In a way, she was very thankful to the Almighty that he was not going to a tribal war, and that there was no need for her to worry about it. He was going elsewhere. ‘His work in that place, whatever its name is, will benefit us,’ she thought. ‘But in a tribal war, one never knows who will come back in one piece and who won’t.’ It all depended upon how each man fought, or really, to be more accurate, it depended upon fate.
Ebla recalled many girls of her age-group, sometimes younger than her and sometimes older, whose young uncultivated husbands had been slaughtered, and who had thus gained great ‘prestige.’ She was not acquainted with the external world, however, and Italy sounded very unfamiliar. ‘Maybe it is the place which the widow spoke to me about, the white man’s land.’
It was about nine in the morning. Awill had just got up and was taking a shower before he went out after seven days’ imprisonment in the house. Only a couple of people had called on them. Jama had come three times, the third time he brought along another friend and Ebla spoke to them that day. She felt a bit worried conversing with two strangers, two men, who were not courting her. It was Awill who asked her to talk to them. Jama’s second visit had embarrassed him. Ebla had not opened her mouth, but had just listened to whatever they said, and had released some suppressed giggles once in a while. After he had gone, Awill said, ‘Why did you not speak to him?’
‘What should I say to him?’ she asked.
‘Anything. Say anything, but something. You think you are an Arab or somebody like that?’
‘I would be happy if I were an Arab.’
‘But you are not. So talk to people, or else cover yourself with a black veil, make two small holes for your eyes, and run away whenever a male friend comes.’
Ebla fully understood what her husband had told her that day, but she still wondered how she would be justified to talk with strangers.
In the meantime, Awill entered the room, wrapped in a robe, and drying his head with his towel. They looked at each other as if they had been arguing the whole morning. They did not seem to want to say anything to each other, and both remained silent.
Awill was the one to break the silence.
‘I am going to Italy after two days.’
‘I know.’
‘Where is Italy, do you know?’
‘The white man’s land. Your aunt told me certain things about the people.’
‘Well, I will go to that place.’
‘For how long?’
‘For three months.’
‘And when will you leave?’
‘I will fly after two days. Today is Friday. I will fly on Sunday.’
Ebla had no idea what he meant by ‘I will fly’, but she did not ask for an explanation, because she felt it was better to conceal her ignorance. To her, a bird could fly, but nothing else could. No planes had ever come her way, and maybe she would die before she embarked on one or flew in it. The first time she had ever travelled in a bus was when she was coming from Belet Wene. She had no intention of asking Awill how a bus worked. She had asked the widow how and she had said, ‘I don’t know. It has got many things tied to each other, and they go fast, like mad. But I don’t have the knowledge to explain them to you.’ Thus Ebla was in no mood to ask Awill about flying or anything of the sort.
‘Don’t you want to know what are the arrangements I am making for you during my absence?’ he asked, with apparent condescension.
‘It had never occurred to me that I would need anything during your absence. But now, come to think of it, what are the arrangements you have made?’
Awill by then had dashed over to the place where he had put his trousers and shirt a week ago. He had not used them for a week, as there was no need for him to put them on during the honeymoon week. He had robes on for all this time because they are more comfortable in the heat of Mogadiscio. He pulled on the trousers, though he wobbled as he did so and nearly fell on the chair.
Ebla had got out of bed too. Today she could walk properly. The only hindrance was that she could not face the bright sunlight which penetrated through the only window in the room. She kept her eyes partly closed. She walked barefooted, and stamped upon a black-beetle. She was walking aimlessly, perhaps to practise. Awill had by now got his shirt on.
‘I will speak to Asha about a shop nearby where I can open an account for you.’
All this was new to Ebla. She could not follow what he had said, and again had no intention of asking for clarification. ‘Perhaps Asha will explain it to me when he has gone,’ she told herself. ‘After three days he will have gone, won’t he? Asha will explain. The widow has explained things; occasionally my cousin’s wife Aowralla did, and now Asha will. Why shouldn’t she? She seems to be a nice woman.’
‘Do you follow me?’ Awill asked her.
As if she woke up from a deep sleep, Ebla mumbled, ‘Yes. Yes. I do.’
‘If the shops say “no”, then she will find you money to keep you going. She knows how much will be sufficient for you. Then I will send some money through Jama to you from time to time.’
Ebla did not follow what he was saying, but nevertheless she nodded her head.
Awill had gone out, she was left alone. Seven days. She had spent seven days in bed: the most comfortable seven days of her life but for the ephemeral pain of breaking her chastity. There she had slept by Awill’s side. She had been served as if she were a queen, and her first and second days’ bodily torture had been compensated. Rest, she had taken rest for seven days. Imagine! Seven whole days!
She was alone now. ‘But my husband will come back. He will come back very soon, but after two days he will go to the white man’s land. To travel is to learn, so we Somalis say. Then he will come home after 180 milking-instances.’ (A day has two milking-instances, one in the morning and one in the evening. Those are the times when the beasts are milked.)
