He pauses to take a sip of water, then asks, “Was Dhaqaneh like me at my age?”
“At your age he never said his prayers,” says Gacalo. “He wasn’t in the least religious and I doubt he opened the Koran or read it with great enthusiasm until much later, as a grown man, just before he joined Shabaab. That is the truth of it.”
Naciim says, “Likewise my mother.”
“How do you mean?” says Gacalo.
“Mum was always more into nightclubbing than praying and she seldom set foot in a mosque until she met Dhaqaneh. These are two facts she cannot deny.”
Gacalo remembers Dhaqaneh telling her about Waliya’s nightclubbing and how he worked hard to make a good woman of her; she recalls Timiro confirming that Waliya was once a call girl on the day the two of them visited the widow together in her then new home. Now she says, “But your stepdad said you often prayed with him, and you made no fuss about going to the mosque before you got here.”
“We were all under Stepdad Dhaqaneh’s influence, when my mother was married to him and we lived together, as a family. I thought he was a good man, very kind to me, and I loved him.”
“And now that he is dead?” Mugdi asks.
“Mum is under the influence of Imam Fanax and Zubair. These two men are charlatans and I don’t trust either of them. I valued Stepdad Dhaqaneh’s advice. He was a caring man, very kind and protective of me, something these men are not. Sadly, though, the point that needs stressing is that nothing you or I or anyone else does or says will make her change her mind about these con artists.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Timiro returns to Oslo unexpectedly, canceling all the previous arrangements she and her mother had made during her last visit. Her mother was to move to Geneva in time for the delivery and to assist until her presence was no longer needed. That she is now back, eight weeks short of her possible delivery time, much too heavy for her own comfort, often fatigued, and on edge a lot—she has given an earful of grievances to her father since the taxi has dropped her off—means that he and Gacalo have their work cut out for them.
Gacalo comes home the moment Mugdi telephones her at work. He says, “Timiro has just come home, she is lying on her back on the bed in her room, looking like a beached whale.”
Gacalo is treated with the spectacle of an oddly shaped stomach boasting of a protruding belly button. What’s more, Timiro takes an eternity to change the position of her body in order to face her mother. “In Geneva, I felt alone with this body mass and I couldn’t bear carrying this weight all by my lonely self.”
The two women content themselves with an awkward handshake. “Don’t give it a moment’s worry, darling. We’re pleased you are here. But how are you feeling?”
“My doctor in Geneva says all is well.”
Gacalo thinks to herself that the journey to a full term pregnancy, followed by delivery is long and tedious and maybe that has made Timiro impatient, especially since work colleagues, the nurses, and the lab technicians have kept repeating to her that she is nearly there, as if she was on a bus about to reach its destination.
In silence, Timiro strokes her stomach, and then with her eyes closed, her hand in her mother’s, she says, “It’s the not knowing how and when the baby will arrive and if everything will be fine that has gotten to me.”
“You’ll see everything will be fine.”
Last time they talked on the phone, Timiro had complained bitterly about frequent heartburns, shortness of breath after doing sit-ups. Then, in anticipation of the day when she wouldn’t be able to work, she told her mother than she had been working non-stop for the past two months without a break. This in part must have exacerbated the situation.
“Worry not, honey,” says Gacalo.
* * *
Later that day, Timiro, feeling more rested, joins her father in the living room, watching the afternoon news. She says, “Good to be home.”
When her father lowers the volume, Timiro, unprompted, explains that she has also come to Oslo with the aim of doing further tests, following her latest consultations with her obstetrician in Geneva. He suggested that she get a second opinion on a couple of her complaints.
He turns the TV off. “You’re okay though?”
“My doctor in Geneva has forwarded last week’s tests to the doctor at the Rikshospitalet, whom I see whenever I am here. I’ve already set an appointment and expect to see in a day or so.”
He keeps his thoughts about changing doctors at this late stage of pregnancy to himself. Still, he says, “I’m sure all will be well, darling.”
“By the way, how are Naciim and Saafi?”
“They are at Himmo’s,” Mugdi says. “Saafi is now attending Norwegian language school and Mouna and the other children help her with her assignments. These young people’s companionability has brought back the missing smile to our faces and has introduced a fresh light to our eyes, especially Mum’s.”
“Who’s the center of attention, the one who entertains the other children? Naciim?”
“Everything actually centers around Mouna,” Mugdi says. “And Naciim is infatuated with her. He follows her everywhere in the way egrets follow water buffaloes whenever he can. She is fond of him too.”
“And how is Saafi faring?”
“The girl has found her way to a comfort zone all her own and her voice is stronger and surer than ever.”
“They haven’t made peace, she and her mum?”
“Since the situation with the imam, Saafi doesn’t trust her mum anymore.”
“And Naciim?”
“He is protective of his sister, giving her all the support she needs in hopes that she will continue being strong and defiant,” says Mugdi.
“How have Mouna and the other children responded to the girl?”
