Nuruddin Farah - Knots

In those days, Cambara’s favorite read was an Italian girlie fotoromanzo monthly called Intimità. With her and her schoolmates, the affaires de coeur took precedence over everything else. Her friends, giggly, many of them spoiled brats because they belonged to the bourgeois classes, would not want to pay him a moment’s attention. When on two separate occasions Cambara tried to egg on two of them to dance with him at her birthday party, one of the girls refused, describing Zaak as “the pits.” Cambara pretended not to know what her friend was talking about, when that was certainly not the case, and then rose to his defense, saying, “He is just insecure, the poor fellow, but he is nice, once you get to know him.” Some of her friends started to tease her, one of them predicting that whoever took a fancy to Zaak was sure to be led to “Endsville.” No doubt she has ended up doing just that.

Now Zaak asks, “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, I did, considering,” she replies.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“I have a long day ahead,” she says.

“What are your plans?”

Just as she readies to answer him, if evasively, she starts at a sudden noise, which disorients her. She looks in the direction of the kitchen and then up at the roof, hoping to identify the source of the scurrying sound, but she cannot decide if it is that of rats or other rodents, and if this is coming from somewhere up in the ceiling or from the scullery. Finally, she is drawn to an identifiable ruckus: a diesel truck arriving outside, its doors opening and closing, a number of youths alighting, and then the hubbub of human voices approaching.

“That’ll be my lift,” Zaak explains. He pauses and then adds self-importantly, “The truck comes with its armed escort, six youths and the head of the security unit, formerly a major in the disbanded national army.”

He makes as if to get up, taking a good while before he manages to rise to his feet. When finally he does so and moves, it is as if he has metal in his knees, his every step a stumble of sorts; he appears incapable of coordinating his movements. He pauses, straightening his back, and rubs his spine, then his fogged eyes.

He says, “I am late for work, as it is.”

“Can your driver give me a lift?” she asks.

“Where to?”

“To our family house,” she says.

He shakes his head in disbelief. He affects a smile before looking away, and pretends to be concerned.

“Are you mad?” he asks.

“I won’t go into the property,” she vows.

“What do you mean, you won’t go into it?”

“In fact, not only will I desist from going into the property, but I will also make sure not to show myself to the minor warlord occupying it,” she says.

“Exactly what do you intend to do?”

“I just want to see the family property.”

“In which you’ve never lived.”

“Because it was rented out to foreign diplomats.”

“A property you haven’t set eyes on for decades.”

“I would like to see it up close,” she says, “and get to know where it is in terms of where we are, your place.”

“You could do with a bit of help, couldn’t you?”

“To be honest I could.”

“Tell me more.”

“What is there to tell you?”

He asks, “You don’t expect the family occupying the house to present you with the keys and apologize as soon as you meet them, do you?”

“Are you taking me for a fool?”

“You’ll be acting like one if you do not take into account the fact that you are courting danger,” he warns her. “It will not be a walk in the park to gain access to the property, still less to dislodge him.” He pauses, grins ostentatiously, and then adds, “He won’t give it up without a fight.”

“I know it won’t be an easy task.”

“I’ve heard of several property owners who’ve come to grievous harm when they’ve tried to recover it,” he says exultantly.

Her smile reluctant, Cambara sets about changing the subject. So she takes a step away from Zaak and in the direction of the door, making as if she will open it to let in a youth who is hanging hesitantly about as he considers whether or not to knock.

“Where else would you go if you had transport?”

“To one of the big hotels.”

“You are not thinking of moving?” Zaak asks.

“I am not,” she replies. “Not yet.”

“Why one of the big hotels, then?”

Cambara looks at him in apprehensive silence, uncertain whether there is any advantage to gain from deliberately misinforming him as opposed to neglecting to tell him everything. She says, “I am looking for a friend of a friend who works in one of the hotels as a deputy manager.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“She is a friend of a friend,” she says with finality. Then she is determinedly quiet, content with the vague intelligence she has so far given him.

A gentle early-morning breeze is blowing, the air moist with the saltiness of the sea. With patience, a part of Cambara is waiting for Zaak to run off at the mouth about the dangers of the city and about fatal muggings, and to dwell, for a few sadistic moments, on the large number of women who are raped, men maimed, horror statistics that are meant to keep the likes of her indoors. The other part of her waits for his snide remarks about her naiveté and how she is living in fantasyland. She is resolved not to allow him to put fear into her or to remain his guest and dependent on him. Even so, she will pay attention to the hidden meanings of what he might say and interpret his words in the light of what information other people might volunteer, then collate and compare these in the hope of negotiating a safe course between the perils.

“I’m thinking perhaps I should come too,” he says.

She would rather they not go together when she tries to insinuate her way furtively into the family property. She would rather he did not know anything about her plans or how she intends to charm her way, lie if need be, to gain access. He is bound to disapprove of her method and very likely will sabotage her effort.

“I’d prefer if you lent me your driver and car.”

“Things are more complicated than you realize.”

“What’s so complicated about that?”

Waiting for him to explain, Cambara is under the impression that Zaak’s faraway look is that of someone racing to catch up with an idea running ahead of him but in the wrong direction.

He says, “We need to make detailed preparations.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll need an armed escort.”

“Why?”

Seeing him gloating smugly, she feels immediately shamefaced as she recalls from the few bits of information she has garnered about how Mogadiscio functions that, as a deterrent, it has become compulsory for owners of cars and trucks plying the roads to hire the services of armed escorts not necessarily to ensure the safety of the passengers but of the vehicle, because of the frequent carjackings that take place. She reminds herself that in a civil war setting, she must attach herself, perforce, to a broader constituency from which she may seek succor in the event of life-threatening complications. It is more than obvious that as a woman, alone, she stands no chance of surviving any of the possible civil war — related ordeals unless and until she appends herself to a group, armed and therefore clan-based, or civic in origin and therefore ideological. Hence the need to locate Kiin, an active member of the Women’s Network.

“I’ll organize the armed escort and the truck.”

“I wouldn’t dream of being a nuisance.”

“It’ll be a pleasure, not an inconvenience.”

“Please. You have important work to occupy you.”