Crossbones

by Nuruddin Farah

  “None so far as I know,” replies Jeebleh. Then he says, “Wait,” and Malik can hear him saying to a hotel maid, “I do not want my bed turned down. I am in it, can’t you see?” Then he hears the slamming of a door, and Jeebleh is back on the line. “I’ve read the two interviews.”

  “I’ve just finished the draft of another.”

  “I loved them.”

  “Thank you,” says Malik. “I appreciate hearing that.”

  “I’ve spoken to Bile and Cambara, too.”

  “I had a long, rambling chat with Cambara myself,” says Malik.

  Jeebleh says, “They suggest you move in.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Jeebleh asks, “Do you want to hear my opinion?”

  “I always like to hear your opinion.”

  “I would move in with them if I were you.”

  From where he is, the sky is streaked with orange clouds, turning brighter as the sunlight strikes them from several angles. The twilight is formidably picturesque, and Malik wishes he had the knack for photography.

  “I’ll call home and talk to Amran,” Malik says.

  The offer to telephone home is a masterstroke. It frees Malik from having to continue the conversation with Jeebleh, just as it reminds both that he will not consider moving in with Bile and Cambara, because it may upset his wife, who, they know, has the tendency to be raving jealous, no matter what she says. A spouse in denial is a difficult spouse.

  Jeebleh says, “Do that,” and hangs up.

  The phone has barely rung a second time when Judith answers. Sweet and gentle, she speaks fast, saying that they are all well. Then she says, “Here is Amran. Bye for now. Love!”

  Malik sweetens his words as best he can. “Hi, my dear, my darling, how are things? I miss you and miss my little one, too.”

  Amran is in a foul mood. “When are you coming home?”

  He says foolishly, “The airports are closed.”

  Amran is furious that he has stayed behind instead of leaving Mogadiscio when her father did. When she is cross, she shouts; when jealous, she weeps; when loving, she is the sweetest thing there is. Amran has moods. Today, she is in a miasma of rage, she can’t stop screaming. Malik holds the phone away from his ear and listens without interrupting. Her parents often shake their heads in sympathy with Malik, and say to each other, “But you know what she’s like.”

  Amran is now saying at the top of her lungs, “The war has started—the foretaste of terrible battles to come. We’re all worried sick about you. And all you can tell me is that the airports are closed. What’s gotten into you?”

  Malik says, “I am doing well, writing.”

  “I don’t wish to raise an orphan on my own.”

  “What are you talking about? What orphan?”

  “I want you to come home now,” Amran orders.

  “As I explained, the airports are closed.”

  “Then there is no point talking, is there?”

  “But there is a point in talking, my love.”

  “You’ve always been unreliable when it comes to timekeeping, always untrustworthy when it comes to phoning and letting me know where you are and what you are up to or who you are with. Work, work, work. Women, more admiring women, eating out of your palms the words of your wisdom. Who are you with now? What’s her name? Why have a family if you work, work, and work? Why marry if you only want to entertain other women? While we wait for a word from you. While I worry how to raise an orphan on my own.”

  “Listen to me, honey,” he pleads.

  “Don’t call me honey,” she shouts back.

  And, weeping, she hangs up on him. In a day or two, she will deny ever having said any of these things.

  No more writing today, for sure. Knowing Amran, he may not be able to do any work the next day, either. She is a spoiler when she is unhappy, even if she also takes pride when Malik’s work is in the limelight, earning praise or a prize.

  Unable to think lucidly enough to write, Malik calls Nairobi to plead with Jeebleh to intercede; no answer. When his own phone rings and rings—maybe the journalists he has been attempting to contact are now returning his calls—Malik doesn’t answer it. He takes to his bed, his heart heavy.

  He gets up early and watches a series of pointless reality TV programs, involving housemates from a number of African countries living in an isolated house, with each contestant trying to avoid being evicted by viewers who have the power to vote him or her out. The last to be evicted receives a large cash prize at the end.

  IT IS NOT TO AHL’S LIKING THAT HE HOSTS FIDNO FIRST THING IN the morning, but he does it with brio. Upset, Fidno rang him earlier, to complain that Ahl has not been forthright with him. “Why did you not tell me right away that you were not a journalist?”

