Crossbones

by Nuruddin Farah

  Dajaal has nothing kind to say about the Courts. “When they first arrived on the scene, they entered the city with cannon, purportedly to oust the U.S.-supported warlords. But they damaged the morale of the residents by indiscriminately bombing a number of the districts, totally destroying ordinary people’s lives. Why are they in such a hurry to abandon the city to the Ethiopians now? Cowards win no friends.”

  Malik knows well that during the war with the warlords, the Courts commanders inscribed the phrase “Allahu akbar” on the bazookas they launched, which fell in the most populous area of the city, killing hundreds. Still, he says, “At least this time they did not sack the city, or subject it to looting, as I have seen the Congolese and Afghan militias do when they fled.”

  “Still, where are they when the city needs them?”

  Malik says, “But they quit without firing a shot.”

  “Why do you accept weapons as a gift from Eritrea, a pariah state, when you won’t fire a shot at your mutual enemy?” challenges Dajaal. “Rest assured that when they return, calling themselves ‘resistance fighters’ or ‘martyrs of the faith,’ they will resort to bombing the very people whom they claim to love.”

  Anyway, according to Dajaal, only the men who are the known public face of the Courts have quit the city. The rest have stayed behind, supposedly to organize the resistance from within. Malik supposes that they have not yet released any statement because they must feel secure somewhere before doing so.

  Dajaal goes on, fuming. “Shabaab, meanwhile, have assassinated three former military officers who came to Mogadiscio in advance of the interim president’s entourage, to prepare the way for the Transitional Federal Forces, such as they are.” One of the men killed was a former colleague of his. “But why provoke the Ethiopians, then flee the city? Nothing makes sense.”

  Malik says, “If you weren’t under the weather, I would ask you to come straightaway. I would very much like to talk to you in more depth.”

  “You know what?” says Dajaal. “I can’t afford to be ill on a day such as this, a day in which the city braces for the arrival of our archenemy. I’ll ask Qasiir to fetch me. We will be at the apartment shortly.”

  Dajaal has barely entered the apartment when Qasiir says, “The Kenyans have caught the first big fish in their net. That’s the news we’ve just heard on the car radio.”

  Qasiir is in a T-shirt and jeans, and he has on an elegant pair of painted leather shoes. Maybe he was on his way somewhere when Dajaal rang and requested a lift, Malik thinks. As for Dajaal, despite his claim that he is feeling better, his lips are swollen, as if freshly stung by a bee, and his eyes look dull, too.

  Malik asks, “Who is this the Kenyans have caught? Does the big fish have a name?”

  The big fish is Saleh Ali Saleh Nabhan, Dajaal says. “He’s considered the third most wanted on a list of so-called international terrorists and is suspected of planting bombs in two U.S. embassies and of attacking an Israeli-owned hotel in Mombasa. The Americans have always insisted that he lives in Somalia and enjoys the protection of a highly placed Courts individual.” But he ascribes the supposed Kenyan “coup” to rumor.

  Malik, too, doubts if such a big fish will have fallen easily into Kenyan hands on the very day the Ethiopian invasion has started. The only fish, big or small, that are likely to fall into Kenyan nets will be those who might be fleeing the fighting or who will present themselves at the closed border between Kenya and Somalia, either as bona fide travelers or as asylum seekers. Since Saleh Ali Saleh Nabhan fits neither description, he has more likely thrown in his lot with the top Shabaab men said to be in the forest in Ras Kamboni, and it will take a few days to flush them out.

  Malik makes tea for them, and as he passes them milk and sugar, the discussion resumes.

  Dajaal says, “What worries me is not what they will do with the big fish they catch—the so-called terrorists and high-ranking Courts officials—but all the small fry, hundreds of them. When you send big trawlers into waters where a war is raging, you can’t help overfishing. The Kenyans have been fishing in troubled Somali waters for years now. In addition to the pirates who have been handed over to them to bring before their corrupt courts, the Kenyans have benefited in many ways from the collapse of Somalia.”

  Malik knows from his research that Kenya is raking in millions in hard currency from the foreign embassies and all the UN bodies working on Somalia-related projects, all of which are currently based in Kenya, because of the chaos here. But he doesn’t understand all of what Dajaal has said. “What small fry are you talking about?” he asks.

