As Cambara runs her hand over the recently varnished trestle table, she asks, “Where is Seamus?”
“He is in the apartment, getting some much-needed rest,” Bile replies. “Apparently, he didn’t sleep a wink the whole night, busy setting things up for you. Then he came to the apartment and knocked together this table, which I see you are already using.”
Then he whispers a for-her-ears-only mischievous suggestion. He laughs like a much younger man, covers his face with his hands, and then suddenly takes them away in the playful attitude of a child about to say “Peek-a-boo.” Unbidden, he walks onstage and stands close to Qaali, in a way putting pressure on her and reminding her that they are waiting for her go-ahead.
When Cambara gives Qaali her cue, she also observes the eagerness on the part of Bile, Gacal, and SilkHair to resume rehearsing. Before a word is spoken, she restates the functions of space in the play. She stands in the forestage and for the first time requests that ScriptWoman read Bile’s lines to her, the gist of which she recapitulates. But she is not entirely there, the enormity of her sense of anticipation of some event that is to happen or some person she is about to encounter being so huge that she has no idea what to do with all her nervous excitement.
Then she spots Kiin leading Raxma by the hand into the hall, small-boned Raxma in an all-black outfit of raw linen, her strides long, her chest thrust forward, her dark shawl falling off. She continues marching forward without bothering to pick it up. Cambara thinks that if Raxma is here, can her mother be far? Many questions come to her for answers, but she shrugs them off. When did Raxma get here? She can guess who picked her up from the airport. And where is she putting up? Why has no one told her about her arrival? She looks from Kiin to Bile, and Cambara has the unsettling feeling that they have both known of Raxma’s arrival.
Buckets of emotion spill over, with tears of joy coursing down many a throat, Cambara blinking away the wet overflow, Raxma flashing a radient one, Kiin expressing her feelings with repeated hugs. Bile stands with the awkwardness of an amateur actor who does not know how or when to accept applause. Cambara, Kiin, and Raxma stand in a semicircle as if posing for a photograph. Sadly, because no one has remembered to bring a camera, the moment passes unrecorded.
Cambara says to Raxma, “Why are you in this most dangerous of cities?”
Neither the tone nor the phrasing is lost on Raxma, who remembers using these very words when the two friends met in Toronto and Cambara hinted at her wish to come to Mogadiscio and Raxma did everything she could to dissuade her.
Raxma is adept at taming her emotions with a momentary respite, an interlude in which she takes a good hold of herself. She says, “I am here for the world premiere of your play, come to support you and later to boast that I’ve seen it in the city that I still consider to be one of the most dangerous cities in the universe.”
“Is Arda here?” Cambara asks.
From the way Raxma affects an air of surprise, Cambara suspects that her mother is already here and sleeping her jet lag off or is coming within the day. She knows that jet lag plays havoc with Arda’s constitution.
“I haven’t seen your mother in this blessed city, and have no idea where she is,” Raxma says. “Do you know something we don’t?” And she consults Kiin. “Kiin, are you hiding Arda?”
Kiin says, “I can confirm that I have never met the lady.”
In the palpitations of her disquiet, like a pony racing to catch up with the afternoon shadow it has cast, assuming it to be its competitor’s, Cambara tempers her impulses, training them on a faux pas. How can she forget to present Bile? The poor man is standing close by, bashfully looking from one of them to the other.
“Just a moment,” Cambara says. “Here is my mainstay, apart from Kiin, my prop, my protector and guide. Here are Gacal and SilkHair, actors, rogues manqué, if you will. Aren’t they cute, Raaxo dear? And here is Qaali. You know all about her, your input having been instrumental in contacting her, and we all thank you, dear Raaxo.”
“A woman with the world at her feet,” Raxma says.
“We’ll have plenty of time to talk.”
“We will, we will indeed.”
Raxma and Cambara take their seats among the volunteers, and Bile, Gacal, and SilkHair take their respective positions onstage. After ScriptWoman prompts Qaali, giving her her cue, and the others resume reciting their roles, Cambara thinks that the downside of having the world at your feet is that you stand to lose everything if there is a giant earthquake.