Ebla sat in the doorway. Somewhere to her left, she saw an old razor-blade and picked it up. She turned around facing the inside of the room. She glanced round the room, then, with her legs stretched out and the wind ruffling her hair, she began cutting her nails. She had cut all the nails of the left hand and had just begun cutting her right hand, which she found a little bit more difficult, when she noticed the figure of someone, standing behind her. She turned and saw Asha.
‘You don’t cut your nails like that, nor do you throw them into the room. It is Friday, anyway, so you shouldn’t cut them at all because it brings famine.’
‘I did not know that,’ said Ebla. ‘Why this sudden unfriendliness, ’ she thought.
‘Awill spoke to me about your bill. I have spoken to the shopkeeper, but he has refused. He has too many families taking goods on credit. So I will pay your bill until Awill has sent you some money from Italy.’
‘Ashantu,’ said Ebla.
As planned, Awill flew to Italy after two days. He left Ebla one day earlier than she expected and he did not even come home to say good-bye. Asha was quite unhappy about it, and later told Ebla so. After this, Ebla discovered many good things about Asha, which in a way pleased her.
PART FOUR
‘Don’t tamper
with Camarina’
A Sicilian Proverb
21
Ebla had no reason to object to Asha’s suggestion that they should cook and eat together, which would lessen the expenses of both. To a certain extent, it did. Ebla, little by little, learnt the background of Asha, who she found was the most interesting character she had met since she left the country. Aowralla had spent most of the time in bed, and the widow was a widow—and widows are normally uninteresting creatures (that is why their husbands die before themselves, out of boredom).
But Asha moved around vigorously, which made life more exciting. In the house, there were six rooms, built in the style of a circular African type of hut, with little doors and grass roofs, sloping to the sides. She rented the rooms to different tenants, and only God knew how she collected the rent from them. Perhaps tha
t explained why she was so business-minded, and spoke in such a terrifying tone. She always had her elbows stretched out and had a sly smile on her face. She had a black head-dress on, which she would loosen deliberately. You could see curls of kinky hair, greying on the forehead. Ebla could not help being fond of Asha, because she was the first person who had ever considered her her equal: she made Ebla aware of what she was.
A week or so had passed when one day Jama turned up. He said he had got a letter from Awill, who was in fine health. Jama added that he had brought the letter with him. He looked for the letter in his pocket and selected it out of many. Ebla took the letter. Jama said it was not meant for her, but she could have a look at it.
Although she could not read anything she opened the envelope. In the envelope, there was a long letter which was only black strokes, stripes, lines, cross-wise lines and drawings, as far as she was concerned. But there was a photo; it showed Awill and another woman. The woman had nothing on except a swimming suit, her belly was showing and Awill’s hand was resting on her breasts. It was the first time Ebla had held a photo in her hands. In the country, there was a belief that it shortened one’s life to be photographed: you would die before you were due to. And even if she did not worry about this, she had never seen anyone with a camera to take her photo.
Jama thought that he had taken out the photo, but as soon as he realized he had made a mistake, he winced and looked away. He was just about to rush away when Asha appeared on the scene. Jama greeted her and said that he was just leaving, but would call on them some other time.
‘You are leaving so soon? Why?’ said Asha, who had no idea why he was in such a hurry.
‘Yes. I will come back some other time.’
Ebla had the letter and the photo in her hand. She did not know what to do. She saw someone like her husband in a photo with a white woman, but anyone could perhaps convince her that they were not up to anything. If anyone had told her that that was the way things were done in the white man’s land, she would have believed it. But she was furious; she was disappointed, not in Awill, nor in the white woman, but in herself. Things began to dawn on her, thoughts crowding in on her, unchecked.
‘What is it?’ inquired Asha.
‘This,’ said Ebla, and handed it to Asha.
Asha opened the letter, examined the photo, read the letter with difficulty and bluffingly translated it into Somali for Ebla’s understanding.
‘What should I do?’ Ebla asked and her voice was so serious that anyone could see that she needed help.
‘I know what you should do,’ said Asha.
‘Tell me, then.’
‘I will make us some tea. After that I will tell you what to do.’
It was about three in the afternoon. Ebla and Asha went to the latter’s room, where Asha made the tea. There were many things that came to Ebla’s mind, but she was determined about one thing: she would not run away. She had run from the country to a town, and from there to Mogadiscio. Now if she ran from Mogadiscio, she would run into the ocean. Ebla was not in the least prepared to take refuge in the ocean. ‘Come what may, I am going to stick to Mogadiscio, until doomsday,’ she thought.
Asha served the tea. Almost everybody in the place was away and it was very quiet.
‘You see I have a suggestion to make,’ Asha began. She gulped.
‘I want to hear.’ Ebla sipped the insipid tea.
‘But will you listen?’ Asha gulped again.
‘Yes, I want to listen. I am very anxious to hear what you want to tell me; tell me everything. But don’t please tell me to go back and escape again.’ She took a mouthful of tea. It seemed to taste like a man to her.
‘I have another suggestion.’
‘Say it.’ She took another mouthful of tea. It seemed to taste better; like a woman.
‘Swear that you will do it.’
‘I swear upon Allah. And may God kill my brother if I don’t do it.’
