Amina

by J. L. Powers

  Basra munched thoughtfully on her own piece of canjeero. ‘That is too bad. School is important.’

  ‘Yes,’ Amina agreed.

  ‘We are meeting at Filad’s again today,’ Basra said. ‘Would you like to come?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Amina said. ‘I have to go home and help my mother.’

  Basra’s lively black eyes indicated that she knew there must be a problem at home, but she didn’t ask. ‘Well, if you change your mind, you are always welcome.’

  Amina returned her smile, wishing with all her heart that she could go.

  After school, Amina skipped dugsi. She didn’t think she could concentrate on lessons and homework when she was so hungry.

  On the way home, she stopped at the market for a few potatoes, an onion, some tea and a little bit of sugar. She wondered how Basra’s family had money enough for so much food. Maybe Basra’s father was a shrewd businessman, like Keinan’s father.

  ‘It’s so expensive, Ayeeyo,’ Amina said when her grandmother clucked at how little she brought home.

  ‘The drought has made everything scarce,’ Ayeeyo said. ‘People are desperate so they’ll pay anything.’

  ‘They say several charities flew food in for people who are hungry,’ Amina said. ‘But al-Shabaab set fire to it.’

  ‘They will answer to Allah for their murderous hearts!’ Ayeeyo exclaimed. ‘To let people starve!’

  Every day Amina bought food at the market, but it was never enough. Each night, they went to bed hungry.

  Amina had noticed that Ayeeyo would put most of her portion on Hooyo’s plate. If Hooyo had been herself, she would have refused it. Huddled on her bed day and night, except when she had to go to the toilet or bathe, Hooyo was unaware that Ayeeyo was giving up her food.

  As much as Hooyo needed that food, what about Ayeeyo? She was old and frail. She needed it too.

  ‘What should we do?’ Amina asked one night. She’d spent the last of the money at the market that day. The meal had consisted of a small potato apiece and a cup of sweet, weak tea. Amina still felt shaky with hunger. ‘We’re out of money and out of food. Should we try reaching Uncle Ahmed again?’

  ‘I have tried calling every day,’ Ayeeyo said. ‘The phone rings and rings and rings. Either something has happened to them or they’ve fled. But I have a different idea.’

  After washing up, she took Amina by the hand and led her outside, down the steps, and across to Aabbe’s studio. Ayeeyo opened the door and Amina followed her inside.

  Ayeeyo gestured at several of the finished paintings. ‘People recognise the work of Samatar Khalid,’ she said. ‘We must take some of these paintings to our neighbour and ask him to do what he has always done: to sell them and bring us part of the profit.’

  ‘We can’t do that.’ Amina took a deep breath. ‘He’s the one that handed Aabbe over to the people who came and took him. Keinan told us so, the day al-Shabaab took Roble.’

  Ayeeyo leaned against the wall, a spark lighting and then dying in her eyes. Anger … and then despair.

  ‘But if it’s as you say, that people recognise Samatar Khalids, then we can try to sell one of his paintings,’ Amina said. ‘Let’s go to Bakaara Market tomorrow.’ She thought about how long it had been since Ayeeyo had left the house. Years. ‘Or I’ll go alone and see if I can find a buyer for Aabbe’s work.’

  ‘No, no,’ Ayeeyo said. ‘It’s too dangerous. His work has been banned. What if the wrong person sees you?’

  ‘What else are we going to do?’ Amina asked. ‘We have to eat. We need money.’

  Ayeeyo sat down. Short and stooped, she looked lost in Aabbe’s high stool, the one he had used while painting.

  Amina realised, by the silence, that Ayeeyo had acquiesced to her plan. ‘Don’t tell Hooyo where I’ve gone tomorrow,’ Amina said. ‘She’ll worry and she doesn’t need that.’

  ‘I may be old and arthritic, but I’m not useless,’ Ayeeyo said. ‘How would you even find the market without me? I’ll go with you and we will tell your mother the truth.’

  Amina had trouble sleeping. To still the thumping of her heart, she listened to the soft breathing from her grandmother and then to Ayeeyo’s mumbling, her sleep-talking. These were normal night sounds.

