Nuruddin Farah - Gifts

Then she saw in her mind’s eye the dragon-fly’s coded writing and was confident she read a name written in tattoo-blue, fringed with water clear as ice. It was the name of the young woman Duniya had seen at the Out-patient’s Clinic on the morning Bosaaso had given her a lift in his butterfly-taxi.

She woke up, her mind cluttered with unrelated memories.

“You know, I’m serious when I say I won’t be returning to Uncle Qaasim and Aunt Muraayo’s home,” Yarey said.

Duniya hushed her nine-year-old daughter. The radio was on. They listened to the news for a while, but before long Yarey lost interest in her mother’s preoccupation with happenings in the world outside, insisting that Duniya pay heed to her.

“Did you hear what I said?” Yarey asked raucously.

Duniya wouldn’t be dissuaded from listening to an item about the Head of State receiving a combined North American and EC delegation visiting to discuss Somalia’s foreign-aid requirements. Immediately afterwards came an item about a baby boy, a couple of days old, found near a rubbish-bin in Duniya’s district. But no other details were given — only that the baby was abandoned, not even that it had been given a home and two co-responsibles, Duniya and Bosaaso.

“Will you hear me out now?” Yarey asked.

“Yes?”

“I want my things brought here, in Bosaaso’s car.”

Duniya did not like being rushed. She preferred dealing with problems one at a time. Besides it was too early for her to know what Yarey might be talking about She had too many other things on her mind, including preparing for Abshir’s visit, plus all the other matters she must talk to Nasiiba about.

“Can it wait until later, Yarey darling?” she said.

“I want my things brought here. Today.” It was a command.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to return to Uncle and Aunt’s place.”

Duniya reminded her daughter that Uncle Qaasim and Aunt Muraayo had been chosen as compromise guardians since she, Duniya, and Taariq, Yarey’s father, couldn’t agree who should keep her. Naturally they did not want to go to court. Taariq at the time was weighed down with drink-related depressions, Duniya with financial difficulties, since she couldn’t support three children on her own. As part of the understanding reached it was decided that Duniya stay on in the two-bedroom house where they now lived, paying only a token rent, and Yarey would grow up in Taariq’s elder brother’s household, considering also that his wife Muraayo hadn’t a child of her own. All this had been delicately negotiated (Duniya tried to make Yarey understand the complexities of the situation), and had taken several protracted sessions. That way, Taariq had easy access to his daughter, who spent weekends with Duniya.

“Let’s give them the foundling, that’ll solve everyone’s problem,” Yarey said.

“What problem?”

“And then I can come home.”

Duniya clucked her tongue to register her dissent. “Your returning home has nothing whatsoever to do with the foundling. That’s altogether a different matter. And as I said before, you may come back and live with us any time you like. But I’ll have to talk over the terms with your father, Uncle Qaasim and Aunt Muraayo.”

“But it’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“You see, if I come to live with you then Aunt Muraayo and Uncle Qaasim won’t have a child to consider their own, whereas there’ll be four of us children here, all yours,” Yarey reasoned.

“Your uncle has children from his previous marriages,” Duniya reminded her.

“But his current wife Aunt Muraayo won’t have them in her house.”

Duniya did not comment.

“By the time the foundling is my age, he’d have accepted Aunt Muraayo as his mother. Have you thought about that?” said Yarey insistently.

“I suggest you stay with Aunt Muraayo who’s accepted you as her own child,” Duniya said, her tone teasing, cajoling. But no sooner had she uttered it than she wished she had not.

“You mean you prefer him to me?” Yarey said.

“God forbid, no.”

“Why’s this ugly foundling so important to you?” challenged Yarey.

“He has no other home, you have at least two. Be fair, Yarey.”

“Yesterday you had a nasty fight with Uncle Shiriye over him.” Yarey went on in a hostile tone, “And now you say these cruel things to me, your own daughter. Why is he so important?”

In a moment’s concentrated rush, it dawned on Duniya that there was a way to pacify Yarey She would set the young girl a baited trap. She would make her feel important, confide in her.

“Are you big enough to keep a secret to yourself, Yarey?”

“Of course I am,” said Yarey, all ears.

“Can I trust you not to tell Nasiiba or Mataan or anyone else?”

“Sure!”

Duniya said, “Uncle Abshir is coming shortly.”

Yarey couldn’t contain her joy. “When?”

Pleased that she could manipulate the mercurial moods of her youngest daughter, Duniya said, “I’m not sure exactly when.”

“Have you had a telegram or letter from him?”

“A friend of Dr Mire’s had breakfast with him yesterday,” Duniya volunteered. “You’ve never met, Abshir and you, have you?”

“No, never.”

“You’ll have to keep this a secret though.”

“I will,” promised Yarey.

Meanwhile Yarey had completely forgotten about the foundling or her plans that they be swapped. She was bubbling over with excitement.

“Do you think there’s still time for you to write to him before he comes?” she wanted to know.

“Why?”

“Because I want him to bring me something from Italy.”

“I don’t know about that,” Duniya wasn’t encouraging.

“That Somali Airlines stewardess what’s-her-name can take a letter to him. Let’s find out when she’s flying to Rome and we’ll give her a letter or something, a message.”

Duniya’s body stiffened at the reference to the stewardess.

“What’s wrong?” Yarey inquired.

“What would you like Uncle Abshir to bring you from Italy?” Duniya said, frowning.

“I want a Walkman.”

Duniya smiled limpidly. “Well try to get a message to him.”

“And there’s something else,” Yarey was too thrilled to be still.

Patience diminishing, Duniya asked, “Something he can carry easily through customs?”

“A filmcalled ET .”

“A film?”

“A video, then I can watch it on Bosaaso’s machine.”

“We’ll try to reach him somehow.”

“Promise?”

“And you promise not to talk about his coming to a living soul?”

Yarey nodded.

“If you don’t keep your end of the deal, I won’t keep mine,” said Duniya.

“I will,” said Yarey. “I’m grown-up now.”

Nasiiba, who had just showered, entered the room. When Yarey and her mother kept conspiratorially quiet, Nasiiba suspected they had been discussing her. Otherwise why would both avoid eye-contact with her? She looked from her young sister to her mother, from her mother to the foundling and then finally at the radio, which was jabbering on, but words failed her. And Duniya said girlishly to Yarey “Shall we go and shower together?”

“That’ll be fun, Duniya,” said Yarey.

They left the room, convincing Nasiiba that either they had been talking about her or knew something they wouldn’t share with her.

After showering, which they both enjoyed, Duniya borrowed Mataan’s room to change. In the mirror her face looked soft like the earth after spring rains: brown, whole, supple. For a while she listened to the young people’s chatter in the courtyard: Mataan, Marilyn and her friend and another whose voice she couldn’t place. Nasiiba and Yarey were feeding the baby The curtains drawn, the door bolted from inside, with enough sunlight to see herself in the looking-glass, Duniya took a studied interest in her body for the first time in many years. And what she saw depressed her.