Tale of a Boon's Wife

by Fartumo Kusow

  I corrected my error through the second answer. “My daughter is eleven, my son is nine, and I am almost five months pregnant.” The truth had to come out.

  The man impatiently sifted through the heap of paperwork. He pulled out a few sheets that were stapled together, flipped through them until he located what he was looking for. He took his reading glasses off and trained his pale blue eyes on me.

  “Your application says your husband died quite a while ago.” He kept his eyes on the form as if the information would disappear if he looked away.

  “I was raped,” I whispered, the shame and despair burning my face.

  The man didn’t flinch. The stories he heard in these interviews must have made it impossible for anything to surprise him. For a fleeting second I felt sorry for him. It was painful to tell my dreadful tale, but what must it be like to receive such tales daily and document the horror?

  “Were you raped here, in the refugee camp?”

  “No, in Somalia,” I forced a response.

  “Did you know your attacker?”

  The memory of that horrible night came back. Jamac’s eyes, wild with lust, stared out from the recesses of my mind. I tried to wipe the hideous image away by blinking several times, but it was impossible. My stomach lurched, and I had only enough time to turn before emptying my meagre breakfast onto the cement floor. Tears produced by my effort to quell the memory filled my eyes, and I couldn’t see. No one said a word.

  My mother-in-law used her shawl to wipe my face and mouth. “I am sorry, my dear.”

  “So am I.” I wept more.

  Mr. Hanson ended the interview and closed the folder with an audible clap. He got up, stood next to the desk, and handed me a paper. “Take this and get a pregnancy test at the clinic. Have the nurse fill out these forms and send them back to us as soon as possible.” He called for someone to clean up the mess on the floor, announced a lunch break, and, with a twist of his heel, left with his interpreter in tow.

  “Sorry,” I apologized to Elmi when we got outside.

  “Sorry for what?” he asked.

  “For telling the man about the rape—messing up the interview.”

  Elmi gasped. “You were raped? By whom?”

  “Your father’s people,” my mother-in-law responded, her voice stern.

  My stomach heaved again, but I had nothing more to purge.

  “Jamac? Jamac raped you? Why didn’t you tell me that when I first called? He did it in the house? It all makes sense now; the way you left, and how Father said you refused protection. I knew how devastated Jamac was when you married Sidow. After you left, Father and Mother tried to soothe his damaged manhood with false praise about how he deserved a better wife than you. Still, he studied your photos as if he could summon you from the images. I was afraid he’d come after you that same night to show he wasn’t as cowardly as others labelled him. I stayed close to him, but all he did was mutter, ‘Idil must experience what she’s missed,’ but then he went home with his parents the following day.” Elmi was angrier then I had ever seen him.

  “You didn’t tell me this when you visited me before the wedding,” I said.

  “There was no point. Jamac went home, and I thought he would eventually forget about you and marry another girl. Did Father help him? Did Omar or Rhoda? Who else was involved? I will go to Somalia and kill all of them.” Elmi wasn’t speaking to me anymore. With one look, I could see the plan forming in his mind.

  “No, don’t do that. You can’t go after them; you can’t talk about this at all. Forget I said anything. My children and I—this whole family—all we have is you. Please leave this alone.”

  “After what they have done to you, how can I?” Elmi was near tears. In the safety of the UNHCR compound, he gathered me in his arms and gave me a warm and soothing hug. “I am sorry you had to suffer so.” He kissed me on the cheek.

  “Please, you must forget about this because without you, we will all be lost,” I pleaded.

  “Elmi, Idil is right,” Hasan said. “The best thing to do right now is to help us leave this place.”

  My brother relented and gave me his word.

  Two days after the interview, we said good-bye and Elmi returned to Canada. “Don’t worry. You’ll get through this,” he promised.

