Knots

by Nuruddin Farah

  Kiin opens the door of the vehicle, the engine on and idling, to welcome Cambara in, just as the bellhop hands the suitcase to one of the armed escorts in the third row. The two friends are about to take leave of each other, Kiin preparing to wish her the best of luck, when Cambara’s mobile phone squeals; she answers it on the second ring.

  “Where are you?” asks a man’s voice.

  At first, Cambara does not say where she is, because she tries to figure out why she hears a touch of Gaelic in Seamus’s English today, something she has seldom heard before. Has something made him nervous, worried, frightened?

  “Why do you ask?” she says.

  Seamus replies, “Dajaal, who left a message on my mobile, says that your family house was attacked last night and there have been casualties.”

  Kiin is curious, but Cambara tells her nothing.

  Meanwhile Seamus continues, “Dajaal has just completed his mopping up exercise and has taken two seriously wounded militiamen from the attacking side to hospital, mere boys, as young as ten, he reckons.” He pauses, and then he adds, “No one on ‘our’ side has been hurt.”

  Cambara says, “I’m on my way to the house, in a truck with armed escort. Please tell him that I am headed his way and would appreciate him getting in touch to keep us informed of how things are.”

  “I will have him expect you.”

  Seamus rings off. Cambara gives nothing away.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Cambara sits up front, next to the driver, half of her arm out of the window, her abject expression suggesting to those who know what she is doing that she is in all probability suffering from a belated loss of nerve.

  Asked to explain why she is wearing a rueful mien, which is rather uncharacteristic of her, she might answer that she is not worried for her own life. What galls her is that she is not conducting her life alone, which is the noble thing to do. She is carrying out her elaborate plans in a cowardly way, driving headlong into a danger zone and taking along with her half a dozen youths and the deputy head and the security chief of the hotel, none of whom has anything to gain from this venture, her adventure. In addition to these, there are tagalongs Gacal and SilkHair, who mysteriously turned up as the driver put the truck in first gear and who jumped in with no idea where they were headed. Now they are two rows behind Cambara’s, gabbing. She hopes that her reckless decision to move into the family home will not prove to be calamitous for anyone other than herself, because she will never forgive herself if someone else is hurt. Why isn’t she worried on her own account? Because she’s the one who left the comforts of Toronto and come to strife-torn Mogadiscio, and look where she has finished up? Eased her way into regaining the family property—not too bad for a mourning mother.

  Her mobile phone rings, the suddenness of its tintinnabulation startling her and ending her private meanderings. Dajaal says, “Put your security detail on.”

  She spins around in alarm, behaving as if a hostage crisis is unfolding. She searches for guidance from the head of the hotel security. She passes the phone over to him, in the second row, and explains that it is Dajaal needing to speak to him.

  “Pronto?” Hudhudle, the security chief, says and listens.

  Under normal circumstances, she might be tempted to inquire why Dajaal’s manners have gone walkabout, but she doesn’t, mindful of the fact that she has already burned the candle at both ends, alienating Zaak first and now possibly Kiin by moving out when she has. She won’t quibble over Dajaal’s manners if he doesn’t have the time to waste on the routine formalities of “Please” or “May I.” She has added to the unusualness of the present situation by upping the risk by several notches. Moreover, his voice has sounded unstrung. Why hasn’t he spoken to her and requested that she relay his message to the security detail? Is he very upset and doesn’t wish to imperil their rapport, lest he say the wrong thing? If she didn’t know him better, she might think that he considers her to be redundant because of her gender, given that war, which is men’s, not women’s, affair, can only be discussed with another man.

  As she listens to the security man repeating some words after Dajaal, she acts as though unbothered, and pretends as if what is going on is of no concern to her and has little or nothing to do with her or her life. What instructions can Dajaal be giving that require Hudhudle continuously interspersing his responses deferentially either with “sir,” or with similar phrases?

