Crossbones
Page 15
“Wait, wait. Go back. Who are we talking about?”
“Dajaal,” Malik says.
Ahl has never met Dajaal, but he knows who he is.
“Now tell me. What’s happened to Dajaal?”
“They’ve made an attempt on his life.”
Ahl knows who “they” refers to.
“When did that happen, and how?”
“He had given me a lift back to the apartment and then drove home, alone,” says Malik. “Half a kilometer from the apartment block where Dajaal lives, a remote-controlled roadside bomb struck the passenger’s side of the car, the side where I normally sit when I am a passenger. Jeebleh and I are not sure if they meant to kill me.”
“How badly is Dajaal hurt?”
“Thank God, he is not hurt.”
“But there is damage to the car?”
“We’re taking it as a warning. To me.”
“You’re not planning to leave, are you?”
“No way.”
“Will you move in with Bile and Cambara?”
Ahl can’t help being cranky, the consequence of civil war crabbiness. He almost gives in to a tetchy thought that enters his mind, but thinks better of it, recalling that when they were younger and they could afford to be nasty to each other as siblings are, Ahl used to describe Malik as self-centered, someone who asked the world to come to him. But of course he won’t say that now.
“And you,” Malik says. “How have you been?”
Ahl tells him about meeting Fidno and his meeting with Xalan. For some reason he tells him about Wiila as well, and her connection to Fidno.
They agree to talk tomorrow. Malik gives him Bile’s phone number, along with Cambara’s and Qasiir’s, just in case, and then adds, as if for good measure, “You never know how things may pan out here.”
DAJAAL FINDS A DECENT PARKING SPOT IN A CUL-DE-SAC NOT FAR from the market, but Qasiir advises him to look for another, “safer” place, as dead-end roads pose unnecessary security risks. Dajaal concedes that Qasiir has a point and drives off, saying that he will join them.
Now Qasiir and Malik wait for him in the road. Malik has close to two thousand dollars in the front pocket of his trousers, and he can feel the lump of it as they speak. He is sure that the money is enough to buy a computer and a color laser printer. Even so, he is overwhelmed with the feeling that something is afoot; he smells it in the air. The sun is in his eyes, the breeze light, but his heart is heavy, very heavy. “Do you know where we are going?” Malik says.
Qasiir replies, “We’ll go to a computer shop I know, and where a friend of mine works. He informed me that they have only one computer of this kind in stock and I’ve reserved it in my name, thinking it would be unwise to give yours.”
“Tell me more.”
Qasiir obliges. “Here is how things work at the Bakhaaraha. Traders bring in items for sale, items they describe as ‘new,’ ‘almost new,’ or ‘as good as new.’ What many buyers do not know is that someone else has bought these items singly in the Emirates, say, pretending they are for his own use, and then imports them ‘sealed.’ It’s all part of the trading method here. When you buy a computer, the seller will not provide you, the end user, with a warranty, even if he sells it to you as new, almost new, reconditioned, or just resealed.”
“They don’t describe the true state of affairs?”
Dajaal joins them; he has found a convenient spot close enough. He and Qasiir agree that he will keep a discreet eye out, in the event someone is following them, or him. He vanishes into the melee of movement; Qasiir walks ahead, Malik on his heels, listening. They can make out Dajaal one second and lose him the next; both of them are watchful as they continue their conversation.
Qasiir says, “Someone buys a computer, a BlackBerry, or an iPod in Abu Dhabi for export and does not pay tax. This person then sends it with someone coming here to give it to someone living here. The gadget arrives in place of cash, as money sent home has come under severe scrutiny since September 2001. This way, no cash is being transferred, and no one will bother about it.”
“Until someone discovers it,” Malik says.
Qasiir pulls a face. He continues, “Moving money has become dangerous, and a number of the banks have been closed, accused of supporting terrorism. Some Somalis have ended up in Guantánamo or are currently detained in Sweden. The motto is this: Goods may move freely; money, because it may be dirty, may not.”
