From a Crooked Rib

by Nuruddin Farah

  Ebla knew that she would not hesitate to help her cousin. But how could she? She did not know what his intentions were. She knew, however, that there must have been a good reason why he needed a pistol. She was a woman, and she ought not to interfere with the jobs of males. ‘But his wife knows about it. As soon as he spoke about it, she directed him where to find it.’

  ‘Ebla, the cows have come back. I hear their mooing. Go to them. And don’t let the calves suck them.’

  Ebla ran to attend to them. She fed the cows with grass. Then she heard her cousin calling to her again, urgently. He asked her to go and call the widow, which she did.

  ‘I am taking Ebla with me. Will you milk the cows for the baby and her mother?’ her cousin enquired of the widow.

  ‘I have a guest. I must prepare dinner for him, but I think I can milk one cow for the baby and the mother. When Ebla comes back maybe she can milk the rest,’ replied the widow.

  ‘Good. Milk one for them.’

  ‘Yes. I will,’ replied the widow, looking at Ebla who stood statue-like, wondering what was happening.

  ‘My nephew, Awill, came this afternoon,’ said the widow, fixing her eyes on Ebla.

  ‘Did he?’ asked Ebla’s cousin.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give him my salaams. I will see him when I come home, I think.’

  The widow took leave immediately after that, and shouted to Aowralla from outside to say that she would come and milk the cow. Aowralla had no intention of answering back.

  ‘Let us hurry, Ebla. There is not much time,’ said her cousin. He went inside to say goodbye to his wife.

  ‘Allah be on your shoulders. Go under his protection, amen,’ said his wife.

  ‘Go with him, Ebla. And be careful,’ Aowralla added to her husband.

  ‘Yes.’

  Ebla was to a certain extent doubtful about what was going to happen, but she did not want to show this to her cousin or to anyone else for that matter. She was willing to get entangled in any situation as long as it would help her cousin and his wife. She walked behind him, losing courage now, then regaining it; hesitating whether or not she should run these risks, but then convincing herself in the same breath that whatever this was that she had become involved in would benefit her cousin.

  Ebla and her cousin walked side by side. They stopped abruptly just after they had passed the Arch at Belet Amin. Her cousin looked around suspiciously. He told her to wait for him on the pavement (the road was the main and only one in town and it was asphalt). She said that she would.

  Two men in what were to Ebla strange outfits stopped nearby. After a little while, her cousin came out of the building he had entered with three men who Ebla thought unusual in appearance, clad in khaki uniforms. They walked hurriedly away. Ebla’s cousin came up to her and whispered, ‘Come, follow us.’ She had never in all her life been as frightened as she was this evening. She had handled wounded persons, she had assisted in cutting off the hand of a fellow-peasant, when a bullet lodged there, she had attended to young girls undergoing the circumcision operation, she had cut off the useless ear of a calf when there were no males to do the job, but she had never been face to face with wars and never had a duel fight. As a woman, that was quite outside her experience. This lack of knowledge about what was to happen increased the tension in her.

  Before she divulged her utter confusion (for she had never been to that side of town), she saw the other three men entering a house. Her cousin stopped.

  ‘You wait here. I will come back in a minute,’ he said to her, then headed towards the entrance. She did this, then immediately afterwards he came out, his arms swaying with an extremely heavy load. A cloth was wrapped around some items. Ebla noticed that her cousin could not walk properly. He staggered with the heavy load on his shoulders. He moved one leg at a time to balance the other.

  ‘Take this to the house,’ he commanded.

  ‘Our house?’ Ebla asked.

  ‘Yes, ours,’ he said with obvious contempt.

  ‘But I don’t know . . .’ she started innocently.

  ‘Lift the thing first, you fool. I will give you directions to the house,’ he said.

  He transferred the load to her back. And then munched the words as he gave her the directions to his house. She was supposed to go straight until she came to a big old fig tree on the side of the road. After that she should take the first road to the right, and the house would be the fourth from the corner.

