“Last time we spoke, she confirmed to me and Eugenia that her marriage is a dud. Myself, I’ve inquired about Xirsi’s whereabouts, but my search hasn’t produced any good results. No one I know seems to know where he is.”
“You introduced them, didn’t you?”
Kaluun changes the subject with formidable speed. He says, “Tell me about the widow and her children.”
“There is nothing much to tell.”
“They are in Oslo, right?”
“They are indeed, but we haven’t seen them yet. They are being held for interrogation. I don’t know how long the whole process will take, but let me say that it will most definitely take longer now that this has happened in Glasgow and London. You can be sure the right-wing groups will bay for Muslim blood, for deportations and draconian laws of surveillance.”
“You paint a dark picture, my brother.”
A skirmish of sorts insinuates itself into Kaluun’s voice. Something has happened to him, Mugdi thinks. Back when he first moved to England, he used to be as hardy as winter fodder. But lately he has softened.
“What are you thinking?” asks Mugdi.
“We are thinking of selling our house here in London and purchasing property on an island, somewhere in the Caribbean, for when we retire.”
Mugdi knows that Kaluun seldom plans his trips well in advance and therefore he often pays over the odds for his airline tickets for his impromptu travels. When he does decide to travel, he can afford it. He has a good job with the BBC and no children to bring up. He has never married, but has shared his life with his partner, Eugenia, whose parents are from Montego Bay, though she was born and brought up in London, where she is a reputable barrister. From what they have told Mugdi, the two of them have no plan to wed. But they are happy together and that is what matters. Mugdi is very fond of Eugenia too.
“Why the Caribbean? Because of Eugenia?”
“Because it is also the one cosmopolitan place in the world where everyone is welcome, and where I would feel less tense, less fearful. People in the smaller islands have learned to live and let live. At least that is how I felt whenever I went there.”
“It is one thing to visit for a week, and altogether something else if you move there in a permanent way.”
Kaluun says, “I am aware of that.” Then after a pause, he goes on, “Anyhow, it is time you came to visit us in London. You haven’t been here for a long while.”
“Not when everyone is nervy, thank you.”
“It won’t be like this for long.”
Mugdi notes that Kaluun has contradicted what he said a couple of minutes ago, when he guessed that things would take a long time to settle.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Big cities have a way of adjusting to shocks far better than small towns or more homogenous communities. If this were to happen in Oslo, then that would almost be the end of Norway, as we know it. That is my feeling.”
Again, the timbre of Kaluun’s voice undergoes a noticeable change. It is as though someone has joined him on the balcony. As if to prove this, Kaluun says, “I must go. Please give my love to both Timiro and Gacalo.”
And they both hang up.
Sixteen years separate the two brothers. Their father was a police officer from Galkacyo in the central region of Somalia, the first member of his family to abandon the pastoralist lifestyle and join the youths migrating to the cities, landing a lowly position in the police force. Much hard work and dedication, night school, and eventually his conscription into the first police academy in the country set him apart from the other new recruits receiving on-the-job training. Later, he would be selected as one of a handful of officers to go abroad for further training, returning home after five years, just as Somalia was put under United Nations trusteeship in 1950. Within a year of his return, he was being groomed as one of the first officers to gain a command and soon after was appointed as the officer in charge of an entire suburban district. And when Somalia was granted its political independence, their father was second in rank to the Commandante Della Polizia.
Kaluun was a problem to his parents and a pest to his sisters—the brothers had five sisters between them. As a child, Kaluun was involved in more fights than most of his peers. Not only did Mugdi try his hand at molding him, but eventually he succeeded in guiding him through the difficulties he faced in his teenage years. What is more, he protected him from their father, who had such a temper you would not want it turned on you lest it destroy you. When Kaluun skipped class, Mugdi would cover for his brother by forging their father’s signature to excuse his absence. Then one day Kaluun got into a fistfight with a much older boy and broke his opponent’s nose, which resulted in the headmaster inviting their father for a conversation, a situation Mugdi could do nothing to shield his brother from. Kaluun got no less a punishment than he deserved, receiving his father’s wrath in the form of lashes on his back and the soles of his feet that were so severe he couldn’t walk for a week or sleep without feeling pain. The fear of what his father might do if he misbehaved again kept him on the straight and narrow from then on.
It so happened that half a year after Mugdi landed his first posting as a junior diplomat in West Germany, Kaluun took his high school finals and his results were good enough to have him admitted into the National University’s Faculty of Journalism.
Gacalo, a housewife at the time, was very unhappy and felt unfulfilled, in that she desperately wanted to become a mother and couldn’t, despite their attempts. She consulted doctors several times and then convinced Mugdi that he too should take a test. But the results were inconclusive. For his part, Mugdi had no worries on this score. He was in his early thirties and Gacalo was six years younger. He was convinced there was plenty of time for them to sort out whatever problems there were in this area. But Gacalo’s anxiety was starting to cause daily frictions. After an all-night, air-clearing conversation, Gacalo, who was now inclined to try alternative approaches, suggested that she return home to Somalia. Mugdi said he had no objections, suspecting that she would in all likelihood take counsel from an herbalist, since modern medicine had failed her.