“How come you know all this?” he asks Qasiir.
“I worked as a computer parts salesman.”
“Nothing is as it seems,” Malik says.
When Qasiir announces for his benefit that they are now at the junction where the market complex begins, Malik thinks that “market” is an inaccurate name for the Bakhaaraha, which has become an institution unlike any other. This market looks nothing like anyone’s idea of an African market. It’s more a mix of trading traditions, with stalls made of zinc sheets on one side, proper shops farther up, and low stands where women sell tomatoes and onions, all of it smack in the center of what might once have been a thoroughfare. Then, to confound the visitor more, one sees all sorts of people milling around, and many more gathered at corners, loitering, watching, gathered in groups, bantering, a few strolling about with whips in their hands and conversing with men bearing guns. Then Malik remembers the Spanish proverb—that not everyone at a market is there either to buy or sell. This strikes him as no truer anywhere than it is at the Bakhaaraha Market in Mogadiscio.
The labyrinthine culs-de-sac of the market continue to play a political role similar to the one the Casbah performed in the Algerian struggle for independence from France. In 1993, when the Marines were engaged in a manhunt for StrongmanSouth, the rumor mills were in overdrive that the general held his meetings openly at his redoubt in a basement at the Bakhaaraha, that he had been at a wedding, or that he had said his prayers at one of the biggest mosques in the city. More recently, during the 2006 routing of the U.S.-supported warlords, it was the popular support of the unified management of the market complex that made the difference. The fact that the market supported the Courts with weapons and funds tipped the balance in their favor. There is a complexity to the Bakhaaraha, given its history and economic potential. It offers immense profits in a country where business doesn’t pay tax, as there are no state structures in place to levy or collect it.
Established in 1972 during the last tyrant’s reign, according to the research Malik gathered before coming to Mogadiscio, the Bakhaaraha functioned as an alternative to the state-imposed structures of economy, and provided political brinksmanship to those opposing the status quo. Those who manage this institution are aware that war is at a premium these days, even if peace is in great demand. Here at the market, they sell either commodity, at exorbitant prices. Qasiir says, “When you’ve lived in a civil war condition and have not known peace, you become someone other, someone different from your natural self, as many of us have done.”
The deeper they walk into the market, the more palpable the sense of excitement around them, an excitement brought on by a feeling of triumph. Maybe the Courts’ announcement that they “will defeat the invaders the moment they set foot on our soil, a Muslim soil,” is having its effect on the rabble. Malik catches snippets of conversation as they walk past, a couple of young men thrilled at the thought of volunteering to fight, one of them declaring that he is looking forward to drinking enemy blood. Malik finds it difficult to move forward, his feet leaden, his heart weighed down with sorrow. In his mind he plays host to many scenarios, in each of which he enterains similar premonitions: of terrible things afoot, of death making the rounds, of airplanes bombing cities, of tanks rolling eastward, of bullets, of lots of blood. A few young men gather into clutches near a stall whose owner offers to outfit anyone volunteering to fight with something that approaches a uniform—blue fatigues with a star in the center at the front and the back. Malik picks out Dajaal standing at the periphery of that group.
“Then they don’t have to pay tax.”
For an instant, he looks at Qasiir, almost unseeingly, because the sun is in his eyes. He squints and sees that Dajaal is joining them. Then he asks if in his opinion the invasion of the garrison town by the Courts is imminent.
“War is serious stuff,” says Dajaal, who doesn’t seem able to commit himself to a definite timetable, knowing the unpredictability of the men from the Courts, for whom he has nothing but disdain.
“But inevitable?”
“It does appear so.”
It feels as if a hurricane has been forecast. No one is safe.
Dajaal, moving forward with the habitual sure-footedness of an athlete embarking on a marathon, once again lets Qasiir lead the way, followed by Malik, and again he takes up the rear, alert for unusual movements, for men in balaclavas, wearing tunics with pockets big enough to conceal weapons. He knows that in the Bakhaaraha danger is a neighbor, lurking at the end of the labyrinth into which they are walking. An assassin may emerge from any shop, any corner; every passerby is suspect and suspicious. Here, everyone is moonlighting as something they are not, and there are many men and women, Dajaal knows, whose job is to inform on any unfamiliar face.
