The Orchard of Lost Souls

by Nadifa Mohamed

  Deqo winds back to the villas. The trees are bare; all the birds have flown away, leaving an ominous silence in their wake. She wants to see those grand kitchens again, touch the gleaming copperware and empty those cupboards groaning with mysterious, exotic packages. The guttural thump of mortars booms behind her and she picks up speed, keeping close to the wall and hiding beneath the shadows of flowing pink bougainvillea bushes. Ducking into the largest villa she runs up the concrete steps and enters its cool, green-tiled reception room. A heavy wooden-framed armchair is close enough to the door to push back and use as a barricade. The overhead fan stirs at the change of air she has brought in with her, but the rest of the house is eerily still. Vast sheets shroud the other furniture, dust and dead insects already gathering within the folds on the floor.

  Deqo paces through the hall and into the kitchen. White-painted cupboards dominate one wall and hide the pans, cutlery and provisions that would have crowded the floor of Nasra’s kitchen. A straw mat beside the window has the dark imprint of a body clearly visible, two plastic slippers and a caday the only other reminders of the maid who lived and worked in this room. Instead of a makeshift girgire she had had a permanent charcoal-burning range to prepare meals with, four circular hobs and an oven underneath that must have shortened her labour by hours. A huge enamelled sink holds the dirty plates that the family had used before fleeing. Deqo prods the congealed red sauce on a plate and puts her finger to her tongue; it still tastes good. Two large taps drip onto the dishes and she decides to wash them as a kind of payment for the family’s unknowing hospitality With difficulty she turns the stiff taps and water gushes out, clear and abundant; a cloth and dishful of detergent are within her reach and within moments the sink is empty.

  Shaking her hands dry Deqo marvels over how all this luxury has been hidden from her. Work in a place like this isn’t work; there are no buckets to lug from the standpipe or collapsing piles of pans and knives to dodge. The kitchen has a high ceiling and two wide windows that funnel the midday sun inside, pale yellow walls casting a gentle light over everything. Three giant copper pans hang from the wall and their shifting bottoms shine beams of gold onto Deqo’s skin. She breathes deeply, knowing she has found where she belongs.

  Opening the nearest cupboard she fills her arms with packets of imported biscuits she has seen in the market but has never eaten. Shoving a bottle of cordial under her arm she heads for a bedroom. She settles for the largest one and throws her stash onto the silken pink quilt that covers the gigantic bed; it is like reclining on a cloud, floating magically on a carpet. She extends her limbs into a star shape and then pulls them back and forth, caressing the silk and sending shudders of pleasure up her spine. Unscrewing the bottle with her mouth, she spits out the top and swigs the dark liquid, as thick and sweet as caramel. Scrabbling a hand over to the open biscuit wrapper, she draws three out and stuffs them into her mouth, letting crumbs cascade over her and flicking them carelessly away onto the bed, onto the floor. She is free to do as she pleases without punishment, guidance or scrutiny.

  Waking up in a dim, strange room, full of shadows and dark recesses, Deqo panics at the wet sensation over her legs. She leaps from the bed and finds a pool of dark red cordial splattered over the quilt. Grabbing the sticky bottle, she curses herself for making this palace so filthy so quickly. She rips the cover away and to her relief the sheets beneath are still pristine: bundling the quilt up in her arms, she carries it to the bathroom to wash later.

  No sound seems to penetrate the house from the war beyond the walls; it echoes and hums and ticks as if she has been swallowed by a giant and caught within his ribs. Deqo dances and slides over the tiled floor; she feels completely safe, hidden away, with only the pad of her feet for company. Light seeps from under a door and she remembers the other rooms, each of them as well furnished as the one she has slept in. She pushes the door open and discovers the room alive with shadows, fluttering, monstrous shadows that span each wall. Deqo looks up to see six white moths beating their wings between the bulb and floral lampshade. She wonders if this is the only light they could locate, if the rest of the town has descended into lifeless shade, and if like her they are afraid of what might happen in that darkness.

