by Dirie, Waris
“I won’t, Mama…” I spun away from her and ran into the darkness.
On the Road
We’d driven only a few kilometers when the elegantly dressed man pulled his Mercedes over. “I’m afraid this is as far as I’m going. I’ll let you out here so you can get another ride.”
“Oh…” This was disappointing news indeed, since after running away from my father, walking across the desert, starving for days, being stalked by a lion, whipped by a herdsman, and attacked by a truck driver, this gentleman in the Mercedes had been the best thing that had happened to me since I left home.
“Good luck on your journey,” he called from the open window and, waving, displayed his white teeth again. I stood in the sun on the side of the dusty road and waved back without much enthusiasm. I watched his car speed away into the shimmering waves of heat and started walking again, wondering if I’d ever make it to Mogadishu.
That day I got a few more rides, but they were for short distances; in between I kept walking. As the sun was going down, another big truck pulled over to the side of the road. Frozen with fear, I stared at the red brake lights, remembering my last experience with a trucker. While I stood there thinking, the driver turned around inside the cab to look at me. if I didn’t act soon, I knew he’d pull away without me, so I hurried up to the cab. The truck was a huge semi; when the driver opened the door from inside, I struggled to climb in. “Where are you headed?” he said. “I’m only going as far as Galcaio.”
When the driver said “Galcaio,” a great idea flashed into my mind. I hadn’t realized I was close to the city, but my rich uncle lived in Galcaio. Instead of wandering all over Somalia looking for Mogadishu, I could stay with Uncle Ahmed. In my mind we still had some unfinished business anyway, because I’d never received my shoes in exchange for taking care of his animals. I imagined eating a big meal at his fine home that night and sleeping there instead of under a tree. “Yeah, that’s where I’m going.” I smiled, liking the idea. “I’m headed to Galcaio, too.” In the back, the truck was loaded with food: heaps of yellow corn, sacks of rice and sugar. Looking at them reminded me of how hungry I was.
The truck driver was about forty, and a big flirt. He kept trying to strike up a conversation; I wanted to be friendly, but I was disgustingly scared. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was interested in messing around with him. Looking out the window, I tried to imagine the best way to find my uncle’s house, since I had no idea where he lived. But then one of the driver’s comments caught my attention: “You’re running away, aren’t you?”
“Why do you say that?” I said in surprise.
“I can just tell I know you are. I’m turning you in.”
“What NO! Please, please… I’m going. I’ve got to go. I just want you to take me… take me to Galcaio. I’ve got to go visit my uncle there. He’s expecting me.” The look on his face told me he didn’t believe me, but all the same he kept driving. My mind raced ahead where should I tell the driver to let me out? After this story, that my uncle was expecting me, I couldn’t admit I didn’t know where to go. As we entered the city I looked around at the streets crowded with buildings, cars, and people; this was much bigger than the village I’d encountered earlier, and for the first time I realized what I was up against trying to find Uncle.
From high up in the cab of the semi, I nervously looked down on the confusion of Galcaio. To my eyes, the city was mass chaos, and I was torn between not wanting to get out of the truck, and feeling I’d better get out damn quick before this guy decided to turn me in as a runaway. When he pulled up next to an outdoor market, and I saw the stalls full of food, I decided to go. “Hey, um, friend, I’ll get out here. My uncle lives down there,” I said, pointing toward a side street and jumping out the door before he could stop me. “Thanks for the lift,” I called as I slammed the door.
I walked through the market in astonishment. Never, ever in my life had I seen so much food. I remember thinking how beautiful it was! Piles of potatoes, mountains of corn, racks of dried pasta. And my God, all the colors! Bins piled high with bright yellow bananas, green and golden melons, and thousands and thousands of red tomatoes. I had never seen these foods before, and I stood in front of a display of tomatoes. This moment was the beginning of my love of luscious, ripe tomatoes, and to this day I’ve never gotten enough of them. I stared at the food, and all the people walking through the market stared at me. The woman who owned the stand headed toward me, frowning. She was a complete mama. (In Africa, ‘mama’ is a term of respect for women. It means you’re mature, you’ve come of age, and in order to deserve this title you must actually be a mother.) All her colors and scarves were flashing. “What do you want?” this mama demanded.
