Saba nodded, smiling. But when she held the bedcovers in her hands, about to dip them into the bucket, she froze. She pushed her stool back and leaned against the wall. As she shut her eyes to bring herself back to the task at hand, she saw Nasnet rolling on the sheet, arms reaching over her. Nasnet was trapped, unable to breathe under the weight of a man. Different men. Yet, Saba couldn’t reconcile the Nasnet she had seen and talked to with the image in her mind.
Saba opened her eyes and plunged her hands into the bucket. She expected the bedcovers to be soaked in men’s sweat, their release. But there was no trace of their presence in the clothes she was washing, only a tinge of floral-scented perfume. There was no sign either of Nasnet’s nervousness on the sheets or of perspiration on her clothes. Saba wondered if only true love would bring out a lasting aroma.
Nasnet moved back and forth between her hut and the kitchen. Every time she saw Nasnet, Saba scrutinized her face, as if to unearth the pain, the unhappiness, that a sex worker must feel. She couldn’t imagine that Nasnet liked her job.
But Nasnet’s laughter infected Saba. She couldn’t remember laughing as much as when she was around her new boss – it was as if pleasure was what everyone sought and obtained in Nasnet’s presence. The next shift couldn’t come soon enough.
Her mother, though, found out about Saba’s new job soon after.
Late one morning, after she had arrived home from Eyob’s, Saba went straight in to lie on her blanket without acknowledging the midwife and the two other women sitting with her. Saba wanted to have a little nap before heading out to Nasnet.
What have I done to deserve this? Saba heard her mother’s complaint, but she snored, pretending to be sleeping.
And what will Mr Eyob say if he found out your daughter is working for a sex worker now? the midwife asked. He will abandon her. She doesn’t need the money. Eyob has plenty of it. She did it to spite you. Your dream is over before it started.
Why, what have I done to you?
Saba? Your mother is talking to you, get up and listen.
Saba could barely see the midwife’s green eyes through the smoke twisting off the incense burner. The hut was sweltering. Saba’s chest tightened.
Do you know how humiliating it is for a man to see someone he wants to marry working for a prostitute? Is that what you want to be too, a whore?
The midwife’s words snatched Saba out of her lethargy. She was up on her feet: No. I want to be a doctor. I want to make my own money, save my own money so I can go to school somewhere else. Now, I need to sleep.
Saba lifted her blanket off the floor, lay on the bare ground and spread the cover over herself, though she could still hear the women discussing the problem of Saba, talking at the same time, interrupting each other, yelling to make their point heard.
They complained about her stubbornness, her selfishness, her lack of sensitivity, complaints she had always ignored as if they were spoken in a foreign language. Saba wondered if it was possible for all these women to be wrong about her.
She is not young any more, the midwife said. When we were her age, we cared for our families and some of us even bore children. Saba’s only concern is herself. When was the last time I slept and ate without interruption? I am awake most nights going from one hut to another, attending pregnant women, caring for the sick. In our culture, for girls, the pain and feelings of others come first. But I promise you, I will expel your daughter’s demons. If she keeps on this path, you will die before your time. Look at you.
Saba threw off her blanket and looked at her mother. Her frazzled grey hair strayed from under her scarf. Her sharp bones framed her dress like a clothes hanger. And according to the midwife it wasn’t due to life in the camp or the pain of exile. It was because of Saba. Saba was killing her mother.
The midwife opened a bag and prayed as she poured berbere on the incense burner. The embers sparked and sizzled. Smoke rose everywhere. It formed a barrier between Saba and the women inside the hut, women who sought to make her better. Burn her unfeminine traits on this fire, as if this were chaff clinging to her skin.
Mother, said Saba. I am sorry I am not the kind of daughter you always wanted to have. I never will be.
Saba left to go back to work. When she stood in front of Nasnet, her boss said, You smell as if you have been cooked in chilli. What happened?
Silence.
Have they found out you are working for me? Silence.
They did, didn’t they?
Saba sat in front of the bucket.
