Giuseppe Catozzella - Don't Tell Me You're Afraid

If he hadn’t reacted to that, nothing would budge him. A pair of brand-new sneakers would normally have revived him.

It was all Ahmed’s fault.

I wanted to make Ahmed pay, even though he was good-looking enough to take my breath away. But it was my party. I was an athlete and I had won that day: Now I should just celebrate.

After two hours of dancing around and singing, I couldn’t wait to go to bed and tell Hodan about the sheet of newspaper that I had hidden under the mattress.

That afternoon, in fact, I had come home with a medal, but also with a challenge: One day I would win the Olympics and Hodan would become a famous singer, thanks in part to her husband’s family, and would compose our people’s hymn of liberation.

But unlike Mo Farah, we would both do it without leaving Somalia.

I would win wearing the blue jersey with the white star. And the same for her. We would show the way for the liberation of women and then lead our country out of war.

I was sure of it: In my heart I felt that together we had the power to change our world.

That night, in bed, I talked to her about these things.

Hodan held my hand tightly and said yes.

We would never leave Mogadishu. We would not flee. We would become the symbol of liberation. Before falling asleep I slipped the medal under the mattress and took out the page with Mo Farah’s face. I wet the four corners of the sheet with a little saliva and stuck it on the mud wall a few inches from my head.

Looking into his eyes, in silence, I made a promise to Mo Farah as well. I would become a champion like him. But he, every night, would have to remind me.

A FEW MONTHS LATER, a few weeks after her sixteenth birthday, Hodan got married.

The aroos , the wedding celebration, was unforgettable. It was held in a splendid, elegantly decorated hall that Hussein’s family had rented, as was traditional. There were hours and hours of food, talk, and dancing with half the people in our neighborhood, which was the same one in which Hussein lived.

Hodan was wearing a white dress that had been our mother’s, and she was stunning, radiant. I had never seen her so beautiful.

The previous night I hadn’t slept. Not even a wink. We held each other’s hands the whole time, and when she finally fell asleep, I kept thinking that this would be the last time we’d lie so close at night. In the morning when I woke up, my eyes were swollen from crying and rimmed with dark circles.

Still, the seven days of festivities were wonderful. I had never seen anything more spectacular in my life.

We girls and Hooyo were very vibrant in our qamar, diric, and garbasar in every color of the rainbow. Veils, veils, veils. And how light and fluttery and magical all those veils were! I’ve never liked covering up my hair and body but that day, for the first time, I felt pride in wearing traditional garments.

Not that morning, though, when I was embarrassed to leave the room with everyone waiting in the courtyard to see me as they never had before.

I didn’t want to come out. There were no mirrors in the room, but even without seeing myself, I felt uncomfortable.

I was sitting on the edge of the mattress, all dressed up, when Hooyo came in.

As soon as she saw me, her lips widened in a broad smile. “You’re beautiful, my daughter. Come on, stand up.”

“I feel ridiculous, Hooyo. I don’t want to be seen like this,” I said softly as I got up.

Without saying a word she went out and came back with a white veil and a large mirror that she had borrowed from a neighbor. She arranged the white veil around my shoulders and then, with a clip, gathered my hair into a twist at the back of my head. She used a pencil to outline my eyes and applied red lipstick to my mouth. I stood motionless the whole time, like a stone statue.

Hooyo took a few steps back and repeated: “You look beautiful, my daughter. If it weren’t your sister getting married, I would say that today you look more beautiful than the bride.”

Then she picked up the mirror that she’d leaned against the wall and told me to look at myself.

I was stunned by what I saw. In the glass there was no longer a little child but a young girl with even, delicate features, beautiful.

It was me, and I was beautiful. I would never have believed it.

As soon as I stepped shyly out the door, Hodan gave me a look of pure admiration. “You’re beautiful, my little abaayo ,” she said, moved, as Hooyo hastened to wipe away the tears that threatened to cause her makeup to run.

“It’s you who are beautiful, my dear young bride Hodan,” I replied, using words that are customary on a wedding day. “Don’t forget us.”

We celebrated feverishly for hours. Even Aabe danced with all of us daughters, supported by his buddy, the cane.

Then he and Hooyo danced in each other’s arms in a way that no one had ever seen; they looked like an engaged couple deeply in love. Hooyo was radiant in her white veils: In a single day she’d shed twenty years, as if she were our sister.

We carried on like that, singing and dancing, late into the night, to live niiko music played by the Shamsudiin Band. But the most moving part of the whole aroos was Hodan’s singing. As a surprise, she had written a song for each of the people she held dear. One for Hooyo, full of gentleness and gratitude; one for Aabe, full of hope and promise; one for Hussein, overflowing with pure love; and one for me, her little warrior sister. At the table we pulled out our handkerchiefs and cried like babies until she’d finished. It was a low blow, unfair; we’d make her pay.

Everyone, however, was awaiting the most entertaining moment of the wedding: testing Hussein. It’s a tradition that serves to show the bride’s family that the groom will be able to cope with any eventuality.

The most enthusiastic challenger was an uncle of Hussein’s, a very funny man, short and bald, with a long, thin mustache.

Poor Hussein had less than five minutes to obtain a basket of fresh fruit for the bride.

Outside the hall was a large field planted with watermelons. Hussein came back with a single huge watermelon. It weighed so much that his arms nearly gave out, his smile slipped, and his legs faltered.

Then he had to wring a chicken’s neck. We all went out into the garden to wait for Hussein to get up the courage to do something he’d never dared do before. His relatives explained that the hen was very old, and wringing its neck would only be doing it a favor. Hussein took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his starched shirt while the poor creature squawked and flapped around awkwardly. I kept my eyes closed the whole time, and the hen’s terrified screeches gave me goose bumps. I opened my eyes again only when I heard the final applause.

As a final test, Hussein had to prove that he was strong enough to carry Hodan to the table where Aabe and Hooyo were sitting; it was to the right of the bride and groom’s table, along an obstacle course that his cousins had set up while he was busy with the chicken. It was the last straw and Hodan, merciless, laughed and laughed.

Everything had been perfect; we were elated.

The closer we came to the end of the weeklong celebration of the aroos, however, the more I felt a pall of sadness come over me.

After tomorrow my beloved sister would no longer be with me; she would go to live in Hussein’s parents’ house. It would no longer be me she’d sing to sleep but Hussein. No longer would she hold my hand tightly; no longer would she lead me to the most wonderful dreams of hope and liberation.