“How do you know? You haven”t read her journal, have you?” Hilaal asked you.
Uncle Hilaal and Salaado watched you as you sifted your ideas and sorted them out. You appeared desperate, like a man upon whom it has just dawned that a future is not possible without his disowned past. Then the river of your emotions flowed again. And you said (Uncle Hilaal will never forget this. Not only that, but he holds the view that you became another person speaking it, and that, unbeknownst to yourself these were your mother’s precise words), “The man has made others suffer, his children, his dependents, his wives, yes, he has made every one of them suffer when he himself does not know what the word ‘suffer’ means. It is a tragedy.”
Being excitable, he let his emotions speak for him. Hilaal said, “Now I see the third” much in the same manner as you might have said, pointing at Misra, “Here is the earth!” The child in him surfaced and you saw an aspect of him you were to love forever—his kindness. He touched you once, twice, thrice, encouraging you on, like a fan on a cyclist’s road to victory slapping the saddle-seat of his idol, shouting joyously, “Go on. KO!”
You did. You began from the beginning, a second time and a third time. Misra was the heroine of your tale now and you played only a minor supporting role. Which was just as well. You needed to tell “Misra’s story”, obviously. A story has to be about someone else even if it is about the one telling it. You talked about your worries, about your inhibitions with regard to other people who mistrusted Misra. You spoke and your features thickened and you were enveloped in the darkness of moonless nights—and you were in her cuddle, you were her third leg or her third breast, and the two of you rolled upon each other in your sleep and each complained about the other who had kicked or taken the sheet away from the other. You were the stare in your eye. You focused it on her guilt. You were the stopper of fights, the beginner of quarrels, of gossip, and it was about you that conversations with Misra easily started. You were most dependent on her. “She’s bewitched him,” people said. They said she fed you all kinds of herbs, that she had taken possession of your soul. “Look at his eyes,” they said. “They are wide open even when he is asleep.” Nor did you fail to mention the last breakfast, the one you were filling your empty viscera with when you left Kallafo.
You came to Aw-Adan. He was your teacher, you explained, and your rival for Misra’s attentions. He invested his hate in his forearm when he caned you. She beat you only when she was in season. Then you became the charge of a kindly woman called Karin. A dream of a woman. “Did you know,” you asked rhetorically, “that when women miss their periods, they’re not always pregnant?” Karin had gone past the age of having them. And when once Misra missed hers, they inserted herbs and things into her—to abort. But you took care not to mention anything about Misra’s divining powers or the materials she used—water, blood or raw meat. You were worried this might impress Hilaal and Salaado wrongly. You wanted them to love her. When you finished, there was a long, long, long silence. Salaado then said, “For you, life has been a war of sorts.”
And Hilaal, hugging you, said, “We’re in each other’s life now. No more wars. We’re a family The three of us.”
That night, they talked it over and decided they would tell you their story, in the honesty and open-heartedness with which you had narrated yours. “It is only fair,” said Salaado.
However, the telling of their story didn’t take place until a month later. In the meantime, they had got a tutor by the name of Cusmaan to help you with your studies, specially your reading of maps. It was Hilaal who told it to you, the two of you alone in the car, he in the passenger’s seat and you in the back. He told it naturally, as one might talk of one of those once-in-a-lifetime diseases one has had ages ago. He said, “We owe you an explanation, Askar.”
It was Friday The car in which you were sitting was parked in front of the Lido Club. Salaado had gone into the club to buy three ice-cream cones. It was late afternoon and you had spent the greater part of the afternoon swimming or sitting by the sea. You were slightly exhausted, your head was full of sea-water, your hair of unwashed sand.
“We owe you an explanation,” he repeated, and in silence the two of you watched birds perform their acrobatics exhibitionistically You envied them their agility. He went on, “For example,” grinningly looking over his left shoulder to talk to you in the back seat of the car. You thought his “For example” had something complete about it. It seemed you didn’t expect him to say anything after that. Then, like parents who’ve adopted children past a certain age, Hilaal’s preliminaries contained such assurances as were needed to ensure that the child understands he is loved as though he were of their own blood and flesh. There was no need for him to say all that—you knew it and it was very obvious to you. Then he said, “I don’t like driving, for example. Salaado loves it. I drive only reluctantly I hope you’ve noticed that.”
“Yes, I have.”
He wound up the window on his side of the car, shutting out the noise of the hawkers selling things or beggars asking for alms or displaying their physical disasters: an amputated arm, a sick baby at a milkless breast. Again, he began talking, but was waylaid by his “For example” like one who has run into a friend who’s asked one to take a drink and chat for a while. Uncle Hilaal shifted about in his seat, he looked ahead of himself in absent-minded concentration, looked at a noisy bunch of boys playing rough football. Then, “I love cooking, for example. Salaado doesn’t. Not only that. But she is a terrible cook. And she burns the bottom of pots, saucepans and the food in them; the water she boils vapours into thin air because she doesn’t remember she has something on the stove. What she does, at times, is to over-indulge her rice with water so you have rice-porridge or something similar. Disaster after disaster. But I love cooking.”
