Nuruddin Farah - Gifts

“You’ve said more than my patience will tolerate,” Duniya said, “certainly more than my pride will accept.”

“The poor thing doesn’t know what’s good for her,” delivering this in a breathlessly hyphenated tone of voice, as if the statement were one single long-winded word.

“I won’t discourage my daughter from wanting to come home to me.

Muraayo disregarded Duniya’s comment, saying to Yarey, “You’ve been our daughter for almost six of your nine years, haven’t you?”

Yarey nodded.

Now Muraayo turned to Nasiiba. “And you and your twin-brother: do you remember that Qaasim and I gave you a place and a home when your mother went away on a few months’ refresher course to Ghana, when her own brother Shiriye wouldn’t have you? And this was long before we were related by marriage, long before Taariq married her?”

Nasiiba remained unmoved.

Addressing no one in particular, Muraayo continued her monologue: “Children don’t mean much to me but a house without a child is a place in which ghosts and jinns congregate.” Then to Yarey, “You’ve mattered to me because I watched you grow right before my eyes and I would like you to have the opportunities of being educated abroad, in the USA or Canada.”

Duniya said, irritated, “You’re doing it again, Muraayo.”

“What am I doing?” asked Muraayo, puzzled.

“Let’s talk of something else, change the subject. As it is you’re offending my sensibilities and my self-esteem. ‘We can offer you this, we can give you America and Canada on a tray, and the world’s TV, video and toys at the push of a button.’ That’s no way to speak to my daughter.”

“How do you want me to speak to her?” Muraayo sat up.

“I suggest we change the subject.”

“Whether you like it or not, Yarey knows who bought her the clothes she’s wearing this very instant!” Muraayo said bitterly.

Duniya was shocked beyond recognition. Her mouth opened, only to make an O sound, then her lips pouted, speechless. She had unseeing eyes, hollowed out like key-holes. Duniya’s self-control was amazing today, decided Nasiiba. “I suggest we postpone talking about all this till we’re in a more receptive mood.”

“There is nothing to talk about or to postpone,” Muraayo said.

“In the meanwhile well both have spoken to Taariq, the girl’s father and Qaasim her uncle and your husband, since they too have a stake in this. Let’s not insult each other any more.”

Muraayo scratched her head cautiously with a fingernail. As she did so, everyone could see her hairy armpit. Duniya thought about Somali women growing armpit and pubic hair — features of modern times. Amen!

“I want the foundling, then,” said Muraayo, in keeping with her habit of never making any commonplace demands.

“What did you say?” asked Duniya incredulously.

“Either Yarey or the foundling.” It was not a request politely spoken, but a command in an either/or tone. And mortals like Duniya had no choice but to obey such orders.

“I have to consult the foundling’s co-responsible.”

“Who is that?” wondered Muraayo.

“Bosaaso,” said Duniya, drawing delight out of saying the name.

There was an odd mixture of sarcasm and bitterness in Muraayo’s voice. “So that’s who he is, the man who is happening in your life, making ours impossible to live.”

“What do you mean?” Duniya said.

“Never mind,” Muraayo said, dismissively.

The silence was a strain on everyone’s nerves, save Muraayo, who sat majestically confident, overspilling with the noises her bangles, silver and gold-bracelets made. Nasiiba’s eyes lit with a wicked grin. Mataan had come too and stood on the periphery, with the air of a football fan watching a cup-final. Yarey had plonked herself beside Nasiiba, sharing her armchair. The children, in short, remained quiet and conspiratorial as if they secretly knew what was about to happen.

Muraayo stammered uncharacteristically sayings “All I meant to point out to you is that raising four children will present you with a heavy financial burden unless this Bosaaso man is willing to give you a hand. Let’s face it, you can’t even meet all Yarey’s expensive tastes.”

Duniya was too annoyed to respond.

“I know Yarey can’t be without her video and TV,” Muraayo continued.

Yarey said, “Uncle Bosaaso has a more sophisticated video-machine.” No sooner was it said than she realized she had annoyed her mother. She hid her head behind Nasiiba.

“Remember too that this house in which you live virtually rent-free belongs to my husband,” boasted Muraayo. “Be reasonable, Duniya. Use your head. Either give me the foundling or let Yarey come back with me right now.”

Duniya got up, hotly. She did not know what was coming out of her mouth. She said: “We’ll keep the foundling in order to give him to you, how about that?”

With a superior air, Muraayo said, “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me,” argued Duniya.

“What about Yarey?”

Duniya’s eyes were aflame with rage she could no longer contain. “Get up on your heavy, fat feet, Muraayo,” she said, standing as if preparing to fight it out, woman to woman, fist to fist.

Muraayo stood up, perplexed.

The twins moved towards each other and Yarey joined them, forming a three-person club of spectators to applaud their mother. It was as if Duniya and Muraayo were two little girls quarrelling over the ownership of a doll, which they would tear apart, limb from limb, until it was no longer a doll but something else, something much bigger, placed on a symbolic level.

“Do you know where the door is?” asked Duniya, still calm.

Muraayo was not intimidated; she stared at Muraayo, daring her to take the next step.

“I want you leave this instant, Muraayo, and fast too.”

“You’ll regret this.”

“I’ve heard enough nonsense for one day,” said Duniya, “Leave.”

Muraayo said, “You’re not a good mother to your own daughter.” She pointed to the girl’s chin. “Look at this. It’s eczema. Yarey’s been here only twenty-four hours and her skin-irritation has returned. You call yourself a nurse. Why don’t you apply the medicine the girl brought with her? You have no time for her, only for the new man in your life and the foundling.”

Duniya shouted, “Get out, of here, out of my sight!”

“This is my husband’s house,” Muraayo stood her ground, defiant.

“I’m the tenant and I have the right to throw you out,” Duniya threatened.

“Wait until I tell Qaasim what you’ve done to me.”

To everyone’s surprise, including hers, Duniya said, “Give Qaasim my compliments and tell him to find a new tenant for this place. We’ll be moving out shortly” And suddenly Duniya knew who the foundling’s father was. She didn’t know how she arrived at her conclusion, but she knew it.

Speechless, Muraayo let go of Yarey’s hand and left.

Then Duniya ripped open her dress, as though she were a person who was now sane, breaking the manacles of her insanity. Yarey and the twins sat in silence, sharing one armchair, and holding hands.

The whole place was electric with tension. Everyone stayed out of Duniya’s way The foundling kept quiet, fed well, slept. He didn’t wake or cry even when Nasiiba had switched off the radio.

And Duniya? She had her feet up literally, contemplating her toes. Not alive to the world, not paying it attention, she stayed where she was, silent, thinking. She felt relieved. She knew she would have had to move out of Qaasim’s house sooner or later. The problems confronting her now that she had served the quit order on herself were of a different nature: she must find a place soon enough, to welcome Abshir into.