Tale of a Boon's Wife

by Fartumo Kusow

  I gathered enough courage to ask, “Does Elmi know about Mother?”

  Father sighed and nodded.

  His calmness encouraged me. “Is Elmi coming?” I wanted to see my brother.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “What would he come for?” Father shouted angrily. “The burial is set for today. It would take him over twenty hours to travel here and he wouldn’t make it for the funeral.”

  “What about Omar?” I didn’t want to see Omar, but wondered if Father was playing favorites.

  Father glared at me. “That was Omar on the phone, asking me to wait for two days, so he could come.” Father removed his glasses, placed them in their case, and set it in the space between us. “The body can’t be outside the grave another night, let alone for two days.”

  Father was right. Burials were usually set within the first twenty-four hours of the deceased’s passing. The families mourned afterward without fear of the body decomposing in the heat.

  “And anyway, why does it matter? She didn’t want to see Omar when she was alive. For months, she refused to speak, or even be in the same room with him.”

  “Why?” Suddenly, I remembered Mother’s comment about wanting to be as far away from Omar as possible.

  “She wouldn’t say.” Father sounded exasperated with the whole subject.

  Rhoda turned and stared at him, her expression pained. “She didn’t need to say anything. Obviously, she knew the truth about Omar. She knew how evil and self-serving he could be, only she realized it too late.”

  “What are you talking about? What did Omar do to Mother?” I demanded.

  Father gave Rhoda a measured look under a knitted brow for a few seconds before he spoke. “Not another word,” he warned.

  Rhoda dropped her head low and faced the front.

  Silence returned to the car, engulfing us once more. We drove under its heavy cloud until we came to a stop in front of a tall concrete wall surrounding a large house. Several men stood guard atop the roof, the barrels of their guns facing the main gate.

  “Come.” Father opened his door.

  I followed him and Rhoda into the house.

  Father led me to Mother’s bedroom with Rhoda close behind. “There,” he said. “I’ll leave you to visit with her for a few minutes before you start the washing.” He left, but Rhoda stayed by the door.

  With one glance around the room, I saw that Mother had realized her love for luxury. The decor matched her taste, the furniture was handpicked and expensive. The bed, big and well-made, stood ready to receive its tired occupant in comfort. Lush sheets and pillows covered the bed and her happiness oozed from every corner. The room spoke her name, chorused her desire to have the best money could buy, while evoking the memory of the pain she’d endured to have it. Still, she often said she stayed not for herself, but for us. Most of all she suffered on my account. I knew, even in this magnificent room, she never rested, but this knowledge came too late, and a new sadness gripped me.

  Mother’s body was on a wooden table next to the bed. I kissed her face—the only part of her that was exposed. My tears wet the silk scarf covering her chest. “I’m sorry, Mother,” I said. “I should have understood.”

  “The accident battered her body, broke every bone,” Rhoda said.

  I had forgotten Rhoda was there, and the sound of her voice startled me. I ignored her and draped my arms over Mother’s remains.

  Father reentered the room and stood between Rhoda and me. “The service will start soon.”

  I wept louder for the lost opportunity to make amends. I knew Mother understood my loss from the way she watched her words, how she looked at me when she thought I couldn’t see. The sad expression on her face when I pulled away from her embrace, the help she’d offered especially when I didn’t take it, spoke for her. Only I never made the same overtures. Now the chance to reconnect was lost forever.

  “The force of the explosion flipped the car over and it landed on her.” Rhoda was intent on inflicting more pain.

  “Leave, now,” Father told her.

  “Idil might want to know what happened. I am just trying to help her understand.” Her gaze bypassed Father and landed on me.

  “Go, now!”

  Rhoda’s face burned with rage. “You are throwing me out?”

  The question hung in the air for a few seconds before Father answered. “Now.”

  Father ushered Rhoda out and returned shortly after with two ladies. “They will help you.” He stepped aside. “The kafan is here.” Father pointed to a large bag containing pieces of white cloth that would be used to enshroud the body.

  We wheeled the wooden table Mother’s body was on to the washing bay at the back of the room.

  “My name is Haweya and this is Caliso. We will guide you in doing this,” the elder one spoke for the two. “Start with the upper right,” Haweya read from a book, as soon as the door latched behind Father.

  Caliso held the pitcher of water over the body. “Wash the lower right before moving to the left.” Haweya turned the page and continued reading. “Is the hair clean enough?” she asked, informing me that three washings were required.

  “No, it’s still matted.”

  “Wash twice more. It needs to be an odd number of times,” Haweya instructed.

  It was difficult at first, but after a while my hands moved on command. I obeyed the instructions and without much thought.

  Caliso placed the pitcher on the nightstand. She took a white full-length dress with buttons to the ankles and three inexpensive sheets out of the bag Father had shown us. We spread the sheets out on the bed and put the dress on Mother. Together we lifted her clean body off the table and placed her on the bed.

  “Use this to cover her hair.” Haweya held a white scarf. “Rest her left hand on her chest below the right, as if in prayer.” When we finished dressing Mother for her forever home, both women left.

  The room became quiet until Father interrupted the stillness. “They’re ready for her.”

