by J. L. Powers
Keinan was in the street, dribbling a soccer ball between his feet. He glanced up when Amina walked out and opened his mouth, as if he was going to shout a greeting.
Amina turned away. She couldn’t talk to Keinan now. She couldn’t pretend that her family was well, yet she was ashamed to let him know that they were hungry.
‘Hey!’ he called after her. ‘Amina!’
She hurried to get away.
‘Amina!’
He jogged alongside her. She picked up her pace and wouldn’t look at him. ‘Hey! Amina!’
‘What?’ She met his eyes. A breath escaped her lips, harsh, shuddery even, as he drew his own breath in.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said, though they both knew that was a lie. She felt a stab of anger that he would even ask such a question. Her father and brother were gone and he knew it. If he couldn’t realise how that might make her family suffer, then he wasn’t the person she thought he was.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to buy some food,’ she lied.
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
‘I don’t need your help,’ she said. She bit her lip and kept walking fast. ‘And we still shouldn’t be walking together. My mother would kill me. But thank you,’ she added, hoping it softened her words.
He stopped and soon she was ahead of him. She glanced back. He was standing in the middle of the street, soccer ball in the crook of his arm. She didn’t understand the look on his face.
Tears bit the corners of her eyelids.
Amina knocked on four neighbours’ gates, shouting hello.
Two neighbours failed to answer her call.
One neighbour told her that it was hard for everybody. She wished she had food to give but she and her family had none themselves. ‘We are planning to try the food relief camps,’ she told Amina. ‘I would suggest that you come with me but we don’t know yet if it is safe. If al-Shabaab is around, those men will take a young, pretty girl like you and force you to become the wife of one of their commanders.’
As much as Amina’s stomach hurt from hunger, fear still shot through her at those words. She would rather go hungry than be forced to become a ‘wife’ of an al-Shabaab soldier.
‘But al-Shabaab left Mogadishu,’ Amina protested.
The neighbour shook her head. ‘You never can tell what might happen in this city. It’s better to be safe and go hungry.’
‘You can’t do that forever,’ Amina said.
‘No, you can’t,’ the neighbour agreed.
Leaving that neighbour’s house, she banged on the gate of yet another house. That neighbour gave her a small cup of cooked rice and apologised that it was all she had to give. ‘Please don’t tell anyone I gave you food,’ she said. ‘Or I’ll wake up in the morning with the whole neighbourhood camped out here.’
Amina started home, wondering what she would tell Ayeeyo. At least the rice would help Hooyo. And the baby.
The baby no longer seemed real. It certainly wasn’t as real as the constant, dull ache in Amina’s stomach. The weakness in her muscles. The feeling that she would just like to lie down and never get up. The pervasive worry and dread that crept through her bones like arthritis.
What if Hooyo lost the baby, all because she hadn’t had enough to eat? There was no return from something like that.
She told no-one but that day, before she went home, she decided to go to the market. When a woman selling canjeero turned around for just a second, Amina snatched a stack of the flatbread and ran home.
She had become a thief. What would Ayeeyo say if she knew? What would Hooyo say?
She could never tell them. This would be her secret, always. She could hardly believe it herself.
She let herself into the yard and locked the gate behind her, gripping the cup of rice and stack of canjeero.
After eating, Hooyo had revived for a few minutes. She sat up and asked Amina to bring her a book. Now she was reading and Amina was watching. Hovering. She knew that she was bothering Hooyo, but she couldn’t help it.
‘Let’s name the baby,’ Amina said. She sat on the edge of the mat that Hooyo had shared with Aabbe, picking at the blanket, looking at the floor and waiting to hear her response.
Hooyo placed the book down on the blankets. ‘It’s too early. We don’t even know if it’s a boy or girl.’
‘It’s a girl,’ Amina said impulsively. ‘I know it.’ She felt bad as soon as she said it. She didn’t know it. She was just trying, as hard as she could, to cling to the reality of the baby.