  Ebla touched the load. There was something mysterious about it, but it was not as heavy as she had expected; she had carried heavier things than that. It was only when she reached their gate that she changed the position of the load so that she could enter.

  The widow had just finished milking the cow and was in a hurry, she said. Ebla found Aowralla and the baby awake.

  She unloaded herself.

  ‘How was it?’ asked Aowralla.

  ‘What?’ said Ebla.

  ‘The thing. Where was he? I mean when you left him.’

  ‘He was entering a house. He had walked towards the entrance when I turned my back to him.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three others.’

  ‘Did the others come with you?’

  ‘No. They were inside.’

  ‘May God help them,’ said Aowralla.

  ‘Amen,’ joined in Ebla.

  But she wished she knew what the load that she had carried contained. She had tried several times to guess what it was. It could have been maize or gold, for all she knew. Why would maize be hidden and brought into the house only when it got dark?

  Ebla had performed her routine tasks of milking the cows—one less, thanks to the widow—and rubbing the milk-container with pieces of coal. (‘But why do people brush their teeth with coal? And why do pregnant women chew clay?’ Ebla asked herself.) The main door was thrown open and her cousin came in panting, beads of sweat had accumulated on his forehead.

  ‘What happened?’ asked his wife.

  ‘They caught it.’

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘Yes, all of it.’

  ‘And the other men?’

  ‘Yes, the other men also.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I ran for my life. They almost fired at me.’

  ‘You would not fire back, I knew.’

  ‘It was the two men who had been watching you who followed us. If only I had not taken you with me,’ he said to Ebla. Ebla did not utter a word.

  ‘It is Ebla who saved you this much, otherwise you would have nothing left with you. Thank Allah. You fool,’ said Aowralla.

  ‘I will hit you if you say another word.’

  ‘And you,’ he said to Ebla, ‘get out of my sight. I hope I will never see you again.’

  Ebla walked out of the house in a foul mood. Inside, she blamed herself, but she justified his genuine fury. Since she knew nobody else, she went to the widow’s house.

  12

  Ebla could hardly knock on the widow’s door. Somehow or other, she thought that the widow would refuse her the milk of human kindness, which she was always seeking. She never expected anyone to be grateful to her, neither would she want anyone to be annoyed with her. Innumerable ghost-like sights seemed to hover around her. A spasm of hatred seeped into her. But whom did she hate? And did she ever love anyone in her life? The ghost that she had seen the previous day had turned out to be a person—an Arab woman, which made the incident screamingly funny. She wondered then if she had ever been on the right track. She had been reticent all her life, because it turned out that her opinions were different from what others expected. ‘That proves either that I am an exceptional idiot, or the reverse.’

  One question after another leapt into her mind. Questions made her situation worse. They touched the sores and turned them (figuratively speaking) into big wounds; the wounds which had been (or appeared to be) healing for the four days she had stayed
in town.

  On second thoughts, Ebla decided to return. ‘No, I should not see her. Why should I?’ she thought. Something inside her suggested that she should go back to her cousin’s house and see if he had left; then she would sleep and would see what the morning brought. Turning around, she saw the widow coming.

  ‘Is that you?’ asked the widow.

  ‘Yes, it is me,’ replied Ebla.

  ‘Did you hear?’

  Ebla nodded.

  ‘It is horrible.’

  ‘What?’ she enquired distantly.

  Ebla had no idea what the whole incident was about. Her cousin had rebuked her, but as far as she was concerned, she was innocent. She did not want to hear any more about it, for the thought that she had upset her cousin, and his wife, coaxed her into unnecessary dejection.

  ‘The bastards,’ the widow exclaimed.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Police.’

  ‘But who are they?’

  ‘How can I explain to somebody like you? In a town like Belet Wene, we have Police.’

  ‘Is it the name of a tribe?’

  ‘Maybe in a way.’

  ‘I have never heard the name of this tribe. Under which main sect do they come?’

