Sidow was smart, even wise, but he was wrong about this. He had to be wrong.
*
I went to the kitchen before I took my breakfast at the table. “Could Sidow come over after school?” I asked Mother to put his claim to the test, to prove him wrong.
She didn’t respond, but continued to serve breakfast.
“Can he?” I asked again.
“No, he can’t. Not Sidow or the likes of him.”
“Why do you hate him so much? Because he is a Boon?”
She didn’t get upset. Instead she gave me a reassuring smile. “When you are older, you’ll understand that these people are not your equal. That’s Allah’s way.”
My gaze locked with hers. “But the president said…” Mother cut me off with a shake of her head.
“That is politics. It has nothing to do with us.”
I blinked fast to push away the tears. “Why? That is not fair.”
Mother seemed to be struggling to explain a complex issue. “They lack the dignity and the intelligence.”
“You don’t know him. Sidow is the smartest boy at school—wiser than Omar.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re meant to clean your house, not claim your friendship. That’s how it has always been. It’s not something you, I, or a piece of paper from the government can change. Not accepting that will destroy you.”
My throat was tight with anger. With all hope of retaining Sidow’s friendship with Mother’s blessing lost, I fled from her venomous words.
Elmi stood up from his chair at the kitchen table and followed me to the door. “Idil! Wait up!” he called.
I didn’t stop until the school gate clanked shut behind me.
*
Instead of sending students to their classrooms for the lessons of the day, the principal had placed junior grades in one corner of the yard and senior grades in another.
“It’s each school’s job to show the students the right way,” the head master said, reading the handouts form the Ministry of Education aloud. “Each creation must show the evils of tribalism. Get the supplies from there.” He pointed to a heap of discarded material in the center of the yard.
There were pieces of fabric, wooden logs, rolls of yarn, old shirts, blouses, pants, and women’s cotton dresses. We spent the rest of that week on a group project to interpret the hideousness of tribalism.
“Ours will be the ugliest,” several students from my grade shouted at the others. We shared the supplies while keeping our designs a secret, so no one would copy.
Teachers tried to relate the project to our curriculum. Even the religion teacher found verses from the Qur’an—“We created you as regions and tribes so you might know each other”—that condemned the way Somali people used their tribal affiliations. The principal promised us treats, work-free periods, longer recesses, and food for the grade that created the best presentation, in this case the ugliest presentation.
On Thursday of that week, five days after the start of the assignment, the school held a burning ceremony. As each grade presented their tribe replica, grotesque images of different shapes and sizes filled the yard. Extra limbs, eyes, and heads protruded from the bodies of the ghoulish creations. Different-colored paints mimicked blood and puss that oozed from small openings.
We were very proud of what we’d created. “We have the best! Ours is the best!” Each grade danced a jig around the ghastly effigies as slogan’s echoed and reverberated across the field. “Damn the tribe,” shouts rang. One grade after another claimed victory.
The principal inspected our work. “Great job, children.” He went to the ninth-grade area and examined a figure with a hand sticking out of its mouth. “Magnificent!” He wiped his face. “No lessons this afternoon.” He ordered dismissal. “Go ahead, play. You earned it.” The principal set fire to all the creations, starting with the winning project and they burned bright, wiping tribal-based divisions away, but I knew the truth.
*
Sidow approached Elmi and me when it was all over. “Hi.” His elbow brushed against mine, sending pleasurable sensations up my arm.
“That was fun.” I was still flying high from the day’s events. “Did you see ours burn?”
Sidow didn’t speak until we were outside the schoolyard. “My father received a letter yesterday.”
I stared straight ahead. “About what?”
“Farmers are asked to share the land,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“Farmers can only keep five acres per family member. Any so-called excess land must be sold to the Ministry of Agriculture.” Sidow’s voice was laden with bitterness.
Sidow understood the government’s political maneuvers better than many, but I couldn’t imagine such a thing happening. “That can’t be.”
“It’s true.”
I stopped walking. “What will happen to the land?”
“My father says the officials will give it to their clansmen.”
I couldn’t accept that statement. There had to be a mistake. Our leaders wouldn’t perpetuate injustice. Even though the tribal elimination hadn’t changed Mother’s mind, the president would be fair. At least, one had to appreciate the honor in the attempt. Father’s stories of traitors arrested, convicted, and executed rushed to mind. “People are just spreading lies,” I said with as much certainty as I could manage.
Sidow stopped. “I have to go home.”
I reached for his forearm. “Do you believe it’s true?”
Sidow straightened his shoulders. “I have to go home,” he repeated and walked away.
I saw why Sidow was rushing to leave. Omar was coming our way. I waved good-bye. Could such action by the government be true?
*
The aroma of the bread in the oven welcomed me into the house. Inside, Mother wasn’t wearing her normal house dress. She was in a black and silver kaftan. A sapphire ring, beaded gold necklace, earrings, and bracelet added to her festive look.
“Are you going somewhere?”
