North of Dawn

by Nuruddin Farah

  Also by Nuruddin Farah

  FICTION

  Hiding in Plain Sight

  A Naked Needle

  From a Crooked Rib

  PAST IMPERFECT

  Knots

  Links

  Crossbones

  BLOOD IN THE SUN

  Secrets

  Gifts

  Maps

  VARIATIONS ON THE THEME OF AN AFRICAN DICTATORSHIP

  Close Sesame

  Sardines

  Sweet and Sour Milk

  NONFICTION

  Yesterday, Tomorrow: Voices from the Somali Diaspora

  RIVERHEAD BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Nuruddin Farah

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Farah, Nuruddin, 1945– author.

  Title: North of dawn : a novel / Nuruddin Farah.

  Description: New York : Riverhead Books, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018028026 (print) | LCCN 2018028946 (ebook) | ISBN 9780735214248 (ebook) | ISBN 9780735214231 (hardcover)

  Classification: LCC PR9396.9.F3 (ebook) | LCC PR9396.9.F3 N6 2018 (print) | DDC 823.914—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018028026

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Jacket design and art: Grace Han

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Also by Nuruddin Farah

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  In Memory of Basra Farah

  * * *

  My beloved younger sister, killed by Taliban terrorists in Kabul in 2014

  Leaving the scene, Imru-ulqais says, “In the beginning was the word. In the beginning of the word was blood.”

  —Concerto al-Quds, Adonis

  PROLOGUE

  In Somalia, the bombs have been going off for months, roadside devices killing and maiming anyone unlucky enough to be in the vicinity. The frequency of the detonations and the unpredictability of where or when the blasts may occur have left the residents of Mogadiscio, the capital, constantly on edge. No one knows how many people have been injured or how many have been killed. People no longer delve into the details unless they recognize the name of a victim or that of the perpetrator.

  My wife, Gacalo, however, would spend hours poring over articles about the bombings, fixated on any that might name anyone known to be active in the terror group Ashabaab. She was searching for news of our son.

  It had been five or six years since Dhaqaneh had fled to Somalia, though I had cut him off totally from the moment he made clear to me, during his final visit to Oslo, that he would kill anyone, including our friends Johan and Birgitta, in the name of Islam. I refused to take his phone calls or answer his emails, and told Gacalo that I had no interest in discussing him, though later I would run across his name when he published his diatribes on the various Somali websites that report Shabaab’s doings with alarming frequency. But for Gacalo it was impossible to cut ties. She remained in touch with him, even occasionally wiring funds to an intermediary who delivered the moneys to him.

  I would learn only recently from Timiro, our daughter, that in order to communicate with Dhaqaneh by phone, Gacalo would key in a set of numbers known only to her, to him, and to some other designated person, whose name Dhaqaneh would update almost on a monthly basis whenever she wanted to speak to him. If he was not there to take her call, she would use a set code and then leave a message. She hated it when she had to leave a voice message, unsure whose mailbox she was entrusting her secrets to, secrets that could eventually be traced back to her.

  Gacalo was more relaxed after Dhaqaneh contracted a marriage to a woman named Waliya, who has two children, a girl and a boy. It was the humanness of the woman’s voice when Gacalo spoke to her on the phone that made an impression on her, that gave her some comfort and the illusion that she could trust her, even though she had never met her and did not know her from any Somali-speaking Eve.

  When Dhaqaneh’s Norwegian passport expired, Gacalo suggested that he have it renewed at the Norwegian Embassy in Nairobi. Dhaqaneh, however, was keen to sever all ties with Norway. In a letter Gacalo has shown me, he writes that he cannot bring himself to carry a passport whose cover is adorned by a cross, such a flagrant Christian symbol. Gacalo saw his action as more than a rejection of Norway; she saw it as a rejection of her too. And when she pleaded with him to reconsider and he insisted he would not, she disengaged from him for a while.

  The next time they spoke, Dhaqaneh was holidaying in Nairobi with his wife and stepchildren. He had recently purchased a Somali passport, resolute in his determination never again to set foot in Europe, believing that Somalia, as he put it to his mother, “was the closest we have to an Islamic state, after Iran.” Then came another long break in communication, during which both Gacalo and I, unbeknownst to each other, monitored Somali websites for news of him. He had risen quickly in the ranks and was soon made deputy head of the entire Benaadir region, of which Mogadiscio is part. The explosions in the capital city became more frequent and deadly, with fingers of blame pointed at him. When he and his mother did finally speak, she hoped for her own sake that he would deny that his men were responsible for the carnage. But he did nothing of t
he sort. Instead, he made a request of her: that she promise to take care of his wife and stepchildren if he were to meet his death either at the hands of his foes or in an attack on his command post on the outskirts of the city.

