From a Crooked Rib

by Nuruddin Farah

  Aowralla smiled at what she saw, but Ebla could not understand. ‘Give it to me,’ said Aowralla.

  ‘The packet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ebla stood up and handed the packet over to Aowralla.

  Aowralla broke the things into pieces and gave them back to Ebla who hesitatingly accepted them.

  ‘Boil some water. And you put everything in when the water has boiled. That is how we eat spaghetti: it is very simple, and my husband likes it that way,’ said Aowralla. ‘But don’t cook it now: only when he is about to come for lunch. You can cut the meat now and cook it. Cut it into small pieces, then wash them. Then cut the onions, grind the garlics and cut the tomatoes also.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ said Ebla.

  ‘Get a big plate and come near me. I will show you. Empty the whole packet into the plate.’ Ebla did as she was told.

  Aowralla said that the garlics were missing and asked Ebla to go and get some. But the widow came, and said she had forgotten to buy them, but that she had some in her house, so she went and got a handful.

  When cooked, the meat was delicious, but Ebla could not bear looking at the spaghetti. She merely picked at it. ‘Tape-worms. How can I eat tapeworms?’ she asked herself.

  Her cousin came back and devoured the meal. He did not stay long, but went back immediately to the shop. ‘It is the marketing session,’ he said.

  After Aowralla and the baby had both fallen asleep, Ebla returned to the widow’s house next door.

  9

  Ebla still had a bitter taste in her mouth. She wished she could stick to her previous milk-meat meals and occasionally some thick porridge. But she was in town, not in the country, where she had been all her life, where she had never helped at childbirth and where she had never acted as an errand-girl. What a miserable life!

  She pushed the main door open and walked in. It was the first time she had visited the widow, although the widow had hinted that she could go any time to her place, to ask for help in her cousin’s house-keeping or for anything else. She walked gracefully with her robe round her body, striding along like a queen. She looked back when she heard a bang, but it was only the outer door closing: the noise had frightened her. At the widow’s door, Ebla waited motionless for she could hear a man’s voice from inside.

  ‘How are Aowralla and her husband?’ asked the man’s voice.

  ‘Fine. Aowralla has given birth to a child.’

  ‘Oh, she has, has she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A girl or a boy?’

  ‘A girl.’

  ‘I guess he needs it.’

  ‘And there is a newcomer. A cousin of his just turned up yesterday and was in time to help.’

  ‘And will she go back?’

  ‘I don’t know for certain.’

  ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘Well, I cannot say.’

  ‘She is not worth calling a woman?’

  ‘No. I think she is very beautiful, except she looks like a spinster.’

  ‘How old do you think she is?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘I like spinsters anyway. They will bless the day you were born, and children and milk and meat and prosperity will come in plenty. They come in handy when one needs a woman to marry. They don’t say no, because it would mean more years to languish through and more agony to pass through. And more “scratching” for them also. I like my wife to be older than myself.’

  ‘I imagine this one is not.’

  ‘What is her name?’

  ‘Ebla.’

  ‘Good name,’ he said and clucked like a donkey-guide.

  Ebla stood at the door with her hand resting on the handle. The main gate had opened and closed before she could see who came in. And when she did, she saw somebody in a dark veil looking towards her. She almost ran away, but she decided to wait. Was it a man? Or was it a woman? Or a ghost? Or a genie? ‘Oh, my Lord, come and help.’ When the person in the veil was a few paces away from where Ebla stood, afraid, but adventurous and bold, he stopped. The eyes of the person peeping through the two holes deliberately made to serve as inlets made Ebla more frightened. Ebla examined ‘the object’, ‘the thing’, ‘the person’ up and down. The person stopped where he was. Then Ebla looked at the shoes: they were unlike any shoes she had ever seen. ‘It must be a ghost that has come to capture me,’ she thought. ‘My grandfather has cursed me. My brother doesn’t want to see me any more. I have left Aowralla and the baby alone,’ she told herself. ‘But I must do something.’

  She lifted her robe with the tips of her fingers, then looked all around her. She looked at the person again. The eyes were still staring at her through the two holes. She closed her eyes and imagined herself to be elsewhere, to be a kid again, playing ‘Catch the thief ’ and she ran. The person in the veil gave way and she passed by him swiftly, hitting him with her long arm. She opened the main door of the widow’s house in a hurry and rushed into her cousin’s house to talk to Aowralla about it.

  Aowralla and the baby were both asleep. Ebla wondered why she had not raised her little finger and said ‘A udu billahi mina el shaidani rajim,’ which would supposedly protect her from the ghost or genie. She wished she had stayed in the country and never left; only, country life was more monotonous than that in the town.

  She looked at herself, at her robe, at the motif on her dress, at the beautiful colours that were painted on the robe. She had always wanted to wear a robe like this. Once she had almost got one: a woman had brought it with her, and decided to sell it to her, second hand, but then had decided against it. Again she felt the robe with her fingers.

