The girl’s back bent. Yet, Saba noticed, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t wince. Girls, she thought, are used to carrying things: firewood, water, food for their families, their brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, as well as themselves and their own sorrows. No amount of weight can crush a girl.
But Saba also knew that this girl’s real punishment was the reputation inflicted on her. From now on, she would be confined to the backroom of life, to a place where she would be forgotten, like a building left alone to decay, so that when a man drove past and sought shelter in her body as a last resort, in his drunken hour, he would find her infested with rats, bats, spiders, mites. This girl, Saba thought, would be a moral ghost story for generations to come.
Saba turned the wick down and leaned against the wall. There had been a storm that night, and the rain that began when Saba lay down on her blanket hadn’t stopped. She brought her legs up against her chest. Humid air seeped through the cracks in the window and the door.
The rain outside intensified, dispersing the warm air inside the hut. Hagos wrapped his arms around himself. He used to hold her as they slept. There were moments when Saba would wake up in the middle of the night to find her legs embraced by his arms. His cheek resting on her feet. A smile on his face.
She heard the rumbling of the sky, the hissing wind, and saw a flash of lightning through the window. She imagined the thatch stripped off the roof, the rain leaking through. Her head above the water, so she could hardly breathe.
She fell asleep with that thought, with the feeling of suffocation, her head leaning against the wall. And when she woke up some time later, both her mother and her brother were still asleep. Her blanket was dry, though her underwear was wet.
The next morning was sweltering, the breeze heavy with moisture. Little heaps of dry mud dotted the square, and the red rocks of the mosque were covered in sand, the outline of the mosque obscured, once again. God is everywhere, Saba repeated to herself, recalling the imam’s words on that first morning.
She was on her way to the river, barefoot. As she looked at her toes covered in mud, Saba felt that her dress had shrunk, travelling up on her growing legs, stretched by her widening hips. Her knees were visible. It seemed miraculous to her that she was still growing, while feeding on sardines and the powdered milk and rice that had arrived only recently.
Saba walked with firm steps. The muscles in her calves pressed her feet down. She left permanent footprints. This was her wilderness. She entered the damp narrow path that led to the river. A path like a black viper slithering between the grass, pushing against the cactuses and thorny shrubs. A lizard crept from underneath a rock. An old man came down the slightly sloping land from the opposite direction. He walked unaided, his gait youthful, his age visible only in his wrinkles and eyes that squinted to fit what was worth observing around him. The old man paused. Good morning, bella, he said.
Saba stopped. She stared at her shadow on the path, the outline of the bucket against the grass. Why are shadows always dark? she thought, recalling the time her landlord back home took her to his studio and showed her the negatives of the pictures he was developing. Then he came behind her in the darkroom and squeezed her waist and Saba discovered that everyone has a dark side.
The old man came closer, their shadows merging on the long, dry grass. You might not know it, he said to Saba, but I have been watching you ever since we arrived. My lady, you have grown beautifully.
A lady? The future had caught up with her while she stood in the same place. She had deemed time irrelevant, because it was as infinite as the air. But time moved even if everything else in the camp remained static.
The man reached his hand to her face. He caressed away a strand of her hair. We are lucky, it is a quiet morning, he said, stroking the side of her arm.
He pointed to the field, to the natural bed, wild grass, roasting sand, wet rocks teeming with insects. The old man took her hand but Saba didn’t move.
People have confused being a refugee with the end of life, he said. They have mistaken being in a camp with being inside a graveyard. We are human beings. We have our needs wherever we are. But I shouldn’t blame you all. I am not young and have suffered the misfortune of war and exile a few times already. I have learned never to leave my desires behind me in the ruins.
The grass around them shook. For a moment, she felt like an animal trapped. His pulse that pounded on her wrist calmed. The old man released her hand. I want a woman to be alive in my arms, he said.
And then he was gone.
She ran up the hill, past the trees, over shrubs, along the valley, zigzagging on another narrow passage, before she sprinted down the slope all the way to the bank of the river. There, she chose a quiet spot and perched on a small stone. Cool water lapped against her shins. There were a few girls scattered along the bank in the far distance to her right washing clothes. Heads bowed. Hands scrubbing.
Saba rubbed her underwear with scentless soap. Her hands weakened for a moment and the river current tugged away her piece of clothing. She threw herself into the water and swam further into the river. Holding her breath, she dived.
From the river, Saba walked deep into the bush and climbed to the top of an acacia tree, spreading her dress on the branches around her. She sat on another branch until it dried. She unwrapped her arms from around her chest, freeing her breasts. The hair under her arms was as long as the dense bush between her legs. She recalled the old man’s warning.
Don’t make the mistake I did when the first war found me when I was young and took suffering to heart, he said. Life is for living even if you are far away from home.
THE BUSINESSMAN
Saba was woken from sleep by the roar of engines. She followed Hagos out of the hut as dozens of lorries made their way into the camp and parked in a row. The square lit up as though it was daytime. A crowd gathered. Saba’s gaze darted over the dust-covered faces on the back of the lorries.
