An anguished scream shot through all other noises in the square. Laughter ceased. Babies hushed. Arguments postponed. Where is the midwife? My son is dying, called a man, stumbling across the camp and carrying a boy who had vomit down his shirt.
The children who were playing hide-and-seek deserted the game. Their shadows disentangled behind them as they ran off in different directions to search for the midwife. From her place in the queue, Saba’s eyes roamed the square. The midwife was nowhere to be seen. The camp had no medical centre and so the midwife, who specialized in herbal medicine and basic nursing alongside her usual duties as a midwife, was in constant demand. As she brought life into this world, she was now tasked with sustaining it.
The midwife was the only woman consulted by the committee of elders, and she no longer had to cook, wash or clean. Every patient she treated vowed to her a lifetime of servitude.
I saw her at my neighbour’s hut, his child is ill too, said a man, pointing to the south of the camp, as he joined the queue next to Saba.
No, she is in the north attending a pregnant woman, said another.
But the midwife was already running barefoot towards the sick child. Saba spotted herbal medicine tied in one part of her scarf, and the sand coiling in the air behind her made it seem as if she was transformed into a storm. Saba shut her eyes.
The light-skinned midwife was born to two of the darkest people in their border town. God has forgiven all our sins, her tearful parents declared at her arrival, setting their fair-skinned daughter on a path of strict upbringing. Saba was captivated by the midwife’s green eyes, lush even at times of drought, and by the mole under her nose, the only dark spot on her body that linked her to her parents. But what most astonished young Saba was that the midwife always smelled of fresh incense. She later discovered that the midwife tied frankincense gum in her scarf which she chewed throughout the day and that every evening she draped a thick sheet over herself to bathe in the sandalwood fumes of an incense burner. As well as making her skin glow, the incense made her sweat, increasing her appetite. Her husband had loved her voluptuousness.
The boy didn’t die.
But death came soon after, dressed in yellow.
On the morning of the colourful funeral, Saba and Zahra arrived at Samhiya’s hut to take her with them to fetch wood. Samhiya was filing her nails. Sit on the bed, ladies, this will take me some time, said Samhiya. I still need to paint my nails.
Why? asked Zahra. We are just going to fetch wood.
A city girl has her secrets, Samhiya said, laughing.
Saba gaped around the room and felt as if she had stepped back in time. Samhiya’s hut had two beds, a big mirror, make-up, a wardrobe, shoes, chickpeas, onions, potatoes, shoro, kitchen equipment, knives, a chopping board, cups, plates, coffee-making materials. They too had escaped the war, yet they managed to bring all this.
The more she looked into other people’s huts, the more Saba noticed differences in mindset. Some fled with mattresses and pillows, others with coffee machines or cooking utensils or clothes. And Saba suspected it might not have been the lack of money to pay the smuggler for extra possessions that prevented her mother from fleeing with more, but rather that their mother had left valuable belongings so that they would always think of returning home. Memories alone were not enough to tie someone to a land, they faded with distance and the passage of time.
But Saba wondered too if her mother had worried that some of the neighbours staying behind would talk and place a curse on the family if they were to see her taking not only her children but also her belongings, while they couldn’t afford to take themselves out of the war zone.
Finally, the girls arrived at the forest. The bush was less threatening, it had lost some of its density, the vastness that had made it seem so impregnable in the beginning. Without charcoal, the camp’s residents relied on the bush’s wood for fuel.
The grass underneath Saba’s feet shifted in the wind. She rubbed her scalp with her index finger so she wouldn’t loosen the bandana that Hagos had rolled and wrapped around her head, pulling her thick hair up into a tight bun. Ahead of her, Samhiya, in a floral dress that hugged her curves, observed a flower emerging from the cracks between the rocks.
The breeze brought the aroma of the city from Samhiya’s perfumed neck to Saba. Saba inhaled, as if Samhiya’s fragrance was something she could carry to Hagos like she carried the water on her head, the firewood on her back. Saba smiled at the thought.
When they had collected as much wood as they could carry, they helped each other tie bundles on their backs using their scarves.
