“Now tell me,” Malik says. “Why would anyone threaten Ethiopia with invasion and claim that the army of the faithful is powerful enough to march all the way to Addis Ababa and take it?”
Gumaad cockily responds, “Possibly he knows something we, who are not privy to the secrets of the Courts, do not know.”
Dajaal and Jeebleh say nothing; they listen.
“What do you think he knows that we don’t?”
Gumaad then compares the statement the defense spokesman of the Courts made to the one Saddam Hussein made a month before the second U.S. invasion of Iraq, when he kept boasting that America would regret its action. Surprisingly, the Republican Guard, described as the fiercest and best-trained Arab army, melted away. However, once the United States occupied the country, the men from the Guard staged their insurgency on the occupying forces.
Malik is shocked at Gumaad’s naïveté. “Why provoke a bully you can’t defeat at a moment in your history when you are militarily at your weakest?”
Gumaad says, “We have Allah on our side, too.”
The room fills with silence until Dajaal, slurring his words, says, “The defense spokesman is a fool speaking out of line.”
Not wanting Gumaad and Dajaal to have a go at each other and derail his plans, Malik asks, “Do we know the number of men under arms, the strength of the Courts’ fighting force?”
Gumaad admits he doesn’t know.
“Do you know anyone who might?”
Gumaad says, “I’ll ask around.”
Jeebleh rises to his feet, saying, “Tea or coffee?”
In the kitchen, Jeebleh covers the remains of the lamb dish in aluminum foil and leaves it to cool. With Dajaal and Gumaad on the balcony, arguing vociferously about something to do with a drone over the city skies, Malik offers to dry and put away the plates for Jeebleh, whose hands are sudsy. As he does so, he fights hard not to allow his mind to wander away or to think about his computer; he has decided he will buy a new machine tomorrow, if possible.
Jeebleh says to Malik, “Perhaps you can serve the tea and coffee?”
“Sure,” Malik says, and takes the tray out to the balcony.
Dajaal and Gumaad fall silent when Malik joins them. They each put several spoons of sugar in their tea. Then they sip, Gumaad making slurping noises as he does so.
He says to Malik, “Tell me, have you had a chance to read any of the articles by some of the local journalists, whom I hope you will get to meet and even interview?”
When Malik is hesitant and uncomfortable, Dajaal says, “Don’t let it worry you. You may speak the truth to us. We know they can’t be good, many of them. Gumaad and I know that none has had the kind of training that will make them professionals.”
Gumaad adds his voice to Dajaal’s, saying, “Go on and tell us.”
Malik speaks with care. He says, “In my view, the writing is composed of ramshackle paragraphs sloppily conceived and shakily held together by a myriad of prejudices for which there is little or no supporting evidence. I suspect not one of them has done the background research for the pieces they’ve published. Moreover, the proofreading is atrocious, presumably because there are no trained editors or copy editors.”
“You can’t expect better,” Dajaal says. “After all, they are self-taught and have taken up writing for these papers, which promote partisan, clan-based interests.”
Gumaad says, “Come, come. Be fair, Dajaal.”
“What training have you had?” Dajaal challenges.
Gumaad alters the thrust of their talk. He says, “I know some of the betters with whom I’ve worked. They have received several months’ on-the-job training.”
“Three months maximum, if that,” Dajaal says.
As if to soften the blow, Malik says, “Still, I admire their courage, despite their lack of training or analytical acumen. They put their lives on the line, writing what they write. How many of us risk our lives on a daily basis for what we write? They are targeted, killed—and they continue writing. My hat is off to them.”
When Jeebleh joins them, carrying his sugarless cup of coffee, Malik gives him the gist of their conversation. He nods his head in agreement but remains silent.
The night air is pleasant. The stars are aglitter, and there is a touch of salt in the wind. It’s been a long day. Gumaad and Dajaal are still engaged in their long-winded diatribes. Dajaal has lost his cool twice, forfeiting his eloquence for short-term gain, almost resorting to abusive language. This is very uncharacteristic of him, Jeebleh thinks.