You grew impatient because you didn’t know where his dialogue was leading you, and wound down the window on your side of the car. The place was apparently overflowing with human chatter. You wound it up immediately as beggars and hawkers descended on you. That way you shut out the whole world except Hilaal’s erratic breathing and his “For example”. When you looked in his direction, you felt lost in the open space his crooked elbow had made, an elbow which, when he was gesticulating to make a point, was somehow arrested in mid-movement. Then, “We have no children, Salaado and I,” he said. “Or rather, we didn’t have any before you joined us. That’s right. We’re not bothered by the fact that we didn’t have any of our own. We love each other the way we are. The trouble is, others talk, they say terrible things about a woman who can’t have children. There were complications. And Salaado had to undergo a serious operation in Europe. It was most painful and she suffered greatly. For example.”
You thought, they’ve probably arranged the moment in such a way Salaado will not return until he’s finished saying whatever he is intending to say to me. He went on. Without “for example” this time.
“A most obligatory, painful operation for Salaado. You probably won’t know what ovaries are. That’s what the doctors removed. When our relations on our side learnt that she cannot have children for me, they came and suggested I take another wife. No, I said. But they insisted. Still no, I said. Then I decided to have an operation called vasectomy. It renders men sterile but is not very painful. Anyway, I figured this country is over-populated—why have children?” He paused as though this might lessen the touch of anxiety in his voice. And, “Anyway, she cannot have children, nor can I. Her operation was necessary. Mine was done because I chose to. But we have you now and we have no need for babies of our own flesh and blood. It’s all very simple, no?” He paused, the upper part of his body rising a little higher, as if he were half-lifting his weight off the seat. You thought it was the way he spoke the question which suggested this, in particular the lifting of the final “no”.
When he spoke next, he sounded as if his full weight were firmly on the seat. He said, “It’s not all that simple, to be truthful Society
doesn’t approve of a man who loves a woman who doesn’t bear him children, a woman who doesn’t cook his food, mind his home, wash his underthings. A woman who sits behind the wheel of a car driving when the man is a passenger—to our society, this is unpardonable. It is sex, sooner or later. And there are the hierarchies which escort the notion of sex. Now … for example. This is why you don’t see many people coming to, and going away from, our house. My relations have boycotted me on account of my obstinate position. So, whenever you see someone visit us, you can be sure this person is either a good friend of ours or a relation of Salaado’s.”
A cavalcade of ideas raced through your head the moment he fell silent. You wished to say that you actually loved them greatly But Salaado saved the situation—she appeared and stood by your side of the car, holding out to you your cone of vanilla. You drove in bewitched silence.
III
You liked Salaado immensely, directly you saw her. You felt comfortable with the space around her and you followed her to places, your body close to hers. “He is the egret, and Salaado the cattle,” a neighbour had commented. You had your trust in her. Often, you held on to her little finger. You sat at her feet as she told you a story. You touched the hem of her dress and, at times, to the amusement of Uncle Hilaal, you felt its silky smoothness against your cheeks. She became the only teacher you were willing to learn from, hers was the company you preferred to everyone else’s. And she taught you, in a record two days, how to write your name in Somali, how to identify many of the sounds you made and how to write them down. All this time, however, Hilaal remained significantly on the periphery of your life. He cooked the meals, washed up and dried the dishes and put them away in their appropriate places; he pressed his own shirts and trousers, and helped you get used to becoming independent. At first, the reversal of male and female roles upset you a little, but you accepted them, in the end, and were all the happier because you felt as though you were a member of a unique set-up. You didn’t know any two people to contrast them with, didn’t know of any household as outstanding as the one destiny had driven you to, didn’t know how fortunate you had been. You merely sensed they were heads above most men and most women.
She was beautiful. And she dressed well. She was tall and slim and wore no make-up. In you, she raised whirlwinds of a different kind—different from the one Misra used to draw out of you. Salaado made you work harder at being yourself. She would give you a map so you could identify where you were born and would insist that you saw yourself in that context—a young boy from the Ogaden, one whose world was in turmoil. And so, nailed next to the map which indicated where you were born, there was a calendar. There, if you wished, you could follow the progress of the war in the Ogaden. Nailed next to the calendar, there was a mirror. Here, you could register your bodily changes, see how much taller you were or fatter or whether you were losing weight by the day. Salaado was indubitably the most beautiful woman you had ever seen and you wished she were your mother, or that you could think of her or address her as one. In preference to calling her “Aunt”, you chose to refer to her as “Teacher”. Which she was professionally. For she would leave home at about seven in the morning, she would drive herself in the car, parked at night in the car-shelter, and wouldn’t return on most days until after four p.m. While she was away, you were supposed to study what she had assigned so you would not waste an academic year’s worth doing nothing. If you had queries, you would knock at Uncle Hilaal's study, and he would grudgingly give you time and answer your questions. Otherwise, you could go and play with the children next door—although you didn’t like their ideas about games that might entertain one. In the end, it was decided, since you preferred your solitary existence to their “infantile” company, Uncle Hilaal would buy you a bicycle all your own. Again, it was Salaado who taught you how to keep balance while learning to ride it. Wonderful Salaado!
