Nuruddin Farah - Maps

“I cannot,” she said. “I am his — in body and spirit too. And no one else’s. I can be yours or somebody else’s only in sin. Yes, only in sin. Imagine — you, a man of God at that!”

And she burst into tears.

And Aw-Adan stirred.

And you woke up and cried.

IV

To make the picture more complete, one must talk about your paternal uncle, namely Uncle Qorrax. The truth is, he too had designs on Misra and you suspected he had his way with her many times. It was no secret that you didn’t like Uncle Qorrax or his numerous wives: numerous because he divorced and married such a number of them that you lost count of how many there were at any given time, and at times you weren’t sure to whom he was married — until one day a woman you nicknamed “Shahrawello” arrived on the scene and she stayed (as Sheherezade of the Thousand and One Nights did). But neither did you like his children.

He was a ruthless man, your uncle was, and you were understandably frightened of him. You often remember him beating one of his wives or one of his children. Naturally, you didn’t take his apparent little kindnesses nor did you accept the gentle hand he invariably extended to you. You shunned any bodily contact with him. It was said you cried a great deal if he so much as touched you, although he never gave you a beating and could hardly have justified himself in scolding you. You were an orphan and you had a “stare” with which to protect yourself. He didn’t want the “stare” focused on him, his wives or his children.

When you were a little older and in Mogadiscio, living in the more enlightened world of Uncle Hilaal and Salaado, you began to reason thus: you didn’t like Uncle Qorrax’s children because they behaved as children always do, no more, no less; they insisted on owning toys if they were boys, or on making dolls and dressing them if they were girls. His sons enjoyed being rough with one another, they took sadistic pleasure in annoying or hurting one another, whereas his daughters busied themselves nursing or breast-feeding dolls or clothing bones, not as though they were women caring for infants with broken hearts but as though they were little girls. In retrospect, you would admit there was a part of you which admired these girls when they jumped ropes, challenged the boys, or took part in daredevil games — not when they chanted childish rhymes which small girls always did at any rate. And you admired the boys, from a distance anyway when they dislodged fatal shots from catapults, cutting short the life of a gecko climbing up a wall or a lizard basking in the sun. It was the life-giving and life-taking aspects of their activities which interested you.

You once said to Misra that if there was anything you shared with adults, it was the visceral dislike of children’s babble or the infantile rattle of their mechanical contrivances and the noise of their demands, “I want this”, “I want that”. You concluded your remarks to the surprise of those listening to you (there was a woman neighbour, married to an invalid, a man who lay on his back all the time, suffering from some spinal complaint you had no name for), by saying, “When will children stop wanting, when will they be , when will they do a job, as Karin’s husband says, when will they accomplish something — not as children but as beings?”

She commented, “But you are an adult.”

Karin agreed, “He is. Surely.”

What you didn’t say, although it crossed your mind, was that you were an adult, and, for whatever it was worth, you believed you were present at your birth. But no one said anything. Perhaps because you knew that when windows of bedrooms closed on the sleeping lids of children’s heads nodding with drowsiness; when their snores filled the empty spaces of the rooms they were in; when their tongues tasted of the staleness of slumber in their mouths; when their parents surrendered themselves to their dreams, pushing out of their way the daylight inhibitions of who enjoyed the company of whom, in bed; when thoughts were unharnessed and allowed to roam freely in the open spaces of the uncensored mind: it was then, you knew, that Misra and you could tell each other stories no one else was listening to. And in the privacy of the late hour, in the secrecy of the night’s darkness, you could afford to allow the adult in you to emerge and express adult thoughts, just as Misra could permit the child in her to express its mind.

And then the two of you would gossip. Like adults, you would exchange secrets each had gathered during the previous day, you would condemn and pass judgements. You would talk about people, talk about Shahrawello whose daily blood-letting of Qorrax was said to have kept him in good check. You also gossiped meanly and unpardonably about a neighbour’s son who ate ten times as much as you and who, at four-and-a-half, didn’t utter a single word save “food”; a boy who weighed “a ton” and whose open mouth had to be stuffed with victuals of one sort or another. You nicknamed him “Monster” following your overhearing his mother say, “Oh Lord, why have you made me give birth to a monster?” Misra would feign interest in hearing you tell the story but suddenly her features would change expression, suggesting you were overdoing it, and she would say, “That’s enough, Askar”, and would immediately change the subject to something less trivial, less controversial; or she would tell you a story until your breathing was slow, then shallow, as if you were wading through a pond where the water was muddy and knee-high. Misra was an expert at handling your moods. And she was different from your uncle’s wives. As mothers, these were generally indulgent for the first two or three years. Then they became ruthlessly rigid with their children, who were expected to behave according to strict codes and norms of behaviour with which they had not been made familiar. You imagined these women to be in season all the time, what with their constant loss of temper with their children and their caning them whenever they didn’t leave the room the moment they were instructed to do so.

Misra would say, “To these women, when in their best moods, children are like passing royalty. Don’t you notice how everything comes to a standstill when they totter past them and how they are admired?” And you asked, “But why do people love children?” “Some because they can afford to lavish a moment’s indulgence on a child that didn’t keep them awake the previous night; some because they see angels in the infants they spy and marvel at God’s generosity; some because they have no children themselves and envy those who are thus blessed. There are as many reasons why adults admire children as there are adults who admire them.”

“And why is it that they don’t like me?” you said. She answered, “Because you are no child. That’s why.” In your mind, the memory door opened and you saw visiting relatives of Uncle Qorrax’s and they were giving his children cash with which to buy sweets or footballs; you also saw that these same relatives caned them if they caught them misbehaving in public. But when it came to you, they asked after your health, although they did so with extreme caution, speaking articulately to Misra in the manner of one who was talking to a foreigner who didn’t understand the nuances of one’s language. And these relations never took liberties with you, no, they didn’t. You wondered if it was “guilt” that made them act the way they did, “guilt” that made them look away when you “stared”. Or were they uneasy because yours was the “stare” of a parentless child?

“I want you to think of it like this,’ said Misra to you one night. “You are a blind man and I am your stick, and it is I who leads you into the centre of human activities. Your appearance makes everyone fall silent, it makes them lower the volume of their chatter. And you too become conscious and you interpret their silence as a ploy to exclude you, and you feel you’re being watched and that you’re being denied entry into their world. From then on, you hold on to the stick, both as guide and protector. Since you cannot sense sympathy in their silences, you think it is hate. You, the blind man, and I, the stick. And together we pierce the sore — that’s their conscience.”