Gumaad encourages him. “Concentrate. Please.”
Malik at long last picks up a continuous drone, which reminds him of a child’s battery-operated toy, the noise on and then off. An unmanned predator, operated by a ground pilot, or someone positioned on a carrier warship stationed ashore, flown in areas of medium risk for surveillance purposes, like the drones used in attempted targeted killings in Pakistan, Palestine, and Afghanistan. These unmanned predator drones have of late become a common feature in Mogadiscio’s skies, because the United States suspects the Courts of giving refuge to four men it alleges are Al Qaeda operatives. The presence of high-flying spy planes here marks a significant departure, and makes the United States complicit if Ethiopia invades and occupies Mogadiscio. Or so Mogadiscians are convinced. They assume the drones, which they hear and see without fail from nine every evening until about four in the morning, are sufficient evidence that the Americans are gathering information.
Jeebleh yawns heavily, indicating he is tired; he wants Gumaad and Dajaal to leave. But before they do, he brings out the platter in which the food came, already washed and packed so that Dajaal may return it to its owner.
“See you tomorrow, about noon,” Jeebleh says.
“Good night. See you tomorrow.”
“Very good for a first day,” Malik says.
“I’m glad things are working out, except for the computer problem,” Jeebleh says. “But I know that you will not let that pull down your spirits.”
Malik says, “I should have known what the reaction of a religionist with sex on his mind would be to a naked photograph of a year-old girl in her bath. Pornography, my foot! Not to worry. I will not allow it to color my judgment.”
“What about the articles he deleted?”
“I have copies on a memory stick,” Malik says.
Jeebleh says, “I should have alerted you to the possibility, and I should have been more supportive. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t let that worry you; you did what you could under the circumstances,” Malik says, and he goes to embrace Jeebleh.
Jeebleh relaxes his features into a sweet softness, the night stars shining in his eyes. Just looking at him, Malik is so touched that he wants to wrap himself around his father-in-law yet again and to say how delighted he is to be here. Instead, he tells him about the mini-recorder he has in his pocket, which has registered everything. Malik makes Jeebleh listen to some of the conversation he recorded.
Jeebleh says, “Whatever else you do, please don’t mention my name in any of your articles, lest it devalue your work or my input.”
“I am proud of our association and will say so.”
They embrace again and then go to bed, content.
9
AN AIRSTRIP IS A MISNOMER FOR THE SANDY PIT ON WHICH AHL’S plane lands in Bosaso. Close by, less than half a kilometer away, is Somalia’s sea, in your face as always. Someone with a perverted sense of humor sited the airstrip here, for it requires pilots to perform some acrobatic feats on landing, and leaves only the most strong-hearted passengers unaffected.
With the plane now on the ground, the passengers rising to their feet in harried haste, Ahl looks in the direction of the flight attendant sitting across the aisle, her head in her hands, shoulders heaving. Earlier, she seemed morose, apathetic. He tried to get her to speak, to find out if there was anything he could do — not that he knew what he could do to help. When she didn’t respond to his queries but kept staring at the photograph of a young boy and weeping, he decided to let her be. He listened to her sobbing for a long while before offering her his handkerchief to wipe away the tears. Now at the journey’s end, he is still curious to know the cause of her sorrow. Is the young boy in the photograph missing or dead? He hangs around a little while more, taking his time to gather his things. Finally, she raises her head and looks up at him, the slight trace of a smile forming around her lips as she tentatively holds out the handkerchief in her cupped hand, as if uncertain that he will accept it back in its soiled state. Ahl suggests that she keep it, as he affords himself the time to read her name tag: WIILA. Nodding his head, he wishes her “every good thing.”
The airstrip, now that he can observe it, has no barrier to fence it in; nothing to restrict unauthorized persons from walking straight onto the aircraft and mixing with the passengers as they land. A mob gathers at the foot of the stepladder, joining the man in a yellow vest, flip-flops, and trousers with holes in them who guided the aircraft to its parking position. He, too, chats up the passengers as they alight, asking for baksheesh.
The passengers, who in Djibouti fought their way onto the plane and to their seats, now scramble for their luggage, some hauling suitcases heavier than they are. Ahl stands back, amused, watching. He has all the time in the world to stretch his limbs and massage his back, which is aching after two hours in a plane with no seat belts. The pilot — Russian, Ukrainian, Serb? — joins him where he is, and behaves discourteously toward Wiila, whom he describes, in bad, accented English, as “fat-arsed, lazy, and weepy.” Ahl is about to reprimand him when Wiila urges him to “stay out of it.” Feeling all the more encouraged, the pilot dresses Wiila down in what sounds like a string of hard-bitten expletives. Embarrassed and feeling defeated, Ahl regrets involving himself in a matter of no immediate concern to him.
The breeze and the scent of the sea it bears help Ahl get purchase on his fractious disposition. Calmed, he tries to identify his hostess, Xalan, or her husband, Warsame, neither of whom he has met. He looks around sadly, quiet, like a pinched candle, wondering if he can recognize either of them from the descriptions his wife has given him. Then he tells himself that there is no happier person than a traveler who has arrived at his destination and feels the comfort and confidence to face the world before him with an open mind, without fear or tribulation. He is in no imminent danger, even though he is in Somalia. He has someone waiting to pick him up. And if no one shows up, he is sure he won’t have any difficulty getting into town or to his hotel.
A couple of porters in blue overalls are bringing the baggage out of the hold and passing it around. Ahl receives his bag and remembers to offer a couple of U.S. dollars to the porter, thanking him. But he realizes that he is attracting the unwelcome attention of a loiterer, who follows him, persistently clutching at his shirtsleeve and computer bag. The man points to his mouth and belly. Ahl doesn’t know what to do to rid himself of the beggar. Then he hears someone calling his name, and sees a big-bellied man duckwalking toward him. Ahl and the beggar wait in silence as he approaches.
“Welcome to Puntland, Ahl. I am Warsame.”
Warsame wears his trousers low on his hips, like youths imitating jailbirds. But unlike the copycat youths, Warsame has on a belt, which is tight under his bulging tummy. As they walk away, he shoos off the pesterer, who stops bothering Ahl.
Warsame says, “I bring warm greetings from Xalan. She is home, cooking. But I’ll take you to your hotel first, then home. Come now.” Warsame takes Ahl by the forearm.
Ahl hates uncalled-for physical contact with other men in public. He faces the dilemma of reclaiming his arm from cuddly Warsame without undue rudeness so soon after their meeting. He doesn’t wish to offend his kind host.
Warsame says, “Let me carry something.”
“Thanks, but there is no need,” Ahl says.
Warsame says, “You travel very light for a man coming from the United States.”
“I love traveling light,” Ahl says. “Less hassle.”