With Qaali on her turn, Gacal is agog at first, worried perhaps that his mother may not make the required mark. What will SilkHair say to his mates if she fails to impress everyone? But she doesn’t disappoint him, because she does a fairly good rendering of what she reads, going about it gently and sensitively, even if she hasn’t had a lot of time to read the whole text thoroughly, much less study it with the care it deserves.
When it becomes obvious after repeated readings and several takes that Qaali is tired, and at times her voice breaks off like a dry stick from its parent tree, Cambara calls for a pause.
She says, “We resume in three hours, if that.”
They separate into twos and threes, Raxma and Bile, finding a quiet dogleg away from the noises of ScriptWoman, TeaWoman, and the other volunteers. Cambara and Qaali spot their corner, where the boys serve them tea and let them be. Kiin is with her daughters, the older one volunteering as an assistant to ScriptWoman, the younger to TeaWoman.
Cambara, for Qaali’s benefit, gives a summary of the story line of the play and, convinced that Qaali is a highly educated woman, decides to spare her an interpretative run-through.
Then the hall echoes with Bile’s voice, calling Cambara and Qaali by name and announcing loudly, “It is time to begin again.”
They come from different directions, all five of them, to converge onstage, where they stand around expectantly waiting for something to happen, most likely for ScriptWoman to prompt Qaali, when Zaak, in his all-white Friday best, awaddle with an unhealthy aspect, his face meaty, armpits wet with sweat, forehead oily with fatty perspiration, his breathing heavy, insinuates his presence into Cambara’s vision, shockingly dominating it. Held captive by the memory of the horrors he inflicted on her over the years she spent with him, never mind the nature of their relationship, and harried into a difficult fork in the road they journeyed together, including or rather ending with their fractious encounter the last time—and the only time he has ever been her host—she is undecided as to how to react or what to do. It ill-behooves her to be uncivil in the presence of two of her intimates, namely Raxma and Bile, not to mention so many strangers. Uncomfortable with his lack of bodily controls, he is duck-walking closer, wobblingly weak-kneed. She tells herself that it is not by chance but rather by choice that she has avoided him, not seeing or calling him. Then she hears the sound of approaching feet to her left, and before she has had the time or the opportunity to turn, Raxma is whispering in her ears. “Leave him to me.”
Cambara says nothing; she stiffens. Bile, who knows of Zaak only vaguely, looks from Raxma, who is going past him, to Cambara, who is in a provoked disposition, and eventually toward the others, some of whom seem amused, some bewildered as they watch what is happening.
“Look who is here, Zaak himself,” Raxma says aloud.
Zaak rolls to a halt and, his shirt sticking both to his back and front because of the ungodly dampness, maneuvers the upper part of his body and ultimately its lower part and his head with the slowness of a turtle taking a sharp bend in the road. Then he toddles forward, and Raxma, having stridden toward him, waits, with everyone watching. Cambara senses ripples of babble eddying forth, and, joining rivulets of whispers; these streams course down toward a tributary of popular disapproval.
Raxma says, “How’re you doing, Zaak,” her hand extended in the stiff manner of a warlord shaking hands with another in a photo opportunity imposed by the donor countries giving their starving nation food aid.<
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“Arda called me,” he says as they shake hands.
“To say?”
“That I can find Cambara here.”
“I am here too,” Raxma replies.
“She said you’d be here.”
There is a prominent tremor in his voice.
“Aren’t you going to welcome me?”
“Welcome.” The word passes his lips lifelessly.
