by Lesley Lokko
It was chilly outside. She waited by the front steps of the building as Hamid brought the car to the entrance. Aside from their vows, they’d barely spoken to one another all evening. He leaned across and opened the door for her from the inside. There was a moment’s awkwardness as she fumbled with the handle and then she slid inside the car, placed her bag at her feet and was enveloped in the darkness that smelled of cigar smoke and the pungent aftershave she’d come to associate with him. ‘Fasten your seat belt,’ he said to her as he pulled away from the kerb. She did as she was told in silence. He didn’t speak again until they drove up in front of the hotel.
She didn’t even have the luxury of fear. He was shorter than she but twice as strong. She was barely inside the small hotel room when his hand was on her waist, pushing the thin fabric of her dress up her body to lay claim to her skin. She tried not to panic, remembering what her mother had told her. Submit and it will get easier, insha’allah. He fumbled inexpertly with her clothing, tugging impatiently at the offending dirac and then at her bra underneath. She had no recollection of how they moved from standing in front of the bed to lying on top of it, but when she had gathered her wits sufficiently to understand what was happening to her, it was too late. He was heavy. He pinned her arms to her sides, his mouth leaving a wet, sticky trail across her skin. Was he kissing her? She had no idea. She twisted her head to one side, looking away from him. He didn’t appear to notice. Her legs were shoved quickly apart; she felt the weight of his belly against hers and then the thing she’d feared most – his hands on her, parting the way. She lay very still, her heart beating almost inside her mouth, waiting, waiting. When he finally thrust and pushed his way inside her, the scream seemed to have come from someone else, somewhere else. He clamped a hand over her mouth; her ears were filled with the sound of his grunting and panting so that her own answering screams were drowned. There was a wrenching upheaval inside her as her entire body convulsed and turned. She tried to bring her knees up to her chest to push him away, but his large, heavy body was in the way. He must have sensed her resistance; his hands gripped her arms, those buffed and polished fingernails digging painfully into her skin. She twisted her head to the left and to the right, bruising her lips against his beard, trying desperately to avoid his mouth. He rammed himself into her over and over again, saying things … calling her names … his voice a roar in her ears. An extraordinary tension seemed to come over him; he stiffened, gasping for breath, and then suddenly, almost as quickly as it had started, it was over. He convulsed like an animal in pain and then slid from her, rolling over on to his back, gulping in air like a man about to drown. After the noise that had surrounded her for the entire duration of his assault, the silence was shocking. She rolled away from him, curling herself up into the tightest, smallest ball, and stuffed her fist in her mouth. Pain spread from the centre, between her legs, through her limbs, up across her stomach and breasts, all the way to her mouth. She could feel the mattress shuddering slightly as he fought to bring his breathing back under control.
‘Go and take a shower.’ The command came from him in the manner of someone speaking to a servant.
Niela rose and stumbled towards the bathroom. She was too stunned to think. There was blood on her thighs as well as a trail of rapidly drying wetness that had come from him. She turned on the tap and stepped inside. After a few minutes she realised that the salty taste of the water was the brine of her own tears.
They drove away from Vienna early in the morning. Niela did not look backwards, not once. It was Hamid who lifted a hand to her parents in farewell, not she. She sat beside him, her profile turned away, chin set against the anger that was building dangerously inside her. Fathia sat in the back, alternately munching on the sweets Saira had packed for the long journey, or chattering away to her brother. Neither said much to Niela, which suited her just fine. The radio was tuned to a Somali news programme; she listened with half an ear, and tried not to think about what lay ahead, or what had happened the night before. Hamid drove impatiently, keen to return to his business interests in Munich, or so she gathered from his comments to Fathia. Niela had only the vaguest idea of what it was he did; he was a businessman, not a professional like her father or Uncle Raageh. The dialect he and his sister spoke was harsher than the language spoken in her home – another sign of the times. Back home such a union would have been unthinkable. Here, in exile, the impossible had come to pass.
