Beyond Babylon

by Igiaba Scego

  “Where do men take women nowadays?” he asked.

  “You’ve never taken one out?”

  “No. My wife, God have mercy on her soul, was my childhood friend.”

  “They go to Ferzal’s. The Indian. The one with the turban on his head, the Sikh. He doesn’t care who comes in. He doesn’t ask questions. Even the Italians bring their sharameet there.”

  “But she isn’t a sharmuta, even if…”

  “Even if?”

  “Nothing. She’s not a whore. That’s all.”

  The people began exiting. Everyone had a cheerful air about them. For a short time, the riwaayad and the hijinks of the mother and ugly daughter had one-upped reality. Life was difficult, but that fiction made it more bearable.

  “Murid is such an idiot,” one girl said.

  “Yeah, a nitwit,” another echoed. “He’s so stupid, making a fool of himself like that. A life with that ugly Fadum… I feel sorry for him.”

  “Oh poor, idiotic Murid,” a nearsighted boy chortled.

  It was all maligning and badmouthing. They laughed about Murid, the mother, and the ugly girl. The riwaayad was becoming a daily reality. The mother was taking the shape of a real mother, a fat one who had a fish banquet in Xamarweyne. “Come on, the one who spits every time she says the word ‘sea.’ Come on, you don’t remember? The one who has the daughter with the big messed-up teeth.” The comedy was transforming into real life, and the badmouthing into gossip.

  Majid was struck by the scents those people gave off. A blend of jasmine, sweat, and raw onions. They had worked hard and would probably go back to working hard shortly. The smell was also his own. In the white people’s kitchen he smelled a little like jasmine, a little like sweat, and a little like raw onion. He smelled like offal, eggplant, mango, roasted coffee, and almond, too. Sometimes he reeked of garlic, other times of fresh tomatoes. In the white people’s kitchen his odor was strong and absolute. In the kitchen, he melded with and overcame the air. In front of the neighborhood theater, his odor was a trifle lost in an olfactory paradise.

  Then he smelled an emanation he’d never known.

  “It’s like milk,” Majid said to himself. He was pleased and smiled demurely. Only then was he able to laugh. Maybe it was because the sun did not shine its light on him.

  It wasn’t milk, however. It was Bushra. Bushra, his sister-in-law, or as she was called more often, Ebleey, the libertine. Bushra was lovely. She wore a green habit that didn’t do justice to her figure, and her gait was unpretentious, hardly noticeable. People walked briskly around her, everyone rushing to get away, to disappear. She, on the other hand, wallowed in her feelings after the comedy. She was the only one who didn’t laugh. Her gaze was lost in a remote, fraudulent universe.

  The sky was clear in Mogadishu, the night hot and the stars large like watermelons. Pink studded the clear blue of the equatorial city with dazzling beams.

  “I’m going to go now,” Hussein said. “I’ll be back in a half hour. Is that enough time for you?”

  “That’ll be enough. Go on now, she’s coming.”

  Hussein split without him having to say it twice. His shadow disappeared swiftly in the moon’s direction.

  Majid was alone with his thoughts. In a minute she would be next to him. In one minute. No, now fifty-nine seconds. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. Not much time separated him from her. He’d gone there with a purpose. He had to intercept her…and then? Then what? He’d forgotten everything. He’d had a plan before leaving the white people’s home. A precise design, without excuses, no vacillation. He pictured the scene. He knew how he would wave her down. His hand would cut delicately through the air so there would be no offense, no vulgar pat on the back. He didn’t want to touch her, deprive her of respect, violate her. He only wished to stop her, get her attention, speak to her. His gesture would move the air just enough to put a few goosebumps on her arms. The woman would shiver and lift her head. Her gazelle’s gaze meeting the eyes of a man. He would make the speech that he’d prepared more than ten days before. He would ask for her hand and she would cry from joy. Bushra would be his. All according to plan.

  It was easy, the only thing he had to do was make the right moves, say the right words. The rest would follow. The rest was Bushra’s tears, Bushra’s happiness, Bushra’s gratefulness.