  Cambara remembers a long time ago when there was peace in this country, when everyone knew their place in it and their responsibility for maintaining it. In the order and nature of things, you heard these forms of address, because Somali society was at peace with its collective conscience, comfortable in itself and proud of its station, perceived as being unique in Africa and the world at large. It’s curious that she hasn’t given much thought to any of this before now or hasn’t associated these terms with an orderly way of living since moving into the hotel. Of course, it isn’t that she has a wistful desire to return to a hierarchical, male-run taxonomy in which women occupied the lowest rung in the ladder. God forbid, no. It is just that she is nostalgic for a past in which your house was yours and you did not involve armed escorts to get it back or to get to it in the first place, and to live and sleep in it without having to park a battlewagon in several of its access points just to protect it.

  “Here,” she hears Hudhudle say, handing her mobile phone back to her but not before writing down a number on a piece of paper and then saving it on his handheld phone. Hudhudle will use the number in case of an emergency, she reckons, or in the event that it becomes necessary to get in touch with Dajaal.

  She takes her phone back, mumbling, “Thanks,” and stares at the equipment, maybe hoping that it will divulge to her the intelligence to which only Hudhudle is privy. She is aware that the information it has transmitted to Hudhudle may inalterably affect her life and the lives of the others in the truck if a battle were to erupt. If she hesitates to inquire what is going on, it is because she does not want him to speak to her in the belittling tone of voice adults employ with children; men with women; locals with foreigners to tell their addressee that there are certain life-and-death details with which she does not bother them. She keeps her counsel, remaining silent and deciding to let someone else do the asking. Strangely no one does, maybe because his men know that he will not oblige; and Gacal and SilkHair are blathering and setting each other challenges.

  As the truck tumbrels in its forward motion—you would think its main aim is to rid itself of its passengers—the sinews of her face taut and stretched fully, Cambara journeys, in thought, back to her childhood, when her parents created a protective ring around her, keeping her deliberately underinformed “for her own good.” She remembers traveling to Kismayo and then to Nairobi with her mother in her seventh year; mother and daughter were gone for over two months. Then something incredible occurred: She overheard Arda telling another woman neighbor, a day after their return, that she had taken her daughter, Cambara, to be infibulated. At first, Cambara asked herself why Arda was telling the brazen lie; she wanted to know what makes a respectable person, like her mother, resort to lying. Older and wiser, she would formulate it thus: What manner of society compels people to resort to taking refuge in falsehoods, disguising the nature of their drink in mugs, and investing in a myth of their own manufacture on the strength of which they murder their neighbors?

  Cambara became a willing fellow liar when she repeated the same lies whenever any of her peers from the neighborhood or at school underwent the ritual of female infibulation, saying that her mother had hired a woman in Kismayo to perform it. The first time, Cambara lied out of loyalty to her mother; it was easier the second time, and she thought nothing of it; then she got used to telling the untruth until she almost believed it. She stuck to the false version, because she did not want her mates to tease her, describe her as uncircumcised, as impure. And of course, she did not want them to call her a liar. In the end, she made her mother’s
initial lie her own. And Cambara discovered over the years that she and her mother would repeatedly resort to deceiving to keep the fetishists of infibulations at bay; or to make it possible for Zaak to join her as her spouse, lies feeding lies. Not telling the truth becomes second nature to anyone who operates in oppressive societies; it is a way of avoiding a confrontation with the members of a society notorious for its hypocrisy.

  The jolt resulting from the sudden stopping of the vehicle reminds her of her current situation. Hudhudle gets out of the truck and instructs everyone, save Cambara, Irrid, the deputy manager of the hotel, Gacal, and SilkHair to alight and to encircle the vehicle, and to wait for instructions from him. Not to be left out, however, Gacal and SilkHair elect to dismount, and they resume their teasing and fooling around, putting Cambara in mind of Roberto Benigni’s film Life Is Beautiful. Hudhudle tells everyone that he will stay a few steps behind and that he will join them outside the family property. Then he dials a number, presumably to bring Dajaal up to speed about their present location and to tell him that they are doing as he has suggested.