  A month after that conversation, several of his men were en route to firebomb a target close to the international airport when their vehicle ran over a roadside explosive device and they were all instantly killed. As word would have it and as the Somali news websites and the world press would relay it, Dhaqaneh blew himself up at the entrance to the airport “to avenge his men.” He died on the spot.

  The shock of this hit Gacalo so profoundly that for the first few days after Dhaqaneh’s death, she ran high temperatures and was so unsteady she had to hold on to the back of chairs or walls to go from one point of the house to another. Her health declined so rapidly that her doctor had her admitted to hospital and, because of her weak heart, kept her under constant observation for nearly a fortnight. When she finally recovered and seemed able to navigate her way out of her grief, she reminded everyone of the promise she had made to Dhaqaneh before his death: that she would bring Waliya and her children to Oslo and look after them.

  At present, Gacalo and I are at loggerheads over whether to allow Waliya and her two children to join us here in Oslo on the basis of a family reunion ticket. I have no idea what position to take, fearing what may become of us if Waliya turns out to be a troubled person, or, even worse, a terrorist.

  OSLO

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gacalo wages an unrelenting campaign for several months, hoping that Mugdi will not stand in the way of Dhaqaneh’s widow, Waliya, and his two stepchildren joining them in Oslo. Knowing Gacalo, she will not hesitate to recruit the support of their daughter Timiro, visiting from her home in Geneva; Kaluun, Mugdi’s younger brother; their Norwegian friends Johan and Birgitta Nielsen; and Himmo, a Somali woman residing in Oslo whom Gacalo and Mugdi have grown close to and who is of the view that Gacalo should continue supporting the widow and her two children where they are, in Kenya. But Gacalo is adamant that she will not give up until Mugdi and everyone else accedes to her demand.

  Inflexible, Mugdi repeatedly asks, “Why would I sponsor the wife of a son whom I forsook first and then denounced as a terrorist?”

  A former ambassador in Somalia’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs just before the collapse of the state structures, Mugdi is used to having his own way. It is no secret that it irritates him to see people opposing him when their rationale does not sit well with his reasoning.

  The longer the standoff lasts and Gacalo makes it obvious that she won’t settle for anything less than Mugdi’s full public endorsement of her plan, the more everyone becomes concerned. Gacalo’s inability to convince Mugdi to share her vision upsets her so much that she feels diminished, unloved, to the point that one afternoon, after yet another explosive argument, she storms out of the house, not knowing where she is going.

  When she doesn’t answer her mobile phone or return home for a long time, Timiro goes out in search of her mother in the two parks close by. Not finding her at either park, she telephones Birgitta, who confirms that Gacalo is with them.

  On Timiro’s way home from her search, she runs into Himmo, who has just alighted from the tram after a night shift at the hospital where she works as a nurse. Delighted by the chance encounter, the two women decide to find a café where they might chat for a bit. Timiro explains what has brought her to this area of the city, filling Himmo in on the tension at home with regard to Waliya. She says, “The atmosphere has lately turned so toxic, I can’t stand it, and I’ve told them so. I don’t recall my parents ever rowing as much as they’ve done of late, or of Mum ever raising her voice in anger, except perhaps once, when I was a child.”

  “Oh? Were you a difficult girl?”

  “It was more that I was young and obstinate, and desperately wanted a cat for a pet. Mum put her foot down, as having a pet would interfere with our weekend travels. I went behind her back, pleading with Dad, and he agreed without consulting her and arranged for the pet shop to deliver one. I had never heard her so angry as when she arrived home and saw the cat. In the end, however, Dad won the day and I got to keep it.”

  “Maybe it is only fair that your mother has her way this time round.”

  “Perhaps, but you never know with Dad, a man given to changing his mind at the very time you least expect him to.”

  Himmo says, “I know what you mean. But at his heart, he is such a mild-mannered man, and I feel certain that rather than continuing to disappoint your mum, he will give in.”

  “I hope so for both their sakes,” says Timiro. “Mum broods all the time, is constantly at the office, and when she does return home, lapses into self-isolating silences. She goes to bed soon after dinner, if, that is, she is around to eat with us. She wakes up early and then goes off again. Then Dad retreats into his study to devote more time to the translation he’s working on of his favorite Norwegian novel, Giants in the Earth.”

