Crossbones

by Nuruddin Farah

  He pauses, wipes his mouth, sips his water, and then goes on. “What is my attitude toward suicide bombing? Here is the problem. No priest is prepared to pay the ultimate price for Islam through self-sacrifice himself. Nor do any of them put forward their own children to die for the cause for which they claim to be fighting; only other people’s sons and brothers. They are a dishonest lot, and I do not approve of dishonest behavior.”

  Kala-Saar pours more water into his glass and takes another mouthful of food before continuing. He says, “I am full of admiration for the young, because they perform sacrifice on a scale till now unknown in our part of the world. Think of Japan, of the Amhara ethnic group in Ethiopia. Two peoples with traditions in which sacrificing one’s life to cause heavy damage to enemy combatants has a noble history: kamikaze pilots flying small aircraft laden with fuel, explosives, and bombs into the Allied ships; the battle of Adwa, in Ethiopia, where barefoot Takla Haymanot of Gojjam fought against the Italian invaders, who were better equipped than the Abyssinians. We in Somalia have never had a tradition of putting our lives on the line for our nation. Thomas Jefferson is worth quoting here: ‘the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.’”

  “So you approve of Shabaab?” asks Warsame.

  “I do not approve of Shabaab’s actions. They are not fighting for liberty but to gain power. They are not fighting for the national interest; they are fighting for sectional interest, insofar as they are fighting on behalf of a specific segment of Somali society, the radical fringe.”

  Ahl says, “What about fighting for Islam?”

  Kala-Saar says, “Islam is under no threat. Nor do I think that stoning a thirteen-year-old accused of adultery and then sparing her rapist constitutes preserving the good name of Islam. Rather, it denigrates the reputation of the faith. Do you think that imposing a type of veil indigenous to other societies on Somali women is a good thing? Or banning music, disallowing sports on TV, stopping veiled women in the street on their way home or to the market and checking if they are or aren’t wearing bras?”

  The conversation continues along these lines, with Kala-Saar pontificating on various aspects of the same topics, or subjects related to them.

  Then they hear Faai shouting from the kitchen to Xalan, “Please come and listen to this.” Xalan joins Faai and then returns, slack-jawed.

  “What’s happened?” Ahl asks.

  Xalan replies, “A suicide bomber has blown himself up in the center of Bosaso, killing at least ten people and injuring several more.”

  Ahl sucks in his breath, his skin loses its natural color and he sits still, unmoving. Kala-Saar, too, falls silent, seemingly shamefaced, as though he has been the cause of such terrible things. Ahl stands up and moves to the window.

  His mobile phone rings. It brings him unexpected news, far beyond his expectations, news he thinks he can’t cope with, his heart nearly bursting out of his chest. The phone nearly drops out of his hands. He pulls himself together to listen.

  Xalan, Warsame, and Kala-Saar watch him in silence as he asks, “Where are you now?” He waits for an answer and then says, “Shall I come and get you from where you are, right now?” Then, the mobile phone almost slipping out of his hands, “If you know how to get to where I am, then I will wait.” A pause. “I, too, my dearest, I am so pleased to hear your voice, so pleased to know that you are alive and well, and that I’ll see you shortly.” Then just before disconnecting, he adds, “Yes, of course I love you, too, my darling.”

  They all look in his direction, waiting to hear his news in full. But Ahl has difficulty speaking, not only because he cannot convince himself that he has just talked to Taxliil, but also because he doesn’t wish to share the good news with Kala-Saar. He doesn’t want to hear a man who, delighting in his superb turns of phrase, will embark on the exercise of distinguishing between a suicide bomber, whom he will cast in the vanguard of selfless young Somalis setting a new revolutionary trend, and Taxliil, a milksop unable or unwilling to bring his martyrdom to completion.

  “Was that Taxliil?” Xalan asks.

  By way of answer, Ahl’s cheeks flow with tears that gather momentum as they pour down. He wishes he had the luxury of privacy so that he could cry his heart out with joy, alone. Just as in Somalia’s civil war, the intimate affairs of this nation are fodder for gossip, shock, amazement, and newspaper headlines elsewhere, but not to the victims of the strife.