  Dajaal says, “Many Somalis who had left the country earlier and established citizenship elsewhere returned during the Courts’ reign, to lap up the milk and peace that was on offer. I worry what will happen to them now as they head back to their respective homes, bearing their foreign passports. The Kenyans will exploit the situation.”

  There is a knock at the door. “Who is it?” Malik asks.

  “It is I, Gumaad.”

  Malik doesn’t ask if Gumaad has come alone or if he has again brought someone with him. He opens the door.

  Gumaad is alone, but he is clearly not happy to find Qasiir and Dajaal with Malik. He looks as if he has been in a fight, and lost. His shoes have lost their buckles, and the back of his trousers are stained. His shirt is dirty and rumpled, and some of the buttons are missing. There is straw in his uncombed hair. In addition, he seems to be shedding dandruff at an incredible rate, as if he is suffering from some sort of skin disorder.

  Qasiir asks, “Where have you been roughing it?”

  Gumaad is noncommittal. “Here and there.”

  Dajaal says, “You’ve been on the run, haven’t you, holed up with TheSheikh in a rat hole somewhere and preparing to sneak out of the city, like thieves in the night.”

  “It’s been tough,” Gumaad says to Malik.

  “A towel for your shower,” Malik says, handing him one. “And then we’ll talk.”

  Dajaal is a model of restraint and says nothing more until Gumaad vanishes into the bathroom. Then he repeats the rumor circulating in the city, that TheSheikh is on a plane heading for Asmara, where he will be a guest of the Eritrean government. TheOtherSheikh, who is considered to be a more moderate force within Shabaab, is believed to be headed for the Kenyan border to seek political asylum.

  As soon as Gumaad emerges from the bathroom, Dajaal asks where TheSheikh is. Malik thinks that you might as well ask a Mafia minion to tell where his boss is.

  Gumaad replies calmly, “Somewhere in the city.”

  “You’re lying,” Dajaal says.

  Malik wonders if Gumaad is the kind that lies as unconsciously as he sheds dead skin. He has known pathological liars in his day, not all of them men.

  Gumaad challenges, “Why would I be lying?”

  “The city is small. Where in the city is he?”

  “I can’t trust you enough to tell you.”

  “If he is in the city,” Dajaal says, “I’ll bet he is secreting himself somewhere like a dog gnawing on a stripped bone. Imagine TheSheikh, on whom the hope of the nation has rested, hiding his face but showing his fear. Is that what you are telling us?”

  Dajaal no longer seems ill; he is full of energy born out of rage—rage at the assassination of his friend, rage at what he sees as the Courts’ senseless provocation of the invasion.

  “Please, Grandpa,” says Qasiir. “Why are you torturing Gumaad?”

  “His lies upset me.”

  Gumaad says, “I’ve told no lies so far.”

  Dajaal says, “The foreign news agencies all place TheSheikh on a plane headed for Asmara.”

  Qasiir says, “Why believe them and not Gumaad?”

  “That’s right. Why not believe me and not them?”

  “They have a point,” Malik intervenes.

  Up close, Gumaad’s appearance bespeaks his true mental state. Tears well in the corners of his eyes. He does not seem to be lying, an
d perhaps he isn’t. After all, StrongmanSouth, when he was warlord, hid out in Mogadiscio for several months without the foreign “invaders” apprehending him. In fact, he used to throw parties within a mile of where the U.S. Marines were garrisoned, and they never found him. Will TheSheikh do the same with the Ethiopians if it turns out that he has stayed put to lead the resistance?

  “Why is he here?” Dajaal asks, speaking not to Gumaad but to Malik.

  But it is Gumaad who answers. “I’ve come to arrange an interview.”

  Silence, in which they all exchange looks.

  “TheSheikh wants to do an interview with Malik.”

  “How very grand!” Dajaal says. “One minute he bides his time in concealment, like a bank robber keeping his loot company, the next instant he acts the role of royalty, granting an interview to a foreign journalist.”

  “It’s Malik’s prerogative to accept or not accept the offer,” Gumaad says. “It is not my place or yours to decide.” He turns to Malik. “You make up your mind, if you will or won’t.”

  “An interview by phone or face-to-face?”