Austria came and went in long, empty expanses of fields, rivers and hills, occasionally punctuated by towns and villages, sometimes a city or two. Graz. Innsbruck. Klagenfurt. All passed before her eyes in silence. They drove through Switzerland in a few hours, stopping at the border with Germany for the night. This time, to her immense relief, he made no move towards her. He slept on his back, snoring loudly. She lay awake for hours, unable to sleep, watching the pattern made against the flimsy curtains by car headlights as they swept past.
In the morning she was awake long before him. She got out of bed without making a sound and collected her things. She crept down the corridor to the bathroom and took a shower. She dressed quickly and slipped back into the room to stow away her bag. She was almost out the door when his voice stopped her.
‘No trousers.’ He said it in German. She turned in surprise. He was still lying in bed. His white singlet had risen up over his belly; the mound of it was very dark against the white sheets. ‘No trousers,’ he repeated, yawning as he spoke. ‘You must not wear trousers. Go and change.’ Niela opened her mouth to protest, but before she could utter a single word, he flung back the covers and got out of bed. ‘No trousers!’ he half shouted at her. ‘Skirts.’ He picked up his suit from the back of the chair and began to dress. The conversation was over. Niela silently pulled out a skirt from her suitcase and opened the door. He didn’t even look at her. She walked down the corridor, her heart thumping against her ribcage. She hadn’t even thought of it – would he demand that she veil herself as well? She pulled off the offending jeans with trembling fingers and put on a skirt. When she walked into the dining room to join him and Fathia, neither of them said a word. She picked at a piece of toast in silence, fighting back the urge to scream.
It was nearly dusk by the time they finally drew up outside a small suburban house somewhere on the outskirts of the city. Niela had finally fallen asleep, lulled by the hum of the heater and the steady drumbeat of rain against the windows. She woke with a start; Hamid had switched off the engine and was busy taking their suitcases out of the boot. She opened the door cautiously. A small garden with a wire fence separated the house from the neighbour. A short flight of steps to the front door – a brick house, flat-roofed, two storeys. She quickly took in the details. Up and down the street the houses were identical. Even the front doors were painted a uniform shade of dark grey. Hamid and Fathia led the way; Niela followed behind them, carrying her overnight bag. The house was warm at least, she noticed, as soon as they stepped inside. It was crowded in the way of most Somali homes – too many couches and chairs, too many small side tables, shelves crowded with pictures, almost every square inch of wall space taken up with framed photographs of relatives and landscapes of home. She looked around her and swallowed nervously. Home. This was home.
Fathia showed her through to the bedrooms. ‘I sleep in here,’ she said, pointing to the second door down the corridor. ‘When we clean tomorrow, I will show you where everything is. You and Hamid will sleep in here.’ She opened the door to a medium-sized bedroom dominated almost entirely by the double bed. Hamid brought Niela’s suitcase into the room. ‘Tomorrow,’ Fathia said. ‘We can arrange things tomorrow.’ She and Hamid left the room, arguing mildly over whose turn it was to place the weekly call to their parents in Mogadishu and Niela was left alone. She sat down on the edge of the bed with her hands in her lap. She was too exhausted from the long car journey and from the effort of trying not to think to do anything other than sit. She was still sitting there an hour later when Hamid c
ame through. ‘It’s time to eat,’ he said briskly, walking over to the wardrobe and pulling out a pair of worn slippers. ‘Tomorrow you will cook.’ She got up wordlessly and followed him through to the dining room. She’d hardly eaten anything all day. The simple meal of rice and chicken stew that Fathia had prepared was a welcome distraction. She accepted the plate from her sister-inlaw and was just about to raise her fork to her mouth when she noticed Fathia’s frown. She glanced at Hamid. He hadn’t yet raised his own. Fathia sat opposite him, waiting patiently until her brother had taken his first bite. Then she nodded at Niela. Yes, you may begin. Niela felt her whole body tense with rebellion, but again she said nothing. She swallowed her pride, along with a mouthful of rice, and concentrated on her food.