No, you are not working today, said Nasnet. Here, come inside and take a shower.
Saba didn’t move.
Come, said Nasnet. Please.
Saba gave her hand to the woman, who led her inside the hut where only men had been. Saba cast her eyes around. To the left of the door, there was a blue plastic chair lined up against the wall. Right next to it, under the window, stood a small table. Covered in colourful fabric, it was arranged with a set of china cups and silk flowers in a blue plastic vase. Further, next to the tape recorder on top of an upside-down sardine box, there was a slim wardrobe, and next to that the bed. For Saba, a bed had up to now been a place to sleep, study and dream. Here, it had a different purpose altogether. She looked away.
Come on, get ready, Nasnet said, setting off to prepare the bath. She rolled up a jute rug and lined it up against one side of the hut, and drew out a large washing bucket from under her bed. Placing it by the pole, Nasnet then strode out of the hut. Saba’s eyes darted around the hut again. The amount of furniture made the hut smaller, but the decoration and colour reminded her of when she was in her own room back home.
Nasnet returned with scented soap, shampoo and a pail with water which she placed next to the washing bucket. She gasped. Pressing a hand to her chest, Nasnet asked, My God, Saba, what happened to your thighs?
Nothing. Saba lowered herself into the bucket.
I’m sorry, Nasnet said, hugging Saba close.
Saba sank into her friend’s embrace, closing her eyes. I’m fine now. But they wanted to silence me head to toe. Shut my mouth and cut off the lips of my vagina. But I am still talking.
Nasnet’s tears fell. I am sorry, she said to Saba. Maybe I shouldn’t cry but I can’t help it.
Saba smiled. Come on now then, give me a bath.
Sometimes you are like a man, so forcibly charming, Nasnet blurted out.
Saba didn’t deny the comparison. That’s what the midwife has told me since I was a little girl. She thinks it is an insult.
They laughed again before Nasnet said, Come darling, let me wash you. I need to get ready for work.
Do you hate the midwife? Saba asked.
Why would I? Nasnet said, now washing the soap out of Saba’s hair.
She gave away your secret, Saba said.
White froth rolled down her chest.
I didn’t choose for my job to be a secret, Nasnet said. It’s ironic, though. Society makes it so and then they try to oust you and ostracize you for the secret they have demanded and imposed in the first place.
Saba’s eyes met Nasnet’s. What, Nasnet said, you didn’t expect a prostitute to talk like this?
Saba smiled.
I love those dimples, Nasnet said, pinching Saba’s cheek.
After cleaning Saba’s back, Nasnet passed the soap to Saba. Here, you do the rest, she said, sitting on her bed.
Did you do that because of your job? Saba asked Nasnet, pointing to the three patterned lines made of small cone shapes tattooed across Nasnet’s neck.
No, I did this when I was seven. I saw the daughter of a rich landowner wearing a beautiful necklace, and asked my mother if I could have one too. My mother couldn’t afford it, but a friend of hers suggested a tattoo on my neck instead. For days, I refused to accept my mother’s proposal. I thought she didn’t love me if she wouldn’t even buy me a simple necklace. But my mother’s friend told me that the Queen of Sheba had a tattoo even though she could buy anything she
wanted, so I finally accepted. Besides, I told myself then, a tattoo necklace would never break or get lost.
Nasnet paused and, craning her head backwards, she asked: Do you like it?
Saba nodded: It makes you look special. It goes well with the clothes you have.
Both laughed. Nasnet more so. Saba watched her laughter again, as if hoping to learn from it, and embrace it.
Saba stood, her feet still in the water, her shadow on the wall of Nasnet’s hut rising with her, the reflection of her nipples shifting with the flickering of the oil lamp. And when she was about to leave Nasnet’s hut, smelling of coconut cream, Nasnet hugged her. With their cheeks still touching, Saba whispered a thank you.
Saba, Nasnet said. You know this is a camp. People are generous with what they have in the hope they will get something they don’t. So if you want to borrow some privacy, I can lend you my hut. You can come any time.