Jeebleh does not like Gumaad’s cockiness, but believes it is good for Malik to hear someone who represents the religionist view, which constructs a world far less complicated than that of the secularists.
Gumaad confirms that Baidoa, the garrison town to which the Federalists are now confined, is under siege. The religionists control all the entry points; no trucks carrying food or fuel can go in or out. Twice in the past week alone, remote-controlled bombs exploded in the center of the town, causing casualties. The siege elevates matters to a riskier level and is bringing untold suffering to the town’s residents.
“Do you expect an invasion soon?” Malik asks.
“The momentum is on our side, and we’ll attack.”
“Attack when the talks are ongoing?” Malik says.
Gumaad replies, “Because the Ethiopians, our age-old enemies, are liaising with the U.S., and the U.S. is providing them with intelligence from their satellites stationed above our city.”
Malik says, “The Americans won’t enter the fray. They have the Afghan and Iraqi wars occupying their minds and taking an enormous toll on their economy. Those two wars are enough to keep them busy for another decade or more. Anyhow, what’s in it for them?”
They fall silent for quite a while. Then Gumaad gets to his feet. He pulls Malik up, then gestures to Jeebleh and Dajaal to join them. As the four of them stand side by side, their bodies touching, Gumaad speaks. “Can you hear it?”
“What am I supposed to hear?” asks Malik.
Gumaad says, “Look up at the sky.”
“I am looking.”
“Tell me what you can see.”
“I see tropical stars.”
“And what can you hear?”
“I hear city night noises.”
“Listen. Take your time, gentlemen.”
Jeebleh hears a distant drone.
“Can you see anything?” Gumaad asks Malik.
“What am I supposed to see?”
“A small light in the seventh sky, blinking.”
Malik searches the sky. Nothing.
“More like a Cessna, from here,” Jeebleh says, and points to a constellation of stars he cannot name. Then he says to Malik. “A lightweight plane, some sort of a surveillance drone, up in the sky. Can you not hear or see, Malik?”
Gumaad encourages him. “Concentrate. Please.”
Malik at long last picks up a continuous drone, which reminds him of a child’s battery-operated toy, the noise on and then off. An unmanned predator, operated by a ground pilot, or someone positioned on a carrier warship stationed ashore, flown in areas of medium risk for surveillance purposes, like the drones used in attempted targeted killings in Pakistan, Palestine, and Afghanistan. These unmanned predator drones have of late become a common feature in Mogadiscio’s skies, because the United States suspects the Courts of giving refuge to four men it alleges are Al Qaeda operatives. The presence of high-flying spy planes here marks a significant departure, and makes the United States complicit if Ethiopia invades and occupies Mogadiscio. Or so Mogadiscians are convinced. They assume the drones, which they hear and see without fail from nine every evening until about four in the morning, are sufficient evidence that the Americans are gathering information.
Jeebleh yawns heavily, indicating he is tired; he wants Gumaad and Dajaal to leave. But before they do, he brings out the platter in which the food came, already washed and packed so that Dajaal may return it to its ow
ner.
“See you tomorrow, about noon,” Jeebleh says.
“Good night. See you tomorrow.”
“Very good for a first day,” Malik says.
“I’m glad things are working out, except for the computer problem,” Jeebleh says. “But I know that you will not let that pull down your spirits.”
Malik says, “I should have known what the reaction of a religionist with sex on his mind would be to a naked photograph of a year-old girl in her bath. Pornography, my foot! Not to worry. I will not allow it to color my judgment.”
“What about the articles he deleted?”
“I have copies on a memory stick,” Malik says.
Jeebleh says, “I should have alerted you to the possibility, and I should have been more supportive. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t let that worry you; you did what you could under the circumstances,” Malik says, and he goes to embrace Jeebleh.
Jeebleh relaxes his features into a sweet softness, the night stars shining in his eyes. Just looking at him, Malik is so touched that he wants to wrap himself around his father-in-law yet again and to say how delighted he is to be here. Instead, he tells him about the mini-recorder he has in his pocket, which has registered everything. Malik makes Jeebleh listen to some of the conversation he recorded.
