Knots (20 page)

When Cambara's hand moves in the direction of where her weapon and the pad of papers are tucked away, hidden, Red-Eye changes his mood as quickly as a traffic light turning amber. Cambara looks from Red-Eye to ArmedCompanion and to MereBoy.

“Give it here,” he says.

Cambara looks from Red-Eyed Randy to ArmedCompanion and to MereBoy, and she acts with feigned fright. She achieves her aim.

MereBoy says to Red-Eye, “Why do you not let the lady be? Now look at what you have made her do. You are frightening her.”

Cambara says to Red-Eye, “Give what here?”

Red-Eyed Randy stands close to ArmedCompanion, who has the unfazed expression of a professional boxer challenged to a fight by a drunken nightclub bouncer.

Meanwhile MereBoy is saying, “My mother walks to the market veiled. Please let's leave this woman alone. Can't you see? She is respectably veiled.”

Red-Eyed Randy whispers in ArmedCompanion's ears before saying to MereBoy, “I'll kick you in the teeth if you don't shut your mouth. She is not like your mother or mine. She is a city-bred whore.”

MereBoy says, “Whores do not cover themselves as this good woman does. So let her go about her business. Please.”

Red-Eye says, impatiently, to MereBoy, “Ask her to take a couple of steps forward and a couple of steps back and you will see what I mean.”

“What will I see?”

“Remember, you fool,” he says to MereBoy, “that I was the one who spotted her yesterday and followed her for a long time. She does not walk like a respectable woman.”

“Why does any of this matter?”

ArmedCompanion struts about pretending to be a model on a catwalk.

“She is not as beautiful as Iman.”

“I bet she is. Underneath.”

“Let us make her take off her veil,” says Red-Eye.

“Will you find out what she is hiding in her bosom?”

“Let's.” Moving in her direction, Red-Eye says to ArmedCompanion, “Cover me and I will.” He stretches out his hand toward her.

She says, “Don't touch me.”

“What if I do?”

“Be warned.”

He turns to his companions. “She is threatening me.”

“Show her you are man enough,” says ArmedCompanion.

He says to Cambara, “Are you daring me?”

At his approaching, his hand ahead of him reaching to touch the material of her veil, Cambara smells his bad breath and is as repulsed as if he had requested that they have unwanted sex. She is most indignant at the thought of him defiling her, and she breaks rank with decorum and allows herself to become violent. She springs a surprise on them by grabbing RedEye by the hand and twisting his arm until she almost pulls it out of its socket. Then, in a move whose ferocity surprises even her, she acts as the mad version of a dog whose rabies shot is overdue, and, before ArmedCompanion knows what is happening, she aims a high kick with unexpected fury at ArmedCompanion, then at Red-Eye's crotch. ArmedCompanion loses his gun to her, and Red-Eye rolls on the ground, moaning and holding on to his wounded manhood. She does not bother with MereBoy, who, wide-eyed with fear, bears witness to what has been done to his two tough-looking companions and looks from Cambara to Red-Eye and ArmedCompanion, who lie almost lifeless on the ground, the one holding his throat and groaning, the other clutching his crotch and crying with pain, and finally to their silent companion, who is probably deaf or dumb or something, Cambara thinks. For a moment, MereBoy is not certain whether to raise his hands in submissive surrender to her authority or reiterate his position that he has all along been of the opinion that they should let her be. Deciding to stay, MereBoy remarks not only that she has no need to behave in an animated way—she has made her point all right—but also that she is wearing handsome boots. Under her veil, which is no ordinary veil, because it unzips on the sides, allowing her kicking legs freedom of movement.

No sooner has she kicked the gun away from their reach than she hears a car approaching, then stopping, and men coming out. Cambara is clear in her mind that she will stand her ground and not run, no matter what. She reaches for her weapon in the event she may need to use it, at first to frighten them away and as a last resort to defend herself. The men, however, are taking their leisurely time, the ramrod-straight man walking toward her with the authority of one to whom the roads and everything and everyone on it belongs, the other, his hands hidden from her, assessing the situation with the professionalism of an army man. He bends down, never permitting his eyes to leave Red-Eye and ArmedCompanion, kicks the gun away as they do in films, and then nods at the ramrod-straight man.

