Nuruddin Farah - Links

As they walked back to Bile’s apartment, Jeebleh trembled like a candle caught in a storm. He had reached at least three certainties: Af-Laawe was more involved in these nefarious activities than he had let on. And if the two of them met, and the girls were released unharmed, Jeebleh would put his own plan into motion, with help from Dajaal. And at possible risk to his own life, he would not divulge the proposed encounter with Af-Laawe to anyone, not even Bile or Seamus. Maybe to Dajaal, but he would have to think about that. As he walked, he sometimes felt he was about to collapse at the knees, or his legs were about to take a tumble; he would then straighten his back, steady his body, and stride forward. Bile would extend a helping hand, asking if he could do something for his friend. Shanta’s accusation — that he had secretly been talking to Faahiye — resounded regrettably in Jeebleh’s ears. He wished that he had spoken of the rendezvous that Af-Laawe wanted, shared it with Bile there and then, as soon as he had hung up. Now Jeebleh would have to keep the appointment secret, and honor it, at great cost to his own standing if he was discovered. He was damned either way, whether he spoke of it or not.

When Seamus let them into the apartment, he noticed Jeebleh’s pallor. “Oh dear, dear, you’re a wreck, aren’t you?”

And even though he wouldn’t hear of either friend’s helping him to his room, Jeebleh accepted a bowl of broth and a cup of hot chocolate, in bed, when they were offered.

JEEBLEH WOKE UP FEELING ASHAMED AT HIS INABILITY TO MENTION HIS appointment with Af-Laawe to Bile or Seamus. He got in touch with Dajaal, however, calling him on his mobile to inform him that he had arranged to meet Af-Laawe and go to the cemetery.

Bile had now gone to work, and Jeebleh needed someone to talk to. He woke Seamus, and over a breakfast of Spanish omelette with him, Jeebleh was physically unsteady. He felt as though he had been emptied of life itself, like an egg out of which a weasel has sucked everything.

Seamus had sensed Jeebleh’s unease from where he sat across the table. “If I were you,” he said, “I would be careful before committing myself to an action that might complicate matters for all concerned.”

“I look nervous, do I?”

“You look like a teenager right before his first date,” Seamus said. “Anyway, whatever you’re up to, please don’t embark on a job if you aren’t prepared to follow it through. Besides, you must steel yourself for an unexpected challenge if you’re up against a no-goodnik of the local variety. I’ll offer any assistance you require.”

Jeebleh thanked him and pushed away the omelette, which was cold as a morgue. His innards stirred with the adrenaline of a daddy longlegs crawling out of a ditch a meter deep. Saying no more, he went to keep his appointment with Af-Laawe.

FOLLOWING INSTRUCTIONS, JEEBLEH TURNED LEFT WHEN HE WAS OUT OF THE building, then right and right again, looking this way and that to see whether he was being tailed. He waited at the designated corner where he was to be picked up. He was like a child playing at being an adult. He did not like what he had been reduced to, a marked victim. After all, Af-Laawe and his cohorts could do away with him if they so chose.

He had just decided to cancel the appointment, and was pulling out the mobile phone to call it off, when he heard and then saw a black stretch limousine approaching. He had been listening for the bumpy clamor of Af-Laawe’s jalopy; this was totally unexpected. Or was it? Had he not been told about a fancy car seen in the neighborhood of The Refuge on the day the girls went missing? His ears beat with the rhythm of a funeral drum.

For a moment he thought he was mistaken, because the black Mercedes cruised past him, raising a storm of dust. But then it turned and came toward him again, as fast as a getaway car leaving the scene of a crime. The driver cut the speed, until the car was as slow as a hearse, and came to a halt. The back window opened, and there was Af-Laawe, sitting showily in the row of seats by himself. All smiles, his index finger bent and beckoning. “Get in!” he said.

Jeebleh took his time, and had a glimpse of two toughs, one at the wheel, the other in the second row of seats.

Af-Laawe cried, “Hold tight!” and the car was off in a rattle of gravel.

Not wanting to show that he was frightened, Jeebleh held tight, as he had been instructed. Af-Laawe was visibly agitated, and Jeebleh wished he knew what had excited him so. He prayed to God they wouldn’t have an accident: the hospitals were barely functioning, and what if he needed a transfusion? Was the blood supply safe? If Shanta’s so-called cartel was truly in operation, his heart and kidneys might end up somewhere in the Middle East! And this pimpmobile was a clear sign, if he needed one, that Af-Laawe was not to be trusted. Disjointed words fell pell-mell from Af-Laawe’s mouth.

“Where are you taking me?” Jeebleh asked.

“To your mother’s housekeeper!”

AND BEFORE JEEBLEH KNEW IT, THEY WERE THERE, AND A WOMAN WHOM Af-Laawe introduced as the housekeeper was hugging him and kissing his cheeks, then his right shoulder, then his hands one at a time. Jeebleh was overwhelmed with emotion, although he and the woman had never met. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember the name by which he had known her. He was of two minds whether she was genuine or fake, for he couldn’t be certain whether the name by which she was now introduced matched the one he had sent monthly xawaala remittances to.

To the best of his memory, he had had no hand in hiring her, and he couldn’t recall who had. He remembered agreeing to transfer the funds through an agency based in New Jersey to an account in the woman’s name at a Mogadiscio bank. He had received a letter from his mother, written with the help of a scribe, informing him of the woman’s employment. In addition, he had been given a neighbor’s telephone number for her. His mother would not countenance a telephone in the house, for in those days, phones were a nuisance: if you were one of the few subscribers in a neighborhood, your phone would quickly become community property. He felt guilty that he hadn’t been there for his mother, yet he had done what he could, and he tried to have her join him in America. But there was a problem, something to do with her not having a passport; the authorities — read Caloosha — would not issue her one.

Jeebleh and the woman now sat on a threadbare couch on the porch of a small house with a very low ceiling. Af-Laawe stood apart, his back to them, intently watching the road while he eavesdropped on their every word. The two muscles standing guard at the door made a dramatic impression on the woman. Whereas Jeebleh spoke to the woman in a low voice, she made a point of talking to him loudly, so everyone could hear. Although he assured her that he wasn’t hard of hearing, she continued to talk as if to a deaf person.

This was no routine encounter for Jeebleh: he was meeting someone who claimed to have looked after his mother’s daily physical needs, nursing her through advanced age until her death. If she was genuine, he might have looked upon her as a mother to his mother. But he sensed that he was being duped, so he was not in awe of her or of what she might tell him. He had an unpleasant question about letters that had been returned to him unopened. He meant to ask why they had been sent back, not about the monthly remittances. But a drought raised its parched head inside him, and he could come up only with an innocuous question: “What were my mother’s last words?”

“She was happy to go, when her time was up.”

“What else do you remember?”

“I remember the shine on your mother’s cheeks.”