  The five of us stood by the road that led away from the camp and waved as Elmi entered the rented car that would take him to the airport.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The pregnancy test showed nothing more than what I’d known all along; the result was positive. Even so, I had hoped the nurse would tell me otherwise. I so wanted her to say the baby was growing in my mind, not in my womb. She didn’t.

  My mother-in-law, sitting next to me in the small office, put her hand on my shoulder. “Place your trust in Allah, my dear,” she said.

  I held on to her so I didn’t float away into the nothingness that surrounded me. The nurse looked at me with kind and caring eyes. “You’re too late to have an abortion,” she said.

  I wouldn’t have had an abortion in any case, but the fact that I’d had no choice about getting pregnant and no choice to terminate it tugged at my heart.

  The nurse pulled out the papers she had received from my file and filled out the forms. “How many other times have you been pregnant?”

  “Two full terms, one miscarriage, and this.” I pointed at my belly.

  She signed the papers, and put them in an envelope. “I’ll send these to the office,” she said, and walked us to the door.

  “I am pregnant,” I told Elmi when he called me three weeks later.

  “I know,” he replied. “I received a call from my lawyer here, and he says you are approved for travel, but they have to wait until after the baby is born. Once you provide a birth certificate, you’ll all get your visas.”

  Elmi took a deep breath before he spoke again. “Every time I think of what has happened to you—the way they treated you—I want to kill them all.”

  “Don’t think like that,” I said. If it was possible for anyone to comprehend the depth of the violation, Elmi did.

  “Remember to notify the office as soon as the baby is born,” Elmi reminded me each time he called.

  *

  A healthy seven-pound baby boy arrived two weeks past his due date. If the baby had known the trouble that waited outside the womb, he would have stayed inside even longer. It was a short labor, but there was no Sidow to rush in and cover me with kisses. Oh, what I would have given to be in his embrace right then.

  My mother-in-law stood next to the midwife, smiling and took the baby to clean him.

  Caught somewhere between the joy of the new life and grief from the misery around us, I would’ve cried, but for the gift of her strength.

  “Look at him!” She brought him to me. “Such a blessing.” Her face wore the bright smile I hadn’t seen for a long time. “Can we name him Sidow?”

  I wasn’t sure I could handle the constant reminder. “That’s his father’s name,” I said instead.

  She turned with raised brows. “He’ll be his father’s son.” Her smile lit up the whole room.

  “If that’s what you want.” I forced a smile. “He’ll be Sidow’s Sidow.” I laughed at the thought.

  “Let us call him Sidow Moallim Sidow.” The sound of the name on her mouth was soothing. “Could we do that?” she asked.

  “Why not? He’s ours and we’ll call him whatever we want.” If I looked close enough with my eyes half closed, the baby shared similarities to Amina and Adam; the extended jawlines and the large, dark eyes.

  *

  A month later, my mother-in-law entered the hut in a hurry while I was nursing the baby. “Rhoda is here.” She took a blanket from the basket next to me and draped it over little Sidow to hide him from Rhoda.

  I massaged my throat to loosen th
e lump that was lodged inside. “What does she want?” I asked, alarmed that she had tracked us down to the camp.

  “I don’t know, but she is asking for you. Should I let her in?”

  I nodded.

  “There you are.” Rhoda entered, cradling her purse.

  “How did you find me?” I asked unceremoniously.

  “What, no greeting?” Rhoda asked innocently.

  “Why are you here?” I had no intention of being civil to her.

  As if she had read my thoughts, Rhoda’s tone changed. “It turns out Omar needs your help.”

  “And what makes you think I would help Omar, or any of you?”

  “You will if it means we leave you and your children alone. I promise not to say anything to my brother about the baby if you cooperate.”

  “What does the baby have to do with anything?”

  “You got away with wrongdoings twice, once for marrying the Boon instead of Jamac, and the other time for escaping after he’d planted his seed inside you. You won’t be as lucky the third time. This is Jamac’s son, and you are raising him among Boons. That would not be tolerated, but I’ll keep my mouth shut if you agree to help.” Rhoda winked slyly as she finished speaking. “You might be out of Somalia, but you are not out of our reach.”

