A woman sporting a ring in her tongue, another in her nose, and several more of various sizes in her ears, asks him, “Why are you here, old man?”
“No idea,” he replies.
She says, “I know of a man your age and appearance who lives in my neighborhood and who is given to buggering street boys. Has one of the boys you buggered reported you?”
This puts him clean out of countenance. “I’ve done no such thing,” says Mugdi.
He gets to his feet, urgently desirous of placing some distance between himself and these riffraff, lest another engage him in untoward talk. Mugdi waits for his name or number to be called. Such is Mugdi’s frustration that the longer he waits, the more convinced he becomes that Nadia is right and Arla is his accuser. He remembers her threats as he closed the door in her face and fled up the stairs to tell Nadia about it.
He wonders if she has filed a complaint again him. Even if she has, if Mugdi is sure of one thing, it is that he is innocent and therefore free from both fear and guilt. And if it ever comes to a trial, he has a witness: Nadia, who was with him that night and who would verify that Arla never set foot inside his home.
Mugdi startles when a female officer calls out his name. After he has identified himself, she leads him down a corridor to the farthest room. She knocks on the door and a male voice inside says to enter. The female officer tells Mugdi to go in, then she pulls the door shut and departs.
A man in uniform rises like a huge mountain behind an immense desk. The man has on a shirt that is half tucked in and a loose necktie. He is bald, tall, and broad in the shoulders, as though he devotes a large amount of time to working out at a gym. His knotted muscles, comparable to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s, resemble the nodulated roots of an ancient tree. Mugdi thinks that each of the man’s arms is as big as his own thighs.
“My name is Inspector Lonn. Thanks for coming.”
Mugdi nods. The inspector turns the tape recorder on and requests that Mugdi give his full name, his date and place of birth, and his current address. Mugdi does as asked. Then his phone gives a bing sound, indicating he has just received a message. Begging the inspector’s pardon, he asks, “May I take a look at the message, please?”
Inspector Lonn nods his head.
The message is from Naciim, giving an update about Timiro’s arrival. Mugdi closes his phone and then encourages the inspector to begin his questioning.
“Do you know a woman called Arla Mahmoud?”
Mugdi replies, “Yes, I do.”
“How long have you known her?”
“I knew of her as a friend of my daughter-in-law’s, though I had not met her until she turned up at my house five days ago, clad in an all-enclosed body tent.” Then he tells the inspector about their conversation, relays what transpired between him and the woman, what he said, what she said, and how she left when he was still none the wiser why she visited him in the first place.
“Would you say you don’t know her well?”
“I would say I don’t know her well, yes,” he says. “And she and I were never alone at any time, except on the two brief occasions when she showed up at my home, the first of which I’ve explained. On the second occasion, she turned up late at night and knocked on my door. When I answered it, she seemed hurt, with blood streaming down her cheeks, the front of her party dress torn. She begged me to let her in, but because I had female company and sensed Arla would be worth more trouble than I was ready for, I wouldn’t allow her into my house the second time.”
The inspector asks, “Did your female guest come down from upstairs when you and Ms. Mahmoud were conversing?”
“Nadia Stein came down to get a drink of water from the kitchen and she could hear me and Ms. Mahmoud speaking, even though she couldn’t understand what was being said, as we were speaking in Somali, and Nadia is Norwegian.”
“And Ms. Stein and Ms. Mahmoud did not meet before that night and have never met since? In other words, to the best of your knowledge, the two women don’t know each other?”
“That’s right. They never met.”
“You never laid a finger on Ms. Mahmoud?”
“I’ve never laid a finger on her.”
“Not even after she tore your nightgown?”
“Not before then and not after either.”
“You did not have sex with Ms. Mahmoud?”
“We never had sex, Ms. Mahmoud and I.”
“Do you remember when you last set eyes on her?”
“I would say a quarter past midnight.”
Inspector Lonn takes a bit of time taking notes. Then he asks Mugdi, “Did you tell your female guest what the noise downstairs was all about?”
“I did soon after going upstairs,” replies Mugdi.
The phone on Inspector Lonn’s desk rings. He allows it to keep ringing as he jots down some points. Finally he answers it, listens for a long time, and then covering the phone and speaking through only one side of his mouth, the inspector says he will give “him” a referral letter to take to the forensics folks at the hospital tomorrow so they can have their shot at “him.” Mugdi suspects that the inspector is talking about him and that he will have to give samples of blood and semen to determine his innocence. And that is fine with him.
Inspector Lonn says, “In her statement, Ms. Mahmoud speaks of you forcing yourself on her and that she fought you off.”
“But that is not true.”
“Ms. Mahmoud claims that you were alone, inside.”
“That is another blatant fabrication.”
“Would you please give me the name, phone number, and address of the woman you claim was with you in your house when Ms. Mahmoud visited you?”
Mugdi reads Nadia Stein’s details into the record.
“Now I would like you to give me the name, phone number, and address of your daughter-in-law, whom you describe as Ms. Mahmoud’s friend,” says Inspector Lonn.