Saba looked at the bed with the thick mattress and blue cover. She imagined the men in this bed, imagined Nasnet under them. Nasnet turned Saba’s head away. As if she could read her eyes, Nasnet said: Luckily, I don’t break easily. And I feel you are someone who doesn’t either.
But Saba returned home absent-minded. The happiness she experienced around Nasnet brought anxiety to her. Her relationship with the sex worker felt like a deliberate rebellion against her mother. In truth, though, Saba knew that everything she loved, everything she did naturally, would meet with disapproval. Saba’s instincts were the cause of her mother’s anguish. My existence itself is a crime, Saba thought, back in her hut. She sat on her blanket and closed her eyes.
The door was flung open. Zahra came in. Saba stirred. Can you not knock?
I’m sorry I surprised you.
What do you want? Saba asked. I need some sleep.
We ran out of salt and oil and I thought I could cook our lentils here and share them between us. But maybe you want me to go?
Saba shrugged.
Are you all right, Saba?
Yes.
Saba? What’s going on?
It’s the mother, said Saba. I wish she was more like yours.
How do you know my mother would have been different? asked Zahra.
She is a fighter, said Saba.
All women are fighters, said Zahra. It is just that we fight different wars. My mother carrying a gun doesn’t make her stronger than your mother, who’s been fighting for you since your father left.
Is that what your grandmother said?
I am capable of thinking for myself, Saba. Anyway, I came to cook with you. That’s all. And by the way, you should stop calling your mother The Mother.
As she turned, about to leave, Zahra said, I am going now, but maybe by the time we see each other again, you will have remembered your mother’s name.
THE MOTHER’S NAME
Mehret.
SHARING
One evening, Saba and Hagos were sitting outside their hut when Samhiya stopped by. I just want to say good evening to the beautiful brother and sister, said Samhiya.
Saba felt Hagos squeeze her hand tightly as his eyes followed Samhiya’s swinging hips. Saba felt his warmth surge through her arm.
Soon after, the judge and the committee of elders arrived in the square. They stood between the mosque and the spot where the priest held his daily prayers. Tradition is the third religion in the camp, Saba thought, as the judge mounted a chair and began preaching to the residents through his megaphone.
He squinted as he looked across the crowd, even though the sun had already sunk behind the hill. Either plenty of time has passed since we came here, or some age quicker than others, Saba thought, as she inspected her own body for signs of change. The wounds Saba had amassed over the time she had been in the camp had healed but left permanent reminders of a clock ticking, like the black patches on her left forearm and both knees.
Oil lamps flickered. A haze of yellow-orange light stretched across the square. Faces like flowers bloomed in the evening.
I am going to the toilet, Saba said to her brother.
Hagos stood up and put on his shoes. Holding hands, the brother and sister walked past the judge as he concluded his lecture with a message:
The world has forgotten about us, but we could not have lasted in this place without understanding that our existence is dependent on us sharing with each other.
Saba wrapped an arm around Hagos and tickled his waist with her long nails.
Saba dipped her hands into the bucket, scrubbing the dirt out of the father and son’s shirts, as gently as she did to her own skin. The life of clothes had to be extended for as long as possible. The morning sun followed its path in the sky, dispersing heat in its wake. Eyob left his hut barefoot, tucking in his shirt, buttons still undone. Greying hair clustered on his chest. He greeted passers-by and waved at those standing in the distance.
The businessman is smiling at us, some of the children said, applauding, only to flee when Eyob’s whistling drew Tedros out of the hut.
I thought you said whistling was satanic, eh Papa? he laughed.
Parents are contradictory, Eyob said, smiling at his son.
Well, I am happy to see you in a good mood, Tedros said. But what happened to you? You look like a refugee yourself now.
Tedros laughed and sat next to his father. He clicked his fingers. Saba, tea.
Saba, though, didn’t respond to her name wrapped in Tedros’s morning breath. Eyob took the pot that Saba had prepared off the furnace and poured tea for his son.
The father and son talked as if Saba wasn’t there.