  “What time is it?” Ahl asks sleepily.

  Fidno says he is down at the gazebo, waiting.

  The waiter takes Fidno’s breakfast order: tea, liver, and most Somalis’ favorite breakfast, canjeero pancake and bananas. Ahl asks for canjeero, with honey on the side, and caffelatte, no sugar, please. He doubts he will eat much; he is still too exhausted. A mosquito buzzed in his ears last night from the moment he turned in. He had barely dropped into deep sleep when his mobile phone, which he’d set to vibrate, came to life against his ribs. At first he thought it was another mosquito, somehow disguising its tune—these having lately become more clever, resistant to everything modern medicine has thrown at them. Then Ahl realized that his phone was ringing and answered, believing it was Malik. But it was Fidno. Now Ahl feels cheated of his fair share of sleep, and bullied, too. He is still in yesterday’s clothes.

  Ahl also regrets he hasn’t brought his computer bag down with him: all his cash is in an envelope in it. He hesitates whether to go back and fetch it, but figures that no one will go into the room to clean until later in the morning. In any event, he has a few hundred U.S. dollars in an envelope in his back pocket, just in case. At least he can pay for their breakfast.

  “You conned me,” says Fidno.

  “I did no such thing,” Ahl insists.

  “You made a fool out of me.”

  “Remember that Warsame arrived unexpectedly to pick me up. I had no idea what to say or how to introduce you, as I hadn’t prepared him for your presence.”

  “And when we got to their home?”

  “I had to talk to Xalan. She and I needed to sort out some family business. We had no chance, you and I, to talk alone.”

  “You could’ve said so to me. Plainly.”

  The waiter brings their food. Ahl decides Fidno has no right to heap guilt on him; he did no wrong. When the waiter returns to inquire how they are doing, Ahl brings out his two hundred dollars, as if testing the waiter’s and Fidno’s reaction to seeing greenbacks in large denominations. But if Ahl is hoping that the money will move Fidno to resume speaking to him as he had on their earlier visit—to tell him, perhaps, about the bagfuls of cash delivered as ransom to boats with crews held hostage—at least according to the international media—Fidno does no such thing. They eat their breakfast, neither saying anything. Yesterday, Fidno ate his and Ahl’s lunch without embarrassment. Ahl thinks that no one with self-respect would do that. Maybe Fidno’s pennilessness has canniness added to it, his impoverished state being of recent vintage, comparable to a gambler’s indigence—wealthy one day, impecunious the next.

  Fidno says, “Let’s trade truths, you and I.”

  “How do you mean, ‘trade truths’?”

  “You tell me the truth of why you are here, like a man who wants to pick up a whore but dares not, and I’ll you the truth of who I am.”

  Ahl is startled. He doesn’t like it when he can’t fathom a person’s character from his knowable features. Fidno, however, is several steps ahead of him. Fidno’s daring suggestion that they trade truths reminds Ahl of trading jokes with Malik. Malik knows thousands of jokes and, what is more, knows well how to draw out the punch line, how to mature i
t fully in the telling. Ahl has the terrible habit of ruining his jokes by mistiming the narration, the way some women foul their fine faces with the wrong makeup. Not wanting to fall for a ruse he does not recognize, Ahl takes his time, eating his breakfast in concentrated bites.

  Fidno says, “I trained as a medical doctor in Germany, and had my own practice in Berlin ten years ago. Then I messed up by having affairs with two of my patients, one of them a close friend of my wife’s. My wife denounced me to the medical board, which charged me with malpractice; then she sued for divorce and won custody of our two children, but not before she’d emptied all our jointly held bank accounts. I left Berlin and joined the practice of an Indian in Abu Dhabi. He was not very good at his job; he knew it and I knew it. But he had an advantage over me: he knew the truth about me.

  “For three years, however, things worked out well. Then—what a folly—I made another fatal error. I fell for a married Arab woman, my Indian colleague’s patient. When our affair went sour, she told him, and he reported me to her husband, who in turn reported me to the authorities. Because I did not want to face another case of presumed malpractice in an Arab country, where the punishment would be severe, I came to Somalia.