Mugdi provides the details the officer wants.
Inspector Lonn says, “We’re almost done.”
At the end of a long wait, he asks Mugdi to sign the printout of his statement, having notified him of the dire consequences including possible imprisonment if he is found to be giving false information. Then a young female officer arrives with a referral that Mugdi is supposed to take to a nearby hospital, where he is to offer blood and urine samples.
Mugdi telephones Nadia to tell her to expect a phone call from Inspector Lonn. Nadia says, “I have no idea why but I felt that woman was trouble.”
* * *
He arrives at home, exhausted, and after greeting his daughter, who tells him that Riyo is upstairs, asleep, Mugdi apologizes for not being at the airport to welcome them. “But I did what I could, sent you Naciim, and I understand he didn’t come alone, but brought a charming girl.”
“I liked her a lot,” says Timiro.
“I am glad to hear they helped.”
“But why didn’t you come to meet us, like you always do?” she asks.
“Arla, Waliya’s friend, has accused me of rape.”
“Is the woman mad? Waliya must have egged her on.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Did you meet your accuser, and where?”
“She came to this home uninvited twice, once disguised as a devout Muslim, and in her next visit, she turned up with her face bleeding and with cuts and bruises all over her body.”
To spare her the need to question him, he gives his daughter a detailed summary of what he told Inspector Lonn.
“How much trouble are you in, Dad?”
“Not a lot, I think.”
“You’re not afraid of being arrested?”
“Not at all, darling.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“My blood and semen samples, which I am to provide tomorrow morn
ing, will prove her wrong,” he says. “Besides, I didn’t have sex with that woman.”
She remembers hearing a famous politician say something similar after having oral sex with his intern. But she is certain of her father’s innocence. She says, “You’re not violent by nature, and in any event, you’ve been seeing Nadia. From what Birgitta has told me, things are serious between the two of you. I feel deep in my heart that you are innocent of the crime which this woman accuses you of.”
“It’s heartening to hear you think I am innocent.”
“What do the police think?”
“The police don’t share your view of me.”
“Well, I pity Arla if she wished rape on herself. Sexual trauma resides in the mind as well as in the body of the victim.”
“I feel as terrible as a victim does,” he says.
“I am relieved Mum isn’t around to hear this.”
“So am I,” he says.
“If Mum were alive, Waliya wouldn’t encourage Arla to accuse you of rape,” says Timiro. “You can be sure of that.”
“Your mother was tough. I am not.”
“What will happen to Arla if she is found guilty of perjury?”
“She’ll end up in jail for a long time.”
EPILOGUE
Waliya says to Naciim, with Saafi sitting close by in total silence, “I feel the past has caught up with me and it is time I dealt with it. And the best way to deal with it is for me to go home.”
Naciim knows what his mother means about the past catching up with her. Lately, especially after Gacalo’s death and the humiliating raid, he thinks that Dhaqaneh must be uppermost in her thoughts.
Indeed, Mum says, “How I miss your stepdad, a man unlike any I’ve known. Gentle. Kind. Sweet. Generous. Had your stepdad been alive, we wouldn’t have come to Norway, and our lives would have been much happier.”
He says, “I’m not so sure about that. Our lives would have been different, but not safer, nor as happy as Saafi and I are at present here in Norway.”
His mother circles back to Dhaqaneh, speaking of their years together with nostalgia and enthusiasm. She is sufficiently heartened to bracket her late husband’s name with Zubair’s, his comrade in arms, whom she visited in prison earlier that day.
She says, “Zubair is a good Muslim, whom I would describe as a victim of injustice. He did nothing to deserve a long-term detention. What he did was this: he took up arms against infidels, whom he killed, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Zubair too, like Dhaqaneh his comrade in arms, picked up a gun only after the Ethiopians invaded Mogadiscio. Nor do I think there is anything wrong with that either.”
“But Mum,” Naciim says. “Many Muslims in this country are not subjected to antiterror unit interrogations. They live and move about freely, without any trouble. So there must be a reason why the antiterror unit has targeted Zubair and Axado.”
“I also visited Imam Fanax,” Waliya volunteers.
“The cruel imam who whipped me. How can you?”
“I’ve found him a changed man,” she says.
Saafi is interested. She asks, “How so, Mum?”
“He looks and sounds like a broken man.”
“Serves him right,” says Naciim.
“Imam Fanax doesn’t even attend the prayers at the prison mosque, he is so bereft. Some of his fellow prisoners have said he lives in total self-isolation.”
“Would you say you’ve changed too, Mum?”
“I must have changed. I’ve had nothing but one misery after another since coming,” she says. “I’ve lost weight. I am no longer as active as I used to be. My children are lost to me.”
“Didn’t you bring so much of the misery upon yourself, Mum?” he asks.
Saafi says, “Will you stop torturing her?”
“I am not torturing her. I’m asking questions.”