She shook her head no, picked up the birqabad—a metal tong—and removed the first batch of bread from the tinaar. “We have visitors.”
I took a piece of the bread and dropped it back on the tray as the heat singed my fingers. “My schoolmates are saying the government is taking their family farms by force.”
Mother missed the oven wall with the fresh dough, which landed on top of the red-hot coals. The moisture hissed. “Idil, go get changed.” Mother held her bottom lip tight between her front teeth.
“Do you think that’s true?”
She bit her lip even harder until it turned red. “Go to your room.”
I leaned against the cement counter. “Could they be forced to part with their land?” I asked again.
“They’re getting paid, and you must stop speaking of issues that are none of your concern. Understand?” Father appeared at the kitchen doorway.
“It’s their land. They shouldn’t be made to sell it,” I said.
“The whole country belongs to the government.” Father pointed at me. “We belong to the government. These people are so selfish. They want to keep the entire country. What happened to sharing?”
I heard the warning in Father’s tone, so I stood there, mouth agape, rigid with fear.
“Hawa, bring the food now,” Father said and left.
Mother turned to me. “Be silent, Idil. I beg of you child, stop talking. I can save you from everything except that mouth of yours.” She stopped for a few seconds. “Take this.” She pushed a tray filled with rice into my hand.
I took it without a word. Close to a dozen men, including members of the Red Berets—the secret police—were in Father’s study. I placed the food on the table and turned around but not fast enough to avoid hearing the whispers of how big and beautiful I was becoming.
“If I could only get you to stop asking questions,” Mother continued when I returned, “I’d be sure to save you from a wrong turn.”
“I know. I am sorry, but I must. I can’t understand how you go on without asking and knowing.”
“To not ask or know is a woman’s only way to survive.”
I appreciated her concerns, but for me, to do as she advised was impossible.
“Come take the beans and flat bread.” She sent me back to the study along with Hawa several more times. “Make sure to bring the empty dishes back without looking around.” Hawa and I served food and drinks intermittently until the grandfather clock in the sitting room chimed at 8:00 p.m.
Mother retired to her room and ordered Elmi and me to do the same. Omar was in the study with Father and his men. At nineteen, Omar was not in school anymore and was considered a grown man with a seat at the table.
I went to my room right away, but only until I couldn’t hear Mother’s quiet movements.
“You should’ve stayed in your room,” Hawa stopped me on my way to the study. “Your father will be angry if he sees you about.”
“I have to know if what my friends are saying is true.”
“And do what with it? Even if you find out that every detail of what they said is true, what can you do?”
I considered the question and finding no answer, moved closer to the study and listened. Some of the discussions eluded me, but I understood enough to be horrified. “The farmers are planning a protest.” Father sounded upset. “They have cancelled the harvest festival.”
“At least pretend you are helping me clean the kitchen,” Hawa said and handed me a mop dripping with soapy water.
I took it clumsily—just in time before Father and another man abruptly left the study and moved to the sitting room. I busied myself cleaning the floor. They didn’t seem to notice or care about me.
The man stood next to Father. A column of cigarette smoke clouded his face. “How many officers do we need to achieve the result we want?”
“Not more than twenty or thirty. The farmers have no weapons, no power, nothing,” Father responded.
The man took a drag and blew another puff of smoke. “They won’t go without a fight.”
“We can contain them,” Father said. “Traitors are animals. They should be put down like sick animals.”
Still mopping the floor, I shuddered and waited for more, but they returned to the study and issued quiet instructions to the others. Father used a military code as more men dressed in full army gear came and went.
“It is not safe to be found in here.” Hawa insisted I go to my room before she left the main house and headed toward the servants’ quarters.
I returned to the kitchen and hid behind the door as soon as I heard Hawa’s steps fade into the night.
I listened as Father instructed the men, but understood very little. In the end, he left with the last two Red Berets. I waited for Father’s return, but he didn’t come. It was past midnight when I went to my room. I lay down and somehow fell asleep and dreamed of Father and his men attacking the farmers. I woke up shaking not long after and stayed awake until it was time to get ready for school.
Elmi and I arrived earlier than usual. There were very few children, and the air in the empty yard was still and heavy. For the first time since the day I arrived at this school four years ago, the principal cancelled the morning exercises and sent us to class. Each room had fewer than ten students. Still, their voices damp with sorrow, the teachers taught their lessons as if every pupil were present.
*
“No one was at school today,” I complained to Mother that afternoon. Elmi, by my side, nodded in agreement.
Her sewing needle kept moving. “Maybe their parents need them to help at home.”
“Mother! The school was almost empty.”
She stopped embroidering. “It is harvest time.”
“Harvest break is not for another eight weeks.” I looked at her for a reaction, and saw fear. “Were Father and the others planning an attack?” I knew, but I asked anyway.
“Leave it be, Idil. No use in asking.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but Mother stopped me. “Be quiet about it!” She picked up the tablecloth and went back to embroidering. “Please, Idil.”
