,” Malik says. “How are they processed?”

“These are made to fill out entry forms in triplicate,” Liibaan says. “They hand these in with their passports, and they stand in line for a very long time in the sun, waiting first for their papers to be processed and then to be interviewed and have their fingerprints taken. With that exercise ended, they are taken to yet another cubicle to answer the same questions from three different officers, a Kenyan in uniform, and — according to one of the men who was refused entry, judging by their accents — an American and a Brit.”

“Any idea what questions are asked?”

“From what this man told me, each officer asks a question relevant to his vantage point, and the same questions are repeated, formulated differently. Mostly about terrorism, the men from the Courts, foreign jihadis in the country, questions about funding and where it derives from — plus of course personal questions specifically geared for each traveler.”

“Why was that man sent back?”

Liibaan replies, “His Dutch passport had expired six months earlier, and he couldn’t remember the name of the apartment block in Amsterdam where he claimed to have lived before coming to Somalia.”

“Any other unusual incidents you can recall?”

“I recall a man called Robleh talking himself into trouble earlier in the day from what a number of travelers informed me,” Liibaan says. “I heard the initial part of his troubles from a reliable source, one of the drivers of the bus; and the second segment describing his troubles from the Dutch passport — carrying Somali turned back from Kenya.”

“Do you know his other names?”

“His full name is Hassan Ali Robleh or maybe Hussein; I don’t know and couldn’t care less. And according to Dajaal, whom he made anxious, he upset Cambara and Bile. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

“What did he do to get himself into trouble?”

“On the way to the Kenya-Somalia border crossing, he spoke in defense of the Courts’ action and described everyone who disagreed with him as traitors to Islam.”