Nuruddin Farah - Knots

Cambara counts herself lucky in many instances. Lucky that, to date, the world has been kind to her by offering her never-ending possibilities. Lucky that she has Raxma, who, short of acting like an older sister, has taken on a surfeit of tasks and helped out as her most trustworthy ally when the Zaak or Wardi affairs were difficult. Lucky that Arda, despite her occasional bloody-mindedness in the roughshod manner in which she deals with her daughter’s crisis-ridden liaisons, is one with her unceasing love and her untiring care as her mother. Indeed, if there was any time in her life when Cambara could very well benefit from the support of someone to advise her on matters highly personal, a friend to whose counsel she would pay heed, then today is the day.

Cambara was always impressed that Raxma’s approach to all the affairs of the heart was, to a large degree, informed by the pragmatic sense of a mother who has had to raise a set of twins when her irresponsible husband abandoned her for a younger woman. A good, patient listener with a long-term outlook, Raxma had a canny way of knowing when the right time to intervene had dawned and how to go about doing so, which words to use and what to suggest, seldom giving in to the schmaltzy side of an argument. Her every action was deliberate, calculated to improve on what was there before she came on the scene, her counsel tailored to be of advantage when or if similar situations arose in the future. Raxma, trained as a medical doctor in Odessa, was turned down by the Canadian Medical Association when she applied for a license to practice in Canada. Because she would have had to requalify, needing no less than three years to graduate, she and her husband agreed that she would give up her profession for the sake of their school-going set of twins, which she did reluctantly.

Her former husband, on the other hand, had marketable qualifications: an undergraduate degree in gynecology, in addition to a postdoctoral in a related subject from Germany. He became one of the few Somalis to whom the CMA granted a license, and he was in high demand, serving as a consultant to two hospitals. Well paid and highly sought after as he was, it was not long before world bodies with UN backing, including WHO, recruited him for assignments here and there, eventually posting him to the Indian subcontinent as its representative. By then, his professional success and her apparent lack of self-fulfillment became the third party in their lives, which he gradually opted out of. He started having affairs, first with the women working with him as assistants and then zeroing in on one of them as his mistress.

On discovering these shenanigans, she went about her business in a mature style, neither letting on that she knew about his infidelity nor displaying any signs of tension or unease in their day-to-day intercourse. She put the two boys in a boarding school and then, thanks to a lawyer, put the screws to her wayward husband, making him agree to a large one-time alimony payment and, in the bargain, taking possession of their five-bedroom family house. Then, with the money in the bank, topped off with a guaranteed loan, she set up an import-export business with an office she ran from home and, when necessary, traveled back and forth between the various cities she had to get to, mostly in the Arabian Gulf. Rarely, however, did she spend more than two consecutive weekends away from Toronto, making certain she was available for her two sons, especially when they were younger. She brought her elderly mother and a younger half sister, almost Cambara’s age, to fill in for her in the event she did not get back in time. Now that both boys were at universities — one at Guelph, the other at McGill — the responsibility of looking after their mother and running the house fell to her younger sister. In addition to her important role in their household, Raxma remains the main bedrock to a community of Somali women, among whom Cambara was proud to be one.

The two women first met barely a month after Cambara had set up a makeup studio with seed money from her mother, following two years of apprenticeship at another one similar in conception but different in its clientele. Cambara intended hers to appeal to the up-and-coming young black professional classes, in particular the women, who, as a group, were conscious about their appearance and wanted to “improve” the flow, ebb, and texture of their hair. Many of these women, being of an independent cast of mind, were more likely to be single, even if they were of the view that the reconstructed men with whom they might be prepared to set up a life and a home were seldom easy to come across. Because of the particularity of their status, the women spent a lot of money to look good.

The paint on the inside walls was still fresh, the patrons rare, the business lean, when one afternoon Raxma walked in, not so much to pay for the services of a makeup artist as talk. How she talked, as if at the touch of a button, about the plans she had the moment Cambara had seated her at a chair and, wrapping a white cloth around her front, asked, “And what have we got here?” For one thing, Cambara did not expect Raxma to answer the question, which to her was another way of saying “What can I do for you?” or “How would you like me to be of service to you?” For another, she was equally intrigued, once the flood of words suffused with charged emotion sluiced out of the new client, when, by way of introduction, she presented herself as “Raxma” and mentioned a friend of hers and Cambara’s, a name that rang no bell in the memory of her listener. Prompted by Cambara, Raxma talked not as if she were sad or enraged, not at all; she spoke as if she were talking into a Dictaphone from which someone else would transcribe her chatter into decipherable text. Even so, she did not pass up the opportunity and therefore spoke quite openly to Cambara about her agitated state of mind, as if they were old friends. Raxma explained that she had just discovered that her husband of many years had been cheating on her with one of his assistants at the hospital where he worked as a consultant. The expression on Raxma’s face, as she talked, seemed snarled up into a sudden tangle of indefinable emotions. Moreover, her wild gestures, now that Cambara had meanwhile removed the cloth from around her and freed Raxma’s hands to gesticulate liberally, alerted Cambara to a deep hurt. This set Cambara’s mind to do what she could to hearten Raxma, at least gladden her day.

Remaining inside but not drawing the curtains, Cambara put up the “Closed” sign and waved away a couple of potential customers. Face to face with Raxma, she listened some more as her newfound friend elaborated on the agonized articulation of her suffering. Half an hour later, they left the studio and together — with Raxma still talking and Cambara attentively listening — went to a café where Cambara was a regular; sat in a corner, away from all the others; asked for tea, coffee, and cream; and chatted. They remained there until the lights came on, had a light dinner, and then drove in their respective cars to Cambara’s apartment, where they had more drinks.

Raxma rang her two boys, addressing them by their pet names, into which she put as much affection as she could into each of the syllables they comprised. It was clear that the two boys were the world to her and that she would not do anything to harm them, including denying them the filial right to live together with both parents. Before ringing off, she suggested, since she was coming home late, that they order a pizza and pay for it from the cash kitty. They were very happy to do that. Of course, she knew they would watch TV all night, if they could, and not, as they promised, do their homework. When she returned from speaking to her two boys on the phone, Raxma was saying “Good riddance to bad rubbish” in the improvisatory manner of an actor rehearsing a part for the first time.