She submitted to Hamid that evening just as she’d done on her wedding night, waiting only for it to be over. Fortunately for her, he was tired from the long drive … the whole thing was finished in a matter of minutes. He rolled away from her with a satisfied sigh and fell asleep almost immediately. Niela lay in the dark, listening to the sound of his snores, trying to summon up memories of happier times. If she didn’t, she seemed to understand instinctively, she would succumb to the silent lethargy that had gripped her ever since her parents had announced what they intended to do. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the image of an aunt, one of her father’s younger half-sisters, back in Mogadishu, who’d almost died of despair when her husband took a second wife. She no longer remembered the details … she’d been too young to properly understand what had happened or the significance of her sorrow, but there was something about the still, despairing sadness that had overtaken the normally vivacious girl that brought her own circumstances to mind. Her aunt had once been a lively, pretty young woman with a temper and a strong, confident laugh. She’d seen her in the living room one day, sitting in silence, her face turned away from the others, drawn against some private grief that only she could see. ‘What’s the matter with Aunt Soraya?’ Niela had asked her mother. ‘Why is she crying?’
‘Shhh! Don’t disturb your aunt, poor thing. See what happens when you love someone too much?’
It was too much for a twelve-year-old to understand. But now, lying next to the stranger who’d overnight become her husband, Niela couldn’t shake the image of the young woman sitting for hours alone in the living room or out on the veranda, her lips moving to a sentence only she could hear. If she wasn’t careful, she too would wind up like that – though not for the same reasons. If her aunt’s misfortune had been to love someone too much, Niela’s was the opposite. She barely knew Hamid but she hated him already.
In the morning when she woke, Hamid was gone. She got out of bed and ran to the bathroom. She stood under the shower for a long time, washing away every last trace of sweat and semen from her body, trying to rid herself of his touch. She shuddered as she dried herself on the towel she’d brought from home. She wanted nothing of his to touch her. Absolutely nothing.
She finished dressing and opened the bedroom door. From the kitchen came the sound of pots being cleaned. Clearly, Fathia was already up. Niela walked down the corridor to the kitchen. From Fathia’s disapproving expression as she entered, it seemed as though she’d been up for hours. There was a place laid for her at the dining room table. ‘Have your breakfast,’ Fathia said grudgingly. ‘But hurry up. There’s a lot of cleaning to be done.’
She wasn’t joking. As soon as Niela had finished her coffee and washed her plate, Fathia appeared in the doorway with a broom. For the rest of the morning, Niela swept every inch of the house. It was as though the two of them had been saving up the dust. She swept the rugs, mopped the tiles, moved furniture, polished the endless tables, wiped the chairs and picture frames, rubbed the brassware until it shone like a mirror … and still Fathia’s demands kept coming. The bathrooms need cleaning. The wardrobes need airing. The sheets need washing. Have you forgotten the ironing? By lunchtime, Niela’s arms were aching. Back in Mogadishu she’d barely lifted a plate. In Vienna, under her mother’s watchful eye, she’d quickly learned how to clean a small flat, but Fathia’s demands were of an entirely different order. They ate lunch together in the kitchen at a small table, neither speaking much. Niela answered her questions about whether or not the bathroom mirrors had been wiped or whether she’d remembered to starch Hamid’s shirts with a curt ‘yes’ or ‘no’. She refused to rise to Fathia’s bait. What did she think? That Niela had never swept a floor in her life? She felt a small thrill of satisfaction when, after the day was finally over, Fathia was unable to think of a single thing further for her to do. Niela had done everything she’d asked, and more. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be had, anywhere. Niela folded away her apron and stowed the cleaning supplies underneath the sink with a faint smile of bitter satisfaction lurking around the corners of her mouth. She walked back down the corridor, conscious of Fathia’s eyes on her back. She held it very straight until she’d closed the door. Then she leaned against it and finally gave vent to the tears that had been building inside her for what seemed like a year.
Slowly, against her will, a kind of order began to impose itself on her life. She missed Korfa and Raageh more than she could put into words, but aside from the short, stilted telephone call that took place twice a week when she answered her mother’s endless questions with a brusque ‘fine’, Vienna began to recede from her memory. She could no longer recall the exact layout of the flat – did the bookcase separating the dining room from the living room face inwards or out? What colour were the kitchen tiles? Mogadishu was still as clear in her mind’s eye as if it had been days since they left rather than years, but Vienna was fading fast … as if she’d never really been there or intended to stay. Hamid worked long hours. During the week he was up long before her. He prayed in his study at the end of the corridor. Saira’s relief at hearing there was a sister in Munich to keep her daughter company was misplaced. Fathia required a servant, little else. Certainly not a friend. She was in her late forties, unmarried, with no prospects of ever being so … the private disappointments that surely must have been hers had long since hardened into the pursed lips and tightened expression that greeted Niela every morning across the kitchen table.