The more she stares at the straight-backed man the more she feels drawn to him, convinced that her life will have changed immeasurably between the instant the two of them exchange a few words and the instant they part company. The mysterious man has the full features of a destiny offering itself to Cambara, and she is more than willing not only to acknowledge it but also to accept it with the powerlessness of a woman who has fallen victim to her fascination. The question is, is she ready to receive it?

The man with the ramrod back says to the military type, his voice deep and reassuring, “Are there any problems? Can we help?”

Cambara works herself up to a point of no fear. Moreover, she senses there are not many other courageous undertakings that are beyond her ability to handle. She is amused at her remembrance of an adage ascribed to a cowardly Mogadiscian that any man who can kill a rat with his bare hands and without fear is also able to slaughter a human.

Her voice belying the extent of her worry, she says, “There are no problems that I know of, unless you are bringing some yourself.”

“We bring peace.”

Misty-eyed, she looks from the man who introduces himself as Bile to the military type whom he presents to her as Dajaal. Bile is squinting at the sun as he does the presentations, whereas Dajaal is moving about as one does when securing a battle zone, making it safe for the victors currently occupying it. First off, he retrieves the firearm and the club before telling MereBoy to move away. Then he walks over to the car and brings out elastic cables with which he ties Red-Eye's and ArmedCompanion's hands to their backs.

Cambara asks Bile, “Why is he doing this?”

“To render them inactive until we leave.”

Dajaal wonders aloud, “Where do we go from here?”

“Let's ask the lady,” Bile suggests.

“A lift, please.”

“Where do you live?” Dajaal says.

Cambara seizes up.

To assure Cambara of his good intentions, Bile says, “We'll take you where you want to go.”

Dajaal does not seem to approve.

“Come anyway.”

Eventually, as they leave, a general sense of triumph pervades the air. A feeling of relief etches itself on Cambara's face, as at Bile's insistence, Dajaal escorts her from “the scene of a virtuous woman's battle against the wicked forces that are besieging the city” to the vehicle, the tips of his fingers in discreet contact with the voluminous sleeve of her veil. Dajaal tells Red-Eye Randy and his mates to bugger off and gives them fierce kicks in their pants, promising them worse reprisals if he sees them in the neighborhood. Inspired hope rises before her as she sits in the back of the car behind Bile, who, when silent, strikes her as living in a world of his own.

Cambara acknowledges with caution that she must beware of surrendering to Bile's magic charm: a handsome man with a distinctively remote gaze not likely to come into close focus, despite Dajaal's gentle prompting. The only bodily exertion he engages in is to take off his glasses, breathe onto them, one at a time, and then wipe them with a clean handkerchief, which he then replaces in his trouser pocket. Then he rubs his eyes, permitting a smirk to spread across his features. Bile strikes her as if he is a child refusing to wake up from a deep sleep.

Dajaal asks, “Where to?”

He receives no response.

He says, “I've asked where you live.”

She looks away from Dajaal to Bile, who, to the trained eye of a woman who takes pleasure in interpreting facial expressions, looks battle weary. Not that she can explain why it bothers her, but she cannot work out Bile and Dajaal's relationship: Dajaal takes the initiative, and Bile quietly and self-absorbedly sits in the back, hardly advancing an opinion. She notes that he is holding a book gingerly and using his index finger as a bookmark; he stares away impatiently as though he were eager to return to his interrupted reading. No matter how hard she tries, she is unable to make out the title of the book he has on his lap. Convinced that he is more interesting to get to know than Dajaal, Cambara wishes she could eavesdrop on his unspoken thoughts.

Restless, her drifting gaze meets Dajaal's, and she smiles. Although she does not wish to admit it, the truth is that she does not know the names of the streets they are in. Nor does she know how to lead him to the family property. After all, walking to a place is different from getting there in a car, driven by someone else.

“Shall I guide you to where I want to be taken?”

