“I see,” said Duniya.
“But since my blood is the same rare group as Nasiiba’s, you might say I owe my life to her. When I left you at the clinic, I took the taxi straight to a clinic I had been using, and the doctor said to admit me. Delivering a baby in such circumstances is an atrocious shame, but Nasiiba was an angel, donating blood, seeing to it that I was well taken care of. It was she who suggested I ‘abandon’ my baby to her. So what does one say to you, I ask myself? ‘Thank you very much’ to your ‘Welcome back’? Or ‘The experience has been worth it’ to your ‘I’m glad you’re alive’? Or ‘How could I let you know when I didn’t know myself?’ to your ‘Why didn’t you let me know right from the beginning?’ “
“You say you had a taxi waiting for you on a day the city of Mogadiscio had none plying its streets. How come?”
“Please don’t rush the story.”
“I’m sorry” Duniya said.
In Fariida’s look there was pride at having undergone an ordeal and survived it. “I’m the kind of woman whose stomach doesn’t blow up much until about the eighth month,” she said, “but I didn’t want to risk it, I didn’t want Miski to know until I’d had the baby, and maybe not even then. We already had a strained relationship, you see, Miski and I, following the break-up of her engagement to her fiance, for which she wrongly blamed me. That’s why I didn’t let anyone know except Nasiiba, by which time it was too late for me to rid myself of it. Irregular periods play tricks on young women who can’t remember whether or not they have taken their pills. My irregular periods were my principal problem.”
“So what exactly did you do?”
“One morning I packed and went, leaving a note on the desk for Miski to find when she got back from Rome. The brief note just said that I had gone away, but that there was no cause for worry, no one need panic. I’d written similar notes for her before when I left the country, once to Nairobi, another time to Dar es Salaam — on both occasions with Qaasim, who financed our trips. When I became pregnant, I didn’t want him to know. We’d enjoyed our illicit affair, every wondrous moment of it, so what was the point regretting? He might have proposed if he’d known I was carrying his child. But I’d said no when he showed interest in marrying me before there was any evidence that I was with child: no, no, no.”
“What made you decide not to marry Qaasim in the first place?”
“Age difference is a major reason, I suppose. Imagine when he’s turning seventy, I’ll be your age, still young, ready to contract another marriage, fall in love, learn to drive a car, or to swim. No way, I said.”
“Where did it all start?”
“At your place.”
“When?” If Duniya was supposed to feel guilty, she did not. Smiling reminiscently Fariida said, “I came to deliver a parcel to you from your brother in Rome. Nasiiba wasn’t there that day, only you were. Qaasim arrived, we had tea, the three of us. Then he left, only to park within sight of Aw-Cumar’s shop, waiting. I knew he was waiting as only women can know such things, and so I, too, left, rather hastily, refusing to stay until Nasiiba returned home. I was eager for adventure. I’d lost my virginity to a boy my age, and was anxious to experiment with older men just for fun. Qaasim took me home. Miski was away and we were alone the best part of that night. That was how it started.”
“You took no precautions?”
“He did.”
“And so how did it happen?”
“I am to blame.”
“How?”
“Let’s not go into that now.”
“Did you ever tell him you were having his child?”
“Nasiiba did.”
“And what did he say?”
“He would pay for my abortion if I wanted to get rid of it, that he made clear. What was more, if I were willing he’d take me as his wife. I sent him word through Nasiiba that it was no business of his what I did with myself or the foetus. I had made a mistake, I said, and would pay for it.”
“But why?”
“Maybe because I’d begun atoning for the pain I’d caused Miski.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Little in life makes sense,” said Fariida. “Doesn’t it say in a few Koranic verses that one’s fate is one’s shepherd and one goes where one’s destiny is determined to take one? In other words, I decided I am a given. My destiny has its sequences and logic.” She paused to suppress tears welling in her eyes.
“Come, come,” Duniya said, giving Fariida’s head a pat, “the baby was no inconvenience to us — a pleasure in fact.” She stopped herself just in time from telling her what various people had said about the foundling: how Mire had thought of him as a catalyst; how she and Bosaaso had thought of him as a metaphor. “How did Miski learn of it all?” Duniya asked.
“It was Qaasim who approached her, proposing that he and I marry. That was the first she knew of my pregnancy. And that caused a bit of a stir. There was total panic, and Nasiiba felt compelled to bring Miski to my hiding-place. You wouldn’t believe it, but this occurred a week before you saw me at the clinic. I still have the Number Seventeen token, which I’ll keep as a souvenir, to remember all we’ve gone through.”
“But why didn’t you just come and tell me everything?” “One is never sure what you might do, Duniya,” Fariida said frankly “It was too late for you to do anything, anyway, and since we hadn’t informed you from the start I thought it best to keep you out of it.”
“What do you think I might have done if you had told me?”
Fariida dimmed her bright eyes. “We wouldn’t be sitting here, talking the way we are, if I had.”
They were silent for a few minutes. Then Nasiiba joined them.
The two girls gossiped for a while about some of their friends. It was when Duniya was ready to leave with Bosaaso that Fariida remembered Miski had given her the keys to the city centre flat, which was Duniya’s to move into whenever she pleased.
Bosaaso and Duniya left Nasiiba and Fariida lying beside the pool, in the gathering dusk, talking and smoking together. Duniya was very tired. Swimming had taken a lot of her energy, and listening to Fariida’s story had been demanding, too.
When they were moving and on a stretch of good road without traffic or pot-holes, Bosaaso gave Duniya a newspaper neatly folded, a newspaper which felt unread. “The newspaper you’re holding has a long article by Taariq,” he said. “I thought you might like to see it.”
Duniya gave a start, for the image of the dead foundling came floating up in her memory at the mention of Taariq’s name. Why was she was beginning to associate Taariq with the dead foundling?
“Is the article any good?” she asked Bosaaso.
He drove cautiously because some children were playing football in the middle of the street. He did not speak until they were in front of Duniya’s place, “Yes, I found it rather good,” he replied.
Getting out of the car, she said, “I’m too exhausted to entertain anyone, so do you mind if we meet tomorrow? At noon?”
“Of course not.”
His excessive politeness was getting on her taut nerves, but she was too tired to remark on it. “I hope by then well have found two or three cleaning women to mop, dust and prepare the city flat, whose key I have now, for Abshir to use when he arrives.”
“That’s a superb idea,” Bosaaso said.
She thought better of a rude remark which called at her mind that very instant. She gave him a kiss, saying, “Tomorrow then, noon.”
And for the moment was only too glad to be rid of him.
“Sweet dreams,” he said, driving away.
Mataan and Yarey did not come home until a little after midnight. And Duniya was content to lie in bed, propped up with a number of pillows, reading Taariq’s article. She had energy only for that.