  “In Mogadiscio, an uncle of mine set me up as a financier. I put together half a dozen unemployed fishermen just as the Somali coast was being invaded by Korean, Spanish, Chinese, and Japanese ‘sea bandits.’ These sea bandits were stealing our fish, denying access to our fishermen, taking away their livelihood. In those days, there were no Somali pirates; there were only these foreigner sea bandits robbing our seas. As a last resort, I funded the hijacking of a ship belonging to a Korean shipping firm. We held the ship for three months, in return for which we received a fine for their illegal, unregulated fishing. We shared out the proceeds among the fishing community. I didn’t make a huge profit, but I continued to advance the idea of taking any ship found fishing illicitly in our waters. That’s how my involvement in the funding of piracy started.”

  He uses the recently coined Somali phrase burcad badeed, which translates as “sea bandits” and which is commonly employed as a sobriquet for “pirates.” Ahl finds the terminology a bit confusing, banditry being something with which Somalis are familiar; in fact, in Kenya, the term shifta is a derogatory moniker for Somali. In other words, contrary to what is understood elsewhere—that Somalis are the pirates—Fidno seems to be casting the vessels fishing illegally in Somali waters as the true “sea bandits.”

  Ahl asks, “But aren’t Somalis bandits, in that they exact ransom in the same way sea bandits do? You are unnecessarily obfuscating matters. Why?”

  “Somalis are neither pirates nor sea bandits,” Fidno says, his voice strong. “The world doesn’t afford to Somalis a sinecure similar to the one given to those who sin against us. That is a fact.”

  “If not pirates, what are they, the Somalis?”

  “Pirates are cruel seamen,” says Fidno, “and they are out totally for their own personal gain. They rob their victims, using extreme violence. They torture their prey; they are no Robin Hoods. In all fairness, you cannot describe the Somalis as pirates, in that they do not behave cruelly toward the crew, use extreme violence, or torture their prey.”

  “But they are no Robin Hoods, are they?”

  “There are only two cases in world history that I can think of when men described by others as ‘pirates,’ for lack of a better term, did in fact play a positive role in their nation’s political history. You may not agree with me, but I would argue the Somali are a case in point. Even though described by others as pirates, it is fair to view them as conscientious avengers fighting to save our waters from total plunder.”

  “What’s the second case?”

  “The other case is the Dutch pirates.”

  “What Dutch pirates?”

  “The Dutch pirates known as watergeuzen—‘sea beggars’—set aside their sea banditry for almost two years, from 1571 to 1572, to fight alongside William of Orange to bring an end to Spanish occupation of their land.”

  Ahl waits for Fidno to continue.

  Fidno obliges. “The Somalis are the closest in outlook to the Dutch watergeuzen, in that the Somalis initially set out to fight off foreign invasion of their sea in the absence of a functioning state, and then establish some kind of a coastal guard to protect our sea resources against continued foreign invasion.”

  But Ahl is not sure if they are anything like the Dutch sea beggars or privateers. He understands privateers as vessels armed and licensed to attack the ships of enemy nations and confiscate their property. Historically, many European sovereigns issued such licenses and they left it up to the licensed captains to determine the nature of the punishment to be meted out to the vessels they apprehended. A percentage of their catch went to the captain and crew, and the remainder to the license-issuing sovereign.

  “What ‘foreign invasion’ are we talking about?” Ahl asks.

  “I am talking of the inhumane assault on the coastland of Somalia, where the country’s trawlable zones are located. A Somali scientist who specializes in fisheries said that at night, the lights of all those foreign vessels were so numerous that they could be mistaken for ‘a well-lit metropolitan city.’”

  “And who were, or are, the invaders?”