  The rest was his chest expanding proudly. He would feel a little like a man that evening and maybe even sleep some. He slept so little as it was, and that little was troubled by nightmares. In his nocturnal deliriums he saw the face of the fascist who split him in two. He felt the boiling sensation that had pierced his anus. He felt that terrible, wet heat, the foam inside him, and the rhythmic pounding of the fascist’s penis inside him. Then he felt shame. In that obscene moment he felt the loss of his virility. He saw his unfortunate travel companions. Most unforgettably, he saw the body of the poor wretch who was killed. While the fascist bore through him, Majid thought, “How I wish I were dead like him.”

  But the thought of proposing made him the happiest man on earth. There had been no need for a declaration with Famey. They were united by an unspeakable pain. It made sense to become one. She wouldn’t have expectations, and neither would he. They would continue their chaste marriage forever, and he lacked nothing. He worked and misfortune kept him company. Sometimes it was hard to move on, but the kitchen placated his baleful memories, as did Famey and the heat of her embrace. He wasn’t affectionate with her, however. He couldn’t hug or kiss her, he couldn’t even talk to her. He didn’t like to talk anymore. Prior to that cursed bus, he had been a fun, irreverent chatterbox. Nothing was the same afterward. There was no longer anything worth living for, and so nothing to laugh for. He became serious, lifeless, a catatonic vegetable.

  There was the child. He didn’t want to think about it during the boy’s inception. “It’s not my business,” he said to himself. Of course he had inserted a part of his body into his wife’s, but he wasn’t there. Only his organ was moving, not his will. He hadn’t moved that much inside her. He’d made some minor circular movements and then came immediately. It was hard enough getting the organ up. Asking him to enjoy himself was too much. His wife didn’t like her conjugal duty either. They’d done it a handful of times and she became pregnant.

  “It’s not my business,” he said to himself until the day of the delivery.

  Majid didn’t want it. He wasn’t mean, but he was a destroyed man, almost mortally wounded. He decided to wait out his life. He didn’t have a great longing to go on, but strangely, he didn’t have much of a desire to die either. When he saw his little son covered in his wife’s blood and when he lightly touched his skin, he knew right away that his life still had some purpose, because that boy was, in fact, completely his business.

  He was there for the boy, fifteen seconds away from Bushra. It was for the boy that he’d memorized his speech to ask for Bushra’s hand. He did it for Elias, Zuhra. He loved that unwanted child immensely. He wanted a simple life for his son, without obstacles or humiliations.

  He didn’t want any possibility of Elias, his son, becoming an object in the hands of a sadistic white man. He taught him from the beginning: “Defending yourself is the most important thing you can do.” He wanted autonomy and strength for Elias. He was his child, he could not deny it. He didn’t want to deny it.

  But a small child was in need of a mother, Majid said one day. He had only the burden of choice. The women were all ready to take care of the son of poor, young, unfortunate Sister Famey. They were ready to show Majid that handsome Elias would be happier with them instead of another. The women began squabbling and making threats. Insults flew. Binti and Zahra threw a few blows beneath the belt. Auntie Bushra didn’t get caught up in those disputes. She said, “Not me, I’m staying out of it.” For that reason, she seemed the most fitting to Majid.

  Bushra was a widow. She’d gotten married and two months later her husband Hakim had croaked, severed cleanly by one of the vehicles Fa
mey enjoyed so much. His body was collected in pieces from various locations. His arms were detached, sent in two different directions. His torso was flattened into the sand and his head ended up in one of those whites-only restaurants that were common in downtown Mogadishu. Hakim had liked women very much, and according to his aunt it wasn’t a coincidence that they recovered him from the lap of a blonde gaal with a generous bosom. “Your uncle’s head ended up right in the woman’s cleavage.” He could smell her scent: Ater Nurra, the most popular perfume in Mogadishu. Auntie Bushra swears she glimpsed a roguish simper on her dead husband’s face. Even the fact that his penis was erect wasn’t entirely lost on her. He’d always been a backstabbing traitor. She tried putting the pieces back together as best she could. Some parts were missing. Maybe they were already eaten by worms or nibbled on carelessly by the goats. The search for his nose was in vain, and for his right eye. The essentials were restored. The mischievous head, the torso, the pelvis, the legs, the neck, the arms, the erect prick. They were cleaned, tended to, perfumed. They were wrapped in shrouds and buried with the honor befitting his kind nature. He was very nice, Uncle Hakim. He told witty tall tales that would surely have made you smile, Zuhra. Everyone cried at the funeral. There was moaning and chest-beating in a doleful procession. They had come from the bush to mourn him, mostly women that your uncle had given himself to throughout his short life. A couple of gaalo were there also, which surprised most of the attendees. They all cried, in various forms. Reserved, inconsolable, melancholic, pained, berserk, nostalgic. Only your aunt didn’t cry. She didn’t shed a single tear. They say she laughed instead, uproariously. To be sure, she did spill two tears, but it was because she couldn’t hold back the force of her laughter. Today people still wonder why your aunt behaved that way. It wasn’t decent for a widow. “Poor thing,” someone said, “the pain has gone to her head.” And that was true. In the neighborhood they say your aunt laughed uninterrupted for a month and a half. Then she stopped and didn’t laugh again. For the people in the neighborhood, it was still discomfiting. They had grown accustomed to the crystalline cascade that rose from the unusual woman’s throat. It was so beautiful when she laughed, so graceful.