  But that evening, they failed to comfort her. She spent the entire night avoiding sleep and the dreams that stalked her when she succumbed – dreams where she was running through the city streets, pursued by a reckless army shouting strange slogans and brandishing sticks of charcoal like weapons.

  Chapter 8

  Early the next morning, Amina wrapped herself in several layers of cloth over her skirt and draped her entire torso with a long, maroon jalbaab and matching khimar, leaving only her face uncovered. Ayeeyo handed her one of Aabbe’s smaller paintings, folded inside a long, black cloth. She fished shillings out of her pocket and told Amina she was splitting the money between them. Ayeeyo insisted that Amina carry the emergency mobile phone, so she could call Hooyo if there were problems or if they were separated.

  ‘Do you think we’ll find trouble?’ Amina asked. She tucked the painting under the jalbaab.

  ‘No, insha’Allah, God willing,’ Ayeeyo murmured.

  Hooyo sat up in bed to drink tea, the only thing they had for breakfast. ‘Be careful,’ she said. Her eyes were enormous in her shrunken face. For a second, Amina doubted her decision to go, but they needed money to buy food.

  Hooyo had consulted an old tome hidden away in the bookcase in the front room and had written down a list of herbs to buy at the market if they were successful in selling Aabbe’s painting. Herbs to stop Hooyo’s bleeding and stabilise her hormones: shepherd’s purse, vitex, cramp bark or wild yam.

  ‘But where will I find these herbs?’ Amina asked. They weren’t common herbs. ‘Why would anybody have these?’

  ‘You can find anything in Bakaara Market, if you have enough money and know the right people,’ Hooyo said. ‘But things can be expensive. So… don’t even go looking unless there’s enough money. Food is more important.’

  Amina decided then that there would be enough money for the herbs Hooyo needed, no matter what. And she would find the right people.

  The wind was singing through the palm trees when they set out, the fresh air smelling of salt from the ocean. Cumulous clouds tumbled endlessly through the bright blue sky and seagulls cried as they flew overhead. It was still early and the streets were empty except for a woman cooking over a fire in one of the abandoned houses on their street.

  They stepped into the street, Ayeeyo mumbling prayers under her breath, and set off in the general direction of the market. It had been a long time since Ayeeyo had been there and nobody knew which landmarks would have survived the last twenty years of war – the gun battles, rockets and mortar shells, missiles from American drone attacks.

  Though Ayeeyo said the walk would take less than an hour, it crossed so many invisible political boundaries that Amina felt like they were traversing into another world.

  The last time Amina had been to the market, she had been a young girl. Then the market became a stronghold for al-Shabaab. Some people said it was the largest arms market in all of Africa. If you wanted a weapon, you could find it there. And that was what made it too dangerous. You never knew when there might be a bombing or a gunfight. Aabbe had gone only occasionally, mostly to get what he needed for his work, and he hadn’t even allowed Roble to accompany him.

  But the market was one of the first places that the African Union soldiers had secured earlier that summer. For a while, they said the market had been empty and lifeless. Now, it was patrolled by African Union soldiers instead of al-Shabaab. Even though the risk was still there, the market was safer than it had been.

  Amina’s head throbbed but she ignored it, just as she had learned to ignore the dull, constant twinge in her belly that tried to remind her she was hungry. She was gripping Aabbe’s painting so hard that her fingers started to hurt. She unfurled and stretched them to re
duce the pain.

  Ahead, Amina could see that the gate to Keinan’s house was open. As they neared it, Keinan and his father stepped out into the street, both immaculately dressed in white slacks, Keinan wearing a yellow tunic and his father a blue one. They turned right.

  Amina slowed down, putting her arm out to hold Ayeeyo back as well. The last thing she wanted was to greet Keinan and pretend that everything was all right.

  After a few blocks it became clear that Keinan and his father were headed the same way as Amina and her grandmother – to the market. Amina considered ducking into a side alley and finding an alternative way, but the easiest thing to do was to just follow. Keinan and his father knew the way, after all, and getting lost was a huge risk. She and Ayeeyo would keep a careful distance.