Something rang in Ebla’s mind. ‘What could have happened to my grandfather?’ When she was in the country, she had sworn upon his death. Today it was not the case: she had said ‘my brother’. ‘What could happen to him? Well, that will be a problem for tomorrow. One at a time,’ she thought, addressing the problems.
‘There is a rich man whom I know. He came here several times to visit me. He saw you and asked me about you. I told him who you are, but I did not tell him that your husband is away. He asked me if I could approach you and talk to you.’
‘What does he want?’
‘I don’t know, but I think he would accept whatever you say. He is very interested in you.’
‘Do you know much about Islam?’ Ebla suddenly asked, out of the blue, implying that Asha knew nothing.
‘Very little. Why?’
‘Well, you see, my cousin gave my hand to a man whom I never met. The Sheikh had pronounced my engagement to him. My cousin told me about it. That was why I eloped with Awill and came to Mogadiscio, but what does Islam say about my marriage to Awill? Is it legal?’
‘I think . . . I don’t know,’ responded Asha.
‘Is your rich friend married?’ She didn’t care if he was.
‘Yes. With two daughters of marriageable age and two sons. He comes from Baidoa.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Tiffo.’
‘What an awkward name. What does he look like? Is he quite old?’ She delved into the life-history of the man.
‘No, but he is rich.’
‘Do you think he will marry me? I am eager for marriage any time—that was what Adan and Hawa started, but they were never married, were they?’
‘I have no idea. But at first they say that brothers married sisters until there were enough women: men always outnumbered us.’
‘When will he come?’
‘Tonight. When he comes, I will tell him to come and talk to you. And I will ask the Sheikh and two witnesses to be ready in case he is willing. Today is Friday and there are some Sheikhs coming to recite the Koran in the house.’
‘Do you think that will create any trouble for me afterwards?’
‘It is a man’s trouble. They will jump at each other’s throats, but nobody will dare touch you.’
‘Tell Tiffo that I am willing to marry him secretly. Maybe he will also want that. And if Awill comes back and doesn’t want to return to me, then I will stay with him. I love life, and I love to be a wife. I don’t care whose.’
‘Yes, I will,’ Asha assured her.
They finished their tea and adjourned their meeting. Ebla went to bed immediately after that and dreamed that her brother came. She also dreamed that her grandfather had died.
When she woke up, it was about seven in the evening. ‘Tiffo has come,’ Asha told her. Ebla washed her face with water and didn’t use soap, which she still detested applying to her body. Then she changed into a new dress, which Asha had borrowed for the occasion from a neighbour.
22
Ebla repeated to herself that she loved life. However, she did not really understand what life was: she had a wrong interpretation of life. If her interpretation was right, then everybody’s would be right. To her, life meant freedom, freedom of every sort. ‘One should do whatever one wants to—that is life. That is what I love.’ Freedom: that was what she worshipped. Not the freedom to sleep with any man, for every man was not worth sleeping with, neither could every man be a good husband. She was unique in forming ideas about things. Marriage was a sound refuge. Probably nobody would get furious, she told herself. She was afraid she might let herself down. Since she had not seen Tiffo before, she thought he might be a ghost-like creature. But what would she do then? Run away. But where to? No. No more escapades—not in the search for another man anyway. If another man was in any way interested in her, he could present himself. ‘But that would be prostitution. No, it would not be. I love life, and life lies in marriage, and marriage is born out of a couple from opposite sexes.’ (She had not the slightest idea that
there could be such people as homosexuals.)
Ebla bunched her dress a little on the edges. She admired the dress. Since she did not have a standing mirror she strained her eyes to see her backside, tilting her neck. This position made her feel a little bit giddy. She had just come back to normality when Asha entered the room. Ebla asked if he had accepted the proposition.
‘Yes.’
‘And the Sheikhs also?’
‘The Sheikh is coming to see you in a short time.’
The process went just like that with Awill, except that she had no idea what this man looked like. The Sheikh came and asked the usual questions. ‘What is your name? Your father’s name? And are you willing to marry Tiffo?’ She answered the questions. She placed her confidence in Asha and the Sheikh.
After some time, Tiffo came, unaccompanied. He was very short, had a brownish complexion and was fat. Ebla could hear him breathe. She thought it must be difficult for him to breathe. He entered the room, which was practically empty, with the exception of the bed on which Ebla slept. Asha had removed all Awill’s clothes to her room earlier in the evening, when Ebla was taking a bath.
Now Ebla lay on the bed. Asha had instructed her not to uncover her face until she had been paid the Waji Fur fee by Tiffo. Tiffo sat on the bed and looked at the covered figure of Ebla. He tickled the soles of her feet and she tried not to laugh, suppressing her laughter.
‘Uncover yourself,’ said Tiffo, with a manly voice.
Ebla was frightened when she heard the voice. For a moment she was going to uncover her face, but she checked herself.
‘The Waji Fur fee.’
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘A hundred Somali shillings,’ Ebla repeated the amount Asha had told her. ‘But this is too much,’ she told herself, and, had Tiffo not said, ‘Here is the money,’ she would have reduced the amount.
From a Crooked Rib Page 10
