Nuruddin Farah - Maps

Riyo was delightfully surprised to see your collection of maps and books. She also envied you the space you had in the house — a room all to yourself. She had known of these before, but confessed she didn’t believe them to be true. She suspected you made them all up just as some other boys she had met at school or elsewhere invented the stories they narrated to city girls who were impressionable. Of course, you were honest with her. As expected, you told her that you were likely to leave for the war front if called up. Her only comment was, “But aren’t wars dangerous? I’ve seen films in which people get killed. You won’t die, will you?” She was sweet and had an innocent look and her face wore a smile, as though forever. There was something worshipful about her eyes when she stared at you, listening to you pontificate on a subject you had discussed with either Hilaal or Salaado. Her face reminded you of a girl you saw in a dream the day you crossed the de facto border at Feer-Feer. She was the kind of girl you could trust, the kind that you could have as a companion and as a wife if you went on a sabotage mission or had a job to do. It was with her that you left your manuals from which you learnt how to dismantle a revolver or start a car without the proper ignition keys. Once, you left in her care a couple of Playboy4ike magazines. She kept them for days without even opening them. And when you showed her your paintings, she confessed she didn’t understand what they were about, but imagined she would love them if she did. She said, “You are indeed talented.” And you were very pleased.

Then you told her about Misra, She said, “Poor thing, I am sorry for her, I really am.”

“She is in hospital,” you said, “and I am going to visit her. Perhaps today” But you didn’t tell her why she was in hospital and neither did she ask And you said, “Would you like to come with me?”

“I don’t like hospitals very much, but if you like, I will come,” she said.

I

I was eating, with great relish, a slice of the sky and it was most delicious. It was blue — as steaks are brown when well done — and it lay in great heaps in front of me, with a star crowning it as though it were some sort of icing, a star already partly eaten. I was unhappy that I couldn’t determine how many points the star had had in the first place and how many it had now I knew I could have had the clouds for my dessert if I chose to. I also knew I was sitting on a water mattress in the shape of a water-bottle, which was why I sat unevenly, swaying every now and then, whenever I changed position or had a mouthful.

I wasn’t alone in the hall. That I could tell from the din of voices which served as background to my silent thinking. For instance, among the voices which I could easily identify were those of Uncle Hilaal, Salaado, Aw-Adan, my tutor Cusmaan — but not Misra’s. Also, there were a number of my own peers and some had grown taller than I, some thinner, some weightier. But their experiences were nothing compared to mine, their mental reach definitely not as wealthy and varied as mine. I didn’t know what to say to them. Their conversations with one another placed them in the geography of infancy whose maps and contours meant very little to them. I noticed there were no soul-searching questions asked, and that their lives centred on material acquisitions and on who owned what and how much this or that item cost. Not I!

The hall was very bright and I could see and identify every face I knew. Naturally, I looked for Misra — if only to ask her how she was; if only to apologize for my not calling on her of late. I thought I had seen her earlier, when not particularly looking for her. Now I went to the same spot. And there was something strange — I felt stupid when I realized that I had been talking to Misra’s dress though she wasn’t there herself. I cannot remember what I said. Now, I stared at the shadow the dress had made and I was more furious with myself. Then I heard the clamour created by a group of teenagers who had just arrived. Because I couldn’t make them stop their annoying chatter, I walked out of the hall myself.

When outside, I thought to myself that things had to be different from this moment on. You cannot eat the sky as you do steaks, have the clouds as your dessert and expect the universe to turn on its axis, lightening the days with its thundery storms, brightening them with its suns, darkening the night with its dusky hours. I discovered that, although there were hundreds of thousands of men and women partaking of the meal in which slices of the heavens were being served as the first course and the clouds as dessert, we had no common language in which to exchange views, or even communicate our suspicions or fears of this new reality — a reality in which God was but absent; one in which somebody might have had him as his meal. How blasphemous, I thought, and ceased thinking altogether. What? I had a slice of the sky as my first meal, did you say? You must be mad, somebody was bound to say. How could you? And you say you had “God Almighty” as your aperitif. You blasphemous fool. Get out of my sight before I lynch you. Surely, I said to myself, somebody was bound to be infuriated by these blasphemous pronouncements.

I stood by the window, which was open. The curtain blew in my face and teased it. Then I felt a drop of water on my forehead. I touched the spot with my dry index finger. Another drop and a third. These tasted of salt water. Did it mean that I was near a great body of water? I walked in the direction from where the smell of the ocean came. I walked through a field of ripe Indian corn. I plucked as I went. I plucked the shapeliest of them; I plucked the overgrown ripe corns and threw them aside. I trampled on anything that was in my path. I went on, treading blindly, my hands outstretched ahead of myself as though gathering, or receiving alms. My mind was bent on reaching the ocean whose smell grew less pungent the nearer I got to it. Finally, I could sense the grains of sand in my sandals. Although I couldn’t tell why I couldn’t smell the ocean in the blowing breeze.

And there it was, my feet in it, my cupped hands bringing its salty water so I might take a sip of it, taste it, feel at home in it. There it was for me to swim in and be received by it — large as a womb, warm as life, comforting as a friend.

And there she was too — Misra, I mean. She stood in the shallows and fishes came to her, playful fishes, going between her legs, the curve of her elbow; small and big fishes, and on occasion even a shark, timid as a lamb. She didn’t see me. She was busy feeding the fishes with her blood, the flow of her period. She was busy tending to the sickly among the fishes, feeding them with motherly care.

I was utterly in love with her.

I couldn’t comprehend how anyone could've accused her of betrayal.

Then I looked up at the sky. I resolved that we couldn’t have eaten it all. All was peaceful. And I wished I were a fish — wouldn’t she feed me? I thought to myself. She had fed me, had cared for me, loved me, brought me up on a body of ideas all her own. How could I bring myself to suspect her of any wrongdoing, how could I?

She was saying, as she attended to a sickly baby fish, “They came to my ward last night and threateningly said they would kill me — those people from Kallafo. And it frightens me.”

“I doubt it if they will,” I said. “They dare not.”

She said, “If and when that happens and I am dead and no more, please take note of what I say to you now — I have not betrayed. I am innocent of the crime. You are the one person I care about so much that I want you to know the honest truth. The rest may go where they please or believe whatever they will. I don’t care.”