As long as the baby survives, she suddenly thought, we’ll all survive.
She looked at Hooyo’s deflated stomach, Hooyo who had lost weight during her pregnancy instead of gaining it the way she should have. Hooyo looked old, too old to be having a baby. Amina was the one who should be having a baby. She was old enough to be married, she could be the one giving birth. She was young. Even if she was suffering from malnutrition, her baby would survive a time of hunger, war, anything. But Hooyo’s?
‘Are you too old to have a baby?’ Amina asked. Is the baby going to be all right? That’s what she wanted to ask. Are you going to be all right, Hooyo? Are you going to survive?
Hooyo laughed. ‘What are you talking about, Amina? I’m only thirty-six.’
‘That’s old,’ Amina said.
Hooyo rubbed her temples, thumb on one side, index finger on the other. ‘Amina, in some parts of the world, I’m still considered a young woman.’
‘What are you talking about, Hooyo?’ Amina teased. ‘I’m the young woman!’
Hooyo reached over and touched Amina’s hand. She laughed. ‘Yes, you are, daughter. Yes, you are.’
Amina stared at Hooyo. ‘So, aren’t you too old to have a baby?’
‘I’m not too old, it’ll be all right.’ Hooyo sighed. ‘I just need more food. Better food. Real nourishment. This—’ She looked around at the empty room, down at the tiny bulge in her belly. ‘This situation is not ideal.’ Then she laughed, shortly, at the understatement in her words.
‘That’s why I want to give the baby a name,’ Amina said. She didn’t know how to ask Hooyo for the thing she needed more than anything. She didn’t have a word for it herself.
Hooyo shivered. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Let’s wait.’
‘It’ll be fun,’ Amina persisted, knowing she was pushing it. ‘We can think about both boy and girl names. I like Jamilah.’ Amina had a classmate whose name was Jamilah. Jamilah was pretty and kind and popular. Amina had always wanted to be friends with her.
‘No!’ Hooyo’s voice was sharp. ‘I said, let’s wait.’
Amina’s hopes deflated. She left the bedroom and stood in the dark kitchen, her fingers twitching aimlessly. She wanted to do something. She wanted—
Ayeeyo came into the kitchen. ‘Don’t let her upset you,’ she said. ‘She’s just afraid.’
Amina nodded. She was afraid too. Why did Hooyo get to wallow all day in her misery while Amina had to be the strong one?
Chapter 10
As she stepped outside the gate to search for food – or to steal it – Amina heard a familiar, gravelly voice behind her. ‘Asalaam Alaykum, peace be upon you, Amina.’
She froze. Legs shaking, she turned to face him. Abdullahi Hassan, Keinan’s father, the man responsible for Aabbe’s arrest and disappearance. But he was also the man who helped protect her and Ayeeyo from the men who stalked them on the way to the market. She was still afraid, even though he probably didn’t wish to harm her.
Though he and Keinan resembled each other, there was something different about Abdullahi Hassan’s face. Amina thought human faces were like houses. Some had lots of windows, letting in the light. Others were like a solid brick wall, hiding everything. Keinan was boastful and proud, but his eyes were like skylights, flooding a house with the sun. His father had little slits for eyes that took in light but reflected nothing.
‘
Wa ’Alaykum Asalaam, and peace be upon you as well,’ she greeted him.
‘How is your family?’ he asked. His eyes flicked over her. ‘How are your mother and grandmother?’
‘They are fine, adeer,’ Amina said politely. ‘Thank you for asking.’
‘I was sorry to hear about your father.’
Amina choked. She found she could not speak so she nodded in response, then looked at the dirt. She could not look this man in the eye, with his pretend warmth and compassion. He was Muslim, Somali and a neighbour – but he was no friend and no brother.
This was one of the hard lessons that Amina had learned in the last few months – how even people who shared your faith, your language and your culture could still betray you.