When Gacalo met Kaluun and he told her that he and a girl, a classmate, were reckless and she was now past the possible date for safe abortion, Gacalo decided to step in and help. Luckily the girl was large, and so far it was not obvious she was that far along, especially to her elderly grandmother, who was half blind and almost deaf. Gacalo, following a brief meeting with the girl, agreed to wade into the mess with a solution that might benefit them all. She rang Mugdi to update him on how matters stood: that the school term had just ended and classes would not begin again for another three months. Perhaps she had a window in which she could do something, provided fortune was on her side.
“So what is the plan?” he asked.
Gacalo said, “Possibly I can arrange to whisk her away, take the girl away on some pretext—say, that the girl, being exceptional in her studies, has received a three-month scholarship to study in Mombasa, Kenya.”
“Are there no other options?”
“For one thing, Kaluun doesn’t wish to marry her, and for another, the girl is prepared to do anything to bring an end to the mess. My plan is safer than a backstreet abortion.”
“Be careful. That’s all I am saying.”
She said she would be very careful.
Mugdi always admired his wife’s pluckiness and promised he would support whatever decisions she took, but it would be wise if she didn’t tell him everything, lest he worry.
The next time he heard from her, Gacalo and the girl were in Mombasa. Gacalo hoped no one would ask her or the girl too many questions.
In Mombasa, they put up in a hotel the first week and then found a friendly estate agent who helped them rent a ground-floor two-room apartment in the suburban village of Mwembe Tayari, where there were fewer resi
dential homes, giving them more privacy. They met no difficulty registering the baby as Gacalo’s at the municipality, thanks to a junior clerk’s willingness to assist after payment of a palm-greasing fee.
Once the girl had healed, Gacalo sent her back to Mogadiscio on her own; she stayed behind for three more months, spending the last two of these in Nairobi to apply for the baby’s visa to be put in her ordinary Somali passport. Again, she bribed Kenyan immigration officials, this time to leave the country, the baby wrapped in layers of clothing. In Mogadiscio, Gacalo arranged adoption papers. Mugdi was delighted to be the father of a baby girl, named for Gacalo’s late mother, Timiro—the one who is as sweet as dates.
Gacalo bottle-fed the baby, who was easygoing and slept and fed well. In secret, however, she put the baby to her nipples and “suckled” her in the mythical belief based on well-worn Somali wisdom that she might bear a child. Gacalo still believes that it is thanks to “suckling” the baby that she became pregnant four years later and gave birth to Dhaqaneh.
Gacalo would eventually learn from Kaluun that Timiro’s birth mother had met a sad end: she died in an car accident a year and a half after giving birth to Timiro. She had been on her way to the airport to travel to Bucharest, where she was to study at a medical college after finally graduating from high school.
It never occurred to either Mugdi or Gacalo to wonder if Kaluun would let it slip to Timiro that he was actually her biological parent. It was always explained that she was adopted as a baby. Why tell her more than she asked answers to? She is happy as their daughter and that is what matters to all concerned.
* * *
When Gacalo returns home after a very long day at the office, her heart appears so heavy that she seems to be carrying an extra load.
Timiro times her entrance well by arriving just as Mugdi is making tea for himself and Mum. She says, “Make it three, Dad.”
Mugdi gives them Kaluun’s affectionate regards.
“Have you spoken to him and how are they?” asks Gacalo.
He says, “They’re well and safely back in London from the West of Scotland, where they were holidaying.”
“I’m hoping that the paranoia resulting from the bombings in Glasgow and London does not impact negatively on Waliya and her children’s application to stay in Norway,” says Gacalo.
“It worries me too that the specter of fear in the West will be raising its head again,” says Mugdi. “We could do without these provocations, SUVs ramming into airports or devices exploding in underground stations, barbarous acts that complicate matters for the widow and her children and many like them. And us too—we are all vulnerable.”
After a few minutes, Gacalo pleads exhaustion, bending double. She stoops her head, closes her eyes, tightens her jaws, and grinds her teeth as if in pain. Mugdi and Timiro know of her weak heart. Mugdi remembers a similar flaring up of the condition when they received news of Dhaqaneh’s suicide. And as if confirming his conclusions her hand goes to the left side of her chest, squeezing it. Mugdi goes over to her and holds her hand in his, saying, “Not to worry, darling. Everything will work out.”
Gacalo straightens, shifts in her chair, breathes in and then out, her eyes opening, as if amazed that she is still alive. “I hope so.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The following morning, Gacalo, feeling much better after a restful night, is downstairs having a light breakfast with Timiro. The young woman gets herself a glass of water and sits across from her mother. She says, “I had a bizarre dream last night.”
“Why bizarre?”
“I was at a party in Geneva and the heel of my right shoe came off. When I took it to the shop to have it repaired, the woman working there told me it was a knockoff.”
The phone rings and Timiro falls silent as Gacalo answers. The caller identifies himself as the deputy head of the Politiets utlendingsenhet (PU)—the Police Foreign Unit responsible for registering newly arrived asylum seekers.