  In the fourth month of pregnancy, the neighborhood received the news. Bushra was with child. By the fifth month, Bushra knew that the creature in her womb would not be long for this world. When it was born, she gave him her husband’s name. The gesture was appreciated. The child, however, was born with a serious defect. He was taken to shamans and even one of the white people’s doctors. No one could figure it out. Bushra resigned herself to seeing the creature die. She caressed its head and whispered words that were wineskins full of sweetness. When the child died, it was full of milk. Liters of milk had drained from her breast, as during the monsoon.

  Her maternal milk had stimulated Majid’s nose. This milk would be given to his little Elias. Within seconds, he and Bushra would be standing next to each other. Majid wanted milk for his son. He was set on marrying the woman. He did not fear her. She was so lovely and agreeable.

  “Don’t fool yourself, Majid,” his cousin Warsama advised him, “she has five hundred lives. She can transform herself into a woman, but at night, remember, she is a scorpion who makes our strength idle, our penises dormant. Be careful, Majid. She is a witch. She will sever your testicles and steep herself in some dirty concoction. She wants to steal your soul, Majid. Stay away from her, God damn her.”

  The sky was clouding over. Perhaps the first rain of the season would lift their spirits with solid and abundant drops. Minutes passed, and then they were together. He had to talk to her immediately, make no delay. Nothing but emptiness around them. The crowd from the comedy had thinned. It was only him and her. A man and a woman. In between them, a declaration. A child.

  He had to do it for the boy.

  “Do you want to marry me, Bushra?”

  He didn’t greet her. He didn’t say hello, good afternoon, good evening, how are you. He skipped the pleasantries and every minimal standard of decency. He didn’t give her time to breathe or think.

  “Did you think this through?” she asked, astonished.

  “Yes. It’s the only solution.” He said it with much conviction.

  “Do you know what they say about me?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “Do you?”

  “Me?” She was baffled by the question. “Do I what, cousin?”

  “Do you believe the rumors about you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “There you have it. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “They call me Falley, the sorceress. They say that I killed my child. Do you understand? They say I was a monster because I didn’t lie with my husband, Hakim, but with a demon. He was the one who went with other women, always, even two gaalo. And I’m the adulterer. They find me guilty of zina, convict me of having had relations outside of marriage, which I never thought to do. Stone me, I said at the market, if you’re sure that I lie with a demon. Prove it. Everyone stopped talking. But their words are still killing me. They will never end. If I marry, they will speak ill of you too. Will you be able to stand it?”

  “Yes, I want a mother for my boy and I want serenity.”

  “Okay, cousin.”

  And that, Zuhra, is how Bushra became my new mama.

  FOUR

  THE NUS-NUS

  Smoke gurgled in the iron hookah. Mar took a long pull. The taste of tobacco and the scent of apple made her sentimental. She felt downy and soft, taken to a parallel dimension. A shame not to have good weed. Smoking that would’ve been a thousand times more powerful.