Dajaal notices a young man whose eyes are following Malik. When the young man brings out his phone and speaks briefly into it, Dajaal slows down, the better to take note of any immediate changes in the surroundings. He notices movement at the edge of another cluster of young men, as excited as track fans waiting for a derby. Dajaal catches a familiar face but can’t immediately place it from a distance. As he gets closer, he is surprised to see Gumaad, who is dressed in a motley combination of colors: his trousers a faded pink, shoes almost emerald green, the buttons of his shirt ranging from dark brown to orange and green. Yet neither Gumaad nor his mates seems aware of the clownlike clash of colors.
When Gumaad catches sight of Malik and Qasiir, then learns of their mission, he insists on accompanying them to the computer shop. He falls into step with them and his fellow revelers fall away. Dajaal waits. He checks the vicinity for hidden dangers and then assesses the situation before joining and walking alongside Gumaad.
He asks Gumaad, “What’s this merrymaking about?”
“We are celebrating a victory,” Gumaad replies.
“How can you think of celebrating the victory of a war not yet waged? This is war that has been lost before it’s been launched,” Dajaal says.
“We’re celebrating the triumph of the Courts,” Gumaad announces. He speaks loud enough for some of the passersby to overhear and approve of the sentiment he has expressed, by nodding their heads.
“Whom have the Courts defeated?”
“Ethiopia and her ally America,” Gumaad says. But this time he keeps his voice low.
Qasiir says, “You are crazy.”
“Why did I expect better of you?” Dajaal says to Gumaad.
Dajaal walks away, in truth because he wants to be alone with his thoughts for a few minutes. He is revisiting the three wars in which he served as an army officer, but what he pictures just now are not scenes of death in battle. The image in the forefront of his mind is of cattle running amok, chased by unseen lions; of goats driven by powers invisible from a place where peace reigns to a scrubland where nothing, absolutely nothing, not even cacti grow—a scrubland so barren and so waterless that the goats feed on stones that they dig from the drought-dry land. Close by, a short distance from where the cattle have now gathered to graze in the fenced-off brushwood, there are mines buried in the ground, mines planted by the various factions fighting for control of the scrubland. Now and then the goats unearth the mines and they blow up, slaughtering the goats that unearth them, as well as stray cattle; now and again, the mines blow up in the faces of humans, too.
As they make their way through the market, Gumaad asks Malik if he has received a message. Malik says that he hasn’t, avoiding eye contact with Qasiir, whom he sees is listening in. Then Gumaad explains that he came to the apartment earlier and brought along a young former pirate, straight from Xarardheere, the coastal town where he is based. “I thought you would be interested in talking to him,” he says.
“A pity I wasn’t there,” Malik says.
“A man whose voice I didn’t recognize answered the doorbell,” Gumaad says, “and he said through the spy hole that he was fixing the hot-water tank and you were out. Where did you go?”
Walking faster, Malik says, “Actually, I would be interested in talking to someone involved with funding piracy as well as a former pirate. I suspect a lot of the funders are based in Mogadiscio. Can you arrange that?”
“I know the very man to whom you can talk.”
“A funder or a former pirate?”
“A funder. Then we’ll see about a pirate.”
“That’ll be great,” Malik says. “Looking forward.”
They are at their destination, a little too soon for Malik, who wishes he had more time to take the measure of the market, now that he knows it is likely to serve as the center for the insurgency following the invasion.
The computer shop is sandwiched between Tawfik Bank and a mobile phone outlet, in a four-story building of stone. It is constructed as though to survive a heavy bombing, with walls so thick that Malik wonders if it once served as a bunker. The two tiny windows are both closed, but the air conditioner operates only fitfully, not wholly effective. The ceiling fans turn with the slowness of a headstrong donkey hauling a pulley. The shelves where the shops’ wares are displayed are deep, but of cheap wood, with the few nails that are meant to hold them in place not hammered in properly. On the whole, however, it is a well-stocked shop, with all sorts of gizmos and gadgets, from computers and printers (both inkjet and laser) to the latest mobile telephones.