‘And your brother, too. Your family has met with many misfortunes this year. I am sorry for your troubles. Should you need anything, you must come and we will help you.’
‘Thank you.’ Amina stared at his expensive shoes. She didn’t know a lot about fashion but she could tell they were expensive. Somali businessmen could get anything, anywhere, anytime, if they had the money.
‘My people tell me one of your father’s paintings was filtered through Bakaara recently.’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
‘If you need to sell one of your father’s paintings, I can help,’ he said.
‘We’re fine.’ She brimmed with anger.
‘I also hear that you may be an artist yourself?’
Amina stared resentfully at him. Where had he heard that? Had Keinan told him? ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said. ‘I’m not an artist.’ It hurt to say that, but it was true. She’d given it up.
‘I could perhaps help you sell your pieces,’ he said.
Amina didn’t respond. She waited for him to leave so she could go.
He sighed loudly, as though Amina had disappointed him. As though she had let him down. But Amina didn’t care. She didn’t trust him, not for one second.
Amina lurked near the neighbourhood market daily. Though she didn’t beg for food and money from strangers, she was beginning to feel like one of the street kids, snatching up food scraps from the dirt.
Sometimes she was lucky enough to find cast-off bread or vegetables or even a piece of fish, slimy and decomposing. They sorted through everything at home, throwing away anything that was too rotten to eat, ignoring the slightly mouldy taste of everything else.
Sometimes, to her shame, and only as a last resort, she took something – if a back was turned. Amina knew that was dangerous. If somebody caught her, she’d be branded a thief and might lose a hand or a foot or both. She might never be able to paint again, but hunger and need overruled her concern.
One day, she ran into Basra and her mother near the market.
‘Amina!’ Basra cried. ‘How are you?’
Amina was surprised at the way Basra’s eyes lit up when they greeted each other. Despite the kindness in sharing her food, she had never supposed that Basra really liked her.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘How are you?’
She hid her basket behind her back, ashamed of the rotting food inside. Their basket was stuffed with bananas, tomatoes, carrots and onions. Amina’s mouth watered.
‘Where have you been?’ Basra shifted, her hand holding steady the jar of camel’s milk that she carried on her head. ‘You’ve missed a lot of school. Are you sick?’
‘No, I’ve been needed at home,’ she said, echoing what she had told Basra a few weeks earlier about Roble. With everything that had happened to her family, school had seemed impossibly distant, part of a normal life that no longer existed for her.
Basra’s mother looked concerned. ‘Is your mother well?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ Amina said. She had to protect her family’s reputation. It was impossible to know who you could trust. ‘But our family will grow larger soon and Hooyo’s on bed rest. She’s needed more help.’
Basra clapped her hands together. ‘You must be so excited.’
‘Your family is blessed,’ Basra’s mother agreed.
‘But you have to come back to school,’ Basra said.
Amina nodded. ‘I’ll try.’
Basra’s mother turned away but Basra paused, leaning back and whispering, ‘We’re writing poetry next week. The teacher said we will have a competition in class – girls against boys. You’re the best. We need you.’
Amina smiled, happy that she’d been missed. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘Promise,’ Basra said.
‘Promise,’ Amina agreed. She would do her best to keep that promise.
Basra leaned forward, as though she wanted to share a secret. Amina leaned forward, too, until their headscarfs touched.
‘Don’t give up,’ Basra whispered.
Amina straightened up. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
They waved goodbye and Amina hurried towards her house, something other than endless despair spreading warmly throughout her body. Don’t give up, Basra had said.
The words echoed in her head. Don’t give up.
Amina let herself into the yard and started towards the house. Something thudded against the gate. She fell to her knees, wondering if they were under attack. Crouching low, she inched over to the wall and peeked out through the cracks.
Somebody had left a small cloth-covered basket in front of the gate.
Gently, she eased the gate open. What if it was a bomb?
She looked left and right, and saw what she thought might be the figures of Basra and her mother disappearing around a corner. Her heart beat fast.