Uncle Hilaal was equally kind, when with you. His was a voice with a long reach—like a hand. You were always amazed at how comforting it was to listen to it; and, like a hand, it patted you on the head or the shoulders; it lifted you out of your dormant spirit when you were that way inclined. At its command, you would get up, eat the food you were about to push away; in short, you would do anything it ordered you to. As a result, his voice was always there, present in the back of your thoughts, a voice reassuring when your spirits were down, a censuring voice when they were wild and out of control; it was a voice from whose depth, as though it were a well, you could draw bucketfuls of sustenance. And you went to bed with its resonance echoing in your ears; you awoke, listening to the rise and fall of its music. When he was not there, the walls of your memory re-echoed its hypnotic quality, so much so that it assumed a life of its own, a life inseparable from your uncle’s.
One day, when she was busy with marking examination papers, you asked Salaado to explain something to you. She was gentle, as usual, but said she was otherwise occupied and suggested you ask Uncle to teach you for that and the following two days.
“It is his voice,” you said.
She didn’t quite understand. “How do you mean? What is it about his voice that you don’t like? Or does he frighten you? Tell me.”
You noted one thing in your brain—the fact that she didn’t address you as Misra used to, didn’t clothe her speeches with endearments, and yet you did not feel distanced from her, ever. Also, for whatever it was worth, you noted something else in your mind—the fact that you took a back seat, allowing others to take life’s seats of prominence. You were not, in other words, the only one who existed, you were not the one around whom the sun, the moon, the stars, in short, the world, revolved.
“Answer me, Askar. What’s it about Hilaal’s voice that bothers you?” she said, holding your hands gently in hers.
You said, “It does not allow me to concentrate on what he is say-ing.”
“I still do not understand,” she said.
You tried to express yourself better, but realized that you hadn’t the courage to speak the thoughts which crossed your mind. It was years later that you told Salaado that, “Just as the beauty of the world fades when compared with yours, all other voices and life’s preoccupations are rendered inexistent when he speaks. His bodied voice appears before me as though it were another person. Looking at him, I find I cannot also concentrate what the other, i.e. the voice, is saying. Are you with me?”
“Yes,” she nodded, her voice almost failing her.
IV
Nowadays, you can afford to laugh at the thought of yourself resisting the temptation to pull at Uncle Hilaal’s nose—pull at it and squeeze it teasingly, as one might a cute baby’s cheeks—since you always believed he had a nose small as an infant’s fist with his fat face, very much like a child’s. You suspected it was his voice which held you at bay, his voice which held you at arm’s distance, his voice which was strong, almost baritone, varying in levels as it did in registers and which you stored away in the depository of your memory so you could make use of it in old age and remember what he said to you, as much as to anyone else—a voice which you could replay as often as you pleased.
Of course, you cannot put dates to events, nor can you recall precisely when Uncle Hilaal said it and to whom. Possibly, it was when the Somalis were still victorious and the “Ethiopians” were in total disarray, fleeing “homewards” and leaving behind them cities which were intact; when her infantry escaped, leaving behind unused cartridges of ammunition. And you think it was then that he said, “The point is, who’s an Ethiopian?”
Now what made you repeat to yourself the rhetorical question, “The point is, who’s an Ethiopian?” Weren’t you repeating it to yourself because in those days it gave you immense pleasure to mimic Uncle Hilaal’s voice? Salaado happened to be standing near by. You know how adults like answering children’s questions? For although your question wasn’t addressed to anybody in particular, Salaado answered it. You weren’t displeased, but you were startled. Politely, you list
ened to her talk as she pointed out the difference between the country which Menelik named Ethiopia—meaning in Greek “a person with a black face” (Salaado suspected it was a foreigner who named it Ethiopia)—and that which had been his power base until his army’s occupation of the southern territories at the turn of the century. You were attentive and learning a great deal from Salaado when Uncle Hilaal joined you. He listened for a while before making his contribution.
Hilaal said, “Ethiopia is the generic name of an unclassified mass of different peoples, professing different religions, claiming to have descended from different ancestors. Therefore, ‘Ethiopia’ becomes that generic notion, expansive, inclusive. Somali, if we come to it, is specific. That is, you are either a Somali or you aren’t. Not so with ‘Ethiopian’, or for that matter not so with ‘Nigerian’, ‘Kenyan’, ‘Sudanese’ or ‘Zaïroise’. The name ‘Ethiopia’ means the land of the dark race.”
Maps Page 18
