Nuruddin Farah - Gifts

Mataan said, “And yet we are under the mistaken impression that being poor, famine-stricken and homeless are phenomena associated with underdevelopment, shortage of hard currency and so on. It’s disturbing to think that we, too, will have a million homeless people in our cities if we become technologically advanced.”

“It’s tragic,” agreed Duniya.

The discussion shifted from the specific to the general, then back to particular economic and social realities, and everyone agreed that the homeless were mostly people of colour, or old, that black women tended to have the strength to survive, despite their enormous burdens, better than their male counterparts.

Asking no one in particular, Mataan said, “You know the Islamic concept, xabs?”

“Xabs is interpreted by Islamic scholars as the right of obedience,” explained Mataan, “although the word shares its root with another understood to mean detention. The point is that women aren’t permitted to leave their husbands’ homes without their husbands’ prior notification, and any woman who violates this right may be described as rebellious. The home, therefore, the veil and the fact that women can’t go out of the house, say, to work in an office or as a nurse in a hospital: these come under xabs: the right of obedience. A homeless woman is one who has no husband or a male relation to provide her with shelter.”

There was a brief pause and Duniya, exploiting it, wondered aloud whether Yarey, who had fallen asleep, should be taken to bed where she would be more comfortable. At the mention of her name, Yarey’s head rose like that of an infant not yet endowed with speech, who responds to the mention of its name in a conversation. “Do you never tire,” she said, “Nasiiba, you talk and talk and talk?”

“I wasn’t talking.” Nasiiba came to her own defence.

“When I fell asleep you were speaking, and when I woke up you still were,” said Yarey. “I thought you said you were going to Miski’s?”

Duniya looked from Yarey to Nasiiba. “What about Miski?”

Yarey was now wide awake. “Naasi promised the two of you would go to Miski’s and hand over to her a list of things I want Uncle Abshir to bring me.”

“What’s all this?” asked Duniya of Nasiiba.

Bosaaso, sounding eager, asked, “But when is he due here?”

Duniya’s lips trembled as if saying a brief prayer.

In the meantime, Miski counted her days and nights, consulting her watch before answering Bosaaso’s question, “I’m flying back late tonight. That means well be on the same flight tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’m really looking forward to seeing Abshir,” said Bosaaso.

Duniya stared at Nasiiba who was engrossed in reading Uncle Abshir’s letter. To make sure she would not be disturbed by anyone, Nasiiba sat apart from everybody, like a cat unwilling to share its food with others.

“You’re moving out of here?” Duniya asked.

“That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Where am I moving to?” Miski asked.

Duniya hoped Nasiiba would say something, explain where she had got the news from, since it had been she who had said Miski had decided to move. But Nasiiba’s attention was totally devoted to Abshir’s letter.

“Perhaps Fariida understands that you are moving out,” ventured Duniya.

“When does Fariida understand anything?” said Miski decisively. “And pray where would I move to?”

Nasiiba interrupted her reading. She looked first at her mother, then at Miski to whom she said, “Do you know if there’s a vacant flat in the Mocallim Jaamac area, in the centre of the city, Miski?”

“Yes, there is,” said Miski.

“And doesn’t the vacant flat belong to a relation of yours?”

“It belongs to my former fiance’s father, that’s right.”

Certain that her mother and Miski could take it from there without her help, Nasiiba lost interest in the conversation. Returning to reading her uncle’s letter, she sat as if impervious to the world around her, her feet tucked under her, and looking pleased.

After a long pause, Duniya asked Miski, “Do you think we could take a look at that flat? We are very anxious to find one?”

“But why are you moving out of yours?” Miski asked.

“It’s too complicated a story to tell you now,” said Duniya.

Miski was suddenly sad. “I hope it hasn’t anything to do with Fariida’s baby?” she said. “It wasn’t my idea that she abandon it.”

Bosaaso sat up as if stung by a black ant, but he said nothing.

“Our moving out of Qaasim’s house hasn’t anything to do with Fariida or her baby,” said Duniya.

Nasiiba interrupted her reading to look from her mother to Miski and to say, “Mummy’s lying to you. The truth is Fariida’s baby has everything to do with our moving out of Uncle Qaasim’s house. But it is a long story as Mummy said. I promise to tell you when we’re alone and Mummy and Bosaaso are gone.” Then, as if nothing untoward had taken place, Nasiiba resumed her reading.

No movement, no sound, only a drift of disturbed eyes. Perhaps amused, Bosaaso could not tear his away from Nasiiba. To describe Duniya as embarrassed and leave it at that would be a distortion. Nevertheless, she wasn’t angry with Nasiiba, if anything she was pleased. Uppermost in her thoughts was the prospect of his retaining faith in her, a prospect causing her great distress. What if the poor man thought Duniya had known about the foundling’s identity all along and hidden it from him? Would he believe it if she had told him that she hadn’t discussed the topic with either Nasiiba or Fariida, or for that matter Miski? Bosaaso meant a lot to her, and she didn’t want him to lose trust.

Perhaps shaken by the revelation, Bosaaso’s gaze evaded hers, dwelling on the floor ahead of him, dazed. But he didn’t appear totally abandoned in the ship-wreck of new discoveries when he looked up and their eyes locked in an embrace of acknowledged grins. He had hope, Duniya thought, he still had love for her in his look.

Encouraged by this, she said to Miski, “Do you believe that any initial interest in your relation’s city flat is even justified?”

“It has enough space for you and the twins, if that’s what you’re after,” answered Miski.

“There are four of us, plus of course Abshir visiting.”

Wincing, Miski didn’t ask why there were four of them, not three, and her hesitation left traces of a tremor on her lips. The young woman had weak knees, a meek heart that was as large as it was generous. Perhaps Fariida had been blamed wrongly for being the one who had introduced Miski’s former fiance, the son of the owner of the city flat Duniya was currently interested in, to the girl whom he had made pregnant and in that event married.

Now Miski collapsed into an armchair. This was turning into a difficult scene for anyone to handle; and as if this was the only action she was capable of undertaking, Miski grimaced. Then she said, “The city flat has two rooms, facing a large courtyard, a small garden, with a kitchen and two outside toilets, meant as part of servants’ quarters which never got built. The rooms are very big, each equipped with its separate bathroom-cum-toilet, bidet and other amenities, and they’re airy, the ceilings high. Apparently they once belonged to the Catholic Mission’s Holy See office in Mogadiscio.”

“Do you know how much the landlord is asking?”

“It’s very expensive.”

“How expensive?”

“How much can you afford?”

Duniya mentioned a sum.

Hesitation made Miski’s nose twitch. “I’ll try to get the keys from the proprietor for that amount, saying I’m moving in, or maybe I’ll tell him the truth. I hope honesty pays generous dividends.”