Jeebleh asks, “And what shape have your current perceptions taken now that you are back in Mogadiscio?”
“Every thought is centered here, on Bile.”
“Are you saying that nothing else matters?”
“I am saying that my world is here, where Bile and I are, a world on the periphery that has become a center for me,” she says.
“It’s amazing—how we accommodate the changes.”
She says, “I have been out of Mogadiscio only once since coming here, when I flew to Nairobi with Bile for his prostate operation. We had immense difficulties arranging for his visa into Kenya. I have no idea when or if I will return to Toronto. I can’t see myself living there alone.”
“You can’t imagine my joy at meeting you.”
“And I you.”
He can’t begin to imagine how she will respond to the thought that has just intruded upon his mind. He wonders if, in the midst of this easygoing conversation, this sudden question will encumber their rapport.
He asks, “What of your marriage prospects?”
He feels easy in his mind only after she laughs, his heart gladdening when she sighs and smiles. He is pleased to hear the jauntiness in her tone when she says, “You’re bull’s-eye direct for someone who is otherwise very refined in his manners.”
“I am worried about Bile.”
“How will marriage allay this?”
“It’ll get the religionists off both your backs.”
She says, “I doubt if marrying would achieve that goal. They lack goodwill. Why not think of me as a nurse caring for a convalescing man? They have outlawed contact between the sexes; soon they will forbid women driving. Where will all this end? Only male nurses for male patients? Female patients able to consult only female doctors? And this in a country short of female nurses to begin with, let alone female doctors?”
“How do they view it when Dajaal drives and you’re in the car, sitting beside him in the front, lightly veiled and talking with him?”
She replies, “I lied once when a young nitwit stopped us and asked if he was my husband. I said he was. You see, these religionists are happier being lied to than hearing the truth. They are a hopeless lot, the sods, and I suppose they find me provocative, against the grain. After all, I am not one of the hordes of ill-clad women they recruit to sweep the roads. I’ll say this about them: they know the type of women they prefer—the unlettered kind, who can’t stand up to them. That’s why they look to orphans and kids from broken homes to draft into Shabaab. They rely on the ill-informed and ill-supported to do their bidding.”
“I wonder, are the women volunteering to clear the roads exempt from putting on veils?” Jeebleh asks.
She replies, “It is a class thing. A woman at the wheel of her own car, who lives with a man not married to her and speaks her mind—that they find provocative.”
She falls silent now, and for the first time looks sad.
Jeebleh asks gently, “Where do you stand with Bile?” He waits until she is ready to answer.
“I love him.”
“Let’s call some people in,” he says.
“Who and what for?”
Jeebleh abandons himself to a flush of shyness. Then he says, “So that you and Bile are declared man and wife, in the presence of witnesses.”
He looks around, then at her, sighs heavily, sits back, closes his eyes, and rubs the bridge of his nose. Then he gazes at her, smiling. “God. I feel I am the one proposing.”
“You’re doing just that. Very adequately, I might add.”
“As if I were his parent,” Jeebleh says.
“Is that not how marriages are arranged?”
Jeebleh says, “If you wish, you may choose not to be present when the sheikh pronounces you and Bile man and wife.”
“How very apt!”
“You know what I am doing, why and for whom.”
“The trouble is I do.”
“Then we’ll say no more about it until the day?”
As if on cue, a bell rings, and a minute later, Dajaal comes in to fetch Jeebleh, as arranged. Jeebleh gets out of the chair, undecided what he will do. Dajaal senses that the atmosphere into which he has walked is heavy with others’ concerns; he strides back out to wait in the car.
Cambara stands close to him, their bodies almost touching. Then she takes him in an embrace and kisses him, one cheek at a time. He feels a slight tremor in her body, as she withdraws from a full-fledged embrace. It becomes obvious to Jeebleh that she wishes to get one thing off her chest. She says, “There is no cause for worry on your part or anyone else’s. Bile is in good, loving hands, and he won’t be wanting for anything as long as I live. So don’t worry about him.”
They hug again.
“Go well.”
“Be well.”
