“Why, I’ve never thought of that,” he said, self-censoriously.
“Neither had I,” Bosaaso added.
Then Abshir coughed, his ribs heaving. His chest exploded with a loud cough a second and a third time. He said, “Don’t anyone tell me to stop smoking, because I won’t.” And he smiled, wrinkling the corners of his eyes.
“No one will,” Duniya said.
“You mean Shiriye won’t?” Abshir queried, surprising everybody.
Duniya, who didn’t speak, thought of Abshir as Nasiiba’s kindred; but never mind.
After a pause, Abshir said to Duniya, “How is our half-brother, anyway?”
Duniya’s breathing rustled like silk touching rough skin, as she mumbled something brief and unpleasant about Shiriye.
“Do you think Shiriye will give me my share of the bridewealth which he is said to have collected from Zubair for your hand?” Abshir teased her. “Or half of what he got from Taariq?” He reached for her hand which he held in both his. In fondness.
“I doubt it very much,” said Duniya.
When Abshir coughed his dry cough a few more times, Duniya freed her hand from his hold. She left, excusing herself as though attending to an urgent matter.
“Tell me something about yourself,” Abshir said to his nephew.
“There is nothing to tell really,” Mataan responded shyly.
“How’s that?” said Abshir.
“He’s excellent at school, the best in mathematics, I’ve been told,” Bosaaso interjected.
Rather emphatically, Abshir said, “I see,” as if he knew a lot more than he was willing to give away Then he continued, “What do you want to study when you go to university, Mataan?”
“I haven’t decided,” said Mataan.
“You have one more academic year to go, haven’t you?” said Abshir.
Bosaaso said, “Plus two years, one in which he must do national service and a second year as an army conscript.”
“How is your Italian?” Abshir asked Mataan.
“Not good enough to study at an Italian university unless I do one of those very intensive courses they give in Perugia.” For Mataan, things were happening too fast. Uncle Scelaro was too quick, but he was too slow; even so he was responding with a heightened enthusiasm that suited the occasion.
Abshir said, “Or would you prefer to go to an English-speaking university, in the USA or Canada, I mean is your English good enough for you to take a course in mathematics?”
Mataan was not sure if he wished to take a degree in mathematics, but he didn’t say that. He was too intimidated and things were happening at a faster rate than he’d been used to.
“Well talk more then,” Abshir suggested, adding after an appropriate pause, and after looking from Bosaaso to Mataan, “I trust we can find a way to have him exempted from national and military service?”
“I trust there are ways of doing that,” Bosaaso said.
Abshir suppressed a smile before it subverted the subtlety of a knowing grin which had spread itself all over his face. He said, “What about Nasiiba?”
Since no one could take upon himself or herself to speak for her, Nasiiba was given a shout, and she came out laden with an armful of clothes which she had taken out of the gift-bags her uncle had brought from Rome for her. She was already wearing a pair of Levi jeans and a matching denim shirt. She said, excited beyond her own measure, “How did you guess my height, waist and all that, Uncle?”
“Miski gave them to me,” he said.
Nasiiba tripped on some of the dresses she was carrying, as she moved towards them. Yarey was on her heels, and she too was carrying a legion of gifts her uncle had given her. The girls’ arrival suddenly turned the place into a noisy one, and Bosaaso got up and said, “Perhaps I should go now.”
“When do we see you?” Abshir asked him.
“Why don’t you come with me and collect the car? Then I won’t need to fetch you this evening,” Bosaaso said.
Abshir pondered for a moment, as if unsure where in the world he was, and then said, “I was meaning to get to the car hire agency as soon as I could. How will you move around if you lend me yours?”
“I have a taxi as my fall-back when I have no transport,” said Bosaaso.
Duniya was called, and she, Bosaaso and Abshir thought about the best way to handle this. The fact that Nasiiba stayed out of this didn’t pass unnoticed.
“What do you suggest, Duniya?” Abshir said.
Duniya suggested that Mataan go with them to show Abshir the way back.
“Shall we go for a drive, you and I?” said Abshir. “When I come back?”
“That’s a lovely idea,” said Duniya.
Nasiiba was clearly excited, and she slid in and out of joyous moods. At one point, in fact as soon as she and her mother were let alone, she came out to where Duniya was sitting, wearing a fashionable outfit Abshir had brought her. Sounding high-strung, she spoke what amounted, in her mother’s opinion, to a non-sequitur, saying, “Have you noticed of late how many dogs there are in any African city? Dogs roaming around the streets in packs, full of menace like wolves let out of a zoo? You see them everywhere, foraging in the very garbage bins the urchins have emptied of everything except the bones they cannot chew; these dogs attack pedestrians minding their own business, especially after dark. Have you any idea where these terrifying beasts come from?”
Duniya didn’t seem moved and remained non-committal.
“According to Taariq,” Nasiiba continued, “most of these dogs at one time or another belonged to Europeans or Americans with plenty of food to spare and human affection to indulge on these beasts that actually live in the same spacious and well-to-do houses as their children. Now the truth is, these dogs received more food and attentive love than most Somalis, and then, between one weekend and the next, the masters went home, leaving behind these spoiled creatures. This has been a pattern, too much love, then with frightening suddenness, homelessness and a hostile Islamic community ready to stone them on the slightest pretext. In short, the dogs are turned into schizoids.”
“What are you driving at, Nasiiba? Please come to the point!” Duniya said.
Then Nasiiba paused for a long while. Finally she said, “This is that level of reality in which you might discern a certain similarity between dogs and some Third World dictators who receive the pampered approval of their European and American masters until their usefulness has ceased, dictators who are abandoned to the dogs of bad fortune. On a personal level, the Europeans and Americans living in Africa behave in a manner akin to that of their governments on a national level. What I am trying to say…”
Duniya’s body stiffened. Glaring at Nasiiba, she demanded, “Do you think I am thick?”
“Why?”
“I am not thick!” said Duniya. “That’s all.”
Puzzled, Nasiiba stared at her mother who was leaving the room to prepare herself for the drive with Abshir.
Abshir was at the wheel, driving in an easterly direction, towards the sea. “You can’t imagine how much I missed seeing, swimming in or being near the Indian Ocean,” he said.
She watched him drive. He was a chimney and was smoking out his lungs; and his whole body, now and then, exploded, turning pale like unburied ashes left overnight in a brazier. She began to wonder why Mataan had always reminded her of Abshir, although the two didn’t resemble each other physically. She had never seen their own grandfather, but thought that his nickname was indicative of a stoop, his nickname being Tuerre, meaning the man with the hump. She told herself that certain physical characteristics run in some families, jumping hopscotch-style from one generation to another.