  Approaching the window, she notices the hole in the mosquito mesh through which the moths must have entered. It is just a few moments before nightfall and a swipe of watery indigo separates the brooding sky from the sullen earth. Distant flares shoot up like stars but leave a sickly green vapour in their wake. It is an alien world being destroyed, one that she doesn’t belong to or feel any ownership over. Turning away from the window and drawing the curtain across, her attention turns to the key in the wardrobe; it clicks like a stiff knuckle and the thick-mirrored doors fall open. It is packed tight with clothes, the metal pole sagging with the weight of them, the bottom of the wardrobe covered with rows and rows of shoes. Deqo takes out a pair of silver high heels and slips her feet inside, a gap the size of her fist left behind the heel. She spies sequins between the layers of clothes and pulls out the garment, a kind of short-sleeved top heavy with embellishment, a palm tree picked out in jewel-coloured beads on the front. A wide-brimmed black hat finishes the look and Deqo totters back to look at herself in the mirror; for the first time she likes the girl smiling back at her.

  After a motionless couple of hours at the theatre checkpoint, another order from Hashi comes, this time telling Filsan to join Roble on the Jigjiga Road to Ethiopia. A jeep collects her and she jumps in eagerly despite the danger of the district they are entering. Hundreds of rebels are hidden in the hills around Hargeisa and the exchange of fire between them and the soldiers reverberates down into the valley. Filsan covers her nose against the acrid smoke drifting over from burning houses and rolls the side window up. She has nothing to bring Roble, not even a bottle of cola; the only comfort she has to offer is her presence and she hopes that will be enough. Small dots clamber along the hills as the jeep sweeps past; the refugees appear nothing more than bundles of multi-coloured blankets moving in columns like ants.

  ‘Should just stay in their beds rather than dying out there,’ the driver says in an accent that reminds her of home.

  Filsan turns to him, suddenly interested. ‘When did you arrive from Mogadishu?’

  ‘Three days ago. I have barely slept at all, just drive, drive, drive.’ He makes a cutting motion with his hand at the road.

  ‘How are things there?’

  ‘Difficult, the city is full of northern refugees.’

  That isn’t what Filsan cares about; she wants to know if any new singers have broken through in her absence, if the Lido beach café is still open, if the television reception has improved at all.

  He tells her he was born in Wardhiigley but brought up in Hamar Weyne, had attended a school she has only vaguely heard of, and worked as a mechanic before joining the army. They have no family, acquaintances or interests in common and the conversation quickly drifts to an end.

  The jeep abandons the tarmacked road and climbs a dirt path up into the hills. ‘I can’t get any closer than this, just follow the curve to the right and you will see them.’

  Filsan wipes her brow, hoping she doesn’t look or smell too bad. This isn’t how she would choose to be reunited, but it is better than waiting.

  Suddenly he is there, leaning against a boulder with a pair of binoculars to his eyes; she stops to enjoy the sight of him, calm and nonchalant, as the din of machine-gun fire hitting rock clatters only a few dozen metres away. He notices Filsan after an age, the binoculars still to his eyes but a broad smile stretching beneath his four-day stubble. He holds his arms open, despite knowing she will not fall into them; instead she rushes up and shakes his hand between both of hers.

  ‘Welcome, welcome, Jaalle!’ He beckons her to the others. ‘This is Corporal Abbas, and Privates Samatar and Short Abdi. Tall Abdi is refreshing himself behind the boulder.’

  She salutes and they jokily click their heels to a
ttention.

  ‘Have you brought anything to eat?’ Abbas asks.

  ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t eaten myself.’

  ‘We’ll die of starvation up here, I swear,’ he groans.

  Filsan looks up to Roble. ‘When did you last come down to the city?’

  ‘Two days, it’s a shambles! They keep telling us just a few more hours, just a few more hours, but still no one has come to relieve us, apart from you that is.’

  ‘They didn’t tell me to bring any provisions.’ She makes a show of checking her pockets for some chocolate.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Roble pats her shoulder. ‘At least we haven’t had any trouble.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘Nothing. We have just been watching through the binoculars – it’s better than being at the cinema. Here, have a look.’ Roble lifts the binoculars from his neck and passes them to Filsan.