  “Depends on what we can arrange,” Gumaad says.

  “I’d like to do the interview face-to-face.”

  “As matters stand, he wants a phone interview.”

  Dajaal says, “If I were you, I wouldn’t do it face-to-face, as there is always the risk of him being blown up. The drones are more active than before. They might pick up his movement and go for him.”

  There is a spell of jumpiness, Gumaad shifting in his seat. Then he cries, “Malik has no reason to fear being blown up. What nonsense!”

  “They blew a former colleague of mine sky high with remote-controlled roadside bombs,” Dajaal says. “They have perfected their art of killing. If I were you, Malik, I wouldn’t do a phone interview, either; a drone might mistake your number for his, and strike you dead.”

  Gumaad has gone nervy and sweaty again, and a new layer of scurf coats the back of his neck and shoulders.

  “Please, Grandpa,” Qasiir begs. “Stop this.”

  “Why? His men have killed my colleagues.”

  “Someone may hear you.”

  “It isn’t long before they kill me, I know.”

  Gumaad mumbles something inaudible, his words colliding discordantly. He mixes his tenses, trips on his adverbs, stops making sense. Malik’s stomach goes through the complete life cycle of the butterfly. He is remembering a fragment from a dream he had a few nights ago, in which Gumaad betrayed him, handing him over to a group of freelance militiamen, who took him hostage. In the dream, Malik pleaded with Gumaad not to break faith with him. But all he says is, “Enough now, Dajaal.”

  For the first time, Malik thinks that maybe Dajaal’s days are indeed numbered. He also wonders if an interview with TheSheikh would be a scoop worth the risk. Then he picks up a foul scent. It is Gumaad’s breath—not so much ordinary bad breath as the scent of his fear, which Malik thinks he can smell in the same way that he believes he can smell Dajaal’s rage.

  “Please, all of you,” he says abruptly.

  Everyone looks at him, mildly shocked.

  “I want to be alone.”

  After they have gone, Malik telephones Jeebleh and asks his opinion about whether the interview with TheSheikh is worth the risk. In truth, what he really wants is for Jeebleh to be aware of what he is up to, in the event that something happens. In his head, Malik can hear Amran harping on about his taking needless risks.

  Jeebleh acknowledges the professional benefits of doing the interview, but believes that it is not worth it, given the imminent Ethiopian occupation. “You may become an easy target for both the Transitional Government and the occupying force.”

  “What if I use a pseudonym?”

  “Don’t do it,” Jeebleh says. “Please.”

  Next, Malik calls Ahl. Ahl, too, advises against it. He says, “TheSheikh is a man on the run, for crying out loud. Think of this: The FBI will be on your tail once it becomes known that you’ve talked to a wanted man.”

  “But it would be a big scoop for me,” Malik argues. “And earlier you were all for my interviewing a funder of piracy who is by all accounts a crook. How is that?”

  “That was different,” Ahl says.

  “Different? What do you mean ‘different’?”

  “We all want to get Taxliil to come home safe,” Ahl says. “What you are proposing poses danger to us all. Look at it from that angle. Please think again and do not do anything that might jeopardize our chance of recovering Taxliil.”

  Malik is not convinced that he agrees with Ahl’s reasoning. But he opts not to speak, apprehensive that his brother might think that he places his professional advancement far above family loyalty.

  “It’s been a long, eventful day,” Ahl says.

  “You’re right. It’s been long and eventful.”

  Ahl says, “Sleep on it, and let’s talk tomorrow.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night to you, too.”

  THE SKY IS DARK; THE NIGHT IS STARLESS. IN A DREAM, A TOTAL eclipse has just ended, and Malik ventures out of the apartment for the first time in twenty-four hours. He is on his way to a hospital, walking; Dajaal is indisposed. Roadside mines, tanks, and four days of fighting between the insurgents and the Ethiopian army of occupation have made the city roads impassable, turned them unsafe.