  But the ghost. ‘What did it want from me?’ Who could be the man inside? Surely he was not courting her? But how could she know? All she knew about the woman next door was that she had been a widow for three years and was now over thirty. This meant that she was beyond the age of marriage, Ebla thought. And if this man was ever keen on the widow, would he talk to her about another woman? And if he wanted to marry a woman older than he why didn’t he marry the widow? She must be older than he, Ebla thought. Could he be a relation? Could he be the brother of the widow? Everything was possible.

  Ebla then saw that Aowralla had woken from her sleep. Aowralla licked her lips. They were dry, stiff and swollen.

  ‘Water,’ she mumbled. Ebla brought the water and then Aowralla went back to sleep.

  Ebla lay down on the spring bed which had frightened her the previous day, but only to relax. However, she fell asleep. When she woke up the baby was crying and Aowralla was moving, but soon they were asleep again. Ebla had her eyes half open. Her ears quivered. As the superstition goes, she thought that someone was talking about her somewhere far away. She did not have to think who those people could be—she hardly knew anybody except her relatives in the country; one never went out of one’s way to make acquaintances in the country. But what could they be saying about her? Or was her grandfather sick? She could not continue thinking about her grandfather, for she knew that his situation must have worsened by now, and could be very serious. ‘He might even have died, for all I know,’ she said. And it would be much better for him and the others around him and anyone who loved him if he had. ‘What is life if one outlives it? It is much more comforting to die when one is talking than when one starts to mumble.’

  Although she tried to reason with herself as to whether or not she should have left, she could not come to any conclusion. ‘I left the country and am in town, so why worry about it any more,’ she told herself. At least, she told this to the part of her personality which required an explanation or apology for her stay in town. Something within herself had been wanting to have similar queries answered, but the reply was not of any consequence. She must make whatever she could from where she was.

  She had never been a split personality, but she had seemed slightly uncertain. The first time that she saw a car she was almost petrified on the spot. And it was
only this afternoon that she had been asked to take the radio to her cousin. Her cousin had put it on and Dalais was singing. Ebla went round the radio and touched it on all corners; she thought someone must be inside—a woman, since she could recognize the voice was that of a woman. But all the same, she did not want to expose her ignorance to the others. She left those things with the hope that she would learn about them at a later date. She would do whatever the townspeople did. And by this process, she would learn.

  After some time, her palms itched. ‘Someone will give me some money,’ she thought. She was still toying with this idea when the baby cried and the mother awoke also.

  ‘Milk,’ again.

  ‘Water,’ again.

  10

  There was a knock on the outside door. Ebla heard the knock, but waited to be sure. The tapping continued, a soft rap. Aowralla sat up and lifted the glass to her mouth. The baby cried; Aowralla, instead of drinking the water herself, gave it to the baby.

  Meanwhile, Ebla went to answer the door. She hesitated, uncertain whether or not she should open the door. However, she heard the widow’s familiar voice from behind the closed door.

  ‘Open it. It’s me.’ Ebla opened the door.

  ‘Did you come to my house?’ asked the widow, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is Aowralla awake?’ she asked, changing the subject, which infuriated Ebla.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she fine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want to go and talk to her then.’

  Ebla followed the widow inside. One could never tell which was the guest—the widow striding powerfully along or Ebla following her. They looked like Cleopatra and one of the million slaves she kept.

  Even before they were inside, the widow said, ‘Aowralla, it is your turn to collect the Shollingo, but you haven’t paid for a couple of days. That means two shillings less. Is that right?’

  ‘I think it is.’

  The widow walked away without looking back again. Even when she said good-bye, she walked straight ahead, occasionally looking down at the ground as if she were walking on thorn-bushes. She lifted her leg, as if she meant to kick them off: she threw them forward. Her face was magnificent. A widow, this one? One would be tempted to say, ‘Married twice. Divorced once. Left in the lurch once’—or perhaps he had died before she walked out.

  ‘Come, Ebla. Close the door,’ she said authoritatively. Ebla obediently followed her. The widow made some jingling sound with the coins she kept in her hands. She threw them up one or two at a time. ‘Why did you run away?’ asked the widow, facing Ebla.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why did you run away? I just asked you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you came to my house.’

  ‘This afternoon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I did not run away.’

  ‘You did. You did run away.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I know.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t have to say.’

  ‘Did you see from a hole or something? The hole in the wall?’ Ebla asked, meaning the window.

  The widow said, ‘No.’

  The widow took the door handle and swung it to and fro, making a creaking sound that was unpleasant to hear. The wind blew up the widow’s frock and she stopped to cover herself immediately. She looked up and her eyes met Ebla’s. Ebla was silent, just staring at the widow, who now gave a shy smile.

  ‘My friend saw you,’ said the widow.

  ‘Who saw me?’

  ‘My Arab friend.’

  ‘So you have Arabs down here?’ asked Ebla, quite interested in pursuing the issue.

  ‘Yes. Many of them.’

  ‘And the one who saw me? But how come, I did not see him.’ Ebla was afraid. That reminded her of the ghost that she had seen. ‘But that might be the friend that she is talking about,’ she thought to herself.

  ‘She was in a dark veil.’