  Their feet kicked up dust on the dirt roads and footpaths. Though it was early, the sun was already hot, soaking through the dark folds of Amina’s jalbaab. She looked at Ayeeyo, a thin layer of dust already coating her black skirt, and wondered that she didn’t feel faint.

  Keinan and his father seemed determined to keep a fast pace. It was especially hard for Ayeeyo to walk that quickly but she did her best and refused to complain.

  They passed a mosque. Amina’s eyes absorbed the white columns and the walls’ knobby spires pointing like arrows to the sky. She noted the lovely black lines engraved down the sides of the walls in elaborate patterns. It was just another small example of delicate architectural beauty that had survived the many years of war.

  ‘Do you need to lean on my arm?’ she asked when Ayeeyo finally slowed down.

  ‘It’s just so hot,’ Ayeeyo puffed. She gripped Amina’s arm, leaving a sweaty handprint on the jalbaab.

  Amina paused as they passed an abandoned street, drawing in a breath as she observed its sere and brutal beauty: the skeletons of houses, only bearing walls left standing. One white three-storey house remained mostly intact, its upper floors charred black, one wall broken off to form a sharp spear pointing towards the sky. A car had been left to rot halfway down the street, its doors ripped off, its shell riddled with bullets.

  Once or twice, Amina was afraid they had lost sight of Keinan when he and his father turned a corner. She wondered at her own audacity – to assume that they were going to the market and then to follow them as though that were true. But following them kept her from noticing the potential threats to safety that lingered on all sides. When she realised that two strangers were following discreetly ten or twenty paces behind, she sped up to Keinan and his father to close the gap between them. Surely Keinan would not let somebody harm her, just because they’d had a disagreement.

  In fact, Keinan had slowed his walk the tiniest bit, making it easier for Amina to catch up. He inclined his head, as though he was looking towards his father, but when he lifted his hand to acknowledge her and then nodded his head deferentially towards Ayeeyo, her cheeks warmed and her heart fluttered. He knew they were following. And he was watching out for them.

  She suddenly became convinced that Keinan could not have taken part in her father’s betrayal. His father might have been involved, but not Keinan. She trusted him. How could she have forgotten that? How could Roble have forgotten? Keinan had always been a good friend to her brother.

  Ayeeyo halted unexpectedly and Amina stumbled.

  Ayeeyo turned to face the two men that had started following them. ‘Shame,’ she hissed. ‘Shame.’

  Amina’s whole body went hot-cold and her forehead felt clammy. What was Ayeeyo doing?

  The two men approached, staring at them, eyes hostile. Amina looked left and right. What should they do if the men attacked?

  That’s when she noticed that Keinan and his father had dropped back. They lingered nearby, waiting, watching.

  The men’s eyes shuddered left and right, taking in the surroundings – the walled compounds, the shells of former houses, the street deserted except for the four of them and Keinan and his father. Then they stalked past, barely pausing, though one turned and glanced back at them, his gaze harsh and angry.

  Amina let out the breath she’d been holding. Black spots danced in front of her eyes and she paused to let the wave of nausea subside.The last thing she should do was to pass out right now.

  Keinan and his father started walking again as soon as the men passed them. They all turned around a corner, disappearing from view.

  Ayeeyo started trembling. She leaned heavily on Amina. ‘They were trouble,’ she said. ‘What have we come to, that two men would mean an old woman and a young girl harm?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ayeeyo,’ Amina said. Fear of strangers had always been part of her life. She had never known the world any other way. She’d only heard stories of the world as it used to be, when everybody was family, when nobody was a stranger, no matter where you were in Somalia. Sometimes they pretended it was still like that – but they knew better. ‘In any case, Keinan and his father helped protect us.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ayeeyo said. ‘It shows that they are not evil, even if they have done our family great damage.’

  Ayeeyo was like that – always trying to see the good in people. It was one of the things Amina most liked about her.

  They turned the corner. Amina expected Keinan and his father to be long gone, but they were waiting several blocks ahead. They turned left almost as soon as Amina and Ayeeyo came into view.

  The other men were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘It’s so hot,’ Ayeeyo complained.

  ‘Yes,’ Amina agreed. She felt like she would collapse under Ayeeyo’s weight.