Zahra stooped over the green field and picked wild spinach leaves for her grandmother.
As Saba bent next to Zahra, the bundle of wood on her back rolled to her nape, cutting into her skin.
Vafanculo.
Language, ladies, said Samhiya.
Only a well-maintained lady like you minds her language, said Saba, pressing leaves on the fresh wound.
I think someone is jealous, said Samhiya. I shouldn’t have shown off my snake skin.
The girls burst out laughing.
Saba gave some of the bundle of wild leaves she had collected to Zahra.
Saba, are you all right?
Yes.
Silence.
Saba, you talk less and less. It must be hard living with Hagos.
Hagos is not mute to me, said Saba. Maybe if you ever listened to him you would hear him too.
I’m sorry, Zahra said.
Hagos is not mute. But the world is not prepared to listen.
Saba swayed as she pushed herself up. Zahra held her arm. They rose together. I will learn to listen to him then, Zahra said as she applied more leaves to the wound at Saba’s nape. The blood stopped.
I could smell rain in the air, Samhiya said.
The trees around them shuddered. The incipient whistle of the forest brought music that echoed in the valley.
As they trudged back home Zahra told the story of the day her mother had left for the trenches. I was eight, she said. It was early morning, my mother and I hadn’t slept all night long. My mother sat against the bed and I rested my head on her chest and cried. When the morning came, I had never hated the sun as much as that day. I hoped it would disappear, that our life would be one long night.
The three girls resumed walking in silence, their young backs arching under the heavy bundles. A raindrop landed on Saba’s forehead. The wind blew harder. They hurried on the pathway that was now obscured by whirling sand.
And then the rain poured down.
Let’s take cover under the tree, Saba said.
They joined hands to support each other against the wind and rain, their shoulders pushing against the invisible wall. The firewood squeaked against their backs. Once in the shelter of the eucalyptus tree, they stood panting. Saba looked in the distance where the rain had cleared the red sand off large rocks.
Samhiya took off her wet dress and hung it over the nearest branch. Can you wipe my back, bella? she asked, passing her scarf to Saba.
Saba gaped at the curvy body in matching bra and pants. She chased the drops of rain on the flesh that clung to Samhiya’s hips. Saba thought of Hagos, and hooked her fingers into the side of Samhiya’s underwear. Samhiya twitched.
These are the handles for a man to carry me to bed with, Samhiya said, laughing.
As if that man was Hagos and Hagos was her, Saba firmed her grip on Samhiya’s sides.
Ouch, Saba, stop it, said Samhiya. It hurts.
Saba let go. Hagos, like a brief sensation, fleeted away from her thoughts. Her heart quietened. She shuffled to adjust the weight of the bundle she carried. Samhiya’s oiled back glistened in the sunlight breaking through the clouds. Saba touched Samhiya’s silver necklace. Where did you get this? she asked.
I can lend it to you, but only if you get married before me, Samhiya responded.
You can keep your fancy necklace. I am not going to marry before I fi
nish school.
School? In this camp? Please tell us this is a joke, Saba.
I asked the English aid worker and he told me school was coming soon, Saba said. They have already allocated the field in the south of the camp.
Aid workers promise anything to get rid of people, Saba. Do you know how many people queue to ask questions and request this and that? You could build a palace in the air out of their promises.
Saba swerved around Samhiya and pushed through the rain.
By the time they had returned to the camp, the sky was clear and the soil had dried out in the blazing sun. As they entered the square they went their separate ways. Close to her hut, Saba noticed a woman dressed in a long yellow gown standing in the square, the woman whose jerrycan Hagos had saved from the river. Saba waved. The woman closed her eyes and started singing an aria in both Italian and Tigrinya, her voice rising as if to silence the waning thunder. Saba dropped the firewood by her hut. She was drenched in sweat. Her dress, having lost a few buttons and its lustre a while back, stuck to her skin. A few threads pulled away from the bottom of the dress. Her body felt as torn.
The woman hugged herself, digging her long yellow nails into her skin. She shook, fell to her knees and collapsed.
