Hajj Ali, said Eyob, everyone in this camp is tired of powdered milk and tinned rations. Everyone longs for fresh food. No one forgets those who feed them as they would like to eat themselves.
Saba’s eyes rested on Hajj Ali’s broad forehead, his bulging eyes. His bony face appeared like a chiselled rock. He was shaped by the elements he encountered on his journey, she thought. Humans, like the earth, are vulnerable to wind and water, to nature. How much had she herself changed since living in the camp?
The tea was ready. But, fearing the businessman would ask her to leave once it was served, Saba kept it on the fire. She listened on as Eyob continued his efforts to persuade the nomad to stay.
The food we get from the aid centre just keeps us alive, said the businessman. But we need more than that. We need business to get our lives back.
The nomad didn’t say anything. Just as his body and face survived the elements in their most hostile form on his travels, he stood firm against Eyob’s attempt to appeal to his emotions.
I hope you will think of this from the goodness in your heart, said Eyob. Business that combines kindness is the most profitable.
But how will my presence help business? Hajj Ali asked.
I am confident our businesses will complement each other, the businessman said. When people buy meat from you, they will buy oil, onions and tomatoes from me. Think of the profit you could make.
Hajj Ali wiped saliva from the corners of his mouth with his hands. Eyob asked Saba if the tea was ready.
Allow the girl to take her time, said the nomad. We like our tea as strong as our women. He smiled, turning to Saba: How old are you?
I don’t know when I was born, Saba replied.
My mother always told me, the nomad said, that a woman who doesn’t care about age is a woman who keeps her youth in her heart.
Saba poured tea for the men. Hajj Ali slurped and muttered thanks to God. He asked for more sugar. As Saba brought the extra sugar from a box behind the door, she felt his eyes on her back, and when she turned, his attention focused on her legs.
God bless you, he said, as he sipped on the tea sweetened to his liking. Turning to Eyob, he asked: But why is the shop closed at this time of the day?
People are not spending because they think they will leave, but it doesn’t look like the war back home will end anytime soon. Maybe the best thing to make that money flow again is to bring more business into the camp rather than less.
I presume this money you are talking about is your own currency, said the nomad. I don’t plan to go to a war zone.
I can exchange our country’s money for your currency, the businessman said.
Anyway, forgive us, but we are nomads. I am not sure we can stay, Hajj Ali said as he fixed his turban, taking in the muscles of Saba’s calves in a sidelong glance.
But this is a refugee camp, Saba blurted out. It is also a temporary place, our oasis until we leave.
The nomad nodded, smiling. Indeed, you are right.
The businessman asked Saba if she now would leave them alone.
Hajj Ali stood up and as he placed the cup in Saba’s hand, he said: No harm in trying this place for some time. A heart needs its oasis too.
Outside, Saba leaned against the wall. Soon after, the men came out of the hut. Hajj Ali kneeled down to wash his face by the plastic water jug which stood against the wall of Saba’s hut. Eyob grabbed the jug and poured water into the hands of the nomad man.
May God bless you, may God bless, Hajj Ali’s voice boomed as he stood up. He fixed the sword dangling from his back. His daughter whistled twice. Almost immediately the herd moved, making the ground shake. Meat had arrived in the camp.
The nomad family set up their tents to the north of the camp, close to the river and the wilderness for their herd to roam about. A day after Hajj Ali’s arrival, Saba went with Zahra to see him.
Saba waved at his wife and daughter who were building a makeshift barn at the bottom of a hill.
I just came to greet you, said Saba to the nomad.
Hajj Ali shook Saba’s hand and praised God for the wisdom he had given to this young girl. Thank you for persuading us to stay, he said.
I thought it was the businessman who convinced him, Zahra said, as they walked back to the square.
I helped, Saba said. Her dimples deepened.
Everyone must know it then, said Zahra.