She snatched the basket and whisked it inside, leaning against the wall as she examined its contents. It contained a jar, a big bunch of bananas and several avocados. It was all Amina could do to keep herself from seizing the entire bunch of bananas and gobbling them down. She peeked at the white liquid inside the jar, dipped a finger in, and tasted it. Camel’s milk! In the very same jar Basra had carried on her head just minutes ago.
She ran inside, shouting that a friend from school had left food in front of the house.
Ayeeyo fixed Hooyo a bowl of sliced bananas and camel’s milk, lightly heated on the bed of coals. Amina perched nearby, ready to devour the food. ‘Don’t overeat or your stomach will reject it,’ Ayeeyo cautioned Amina. ‘Go slow.’
Amina split a banana in two, ate half, and set aside the other half for Ayeeyo. She drank half a cup of milk with sugar in it. Nobody drank camel’s milk that way – but Amina had never cared for the sour taste so her mother had sweetened it ever since she was little.
She sat quietly to see how her stomach would react.
The chance encounter with Basra and her mother, Basra’s desire for Amina to come back to school and the unexpected gift of food had changed something. Amina wasn’t sure what it was until she felt the itch in her fingertips. That unquenchable urge, which she thought she had lost forever. It was swelling to the point of bursting.
Don’t give up.
She wouldn’t. In fact, what could she do right now, today? Something for Aabbe, she thought. Then, No, something for Roble.
When Ayeeyo and Hooyo were both having an afternoon nap, Amina tied a scarf around her head, slipped a charcoal pencil in her pocket, and sneaked out of the house. She closed the gate gently behind her and looked left and right. The street was empty. She decided to go left.
Three or four abandoned or burnt-out buildings lay in that direction, including an old shopfront. Amina remembered going there when she was younger. The shopkeeper’s wife made halwa and Aabbe would often buy some for Amina. They would walk home together, slowly, while she savoured the jellied sugar melting in her mouth, traces of nutmeg and cardamom lingering on the tip of her tongue.
Her heart pounded as slipped inside the shop’s crumbling walls. Inside, she composed a short letter to Roble using a stick of charcoal.
Dear R.,
Hooyo stays quiet and prays all day long. We don’t talk about you bu
t we think about you all the time. We wonder where the soldiers took you and if you are still alive. I told her the baby will be a girl but I think she wants another boy because she’s afraid you won’t come back. You didn’t choose to leave us. Maybe you can’t return. Maybe the soldiers keep you captive or maybe they’ve taught you to hate us because we don’t support what they stand for. But we love you no matter what. Aabbe is also still missing. We have no food. We have no money. Yet we hope and pray that at least you are well fed and warm at night and that you don’t forget us, just as we will never forget you. Come home.
We’re waiting.
Your sister,
A.
Amina filled in the gaps around the letter with short curling designs – vines and flowers. And, of course, her signature Somali star.
Could the letter help save Roble? Or, if not Roble, some other boy? She had to believe that if the right person saw it, they could do something. As much as she loved Ayeeyo, she could no longer believe a person’s entire life was destined by Allah. No. She believed that Allah knew everything and had blessed humanity by giving them choices to make. She believed anybody could act and change the course of the world, whether in small ways or in large ways, and that a person was accountable to Allah for the choices they made, good or evil, in the afterlife. That was what Aabbe had believed. If it wasn’t true, his work wouldn’t have mattered and it would have all been for nothing.
She, too, was an artist. She couldn’t help it. This was her way of being in the world, her way of helping her city, her people and her family. So she would hope against hope that it would make a difference.
Every few days, Amina would hear the thump of a rock thrown against the gate. When she went to open it, she would find a basket of grain or pasta and bananas. Of course, it wasn’t enough, and Amina still had to search near the market for leftover or discarded scraps of food. Some of the women had taken pity on her and would save food for her – a dried fish or a couple of potatoes.