  ‘Did you hear about Government?’

  ‘No. Another tribe?’

  ‘No. No. No. In towns, we don’t talk in terms of tribes. We talk in terms of societies. You see, in this town, there are many different tribes who live together. Have you ever seen a white man?’

  ‘No. I have never seen a white man, God’s curse be on him. Why should I?’

  ‘Well, you see, the Government is the white man. Did you hear anybody talking about Independence?’

  ‘No. I heard about the Abyssinians, the Arabs and the Kikuyus, but I have never seen any of them. I saw one Amhar when we were dwelling somewhere near Kallafo.’

  ‘Look, Ebla, we cannot talk about these things outside here. Let us go in and talk it over. My nephew has not come back.’ When they were inside, the widow explained to Ebla in detail all about the Police, Government, the white man, and the Independence of Somalia, which was approaching. After explaining all this and hearing what had befallen Ebla, the widow told her to rest there for a while.

  After some time, the widow’s nephew came. Ebla and the widow were sitting in the room, which was dimly lit. The hurricane lamp had probably run out of kerosene. The shops were closed by then and the widow did not intend to see if the neighbours had any kerosene to lend.

  Ebla looked up to see what had darkened the room. ‘Maybe there is someone standing in the doorway,’ she thought. Then she saw a tall man, slim and handsome, looking into her face. The little light which fell upon his face hardly showed his features. However, Awill (for that was his name) greeted them.

  ‘Nabad.’

  ‘Nabad,’ said the widow, smiling at her nephew.

  ‘And who could this be?’ he said in a sombre voice that bewildered Ebla. It was strange and remote.

  ‘This is Ebla,’ said the widow.

  ‘She is from next door, is she?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the widow.

  ‘How long have you been in town, Ebla?’

  Ebla did not say anything.

  The widow answered for her.

  ‘Is she mute?’ said Awill addressing his aunt. As if he changed his mind, he addressed her this time, ‘Are you?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I talk. But don’t talk unless it is necessary.’

  ‘Quite interesting,’ he said.

  The widow then said that she must go out, but that she would come back soon. Awill moved over so that she could pass.

  He walked forward into the room and reached out for a chair, but not the one the widow had been sitting on. He sat down in an older, shabbier chair; then he cleared his throat, which Ebla felt was meaningful, but sat as if he was not ready to say anything.

  ‘Maybe he is waiting for me to speak,’ thought Ebla. ‘But what should I say? What?’ He was unlike any man whom she had talked to: it was as though, being a town-dweller, he came from another planet, and she dared not talk to him.

  Courting in the country was basically the same as in town, she thought. ‘If I had a mother and I was in our dwelling, she would have left us alone as soon as the suitor entered.’ The widow did just the same.

  Then his voice broke in on her thoughts.

  ‘Are you going back?’

  ‘Where to?’

  Ebla, in a fraction of a second, thought he knew what had happened between her and her cousin.

  ‘To the country,’ replied Awill.

  Inwardly she was pleased with the answer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  Ebla felt something crawling over her belly, creeping up towards her slender breasts. It gave her an irritating sensation. She wanted to kill the insect or whatever it was, but without attracting the attention of Awill. It seemed to her that he had a strange way of staring at her. His black eyes were fixed on her all the time, as if they were boring through her.

  There was silence again, but Ebla could still feel the insect. She swallowed, simultaneously lifting her left hand to her throat to accompany down the saliva. And while his eyes were busy following the movements of her left hand, she put her right hand through the opening to the belly and searched for the insect. ‘It might be a louse,’ she thought. ‘And what a disgrace.’ By then the insect (for she never saw what it was) had landed on the valley between her breasts. Ebla killed it on the spot. It left some moisture and the corpse of the insect fell down to her belly. Ebla looked in the direction of Awill and found him looking at the ground.

  After this long silence, she asked him:

  ‘How long do you intend to stay here?’