“Kindly do,” says Dajaal.

He follows her instructions, making a conscious effort not to look at either her or Bile. He stares ahead of himself, turning left, veering right, and then going straight until they arrive at the shopping complex, where she requests that he stop, and he obliges. She gets out, thanking them both. She stands on the passenger side of the vehicle, close to where Bile is. He is writing phone numbers on a piece of paper, which he hands over to her without saying anything.

As she takes her first two steps away from the vehicle, she becomes mindful of the undeniable consciousness that her life in Mogadiscio and her destiny have both taken decisive turns. She hopes that her encounter with the two men, Bile above all, will prove to be propitious.

On her way to the family property with an escort, Cambara is delighted that the shopkeeper, to whom she returns the bag he loaned her, with thanks, has proven himself worthy of her confidence and admiration, because he has served her truly well. A pity she didn't remember to ask him about his wife, of whom, insofar as she could tell, there was no sign. Cambara has come away from the shopping complex laden with a motley collection of edibles, some of which she bought from him or some with his help; he has a friendly way of sending one of his assistants to get for her whatever she desires. At times, they go to other shops and on occasion to the stalls where you get fresh produce. Her purchases being too heavy for her to carry all by herself, the shopkeeper's nephew, a teenager, has volunteered to help her cart the stuff, the two of them walking level for much of the way, neither speaking. She wonders how she can dispense with his services just before she reaches her destination without arousing his suspicions or inconveniencing herself, considering the number of bags she has to haul all on her own. After all, she does not want him to know what she is up to, nor is she keen for him to meet Jiijo or any of the other objectionable characters. If luck is on her side, they will get to her target with no one near the gate to the property or its vicinity, or for that matter anywhere along the road. She thinks that she will stop two gates down or up the road from the property's, depending, tip him generously, and then dispose of him, saying, “Thanks, you've been most wonderful. I can cope now.” When he has been gone for a couple of minutes, then, unescorted, she will knock on the gate.

As it happens, fortune has favored her yet again, she tells herself. As they near the house she informs him that they have come to her journey's end, thank you.

“My uncle…” he says.

“I know…” she interjects and falls silent.

“What will I tell him if I leave you here?”

“That you've seen me to my gate.”

He hangs back, hesitating whether or not to obey her command and remains where he is as though waiting to hear a confirmation. He looks anxious, the way people with impaired hearing do when they are not sure if they have read someone's lips correctly. She hopes he won't continue hesitating to go. His body language indicates that he does not wish to leave her before she has gained a safe purchase on her point of call, possibly because the shopkeeper will expect him to report back. “Please be on your way,” she says to him, her hands making shooing-away gestures. Unburdened of the load, the teenager stands awkwardly, looking a bit unbalanced, his eyes crossed with anxiety.

The teenager gives in to the curiosity of knowing what her next step might be, and he walks backward, pausing only after tripping awkwardly. He recovers his equilibrium quickly, and, turning around, grins from ear to ear. Then he takes his time and looks amusedly at the mound of earth that has halted his progress, showering curses on it. She waves good-bye to him the instant she senses a surge of excitement rising within her. Even if the source of her exhilaration is a mystery to her, she cannot help appreciating how fortunate she has been so far to get to where she has and achieve what little she has carried out without anyone taking hostile exception to her actions. It is to her good that she continues dealing amicably with the shopkeeper and his nephew if for no other reason than the expediency of seeking their assistance when she has settled on the means and the time to launch her plan and make her move to dislodge the minor warlord and his minions from the family house.

After a minute or so, when she is sure that she has got rid of her escort, she looks about herself with caution. Seeing nothing worth her worries, she lugs the shopping bags across to where she wants them, close to the gate of the family property, needing to return two, three times. She puts the bags down, breathing heavily, and plucks the courage to knock on the gate, first gently, repeatedly, then firmly. She waits, her heart pounding in her ears.