  When he finally reaches the hospital, he encounters more ruin; the main building has been hit and reduced to rubble. Radio reports place the number of dead at five hundred, and those critically wounded at over a thousand. A large number of the hospital staff figure among the dead and the missing, perhaps buried in the debris. To the left of the main entrance, a huge crowd is raising an unearthly ruckus. It takes Malik a few minutes to work out the nature of the conflict. The remaining Somali medical staff and several Europeans, no doubt flown in at huge expense by the World Health Organization to help save lives, are engaged in a heated back-and-forth debate with some bearded Shabaab types. The debate centers on whether dogs may be used to save human lives from the wreckage of the hospital. A Gumaad look-alike describes the use of dogs to rescue people from the ruins as an affront to Muslim sensibilities. He is saying to the Europeans, as if from a pulpit, “Dogs are unclean, and we as Muslims are forbidden to come into contact with them.”

  But someone is calling from below, deep down in the ruins. It is a man pleading for someone to help rescue his daughter, who is buried in the rubble. The man wants the medical team to use their trained dogs to bring his daughter out, alive.

  The WHO team is led by a large woman with a red face, red hair, and skin the color of beetroot from a combination of anger and the tropical sun. She shouts at the Gumaad look-alike, “I’ll beat you up if you don’t get out of the way of the job I’ve come to perform.” Frightened by her outburst, he backs down sheepishly and quietly leaves the scene.

  Meanwhile, another member of the hospital medical staff is engaged in his own shouting match with one of the other bearded men. The doctor is saying, “Do you think that Islam condones the desecration of cemeteries, even if the dead were once Christian? I view the desecration of Mogadiscio’s Christian cemetery as heinous and a more serious crime than permitting the use of dogs to pull a living girl out of the rubble. I feel certain that you will have to answer to the Almighty on Judgment Day for dishonoring and debasing the dead bodies of Christians, whereas I am convinced that as long as we mean well and save lives, all will be forgiven by the Divine. Not that I agree with you that Islam forbids the use of dogs to save human lives.”

  The row continues, and Malik moves toward the cottages sprawled over an acre and a half in every direction. With the main building destroyed, the cottages now serve as the hospital. The sickening sights are reminiscent of the carnage from World War I, with the wounded lying everywhere on the floor, writhing in pain for lack of morphine or enough doctors and nurses to attend to them. The uniforms of the nurses are dyed in blood.
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br />   A nurse, her hands dripping with blood, asks Malik to undo her bra; she explains that it is the only one she owns. Clumsily self-conscious, he suggests she turn so that he can unclasp the catch from the back. But, no, the hooks are in the front. He doesn’t recall ever taking so long to undo a woman’s bra. He sweats so liberally that a drop of perspiration from his forehead almost blinds him.

  He remembers that he has an appointment with a doctor, but not why. He asks himself if he is ailing or if he is seeking help for someone else—and if so, for whom? Then he remembers that it is Dajaal who has been hurt in the blast from a roadside bomb, driving. And that when he failed to arrange an appointment with a doctor for Dajaal, he used his press card, describing himself as a journalist interviewing the victims of this ruthless bombing of civilians. To get what he wanted, he remarked that Ethiopia had atrocities to answer for, and that someone was bound to submit a case to the International Court of Justice for this reckless bombing of the city’s residential area.

  A phone rings somewhere. At first it sounds as if it is ringing in his head, the way telephones ring inside the head of a dreamer—distant and yet so near, persistent, doggedly insistent, almost otherworldly. Malik listens to the ringing, but can’t be bothered, as if imagining that it is ringing for someone else.

  Then he isolates the tone, which is coming from the kitchen counter, where he left his phone to recharge when he fell asleep in the small hours. He infers, eventually, that it must be his. Cursing, he gets out of bed to answer it, his head aching.

  Cambara has very bad news. Dajaal is dead.

  Malik asks, “Dead? How?”

  “Killed at close range by an unknown assassin,” she finally manages to say. “I am told the murderer used the most powerful handgun available on the market—I can’t remember the name, but Bile has described using such a weapon as literally overkill.”

  Malik wants to know the time, as if this has something to do with Dajaal’s death. As he searches for his watch, instant guilt preys on his mind. He wishes he knew if Dajaal was killed at the very time he, Malik, was dreaming of visiting him at the hospital, as if this might lessen or intensify his own sense of self-reproach. Cambara tells him that Dajaal’s passing occurred at dawn, as he was on his way to the mosque to pray. Tearful and choking, she adds, “Nobody remembers Dajaal ever going to the mosque for the dawn prayer.”