  Hargeisa looks beautiful for once, the sky an unusual haze of pink and purple, clouds tinted with smoke, tin roofs like golden pools reflecting the huge orange setting sun. The devastation is lost within deep shadows. She puts the binoculars to her eyes and scans until something comes into focus: a slice of road and the wheels of a car. The burgundy Toyota stops by the side of the road and about eight civilians disgorge from it. Other refugees run along the road and then walk a few breathless steps before resuming their flight. Swinging back to the car, she watches a father escort his young daughter – a girl of five or six in a spotty dress – to the scrub along the track to urinate; he holds her up by the arms and keeps his shoes far away in fear of splashes. A hail of mortars falls nearby, one of them only a few feet from where the father and daughter stand, and all the passengers jump out of the bushes and scurry back to the car. The father darts after them and gestures desperately for the girl to catch up. She stumbles behind, dragging her underwear up with one hand. The father jumps in just as the car begins to pull away; he holds the door open but the driver speeds off, leaving the little girl behind a screen of exhaust fumes. More missiles fall but the girl doesn’t stop her pursuit until she is engulfed in a volley of Katyusha rocket fire. Filsan drops the binoculars in disbelief that the father has just left his child to die. The car, now just a dark speck, continues up the winding road to Ethiopia.

  She imagines herself in the girl’s position and feels a sudden longing for her father back home, seeing him clearly in her mind’s eye with a tumbler of whisky in front of the television, his right foot hitched up under his left thigh. For all his severity he would never have abandoned her like that. She had ignored the last two calls he had made to the barracks; he wants her transferred back to Mogadishu, away from the war.

  The sun has set, the silhouetted hills resembling the spines on a lizard’s back, and the town within the valley is lit here and there by fires. A call has come through declaring that they are all to be relieved from the checkpoint for a briefing at Birjeeh and now they wait, blowing warm air onto their chilled hands. Abbas and Short Abdi have gathered twigs and built a pitiful fire, and Roble and Filsan huddle together in silence. Tall Abdi approaches and asks for a cigarette; he is shivering and scrawny in a short-sleeved shirt. Roble gives him his half-empty packet. At last they hear the crunch of tyres on grit, and five soldiers laden with assault rifles and an RPG arrive to replace them.

  They drive slowly back to Hargeisa without headlights, hoping not to attract rebel attention or the increasingly common friendly fire from jittery conscripts. Filsan knocks against Roble as the jeep hits one pothole after another; they are squeezed together in the back, hidden from view and he puts his arm around her shoulder. She takes his rifle and leans it against the side with hers. A pirter patter of tracer fire sends white lights into the sky; it reminds Filsan of the cheap Chinese fireworks occasionally set off in her neighbourhood during Eid. The whites of Roble’s eyes glow for a second in the light of a checkpoint flash and then dim.

  ‘The moon’s going to be strong tonight,’ he says softly.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We old nomads know these mysteries.’

  She elbows him gently in the ribs. ‘You know as much as I do and that’s nothing.’

  ‘You’ll see. Give it another two hours and you will think there are floodlights above us.’

  ‘I’ll be asleep in my bed in two hours, not staring up at the moon like a fool.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be joining the other fools for our midnight social club.’

  The jeep brakes suddenly and Filsan hits her mouth against her knee.

  ‘What was that?’ yells the driver.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something was just thrown at the windshield.’

  ‘Don’t stop, then! Drive on!’

  ‘Go!’ shout the other soldiers.

  Filsan tastes blood and rubs a finger on the stinging area of her tongue.

  A flash of light illuminates the red smear on her index finger. Less than a second after the flash, an elephant charges into the jeep; that is how it seems to Filsan, an angry bull elephant dashing through, flinging her and Roble out onto the street.

  Splayed out, holding the earth as if it might move, she turns to Roble and reaches out. ‘Get up, Roble. Get up.’

  No answer.

  ‘How many?’ someone yells.

  ‘Seven, they’re all down!’ cries another.

  Peeling herself up from the grit, Filsan scrabbles around her and grabs the strap of a submachine gun that has been blown out of the vehicle, pulling it near her.

  Footsteps run towards her, voices calling unintelligible commands, flashlights scanning the massive wound in Roble’s back.