  “No, not yet. They can’t take her yet, not now.” I wailed.

  “It is time for her to go.” Father took me to the back of the bedroom. “Stay here until I come back from the cemetery.”

  I cowered behind the headboard. Three men, along with Father, lifted Mother and placed her on a board. Each took one side and walked out, reciting the prayer of the parting.

  *

  I stayed in Mother’s room, trying to imagine how she’d existed in it. Was she happier than she’d been in Bledley or Gaalmaran?

  I had lost track of time when Father returned from the cemetery. “She loved it here,” he said when he joined me in the sitting area of her room. “She’d sit here for hours without saying a word.” Father sat on the loveseat across from me. “Even when spoken to, she seldom said much in the last two years.” Father stopped suddenly. Maybe he’d said too much. “Your Mother wanted you to have this.” He held out an old rectangular metal canister.

  I recognized it immediately. The lid was too large for the tin, but it was fastened with duct tape. I brushed an index finger against the side of the can, and the rust scraped my skin.

  “She didn’t know she was going to die, did she?” I asked.

  “No, she didn’t, but she was planning to give it to you when she returned. She said it used to be yours at one time. At least that’s what she told me.”

  My mind traveled back through the years. Mother had caught me holding the canister that contained the drawing Sidow had given me after he’d dropped out of school. She yelled at me to take “the filth” out of her house. I ran to my room holding the can tightly. That afternoon I showed it to Elmi and then hid it under my bed, covering it with an old dress. I took it out each night to admire the image. The morning I eloped with Sidow, I wanted to take it with me, but the can along
with the drawing had vanished.

  “I can’t believe she kept it all this time.” I yanked at it. The tape gave, and the lid came off. My hand flew backward, and I gasped. There, in the center of a large roll of American bills held together by a rubber band, was one of the two beaded bracelets Sidow had with him that last morning when he left for his new job. The drawing, still folded the way I had left it, was tucked in at the side. I touched the bracelet to assure myself of its presence.

  “Where did Mother find this?” What happened to the other one?

  Father stood. “I have to go now.”

  “Where did she find it?” I pulled the bracelet out of the can and held it for Father to see. His reaction told me he was not surprised it was in there, but he pretended he didn’t know what it was. A cold chill of fear crept up my back.

  Father hesitated. “She didn’t say. I only know she planned to give you this can, which was yours when you were young. She said she wanted you to have it, since you didn’t take anything when you ran off with the Boon. That is all I know.” The way he enunciated every syllable so carefully told me that he knew more. “Does it mean something to you?” he asked.

  “I lost the can when I was young.” Admitting the significance of the bracelet could mean danger for me, so I didn’t say anything about it or the drawing or the bundle of money inside.

  “I have to go,” Father repeated. “Rhoda has your ride ready,” he said and left.

  I unfolded the drawing and traced the sharp creases that interrupted the lines where Sidow’s pencil had graced the page. I folded it again in the same pattern and placed it in the corner of the can. I turned to the bracelet and caressed it. The once-vibrant beads had lost their shine and looked tired and worn, but there it was. How did Mother end up with this? Did she see Sidow alive after he left for work? Suddenly, I felt unsafe in the house and wanted to leave.

  Rhoda entered the room, and I slipped the bracelet back into the can. “I’m ready to go,” I said.

  Rhoda stared at the canister. “Your mother was so protective of that ugly thing from the minute Omar gave it to her. She carried it everywhere, even to the bathroom. I watched her for weeks, hoping she would leave it behind for a few minutes, so could I see what is in it, but she didn’t. A month later, I asked Omar about it, but he only yelled at me to stay out of what was not my business.”

  “Omar gave this to her?”

  “Yes, about six months ago. I know because it was about the time he tried to get on your mother’s good side. I have never seen Omar work so hard at anything before, but she only moved farther away from him. What’s in it?” Rhoda asked.

  “Nothing. Just some trinkets and jewelry from when I was little.”

  Rhoda frowned. “It seemed more important than a child’s stupid jewelry box. Your mother kept it so close as if it contained the most important life secret.” She stopped as if waiting for me to confirm her assessment. When I didn’t, she continued. “I know you’re lying, but never mind. Come with me. The driver is ready to take you home.”

  I followed her to the door.

  *

  Rhoda and I approached the car that had brought us earlier, and that same driver was in it. Only now, there was a second man sitting in the passenger seat. Rhoda handed the driver a folded piece of paper. “Come back as soon as everything is done.”

  As if he knew what instructions were written on the paper, he put it in his shirt pocket without reading it.

  “Go ahead,” Rhoda told me. “They are waiting for you.” She pointed at the back door.

  I opened it and got in.

  Rhoda walked back to the house as we drove out of the gravel driveway. “You still look beautiful,” the driver said, as he merged into the traffic on the main road. “Don’t you agree, Ali?” he asked his passenger. The other man, holding a rifle, nodded.

  The word still stood out. “Thanks,” I said, not wanting to acknowledge him, but unable to ignore him altogether.

  The car turned and sped in the wrong direction. “I live in the Ceelgaab market, near the wheelbarrow sheds,” I said. Alarm bells sounded in my head. He knew where I lived because he’d picked me up that morning.