  She was right. The tribal troubles I faced in Somalia didn’t end at the border. However, the mention of my child and Jamac in the same sentence sent tiny filaments of worry spreading through my lungs. I struggled to breathe. “What do you want with me?” I forced the words out.

  Rhoda grinned, having gained my full attention. “Jamac is holding both Omar and your father hostage for your wrongdoings. At first, Jamac agreed to a payment for the broken deal your parents made, and the gaalo whore was supposed pay him. But she bought an airline ticket and left as soon as she was in Kenya. And guess who is here after Omar’s precious wife disappeared with the money! Me, his real wife! Now that she and the money are gone, it is you and I who must fix this.”

  Rhoda continued listing Sheila’s transgressions. “That whore fooled everyone—the elders, your parents, and Omar—but I knew she was nothing more than a lying swindler, in it for the money and nothing else.”

  “I am not interested in your complaints about Sheila or about the so-called deal.” I hated Rhoda’s presence just as much as I hated dealing with her. “You forget, Rhoda, that I made no agreement.”

  “Nevertheless, you will visit Omar when he is brought to Garissa in the custody of our tribal relatives there. You will hear his request and fulfill it, or I will call on the tribe to come and take your baby. You will help Omar gain his freedom and in turn secure your own.”

  “I am free, you—”

  “You will never be free, not while you are raising my nephew as a Boon child.” Rhoda cut me off. “Can you imagine what Jamac would do if he found out you have his son among Boons? It must be apparent by now that we can reach you wherever you are. This way you don’t have to look over your shoulder, and Omar will be happy to answer all the questions you have.”

  “What questions?”

  “You must want to know about Sidow, and what Jamac did after you eloped.”

  I sat forward. “What about Sidow?”

  “Ask Omar. I wasn’t there.”

  Rhoda had me and she knew it. “I’ll return and tell you when you can visit Omar. May I hold the baby?” Rhoda extended her hands for the child she had just threatened to take from me.

  I held him even closer.

  Rhoda dropped her arms at her sides. “Idil, you are a lucky woman, and I am happy for you. You have three children, but you must do this to keep the third one!”

  This threat was not even thinly veiled. Rhoda was more than willing to play her final card and tell Jamac he was a father. Our eyes met, and Rhoda smiled knowingly before she turned to leave.

  *

  “Rhoda wants me to visit Omar and help free him,” I started our phone conversation when Elmi called a day later.

  Elmi didn’t ask why, how, when, or where Omar was, but his response was clear. “You can’t visit him. Please tell me you won’t. After everything they have done to you, surely you recognize this as a trap.”

  “I have to go.”

  “You don’t have to! Why do you have to do anything? You don’t need him; he was never a brother and he never will be.”

  “Elmi, Rhoda knows the baby is Jamac’s. They’ll take him from me. She said they would leave me and my family alone if I visited Omar. If I refuse, she could send someone to snatch my child.”

  “And you believe her? The woman who said she would give you a ride and set you up to be raped? What makes you think she’ll leave you alone after you do what they want?”

  “They know where I am. I can’t get away!” The fear I’d been pushing down, rose to the surface. “This way, I can buy time until I leave.”

  “You can leave the camp. I’ll send you some money to rent a place near the airport. You have less than a month to wait for your visa.”

  “Elmi, I don’t want her to find out I am leaving for Canada. It’s safer to pretend to work with her until it is time to go.”

  “If you are determined to see him, don’t do it without me. I’ll come as soon as I can, so don’t go before I get there. Promise.” Elmi wouldn’t hang up until we reached a firm agreement.

  Two days after Elmi’s return and two weeks after she’d first visited me, Rhoda met me on my way back from the ration queue. With the passing of time, I had begun to hope that whatever help Omar had needed from me, he didn’t anymore. My heart sank when I saw her coming.