  Xalan helps Ahl to his seat before his knees collapse from under him, his face and cheeks wet with tears, making him look like a child who has clumsily painted his own face. Then Xalan realizes something else: that Ahl’s trousers are soaked. Has he wet himself? When? In the name of heavens, what is happening to this poor man?

  Xalan, standing behind Ahl, motions to Warsame and Kala-Saar to leave the room. Then she, too, departs and joins them in the living room.

  MALIK, FOR ONCE, IS UNABLE TO CONCENTRATE ON LISTENING TO the radio at news time; he has other worries on his mind. Showered and shaved, his mobile phone by his side, he is waiting for a confirmation call from Qasiir to inform him that he is on his way, bringing along the man with information about Somalis with foreign passports at the Kenyan border. But when the phone comes to life, it is Ahl, excitedly informing him that Taxliil has been in touch.

  “When?” Malik asks.

  “He rang me yesterday, late afternoon.”

  Malik takes an apprehensive glance at his watch, wishing Ahl hadn’t called this instant, because he doesn’t have time to talk for long. Why didn’t he call right away or even late last night to let him know he had heard from Taxliil? But in their near falling-out a few days ago, Ahl accused him of caring more about his work than about anyone, so he treads with caution—let Qasiir wait, he thinks. Then he chides, as genially as he can, “You kept that secret to yourself, didn’t you?”

  Ahl replies, “I didn’t keep it a secret intentionally. He called, saying that he would come along shortly, and then didn’t do so. I’ve been waiting to hear from him again since then. No idea if he has changed his mind or if something has happened to him between the time he rang and now. I didn’t sleep the entire night.”

  “If he rang you on your mobile, then you must have his number,” Malik reasons. “Did you try it?”

  “The readout on my phone said ‘number withheld,’” Ahl explains. “I pressed the redial button but it gave me a busy signal.”

  “So what are you doing now?”

  “Waiting,” says Ahl. “What other choice do I have?”

  “Ring Fidno and No-Name, see if they have news of him. It sounds like they’ve played a hand in his release from Shabaab’s clutches,” Malik says.

  “No answer from either; their lines busy as well.”

  “I wish I could assist,” Malik says.

  Ahl says, “I am sure you would if you could.”

  “Can I call you later, then?” says Malik.

  “I’ll call you myself if I hear anything.”

  But just as Malik is ready to hang up, Ahl asks, “What would you do if you were in my place?” He sounds vulnerable, desperate not to end the conversation.

  “I’d wait, just like you are doing.”

  “What else would you do?”

  Malik reflects that he wouldn’t do well as a Good Samaritan, or even as the manager of a help hotline. He has no idea how to take in hand a situation that has gone uncontrollably wrong. He hopes that his failure at rescuing Ahl from his despair won’t lead his brother to do something rash.

  “What do Xalan and Warsame suggest?”

  “That I wait until he contacts me,” Ahl says.

  “Where are they now? Can I talk to them?”

  “They are in their room, sleeping.”

  Malik says, “Why don’t you do as they suggest, sleep off your exhaustion, with the phone by your side, so you can answer it immediately if he rings. Meanwhile, I will think of something and call you.” />
  “Maybe that’s what I’ll do,” Ahl says. “Sleep.”

  “Talk to you later, then.”

  Malik, sighing, has barely put down his phone on the worktable when it rings. Qasiir is on the line. “Uncle Liibaan and I are down at the parking lot, wondering if you are ready for us to join you.”

  Malik pauses, momentarily confused, then remembers that Liibaan is a former army colleague of Dajaal’s, hence the term uncle. “Please come up,” he says, and he unlocks the plate over the apartment door to welcome them.

