“Not homeless women, surely,” interjected Duniya.
Mataan affirmed, “That’s right.”
“In an ideal Islamic society…,” began Nasiiba.
“In which case there’d be fewer homeless women,” said Duniya, “perhaps because of the multiplicity of wives men are allowed to retain as their dependants or concubines.”
Sensing the tension building, Bosaaso changed the subject from the homeless in Islamic societies to the homeless in New York, men and women without shelter of their own, who slept under bridges, on flattened cardboard boxes serving as mattresses. Duniya remembered being shown such people in the environs of the Stazione Termini, the main railway station in Rome. Nearby there was a piazza called Independenza, the Somalis’ and the Eritreans’ meeting-place in the Italian capital. Duniya wondered why it was that foreigners and the homeless congregated round departure- or arrival-points in their country of economic exile. There was no denying that expatriates living in Mogadiscio were prone to go to the airport at the slimmest pretext to welcome or bid farewell their travelling compatriots. Somalis used to turn up in large numbers at Fiumicino, Rome’s international airport, whenever a Somali Airlines flight arrived or departed.
In response to a question from Mataan, Bosaaso said, “There are more homeless people in the city of New York than there are official residents of Mogadiscio, Somalia’s capital. The figure is shocking.”
“Truth is always embarrassing,” commented Nasiiba.
“In fact,” Bosaaso continued, “there’s recently been a controversy surrounding a United Nations film about the homeless in the world. You’d be surprised to know that some US Congressmen and Senators tried to prevent the public viewing of this documentary. And I take it, you’ve also heard about the Polish government’s gift of blankets to the homeless in New York?” and he glanced in Duniya’s direction.
Duniya admitted she hadn’t heard of it.
Tentatively, Nasiiba said, “Didn’t it all begin with President Reagan dispatching tinned milk to Poland, after the Chernobyl disaster, a gift meant to pack an ideological punch? Poland versus the Soviet Union. It turned out to be an unfortunate joke against Reagan, apparently, because the milk was found to be bad when opened. In response — tell me if I’m wrong, anyone,” continued Nasiiba, enjoying everyone’s attention, “the Polish government shipped blankets to New York’s homeless, but the parcels were addressed care of the White House. Ha, ha, ha!”
“And what did the Americans do?” Duniya inquired.
“Newspaper headlines,” said Bosaaso. “That was all.”
Mataan said, “And yet we are under the mistaken impression that being poor, famine-stricken and homeless are phenomena associated with underdevelopment, shortage of hard currency and so on. It’s disturbing to think that we, too, will have a million homeless people in our cities if we become technologically advanced.”
“It’s tragic,” agreed Duniya.
The discussion shifted from the specific to the general, then back to particular economic and social realities, and everyone agreed that the homeless were mostly people of colour, or old, that black women tended to have the strength to survive, despite their enormous burdens, better than their male counterparts.
Asking no one in particular, Mataan said, “You know the Islamic concept, xabs?”
“Xabs is interpreted by Islamic scholars as the right of obedience,” explained Mataan, “although the word shares its root with another understood to mean detention. The point is that women aren’t permitted to leave their husbands’ homes without their husbands’ prior notification, and any woman who violates this right may be described as rebellious. The home, therefore, the veil and the fact that women can’t go out of the house, say, to work in an office or as a nurse in a hospitaclass="underline" these come under xabs: the right of obedience. A homeless woman is one who has no husband or a male relation to provide her with shelter.”
There was a brief pause and Duniya, exploiting it, wondered aloud whether Yarey, who had fallen asleep, should be taken to bed where she would be more comfortable. At the mention of her name, Yarey’s head rose like that of an infant not yet endowed with speech, who responds to the mention of its name in a conversation. “Do you never tire,” she said, “Nasiiba, you talk and talk and talk?”
“I wasn’t talking.” Nasiiba came to her own defence.
“When I fell asleep you were speaking, and when I woke up you still were,” said Yarey. “I thought you said you were going to Miski’s?”
Duniya looked from Yarey to Nasiiba. “What about Miski?”
Yarey was now wide awake. “Naasi promised the two of you would go to Miski’s and hand over to her a list of things I want Uncle Abshir to bring me.”
“What’s all this?” asked Duniya of Nasiiba.
Bosaaso, sounding eager, asked, “But when is he due here?”
Duniya’s lips trembled as if saying a brief prayer.
In the meantime, Miski counted her days and nights, consulting her watch before answering Bosaaso’s question, “I’m flying back late tonight. That means well be on the same flight tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’m really looking forward to seeing Abshir,” said Bosaaso.
Duniya stared at Nasiiba who was engrossed in reading Uncle Abshir’s letter. To make sure she would not be disturbed by anyone, Nasiiba sat apart from everybody, like a cat unwilling to share its food with others.
“You’re moving out of here?” Duniya asked.
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Where am I moving to?” Miski asked.
Duniya hoped Nasiiba would say something, explain where she had got the news from, since it had been she who had said Miski had decided to move. But Nasiiba’s attention was totally devoted to Abshir’s letter.
“Perhaps Fariida understands that you are moving out,” ventured Duniya.
“When does Fariida understand anything?” said Miski decisively. “And pray where would I move to?”
Nasiiba interrupted her reading. She looked first at her mother, then at Miski to whom she said, “Do you know if there’s a vacant flat in the Mocallim Jaamac area, in the centre of the city, Miski?”
“Yes, there is,” said Miski.
“And doesn’t the vacant flat belong to a relation of yours?”
“It belongs to my former fiance’s father, that’s right.”
Certain that her mother and Miski could take it from there without her help, Nasiiba lost interest in the conversation. Returning to reading her uncle’s letter, she sat as if impervious to the world around her, her feet tucked under her, and looking pleased.
After a long pause, Duniya asked Miski, “Do you think we could take a look at that flat? We are very anxious to find one?”
“But why are you moving out of yours?” Miski asked.
“It’s too complicated a story to tell you now,” said Duniya.
Miski was suddenly sad. “I hope it hasn’t anything to do with Fariida’s baby?” she said. “It wasn’t my idea that she abandon it.”
Bosaaso sat up as if stung by a black ant, but he said nothing.
“Our moving out of Qaasim’s house hasn’t anything to do with Fariida or her baby,” said Duniya.
Nasiiba interrupted her reading to look from her mother to Miski and to say, “Mummy’s lying to you. The truth is Fariida’s baby has everything to do with our moving out of Uncle Qaasim’s house. But it is a long story as Mummy said. I promise to tell you when we’re alone and Mummy and Bosaaso are gone.” Then, as if nothing untoward had taken place, Nasiiba resumed her reading.
No movement, no sound, only a drift of disturbed eyes. Perhaps amused, Bosaaso could not tear his away from Nasiiba. To describe Duniya as embarrassed and leave it at that would be a distortion. Nevertheless, she wasn’t angry with Nasiiba, if anything she was pleased. Uppermost in her thoughts was the prospect of his retaining faith in her, a prospect causing her great distress. What if the poor man thought Duniya had known about the foundling’s identity all along and hidden it from him? Would he believe it if she had told him that she hadn’t discussed the topic with either Nasiiba or Fariida, or for that matter Miski? Bosaaso meant a lot to her, and she didn’t want him to lose trust.