He says, “I have a couple of preliminary questions for you about Ms. Ahmed and her two underage children who’ve claimed to be your relatives. She is your son’s widow—he was a Norwegian national and so are the other members of your family. We’re going to need you to appear in person to answer some more questions.”
“I know of their presence in the country, because Waliya has been in touch with me by phone.”
“The widow claims they are your guests.”
“She and the children are our guests, yes.”
“She says that you’ve found them a place to live and that you’ll be responsible for their expenses until the Norwegian Directorate of Immigration determines their status. Is my understanding correct?”
“Yes, your understanding is correct.”
“You realize that the widow and her children are not entitled to economic support from the state from the moment they come with you until their asylum papers are issued?” he asks.
“Yes, I am aware of that.”
The officer says, “Please bring along all the necessary documents, including the rental contract for the house or apartment where your relatives will live. If and when you meet these conditions, then you can come and collect them from custody,” and he gives her the address.
“Is it okay if my husband comes with the signed documents and fetches them from there?” she asks.
“Yes, of course,” and he hangs up.
She has hardly put down the phone when Mugdi comes into the kitchen. He is in his pajamas and rubbing his eyes, awakening to the new reality about which he is sure Gacalo will tell him. He hugs her—there must be a special occasion, he thinks, because she is dressed the Somali way, in a frock with flower patterns—and then embraces Timiro before taking the seat facing them. Gacalo gives him a rundown of what the officer has said.
“Darling, will you be able to pick them up from the arrivals hall at the airport today?”
“Of course,” he says.
As Mugdi stands once again within view of the arrivals hall exit, a mobile phone with the tone of a muezzin calling all Muslims to afternoon prayer starts chiming and he looks around the terminal, curious whom the phone belongs to and how non-Muslims in the vicinity will react to the summons for prayer. His eyes alight on a young man sporting a full beard and no mustache standing close to an elderly woman in the habit of a nun—her cowl sky blue, her scapular white with black fringes. Born a Muslim, albeit seldom practicing the faith, the ringing of the muezzin stirs memories within him.
Mugdi wants to know what the nun makes of all of this and as he watches her, her cheeks widen into a sweet grin and her eyes light up with genuine amity. He can’t tell if she is from the South of India or from Sri Lanka, but given that there is a very old man in a wheelchair beside her, he decides she is his caregiver. On further scrutiny, he thinks the two of them look alike; maybe they are related.
Mugdi asks, “How old is he?”
“Just turned ninety,” she replies.
“What of the family resemblance?”
“He is my older brother.”
“Are you from South India or Sri Lanka?”
“We are from Sri Lanka.”
“Have you been here a long time?” he asks.
“We’ve been here much too long.”
“So have we,” Mugdi says. “My wife and I.”
“Lately, however,” she continues, “my brother has been finding the weather too unwelcoming. And now that the civil war in our country has more or less ended and he has attained the ripe age of ninety, he wishes to spend his remaining days in Colombo, where he wants to be buried.”
The old man drops the straw through which he has been drinking and his sister picks it up, cleans it with a paper napkin and gives it back to him. She asks, “What about you? Will you be going back to where you came from—to die and be buried there too?”
“I wish I knew I
could go back.”
“Your accent—it sounds Somali. The strife continues to rage in your country, I understand.”
Mugdi hesitates. “Yes, I come from Somalia.”
“Your Bokmål is excellent,” she says.
“I’ve been here for twenty-odd years.”
She says, “I am Tam, short for Tamannah.”
“Everyone calls me Mugdi,” he says.
Tam takes out a cloth and gently wipes the saliva of her brother’s chin. He wakes in a startle, opens his eyes, and says, “What?” She says something to him in Tamil. In response, the old man nods, his jaws moving in the manner of a baby chewing something in its sleep.
“Is every second Somali named Mohamed?”
“Do you know many Somalis?” asks Mugdi.
“I have a few acquaintances in my neighborhood, in Groenland. It seems that out of every three Somalis, one is called Mohamed. Besides, many have nicknames. Do you have a Mohamed somewhere among the names you bear?” she asks him.
He says, “As it happens, my given name is Mohamed too, but I answer to Mugdi, a nickname, meaning ‘midnight black.’ I was named so by my mother, after she clapped eyes on me and said, ‘My God, I gave birth to midnight.’ Then she had a good laugh.”
“Do you live in Groenland too?”
“We live in Bislett.”
“Many of the Somalis in my block are too noisy and unruly,” she says. “Some seem to court unnecessary trouble. As a result of this, half a dozen of them have recently fallen victim to the Child Welfare Services, their school-age children now placed in foster care.”
Mugdi has heard of a number of Somali parents who have fallen afoul of the Barnevernet. He has also heard of Somalis who, fearing that the agency may place their offspring in state care, have sent their young ones either back to Somalia or to their kith and kin elsewhere in Europe.
Tam asks, “You’re not traveling, are you?”
“I am meeting my son’s widow and children.”
North of Dawn Page 4