As she hangs fire, she feels out of sorts and asks herself if someone might accuse her quite rightly of being duplicitous, in that she has either misinformed people or withheld adequate intelligence from Zaak and everyone else she has so far met. She exculpates herself by reasoning that her objective is not so much to deceive anyone as it is to make it possible for her to get her way. Her ultimate aim, in the end, is to reacquire the family property in the least dangerous manner. She reckons that the less other people know of what she is doing, at least in the early block-building stages, the better her prospects of success. Above all, she wants Jiijo to relax into trusting her and eventually into looking upon her with approval.

Cambara senses that she is a different person from the self who, a little more than an hour earlier, karate-kicked the youths, forcing them to submit to the dictates of her physical as well as her mental willpower. Her current mind-set is at variance with her sundry way of thinking and is also at odds with that of the self who was in the same area on a reconnoitering mission only a couple of days ago. She has no doubt that she has achieved a great deal of good since then, thanks to her cool, commendable conviction in her amicable approaches to Jiijo. She has become more positive about her own ability to cope with the civil war conditions than she believed maintainable.

Her purchases strewn around the entrance, she stands to the side. Her anxiety is now much less prone to apprehension, even if she is overwhelmed with a sense of déjà vu, bizarrely because she is sure that she has known an instant similar to this in her past life when, denied access to what has belonged to her by right, she picked up the gauntlet, fought, and won the battle. It is as if she were a mere witness and not the main actor; it is as though whatever is to unfold is none of her concern. Then her heart starts to beat hurriedly against her now aching ribs, her lungs run short of breath, and she wonders if she has lost herself in a plot that someone else has authored. The light in her eyes turns to darkness.

She closes her eyes and stops short of celebrating her triumph when she hears someone's light footsteps coming and, without her tapping on it, the door opens with the slow cautiousness of a guest yawning in the presence of a hospitable host. Based on the half of the face that she can see, Cambara moves slightly to the right to place herself in Jiijo's eyeshot.

She says, “It is me, Jiijo. Please let me in.”

Cambara stands stock still, recalling belatedly that in her attempt to privilege secretiveness and taciturnity, she had given Jiijo a false name, which, sadly, she cannot recollect now. She hopes that this mistake will not haunt her later or leave a serious blemish on the nature and character of their relationship.

Jiijo opens the gate. There is exhaustion in her eyes, the bags of which have distended toward her upper cheeks, to which there is hardly a shine now. Jiijo's bodily gestures reveal an overwhelming tiredness. As Jiijo straightens up, her features contorted into discomfiture, the two women stare at each other stupidly, neither moving or saying anything for a brief while.

“Go on in and take the weight off your feet,” Cambara says to her gently. “I will bring in the stuff. Leave everything to me.”

Jiijo lets go of the gate, wincing because of fresh thrusts of localized pain, and grabs her right flank, massaging it as she toddles forward into the courtyard, which is open to the sky. Cambara does not follow her immediately. She peers in, scanning the space before her, and waits to appraise the present situation, in cautious assessment of whether it is safe for her to go in. After all, it will not do to make the heady assumption that the minor warlord and his minions are sleeping it off after a night of chewing. When she is convinced that no one else is up and about and that the doors facing the courtyard are all closed, she goes in, helps Jiijo, who is still holding on to her side, rubbing it, into the very couch she led her before, then moves about to bring her purchases in and put them away.

“Can I get you something?” Cambara asks.

Even though unequivocal, Jiijo expresses her sense of relief inadequately, her demeanor giving countenance to her disregard. Then all of a sudden, the pained expression on her face prompts Jiijo to surrender herself totally to the reality as well as the memory of other pains, some of recent vintage.

As Cambara takes a good hold of herself, she debates whether to ease Jiijo's apparent physical unease by giving her a partial massage, a kind enough gesture to make in humble surrender to her own memory of being pregnant with Dalmar. She senses she is right in assuming that, like Wardi, Gudcur does not help Jiijo in her current state.

Cambara is distracted, however, the moment she feels the weight of the papers she salvaged from the youths. Briefly, her recall of her unpleasant encounter with them now preys on her mind, and she takes nervous account of the paper slipping downward, lodging inconveniently close to her belly button, irritably rendering Cambara's forepart itchy. But there is nothing she can do about it, and she wishes she were in a room all on her own where she might disrobe and then remove the papers before having a good scratch.