  Her smoking buddies were sweethearts. A Swiss named Thomas had proposed their sudden excursion. They’d taken the TGM, the historic Tunisian tram, to Sidi Bou Said. “There’s a splendid terrace!” the Swiss said. “And the shisha should be smoked somewhere nice.” The blond knew his stuff. He’d been in Egypt for a year and a half, he was a prolific smoker. Mar found him amusing. He was a handsome boy, the kind you could really fall for. If it weren’t for Pati, that thorn, maybe she would’ve let loose. She had only been in the country for a short time and already felt her senses unraveling. She thought Thomas was gorgeous. That was something. It had been a while since she’d thought anyone was beautiful. He made her laugh. He was silly, especially when he spoke of Egypt. Every time he pronounced the word Egypt, the Swiss carried himself like a statesman. His chest expanded, his eyebrows rose, his voice grew deeper. It was like the beginning of a legend: “One time in Egypt, an iguana…” And if it weren’t an iguana, it was a fat merchant, a pure prostitute, an indecisive bride. People suddenly became icons, full of grand importance. In addition to Thomas, there was a German girl with teal-colored hair, a couple of Norwegians, and a cordial group of Italians from the North. Many of them lived in her dorm, so they became friends. In her class there was only one half-crazed English woman, who was pretending to study on that lovely day. Everyone else had an easier time with Arabic than she did, but it didn’t matter to her. They would be the ones doing the ordering.

  She asked for a citronade. Someone told her it was good for the stomach and would thwart the diarrhea that was sure to come. It was an awful time to think of diarrhea. The place was so nice, with the sea, the white terrace, the people sitting in intimate groups. The thought of her stomach was maddening, and she certainly couldn’t be bothered with it at the time. Patricia had been attuned to her own body and its physiological functions. She could talk for hours about how her crap floated in the toilet. Disgusting.

  Sometimes Mar forced herself to remember why she liked that woman so much. Patricia wasn’t pretty. She dressed terribly. She wore jeans and T-shirts, strange dark shoes, and used a poppy-scented perfume that Mar couldn’t stand. Her hair was stringy, straight spaghetti. Her prominent bangs made her look like a junkyard mannequin. She had very white skin, so similar to that of Mar’s mother.

  Mama, where
did Mama end up? She’d seen her at the bar that morning hanging out with a tall, scrawny black girl, like herself. Short hair, she noted, and a particular elegance in her movements. It was weird seeing her mom with another black girl. It was almost as though she were with Mar, notwithstanding a few substantial differences. Her mother laughed, she was relaxed, and the black girl was laughing carelessly, too. When Mar was with her mother, Miranda never laughed. Mar didn’t either.

  Everyone told her having a mother like that was a blessing. “How wonderful, Mar, to have a writer for a mother. Aren’t you proud of her?” Proud? She never understood the meaning of the word. What did it mean? What should it have meant in the geopolitics of her existence?

  To understand her mother, one had to read her. And even doing that, one wouldn’t understand that much. She had read her first book, Calle Corrientes, to glean something of her past in Argentina. There was nothing at all meaningful in those poems. Only abstract images of a pain she did not wish to share. For years, Mar had searched those poems for dates, loves, hurts, fears, nightmares. Instead, she found herself in front of a surrealist painting, everything interpreted and perhaps nothing understood. She’d never tried asking her mother about it, not even as an adolescent. She knew about her desaparecido uncle. She knew they’d taken him away in a Ford. The soldiers had been given vehicles and a mountain of arms by the powerful Uncle Sam. Mama didn’t tell her about her friends from that time, the music she listened to, the films she watched. She didn’t tell her about what she did for fun or what clothes she wore. She never spoke to Mar about her grandparents. Her grandfather died before her uncle was loaded into a Ford, and her grandmother passed away after. Mar was sixteen years old when someone called their house to give her mother the news. The only thing she said was, “La abuela se murió.” Her facial expression never changed. She was stunned. Her grandmother’s case was closed. No one spoke of it after that. Mar remembered a picture of her abuela. She had a regal nose and eyebrows that were far apart. She didn’t know anything else about her grandmother. Everything was a fucking mystery, like the rest of the bunch. She hated the word that everyone abused: family. What did it mean for her? Her family was her mother. Her shapely face was the extent of it. Her family had also been Patricia, briefly. Her father was a Don Juan who disappeared to Lord knows where, her uncle was tortured by the military, and her grandmother had eyebrows that were far apart. It didn’t take much to make a family.