  “They came from as far away as Europe, Japan, Russia, Korea, China, in vessels flying foreign flags—Belize, Kenya, Liberia, or Barbados,” Fidno says. “They arrived armed, too, prepared for war, their speedboats at the ready whenever Somali fishermen reacted. And when they fished they made use of methods banned worldwide. In addition, they dumped nuclear, chemical, and other wastes on our coast. They never attempted to engage the Somalis in any meaningful dialogue. And they were unconcerned about the damage they were doing to the fishing environment. When Somalis complained, the world turned a deaf ear to our protestations.”

  “Is that when you entered the scene?”

  “That’s when I entered the scene as an avenger.”

  Ahl has difficulty here. He likes Fidno, whom he finds fascinating as one does a villain enacting his misdeeds elsewhere. Yet there is a part of Ahl that can’t take to Fidno wholly or accept his claims at face value. He seems more likely to have arrived on the scene as a financier with a nose for profit rather than as a nationalist hero. Maybe his judgment is colored by the previous brushes with professional misconduct that Fidno has described.

  “What was the first boat you helped them take?”

  “It was a Kenya-registered trawler fishing in Somali waters, nearly a thousand nautical miles from Mombasa,” Fidno says. But suddenly he is stumbling over his consonants, as though he has sprouted a forked tongue, the fork that tells the truth unable or unwilling to coordinate with the fork that tells the lie.

  “Where did you get the money?”

  “An uncle on my mother’s side lent it to me.”

  “Does this man have a name?”

  “He’s known by his nickname, Ma-Gabadeh.”

  There is fire in Fidno’s eyes at the mention of the name. It is as if a lamp has come on, lighting the peripheries of his irises. Ahl hopes the light stays. It complements his mischievous grin, and he looks cheerful. Ahl asks, “Is it your honest view that the Somalis aren’t pirates?”

  “It is,” Fidno responds, the light not yet gone.

  Ahl says, “Tell me why you hold this view when the rest of the world thinks otherwise?”

  Until now Fidno has not smoked in Ahl’s presence, but now he makes the gesture of a smoker flicking ash from the end of his cigarette, then issues sucking noises from his lips, as if inhaling smoke from a cigar. He says, “Let us separate the two questions. First, why do I argue that Somalis cannot be accurately described as pirates? Because pirates take pride in living outside the law and in pursuit of loot. Their presence invokes fear as a consequence of their crude treatment of their hostages. Theirs are stories of adventure, tyranny, mutiny, and they sail the wide seas, having no respect for bor
ders. They stalk a ship for days, waiting for the right moment to attack. They fly false flags to dupe or conceal their intentions. They surprise their victims and then disappear without leaving behind a trace. These features describe the foreign invaders of our seas, but not the Somalis. The Somalis operate for the most part in their own seas. They torture no one, they harm no one, kill no one, not even their hostages, and they do not conceal their identities. It leaves me with a sour taste to listen to the aspersions circulated about us. We are cast as villains of the piece, and no one listens to our side of the story.”

  Ahl asks, “What of the millions given as ransom?”

  “For starters,” Fidno says, “what makes you believe that the ‘pirates’ receive millions of dollars as ransom?”

  “Don’t they?”

  “That’s why I want to talk to a journalist.”

  “You’re not saying that they don’t?”

  Fidno says, “I would compare the pirates to pickpockets.”

  Ahl recalls a number of interviews with crews and captains of the hijacked vessels in which there was talk often of the pirates pilfering away their watches, their jackets, their telephones, and other small items. If Fidno is arguing that the pirates risk their lives for a pittance and do not receive millions of dollars as ransom, then it stands to reason that he compares them to pickpockets. After all, anyone making giant killings from taking tankers captive is unlikely to resort to pilfering. Unless the person is a kleptomaniac.

  “Even though the amount that a man picking pockets makes on his best day may be more than a beggar’s,” Fidno says, “I know of no pickpocket who has become a millionaire. The Somalis receive little from the takings.” Fidno pauses and then reiterates, “This is why I wish to speak to a journalist.”

  Fidno now has his nicotine-hungry look focused on the waiter, who is smoking nearby. As he takes the cue at last, Ahl orders a packet of cigarettes. Why, he thinks, if Fidno or the pirates were flush with money, would he need a near stranger to buy him a meal or a packet of cigarettes?