Unlike the previous occasion, when Saba and the current camp’s residents had arrived at this place, there was little weeping. The newcomers sat still on the back of the lorries. Heads dropped low. A woman near Saba raised her voice, asking: Why are you here? We hoped the war would be over. We hoped to make our way back instead of receiving you here.
We did not come here from our country, said a man, leaning over the frame of his lorry. We have been living in this country for years, but the authorities evicted us from the city early this morning without warning. We didn’t even have time to say goodbyes. They sent the army to our houses at dawn and now we are here.
He wept.
Attention. Attention, a voice came through a megaphone.
Saba looked up at the speaker standing on top of a lorry’s cabin, wearing dark glasses and white jellabiya, with a white imma wound around his head, Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. Attention drivers, said the man. Lorries can’t pass through the lanes to the east of the camp where these refugees need to go to. Drop them here and let them sort out the final metres themselves.
Drivers banged on the sides of their lorries: Come down. Hurry up.
Why the hurry? Saba wondered, recalling the way their driver, Tahir, had helped them.
The new refugees unloaded their belongings. Bed frames. Rolled-up mattresses. Cupboards. Tables. Chairs. Plastic flowers and plants. Sacks of fruit. Part of the city descended on the camp, carried on the backs of women and men whose lives had been interrupted earlier that morning to be dropped here, as though they were things.
An old man with a tape measure around his neck stood next to a foot-operated sewing machine fixed on top of a table, a half-sewn dress still under its needle.
A balding man with a sign – Barber of Taka Mountain – disembarked next. Further down the line, Saba saw a woman stepping out of the cab of the lorry in a silky black dress and red high heels. She stood and watched as a bed, a mattress, a wardrobe, three pieces of luggage and a turquoise beauty case were placed on the heads of men who
followed as she swung her way into a dark alleyway leading to the east of the camp.
By the next morning, word had gone around that a father and his son had been allocated three huts between them. Saba joined the crowd that had gathered in protest around the huts. Two were adjacent to each other, and a third, the largest, was a few metres to the right, at the foot of a steep hill where Jamal lived. Here low shrubs with little distance between them were scattered about. Red soil stretched all the way up the hill with overgrown grass to where Jamal stood watching in front of his hut.
A woman next to Saba spat in the direction of the biggest hut. They came with three lorries, she said, rocking the child tied to her back. I saw them unload last night. I can tell from the beds, the furniture and the number of boxes they brought that they are rich.
This explains it then, said the athlete. If you have money you can buy anything. Even three huts for two people.
But why would anyone with money come to a camp if they had the chance to buy off officials back in the city? Saba asked.
Curse on them, the woman said, drowning out Saba’s question. Six of us, me, my husband and our four children, live in one hut.
Let’s throw them out now, the athlete said.
The judge arrived in time to stop the athlete and his group of friends from carrying out the threat. We have been in this camp for a long time, the judge said. And suspicion festers in isolation. We must reserve judgement until we know all the facts.
Saba noticed a glow under the door of the largest hut. Jazz music poured out. The door opened and a young bare-chested man came out wearing only shorts. Papa vieni fuori adesso.
The music stopped.
We came to greet you, said the judge, shaking the father’s hand. Welcome to our camp. It is a simple place but we have safety and sometimes that is all you need to reflect on life and its purpose. If you need anything, everyone present here would be happy to help.
Saba followed the eyes of the tall, broad-shouldered man as he inspected the crowd. He was wearing a blue robe with a spotted silk scarf knotted around his neck. He smiled and strode back inside the hut and shut the door. Then he turned the music back on.
Saba lay on her blanket with her hands behind her head and stared at the thatched roof, thinking about the father and son in their three huts. Sweat rolled down from her underarms. Hagos arrived holding wild flowers. He sat next to his sister and turned up the wick of her lamp, his eyes shining against the flame as he leaned towards her. He showed her his own hairless armpits.
Hagos, I do like it when you shave and look after yourself, but I prefer to be the way I am.
Hagos didn’t say anything.
I am like a wild animal, she said. She made a growling sound and curled her hand into a claw, mimicking a lion.
She laughed.
Silence.
Are you upset with me, Hagos? Saba asked.
Hagos shook his head. And then nodded in confirmation.
You are trying to confuse me, she said. Is that a yes or a no?
Hagos chuckled and kissed Saba on her cheek. He then rubbed flower petals between her fingers.
Put some here, Saba said, pointing to his long neck. Actually, let me do it for you.
Hagos tilted his head to the side. Magic, Saba exclaimed as she perfumed his neck.
Some time later, Saba perched on a stool behind the open furnace and made tea for her mother and the midwife. The women were full of mirth as they reminisced about the days they cooked chicken stew every Sunday.
I miss that life, said the mother.
I remember, said the midwife. Even my husband preferred your chicken. God bless his soul.
Saba served tea to her mother and the midwife without looking at them and sat back on her stool. The square bathed in the silver light of the moon.
I used to make the best butter, Saba’s mother said, recalling how the landlord she worked for would even bring her minced beef so she could marinate his meat in her spicy butter. He loved kitfo made my way, she said.