  Hudhudle says to her, “It might all seem dramatic to you, but you need not worry; there is nothing to fear. Dajaal and I view this only as a precautionary measure, a way of avoiding possible fire from wounded or laid-up snipers. You, Cambara, are to make yourself invisible. Lie on the floor, if you will. Please.”

  “Why do I make myself invisible?”

  Hudhudle replies, “We’re driving through yesterday’s battle zone. We do not want any sniper to know that you are in the vehicle.”

  She thinks that ducking death is different from making oneself invisible. She wishes she had what it takes to daub herself with herbs and other juju smears that, as some folktales have it, render one invisible. Better still, she wishes she had been born into the clan family said to have the power of making themselves unseen, which they are said to do whenever they are warring against mightier foes.

  It is when she hears his words, “Fear not, worry not, ultimately the victory is yours,” that her heart goes pit-a-pat.

  The vehicle still not moving, the engine still on, Hudhudle keeps the door open to make sure that she hauls herself down to the floor. What a discomfort it is as she jams herself, knocking her head then her knees against the protrusions of the vehicle, wincing and cursing at the inconvenience of it all. Then the deputy manager of the hotel, Irrid—so named because he had no front upper teeth, hence irrid, a door, in his mouth—follows suit; he lowers himself to the floor in the last row of the vehicle. Before shutting the vehicle door on them, Hudhudle says, “Good luck, everyone.”

  Then he walks the length of the vehicle backward, his weapon drawn and ready to fire. The driver changes into gear, going slowly and suppressing a chortle, amused to see that the sweetness of life can make a fool of the best of us. “What dramatic goings-on,” says he. Even though silent, Cambara agrees with him.

  The armed youths, meanwhile, fan themselves out into two groups and keep very close to the truck, giving it regal cover, with two of them ahead of it, guns raised and fingers on triggers, and some more on either side of it, having a good look around. SilkHair doesn’t know what to do about his empty hands, he who has held guns, shot, and killed; Gacal, however, is crawling on the dusty ground, as he has seen in films, and smothering a laugh. The second lot of armed youths, who are trailing behind the vehicle, face the other way, skulking stealthily, as though on a prowl. Cambara compares this charade to the travesty of a one-vehicle motorcade in which a pontiff, a king, or a president is traveling, so many bodyguards gathered around one VIP, their drawn guns likely to cause mayhem if they go off accidentally, God forbid.

  Irrid is breathing heavily. He says, “I wish I had gone directly to the Bakhaaraha market in the saloon car. Then I would have needed only a discreetly armed escort. As it is, I have a bad heart, and it feels as if death is closing in on it.”

  She says, “I had no idea.”

  Good breeding forbids her to speak of how she is penned up in a vehicle with such a heavy breather, with a bad heart. Not to pass out, she listens to the pitter-patter of her own heart, tapping to its rhythm, while having an earful of Irrid’s sniffling. From the little she can see of the heavens when she looks up and through her side of the window, there are no clouds, only a large expanse of desolation.

  The driver, his voice a little shaky, is saying, “I bet you had no idea what you were getting yourself into, dislodging a warlord from a property in which he has been raising a family.”

  She restrains herself from the temptation to disabuse him of the impression that she is afraid; she isn’t, she might insist, not for herself. She overcame what she might describe as everyday fear when she buried it with her son, Dalmar. She doesn’t know if it will make sense to him, though, that she feels guilty that they might come to harm. She senses a grave private unease and says nothing. It crosses her mind to lay all blame at her own door. Again, she doesn’t speak, thinking, What’s the point?

  The driver laments, “Let’s face it, and let’s say things as they are. What will you do when Gudcur’s men come for you, their guns blazing, and their ‘technicals’ firing bazookas? I hope we come to no harm ourselves today, just because we are caged in the same car with you.”