  He winked at me through the rearview mirror. “Rhoda asked me to drop something off before I took you home. It won’t take long.” He drove farther and farther away from my home. Fifteen minutes later, he parked the car in front of a large metal gate. As if on cue, his phone rang. “Ali, I have to take this. Bring her in and take her to Omar’s room.”

  Ali opened my door. “Come.”

  “I’ll wait here until he is done.”

  “It’s not safe for you to stay in the car alone without this.” Ali held up his rifle. “Let’s go.”

  We walked around the side of the house to a small side door. Ali rang the bell, and a guard opened the door.

  “Follow me.” Ali led me through large, immaculate sitting room and into a well-furnished bedroom. “Wait in here.” He left me standing next to the bed and locked the door behind him.

  Frightened, I walked around the room searching a way out. I put the canister Mother had left for me on the floor and twisted the doorknob several times, but it was locked. I tugged at the window latches in the room and in the bathroom, but metal bars blocked the openings. It soon became obvious that trying to escape was futile.

  Framed pictures of Omar and Sheila sat on the night tables at each side of the bed. From one, Sheila smiled, her upturned face close to Omar’s.

  The bedroom door opened, and the driver appeared. “There you are,” he said.

  “Jamac!” I realized, only too late, I was staring at Rhoda’s brother. Why had I not recognized him earlier? I walked backward, away from the bed.

  He moved closer and stared at me with blood-red, wild eyes. “So, you do remember me!” Jamac sat on the bed and extended a hand “Come. Sit by me, my love.”

  “I have to go.”

  Jamac smiled pleasantly. “I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. Oh, how I have wished for this very moment.”

  “I need to get back to my children.”

  “You were supposed to be mine, but you left me and married a Boon man! How could you, Idil, how?” His voice cracked. “I was not only your husband to be, but your cousin. My sister married your brother. How could you humiliate me that way? You left me for a Boon! My mother tried one match after another after you rejected me, but I couldn’t get you out of my mind just as much as I couldn’t get away from others mocking me.”

  “It wasn’t my fault. I never agreed to marry you, and I told Mother, but she wouldn’t listen. I was already in love with Sidow when you asked for my hand. My parents knew that.”

  “Rhoda agreed to marry Omar because of me. She didn’t care for Omar, and she liked another boy in our village. My parents made her because I had fallen in love with you when I saw your photo in Italy. Omar didn’t care about Rhoda, but I was different. I loved you.”

  I moved closer to the door. “Take me home, please. Now.”

  “How could you ever say you loved a Boon man?” Jamac sounded sincere as if he couldn’t comprehend my love for Sidow. Suddenly he got to his feet, grabbed me by the arm, and pulled me onto the bed. “I even contemplated killing the Boon.” He pulled at my hijab.

  I held the front part of the scarf around my face to stop him. He reached for the flap on the top of my head where the pin held. I pushed him. “Did you kill my husband?”

  Jamac held both of my hands in one of his. “No one was supposed to get hurt. Omar was supposed to take you from the Boon and bring you back to me. He bungled the plan, like your mother did when she neglected to keep you at home until your wedding night. Omar failed to convince the Boon to divorce you and keep his children.” Jamac kneeled on the bed and twisted my hands behind my back.

  “Did Omar kill Sidow?” I asked, as a sharp pain sho
t from my wrist up to my shoulder. The scarf was tight around my neck, and I gasped for breath.

  “The Boon is dead now, and his family can keep the children. You are mine. Everyone wins.”

  “I am not yours. Take me home!” I jerked away, and Jamac lost his grip momentarily. I took advantage of the sudden release, and pushed him hard. Jamac fell off the bed and onto the wooden floor with a thud. I ran for the door, but before I could open it, he grabbed me from behind and dragged me back to the bed.

  “Not just yet.” He ripped viciously at my dress.

  I screamed, but Jamac covered my mouth with the scarf and muffled the sound. I yelled, kicked, and braced my feet, but despite my best efforts to resist, he moved me forward.

  He threw me onto the bed, got on top of me, and kissed me. “You will enjoy this, I guarantee it,” he said. “You’ll see what it’s like to have a real man of your own kind—how much better it is than bedding the Boon.”

  I tried to yell for help again, but Jamac took the opportunity to slip his tongue in my mouth. I bit it hard and held his flesh tight between my teeth. His blood, metallic and sour, seeped into my mouth until I retched and let him go.

  He slapped me so hard my teeth punctured the inside of my cheek. “If you do that again, you’ll die,” Jamac smiled. “That’s what happens when you don’t listen.” He glared at me, measuring my understanding.

  I hated those eyes, dark and determined. They reminded me of the cat Omar had killed when we were young.

  “Now, where were we?” He finished tearing off my clothes and threw them, reduced to shreds, on the floor.

  I bent my knees to block his entry, but Jamac forced my legs straight. He reached for my underwear and tore it like paper. The clasps of my bra gave, and I broke under the weight of the humiliation. I watched him enter me—horrified, helpless—as if I was a witness to the rape of someone other than me.