Malik takes a furtive look at Cambara, assuming with little evidence that unless she occupies center stage, where she is appreciated, pampered, loved, and praised, she is the type who will stand apart, as she does now, listening to their banter as if it concerns someone she doesn’t know. He attempts to bring her back in.
“What’s your feeling, Cambara? The Courts are out — we know you weren’t enamored of them or their hard-line position. Now the Ethiopians are here. What would you say if I asked you what your feelings are today, as matters stand?”
“A plague on both their houses,” Cambara mutters.
Bile says, “As the Somali saying goes, ‘Drinking milk is unlikely to help you when you choke on water.’”
Cambara says, “Aren’t you saying the same thing I am saying, only with proverbs?”
“Perhaps I am saying more than that,” Bile says.
“Peace, please!” says Malik.
“I am saying that the Courts will have learned their lesson,” Bile retorts. “And if they get a second chance to rule Somalia, they won’t be as arrogant and unreasoning as they were the first time. Of course, there will be those who will insist on having an Islamic state at all costs, and there will be splinter groups, this faction against that faction and so on.”
“You can’t do much with a bad egg. That is what the Courts are, a bad egg,” Cambara says, pleased with herself.
“What are the Ethiopians, then?” Bile asks, amused.
“Pollutants farting against the wind,” she says.
There is a long silence.
Then Bile says, “The bad-egg image of the Courts is apt. But there are at least possibilities of negotiation. They are now in the political wilderness. They were wrong to assume that weapons from Eritrea would help them defeat Ethiopia here and march all the way to Addis, and take and occupy it. Easier dreamed of than done.”
Cambara stares at her fingers, thinking. She says, “You surprise me, darling. You have a soft spot for the Courts. I would never have thought that of you.”
“I so loathe the Ethiopian occupation and this interim president who engineered it, I would have the Courts back any day, in their place,” Bile says. “Still, I would choke on the water that I may have to drink.”
On another day, Malik might stay and enjoy bantering with Bile, especially as he seems to be in better health today. But he retreats into the bathroom to send Qasiir a text message asking him to come for him in a jiffy. When he rejoins Bile and Cambara, he says, “It’s past your siesta time, and I have plenty of work to get through. So I’ll thank you for the wonderful lunch and company.”
Bile says, in a tone of command not to be challenged, “I’ll ask Qasiir to bring your things from the apartment. I want you to move into the annex. It’s safer here.”
“We have everything you require,” Cambara says.
Bile adds, “Please, no back talk from you.”
“I will move in,” says Malik, “but not until tomorrow.”
“Why not right away, or tonight at least?”
“I am in the middle of something,” Malik says.
“We’ll tell the maid to set it all up.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
En route to the apartment — Qasiir at the wheel — Malik notices several missed calls, many of them dating back to last night, and one very long SMS.
In the SMS, Ahl, who says he has sent the same text in an e-mail format, shares his latest with him: that he confirms that he feels more comfortable putting up at Xalan and Warsame’s, indirectly suggesting to Malik that he move in with Cambara and Bile — but not clearly spelling it out. Ahl ends with, “Be on guard at all times.”
Malik can tell that Qasiir is excited: his eyes keep narrowing, like a shortsighted person concentrating on a faraway spot, and his lips are constantly moving. Malik asks him, “Is everything okay?”
“I’ve found Marduuf, the former pirate,” Qasiir says. “We met at a teahouse. He is a very angry man.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“I know what he does for a living, too. He sells rugs,” Qasiir says. “He told me that since he discovered there was more risk than money in piracy, he bought a small pickup truck with what money he had made and set up a rug-selling business.”
Malik asks, “When can I meet him?”
“Whenever you like, really.”
“You mean as soon as now?” Malik asks, excited.
Qasiir says, “But of course.”
“I am a bit exhausted.”
“Tell me what suits you, and it’ll be done.”
Malik thinks it over. A former pirate who has a lot of venom toward Shabaab is a good prospect. He says, “You’ll drop me and then fetch him.”
They fall silent. Then Malik ventures the question that has been on his mind. “What was your grandfather’s home situation? Is your grandmother still alive?”
Qasiir drives in silence for a while, in the attitude of someone taking the measure of a challenge. Finally, he answers, “Grandpa lived alone in a house that was in first-class shape when he bought it. Lately, however, it’s begun to fall apart, the roof leaking, the paint flaking, water gathering in puddles, the drainage not functioning. He kept saying he would deal with the structural problems and either rent it out or, if peace came, sell it and buy a one-room apartment. He didn’t want to bother fixing it piecemeal.”
“Did he have dependents?”
“Not if you’re speaking of a wife and children.”
“You were his only living relative?”
“May I ask where these questions are leading?”
“You see, before leaving, Jeebleh informed your grandfather that he would set up a monthly check. Did you know about this?” says Malik, who doesn’t mention his own discussion with Bile and Cambara, who were also of a similar mind, ready to put some money aside for Dajaal.
Qasiir asks, “That is very good of Uncle Jeebleh. But tell me, what is your question?”
“Did your grandpa have dependents, like a young family — you know, men in this part of the world continue producing until they are dragged off to their graves.”
“No, he had no young family.”
“None at all?”
Qasiir broaches the subject of his own younger sister, deaf from the noise generated by the helicopters of the U.S. Marines when they invaded the district in which StrongmanSouth had his base. He goes on, “She was a baby then. Sadly though, she hasn’t spoken since and can’t look after herself. Grandpa was her lifeline after I started my own family. She was dependent on him.”
“Let’s talk in more detail about it when we have the time,” says Malik, seeing that they are nearly at the apartment. “In the meantime, I need to ask: do you know anyone with firsthand information about what happens at the Kenyan border to Somalis with foreign passports who are suspected of being sympathetic to the Courts? Because according to a HornAfrik commentary I heard, there are a handful of FBI officers present when the Kenyan immigration officers conduct the interviews.”
“That’ll be easy,” Qasiir says. “In fact, I know a man, one Liibaan, who served in the National Army with Grandpa and who owns a fleet of buses that I think ply the route between Mogadiscio, Kismayo, and the border crossing. Maybe he will help find us someone, or better still, he may be prepared to talk to you. Leave it with me, and I’ll find somebody.”
What a beautiful phrase—“Leave it with me”—Malik thinks, especially when spoken with such confidence. He takes comfort in it and delights in its meaning: “Trust me, and everything will be done to your satisfaction.”
“You’ll call me if you can’t find Marduuf?”