  Qasiir is the first to walk in, and he and Malik exchange a hurried greeting. Then both make room for a large man with a round belly, which he pushes ahead of himself, his feet in rubber flip-flops too small to bear his weight, the hair on his chin as sparse as the beard of a sixteen-year-old boy, and with eyes that squint into narrow slits as he concentrates.

  As Malik goes off, saying, “I’ll make tea,” Qasiir assumes the role of a host and leads Liibaan into the living room, where they sit. Once the water is boiling, Malik joins them. He observes that Liibaan is comfortable enough to take off his flip-flops, and that the man’s toenails are perilous as weapons—long, with jagged ends.

  “I am glad to meet you, Liibaan.”

  Liibaan is silent, then he says, “Dajaal’s murder saddens me so. He was very dear to me—like a brother. He was my senior in age as well as in rank. A serious, honest man, and those of us who knew him admired him; we all adored him. May God bless his soul!”

  Malik contributes to the chorus of “Amen!”

  Then the kettle wails, and Malik gets up, relieved to have gotten that part of the conversation out of the way. He asks his guest how he likes his tea.

  “Four sugars and lots of milk,” Liibaan says.

  Malik says to Qasiir, “Come into the kitchen with me for a moment, please. I would like you to do something for me.”

  Malik sets out cups, saucers, biscuits, and a few other nibbles. Then he puts two tea bags in the teapot and pours in the water. Qasiir watches and waits in silence, noticing that Malik has set places for only two.

  “I would like to conduct the interview alone,” Malik says.

  Qasiir says, “But of course.”

  Malik goes into the workroom, leaving Qasiir in the kitchen, and returns with his recording gadgets. “Give us an hour and a half.”

  “Okay,” Qasiir says. “I’ll see you in an hour and a half, unless I hear from you before then.” He goes to take leave of Uncle Liibaan.

  Liibaan, obliging Malik, gives a brief biography of himself. He says, “I was born in Jalalaqsi and brought up in Belet-Weyne, Hiiran, but schooled in Mogadiscio until my second-year secondary, when I was recruited into the National Army as a noncommissioned officer. A year later, I went to Odessa, where I trained, specializing in the tank division and taking a diploma. I returned as a second lieutenant, and soon after was sent to fight in the Ogaden War—Dajaal was my commanding officer. I served in the army until the collapse of the state structures and, having no other choice, went into the import and export business with former army colleagues, some of whom made off with money stashed away when they looted the Central Bank of Somalia. Now I run a fleet of buses on behalf of a company with large holdings, and organize the security. That is how I make my living, in the field of security.”

  Malik asks, “What does organizing security for a fleet of buses entail?”

  “I have three dozen youths in my employ,” Liibaan says, “and I put them on the buses, three to four each, as armed escorts.”

  “Do you go on the buses yourself sometimes?”

  He replies, “Lately, I’ve been based in a village on the border crossing between Kenya and Somalia. It made business sense to move as soon as the men from the Courts fled. You see, I figured out that a large number of people, many of them foreigners—and these included Somalis with other nationalities—would be fleeing in the direction of the Kenyan border, aware that Somalia’s border with Ethiopia was closed, thanks to the invasion.”

  “I presume you know how things are done at the border crossing,” Malik says, “since you go back and forth yourself. I presume, as a businessman, you know some of the Kenyan immigration officers, do you?”

  “I do.”

  “What are they like? How do they treat you?”

  A knowing spark enters his eyes, as Liibaan answers, “They are easy to get along with if you are ready to part with a pocketful of cash. Then you are an instant success, their best friend, and you can come and go, no questions asked.”

  “Is it true that they are prone to extracting money from every Somali who presents himself at a border post, whether the Somali has the right documents or not?” Malik asks.

  “The salaries of the Kenyan immigration officers are low, and you can understand their greed, if not forgive it,” Liibaan says. “Besides, the Kenyans know that Somalis are by nature impatient, and do not mind paying what it takes to make their immigration problems disappear.”

  Malik asks Liibaan to guide him through what occurs.