“Please, can I have some of this?” I said, pointing to the tomatoes.
“Do you have money?”
“No, but I’m so hungry ‘
“Get out of here GO!” she cried, shooing me away from her stall with one hand.
I went to another vendor and started in again. This woman said, “I don’t need any beggars hanging around in front of my place. I’m trying to run a business here. Go on, go away.”
I told her my story, that I needed to find Uncle Ahmed, and asked if she knew where he lived. I assumed since my uncle was a wealthy businessman, the people of Galcaio would know him. “Look, shut up. You can’t come here from out in the bush and start shouting like that. Sh-hhh. Have some respect, girl. You have to be quiet. Quiet. Don’t be yelling out your family names here in public.” Staring at her, I thought, Oh, Lord, what is this woman talking about, and how am I ever going to communicate with these people?
Off to one side of us, a man leaned against a wall. He called out, “Girl, come here.” I went to him excitedly and tried to explain my predicament. The man was about thirty, a very ordinary looking African man nothing special but he had a friendly face. He said patiently, “Just hush. I can help you, but you’ve got to be careful. You can’t go around yelling out the name of your tribe like that. Now what tribe are you?” I told him all I knew about my family and Uncle Ahmed. “Okay, I think I know where he lives. Let’s go and I’ll help you find him.”
“Oh, please please. Can you take me there?” “Yeah, come on. Don’t worry, we’ll find your man.” We walked away from the busy market area, heading down one of the shady side streets. The man paused in front of a house. “Are you hungry?” This, of course, was pitifully obvious to anyone with eyes.
“Yes.”
“Well, this is my house. Why don’t you come in and I’ll give you something to eat, then we can find your uncle?” I gratefully accepted his offer.
When we went inside, I was struck by a very peculiar smell, some strange odor that I’d never smelled before. He sat me down and brought me food. As soon as I’d taken the last bite, he said, “Why don’t you come lie down with me and have a nap?”
“A nap?”
“Yeah, take a rest.”
“No, please, I just want to find my uncle.”
“I know, I know. But first let’s have a nap. It’s siesta time. Then don’t worry, we’ll go find him.”
“No, please. You go ahead I’ll wait for you here. I don’t mind.” Even though it was siesta time, I had no intention of lying down with this strange man. I knew at this point that something was very, very wrong. But ignorant little girl, I didn’t know what to do about it.
“Look, little girl,” he said in an angry tone, ‘if you want me to take you to find your uncle, you better lie down and have a nap.” I knew I needed this man’s help to find Uncle Ahmed. And as he grew increasingly belligerent and insistent, I became frightened, so I finally did the worst possible thing I could have done. I gave in to his suggestion. Of course, the minute we lay on his bed, a nap was the last thing on his mind. In two seconds this fucking ass was trying to get on top of me. When I struggled and turned away from him, he slapped the back of my head. Don’t say a word, I thought; but seizing my opportun
ity, I leaped from his arms and tore out of the room. As I ran, I heard him calling from his bed, “Hey, little girl, come back here…” Then I heard a low laugh.
I bounded onto the dark street crying hysterically and fled back to the market seeking the safety of other people. An old mama came to me, a woman about sixty years old. “Child, what’s the matter?” She took my arm firmly and made me sit down. “Come, come. Talk to me tell me what’s wrong.” I couldn’t bring myself to admit what had just happened. I was too embarrassed and ashamed to ever tell anyone. I felt like such a fool, such a stupid little fool because I had let the whole episode happen by going into his house. Between sobs I explained to her that I was looking for my uncle, and I couldn’t find him.
“Who is your uncle? What’s his name?” “Ahmed Dirie.”