Dinner is a hurried affair, because Malik hasn’t got the time to talk; he is on a high, writing. Jeebleh retreats into his room. He is at a loss as to what to do, since he still cannot seem to hold the ideas of a single paragraph in his head long enough to make sense of it. It is his third attempt to read “Plundered Waters: Somalia’s Maritime Resource Insecurity,” a thirteen-page chapter by a political geographer named Clive Schofield in a book called Crucible for Survival. After several more failed attempts, he puts the book aside and, in his head, thanks the author for bringing the plundering of the Somali seas to the world’s attention.
Jeebleh puts on a sweater, fearing he may find the breezy balcony cold. He gains the balcony without disturbing Malik, who is still at it, and he sits as fretful as a debtor worried about settling a bill. He wishes he could help Malik more; he wishes he had thought about how much closer to danger a journalist would be here.
The night is pitch black, the drone more fitful in its nocturnal reconnoitring. He tells himself that this will be the third time foreign forces have aided Ethiopia in invading Somalia. In the sixteenth century, Portuguese mercenaries fought on the side of Ethiopia—then known as Abyssinia—to defeat the Somali warrior Ahmed Gurey, Ahmed the Left-handed. In the late 1970s, the Soviets changed sides and the Cubans intervened, chasing the Somalis out of the Somali-speaking Ogaden region in Ethiopia. Will the third time mark the entry of the United States into this dark history?
Jeebleh sets himself the task of identifying the Mother Camels constellation, otherwise known as Draco the Dragon. He finds it, and the moment fills him with joy. He sits out there all night.
Perhaps he dozes, because at the first call of the muezzin, Malik makes a well-timed appearance on the balcony, with the quietness of a fellow conspirator. He brings a fresh pot of tea and cups on a tray.
“Two down, one more to go,” says Malik.
The muezzins calling the faithful to prayers keep different times in their different voices. Some are sweet; some subtle, almost chummy; some throaty; others clumsy and heavy, like lumpy syrup; some strong, like the boughs of a baobab tree. Jeebleh’s mother was partial to an Egyptian chanter of the Koran; she delighted in listening to his tapes again and again. Jeebleh wonders to himself when or if he will ever resume saying his prayers. But the susurrations of the breeze, which bring the morning’s blessings from the mosques nearby, toughen his resolve that all will be well with Malik. And as the calls die down, the noise of the drone disappears from the skies.
Malik asks, “Would you like to read the articles?”
“I would be pleased to read them,” says Jeebleh.
Malik offers the printout of the drafts to Jeebleh, in the manner that one gives a precious gift to a respected elder, with both hands and head slightly inclined. He says, “Here, please.”
“Is it okay if I read them on the plane?”
“Of course it is. You may read them whenever.”
That this is the first time Malik has volunteered to show him a piece before publication is not lost on Jeebleh. Maybe Malik is missing the camaraderie of being among fellow journalists, a situation he hasn’t experienced with anyone in Mogadiscio so far. Or
maybe he is making his peace with his coming isolation and the strain of their inability to discuss the possibility of his coming to harm is lifting.
The sun, rising, hits the balcony at an angle.
Finally Jeebleh says, “Time to shower.”
Malik starts to put together some breakfast.
At breakfast, Jeebleh says, “Let’s talk money.”
“What’s on your mind?” asks Malik.
“Dajaal and Qasiir are on my mind.”
They eat in silence, both of them determined to push away every worrying thought from the forefront of their minds. Jeebleh’s departure for Nairobi in a couple of hours will doubtless open up other avenues for Malik, even as it will expose him to unsettling unknowns.
Finally Jeebleh says, “Qasiir has in a very short time demonstrated how quick and useful he can be. I think it is worthwhile having him on board for all the time you are here. He is adept at fixing computers, well informed about the market trends, has contacts among his former fellow militiamen, some of them Shabaab operatives. He attends the prayers at the right mosques, and, unlike Gumaad, he is trustworthy.” He pauses and then asks, “By the way, when were you last in a mosque?”
“I can’t remember when I last prayed. Why?”
“Maybe it’s time you went.”
“Maybe I will.”