My younger self is finding a new life in a refugee camp, said the businessman. It is never too late to be who you truly are. Hagos taught me that.
Saba stopped and pulled her hands out of the bucket. She looked up. Her face met the sun, yet Eyob’s words burnt her inside with the thought that her brother, in Eyob’s eyes, was a source of wisdom, of change, and not a recipient of pity or sympathy.
Tedros’s call woke her from her reverie. No dreaming here, he said.
Saba resumed the washing, her ears opened to the father and son’s conversation.
Eyob and Tedros reminisced about the past. About the time a five-year-old Tedros clung to their maid’s breasts and had to be pulled away. They laughed. My aunt always said you should have married her, said Tedros.
Yes, my dear sister thought of every woman I met as a suitable wife for me.
She wanted you to be happy, Father.
Why do people assume you only find happiness when you are married? Eyob said, raising his voice.
Like my aunt said, Father, you are handsome, well-educated, wealthy. Any beautiful woman would fall at your feet, said Tedros.
Yet, a beautiful woman left me.
Tedros didn’t respond.
I am sorry to remind you of your mother, Eyob said.
I’ve lived a happy life without her, his son replied.
Tedros, please. I want you to understand that your mother had reasons for leaving me.
And leaving her two-year-old child too?
Regardless of what your mother did or didn’t do, she alone is responsible for her actions, not all women.
So why didn’t you marry then, after she left?
Eyob didn’t answer. He pressed his palms onto the arms of his chair and pushed himself up. He entered the hut and shut the door. Saba sat straight, soapy water dripped from her hands. Tedros’s eyes rested on her naked feet. They travelled up her legs, free from her dress that had slid above her knees to expose new bruises, old gashes and purple thighs. He went into the kitchen.
Saba hung the clothes on a line and as she looked up the hill, she saw Jamal digging two long poles into the ground. A large white sheet was drying on a clothesline in front of his hut. His flat cap fell as he straightened his back and wiped his forehead.
THE RAZOR
Weeks after Saba returned from the hospital having had treatment for her burns, the midwife entered her room
holding a razor, the mother behind her. Saba had yet to understand why the midwife had become obsessed with her vagina, but the woman’s persistence about executing this rite, about ridding Saba of a piece she carried on her body unaware, made her wonder if it was for her own good, as important as washing the dirt off her skin, as necessary as amputating an infected limb. But the thing the midwife aimed her razor at as her mother restrained her was the very thing Saba touched to pleasure herself. So that afternoon, Saba called for Hagos as she fought to release herself from her mother’s grip. Hagos. Help me. Hagos?
No answer.
Saba pushed her mother out of the way. The midwife, though, blocked the door with her body. Do you want to be a prostitute? she said to Saba, fury in her eyes. Please sit down. We are doing it for your own good.
WOMEN DYING LIKE MEN
A meeting was called by the aid workers. The Englishman and his assistant stood on a couple of chairs placed next to each other. Saba sweated. She wondered why the aid coordinator liked to have his meetings when the sun was at its strongest.
Saba inspected the Englishman’s tanned face as the athlete, standing ahead of her, joked to the light-skinned assistant that soon he would look the more English of the two.
Hopefully we will be back home before we see such a miracle, said the praise poet.
The crowd laughed, and a few shouts of Amen rang out. Saba was hugged from behind. She turned her head to find Zahra’s chin resting on her shoulder. I love you, said the fighter’s daughter.
Saba caressed Zahra’s cheeks.
Do you want to come to our hut tonight to read my mother’s pamphlets? Zahra asked.
Yes, Saba said. If your grandmother will let me touch them.
Zahra laughed. She’s just worried they will be damaged.
Let’s listen, said Saba. The Englishman is talking.
We have good news to share with you, said the Englishman via his interpreter, after paying tribute to the elders for their patience and for managing to maintain peace in the refugee camp. I am happy to report that our request for a large storage building has been accepted. We will soon have storage large enough to stock better food and extra blankets. God willing.
Silence Is My Mother Tongue Page 13