Naciim knows it cannot have been easy for his mother to be in Oslo when Mugdi associated her with both his son’s and his wife’s deaths. Mugdi gave the impression that he could not care less whether she left or stayed.
He asks, “What sort of life do you think awaits you in Somalia? A better and a happier life?”
“I’ve plenty of choices there,” his mother said.
“Plenty of choices in a country that’s at war with itself? How can that be, Mum?”
“I envisage a life of possibilities.”
“Tell us more about the life that awaits you, Mum.”
“Allah is my guide and protector,” she says.
Naciim thinks his mother does not have a prayer in heaven to succeed in Somalia, where many others much stronger and better educated have known nothing but failure.
He says, “It saddens me to see you leaving just when Saafi is setting up her seamstress business after obtaining her qualifications and when I am about to write my exam to enter university.”
“I don’t wish to stay here a day longer.”
“Why, Mum?”
She replies, “You won’t understand.”
“Please help me understand.”
“You pursue your dreams, and I’ll pursue mine.”
“What dream is taking you back home?” he asked.
“I’ve a job waiting there.”
“A job? What job, Mum?”
“As a concierge in a hotel in Mogadiscio.”
Waliya and Naciim hear Saafi’s weeping, distraught that their mother is leaving for Somalia, when they are staying behind. “Who’ll look after you when you are old and decrepit?” she says.
Waliya leaves for Somalia a month later, thanks to repatriation assistance from the International Organization for Migration and the Norwegian Directorate of Immigration.
On the day she collects the first Somali passport she has ever owned, thanks to the IOM which has arranged it through the offices of the only Somali embassy in Scandinavia, Waliya speaks of it as one of life’s delicious ironies.
She says to Naciim, “No one can question my Somaliness anymore after many years of being a stateless refugee in a camp in Kenya.”
Naciim remembers the story of a man, reportedly a friend of Mugdi’s, who was once committed to a mental hospital and then released. He had the habit of carrying in his pocket the affidavit given to him by the institution when he was discharged and sent home. He would boast to all and sundry that he was sane and could prove it. “But are you sane or insane?” he would say to the friends he met. “Could you prove it either way?”
Naciim is about to leave the room when his mother calls him back and hands him a thick envelope. When he opens it, he finds an air ticket and reams of documents. She asks him to translate for her the letter in Norwegian that is in the pile she has just received.
He tells her that the letter confirms in detail the packages the IOM is offering her. “They’re offering you support in the form of cash as part of the reintegration package, so that you can start a small business venture when you get back.”
“What other packages are they offering me?”
“They’ll provide you with a one-way air ticket home and someone will meet your flight when you arrive in Mogadiscio. They will help you find a place in which to stay for the first three months after your return.”
“I don’t need their help once I am in Somalia.”
“If I were you, I’d take all the help I can get.”
“What else is the letter telling me?”
He tells her about her departure date, plus all the telephone contacts of people who may assist her in case of difficulties in transit. She says, “Can you write down a summary of what these reams of papers say, and give me the names and the numbers on a separate sheet, in Somali? Thanks.”
At the approach of Waliya’s departure date, Saafi is weepier than a broken faucet. She cannot bear the thought of waving goodbye to her mothe
r. Mugdi telephones Waliya briefly to wish her good luck and to promise he will take care of Naciim and Saafi as best as he can. The next day, Saafi and Naciim accompany their mother to the airport.
Saafi shares a two-seater chair with her mother, with buckets of tears running down both their faces and choked up with excessive emotion. Naciim is up on his feet, across from where they are sitting, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He says to his mother, “You think you’ll be okay, Mum?”
She nods her head yes.
“What will you do when you get there?”
She makes an effort to say something, but no words come. She bursts into tears and Saafi joins her effortlessly and mother and daughter go into a huddle, and their bodies shake from sobbing, from their ceaseless sniveling. They fall quiet for a moment before they become hysterical in their weeping.
Naciim looks on, as if embarrassed by what the two women are doing, carrying on and crying their hearts out in unison. And he takes a physical distance from these weepy women in all-black body tents sharing a two-seater chair in the airport in Oslo.
When his mother’s flight is called and she disengages herself from Saafi’s grip, Naciim watches as she moves toward security. Saafi, however, walks with her to where the sign says PASSENGERS ONLY, and waits until her mother has gone past the uniformed men and women, and turned to wave goodbye to her.
When Waliya lands at Aden Abdulle International Airport in Mogadiscio, three Somali men, unfamiliar to her, meet her flight and take her to the staff quarters of the hotel where she has the job arranged.
Waliya telephones Saafi and Naciim from Mogadiscio three weeks later, a couple of days after the Somali news outlets reported that one Arla Mahmoud had been charged with perjury and sentenced to seven years in prison in Norway. Waliya sounds sanguine about her future prospects when she speaks to Naciim and she talks in a relaxed fashion, perhaps to prove that she is happy to be home.
“I am well, very well,” she says.
“What’s your job at the hotel, Mum?”
North of Dawn Page 30