The old mama lifted her bony finger and pointed toward a bright blue house diagonally across the corner. “It’s right there,” she said. “You see that? That’s your house.” It was right there. All along, it was right there, across the street from where I had stood begging that bastard to help me find my uncle. Later I realized that when I was telling him my story, he knew exactly who I was, and exactly who my uncle was. The old woman asked me if I wanted her to take me there. I looked at her hard, because now I didn’t trust anyone. But in her face I could see that she was a real mother.
“Yes, please,” I answered faintly.
We walked across the corner and I knocked on the door of the blue house. My aunt opened the door and stared at me in shock. “What are you doing here?” The old woman turned and walked away.
“Auntie, I’m here!” I replied stupidly.
“What in Allah’s name are you doing here? You ran away, didn’t you!?”
“Well…”
“I’m taking you back,” she said firmly.
Uncle Ahmed, my father’s brother, was amazed to see me as well, but particularly amazed that I was able to find his house. My explanation skipped the details of clobbering a truck driver with a boulder and nearly being raped by his neighbor. However, even though he was impressed with my ability to make my way across the desert and track him down, he had no intention of letting me stay. Uncle worried about who was going to look after his animals a task that had been my job for years, and for all my trouble he’d bought me a pair of flip-flops. All my father’s older children were gone from home now. I was the oldest one left the tough one who was more dependable than the younger children. “No, you have to go back home. Who’s going to help your mother and father with all the work? What are you going to do if you come here? Sit on your ass?” Unfortunately, I didn’t have good answers for any of these questions. I knew there was no point telling him I ran away because Papa was making me marry a white-bearded old man. Uncle would look at me like I was crazy and say, “So? So? Waris, you have to get married. Your father needs the camels…” There was no point trying to explain that I was different from my family; I loved my parents, but what they wanted for me wasn’t enough. I knew there had to be more to life, although I wasn’t sure what. After a few days I learned Uncle had sent a messenger to look for my father, and Papa was on his way. I knew Uncle Ahmed’s two sons well because they used to come and stay with my family during holidays when they weren’t in school. They helped us care for their animals, and taught us some Somali words. At the time, this was the tradition: the kids who went to school in town came out into the desert over break to teach the nomadic children. While I was staying with them in Galcaio, my cousins mentioned they knew where my oldest sister, Aman, was: when she ran away from home, she went to Mogadishu and got married. I was overjoyed at this news, because when she left I never heard from her again; she might as well have been dead. I realized talking to them that my parents had known where Aman was, but she’d been banned from the family, so they never spoke of her.
When I found out my father was coming to take me home, we hatched a plan. The boys gave me directions on how to find my sister once I arrived in the capital. And one morning they led me to the road out of town, then gave me what little money they had. “There you go, Waris,” they said, pointing. “That’s the way to Mogadishu.”
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. Remember when my father gets here, you don’t know what happened to me. The last time you saw me was this morning at the house, okay?” They nodded and waved goodbye as I started walking.
The journey to Mogadishu was excruciatingly slow. It took days, but at least now that I had a little money, I was able to buy something to eat along the way. My rides were sporadic and I walked many miles in between. Frustrated with my slow progress, I finally paid for a ride aboard an African bush taxi, a big truck with about forty people aboard. These trucks are common in Africa. After dumping their load of grain or sugarcane, they’ll take passengers back in the empty trailer. Around the bed of the truck is a wooden frame like a fence; sitting or standing beside it, the people on board look like children in a gigantic playpen. The bush taxi is also crowded with babies, luggage, household goods, furniture, live goats, and crates of chickens, and the driver will pack on as many paying passengers as he can get. But after my recent experiences, I was willing to be crowded in with a large group, rather than going alone with strange men. When we got to the outskirts of Mogadishu, the truck stopped and let us off at a well where people had gathered to water their animals. I cupped some water in my hands and scooped up a drink, then splashed some on my face. I’d noticed that by this time there were many roads, since Mogadishu is the largest city in Somalia, with a population of seven hundred thousand. I approached two nomads standing with their camels and asked, “Do you know which of these roads goes to the capital?”
