Nuruddin Farah - Gifts

“The classical definition of bureaucracy.”

“I hate it.”

Her voice was unexpectedly curt, saying, “Please let’s leave quickly.”

He changed gear without questioning her or turning to discover whom they were avoiding. The screeching tyres raised dust and the eyebrows of a number of bystanders waiting for taxis and buses. Neither spoke until they were on the principal road leading to her house; and it was Duniya who found it necessary to do so. “There is a strange mixture of possessiveness and a sense of guilt in my determination to be alone with you, and I don’t like it; although I do not mind that you also give a lift to my colleagues, I really do not want anyone else to be around. I wonder if I am becoming mean, or jealous?”

His choked throat wouldn’t clear of the joy with which it was clogged.

“How would you explain my behaviour?” she asked.

He was thinking exalted thoughts, the expression on his face became a smile. “Maybe it’s because of the early phase of our relationship — maybe that accounts for what one might call your ‘possessive behaviour.’ Is this partly why we’ve arranged for my cousin’s taxi to pick up Nasiiba and Yarey from their respective schools, since we intend to be alone with each other?”

There was no point challenging his interpretation of the reasons why she had agreed to pay for her daughters’ taxi fare monthly; not to be alone with him, although this gave her pleasure, but to depend less and less on his generosity But never mind, she thought. “But how do you explain why we wish to spend more time together, by ourselves?” she said.

“I suppose there isn’t enough in the way of you and of me to go round, which is why we tend to appear possessive, appear to be unwilling to share,” he said. “You. Me. Us. That’s what it comes down to, ultimately.”

Duniya took note of the flourish of pronouns, some inclusive, some exclusive; pronouns dividing the world into separable segments, which they labelled as such. Apparently, the two of them were we, the rest of the world they. Together, when alone with each other, they in turn fragmented themselves into their respective I’s. That is to say, they were like two images reflecting a oneness of souls, more like twin ideas united in their pursuit to be separable and linked at the same time. Is this the definition of love?

Aloud, she said, “I cannot help feeling guilty turning my back on my colleagues whose eyes I avoid because my wish to be alone with you is overwhelming. I grant you the feeling awes me with a sense of shame and guilt.”

He slowed down. Traffic moved at a turtle’s pace, crawling and honking. A lorry had levelled the trees separating the dual carriageway in an ugly accident, with half of the vehicle’s huge body on its side and the cabin facing in the opposite direction to that in which it had been travelling. They talked about the incorrigible foolishness of some of the drivers not only risking their own lives but those of others. By the time they reached Duniya’s home, Bosaaso was able to tell her that he had arranged for her to be given her first driving lesson.

“And who is to give me my first lesson?” she asked.

“We’ll talk about it after lunch,” he said.

They were welcomed at the outside door by Yarey who was eager to see them. Nasiiba, for her part, had prepared a special meal for them. “But why’s the table set for only two?” inquired Duniya.

“We’ve eaten,” announced Mataan, “the kind of a feast one starves oneself for.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” said Yarey.

“Bon appetit,” said Nasiiba.

Wearing her hair uncovered brought along with it a change of dress style, in a sense a change of personality. Bosaaso liked it a great deal, her children approved of it too, but were they the only ones who mattered? Obviously not. For some of her colleagues at work had commented on it adversely She herself had often described a woman’s bare head as being narcissistic, and requiring the use of mirrors and similar modern gadgets. After lunch, for instance, Duniya gave herself a few moments alone in the bathroom, absorbed in an act of self-regard, her attention totally engrossed in the three white hairs that wouldn’t curl no matter what she did, three flimsy white thread-like filaments with a slender body, unhealthy and pale. She knew she shouldn’t pull them out, otherwise they would multiply, a fact she had learnt from Taariq, her second husband whose once very dark beard was now laced with a great many grey hairs. She might never have taken notice of these emaciated hairs if she had been wearing her hair hidden in the prudence of an Islamic tradition which instructs women to cover their hair with scarves of modesty.

“Where are the children?” she asked.

“Maybe they think we would appreciate some privacy,” he said, getting up in an attempt to welcome her.

“Everybody is going insane,” she said, bending down to pick up a pair of plimsolls which Nasiiba had brought out for her to try on. She sat down to do just that, in silence. The shoes did not pinch, but neither were they comfortable. Duniya took a couple of steps backward, then forward, self-conscious like someone at a shoe-shop acquiring a pair. Then her eyes fell on a pair of slacks slung over an untaken chair, testimony to how much Nasiiba would commit her mother to, Nasiiba who knew no limits, and who. would want her mother to change her style of clothing, and with it her modest personality. No slacks, Duniya told herself, dreading the thought of putting on a pair and discovering a front bulge where there had been none before, not to mention the prominent, fleshy hips; these imperfections worried her aesthetic sense of being.

“I’ve made some tea,” he said at last.

She was delighted at hearing this, delighted, above all, because he had felt comfortable enough to make them tea at her place. “Where would you like us to have our tea?” she asked, satisfied with the canvas shoes.

“Out in the shade,” he said, and he shifted the chairs, one at a time.

As she accepted the tea he served her, she acknowledged to herself how he wished to assure her of his good intentions by inviting her first to Mire’s, then out to a restaurant, before asking her to go with him to his place. So far, everything was going smoothly Only she thought, her reluctance to accept his gifts was making him tense, and this might, in the end, cause a strain on their relationship. But he did not insist that she receive everything he offered. And there were no indications of anxiety in him. In any case, she reasoned to herself, she did accept gifts from him in the form of lifts, in exchange for meals which he ate at her place. Fair was fair, and he was the kind of man who was fair.

“Did you say that you didn’t know where the children went?” she asked.

He shook his head, no.

“I feel they are up to no good, and sense you aren’t telling me something I ought to know,” she said teasingly “So where did they go? Or have you taken them somewhere yourself?”

Again he shook his head, no. Again.

Duniya abandoned the idea of pressing him to tell her secrets he didn’t want to part with, certain that sooner or later one of her children would let her know what they had done, or where they had been to, and with whom. She had a sip of her tea, reminding herself that the two of them had come a long way since they had first met each other in a taxi, he disguised as a cabby. Since then, they had become very close, and her children were fond of him. Although she had promised herself not to insist that he tell her where her children had gone, Duniya wondered what he would do if she had. Would he give in to make her content?

“About your driving lesson this afternoon?” he asked.