“And what would you do about him?”
Duniya said to herself that when husbands are reduced to “him” and wives to “her,” then it is high time the marriage is dissolved, or an illicit affair considered. Being a woman of northerly honour and from Burco where such women are still raised, Hibo contemplated murder. Duniya said, “It depends if he is dead or still alive and breathing.”
“What do you mean?”
Hibo was formidably calm for someone who had poisoned her husband’s food, and Duniya wondered if it was some kind of joke? But she said, “If he is dead, then you must live with your secret for the rest of your days, telling no one what you’ve done.”
“Or perform a suttee, is that what you said that Hindu custom is called?”
Duniya marvelled at her own calm; marvelled at the fact that she was behaving as though she knocked off a husband every April Fool’s Day, as though it were an annual affair for her. It was so incredible she wished Nasiiba were here, probably the one person who might appreciate such macabre anecdotes.
“Performing suttee is too neat. People here in Somalia have not that subtle an understanding of your kind of motive or death, and we wouldn’t wish to waste it on them.”
Hibo pleaded. “What do I do if he isn’t dead?”
“Take him to the hospital and let the doctors decide what chemical antidotes he should be given by telling them what you’ve put in his food,” Duniya advised.
“The man deserves to be dead,” Hibo said.
“So why ask my opinion if you are already decided?”
“I am his very respectable wife, not some street woman,” Hibo said, “to whom he may give gonorrhoea and get away unpunished.”
“Let’s not get carried away. Forget about all this rhetoric of northern honour and southern dishonour. Gallayr has infected you with poison and by putting poison in his food, you’ve poisoned him too.” Duniya helped Hibo to her feet. “There’s no time to waste. Go home and take him to the hospital.”
She then escorted her to the gate. There were tears in Hibo’s voice as she said, “You’re a very strong woman and I envy you.”
Then Hibo’s tongue, thick as a slice of gorgonzola, lay inert in her mouth. Duniya wished her good luck, and they hugged.
Outside they saw Kaahin’s car, parked just outside the gate, and Bosaaso was there talking to him. A little later, Duniya and Bosaaso left in great haste for Duniya’s place.
The children’s chatter stopped when Bosaaso and Duniya walked in. When the ability to speak or to pick up a broom or mop returned, the youngsters went back to work Bosaaso was treated uniformly by all three as though he were an elder brother. Marilyn and Fariida were there as well, but they were too formal with him for his liking.
Duniya and Bosaaso were offered chairs and asked to relax, as though they had come from a long, physically exhausting journey.
Nasiiba came to report that the city flat had been prepared, or at least Uncle Abshir’s room had been readied for use tonight. “And we’re getting a bouquet of flowers,” she added.
Duniya sat up. “A what?”
“A bouquet of flowers and the whole works.”
“Whose idea is this?” Bosaaso said.
“I’ll dress in white, Duniya, gloves and all,” Yarey volunteered.
“But whose idea has this been?”
“Mine,” said Nasiiba.
“We’re welcoming him as though he were a visiting head of state,” Yarey continued, repeating something Nasiiba had told her. “You know, like when a head of another country visits Somalia, a young girl is dressed in white and she gives him a bouquet of flowers. We see that on TV a lot.”
There was energy to Duniya’s decision not to argue out the point with either Nasiiba or Yarey, which was why she encouraged them in a gentle way to get back to what they were doing.
“Of course,” said Bosaaso, “the poor things don’t seem to realize not only that this is a neo-colonial tradition, inherited, along with the idea of flags, a state capital and such paraphernalia, but also that embed-ded in it is a very male notion in which an innocent young virgin dressed in white is offered to a visiting man who happens to be a head of another state. I needn’t remind you that in our own tradition a man whose honour is wounded is often rewarded with a maiden as part of the compensation given him. And when male friends visit their own kind in another town, the host provides his guest with a woman to entertain him.”
“Maybe you should tell them,” said Duniya.
“It would probably spoil their fun,” said Bosaaso.
“That’s possible,” Duniya agreed.
They both fell silent and solemn, like people entering a place of worship. Both were thinking about Abshir and each was looking forward to being reunited with him. Separated by their thoughts, each held on to a pleasant memory, a keep-sake of tenderness from the night before. For her part, she was proud that she hadn’t told him whether she would marry him or not; for his, he took pride in the fact that he wasn’t insisting she tell him her decision.
Welcome, Abshir, my darling brother, Duniya said to herself.
18
In which Duniya, together with her children, Bosaaso and friends drive in a convoy to welcome Abshir at the airport. The day’s party continues late into the night.
Bosaaso’s car was at the head of a convoy of three cars, and Duniya was his only passenger. Following, in a taxi driven by his cousin Axmad, were Yarey, Mataan, Fariida and Marilyn. The third vehicle had Qaasim at the wheel, Taariq in the front, and just to be different from the others, Nasiiba, who sat in the back. Axmad had the taxi-driver’s ignominious habit of pressing the horn non-stop, which made some passers-by take interest in the convoy. When the traffic slowed down, and the horn kept on sounding, a woman ventured to suggest that a marriage was taking place. This produced curiosity in a number of by-standers and the word “wedding” occurred in the conversation of those standing on either side of the road. The Chinese whispers finally reached Duniya’s and Bosaaso’s ears. Then a woman ululated, and another mentioned Duniya’s and Bosaaso’s names.
Duniya had on a mischievous smile. Bosaaso, however, sat rigidly, his back stiff as an elephant’s tail, his eyes looking concentratedly ahead of himself, as though he were driving through patches of fog. “Shall we all go out for a meal tonight, Duniya?” he said.
“Provided you are my guests,” she said.
“And how many are we?”
“Only family,” she said.
“Let’s include Mire, shall we?”
“Yes, let’s,” she consented gladly.
“Will Fariida and Marilyn join us as well?”
“I said, only family Not friends,” Duniya reminded him.
The list of names gave itself to Duniya. She counted the number of invitees several times. She was like the proverbial Arab with ten donkeys for sale, who forgot to count whichever animal he was riding, but got the figure right when he wasn’t on a donkey’s back.
“Have you thought of a restaurant to go to?” she asked.
“It depends whether we want to eat in a restaurant in the centre or go to a drive-in restaurant outside town,” he said.
“What’s your preference?” she asked.
“You decide,” he said.
Here we are, she thought, neither able to make a decision for fear of hurting the other. Will this happen whenever we come to the junction where the road branches into two? Decisively, she said, “Let’s go to Croce del Sud.”
“Fine, I’ll book a table,” he offered.