Hamid wasn’t unkind. In his own distant, unfathomable manner, he behaved in the only way he knew how. He went to work, he prayed, he was a stalwart member of the small Munich Somali community … he provided food and shelter for his young bride as he should … what more could the girl want? He performed his side of the bargain – now so should she. Niela sometimes heard him arguing with Fathia. Why does she go about with such a long face? Can’t she produce a smile every once in a while? What have we done to her? Fathia’s answers were always the same. It’s the way they are, these young girls nowadays. Spoilt, every one of them. Don’t worry, she’ll learn. Niela turned away, her heart sinking. How anyone could think she was spoilt was beyond her.
Twice a week she and Fathia went by bus to the supermarket. Niela looked out of the window at the suburbs sliding past. Once or twice she caught a glimpse of her own face – a tightly held mask of contained emotions. Seeing her face as a stranger might, it surprised her. She’d never given much thought to her own appearance. She supposed, in a kind of distant, disinterested way, that she was pretty enough. In high school she’d been as much sought after as her two best friends, Sally-Anne and Helga. The three of them had made a striking trio – blonde, blue-eyed Helga; Sally-Anne with her green eyes and curly auburn hair; and Niela, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned. Charlie’s Angels, some of the other kids called them. For a brief summer, Niela had yearned for long shiny blonde hair like Helga’s, but that was more out of curiosity than anything else. Her own hair had to be washed, conditioned and braided once a week by a hairdresser; Helga and Sally-Anne simply stood under the shower and ran a brush through theirs. She’d heard her mother’s friends exclaiming over her – look how pretty she is, Saira. Lucky you. You’ll have no trouble finding a husband for her, no
ne at all. She’d listened to the comments with a smile on her face. Her mother’s friends were wrong. There would be no traditional arranged marriage for her. She was going to university when she finished high school. She would have a career and be independent in the way Saira had never been. That was her future. Not the one her mother’s friends dreamed up.
So much for those dreams now, Niela thought to herself miserably as she followed Fathia around the supermarket, pushing the trolley. What sort of a career was this?
17
One morning about a month after her arrival in Munich, she walked into the kitchen to find it strangely silent. She looked around her. Fathia wasn’t yet up. She set the breakfast table, wondering what was wrong. Her sister-in-law was always in the kitchen before anyone else. She made the tea, wondering if she ought to go on and prepare breakfast itself. She stood there uncertainly for a second. Perhaps Fathia had overslept? She made a cup of tea and walked down the corridor. She hesitated for a moment, then rapped on the door to Fathia’s room.
‘Come.’ She heard Fathia’s voice. She opened the door and stepped inside. She’d only ever been into her room to clean it. Now, with the curtains drawn and the faint, sour smell of sweat in the air, she resisted the temptation to turn away.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, setting the cup of tea down on the dressing table.
‘Sick. I’m sick. My throat.’ Fathia’s voice was a painful croak. ‘You’ll have to go to the pharmacy for me. I need medicine.’
Niela’s heart jumped. Alone? She would finally be able to leave the house on her own? ‘Of course,’ she said in what she hoped was a solicitous tone. Her heart began to beat faster.
‘Bring me paper.’ Fathia pointed to a notepad on the desk by the window. Not even a ‘please’, Niela thought crossly as she handed it over. Not a single ‘thank you, Niela, for bringing me tea’. Or ‘please go to the pharmacy for me’. No, with Fathia everything was a command. Bring me this. Bring me that. Fetch this, fetch that. But the thought of going outside the house on her own for the first time in four long, miserable weeks was enough to push the irritation out of her mind and she left the room excitedly. ‘Don’t delay,’ Fathia croaked out as she shut the door. Niela didn’t bother to reply.