Mugdi replies, “Never having known what it is to be a refugee, and born and raised by a caring mother, Mouna has been the most empathic toward Saafi. Because Saafi never misses a prayer, Mouna has taken upon herself to make sure that Saafi’s choices and prayer times are taken into account and accommodated. Nor does Mouna allow Naciim or anyone else to tease Saafi cruelly. And when Saafi absents herself from the group, something she does every now and then, either praying or because she is uninterested in the rough and tumble games the others are fond of taking part in, Mouna never fails to forbid the others from pestering her. When any of the others describe Saafi as someone in the slow lane and Saafi is too timid to defend herself, Mouna steps in and retorts that Saafi will catch up and surpass them, no doubt about it.”
Timiro says, “Does the fact that Saafi and Naciim have lately been spending more and more time in a home such as yours, where liquor is consumed, or at Himmo’s, where there are free-spirited children, give Waliya worries?”
“There is nothing she can do about this and from what little Naciim has told me, Zubair and Fanax are biding their time and waiting for the day when they can punish Naciim, whom they label as the ‘problem boy’ without bringing the wrath of the Barnevernet down on themselves,” says Mugdi. “After all, the two men are aware of the consequences if they harm a hair on the boy’s head.”
“But Waliya must be relieved to know that Naciim keeps a close eye on his sister,” says Timiro.
“No doubt this gives her some comfort.”
“So she isn’t as heartless as I initially thought?”
Mugdi says, “Any way you cut it, life has been tough on her.”
Just as Mugdi prepares to leave the room, thinking their conversation has come to an end, Timiro not only changes the subject, but she has something she wants to get off her chest. She says, “Dad, is it true that Xirsi was in Oslo, and that he rang, and you spoke to him and you scolded him?”
“I didn’t scold him,” says Mugdi.
“That’s what Uncle Kaluun has told me.”
“I told him you
weren’t around.”
“Did he say why he telephoned?”
“I assumed he wished to talk to you.”
“Now why did neither you nor Mum tell me about his call?” she asks.
“What would you have done if you were here? Would you have spoken to him and if he had suggested you got back together, would you have said yes to his request?”
“Of course not.”
“Why the fuss then?”
She is short with him then, saying, “You won’t understand where I’m coming from anyhow. So let’s leave it at that.”
That he did not understand where she was coming from was one of her favorite lines in arguments whenever anyone responded unfavorably to one of her demands. Mugdi, however, suspects that Timiro will not admit openly that she is finding it hard, to wean herself off Xirsi, to whom, maybe, she is still addicted.
* * *
The following day, a woman at Rikshospitalet tasked with the management of expectant mothers’ health and safety calls Timiro and tells her that stress is the cause of her worries and she refers her to a team of in-house specialists who deal with these kinds of problems.
When Gacalo returns from work and learns of this, she asks Timoro how she feels. Timoro says, “The recurrent pain started at an exercise session with other expectant mothers, many of whom were younger than I. And the woman overseeing the workout suggested I immediately seek my doctor’s advice.”
“What did the doctor think was the matter?”
“He was initially worried about possible future complications,” says Timiro. “And he ordered a series of lab tests capable of detecting a wide range of disorders to determine the cause of my discomfort.”
“And the lab results have come back?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what were they? And what is the likelihood of complications that may lead to premature delivery, given that you are already thirty-two weeks pregnant?”
There is a long silence.
Her voice shaking, sounding as feeble as a frightened baby’s, Timiro says, “Mum, I want to have the baby here. I don’t just want to get a second opinion here, I want to come home.”
Gacalo feels a sudden wrench inside her, as though an invisible hand is tugging at the roots of her heart. She says, “Of course, darling. We are here for you and will do whatever is necessary to make sure you have a healthy delivery.”
The truth is Gacalo had looked forward to relocating to Geneva before the birth of the baby and had bought an air ticket in advance. But instead of raising objections or even inquiring as to how Timiro’s doctor will react to her request to have the baby in Oslo under the supervision of another doctor, Gacalo revises her plans, tries to have the ticket refunded, and failing, accepts in the end that her daughter’s desires are paramount.
In the meantime Birgitta and Gacalo arrange for Timiro to meet with one of Oslo’s best obstetricians. The obstetrician puts her on a waitlist, vowing she will see her if there is a cancellation. A day later, the obstetrician’s secretary telephones to inform her that Dr. Anna Petersen will see her in three days’ time, at nine in the morning.
On the day Timiro is to meet the obstetrician, Gacalo accompanies her, sitting in the anteroom and waiting. Nearly half an hour later, Timiro walks out, beaming with relief. That night, Timiro, Mugdi, Gacalo, Johan, and Birgitta all meet for dinner, Himmo joining them late on account of having a day shift at the hospital. They share the good news that all is well with the expectant mother and baby. Johan and Birgitta leave early, saying, “Timiro has an exhausted look, and we’re exhausted as well, having just flown in from Portugal. We’ll leave you to get some rest.” Himmo departs shortly after.