Disturbed that she cannot remember her alias, she now reminds herself that whereas she told nothing but distorted facts that are part of her disguise to Jiijo, she gave the truth to Dajaal and Bile. No doubt, she is understandably mistrustful of Jiijo; she cannot, however, articulate why she elected to be trusting of Dajaal and Bile, despite the fact that she knows neither of them. Whatever else happens, she must avoid letting her mind go walkabout, because that is where the pitfalls are.

Jiijo's labored breathing worries Cambara in that she is hopelessly unprepared for any eventuality that may compel her to look for outside help, someone to tell her where to get an ambulance or a doctor; she doesn't know what to do or who to turn to. She won't want to rely on Zaak and has no choice but to depend on strangers with whom she has made acquaintance only recently, namely Kiin, Dajaal, and Bile, or the shopkeeper, to give a hand. Now Cambara hears Jiijo saying something meekly and sounding uncertain, the words unnecessarily spaced, like computer-generated speech. After putting a lot of effort into deciphering Jiijo's statement, she decides that Jiijo is blaming herself for not remembering her name.

“Never mind what my name is,” says Cambara, her voice firm, determinedly brave, despite the circumstances. For all she can tell, Jiijo may not be letting on that she has found out the truth about Cambara, whom she will eventually challenge. Careful not to stir into counterproductive action based on unproven suspicion, she says to Jiijo, “Tell me what is ailing you, where you hurt. I can fetch a taxi and then rush you to a hospital, if there is need.”

Cambara's lump of worry, which has lodged itself for a short while in her throat, blocking it, melts. In its place, a sense of relief eases itself into her body, and she relaxes into the lengthening silence punctuated by Jiijo's strained breathing.

Jiijo sits up on the couch, in evident discomfort, her features pinched, her legs spread awkwardly, her skin showing signs of neglect, as dry as harmattan, flaky. It is possible that Jiijo's physical distress with her pregnancy began in her mind before it made its presence felt in the rest of her body.

Cambara asks, “Will you tell me what's ailing you so that I know what I need to do?”

“He beat me last night,” says Jiijo weakly.

Cambara wagers her intuition that she can tell the man who beat her up. She remembers coming in on him lying prone and snoring, surrounded with half a dozen pillows and cushions, a man in a world separate from the others, as they had neither pillows nor cushions. Disgusted, she is tempted to give in to the temptation to walk into the bedroom, where she will find him and his
qaat
-chewing mates sleeping off an all-night session, and maul him, if for no other reason than to remember how she dealt with Wardi. Cambara hesitates to put to Jiijo the questions that are presenting themselves to her, as a trespass of her privacy. She wants to know what the man is to Jiijo, what the nature of their relationship is before electing her course of action. She has to take care not to add further humiliation to the infringement already meted out to Jiijo, lest she should seize up and refuse to talk altogether. In a moment, however, Cambara is studying Jiijo's situation from a perspective in which the two of them no longer dwell in distinctly autonomous spheres, marked off by their known differences in terms of class, provenance, and experience or by an invisible boundary of mistrust. She sees in this context that, as women, they share the communality of male violence, both having suffered in their different ways at the hands of their partners.

“Where is he?”

“He isn't here.”

“What about his men?”

“They've all gone.”

“Where?”

“They are all taking part in a skirmish over the control of a bridgehead near the town of Jowhar with access to Mogadiscio,” Jiijo explains, drying her cheeks, now that she is no longer weeping.

“When do you expect them to be back?”

“No idea.”

Cambara's quick thinking kicks in.

“Tell you what we will do.”

Fear inserts itself into Jiijo's eyes and her voice too. She asks, “What do you want us to do?”

Cambara finds Jiijo's use of an inclusive “us” a little unsettling at first, then, after giving it some thought, becomes excited to the extent that she makes a slipshod patter. She says, “We'll fix you something to eat.”