She held Saba by the hand and paused, bringing them to a halt on a steep pathway filled with bumps and cavities. They were surrounded by plants. A rabbit jumped over a shrub. Zahra closed her eyes and from memory she recited a passage from her mother’s pamphlet: A woman is already forced to be invisible by men in our society, so she must amplify her contributions herself, no matter how small.
Saba didn’t say anything.
So will you do it? asked Zahra. She did not wait for an answer, but ran down the path to the camp screaming: Because of Saba, Hajj Ali is staying. It wasn’t just the businessman.
Saba laughed as she chased after her friend.
To bless his new, temporary base, Hajj Ali told Saba he was slaughtering three sheep.
With the help of young men, he brought the meat in three large flat straw baskets to the square. Women living nearby cooked the meat together and the square was turned into a communal eating area.
I hope to see you at my place, Hajj Ali said, through the judge’s megaphone. I will sell milk and meat at affordable prices, God willing.
THE FIRST VIRGINITY TEST
It was early evening. The oil lamp wasn’t outside the hut and Saba turned her torch off and waited behind the wall of Nasnet’s kitchen until she was free. After what seemed a long time a man scurried out and away.
It’s me, said Saba.
Nasnet opened the door and embraced Saba in the way she always did when they met, as if human warmth could be siphoned off like petrol. Nasnet pulled Saba to her bed and sat beside her.
I am happy you are here.
Saba smiled.
Your smile without the dimples on your cheeks is a false one, said Nasnet.
No one had noticed this about her before. But Saba didn’t tell this to Nasnet.
There was a knock on the door.
Not now, Nasnet said from her bed. I am going to sleep.
Another knock.
Nasnet shuffled to the door and spoke through it: I said not now. Come tomorrow evening.
I want you now, said a man in a gruff voice.
It’s Tedros, Nasnet said to Saba in a whisper. Come, hide.
Saba didn’t move.
Nasnet grabbed her by the arm. Saba, you might think you know Tedros, but you have no idea what he is capable of when drunk. Here, go here, please. I will try to get rid of him.
With Saba under her bed, Nasnet walked back to the door. Please, come tomorrow, sweetheart, I am tired now, she said. What would a tired woman do for you?
Open, now. Or I’ll break this door.
Okay, calm down, I am opening it, said Nasnet. Be gentle, okay, sweetheart.
From under the bed, Saba watched Tedros’s Italian-made leather shoes, covered in dust, as he came into the hut and inched close to her face.
No, Tedros. You don’t have to be aggressive to have a good time.
Shush, he said. Put this in your mouth. It will shut you up.
Tedros groaned. He dropped his shirt on the ground in front of Saba. The bed over her head creaked.
When he left, Saba staggered out from underneath her hiding place and took Nasnet into her arms. She hugged her. Nasnet was warm, her hair dishevelled. One of her earrings had popped off her ear. On her collarbone, Saba noticed a white trail, like a snake slithering at a languid pace to Nasnet’s heart. Saba reached with her hands and fixed Nasnet’s hair. She wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead. Scooped off the white snake by its tail. Wetting a towel with water from a jerrycan, she cleaned Nasnet’s face.
Thank you, Saba, shokor.
Saba asked Nasnet to sta
nd as she changed the bed linen that she had washed and ironed with the charcoal iron days earlier.
It’s ready, said Saba. Come, sit.
Nasnet lay on her chest and stretched her arms, sinking deeper into the mattress. Saba sat by her side. Nasnet pulled back when Saba touched her shoulder.
The trick is to mentally transfer the pain to another part of your body, somewhere you can tolerate it, said Saba.
OK, Dr Saba, said Nasnet, chuckling.
Saba paused. Dr Saba, she mumbled to herself. Her dimples deepened. Returning her attention to Nasnet, she asked: Where does it hurt the most?
Nasnet guided Saba’s hand to her legs, stopping between her thighs.
Saba separated Nasnet’s legs. She didn’t flinch, as if the act of looking was also a way of reclaiming Nasnet from Tedros, and from all the men before him. Saba blew her breath on Nasnet’s vagina as Nasnet held her knees up. Then, she kissed it. And with her tongue she erased Tedros’s presence.
