Nuruddin Farah - Gifts

Oddly enough, this brought to her mind their passionate, long kiss the night before, when she had risen to her feet, unconscious of what she was up to, or of the fact that she had his car keys in her hand. “What about my driving lesson?” she asked.

“I’ve taken the liberty of asking a friend of mine to give you the lessons,” he said.

“And where is he, this friend of yours?” She was sure it wasn’t Mire he had in mind, but then she didn’t know his friends; he often came to her home alone and never bothered to talk about others. “Who is this friend of yours?”

“His name is Kaahin,” said Bosaaso.

He could tell that the Idea of Kaahin giving her driving lessons didn’t suit hen “I don’t know the man,” she said, which was true.

“But you don’t like him?”

“What makes you say that?”

“That much is clear.”

She kept walking in the direction of the door, as if expecting Kaahin might come through it any instant. “Where is he, anyway?”

“He’s late, as usual.”

“The closest he and I got to each other was when he reversed into Mataan, nearly killing him, poor thing, and I would have murdered him if he had hurt my son, I swear I would have,” she said.

“The trouble with him,” Bosaaso said, “is that he loves women.”

The anomalous word “love” that Bosaaso had used in a wrong context shocked her, to say the least. She sat up. “He what?”

“People say that Kaahin loves women,” said Bosaaso, backtracking.

“To my mind, Kaahin does not love women,” she said, “in fact, he hates them, or rather he despises them.”

“People say he loves them,” Bosaaso insisted.

She was as quick as her anger. “And what do you say?”

He felt pushed around a little and did not like whatever it was that she was doing to him, or to their friendship, but hoped he would somehow bring all this Kaahin-created fracas to a peaceful end by saying, “There’s really no earthly reason for you and I to have this kind of quarrel about someone neither of us cares about.” He paused thoughtfully and continued, “Let’s drop the subject altogether.”

But she wasn’t prepared to do so and asked, “Are you made of china, Bosaaso?”

At first he didn’t understand her meaning.

“Do you fall to pieces like a china cup when you have an argument with me?” she went on. “Do you smash into smithereens if someone shouts from the minaret of their rage to express their views?”

“Let’s drop it,” he suggested.

“No, we will not, damn you,” said Duniya.

He winced, remaining silent.

“I want you to tell me what you think about Kaahin, not what people say,” she shouted. “Give me your opinion, not other people’s.”

Speaking his words with a glassy attentiveness lest they too should break, he obliged. “He embarrasses me, and embarrasses Mire for bringing our names into disrepute, our names which he uses as though they were certificates of respectable contacts. And I agree with you, he hates women, in fact he hates himself, and his attitude towards women is testimony to this, a means by which he deceives himself.”

“What of the sticker pasted on the bumper of his car?” she asked.

“The one that reads ‘Kaahin: Women’s Cain,’ is that the one you mean?”

“That’s right.”

Saying nothing for a while, Bosaaso shrugged his shoulders, staring ahead, meditating. Finally he said, “We all have our adequate share of friends and relatives who embarrass us. Besides, he’s not really a friend of mine, only a friend of a friend. Even Zawadi is not responsible for his bad behaviour, I’ll absolve her of that.”

“The man is a misogynist,” said Duniya, “hiding behind fancy-looking cars and mountains of laundered money. It disturbs me to hear you use the word ‘love’ in such a context as Kaahin’s and the women whom he seduces with handouts of cash. He is unhealthy, chasing his lust without scruples.”

He could see the extinguished fire in her gaze. He moved in on her to exploit the peaceful mood, announcing, “Kaahin isn’t going to be your driving-instructor, given that he is almost three-quarters of an hour late. I am sorry I suggested it in the first place.”

Whereupon, Duniya began to undo the already threadbare laces of her canvas shoes with absolute caution lest they should snap. “And what’s it that you are doing?”

“Are we not staying at home?” She looked up at him.

“We’re doing no such thing,” he said.

She stared at him, puzzled.

“I am going to teach you myself.”

She gave one of her famous chuckles.

“Or don’t you have faith in my teaching ability?” he teased.

“It’s not that,” she explained. “But will you be able to snap at me and show your anger if I go into reverse when you ask me to move forward, or if I turn left when you tell me to turn right?”

“I promise you I won’t overlook any grave errors you commit,” he said, pleased with himself.

“Keep one thing in mind, Bosaaso. I’m not made of china and won’t break that easily Speak up whenever you have good reason to, and never bottle up anger. Cry from the loftiest minaret of your rage, if need be. It may be divine to be forgiving all the time, but it is definitely not human. Even God punishes those who earn His wrath.”

He gathered the tea things, then said, “Shall we go?”

“Let’s,” she said.

Duniya was at the wheel, murmuring something to herself as if taking a memory test. The car she and Bosaaso were in was parked in an open space, where many other learners were being given their driving instruction, and now they were facing an aged wall, at the rear of Genio Civile. Bosaaso had suggested she concentrate, but that was not what she was doing. She was asking herself why she was learning to drive when she had no car, and no hope of getting one. Was this going to be another nail hammered into the coffin of her dependence on him? Or was theirs simply another clichéd relationship, so to speak, in which women were the providers of food, shelter, peace at home and good company in exchange for the man’s offer of upward mobility, security and cash?

Some people sweat when they are nervous. Others get upset stomachs. Some freeze. Others fidget. Duniya was tense all right, so her ears filled with the compressed air of her inner anxiety, and she couldn’t hear a thing. Otherwise she was very calm and one wouldn’t have suspected her of being under any strain.

“Concentrate!” Bosaaso repeated.

“That’s precisely what I am doing, if you please,” she said.

He started from the beginning, naming the important parts of the car, one by one. It was as if he were giving each part he named a fresh lease on life, touching them where possible. He wanted her to know them by their names, he wanted her to remember their function, before moving the vehicle an inch. Now he touched the controls as he pointed them out, as he showed her how the gears operated. Presently he explained how the clutch functioned, and then he pressed the pedals; finally the brake and the accelerator.

Ideas were elbowing each other out, fighting for space in her head, a positive thought out-doing a negative one, or vice versa. She discovered to her surprise that Zawadi was making her presence felt. To rid her mind of Zawadi, Duniya said: “Did you know that my brother Abshir’s nickname used to be Scelaro?”

“Because he learnt things fast?”

She nodded.

After a short pause he said half-censoriously, “Concentrate!”

Duniya recited the names of the vehicle’s parts as he touched them. He was impressed. She did all this with tremendous speed and precision. Then she changed the gears while not moving, and went through the motions of driving through traffic, clutching the steering-wheel, one foot pressing the accelerator, the other alert, and close to both the brake and the clutch.