Jeebleh says, “The mosque will remain the hub of opposition activities after the invasion, and those coalescing into the insurgency will meet there. Qasiir has the right credentials, as he is an active member of the mosques that are the nerve center of everything social, everything political.”
“I’ll attend prayers at mosques—discreetly.”
“It’ll be worth your while,” Jeebleh predicts.
Malik says, “So what about money?”
“I meant to tell you that I will be arranging to send a hundred dollars monthly to Dajaal,” says Jeebleh. “He’s been loyal, bless his soul; he has no pension, no family to support him in his old age, and no guarantee that Bile will have the wherewithal to provide him with a monthly stipend, or if Cambara will want him if something happens to Bile and she returns to Toronto. A hundred dollars a month from me, and a similar sum from Seamus, will see him through these terrible economic times. But I want you to confide less in Gumaad, more in Qasiir. I am aware that Gumaad has set up an appointment for you with Ma-Gabadeh, a funder of the Xarardheere pirates. I suggest caution when you deal with him; be on your guard.”
“I’ll be vigilant.”
Jeebleh says, “In addition, you must have either Dajaal or Qasiir with you, preferably Dajaal.”
“I’ll do as you advise,” Malik says. “And I would like to contribute toward Dajaal’s retirement, too.”
Jeebleh’s mobile vibrates. He reads the text. “They are here.” Rushed, he says to Malik, “No need to come to the airport,” in a way that allows no room for argument. “Stay behind and work. I’ll call you from the plane when we are boarded and ready to take off, and from Nairobi as soon as we land.”
Malik is up on his feet. He opens his arms to give a good-bye hug to Jeebleh, who’s been waiting to receive it with a smile. He says, “I realize you may not want me to say it, but I will say it, nonetheless. I will miss you and I appreciate your coming with me and sharing a little of your life with which neither Judith nor your daughters are familiar.”
Touched, Jeebleh says, “It’s been my pleasure.”
“Never have I had an introduction such as this.”
They realize they could continue exchanging words in a similar vein all day, so they stop and hug and wrap their arms around each other, whispering endearments.
“Come, come,” Jeebleh says. “I have to go.”
“I know that you must.”
But the way Malik tightens his embrace reminds Jeebleh of a child on his first day at nursery school, reluctant to let his parent go. Then suddenly Malik releases him, and breaks into a brilliant smile.
“Be good. Fear not, worry not,” Jeebleh says.
Malik says, “We’ll talk.”
“Take good care of yourself.”
ON THE DAY OF MALIK’S LUNCH APPOINTMENT WITH MA-GABADEH, Dajaal is indisposed, so he sends Qasiir in his place to drive. In addition, Qasiir has taken on the responsibility of setting up a special security detail before coming to fetch Malik. He has no doubt that Ma-Gabadeh will take his own precautionary measures. It is to this end that Qasiir has selected four of his trusted sidekicks, former lieutenants of his, who are prepared to remain inconspicuous and not to provoke a fight with Ma-Gabadeh’s guard unit. They will situate themselves in the vicinity of the restaurant where Malik has rented a private alcove. Discreetly armed, they are to hang around and to report on any usual movements. One of them is to be stationed at the entrance to the alcove. The big challenge has been to keep Gumaad ignorant of the security detachment, given that he arranged the meeting.
Loosely translated, Ma-Gabadeh means “the fearless one.” Gumaad has described Ma-Gabadeh as a major underwriter of a handful of daring piratical expeditions out of Xarardheere, hometown of both Gumaad and Ma-Gabadeh. In addition to sponsoring these “privateers,” Ma-Gabadeh is allegedly bankrolling a string of activities in which his men collaborate with a Shabaab unit charged with bringing Yemeni and Pakistani operatives into Somalia by boat. It is rumored that the pirates bring the foreign jihadis into the Somali peninsula, and in exchange receive weapons and protection in the coastal areas under Shabaab control. It is all shady stuff. Gumaad has made it sound as if it will be a scoop, Malik’s first, since Ma-Gabadeh has agreed to talk on tape.
