Nuruddin Farah - Knots

At first, what Kiin is saying about who has said what to whom does not make sense, but she perseveres, listening. Cambara knows two of the names that occur in their conversation, and Raxma’s figures among them. Apparently, Arda, Cambara’s mother, rang Raxma, in some understandable panic, to request that she kindly find out from Kiin what Cambara’s story is and please to phone her back with the news as soon as possible. From what Kiin has gleaned, Zaak telephoned Arda to alert her to the fact that he has not set eyes on her, or spoken to anyone who has, or received a note or message from her daughter for a few days now, and that she may have been kidnapped or come to some harm, but he cannot be sure. The upshot of Zaak’s rant is this: things being what they are in Mogadiscio — what with people thought to be rich being taken hostage and their families in Europe and America made to pay a huge ransom — he wants no one to blame him if she is hurt.

“What have you told Raxma?” asks Cambara.

Smarting, Cambara is disturbed by Kiin’s long silence, which brings out her worst apprehensions, her sorrow obvious, her heart sinking, her anger, not at Zaak but at herself, rising, and her whole body trembling.

Kiin replies, “I haven’t told her anything.”

“Why not?” she asks.

Cambara’s fingers hold the fork as if menacingly in midair, like a fencer dueling with her internal demons, not with her challenger.

“Because I want you to talk to her yourself.”

Her gaze remote, Cambara looks away at the sky, her eyes settling on the clouds that have blocked the sun. No matter, her biliousness swirls upward and pours into the back of her throat. She tastes the brine of a memory gone sour.

“You can call both Raxma and your mother from here,” Kiin says. “It will be the right time to call when we are done with our lunch.”

The image of her mother pacing back and forth in the living room of her apartment, fulminating against the foolishness of both her charges, her bad leg catching up with her good one, her body wrapped in the Day-Glo of her rage, her eyes as full of stir as fireflies in the darkness of the moment. Revenge resulting from rage is on her mind, not the anodyne desire to make amends and to let peace prevail, and meanwhile for the lunch to continue as if nothing consequential has occurred. The truth is, however, a phone call is in order, but how can she explain everything that has taken place up to now? What aspects of the story so far must she suppress? And emphasize?

“It is naive of me to trust another man who has let me down,” Cambara says. “When will I learn? More to the point, will I ever learn?”

From what she says, it is clear that Kiin has already moved on and is ready to change the topic in order to give her counsel about the crisis. “In life,” Kiin says, “you gain some, you lose some.”

Rankled, with a raw rage crawling insectlike all over the invisible parts of her body, Cambara breaks out in spots of outrage. “I cannot think of any gains I’ve made, only losses.”

When Kiin’s dogged attempt at lightening Cambara’s mood and tempering it with a sense of moderate expectation doesn’t work, she decides to change her approach.

Kiin says, “Here is some other news.”

“How I could do with good tidings.”

“News about Jiijo, from Farxia, her doctor.”

“Tell me.”

“Jiijo has given birth to a baby boy.”

Cambara knows that Kiin has rendered much assistance without expecting any returns and that helping her has not been free of risks. Moreover, moving Jiijo from the family property in an ambulance and transporting her to a private clinic does not come cheap. She is indebted to Kiin, owes whatever successes she has made in this regard to Kiin’s ingenuity. Even though she will ask for it, Cambara doubts if the gynecologist will bother to submit Jiijo’s hospital bill to settle, which she is willing to pay. At worst, Kiin or her network of women friends will foot it. She must insist on meeting the expenses, because she is the one who stands to gain from the charitable intervention.

“How are they, mother and baby?”

“They’re doing super. Both are.”

“How long does Farxia plan to keep her at the clinic?” asks Cambara.

Kiin replies, “There are not a lot of options to consider. Jiijo will have to go hush-hush, preferably before the evening. The problem is where we must take her to, once discharged. We do not want her to go back to your house, having emptied her of it. Neither does Farxia want her to spend an hour longer at her clinic. Remember, Farxia removed her from your property without a paper trail. Now how can she explain it away? And how or from whom did she, Farxia, learn of Jiijo’s condition before deciding to send an ambulance to fetch her to the clinic? Dicey questions with no easy answers.”

“Does anyone know where Gudcur is?”

“We do not.”

“What does it mean that no one mentions having seen or talked to him and that no radio station refers to the fighting anymore?” Cambara asks, her expression worried.

“It can mean both nothing and everything.”

“A daunting prospect,” says Cambara.

“Some of the members of the network have been through situations a lot worse than this,” Kiin assures her. “Don’t worry. In the end, the network always wins.”

“What a lot of trouble I’ve been to you and to the other women in your network, to whom I am grateful, every one of them,” says Cambara. “I cannot help wishing I had consulted you before embarking on this.”

“We’re pleased to be of help, as fellow women.”

Cambara resumes eating. She sits awkwardly forward, her plate almost falling over. Kiin watches over her friend’s food, and although she is not saying anything, you can see that she is ready to step in and take charge. Cambara, meanwhile, is floundering about in the sudden impulse of finding the right words with which to express her worried delight, worried, because she thinks Jiijo is laden with the inconvenience and the tragic responsibility of rearing the son of a man she hates. Perhaps this is the lot of many a woman: raising the offspring of men whom they cannot stand and at times without whom they can barely exist. How can she help? How can anyone be of assistance to women like Jiijo, who are in such a terrible bind? Treated worse than chattels, beaten daily, and tortured too, yet as the mothers to the offspring of these monsters, their consanguinity is in no doubt; it is all there for everyone to see. Ideally, one must make sure that Jiijo and her baby are in a safe home, out of harm’s way and beyond Gudcur’s reach.

Cambara wonders aloud, her face blank. “Suppose we fly her out of the country, once she is discharged?” And no sooner has Cambara formulated the question in her mind and then spoken it than she realizes that she is being a twit.

Kiin has the kindness of heart and the indulgence to make as if the freshness of Cambara’s proposition is worth giving serious thought to before nipping off its new shoots.

“Put her on a plane, straight to Nairobi?”

“Maybe that won’t work,” Cambara submits.

Kiin does not give up the chase so easily. She says, “It would work if Jiijo were in a condition that warranted her being taken there — to save her life or her baby’s — but as it is, they are both well and thriving. And at the risk of being found out, we can shelve the idea, use it if the other plans that we’ve set into motion fail.”

“What are these plans?”

“We are discussing plans that rely wholly on the members of the network for success,” Kiin explains. “No one else will get to know or hear about the plans until executed. We’ve done similar jobs before for women in trouble. We’ve perfected our methods.”