Saba ran to find the midwife, bringing her back to a crowd that had gathered outside their hut, where Hagos had carried the woman. The midwife entered but exited moments later. Our daughter left us, she said. God bless her soul.
There was a long silence.
She’s dead, the midwife said.
The elders bowed their heads. Saba wondered if death in this place that was supposed to be safe caught them by surprise too. She had bought the illusion that escaping the war meant escaping all forms of death. Otherwise, why go through the pain of exile to come here?
Many women wept, mourning the passing of a beautiful woman who arrived at the camp wearing the colour of the sun. When the athlete came with a shovel borrowed from the aid centre, the elders didn’t move. They had yet to decide on a burial site. The athlete said he knew a large swathe of flat land, south of the camp. We need to cut the grass and it will be ready, he said.
No, not that place, it is where they will build the school, Saba said, shouting above the wailing mourners. It is not for a graveyard. It is for our future.
The midwife pulled Saba by the hand and shoved her inside the hut where the dead woman was laid out on her blanket.
The morning after a rainy night. The morning after the death. Rays of sunshine fell on the camp. On Saba’s face. The crowded square. A man lathered the face of another with a soaped brush in front of a broken mirror hanging from the wall. Saba was blind to her fragmented reflection in the mirror, but noticed a half-white, half-black face, head tilting to the side. A razor pressed against the cheek. A trickle of blood. A woman hung dresses, trousers, shirts, a jellabiya and vests on the clothesline as a girl ground grain into flour on a stone. Cries. Laughter. Moaning. And mourning. The fragrance of incense drifted from another hut. A girl’s toes polished in red stuck out of the dung-fed mud wall. When Saba turned, the imam and the priest bumped into each other in a lane where only one could pass. Both men raised their hands in supplication. Saba walked on. A scream. A woman having sex. Hagos stormed her mind as she peeked through the window as the man’s thing drowned inside the woman. A woman’s inside is made of sea, Saba thought. Seaweed. Fish. Balloons. Bags. Love letters in bottles floating endlessly. Sadness. Laughter. This woman’s inside contains her womb, the seeds of a future and now his dick. How deep was a woman? Saba asked herself. A man wept: I found God, his tears fall on the holy book. I too, a woman. Me too, a girl. We too. We too. A family. God proliferating in a place abandoned by humanity. Chants. Igziabeher. Allah. God. Rebbee. Credo in Dio. Ululations. Elelelelelelel. Too much to take. Too much. Saba held her head in her hands. Dizziness. Vomit gushed out of her. She closed her eyes. She fainted.
Where is the midwife?
Has anyone seen the midwife?
It was Hagos stirring in his sleep who revived her.
THE TELEVISION
Saba was on her way back home from visiting the grave of the dead opera singer in the new graveyard, which was situated in a field north of the camp between the river and the open field, when she noticed Jamal sitting out and working by an oil lamp on a big cardboard box outside his hut. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips. The ex-cinema worker had announced the day before, as he marched away from the aid centre with two empty boxes, that television was coming to the camp. Delusional, said a few of those waiting for their food under the scorching sun. Delusional, others repeated. Labels and nicknames proliferated in this place of scarcity, as if they added to self-worth.
Not far from Jamal, two old men in colourful cardigans were talking about Asmara. Saba edged closer.
As far as I can remember, said a bald, clean-shaven man wearing a pink jumper, Cahsai sold his jewellery shop when the British defeated the fascists in Keren’s mountains. He had heard that once the British colonized a nation, they ransacked all its wealth. So, in a village only accessible by donkey, he hid his valuables under his mother’s pillow.
It’s too long ago, said his white-haired companion, who wore a blue cardigan with a gabi wrapped around his legs. You are too old for these detailed memories. Funny, though, how you seem to remember the bad things about the British while forgetting our life under Italian fascism.