Malik is not coping well on his own, with Jeebleh gone and Dajaal sick. He misses the certainty of these two men, one or the other always by his side and willing to answer his questions, challenge his decisions, or offer advice. Granted, Qasiir and Gumaad know things he doesn’t about Somalia, having lived here all their lives. But he knows many things about Somalia of which they have no idea, because he has sought the information and obtained and read it, and he cannot take eiither of them as seriously as he would Jeebleh or Dajaal. But he has coped with worse situations before.
With Qasiir at the wheel, Gumaad is in a feisty mood. Unprompted, he says, “We’ll singe the hairs off their heads if they come.”
“Who are we talking about?” Malik asks.
“Who else, the Ethiopians of course, and their lackeys, the so-called Federal Government,” he replies. “We’ll teach the Ethiopians a lesson the Eritreans haven’t taught them, when they invade.”
Qasiir looks from Malik to Gumaad. “In times of war, you need to act grown up. There is talk and there is war. It is high time you tell the difference between the two.”
“And I’ll tell you what,” Gumaad says.
“What?”
“TheSheikh has assured me that I’ll be appointed to the position of spokesman of the Courts the moment the first bullet is shot by either party.”
Qasiir roars with derisory laughter. “Get away. You can’t be serious. How can anyone appoint you to the position when you have little English, do not speak any other European language, and have only a couple of short articles to your name?”
“I’ll make you eat your words one day.”
“We’ve had enough of your fibbing.”
Malik pleads, “Please. Let peace reign.”
To Malik’s relief, Gumaad desists from saying anything offensive or provocative from then on; Qasiir’s behavior becomes agreeable, too. Malik, who doesn’t see himself as a peacemaker, is relieved that so far his intercession has worked well.
As they approach their destination, Malik asks Gumaad to put Ma-Gabadeh in his civil war context, since nothing in Somalia makes sense until one places it in the “before,” “after,” and “during” of that frame of reference.
Gumaad obliges. “Ma-Gabadeh was a junior clerk in the Accountancy Department of the Ministry of Fisheries,” he says.
“He was no junior clerk and you know it,” Qasi
ir says. “He was a peon who worked his way by dint of coercion up to the rank of head janitor, and was eventually assigned an office. But he was no clerk. The fellow doesn’t know how to read or write.”
Dreading the thought of getting bogged down over whether Ma-Gabadeh was a junior clerk or head janitor, Malik urges Gumaad, “Please continue.”
“Anyhow,” Gumaad says, “he was at the desk managing the Somali-owned, Italian-funded SHIFCO—an acronym for Somali High-seas International Fishing Company—charged with exploiting Somalia’s marine resources. SHIFCO, set up by the last central government, owned a dozen trawlers. A couple of them are still operational, although more than half the original number have been lost, several of them confiscated by Kenya and other countries for nonpayment of dues, others because of lack of maintenance.”
After the collapse of the country’s state structures, Gumaad goes on to explain, Ma-Gabadeh returned to Xarardheere, where he built a business partnership with an Italian fishing firm with whom he had dealt before in his Ministry of Fisheries capacity. He issued a backdated license to the Italian firm, a license that was to be valid for three years. Then he relocated to Mogadiscio and, once there, struck an alliance with StrongmanSouth, who was on the run then. From the proceeds, Ma-Gabadeh established a frozen-food company centered on the fishing business, harvesting lobster and exporting it to Italy.
Following the death of StrongmanSouth, Ma-Gabadeh entered into a more lucrative alliance with StrongmanSouth’s former financier, the man accused of killing the warlord and heading up a breakaway faction. Ma-Gabadeh then fell out with the Italian fishing firm, and to recover the assets in dispute, took two of their ships and crew hostage. He released the ships on payment of large sums of money, with which he funded an armed militia unit based in Xarardheere and specializing in the hijacking of the ships.
During the past few years, Ma-Gabadeh has diversified his business operations, branching out into the importation of qaat from Kenya and the exportation of charcoal from Somalia to the Gulf States. In addition, he runs other moneymaking ventures, many of them illegal. A heavyweight businessman with some fifty gun-mounted Technicals, he has lately thrown in his lot with the Courts, whom he backs with funds, and to whom he offers his thousand-strong armed militia whenever he is called upon to do so.
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