Nuruddin Farah - Knots

Cambara asks whether — now that the city is no longer divided into North and South, with two warlords running it, but has half a dozen less powerful signori di guerra , each ruling over his dysfunctional fiefdom — people are apprehensive, locked in a sense of insecurity, the Islamists may end up gaining the superior hand. These could appeal to the Somalis’ sense of religious identity, in place of the clan one, which has proven unsatisfactory. The warlords are a spent force; the Islamists not yet.

As though on cue, young armed boys in fatigues, which have known better carers and cleaner wearers, emerge out of a building, and one of them raises his hand at their approach, stopping them. The grin that has been there for much of the trip — the grin of someone who knows something her interlocutor does not — descends toward her chin before disappearing completely. As the driver brakes with unprecedented abruptness, Cambara thinks ahead, imagining the vehicle collapsing, with the front and the back tires going their different ways and the rest of it landing on its belly and shuddering to a lifeless halt.

One of the boys goose-steps to the driver’s side, his jaws busy chewing qaat . His hand extended out farther than his bleary eyes can focus, his tongue heavy, as if it were foam soaked in water, and his words running into one another competitively, he asks, “What have you got for us?”

“We meet again,” says the driver.

A much taller youth who is standing behind the watery-eyed youth says, with sarcasm, “You were mean then. Now let me warn you that you and your passenger will pay dearly for it if you do not give generously this time.”

The driver’s eyes search in the depth of the rearview mirror for Cambara’s, and because the grin that has been there all along has vanished, he takes it that she is afraid. His hand, foraging until then in the glove compartment, emerges with a large roll of cash, which he turns over to the youth standing closest to him. When the youth uses the wad as a fan, indicating his dissatisfaction, the driver throws in two bundles of qaat . “Now you are talking,” the tallest of the youths, presumably their ringleader says, with a wave telling him to leave, which he does, as soon as he can.

Her elsewhere look is back, the driver notices with agreeable suddenness. She says, “If you work out, do not hesitate to add the armed youth’s levy to my bill, and I will pay it gladly.”

He recalls the days he served as head chauffeur driving visiting dignitaries on missions to the country, and he bows his head with deference, in thankful acknowledgment of her generosity. He says, “Yes, ma’am!”

A few hundred meters on, when they hear the distant hum of a huge generator, the driver informs her that they are less than half a kilometer away from their destination. For the first time since her arrival, Cambara is in awe of the enormity of her commitment: to come to Mogadiscio and help make the world that she finds a better place, in memory of her son, whose life has been cut short.

“Here we are,” he says. “Hotel Shamac, ma’am!”

They have barely come within view of the gate when an armed guard, in what she guesses to be the hotel uniform, comes out of a small lean-to recently assembled in haste from discarded zinc sheets when neither she nor the driver has prepared for it. The man is of medium height, has a wide face, prominent jaws, and a snub nose, his nostrils barely visible. SnubNose flags down the taxi, the tires of which screech to a halt, jerking her forward. Notwithstanding her edginess, Cambara affects total calm, even after another man appears on the scene. The second armed sentry has a long upper body and the tiny feet of a midget. TinyFeet orders the taxi driver to step out of the vehicle; he circles the vehicle several times, his finger on the trigger of his machine gun all the while and his attention focused on Cambara, maybe hoping that she will lower down her side of the window and show her face.

She sits back, with her face veil in place and eyes closed, as though trying to soothe herself into trusting that everything will be all right soon. Scarcely has she decided to explain to them that she intends to take a room in the hotel if there is a vacancy, when TinyFeet yanks the vehicle door open and instructs her to alight in order for her to be frisked.

A roaring row erupts between the taxi driver and SnubNose, when the driver shuts the door of the vehicle and encourages Cambara to stay put.

“Who are you to close the door when I’ve opened it?” TinyFeet challenges, furious and red-eyed. He pushes the driver away.

Cambara enjoins the driver, sotto voce, to desist from provoking the armed guards any further. The driver falls silent at her insistence, even though she can see that he is in a defiant mood, ready to rear up in further resistance and, if necessary, fight. Then, recalcitrant and fearless, he says to TinyFeet, “But can’t you see, it is inappropriate for you to subject a woman to a body search? It is not done. A woman should be doing that kind of job, not men. At least not you.” He adds, after a weighty pause, “Would you allow your wife or sister to be humiliated in this way by a man, whether armed or not?”

Now the altercation takes a more ominous twist, and SnubNose joins the shouting match, turning it into a threesome, two armed fools poised against her protector, who is unarmed — how unfair. Cambara listens, with a bilious discharge gathering in her gut, as she considers whether to step in. SnubNose speaks loudly and threateningly through his nose, but she cannot make sense of what he is saying, he is so enraged. Also, his accent is dyed-in-the-wool local, and his choice of words points to a speech pattern of a hard-edged sort and of a pastoral provenance that Cambara, who is city-born and has been away from the country, cannot follow.

TinyFeet involves himself and for her benefit interprets what his colleague has said. “Let us tell you something,” he says. “We will shoot first at the tires of your taxi and then at the passenger if you do not go into reverse and leave immediately or if the woman does not alight. Make your choice and be quick about it too.”

“Let us be sensible,” the driver pleads.

“Are you accusing us of being women molesters?”

“I am doing no such thing,” the driver insists.

“You are insulting us. I know what you are doing,” says TinyFeet.

Cambara’s pretense of composure is completely shattered; she cowers at the disturbing thought of her virtue being violated. But I’ll be damned if I will allow them to touch me, she says to herself. She replaces her hand among the inner folds of her body tent, and only after she takes a good grip of the knife does she feel comforted.

In his desire to placate the armed guards, the driver lowers his voice. Speaking almost in a whisper, he implores TinyFeet. “Please, this is a very respectable lady, in a veil,” he says. “I can vouch for her. She won’t be any trouble if you allow her to go in without you frisking her. As it is, she intends to check out the hotel, because she wants to take a room. So why do we not escort her in? A woman at the reception can do the body search, inside, if there is need. I’ll get back into the car and go in reverse and wait for her here. If not, then I suggest that you bring a woman out to where we are. Because it is not proper that you or any man touch her. She is a lady and must be treated as such.”

When the goings-on jar on her nerves some more, she resolves to bring it all to a head — and suddenly. She alights from the taxi, laboring as she does so. Now that she is out of the car, her veiled persona imposing, she stretches her arms, straightens her back, massaging it, and repeatedly stamps her booted feet on the ground in the manner of an elephant frightening away its attackers. Besides getting the dust off her footwear, she hopes she will be able to cast a spell on the armed guards. If only she could forge bewitchments that will make them do her bidding. She looks stately; they seem enchanted, fascinated, their undivided attention fully focused on the enigmatic figure of a woman, veiled, standing a little over six feet, her hands ensconced among the wrappings of her tent, doing with them what only the Lord knows. Maybe because they are not used to women performing, Cambara’s imperious presence unsettles them.