  ‘Nine days or so.’

  ‘Your aunt told me that you come from Hamar,’ said Ebla.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How big is it?’

  ‘Fairly big.’

  ‘Is it bigger than this town?’

  ‘Yes. Much bigger.’

  ‘I hope I will go there one day.’

  ‘Let us hope you will.’

  ‘I don’t know anybody in Hamar.’

  ‘Now you know me.’

  ‘But you are a stranger,’ she told herself.

  And aloud she said:

  ‘Yes, I know you.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What do you do in Hamar?’ asked Ebla.

  ‘I work for the Government.’

  ‘You catch smuggled goods, is that what you do? Like some of them who caught my cousin’s goods this evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what do you do?’ Ebla asked with a prudence foreign to her.

  ‘I work in Publica Istruzione. But you won’t understand anyway.’

  ‘But tell me, what is your main duty?’

  ‘That is where teachers are sent from.’

  ‘But you are not a teacher?’

  ‘No, I work in an office.’

  She did not understand what ‘an office’ meant, but she thought she might leave it at that for the time being. She would learn all these things later.

  ‘I know now,’ she said.

  ‘How do you like Belet Wene?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have not been here for long. I will be able to say when I have been here for a month.’

  The widow came back. She told Ebla that she had been to her cousin’s house and that Aowralla was waiting for her.

  ‘Is he there?’ Ebla asked, meaning her cousin.

  ‘No he has gone back to the shop to sleep there.’

  Ebla went back to her cousin’s house. Aowralla said that she was sorry her husband had maltreated her.

  ‘But you should not take these things seriously. It is one of his moods.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Ebla assured her.

  And after a little while, she was snoring her head off.

  13

  Ebla woke up the following morning, feeling morbid and rat
her sickly. But she wasn’t in the least worried about it. ‘Why should I? I am only an intruder into this world. And I could not abandon life. It has not yielded fruits to me as yet but I always put my hopes on the morrow. But the future is black. I have undergone an absolute shattering of my spirit and the mirror of my existence.’ She rubbed her eyes, then met those of Aowralla, when she looked down at where the latter lay.

  They exchanged ‘Nabad.’

  After which Aowralla quite happily announced, ‘It has broken.’

  ‘What has?’ Ebla asked.

  ‘The umbilical cord.’

  Ebla sat up and said, ‘When?’

  ‘Just now,’ Aowralla replied, her voice sounding little better. Although the sheets which served as a mattress had not been washed, the place looked better now. The atmosphere no longer smelt of child-delivery, thanks largely to the burning of the incense which was still being used to cover up the smell. If she wanted, Aowralla could walk all by herself to the outer door without Ebla’s help. And she need not wobble on the metallic walking stick, but she felt lazy and seedy inside.

  Ebla thought that Aowralla looked like an unfinished ornament. She could not think in terms of many adornments, because she had not seen many. A milk receptacle was adorned with beads stitched on to the outside of it, straw mats were dyed in different colours. And these stitchings or paintings were arranged in various attractive patterns. Ebla thought that Aowralla needed some more touches to be added to her, but that could only be done by the Creator and He must have wanted her to be as she was—after all, there could be no greater artist. Aowralla’s acquiline nose suited her big dark glowing eyes, but her eye-sockets were too hollow and too thin, and the dimples in her cheeks would look better on someone else. Her limbs were long and her height was in proportion to them. Ebla envied her dark lips, quite soft and bulging forward, as if they smiled teasingly. Her neck was long like a giraffe’s and there was a scar (maybe burnt by a local medicine-man for some sickness or other) right on the hollow base of her throat.

  Ebla got out of bed.

  Aowralla covered the child, who was now asleep again.

  ‘Sleeping?’ asked Ebla.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Aowralla.

  Aowralla raised her head, sat up (the pain was not as intense as before) and pulled the baby’s umbilical cord from underneath the drapery. She stretched her hand which was shaking a little, towards Ebla, who reached out.