  “The Kenyans instruct all travelers wishing to enter Kenya to form four groups: travelers with Somali passports are told to return for the process another day; they will be told when. It was suggested that they remain on the Somali side of the border. Somalis with Kenyan nationality are to form their own line: they are dealt with right away. Somalis with foreign passports wait in their own line, as do all non-Somalis.”

  “Tell me about the Somalis with foreign passports,” Malik says. “How are they processed?”

  “These are made to fill out entry forms in triplicate,” Liibaan says. “They hand these in with their passports, and they stand in line for a very long time in the sun, waiting first for their papers to be processed and then to be interviewed and have their fingerprints taken. With that exercise ended, they are taken to yet another cubicle to answer the same questions from three different officers, a Kenyan in uniform, and—according to one of the men who was refused entry, judging by their accents—an American and a Brit.”

  “Any idea what questions are asked?”

  “From what this man told me, each officer asks a question relevant to his vantage point, and the same questions are repeated, formulated differently. Mostly about terrorism, the men from the Courts, foreign jihadis in the country, questions about funding and where it derives from—plus of course personal questions specifically geared for each traveler.”

  “Why was that man sent back?”

  Liibaan replies, “His Dutch passport had expired six months earlier, and he couldn’t remember the name of the apartment block in Amsterdam where he claimed to have lived before coming to Somalia.”

  “Any other unusual incidents you can recall?”

  “I recall a man called Robleh talking himself into trouble earlier in the day from what a number of travelers informed me,” Liibaan says. “I heard the initial part of his troubles from a reliable source, one of the drivers of the bus; and the second segment describing his troubles from the Dutch passport–carrying Somali turned back from Kenya.”

  “Do you know his other names?”

  “His full name is Hassan Ali Robleh or maybe Hussein; I don’t know and couldn’t care less. And according to Dajaal, whom he made anxious, he upset Cambara and Bile. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “What did he do to get himself into trouble?”

  “On the way to the Kenya-Somalia border crossing, he spoke in defense of the Courts’ action and described everyone who disagreed with him as traitors to Islam.”

  “He lived on welfare in Canada. Does anyone know why he claimed to be performing for the Courts in North America?” Malik asked.

  “He was a scout for them.”

  “What does that mean, a scout?”

  “He helped recruit young Canadians into Shabaab.”

  “What became of him?”

  “The other Somalis on the bus who were with him and were also interviewed by the foreign officers but not detaine
d fingered Robleh. They reported that he’d been bragging about being a scout for Shabaab. In the end, his bragging got him a ticket to Guantánamo. It’s said that’s where he still is.”

  The interview done, Qasiir comes and drives Liibaan home, agreeing to come back for Malik, to take him to Bakhaaraha Market.

  Not a day passes now without news of armed confrontation between the insurgents and the FedForces, that is to say the interim government’s forces, aided by the Ethiopians, shelling each other’s positions. According to Qasiir, the market is heavily involved in selling and hiding weapons, and providing intelligence to the insurgency.

  While he waits for Qasiir, Malik whips up a quick meal of spaghetti and tomato sauce, just in case Qasiir wants to eat something. Himself, he would like a salad, only he has no fresh lettuce. He packs his things, ready to be moved into the annex. But he doesn’t think it wise to put his packed suitcase, computer, and cash in the trunk of the car if they are going to the Bakhaaraha, so he decides to leave his belongings in the apartment and to return for them. Then he telephones Cambara to alert her of what he is doing. After which he rings Ahl, who tells him, “No news.”

  When Qasiir returns, Malik serves him the spaghetti and asks him for further background on the current role of the market in the insurgency.

  Qasiir takes a long time chewing a mouthful of spaghetti, then swallows noisily and replies, “There are a number of reasons why the Bakhaaraha are aiding the insurgency. You see, no businessman will show eagerness in welcoming a government that is bound to levy tax on his business. They would rather there was no government; they would rather not pay tax. The second reason is they do not like the interim president, who hails from Puntland, and whom they accuse not only of having brought along thousands of trained soldiers from the autonomous state, but also of having invited the Ethiopians to invade.”