I disagree, said the bald man, throwing his hand in air that was saturated with Jamal’s smoke. With age, we become selective, not forgetful. I recall a few things and I choose to remember the stories of love and passion. Cahsai’s wife, Madam Hadith, for example. I was having coffee on her veranda when she told me that Cahsai was going to the capital for business. She had a sad glint in her eyes then. She knew her husband had a lover in that city. A woman from the conquerors’ land took his heart, she cried. I held her. But how do you console a person dispossessed from love and land? Her shivering body that day awoke the heart I thought I lost when I saw what the Italians did to my father, God bless his soul.
But what has this story got to do with Italian fascism? said the white-haired man, as Jamal’s smoke circled above his head. This proves my point. You are old and mixing up stories. Like our land, our minds and memories have been franchised between the different European countries. That’s our tragedy.
The bald man shook his head. Ascolta, mia cara, he said to Saba in Italian. Saba sat down and leaned against the hut. She turned to her right. Jamal was drawing Benito Mussolini on a piece of cardboard that he had pegged on a clothesline between two huts in this lane. Saba’s attention returned to the bald man, who pulled his handkerchief from his cardigan pocket and rubbed his watering eyes. He continued his story: Madam Hadith, though, understood. That love can come from unexpected places and in its tide one can drift. We kissed. I was fifteen, and she was about to enter her fifties.
Saba was sitting next to Hagos on their blanket outside the hut when Jamal ambled past them. Television is here, announced some of the children marching behind him. We don’t need electricity to watch television.
Hagos, let’s go and watch, Saba said, about to stand up.
Hagos held her by her wrist. He gestured.
Why do I need to wait?
Hagos disappeared inside the hut and returned with a bag. He sat behind her on a stool. Saba looked at the giggling girls and boys gathered in front of them. The TV is over there, she said. Hagos pulled her head towards him. Rubbing her hair with almond oil, he straightened it with the bristle brush. Saba wondered if he had a crush on the Indian actress they once saw in a magazine back home. His obsession with changing her curly hair began then, as far as she could recall. He pinned a flower on the side of her hair. After spraying her neck with some of his perfume, he rose and pulled her up.
Saba and Hagos arrived at a dimmed part of the square where Jamal placed the cardboard box, his television, on a stool, next to an oil lamp shining from an adjacent stoo
l.
The children jumped up and down, urging Jamal to hurry up.
Saba sat next to Hagos in the front row. Mosquitoes buzzed in and out of the open TV box. The little actors emerged in the soft glow of the lamp.
They are here, the children said. The actors are here. Let’s wave.
The applause and the whistles attracted more spectators. Zahra arrived with her grandmother, who was holding a wooden mortar and pestle full of roasted coffee beans. The old woman declined a stool and instead squatted on the ground, beginning to grind the beans. I will stop when the television starts, she assured the children. The black powder scattered in the wind. Samhiya’s mother appeared too, saying she had caught a whiff of the grandmother’s Harar coffee.
Here, take it, I will come to drink coffee at yours after the show, said the grandmother, handing to Samhiya’s mother the coffee she had ground in the mortar.
Jamal slipped his cardboard characters, an Italian mother and her young daughter made from white cardboard, into the TV from a hole at the top. The women stood in front of the image of Mussolini drawn at the back of the box.
The Italian women were silent as if they were suffering from stage fright. When Jamal coughed, the cardboard puppets shook.
Saba waved at the Italian girl who, as narrated by Jamal, was in the luxurious living room of a villa in Tiravolo, Asmara’s posh residential neighbourhood.
The girl staggered to her mother on the other side of the soggiorno, pleading with her to understand that she was in love with a local man.
Saba leaned her head on Hagos’s shoulder as Jamal went on to tell this story of impossible love.
The mother turned her head away from Signorina. When a European country colonizes an African land, there is always this risk, she said. Our leaders have, in anticipation of such a thing, calculated for unfortunate situations like yours, just like taking into account African diseases.
SIGNORINA: My love is not a disease, Mother. And how about my father’s affairs with una nera?
MADRE: You know how men are, darling. They like to conquer a land and its people. The onus is on us to keep the purity of our race. This weight on a woman’s shoulders is a blessing from God.
Silence Is My Mother Tongue Page 7