  Breathless, Rhoda started talking in short, choppy sentences before she even reached me. “Omar is in Garissa. He is being held by members of our tribe who live there. They are supporting Jamac because they think he was wronged. Omar is waiting for your visit!”

  “Why did they bring him all the way to Garissa?”

  “Jamac was afraid the two factions of the tribe—the group that supported Jamac and the others who are on Omar’s side—might start fighting if he kept Omar closer to home. He told everyone that Omar left the country on a business trip. Since Jamac was living with your father before the fight, no one suspects anything.”

  “Where is Father?”

  “Omar will tell you. It is two hours away. Do you need a ride?” Rhoda’s eyes landed on the baby strapped to my chest, but she didn’t threaten me this time.

  “No, I have a ride.” I didn’t want to mention Elmi was here. The less they knew, the better.

  Rhoda walked away, but after a few steps she stopped and turned around to face me. “Idil, remember. In the end, Omar and you will be free. You’ll get to raise all your children, and Omar will be able to take his money back from the whore. And I will have my husband back. We will all win.”

  “I will visit Omar tomorrow,” I said.

  Rhoda pushed a paper with hastily scrawled directions and an address into my hand then gave me a cheery wave before she left.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Idil, we have to go. It’s a long drive.” Elmi walked to the door and back.

  I was anxious to have my questions answered by Omar, but apprehensive at the same time. I’d heard parts of the story about Sidow, Mother, and Father. There was the one bracelet and the money, and Jamac’s comment about Mother’s accident. Two deaths with no satisfying explanation. “I don’t want to see Omar, but I have to protect little Sidow and hear the facts about what happened for myself,” I said aloud, trying to justify the madness of my actions. “I must convince everyone that I’m cooperating until we are able to leave.”

  Elmi walked me out to the rented car. He got in, adjusted the rearview mirror, and we were on our way. “You know how I feel about this,” he said. “I am only going because you won’t be talked out of it. But I want you to know you can chan
ge your mind right up until you are sitting in front of Omar.” He swerved the car to avoid hitting a dog that ran across the camp road.

  My head was spinning with thoughts, and they kept me quiet. Is this another trap? Will we be in danger? Will Omar answer my questions? Can I stand to hear the truth, or is it better not to know? Will Rhoda keep her word to leave my child alone?

  “I don’t like this,” Elmi continued, “but I’ll play this game if I must, until your visas come through.” Elmi rested a hand on the gearshift as we left the dust-filled refugee camp behind and reached the main road.

  The tires hummed against the pavement. After two hours of driving, Elmi parked the car in front of a wire mesh fence. “I’ll be right here,” he said.

  I walked away from Elmi and toward the gate.

  “Who are you here for?” an armed guard asked.

  “My brother, Omar Hussein Nuur.”

  The guard led me to a small room. “Wait here, I’ll bring him in.”

  The furniture in the room consisted of a metal table and four folding chairs.

  The door creaked. I turned instinctively, and my eyes landed on Omar. Big, rusty shackles looped around his hands and legs. Metal chains clanked with every step he took.

  The guard ushered him in. “You have thirty minutes,” he said.

  I saw the bracelet on Omar’s wrist under the cuff before he reached the table. “Where did you get that?” I asked, pointing to his wrist.

  Omar didn’t answer. He walked slowly to the chair across from me and sat down. Unlike the pressed suits and stylish clothes he was used to, he wore an old pair of filthy cream-colored pants, an oversized T-shirt that hung loosely around him, and sandals made of tire inner tubes. His exposed skin was dry and ashen, making him appear as though he was suffering from an acute case of malaria.

  After a long and agonizing minute, our eyes met. Before he even began, the debate to stay and listen, or walk away raged inside my head. I knew I wouldn’t like what I was going to hear, but I needed to stay for my child and to get to the truth. “Where did you get that bracelet?” I asked again.