Jeebleh says, “Whatever else you do, please don’t mention my name in any of your articles, lest it devalue your work or my input.”
“I am proud of our association and will say so.”
They embrace again and then go to bed, content.
AN AIRSTRIP IS A MISNOMER FOR THE SANDY PIT ON WHICH AHL’S plane lands in Bosaso. Close by, less than half a kilometer away, is Somalia’s sea, in your face as always. Someone with a perverted sense of humor sited the airstrip here, for it requires pilots to perform some acrobatic feats on landing, and leaves only the most strong-hearted passengers unaffected.
With the plane now on the ground, the passengers rising to their feet in harried haste, Ahl looks in the direction of the flight attendant sitting across the aisle, her head in her hands, shoulders heaving. Earlier, she seemed morose, apathetic. He tried to get her to speak, to find out if there was anything he could do—not that he knew what he could do to help. When she didn’t respond to his queries but kept staring at the photograph of a young boy and weeping, he decided to let her be. He listened to her sobbing for a long while before offering her his handkerchief to wipe away the tears. Now at the journey’s end, he is still curious to know the cause of her sorrow. Is the young boy in the photograph missing or dead? He hangs around a little while more, taking his time to gather his things. Finally, she raises her head and looks up at him, the slight trace of a smile forming around her lips as she tentatively holds out the handkerchief in her cupped hand, as if uncertain that he will accept it back in its soiled state. Ahl suggests that she keep it, as he affords himself the time to read her name tag: WIILA. Nodding his head, he wishes her “every good thing.”
The airstrip, now that he can observe it, has no barrier to fence it in; nothing to restrict unauthorized persons from walking straight onto the aircraft and mixing with the passengers as they land. A mob gathers at the foot of the stepladder, joining the man in a yellow vest, flip-flops, and trousers with holes in them who guided the aircraft to its parking position. He, too, chats up the passengers as they alight, asking for baksheesh.
The passengers, who in Djibouti fought their way onto the plane and to their seats, now scramble for their luggage, some hauling suitcases heavier than they are. Ahl stands back, amused, watching. He has all the time in the world to stretch his limbs and massage his back, which is aching after two hours in a plane with no seat belts. The pilot—Russian, Ukrainian, Serb?—joins him where he is, and behaves discourteously toward Wiila, whom he describes, in bad, accented English, as “fat-arsed, lazy, and weepy.” Ahl is about to reprimand him when Wiila urges him to “stay out of it.” Feeling all the more encouraged, the pilot dresses Wiila down in what sounds like a string of hard-bitten expletives. Embarrassed and feeling defeated, Ahl regrets involving himself in a matter of no immediate concern to him.
The breeze and the scent of the sea it bears help Ahl get purchase on his fractious disposition. Calmed, he tries to identify his hostess, Xalan, or her husband, Warsame, neither of whom he has met. He looks around sadly, quiet, like a pinched candle, wondering if he can recognize either of them from the descriptions his wife has given him. Then he tells himself that there is no happier person than a traveler who has arrived at his destination and feels the comfort and confidence to face the world before him with an open mind, without fear or tribulation. He is in no imminent danger, even though he is in Somalia. He has someone waiting to pick him up. And if no one shows up, he is sure he won’t have any difficulty getting into town or to his hotel.
A couple of porters in blue overalls are bringing the baggage out of the hold and passing it around. Ahl receives his bag and remembers to offer a couple of U.S. dollars to the porter, thanking him. But he realizes that he is attracting the unwelcome attention of a loiterer, who follows him, persistently clutching at his shirtsleeve and computer bag. The man points to his mouth and belly. Ahl doesn’t know what to do to rid himself of the beggar. Then he hears someone calling his name, and sees a big-bellied man duckwalking toward him. Ahl and the beggar wait in silence as he approaches.
“Welcome to Puntland, Ahl. I am Warsame.”
Warsame wears his trousers low on his hips, like youths imitating jailbirds. But unlike the copycat youths, Warsame has on a belt, which is tight under his bulging tummy. As they walk away, he shoos off the pesterer, who stops bothering Ahl.