Nasnet moaned.
Saba walked head down to the Khwaja for her English lesson. She paused now and then to look up at the sky as if to gather her thoughts, and take a deep breath. Boys ran past her. A father carried his daughter up the hill, piggyback. Faster Aboi, faster, the girl urged her father. Saba spotted a woman in conversation with the Khwaja outside his hut. So Saba lingered some distance away.
The Khwaja called his student over to him. Saba, Saba, come.
If it’s too late, I can come tomorrow, she said to her teacher.
Time is irrelevant here, he said, putting on his glasses. Should we start?
Silence.
Saba, is everything fine? asked the Khwaja.
Have you ever been to see Nasnet? Saba asked.
The Khwaja turned up the wick of his oil lamp. No, he said, leaning back in his chair. I have never been to any sex worker in my life. He took a sip of his water. Trust me. Now, let’s begin studying.
The Khwaja translated an article about animal welfare in the English countryside for her. This article, he said, contains useful words. After the horror of two wars, governments in the West are done with killing each other and now they are focused on stopping the murder of animals. They pass one law after another to protect their pets. We have a long way to go, Saba.
They might not be killing their people but they are helping the dergue kill us, Saba said. They say that the planes that flew over our town and the bombs they dropped were given by America and Russia. And do you know why they gave all that support to the dergue?
I do, said the Khwaja. I never heard you talk about this, but I do.
The Khwaja handed Saba a piece of paper. This evening, I want you to write sentences with words you’ve learnt so far.
Yes, I like this, said Saba, adding in English: Go let us.
The Khwaja chuckled. Indeed. Let us go would be more appropriate but not to worry for now. It will come.
Saba left the Khwaja’s hut holding her piece of paper with her English writing which the Khwaja had said he would not correct for now.
Saba repeated her sentences as she headed home late at night. The midwife, who had left a pregnant woman’s hut a few houses away from the Khwaja’s, had seen Saba leaving his hut. Saba learnt this the following morning when she woke up to her mother’s muttered objections: That is not possible, Saba is not like that.
Saba is at least seventeen, have you asked yourself why she hasn’t had her period yet?
But not Saba. Saba is not like that.
Neighbours, accustomed to grieving, arrived to give their support. But they were turned away by the midwife. This was a different kind of death, Saba heard her tell them.
Saba wondered how many times she had died to her mother and the midwife at the exact moment she had felt herself alive. More than ever, I am not dead, she wanted to tell them. Touch me and see how my heart is beating.
Saba lay back on the blanket. She looked through the window, repeating some of the English words she had written down the previous night.
Not my Saba. Not my daughter. She is not like that.
Why else would a girl go into a man’s hut at night, when a man is at his weakest?
Even though she heard them, even though she wanted to respond, defend herself that the only pleasure she had sucked out of the Khwaja was his knowledge of another language, Saba stayed silent. She did, though, notice the contrast between their Saba and her interpretation of herself. As if she had left her body and become another, Saba thought, when she observed herself from their perspective.
She wondered how the self could fragment and multiply into as many parts as the number of people observing it. Saba was Saba, but also a whore in the making, a ghost, a stubborn girl.
Please tell me, the mother said to the midwife. What can I do now? What will people say?
Saba left her mother’s pleas behind her, and the midwife’s suggestions for how to fix her daughter, and instead she imagined herself in a narrow, dark corridor of a university that smelt of books, of laboratories, studying in a classroom instead of being in a constant dream. Then – and how time flies in a dream – she walked out of the university building as Dr Saba.
Just then, the midwife and the mother restrained her. Saba kicked her legs about, trying to release herself from their grip. But to no avail. She stopped fighting. For a moment, and even as the midwife inserted her two fingers into Saba to test her virginity, to test that she hadn’t slept with the Khwaja or any other man, calm ran through her. She realized how tired she was, how her body ached. She was exhausted from fighting. In that supine position, on her back, arms lifeless by her side, she felt at ease. Perhaps this was the natural position of a girl, she thought. If not, why did surrendering feel so much easier?