“Yeah, over there,” the man said, pointing. I headed off in the direction he’d shown me, walking toward the interior of the city. Mogadishu is a port city on the Indian Ocean, and it was beautiful then. Walking along, I craned my neck to look at the stunning white buildings surrounded by palm trees and brightly colored flowers. Much of the architecture was built by the Italians while Somalia was an Italian colony, giving the city a Mediterranean feel. The women walking past me wore gorgeous scarves in yellow, red, and blue prints. The long scarves circled their faces, and they’d hold them under their chins as the sea breezes lifted the ends. The filmy fabric floated gracefully behind the women as they undulated down the street. I saw many Moslem women with scarves draped over their heads, the dark veils covering their faces altogether. I stared at them, wondering how they could find their way. The city sparkled in the bright sun and all the colors seemed electrified.
As I walked, I stopped people and asked directions to my sister’s neighborhood. I had no street address but planned to repeat my system of finding Uncle Ahmed in Galcaio; once I got to her area, I’d go to the market and ask if anyone knew her. However, I would not be so gullible this time about letting strange men ‘help me.”
When I arrived in the neighborhood, I quickly found a market and strolled through examining the food, deciding what I would buy with the last of my precious Somali shillings. Finally, I bought some milk at a stall run by two women; I chose them because their milk was the best price. But when I took the first sip of it, I knew something was fishy it didn’t taste right. “What’s wrong with this milk?” I asked.
“Nothing! Nothing is wrong with our milk!” “Ah, come on. One thing I know about is milk. It doesn’t taste right. Did you put water in it or something?” Finally they admitted they mixed the milk with water so they could sell it cheaper. Their customers didn’t mind. Our conversation continued and I told them I’d come to the capital to find my sister, asking if they knew Aman.
“Yeah, I thought you looked familiar!” one of the women cried. I laughed, because when we were little, I was the spitting image of my sister. They knew her because she came to that market every day. The milk lady called to her young son and told him to show me where my sister lived. “Take her to Aman’s house, then come straight back here!�
�� she commanded the boy.
We walked along the quiet streets; by now it was siesta time and people were resting from the heat of midday. The boy pointed out a tiny shack. I walked inside the house and found my sister asleep. Shaking her arm, I woke her up. “What are you doing here…” she said groggily, looking at me as if I were a dream. I sat down on the bed and told her my story, that I had run away just as she did many years ago. At last I had someone to talk to who I knew would understand. She would understand that at thirteen, I just couldn’t bring myself to marry this stupid old man for Papa’s sake.
Aman told me how she had come to Mogadishu and found her own husband. He was a good, quiet man who worked hard. She was expecting their first child, which was due in about a month. But when she stood up, she certainly didn’t appear to be a woman about to give birth. At six foot two, she merely seemed tall and elegant, and in her loose African dress, she didn’t even look pregnant. I remember thinking how beautiful she was, and hoped I carried my baby so well when I was expecting.
After we talked for a while, I finally worked up the courage to ask the question I’d been dying to ask: “Aman, please. I don’t want to go back can I stay here with you?”
“So you ran away and left Mama with all the work,” she said sadly. But she agreed I could stay as long as I needed. Her cramped place had two rooms: a tiny one where I slept and another room she shared with her husband. We seldom saw him, however; he left in the morning and went to work, came home for lunch, took a nap, then went back to work, returning late in the evening. When he was in the house he had so little to say that I can barely remember anything about him his name even, or what he did for a living.
Aman gave birth to a beautiful little girl and I helped take care of the baby. I also cleaned the house and carried our clothes outside and scrubbed them, hanging them on the line to dry.
I went to the market and did the shopping, learning the fine art of haggling with the vendors over prices. Mimicking the locals, I walked up to a stand and immediately demanded, “How much?” The ritual might as well have been scripted, because every day it was the same: a mama places in front of me three tomatoes, one big one and two smaller ones, and quotes me the price I’d expect to pay for three camels.