They run out of things to say to each other. Raxma turns to Cambara, who settles on making her move, convinced that she can manage to keep him at a safe distance at the same time save Raxma unnecessary embarrassment. Cambara’s best bet is not so much to offer apologies to Zaak and explain why she hasn’t been in touch as to placate Bile’s shattered self-containment. Bile might feel humiliated to bear testimony to her dealing crudely with her cousin, something he is not likely to approve of. Bile does not like the idea of Cambara and Zaak making fun of each other in front of so many strangers. He is of the old school, in which you do not tear into anyone, not least your partner or cousin, when others are around. She doesn’t recall them ever discussing Zaak, although it is possible that Kiin may have filled him in. Cambara keeps a good distance, if for no other reason than that she doesn’t want to be close to his foul mouth.
“What have you been up to?” Zaak says to Cambara, the portly words rolling out of his mouth in the manner of a roly-poly corpulently dancing across a round floor. “I am happy for you. You’ve achieved what you set out to do. Good for you, my girl. You’ve acted in a grown-up way, as I suggested. I doubt you would’ve recovered the property or gone on to produce your play if I hadn’t pushed you when I did. I said so to Auntie Arda.”
She says, “You abandoned me to my own fate, so I would act grown-up, is that it? You were rude to me so I would set myself higher goals and achieve them? That’s a new one on me. Have you sold that to my mother?”
“And she bought it,” he says. “Now why have you abandoned me? Why have you not been in touch to let me know of your successes?”
She says, “It is not that you need anyone’s company when you have your bundles of qaat.” Everyone nods their heads, appreciating the one-liner. But no one dares to laugh, except Raxma, who lets out a mild guffaw.
“When did Arda call you?” Cambara asks.
“Earlier today.”
Whatever game her mother is playing, Cambara does not wish to let Zaak know that she has any idea where her mother is and hasn’t been in touch either. This will only add more venom to her and Zaak’s longstanding quarrels and will do nothing to improve their chance of making up with each other for the sake of Arda. There is time yet, though. She will question Raxma about Arda when they are alone later, and all will become clear.
“Okay, Zaak. Time I returned to work.”
“I won’t stop you,” he quips and starts to turn away, feeling that he has darted back at her as much venom as she has thrown in his direction.
She says, “Did you bring along your bundle to chew while you wait? The way some of us bring a book to read when we are in the dentist’s office?”
“You’re being nasty,” he says, grinning. “It ill suits a host to be wicked to your guests. Be nice to me when I am on your property. Please.”
“Listen who’s talking.”
“Precisely,” he says, looking around and trying to make contact with his audience, his winning smile spreading.
She has had enough of him; her voice says it all. “I have some urgent work to attend to,” she says. “Could you give your coordinates to the lady with the writing pad?” and she points at ScriptWoman. “Since you’ve honored us with your visit to the property, I’ll now invite you to the opening night of my play. You can sit in the front row, next to your favorite aunt Arda.”
She turns her back on him fast and marches away toward the stage, where all the others are gathered, patiently waiting. It takes some time before a couple of them manage to wipe the grin off their faces and a little more before they are ready to resume their rehearsal. As Qaali steps forward to continue from where she left off, several eyes focus on the bulky back of a potbellied figure blocking what little there is of daylight with his fleshy plumpness. Zaak gone, Cambara sits next to Raxma, half listening to Qaali reading her part with more panache.
“Where is Arda?” she asks Raxma irritably.
“She’s broken her journey in Nairobi, where she intends to sleep off the jet lag,” Raxma explains. “We parted at the airport, she to take a taxi to a hotel, I to board my onward flight here. She’ll be here early tomorrow. Kiin has offered to fetch her from the airstrip.”
“That woman is going to be my death,” she says.
“Take it easy, Cambo.”
“How can I when there are Zaaks and Wardis?”
“Forget about Zaak; he is a fool.”
“How can I?”
“Get on with your rehearsal, Cambo.”
“Give me a minute.” Cambara sits where she is, her eyes closed, as if this might afford her a look inside of herself, so that she might draw on her inner strength, which she is certain is there.
“Thanks, Raaxo,” she says a few minutes later, ready to get on with her rehearsal. “You’ve been a darling. As always.”
