Nuruddin Farah - Knots

Dajaal asks, “Where to?”

He receives no response.

He says, “I’ve asked where you live.”

She looks away from Dajaal to Bile, who, to the trained eye of a woman who takes pleasure in interpreting facial expressions, looks battle weary. Not that she can explain why it bothers her, but she cannot work out Bile and Dajaal’s relationship: Dajaal takes the initiative, and Bile quietly and self-absorbedly sits in the back, hardly advancing an opinion. She notes that he is holding a book gingerly and using his index finger as a bookmark; he stares away impatiently as though he were eager to return to his interrupted reading. No matter how hard she tries, she is unable to make out the title of the book he has on his lap. Convinced that he is more interesting to get to know than Dajaal, Cambara wishes she could eavesdrop on his unspoken thoughts.

Restless, her drifting gaze meets Dajaal’s, and she smiles. Although she does not wish to admit it, the truth is that she does not know the names of the streets they are in. Nor does she know how to lead him to the family property. After all, walking to a place is different from getting there in a car, driven by someone else.

“Shall I guide you to where I want to be taken?”

“Kindly do,” says Dajaal.

He follows her instructions, making a conscious effort not to look at either her or Bile. He stares ahead of himself, turning left, veering right, and then going straight until they arrive at the shopping complex, where she requests that he stop, and he obliges. She gets out, thanking them both. She stands on the passenger side of the vehicle, close to where Bile is. He is writing phone numbers on a piece of paper, which he hands over to her without saying anything.

As she takes her first two steps away from the vehicle, she becomes mindful of the undeniable consciousness that her life in Mogadiscio and her destiny have both taken decisive turns. She hopes that her encounter with the two men, Bile above all, will prove to be propitious.

On her way to the family property with an escort, Cambara is delighted that the shopkeeper, to whom she returns the bag he loaned her, with thanks, has proven himself worthy of her confidence and admiration, because he has served her truly well. A pity she didn’t remember to ask him about his wife, of whom, insofar as she could tell, there was no sign. Cambara has come away from the shopping complex laden with a motley collection of edibles, some of which she bought from him or some with his help; he has a friendly way of sending one of his assistants to get for her whatever she desires. At times, they go to other shops and on occasion to the stalls where you get fresh produce. Her purchases being too heavy for her to carry all by herself, the shopkeeper’s nephew, a teenager, has volunteered to help her cart the stuff, the two of them walking level for much of the way, neither speaking. She wonders how she can dispense with his services just before she reaches her destination without arousing his suspicions or inconveniencing herself, considering the number of bags she has to haul all on her own. After all, she does not want him to know what she is up to, nor is she keen for him to meet Jiijo or any of the other objectionable characters. If luck is on her side, they will get to her target with no one near the gate to the property or its vicinity, or for that matter anywhere along the road. She thinks that she will stop two gates down or up the road from the property’s, depending, tip him generously, and then dispose of him, saying, “Thanks, you’ve been most wonderful. I can cope now.” When he has been gone for a couple of minutes, then, unescorted, she will knock on the gate.

As it happens, fortune has favored her yet again, she tells herself. As they near the house she informs him that they have come to her journey’s end, thank you.

“My uncle…” he says.

“I know…” she interjects and falls silent.

“What will I tell him if I leave you here?”

“That you’ve seen me to my gate.”

He hangs back, hesitating whether or not to obey her command and remains where he is as though waiting to hear a confirmation. He looks anxious, the way people with impaired hearing do when they are not sure if they have read someone’s lips correctly. She hopes he won’t continue hesitating to go. His body language indicates that he does not wish to leave her before she has gained a safe purchase on her point of call, possibly because the shopkeeper will expect him to report back. “Please be on your way,” she says to him, her hands making shooing-away gestures. Unburdened of the load, the teenager stands awkwardly, looking a bit unbalanced, his eyes crossed with anxiety.

The teenager gives in to the curiosity of knowing what her next step might be, and he walks backward, pausing only after tripping awkwardly. He recovers his equilibrium quickly, and, turning around, grins from ear to ear. Then he takes his time and looks amusedly at the mound of earth that has halted his progress, showering curses on it. She waves good-bye to him the instant she senses a surge of excitement rising within her. Even if the source of her exhilaration is a mystery to her, she cannot help appreciating how fortunate she has been so far to get to where she has and achieve what little she has carried out without anyone taking hostile exception to her actions. It is to her good that she continues dealing amicably with the shopkeeper and his nephew if for no other reason than the expediency of seeking their assistance when she has settled on the means and the time to launch her plan and make her move to dislodge the minor warlord and his minions from the family house.

After a minute or so, when she is sure that she has got rid of her escort, she looks about herself with caution. Seeing nothing worth her worries, she lugs the shopping bags across to where she wants them, close to the gate of the family property, needing to return two, three times. She puts the bags down, breathing heavily, and plucks the courage to knock on the gate, first gently, repeatedly, then firmly. She waits, her heart pounding in her ears.

As she hangs fire, she feels out of sorts and asks herself if someone might accuse her quite rightly of being duplicitous, in that she has either misinformed people or withheld adequate intelligence from Zaak and everyone else she has so far met. She exculpates herself by reasoning that her objective is not so much to deceive anyone as it is to make it possible for her to get her way. Her ultimate aim, in the end, is to reacquire the family property in the least dangerous manner. She reckons that the less other people know of what she is doing, at least in the early block-building stages, the better her prospects of success. Above all, she wants Jiijo to relax into trusting her and eventually into looking upon her with approval.

Cambara senses that she is a different person from the self who, a little more than an hour earlier, karate-kicked the youths, forcing them to submit to the dictates of her physical as well as her mental willpower. Her current mind-set is at variance with her sundry way of thinking and is also at odds with that of the self who was in the same area on a reconnoitering mission only a couple of days ago. She has no doubt that she has achieved a great deal of good since then, thanks to her cool, commendable conviction in her amicable approaches to Jiijo. She has become more positive about her own ability to cope with the civil war conditions than she believed maintainable.

Her purchases strewn around the entrance, she stands to the side. Her anxiety is now much less prone to apprehension, even if she is overwhelmed with a sense of déjà vu, bizarrely because she is sure that she has known an instant similar to this in her past life when, denied access to what has belonged to her by right, she picked up the gauntlet, fought, and won the battle. It is as if she were a mere witness and not the main actor; it is as though whatever is to unfold is none of her concern. Then her heart starts to beat hurriedly against her now aching ribs, her lungs run short of breath, and she wonders if she has lost herself in a plot that someone else has authored. The light in her eyes turns to darkness.