  Irrid says, “Don’t say that.”

  Then they hear some banging on the vehicle, Hudhudle shouting, saying to the driver to stop. When the vehicle has come to a halt, and just before Hudhudle has pulled the door open, Irrid has a convulsive fit: “Please, please. Gudcur, I have nothing to do with any of this.”

  Hudhudle makes no heavy weather of Irrid’s outpouring. He says, “Sit up, calm down, and hush, Irrid. Why are you behaving as if you’ve never smelled gunpowder? It is me, Hudhudle.”

  Cambara clambers up to her seat, embarrassed, as if she has been the one who has had the mild spasm. But she is relieved; her face says so. Then she spots Dajaal, who is carrying on like a military officer conducting a campaign with the help of a ragtag bunch of armed youths, telling them where to position themselves in the event of an ambush. He waves to the driver that there is no need to stop. Dajaal raises the boom himself, letting the vehicle pass. When the car comes level with him and the driver presses the button to wind down the window, Dajaal says to Cambara, without any preamble or word of welcome, “Bile is on his way here.” Then he turns his gaze away, clearly indicating that he has nothing more to say to her.

  She thinks, What else is there to say? What else is there to do? As she takes a surreptitious glance in the direction of Irrid, she remarks his residual sense of abashment, which lingers on longer than she thinks is good for the poor sod. Cambara derives comfort from reliving the scene in which she bore witness to Bile’s soiled state, about which she will never speak. If only we’d admit to being weaker than we think. Weak we are born; weak we’ll die.

  Her sunken heart is heavier to carry than a foot that has gone to sleep, she tells herself, as she advances gradually into the house and then eventually into the hall, where she means, eventually, to conduct her blocking and rehearsals. Most likely not today.

  Everybody helps in bringing into the house the two suitcases, and the small tote bag in which she had her toiletries, a packet of dried and sliced prunes, some raisins, and a few clothes; the suitcases are heavier and fuller, containing books, notepads, sketch pads, and only two of the miniature masks. SilkHair and Gacal supervising, she indicates that the tote is to go to her en-suite, never mind that there is no bed to speak of, only a mattress on the floor, soiled brown and full of tears. She prays that Irrid will return with the purchases before the end of the day. She has no idea where Dajaal is and does not recall seeing Qasiir when she was coming in the truck, maybe because she was on the floor and wasn’t in a position to see anyone.

  In the cool disquiet of the hall where she is alone for a moment, Cambara allows her imagination to soar to great heights so as to conquer her umbrage, overpowering it with her creative sanction, the license to
do what she pleases in the family house, now that it has become hers. It is then that a couple of images come to her in the shape of a woman who has a lot of fight left in her and of another woman who will not cower at the sight of blood or at the sound of bullets passing close by. She wonders if the network of women will continue its commitment to giving her unconditional support if Kiin interprets her hasty move as unwary, thoughtless to the point of undoing all that they have done to recover the property for her. Will some of the women support her loyally, because of her determination to put up a fight, her fearlessness unequaled? She envisages living in the house—she has no idea for how long—and working in the service of peace and justice as the situation permits. Cambara pictures spending quality time with Bile, who, in her imagining, is enamored not so much of her as he is of the idea of a woman like her.

  Then she hears small scuttles, similar to the sounds that rats make when scurrying to safety. She does not know where the noise is coming from, and cannot decide whether to look up at the eaves or toward the window, her pique, mixed with a worrying dose of fear, rising up for the first time since she alighted from the vehicle, from her viscera, as if to choke her.

  “We are here,” Gacal says.

  She is relieved when she locates SilkHair and Gacal, approaching sheepishly. Why do children hide behind doors or pillars inside houses and delight in frightening adults? Although the two boys seem to be moving toward her, Cambara is of the weird impression that they are not gaining on her, the distance between them remaining unchanged. She urges them to get closer, and when they do and are within a meter of her, she says to them, “Please let’s not startle each other.”