  As they limped towards the street where Keinan had disappeared, a cacophony of bellowing voices, laughter, clucking chickens and even the bleating of a goat announced their arrival at the market.

  They turned the corner and Amina stood stock-still. It felt as though she had never seen a street so full of life, though she knew she had been here before. The memory was washed away with this new assault on her senses.

  The street was lined with colourful umbrellas shading the various stalls. Boxes were heaped with shoes and stacks of bright cloth. Tables were piled high with bananas and mobile phones. Other tables groaned under the weight of thick green stalks of khat.

  Men and women moved slowly down the street, like small herds of camels ambling along a ravine, stopping here and there to sniff food or glance through a pile of stuff. Several men carted wheelbarrows of cement down the middle of the road, careening dangerously through people clustered in groups near stalls and shopfronts.

  Amina smelled dust and roasting meat and burning fires and sweat and it made her feel faint, all of it.

  Life, she thought. This is life!

  And then she thought of the men trading guns in Aabbe’s painting of the market. She thought of how al-Shabaab had controlled the market until just a few short months ago. It was life, but maybe it was death also.

  Amina started to move towards the stalls but Ayeeyo stopped her. ‘Wait. I need to rest for a moment. Did I ever tell you about coming here as a child?’

  Amina shook her head no.

  ‘My father would trade camel’s milk and goat hides for whatever we needed and then we would go back out into the countryside for the rest of the year, moving from place to place. I thought the city had everything. Everything we didn’t have. How I wanted to live here.’

  ‘And now you do,’ Amina said.

  ‘And now I do,’ Ayeeyo repeated. She looked sad.

  Amina thought about the hard but simple life of the men and women who herded their camels through Somalia’s hot arid regions, the countryside. ‘I would like to live out in the middle of nowhere,’ Amina said, ‘if it meant escaping all of this.’

  ‘The market?’ Ayeeyo asked. ‘Or the city?’

  Amina wondered how she could explain. She shook her head, unable to continue. It wasn’t the market or the city. It was the violence. The stress of never knowing whether she would live to see another day. Sometimes she forgot the fear, but when she
remembered, it was worse than if she’d never forgotten. Because what kind of person could forget that you were living in the middle of a warzone?

  ‘This is your city, your country,’ Ayeeyo said. ‘All of this – the good and the bad. We are your family. You can never leave Somalia – even if you don’t live here, it’s with you, wherever you go in the world.’

  ‘I know,’ Amina said. ‘But sometimes I wish Aabbe and Hooyo had made a different choice.’

  ‘You wish they had left?’ Something sparked in Ayeeyo’s eyes. ‘Do you think your father and brother would still be here with you?’

  Maybe Hooyo was right, that if everybody good left, Somalia would never be a better place – but the family had paid a hard sacrifice for that belief. Still, what if Ayeeyo was right? What if your fate was already written by Allah, no matter where you lived? Amina wasn’t sure she wanted to believe that.

  ‘I’m not sure what I think,’ Amina said. ‘I’m just sad.’

  Ayeeyo squeezed her arm. ‘Me too, my little butterfly. Me too. We cannot tell what might have been different. We can only live with what is.’

  For a moment, Amina thought Ayeeyo had rallied and recovered. But talking seemed to have worn her out. Even though she was holding Amina’s arm, she stumbled and then sank down to her knees on a stoop. ‘You go on,’ she said. ‘I need more time to rest.’

  A young woman sitting nearby behind a pile of bananas smiled at Ayeeyo. ‘Do you want some water, eeddo?’ she asked. Ayeeyo gratefully accepted the warm water in a cracked plastic cup. The woman gestured towards a chair and Ayeeyo sank into it, heaving a sigh.

  ‘Do you need anything?’ The woman pointed at the table next to her, where a variety of items were spread out. ‘One-stop shopping.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Amina said. ‘I need to sell a painting. Do you know who buys paintings in the market? Works by artists?’

  The woman scratched her chin, thinking. She pointed. ‘There are men who deal in art,’ she said. ‘Keep going down this street and ask the men just after that long table of bananas past the alley.’