For the following week, no one mentioned the absent students. The principal conducted the daily assembly as if they were there. He gave awards to classmates who were not present—called names and pretended a student came up and collected the certificate. The rest of us clapped on cue.
Chapter Eight
Sidow returned to school a week after the raid. He approached me by the tree stump that served as a goalpost. “How are you?” Sidow kicked the dirt and the dust flew high.
“Okay.” I waited for a few seconds before I asked the question burning within. “Where have you been?”
Sidow gave our surroundings a quick check. “Red Berets arrested two of my brothers along with a dozen other farmers. They were taken to the Lugooy prison.” Sidow’s lips quivered.
“Why?”
Sidow sat down next to me. “For taking part in the protest. Farmers who agreed to sell their land are free, but not my brothers.” He used a stick to draw on the dirt.
“Why not?”
Sidow sighed. “My father organized the farmers’ protest.” Sidow rested his head on his knee and took a deep breath. “Today is my last day at school.”
“No! You can’t quit.”
“I must. My father’s broken by sadness and can’t work. There is too much for my mother to manage alone, and my brother Hasan is too young.”
I’d never imagined Sidow leaving school. He was so smart. “The year is almost done and the harvest is not for another two months. You should stay to write the exams.” I covered my mouth to hold the coming sobs.
Sidow took my hand between his. “What is the point? This is only grade eleven, and I won’t return for grade twelve.”
Indeed. Sidow had to become a man and a farmer overnight, and school was out of the question.
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked as an afterthought.
“My mother is trying to hold on, but my father is devastated. He feels responsible.” Sidow didn’t bother to hide his tears.
I hugged him and we remained in a tight embrace until the bell that signaled the start of the day rang. We got up, gathered our books and food jars, and went to class together for the last time.
*
After Sidow dropped out, school turned into a dreadful place. The girls and I drifted apart. During recess and free periods, we remained cordial, but I felt cut adrift from the others, the connections lost forever. A few weeks later, I went to visit Sidow at his house instead of going to the waterfall with the rest of the students.
Sidow saw me as I approached their main house and smiled. He shifted a jug of water he was carrying from one hand to the other. “It is so good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too,” I responded.
“Where is everybody else?” Sidow asked.
“At the waterfall.”
His voice wavered. “You should’ve gone with them.”
I had gone once after Sidow left school, but the place was full of haunting memories and the echo of his laughter rang in my ears. It wasn’t his absence, as much as his constant ghostly presence that rattled my nerves. “I wanted to be here,” I responded. I followed him into his house.
“You might be the only one who feels that way.” Sidow motioned for me to sit in a chair by the door of a room with a mud floor. Sidow’s father occupied a single bed covered by hand-woven sheets. On the floor was a folded prayer mat. Two books and an oil lamp sat on a small table surrounded by four metal chairs. From several pegs on the wall above the table, hung a water pitcher, and six car
ved wooden mugs. The room, with its unadorned simplicity, was cozy and peaceful.
Sidow sat on the edge of the bed. He took a small rag and washed his father’s face, neck, and arms. “He took to his bed after seeing my brothers’ bodies. Officers brought their remains, but Father didn’t even go to their funeral service. He has been here ever since.” At Sidow’s touch, his father moaned like a dying creature. Sidow placed a wet cloth on his father’s forehead and pressed it. “He has been like this for three weeks now. The medicine is not working.”
“I am sorry,” I said. “Where is your mother?”
“In the kitchen, cooking.”
His mother appeared as if summoned by my question. She cleared her throat. “How are you?” she asked, but didn’t wait for a response. Untied work boots flapped around her ankles as she walked toward Sidow. She clutched the cowhide belt that held her guntiino—the long cloth tied over the shoulder and tight around the waist. “Those men are here, waiting.”
Sidow stood over his father on the bed, arranged the thin blanket around him, and bent to kiss his forehead. Sidow’s lips lingered, unwilling to part.
Sidow’s mother took the vacated spot and massaged her husband’s feet. “You should go before they start measuring,” she said, without glancing up at her son.
“Do you want to join me?” Sidow asked me.
“Yes, I’d like that,” I said and followed him outside.
I walked behind Sidow in the narrow space between rows of mature corn. Stalks, rich with growth, bowed against the wind. The ears, with their flowery crowns bent close to the ground as if in prayer, came back without breaking. Soft, billowy leaves rustled and brushed against my cheeks. Their touch felt like long fingers caressing my skin. The beauty of the place distracted me, and I neglected to watch my step. My sandal caught on a stump at the border between the corn and the grain fields, and I fell.
Sidow turned around with a start. “Oh!” He extended a hand to help me up. “The paths change quickly between sections. You must be careful.”
My heart leapt at the tender touch of his fingers. I nodded.
Next to the grain silo, we heard advancing footsteps. Men approached. The older of the two gazed at Sidow. “We can’t start work until Tuesday. We have other work to do.”
Tale of a Boon's Wife Page 6