That man, said the midwife. He had money but no morals. The Europeans emptied him of everything our culture instilled in him. Let’s hope that Eyob is different. I pray to the Lord that he is a man of God.
Who is Eyob? asked Saba’s mother.
That man who came with his son last night, said the midwife. Apparently he is self-made. He owned shops and a transport business back home. He also had a hotel in Addis Ababa, but that and everything he owned was confiscated by the dergue, curse on them.
A businessman! Saba only realized she had yelled out when her mother told her to be quiet. She turned away with a smile.
This tea tastes of home, said the midwife.
Hagos taught Saba how to make it, said the mother. God bless him.
He’s a blessed boy, said the midwife.
Saba drew her stool nearer to the women. Sipping on her tea, the midwife carried on speaking: Apparently Eyob opened a shop in the city before he lost that one too when he was forced to move to our camp with his son, Tedros.
Poor man, said Saba’s mother, shaking her head.
Don’t worry about him, said the midwife. I heard he brought with him some of his stock. He will be fine.
The following morning, Saba arrived in the deserted square, firewood tied to her back. She paused when she saw the new arrival standing in front of the makeshift aid centre. The businessman looked around him. Saba wondered whether he was prospecting the area, looking for a spot to start his business all over again. The frown that had sat between her eyebrows all morning disappeared.
When the businessman turned around, their eyes met. But Saba lost sight of him as soon as the square filled with people who made clouds of dust rise everywhere. Saba shuffled the weight of the wood from her back and, hunching forward, she whistled on her way home.
Inside the hut, she untied her ponytail. Running her fingers down the back of her neck, she raised her hair high. Sweat trickled down to her nape. With the businessman’s arrival, she could see the camp transformed. Months from now, she imagined the square as a replica of her hometown market. Shops dotted along two sides facing each other. Fresh vegetables and fruits ripening in the sun. A butcher’s knife wedging the meat in portions. Traders selling chickens hanging upside down from sticks on Fridays and Sundays. Clothes of the latest fashion swinging from a hanging rack outside a boutique. Women selling henna and perfume, or braiding hair.
And Saba was queuing for the weekly ration when Eyob and Tedros marched into the square carrying boxes. The son caught her eye. The cardigan tied around his neck reminded her of Jamal’s puppet actor, Dawit. The father and son stopped on a dry spot, a cracked patch fed with the sweat of those who waited under the sun for food aid. They set up their makeshift market stall.
We have coffee beans, Tedros said, opening boxes. Come closer, ladies and gentlemen, and look at what we brought you from our beloved country.
He took out a jar. Our country hasn’t forgotten you, he said. Come, taste it, let this honey dissolve the bitterness of exile in your veins.
The crowd around the improvised shop swelled. Saba watched from the side as people shoved and pushed each other to get near this piece of their country. Eyob and his son were squeezed out, their goods left unattended. Saba ducked when the businessman pulled out a handgun from his side pocket and shot into the air.
Four times.
I can still hear them ringing in my ears, said the midwife to the judge later, as the case was discussed by the committee of elders. How could he do this to us after we escaped violence to come here?
Let’s all calm down, the judge said.
No, said the athlete. You must deal with this man now before he kills someone, or we will throw him out of the camp.
Saba imagined the businessman being chased away, the change she envisaged him bringing to the camp disappearing with him. She left the gathering and headed to the businessman’s hut, even though the judge had warned them against approaching him until t
he court had passed its verdict.
Eyob was sitting on a chair outside the door to his hut, his eyes shut. Saba stepped closer. He had a round face with a pointy chin. Incisions on his left eyebrow reminded her of her grandmother, who had had eye problems that had to be treated this way. His short hair was greying in parts. Despite his presumed wealth, Saba found that there was a contained manner about the way he sat. Shoulders hunched, hands folded on his lap, legs pressed together. She wondered if he was still traumatized at having gone from living in a villa to a hut, from the city to a camp, from owning a business empire to being just another refugee.
The door behind the businessman opened and his son came out of the hut and stopped in the middle of a stretching movement when his eyes caught hers. Hey you. What do you want? he asked.
Saba recalled his melodic voice at the makeshift stall. His angry tone now slightly took the edge off his appeal.
Without answering him, Saba turned towards the businessman, now awake. He chased away the flies swarming around him and greeted Saba as if he was behind a counter of a shop. How may I help you, Signorina?
I saw you struggling as you tried selling in the square, Saba said, and I thought you might need an assistant.
We don’t want any now, Tedros said. But we will need men to help us unload the boxes that we will import from the city as soon as we open a shop in this camp.
A shop? When are you opening it?
What’s your name? Eyob asked.
Saba pictured herself standing behind the counter of the first shop in the camp. Saving money. Leave for the city to study.
Hello. The son clicked his fingers. Refining his Asmara accent for her ears, he asked again: Whot – is – yoor – naame?
Saba noticed his thin lips, ravaged, she assumed, by biting. Perhaps from nerves, she thought. She was wondering whether to share with him tips on dealing with the first days in a camp. Yooo understaaaaaand meee?
Tedros, basta cosi, the businessman said. Turning to Saba again, he asked: What’s your name?
Silence Is My Mother Tongue Page 11
