Duniya’s left eyebrow lifted slightly and her head leaned towards Hibo who wanted to whisper something in her friend’s ear. “Would you like my husband to give you a lift home?” she asked. Whenever Mogadiscio’s city electricity failed, Hibo and her husband turned on their portable generator, a handy light-providing gadget and a status symbol nowadays, helping to keep muggers and burglars at bay.
“Are you offering just me a lift?” Duniya asked.
Hibo nodded.
“In that case, thank you no,” said Duniya.
The other junior and student nurses had overheard Duniya and Hibo’s exchange. One of the nurses who lived near the hospital said, first to no one in particular and then singly to every nurse save Hibo, whom she deliberately excluded, that her grandmother would be more than delighted to have them come and camp with them. “I offer our hospitality to those of you who live far and prefer not to walk.”
Three of the junior nurses and one of the students gratefully accepted her offer. “What about you, Duniya?” asked the happy hostess of the community of nurses.
“No thank you, I’ll walk,” said Duniya, running her words together, maybe because part of her thoughts were engaged with memories of meeting Bosaaso.
Two of the nurses said that they would try their fortune with the Chinese doctors. Would Duniya join them?
“Very kind of you, but I will walk,” she insisted.
When they had all gone, Duniya changed into her uniform. Even to her it was a mystery why she did something as odd as that.
It was almost five o’clock when she walked out of the hospital gates. She had been the first to arrive at the clinic today, it was proper that she was the last to leave, she told herself. But now there was a question nearly as obstinate as thoughts of Bosaaso: Why had she decided to change into her uniform when she was leaving work? Duniya needed no one to remind her that African men often viewed nurses as easygoing flirts, who were considered fun and were invited to orgiastic parties. Or did she think naively that men would be uninterested in pestering a woman in her working-clothes?
She had hardly walked three hundred metres beyond the hospital wall when a man driving a sports car said to her, “I reckon you and I are going in the same direction.”
Luckily there were a number of other people around and she was in no danger of being pestered. None the less she was livid. She wanted to say, “And where would that be?” but in the end chose not to lower herself to his level of thinking.
He said, “Why don’t you come with me?”
“Why?” she asked, curious to know what his answer would be.
“Because I wish to do you a favour.”
“Why?”
“I’ll give a lift, then reward you with further gifts.”
“But I haven’t asked you to do me a favour, or give me a lift or reward me with presents, have I?”
“You are a fool if you don’t,” he said.
“Let me be,” she said in such a hostile voice that he drove off.
She was one of a crowd of pedestrians, crossing roads, avoiding roundabouts where motorists were inclined to park, waiting to ambush and rape women.
Then Duniya found herself staring at a relief of circles and dots, like small coloured light-bulbs shining full beam. Was she having visions? Before she could answer, Bosaaso was there, calling her name and opening the taxi door for her. At first she took no notice. Part of her was convinced that she was imagining it all, conjuring it out of her feverish desire to be with Bosaaso. Then the man came out of the car and bowed. Before getting in, Duniya felt the solidity of the vehicle with her open palms, preparing her mind for a future instant when she might have to ask herself if Bosaaso had come for her and she had gone with him. How strangely the human brain functioned. She got in.
“I just happened to be driving past when I saw you,” he said.
She wished she could shoo away her angry thoughts as one drives away early evening insects. “Why lie to me, Bosaaso?” she asked.
He drove with silent punctiliousness, like a driving-instructor setting an example for a pupil. And she intercepted a smile perhaps intended for her but which faded before maturing, maybe as a result of her unexpected question. “Why do you say I lie to you?” he replied.
Duniya disappeared into a deep silence that contained her for a long time. When she surfaced again she said, “Why do you give me these lifts, Bosaaso? Please tell the truth.”
“Why do you accept lifts from me?” he asked.
“That’s a foolish question, since your giving precedes my acceptance or rejection. My accepting your gift of a lift is itself a reciprocal gift. So may I now ask why you accept my gift?”
“Why are you hesitant about receiving things from others?”
“Because unasked-for generosity has a way of making one feel obliged, trapped in a labyrinth of dependence. You’re more knowledgeable about these matters, but haven’t we in the Third World lost our self-reliance and pride because of the so-called aid we unquestion-ingly receive from the so-called First World?”
A fluid smile finally broke on his face with the speed of an egg-white in motion. All he said was, “I am drawn to you.”
Only after he parked did she realize they were in front of her place. How did he know where she lived? She did not invite him in, nor suggest meeting again. Stories pursue audiences to their hiding-places, she told herself. Bosaaso had become her narrative.
“Thank you,” she said.
He switched the headlights on full-beam, drawing early evening moths to dance frenziedly before them, tossing in mad agitation against the head-lamps.
“Goodnight, then,” he said, reversed his car and left.
She didn’t wave goodbye.
MOGADISCIO (SONNA, THURSDAY)
Over a dozen Third World countries have refused to accept dairy products from the European Community as part of a development donation. These products, which include butter and milk, have been sent back to the donor nation because they are suspected of being contaminated by radio-activity from the nuclear plant accident at Chernobyl. The Somali Democratic Republic joins the list of countries returning these products. EC ministers, however, reiterate that the radioactivity level in these dairy products is so low as to cause no worry or danger to lives.
3
Duniya eats a meal prepared by her daughter Nasiiba and they reminisce. The young girl remembers when she was small, before Duniya married Taariq, her ex-husband; and Duniya tells of her marriage to the father of her younger daughter.
A faint echo of Bosaaso’s voice lingering in her ears, Duniya pushed open the front door. At that moment electricity returned and she felt a ripple of joy. But she stood at the threshold, cautious as a pedestrian about to cross a hazardous thoroughfare. Then she heard the music pick up speed and volume after a hesitant start. Nasiiba must be home; the smell of garlic emanating from the kitchen confirmed to her that her daughter was indeed there, busy cooking.
In her excited rush, Duniya shuffled one foot out of a shoe. This made her move unevenly like a hyena with hind legs shorter than front ones. She switched off the turntable, certain that silence would bring Nasiiba instantly to the room. She sat, waiting, unapologetic.
Slim and, Duniya thought, anaemic-looking, Nasiiba rushed in, ready to pick a quarrel with her twin brother whom she suspected had switched off her turntable. The look in her eyes softened and she grinned when she saw it was her mother. Nasiiba wore an over-sized garment, kimono-style. Duniya could see the curves of her breasts and her belly.