Days had passed since the midwife’s fingers confirmed Saba’s purity. Days since the mother ululated as if the midwife had delivered her new baby girl. Days since Saba found the comfortable position, on her back, her eyes shut without sleeping, when the world existed outside herself. She wasn’t part of its advancement or destruction.
The blanket was warm and damp. The ground hard. The night wind filtered through the window bringing shrieks of crickets, like cracks of fire. Saba sat up and lit the oil lamp. To look away from her body now would have meant accepting the midwife’s presence inside her for ever. It would have meant accepting the hurt, the intrusion, the growth of injustices like a thorn bush against her inner thighs. Saba decided to confront and to cleanse the ghost of the midwife. To liberate her body from the midwife and take it back. Like the flag of a free country, she planted pleasure on her assaulted body with her fingers.
A WOMAN
Saba stood outside the hut. She heard laughter as fresh as the morning as the young girls and boys hopscotched on the sandy ground. When she looked away from the children, Saba saw the businessman making his way to the office of the aid coordinator. He had yet to receive an answer to the request to allow the aid centre to provide loans to refugees and to speed up the issuing of travel permits.
Saba could picture the businessman trying to persuade the aid coordinator to do more to convince the regional authorities. She imagined him saying, After a while humans can’t just survive on food and safety, even in a camp.
But maybe sometimes words have no power, Saba thought when she saw Tedros following his father into the aid centre, holding by its legs a rooster they had bought from Hajj Ali.
Saba felt a sudden pain in her back and tummy. As she placed a hand on her stomach, she felt something warm dripping down her leg.
Yikes! Look at Saba’s legs, one of the girls behind her screamed.
The children scattered away. Saba looked down. Blood dripped down her leg to the grey earth beneath her. Saba ducked as the eagle swooped down on her blood.
The midwife took Saba inside and shut the door. Piercing ululations from her mother marked Saba’s passage into womanhood, while the midwife folded a piece of cloth into a thick absorbent pad to place in Saba’s underwear. Ev
erything will be fine, sweetheart, now that you have become a woman, said the mother.
Saba expected womanhood, this phase of independence, to arrive once she was well on her way towards the goals she’d worked for at school, but it found her as a refugee in a camp. It was bewildering to her that a woman’s passage into adulthood wasn’t through her intellect, her character, but through her vagina. As far as she was concerned she had already been a woman for a long time now.
Saba clutched her stomach and sat on the blanket.
I will go and ask him to hurry up, said the midwife. Saba is not going to wait around forever now that she is a woman.
Saba sat up. When the midwife reached the door, she turned around. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her mother went up to the midwife. The two women hugged and wept.
Bringing up a girl is the ultimate responsibility God has placed on a parent, Saba remembered the midwife telling her mother after her father left when she was six. But I will help you, my sister. Saba is like my daughter. I will make sure she is brought up well.
Let me go to tell the businessman, said the midwife, freeing herself from the mother’s embrace. No time to wait, she is ready.
That evening, though, it was another man who came asking for Saba’s hand. He was not even the first. And like all those before him, he arrived with a gift.
Hajj Ali brought a plastic jug full of milk, mutton and eggs in a straw basket. Saba, though, knew her mother would turn him down, like the others. There was only one man in her mother’s and the midwife’s minds. A man with his own land back home, who would make the return, when it came, smoother.
She is still as strong as an ox, said the nomad of his wife’s strength. But age hit her here, he dug his finger in his brown vest-clad chest. While the capacity to love in my heart swells with the passing of every day.
The mother asked Saba to wait outside the hut as she conversed with Hajj Ali. Saba sat with Hagos next to the oil lamp that engraved an island of solitude around them. Brother and sister reunited in silence, like old times. How strange, Saba thought, that distance wedged between them while they lived in the same camp and the same hut, their blankets next to each other. It had been a long while since they had spent time with each other in the way they used to.
Silence Is My Mother Tongue Page 15