Warsame says, “I bring warm greetings from Xalan. She is home, cooking. But I’ll take you to your hotel first, then home. Come now.” Warsame takes Ahl by the forearm.
Ahl hates uncalled-for physical contact with other men in public. He faces the dilemma of reclaiming his arm from cuddly Warsame without undue rudeness so soon after their meeting. He doesn’t wish to offend his kind host.
Warsame says, “Let me carry something.”
“Thanks, but there is no need,” Ahl says.
Warsame says, “You travel very light for a man coming from the United States.”
“I love traveling light,” Ahl says. “Less hassle.”
“When Xalan returns from Canada,” Warsame muses, in the long-suffering tone many men take when the discussion touches on their wives’ luggage, “she requires a truck.”
Ahl doesn’t join in the wife-bashing, because while he knows some women who pack heavy suitcases for an overnight outing, he also knows men who wear more perfume than a Sudanese bride on the day of her wedding. He recalls Yusur telling him about a horrible incident involving Xalan and some of Mogadiscio’s clan-based vigilantes—a most terrible incident, which, according to Yusur, Xalan’s sister, Zaituun, accused her of provoking. In a bid to avoid spreading further bad blood, Ahl changes the subject. “How long has this airstrip been functioning?”
“Three years and a bit,” Warsame says.
Ahl won’t ask what’s become of the funds the autonomous state collects as tax. He can guess where they have ended up; in someone’s corrupt coffers. Nor does he comment on the shocking absence of an airport building of any sort, or even a runway. As if he has voiced his thoughts aloud, Warsame says, “We keep asking where the funds go.”
It’s never wise to make enemies of people on the first day you meet them, Ahl tells himself, especially if you don’t know them well. He won’t pursue the subject of corruption. Who knows, Warsame himself could be in on it, quietly receiving his share.
“Where’s Immigration?” he asks.
Warsame points. “There.”
Ahl looks around, his eyes following Warsame’s finger. He spots a shack out to the left of a cluster of vehicles bearing United Arab Emirates license plates, on what would have been the apron of the runway had there been one.
“We’ll get to our vehic
le and someone from Immigration will come and collect your passport,” Warsame says, “and return it stamped.”
“Is that how things work out here?”
“Here, everything is ad hoc,” Warsame explains.
Warsame leads Ahl to a waiting four-by-four with UAE plates, opens it, starts the engine, and turns on the AC full blast. A young man arrives to collect Ahl’s passport. Saying, “Back in a minute,” he disappears into the shed. Ahl thinks that until today he has never understood the full meaning of the term ad hoc: the heartlessness, the mindlessness of a community failing its responsibility toward itself; a feebleness of purpose; an inadequacy.
The young man is as good as his promise, though. He is back in a minute, ready to return Ahl’s stamped passport on payment of twenty U.S. dollars. Warsame gives the young man a couple of dollars as well, thanking him, and then says to Ahl, “Now we may go.” And they are off, raising dust and moving faster and faster, as if competing in a rally.
Like the airstrip, the city falls well below Ahl’s expectations. Yusur and many other Puntlanders in the diaspora have talked up Bosaso, describing it as a booming coastal city bubbling with ideas, its gung-ho, on-the-go residents making pots of money, many of them from trade, a handful out of piracy. It is a city, he has been told, that has benefited from the negative consequences of the civil war, with thousands of professionals and businessmen who ancestrally hailed from this region returning and basing themselves here.
But the roads are not tarred, and the dust billows ahead of them disorientingly. The buildings within range appear to be little more than upgraded shacks. Cars are parked at odd angles, as if abandoned in haste. The streets themselves look to be assembled ad hoc, with temporary structures thrown up to house the internally displaced communities that have fled the fighting in Mogadiscio or have been deported from the breakaway Republic of Somaliland to the north. Now and then they drive past houses of solid stone, with proper gates and high fences. But there is something unsightly about these, too, because of the discarded polyethylene bags that are hanging, as if for dear life, from the electric wires with which the properties are surrounded.
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