Timiro does tire easily now, her breathing labored, and wakes often in the night, the baby’s strong kick reminding her of the delivery waiting to ambush her at any moment. She’s most relaxed in the company of the young people, who entertain her with their stories and antics as she puts her feet up and rests. As a first-time mother, Timiro takes childbirth classes, and she speaks with great intensity to her mother, to Birgitta and Himmo, and to her new obstetrician, whom she loved from the instant she met her, believing her very knowledgeable, with a voice that she has found comforting and a smile that has calmed her nerves. Adding to her comfort, Himmo has agreed to play the role of a doula, her nursing background proving indispensable in such matters. The two meet daily, Timiro subjecting herself to the rigor required to have a less than unpleasant labor, knowing that all labors are hard. Luckily she is blessed with a high pain threshold, though she refuses to confirm if she will get the epidural or not.
“I’ll decide on the day, maybe on the spur of the moment,” Timiro insists.
“Is that a good idea?” asks Gacalo, holding her daughter’s hand.
“It is very unwise to make any decision about it until I assess the situation, because in any case, according to Himmo and all the reading I’ve done, epidurals only lessen the pain, they do not remove it.” Changing the subject, she asks, “What were you like as a first-time mother, when you gave birth to me?”
Tense, Gacalo reclaims her hand from Timiro’s tight grip, averting her whole body before saying, “No two births are alike, and yours was unique in its own way, my love.”
“If I insist on knowing, would you tell me what was unique about mine?”
“For now, I want us to concentrate on the job at hand.”
During the pause that follows this, Timiro looks at her mother with loving eyes. She says, “I agree with you absolutely. Nothing is as important as the current job I am doing and I must concentrate on it to the exclusion of everything else.”
The day of the delivery finally arrives and Timiro is not at all anxious. With her are two people in whom she has total faith, Himmo on one side and her mother on the other. “I am ready for whatever may come,” Timiro says. “Though not yet for the hospital. I don’t want to show up too soon like most mothers do and spend an eternity waiting, when I can be comfortable at home.” Then her contractions begin in earnest, one following the next in quick succession, and despite her earlier words, the pain numbs her senses in ways Timiro has never known. Her right hand keeps clutching her chest and she appears to swoon, wondering if this is what death feels like. “Would you like us to go to the hospital now?” Gacalo asks.
She mouths the words, “I am okay. Thank you.”
Himmo does not speak at all.
“We won’t rush you,” Gacalo says. “You decide. We’ll do what you tell us to do.”
After another series of contractions wracks her body, her face ghostly pale, Timiro says, “Now, please. I think it’s time.”
The three rush to the hospital, where Timiro’s labor lasts another seven hours, and she declines an epidural. Finally, she delivers a beautiful baby girl with a sweet cry, whom she calls Riyo.
Timiro returns home after three days and the house and everyone in it is happy to welcome a healthy mother and a cheerful baby. Streams of visitors come from near and far, the telephone keeps ringing with congratulatory messages, and gift parcels arrive too.But the debate starts as to whether Xirsi should have a place of pride among the girl’s names. Mugdi and Gacalo make hardly any contribution when it comes to choosing the baby’s name, both arguing that it is Timiro’s prerogative to do so. Nor does either of them give an opinion—for reasons known to Kaluun, Timiro, and themselves—as to whether Riyo’s surname is hyphenated so as to add Mugdi’s and Gacalo’s to Xirsi’s.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It has been a long, exhausting day for Naciim, Waliya, and Saafi. It is nearly three in the afternoon and Naciim, who is eager to join his Norwegian friends for a soccer kickabout in a neighboring sports complex, is at home against his will. Sulking, he watches his mother and Saafi chase after small children, some on all fours crawling away from the wet spot where a boy, not yet toilet trained, has just marked a co
rner with his urine. Their nursery is in full swing.
In the corner of the living room diagonal to where the boy has had his accident, there is a different sort of mayhem: two boys are throwing rubber balls at one another, and one strikes a girl in the face, who begins shrieking with wild abandon. Waliya picks her up and tries to comfort her without success. Meanwhile, the boys have now started upending the plastic tables and spilling juice boxes and milk bottles. Naciim, standoffish and bad-tempered, retreats to his bedroom where he finds his bed newly unmade, the covers torn off and a different group of boys jumping up and down on the mattress. A soft giggle alerts him to a little girl hiding in the cupboard, the floor brindled with some unidentifiable brown substance.
As he prepares to leave the boys to their own devices, keenly aware that there is no place he can retreat, another little girl, veiled from head to toe despite being a mere two years old, with a soiled diaper and dirty hands, takes hold of his trousers and refuses to let go. Her viselike grip is so strong that he fights off the urge to kick her so she will release him. He keeps himself in check and curses under his breath.
To his relief, his sister comes into view, with two other girls in tow, and he pleads with her to help.
Saafi looks cursorily at the toddler with the soiled bottom and asks, “Why don’t you change her?”
“Why don’t you?”
He turns his gaze away, annoyed not just by the chaos of so many children in such a small space, but by what the veiling of the toddler represents—he reminds himself of how lately Somalis have developed the bizarre habit of making little tykes don veils. It can only mean that baby girls are no longer looked upon as genderless munchkins but as young women. Otherwise, why make them cover up?
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