Nuruddin Farah - Knots

She feels reassured when, her hand in the pocket of her caftan, she finds the Swiss knife and key, which she plans to use to let herself and the men with her in if Zaak is not there. She will empty her rooms of all her belongings. She may not bother to leave a note for him. But what if he has changed the locks on the gate, the front door, or those to her rooms? Cambara doubts that he will have gotten round to doing that, knowing how lethargic his qaat -chewing, go-slow temperament is, forever insouciantly unmotivated.

She feels disheartened as the truck hurtles northward, the light of the day weakening, the heat of the sun diminishing, the head of security chatting away with the driver, and the armed youths on the roof becoming rowdier. The door in her mind opens, letting in a streak of anger: and she remembers her fight with Wardi. She thinks that there are two kinds of anger: the kind that will endure, outliving one, a rage that presses in on her brain, choking her — the way she would describe her anger at Wardi. The other type of anger — the one that she feels now that she is on her way to Zaak’s place — is deep and likely to be short-lived. It is not a murderous rage but a mere disappointment. She thinks that while she has to allow the two angers to run along side by side for part of the way, she must make sure that they do not ever run into each other and are not mistaken for each other. If need be, they can be made to complement one another on occasion, but at no point should she permit these rages to mix seamlessly into a cocktail, for that would be much too explosive, and she could end up a victim of her own making.

As is to be expected, she will run out of luck one day, but she has no idea when. In the event, she can only pray that it will be without detriment to Kiin or any other person who has given her a hand in achieving her aims. Not that she minds facing the consequences of her actions herself, but she would feel terrible if something were to happen to any of her well-wishers. But why does she reckon that her fortune will desert her, especially now that everything is starting to fall into place and some of her plans are bearing fruit? Does she imagine that calling on Zaak will not only earn her his displeasure but will also chase away the luck that is smiling on her? It is as if visiting Zaak will start her on an ill-starred legion of contagions that will set her back immeasurably and lead eventually to disaster.

Cambara pulls herself out of the trance, because the truck has slowed down to a near halt and the head of security is turning to ask her in a voice that is a little uncertain if they should follow the second or the third fork in the road to their right. It is no easy matter for Cambara to tell him what to do, at first appearing as if she has no inkling where she might be or who the man talking to her is. Then she gathers her wits, looks out of the window, and recognizes where they are. Then, in two shakes, she takes over and tells the driver where to go. The truck moves, and she sits up, her hand going to her hair, smoothing it.

She wishes she could take a quick look in the rearview mirror, given that she did not bring one herself. No woman, after all, wants her former companion to see her not looking her best. She curses her gutlessness, and tells herself, “That’s enough!”

Zaak comes to the gate in a state of semiundress to answer it, the klaxon that the driver has sounded a touch too often having, in all probability, driven him to the edge. He is barefoot, his jaws active, his lips traced with the green spit of someone chewing mouthful after mouthful of qaat for the best part of a day. Unseeing, he moves about on tiptoe. He is in a pair of threadbare pants, donned in haste and crookedly and which, in consequence, cannot accommodate his paunch’s overspill. As he comes into view, she envies the unembarrassed ugliness of him, she, who earlier kept smoothing her hair with her hands, because she didn’t want to see a single hair out of place. She takes a moment to study the expressions of everyone else: shocked, some snickering, others exchanging looks. When he gets his bead on the armed youths alighting from the roof of the truck, he panics, ceasing all movement and striking an awkward pose in the attitude of a frightened man who does not know whether to raise his hands in surrender or fall on his knees and beg for mercy.

“Zaak, it is me, Cambara,” she shouts repeatedly above the din that has risen, like dust, between the two of them.

When he recognizes her at last, he looks first at the armed youths, the driver, and the head of security; studies their faces, scrutinizing their bodily gestures for signs of danger; and, finding nothing to worry him, turns on Cambara and fixes her with a stare imbued not so much with anger as with sarcasm. From the way he is swaying to the sides, she is unsure if he is drunk. His heavy tongue, his muck green complexion, his speech pattern, and the elongation of his vowels confirm that he is inebriated.

He says, “I am tickled to see you arrive here in the unenviable company of armed witnesses. Why have you found it necessary to do so? You could have come on your own. Or are you a hostage and expecting me to pay a ransom for your release, in which case I haven’t the cash.”

She makes light of his remarks — the words of a drunk — and pretends that his verbal rebuff does not hurt her. Smiling, she braves out of the car, takes a decisive step toward him, and stretches her hand to him as a token of their amity. But he snubs her offer to shake hands and stands apart with his arm akimbo. He is now all there, solidly unafraid, his feet firmly where he wants them.

“I’ve come to retrieve my stuff,” she says, almost choking on her anger.

“Have I ever stopped you from taking away your stuff? Why have you needed to come in a borrowed truck with an armed escort?”

“A friend has lent me the truck.”

“Why have you needed to come armed?” he asks.

“What’s the point? You don’t understand.”

“I know a pea-brained idea when I hear one,” he says and blocks her way with his bulkiness, unspeaking and sizing her up as one dueler might appraise another.

Remembering her fight with Wardi, where the story of her coming has it origins, she says, “You put a finger anywhere on my body and you will regret it.”

Then she turns to the head of security and tells him that he and three other unarmed youths should follow her; she will go ahead. Meanwhile, the driver is to park the vehicle in the shade of the tree and the armed youths are to stay with him, guarding the truck.

She walks too close to Zack for comfort, and as she prepares to go past him into the house, with the security man and the youths trailing her, she halts, because she hears his labored breathing and cannot help assuming that his is a faltering heart and that he may be on his way out. Perhaps he is not worth her rage, nor the energy she is expending on him.

Amid the confusion resulting from her inability to decide whether to defy him and go in or to talk to him and make amends there is the noise of another truck bearing down on the gate, followed by the sound of tires on the gravel driveway scattering pebbles and raising a storm of sand. The first to recognize Cambara, SilkHair alights from the second truck and is down on the ground, running in her direction and calling her “Auntie, Auntie,” auntie being a form of deference the young bestow on an older woman. Then all the youths in Zaak’s employ take turns, forming a line to pay their admiring respect to her. The last to shake her hand is the driver, and he says to her, “We’ve missed you. I hope you are well wherever you are.”

Then everyone, save Zaak, lends a hand to load the truck with her stuff. With the world around him active and in continuous motion, he does what he knows best: he caters to a huge huff and is clearly subdued, his arms around his paunch, his eyes following the comings and the goings of those hauling suitcases or helping to make sure there is space for everything. The youths that serve as armed security on his truck lean their guns against the tree, close to where Zaak’s truck is parked, whereas the ones who have come with Cambara pile their weapons up front in the cabin of the truck. Meanwhile, the two lots of youths celebrate their camaraderie by swapping humorous repartee. For her part, Cambara is circumspect in her exchanges with all of them, surreptitiously mindful that an inconsequential put-down from one youth to another can spark off a firefight.