  Himmo predicts, “Time will come when they will both want to be on each other’s good side. Don’t worry. They love each other so.”

  “I just wish they wouldn’t spoil my visit.”

  “Give their anger time to find its own home,” says Himmo. “Your dad is incensed she kept a secret line open to Dhaqaneh; she is furious that he disowned the boy. Still, I’m sure he won’t stand in the way of the family reunion.”

  Timiro’s mobile phone rings. Answering it, she says in an aside to Himmo, “It’s Dad.” Then she addresses her words to her father, telling him not to worry, that Mum is with Birgitta, and she is at a café with Himmo, whom she ran into by chance.

  The waiter brings them their pot of tea at the very moment when Timiro feels nauseated. She holds her breath and places her hand before her mouth in the manner of someone preparing to vomit. Himmo takes notice of this but keeps her thoughts to herself. Instead, she pours the tea and watches as Timiro brings her cup to her lips then puts it down in silence.

  Himmo says, “Enough about your parents’ quarrels over Waliya. I want to hear your news. How are you, and how is Xirsi, and where is he?”

  Timiro shifts in her seat, and then with a beam of happiness shining in her eyes says, “I’m pregnant.”

  Himmo stretches out her right hand toward Timiro until their fingers touch. Then she congratulates her, wishing her good health and an uncomplicated delivery, given her age—Timiro will be thirty-four by the time the baby is due. She adds, “Your parents must be happy.”

  Timiro says, “Not as happy as I hoped.”

  “No? Why is that?”

  “Well, as I’ve said before, I’ve flown into a stressful situation, and they’re much too preoccupied with their own set-to, to be fully engaged in my condition. I don’t completely blame them. After all, Dhaqaneh’s death, my mother’s promise to him, and whether Waliya is or is not welcome to join the family precede my pregnancy. And besides all that, they’re not overly fond of Xirsi.”

  “So what do you plan to do?” asks Himmo.

  “I’ll sit them down and tell them that I do not wish to give birth to my baby in a hostile environment.”

  Himmo says, “I’m sure they’ll see sense when you talk to them, and I hope that Xirsi sees sense too, and is able to step up and keep his side of the contract, both as a father to the child and as a husband to you.”

  “Xirsi is a bad lot and I’m unsure he’ll mend his ways and act responsibly toward me or our child,” says Timiro. “I know it’ll be tough to be a single mother and a professional. But I take courage from women like you. You’ve done it and done it well.”

  “It was easier having children back home, with an extended family to assist. Here, in Europe, it has been hard for most of the Somali women, whether they are married or not. Many couples come to a head because the husbands don’t put in their fair share in holding the family together; th
ey seem unable or unwilling to play their role, many showing more interest in clan politics, not in raising their young families. This is why women with professional careers have found themselves in impossible situations, with many choosing to divorce. Personally, I salute the mothers that persevere and work tirelessly to put food on the table, look after children, make sure they attend school, stay out of trouble, with little or no help from male partners. I think of these women as the unsung heroines, every single one of them.”

  “I’m done with Xirsi. I’ll divorce him.”

  In her empathic response to what Timiro has just told her, Himmo’s outstretched hand comes into a gentle contact with Timiro’s and the two women remain silent for quite a while.

  Timiro needs no reminding that Himmo has been married and divorced three times, the men in her life having failed, time and again, to act responsibly toward their offspring, which Himmo is now looking after by herself. Now Himmo says, “Of the men I know, your father is exceptional in this regard.”

  Timiro is happy to hear Himmo say that, and after a few more minutes of small talk, the two women go their different ways. At home, Timiro finds her father in his study, working on a moving scene of Giants in which the first Norwegian migrants to settle in the Dakota territories meet Native Americans for the first time and are terrified, suspecting that the band of natives will scalp them.

  Timiro makes dinner and when her mother has returned, albeit in low spirits, Timiro invites her parents to the table. As they eat in silence, she worries that she cannot sense her parents’ togetherness the way she used to; she can only feel their doubts about the future, their fears. Why allow a third party to pull them asunder at the very time when, with their mourning over, they should be showing their connectedness?

  So she ambushes them with unexpected news: that she is returning to Geneva as soon as she finds a flight. Gacalo is the first to find her tongue, stammering, “But you said you would be here for a while. You’re in no state to be on your own, feeling sick, staying up late, and working.”