They soldier on rehearsing until late, by which time everyone is too exhausted, and the young women volunteers, including ScriptWoman and TeaWoman, have gone. Raxma takes over their jobs, moving about with formidable efficiency, never indicating for a single moment that she has arrived only a few hours ago. She won’t hear of Cambara’s suggestion that Dajaal drive her to Maanta. “Isn’t that what friends are for: to be by your side when you need them? I’ll be here until we are done for the day.”
The next day when least expected, Zaak makes a dramatic entrance, walking ahead into the hall with a figure immediately behind him, he like the first of two vehicles tied to each other by an invisible rope, the one with its engine alive and running, as it pulls the other, namely the figure of a woman.
Zaak is carrying two heavy suitcases. He stops frequently, breathing heavily and wiping away the sweat just as often, halting altogether now and again, only to pick up now one suitcase, now the other, all the while conscious of the figure behind him, who is silently urging him to go on despite it all. As he comes forward, taking one foot at a time, pausing, and then continuing, everyone onstage falling silent and turning in his direction, Zaak seems to want to curse but dares not, again because of the figure goading him on subtly from behind. At one point, he puts down the weighty suitcases and then absentmindedly moves forward, tripping over one of them, awkwardly falling, and almost somersaulting. As he collapses into a heap, he makes an unearthly noise, something like lightning cracking, as if in pursuit of the thunder it is chasing across a cloudy tropical sky.
In contrast to Zaak, Arda presents herself well-groomed, bright-eyed, lively, and full of post–jet lag perkiness. She walks tall and large, swathed in an elegant frock of light cotton, the fan in her hand actively in motion, stirring the air about, the smile on her face obtrusive to the point of appearing false, especially to those who know her very well. Her skin brown, and, seemingly, too young for her age, she has a rested aspect to her, a jauntiness that borders on the nervous. In the scheme of things, she is upset, because it is Zaak who determines her forward progress.
The scene before Cambara strikes a distant chord in her memory, reminding her of one of her favorite plays, Waiting for Godot. The mystery, the despair, and the uncertainty of human existence, all of which she discerns in Zaak’s and Arda’s faces, bring to mind Samuel Beckett’s Pozzo, who drives Lucky by means of a rope around the latter’s neck. The day hasn’t been kind to Zaak, whom, you can bet, Arda must have bullied and shamed in private on the basis of what Raxma told her. Now Arda is deliberately putting Zaak in his place in public, in the presence of the very same men and woman in front of whom he humiliated her daughter.
Raxma appears to be enjoying herself, watching the proceedings. Cambara,
however, feels sorry for Zaak, thinking that the poor fellow doesn’t even have a stool on which to sit, as does Lucky in Godot. As far as she knows, his transgressions notwithstanding, Zaak remains a nephew to Arda, and that means he is also of the same blood as hers. Maybe the midday heat, it being siesta time, the exhaustion pervasive, and the stress unbearable, is making Cambara start to see things, conjure up discordant images of a Pozzo-and-Lucky drama of desolation.
It’s even clearer the moment they come near the stage where Cambara, Bile, Qaali, Gacal, and SilkHair are that there is bad blood between Arda and Zaak. Not only do they keep the same physical distance as before—Arda spurring him on, Zaak plodding wearily forward—but Arda is in a rage, and she wants everyone to know it. She halts all of a sudden, just as Zaak acts in a mutinous manner, refusing to take a step farther and also to lift the two suitcases. Arda says firmly to Zaak, “You’ve been rude, behaved in an unacceptable manner, hurled invectives in all directions whenever you’ve felt like it. It is time you apologized.”
Only she doesn’t name the person or persons to whom he must serve up a travesty of regrets. In addition, she handles him physically, pushing him out of the way, and rudely going past him toward the stage, where the others are gathered, watching in silence. When she reaches the stage, where Cambara is expecting her, with her arms open, her face adorned with a wide smile, Arda changes her voice. The vitriol that has oozed out with malicious intent when she talks to Zaak is transformed to sweetness, now that she is addressing her words to her daughter. They exchange remarks, neither moving toward the other.
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