  ‘Oh, was that an Arab?’ Ebla asked, moving away from the widow.

  Ebla sneezed then moved a bit forward and blew her nose with her fingers, flicked off the mucus into the air (it narrowly missed the widow) and then wiped her fingers on her robe.

  ‘Yes,’ answered the widow.

  ‘A man or a woman?’

  ‘A woman.’

  ‘Oh, I would like to meet an Arab.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they are the Prophet’s relatives. They are nearer to him than we are, aren’t they?’

  ‘They are not the Prophet’s relatives any more than we are. I don’t know what they are.’

  ‘Do they speak Arabic?’

  ‘Yes. I guess they do speak something like it.’

  ‘Then they speak the language of the Koran?’

  ‘No, they don’t.’

  ‘What do they speak?’

  ‘The rumour is that these we have in Somalia were the black-smiths in Arabia.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘My first husband was an Arab.’

  ‘Oh, was he?’

  ‘Yes, and he made me cover myself with veils, as dark as coal. Well, that is what our religion requires—that women should cover the whole body. I don’t see anything wrong in that. He was a nice man,’ she added.

  The widow had now gone beyond the stage of keeping secrets. The talk interested Ebla more than she had ever realized it could.

  ‘My husband was as jealous as a monkey,’ said the widow of a sudden, in a matter-of-fact way.

  ‘Like what?’ asked Ebla.

  ‘A monkey.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Did you hear about the story of the monkeys?’

  ‘I have heard many stories about monkeys.’

  ‘Did you hear what they do to their females?’

  ‘Well, I suppose they don’t eat them, do they?’

  ‘No. Far from it.’

  Ebla was silent and the widow added, ‘Guess what they do to them?’

  ‘They make love to them?’ asked Ebla in a low voice, and looked around her. ‘Oh, my God, what did I say?’ thought Ebla inwardly.

  ‘Yes. But what besides that?’ said the widow in a cool voice.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well they cover the “thing” with sticky, wet mud before they leave her. The whole area and its neighbouring area, I mean.’

  ‘What does that symbolize?’

  ‘That will enable them to know whether or not the female has been made love to during the male monkey’s absence.’

  ‘How does the poor animal know?’

  ‘You mean the monkey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should know.’

  ‘But I don’t know.’

  ‘He sniffs at it, you idiot.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. He also looks at it. If the “thing” is wet, and there is an opening then he beats her like the devil.’

  ‘Now how did your Arab husband resemble a monkey?’

  ‘They are both jealous.’

  ‘Was yours very jealous?’

  ‘Yes, that is why he divorced me. He thought I was sleeping with other men. He could not speak Somali, although he stayed in this country throughout his life. And whenever I spoke to anyone in Somali, he would think that I dated him. If it was a woman, he would think that she was a procurer.’

  ‘Do you speak Arabic then?’

  ‘Yes, very little. Enough to get me another Arab, if I were interested in them. Well, I suppose I’d better go. My nephew is waiting for me in the house. He is all by himself.’

  ‘Is this man in the house your nephew?’

  ‘Yes. And he is such a lovely man.’

  ‘Nabadgalio—good-bye,’ said the widow, rushing through the door.

  ‘Nabadino—good-bye to you too,’ replied Ebla.

  11

  Ebla’s cousin had been involved in a smuggling racket. Kallafo was
about a hundred miles away. He kept an agent to smuggle goods into the territory from Kallafo, and he sold these to the people in the area. Today was the day the goods would arrive.

  Ebla had just closed the door, when she heard an exchange of greetings between her cousin and the widow. She came back and opened the door.

  ‘How is she?’ he said, walking past her.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And the kid?’ he said.

  ‘Also fine,’ she said.

  He looked backward as he entered the room. Ebla followed him. Quite understandingly, his wife said:

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘In about two to three hours.’

  ‘Who are you going with?’

  ‘With some of my friends,’ he replied.

  Aowralla was silent.

  ‘How is the kid?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Does she disturb you?’

  ‘No. Not very much.’

  Ebla stood in the doorway. She looked at her cousin, puzzled. He kept opening one drawer after another. He could not find whatever he was searching for.

  ‘Where is it?’

  Aowralla must have known what he was looking for, for she answered:

  ‘In the crate.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Did you ask me?’

  ‘But you knew what I was searching for.’

  ‘Anyway, get it from the crate.’

  ‘Where is the crate? I mean which crate?’

  ‘The black one,’ Aowralla replied.

  ‘Which black one?’

  ‘We have only got one black crate. The other one is brown, and it is no good. It doesn’t even close.’

  Ebla’s cousin moved towards the boxes which lay upon each other like dead animals. He lifted the two boxes and then came to the crates, which he opened. He looked round to see if anyone was watching. Ebla shamefacedly cast down her eyes when they met his bloodshot ones.

  ‘That must be a pistol,’ she thought—and it was.

  Her cousin re-arranged the boxes as they were, on top of each other, with the black crate underneath. He took out his handkerchief and wiped away the dust from his shirt and cleaned his hands also.