  ‘Abbas? Abdi? Can you hear me?’ she croaks.

  ‘I’m here, Corporal,’ whispers Tall Abdi. ‘I’m still here. Get ready.’

  The rebels begin firing before she can pick any of them out. She sprays bullets into the darkness beyond the flashlights. Her grip is weak and the force of the gun makes it jump in her arms.

  ‘You’re going to hell,’ a fighter screams.

  They turn off all of their torches and surge forward.

  Filsan doesn’t stop shooting. Her gun spits out bullets and unlike in Salahley everything feels wholly real: her heart is thumping hard, she is aware of the smallest sound, feels like an animal about to be ripped apart. The smell of burning flesh blows over to her and she holds her breath.

  Somewhere beside her Tall Abdi is shooting too. Bullets ping off the frame of the smouldering jeep and hit the sand with a small puff. The rebels are around four metres away; she can’t tell how many of them there are but she needs to maintain that distance, and she drags Roble’s Kalashnikov closer to use when her magazine runs out.

  ‘I’ve been hit!’ a rebel cries.

  A flashlight switches on and off but it is enough for Filsan to train her sights at the figure who has briefly appeared: a bony young man in glasses who might have been any one of the science students at her university. She squeezes the trigger and aims a barrage at him in particular.

  The fire from the rebels decreases. Her eyes have adjusted to the darkness and she can make out two silhouettes, one dragging, the other limping desperately behind.

  ‘Don’t stop, Corporal, don’t stop.’ Tall Abdi is somewhere behind her, his voice weaker than before.

  She doesn’t need any encouragement. The preservation of her small, inconsequential life – the life she has so frequently wanted to end – is now all that matters.

  Another layer is added to the cacophony when a vehicle skids to a stop behind the jeep.

  Still firing, Filsan glances back to see if more rebels have arrived, but instead it is a unit of soldiers in an armoured personnel carrier. She continues shooting, her whole body shuddering with relief and fear.

  The soldiers fan out around the jeep and soon two rebels crumple and hit the ground; the others try to melt back into the darkness from which they emerged but are pursued on foot.

  As gunfire echoes around her, Filsan crawls on her ha
nds and knees to Roble. His eyes and lips are open as if he has been caught mid-sentence. She puts two fingers to his jugular vein and presses hard. Nothing.

  After seven attempts, the television finally comes to life; alarming voices shouting from the wooden box make Deqo duck under the bed. A woman’s face fills the screen; she smiles conspiratorially and talks directly to Deqo. ‘We have such a show for you, between now and ten o’clock you will be regaled by comedians, serenaded by singers and moved by poets. Gather the family and neighbours, prepare a flask of tea and put your cares aside.’

  ‘OK,’ replies Deqo, peeping out.

  ‘Our first guest is well known to all of you. Please welcome Sheikh Sharif to Mogadishu.’

  The screen expands to include Sheikh Sharif, the garish orange backdrop and the heads of the live audience. Sheikh Sharif, to Deqo’s surprise, is dressed like a poor nomad in a ma’awis and vest in the middle of the elegant theatre, a caday clamped between his jaws; he races on, narrowing his eyes against the lights trained on him.

  ‘Take those things off me, I can’t see where I’m going,’ he hollers, holding a hand to his eyes and stumbling exaggeratedly.

  Deqo laughs along with the audience.

  ‘Joow! Don’t I know you?’ He points to a man in the front row. ‘Aren’t you Hassan Madoobe’s sister-in-law’s cousin’s best friend’s nephew? Sure you are! Wasn’t it your mother who was trampled by ostriches?’

  The camera zooms in on the audience member shaking his head with mirth.

  ‘Sure it was! Have you brought your whole reer with you tonight? The place is packed as tight as the purse my wife keeps her black market dollars in.’

  ‘What are you telling strangers our business for?’ bawls a harsh voice from the wings.

  The audience cheers and then an old woman, decades older than Sheikh Sharif, emerges waving a cane at him, chasing him around the stage while he pleads for help. ‘Tollai! Won’t someone stop her? Ostrich boy, come and restrain her! This is what happens when you leave the miyi, your manhood is left behind with the camel bones.’