There are half a dozen young salesmen, some dressed in white shirts and khaki trousers, most of them bright-eyed and young, long-limbed, birdlike in the thinness of their chests. A family resemblance runs through many of them: the high cheekbones, the irregular shapes of their front teeth, their shovel-nosed appearance and their prominent jaws. Only one of them is in a long, loose shirt reaching down to his knees. The majority of the customers are young, too. A number of them are in jeans, and not a single one of them is bearded. A couple of them are there in search of a bargain, or have brought along an item to exchange. The salesman in the long shirt seems to be the head of operations in the computer section of the business, because the younger salesmen go to him with their questions and to ask if it is possible to offer a discount. Each time, he disappears through a door in the back, and comes back a few minutes later with a reply.
Dajaal has waited outside, to keep an eye on who is coming and going, and Gumaad stays close to Malik while Qasiir waits his turn. He spots his acquaintance, a hungry-looking, toothy youth. After exchanging a brief greeting, Qasiir requests Toothy to tell Sheikh-Wellie that he has come to pay for the item he’d reserved over the phone.
Toothy returns and goes back to serving customers, his eyes avoiding Qasiir’s. Malik is taking notes for the article on the computer store he’s already planning, but he sees that Qasiir is puzzled as to why Sheikh-Wellie is taking so long to come out. They wait so long that Dajaal sticks his head in to inquire if all is well. Malik, remembering that it’s been their intention to make it look as if Qasiir, not he, is buying the computer, slips him the cash. Then he continues eavesdropping on a man haggling over the price of a BlackBerry and watching another man eagerly collecting his new purchase, packed in a big cardboard box, beside which an urchin shorter than the counter is standing to take it to the man’s car.
It is not Sheikh-Wellie but BigBeard who emerges from the back of the shop. He does not seem to see Malik or Gumaad, but comes right to Qasiir and starts to engage him in computer talk. Malik feels a chill go down his spine at the sight
of his nemesis. Qasiir is careful not to make eye contact with Malik, or in any way to acknowledge their having come together. To this end, he holds Malik’s wad of cash in his hand and waves it close to BigBeard’s face.
Eventually Qasiir and BigBeard arrive at a price, ten dollars more than what was previously agreed, and BigBeard returns to the rear of the shop. In his place arrives Sheikh-Wellie at last. A very dark, weak-eyed, timid fellow in his thirties, he is actually the deputy accountant at the computer shop, and he seems agitated and ill at ease dealing with a customer. He brings out the machine, deposits it before Qasiir, and abruptly requests that Toothy handle the sale. Then he, too, returns to the back of the shop.
After the obligatory, albeit perfunctory checks Toothy demonstrates that the machine is new and working properly, and Qasiir orders a color laser printer as well. Then he pays for both with Malik’s cash, and they depart without further incident.
Gumaad accompanies them to the car. Dajaal is stewing over the incident at the flat, about which he is certain Gumaad is lying. He can no longer stand the sight of the man. Gumaad reminds him of everything that has gone wrong with the destiny of the country. He wants to be rid of him but doesn’t want to pick a bone with him in public. So he says to Gumaad, “I would rather you found your way home from here, because we have other matters to attend to, Malik, Qasiir, and I.”
“I was hoping to talk to Malik.”
“Not now. Another time,” Dajaal says, dismissing him.
Gumaad goes, but Dajaal’s ire is not yet spent. His eyes, burning with rage, are now focused on Qasiir. He can’t even wait until they reach the car before he vents his spleen at his nephew. “What’s the matter with you, making us give more custom to BigBeard and then on top of that, striking an underhanded deal with your friend, whatever accursed name he answers to?”
“Let me explain, Grandpa.”
“Your behavior puts me to shame.”