“So it’s you!” said the young woman.
Duniya’s face broadened with a smile.
Nasiiba walked over to adjust the turntable’s dials now that power was back. That done, she replaced the record in its sleeve. Duniya knew well how protective her daughter was of her treasured gadget, bought from her savings at about the same time her twin acquired his bicycle, of which he was equally protective and proud.
The room where they were and which they shared was referred to as “The Women’s Room.” It had two big metal-framed beds with springs, Nasiiba’s being the one by the larger of the windows; lying on it now was a greasy-toothed comb, and underneath it a shoulder-bag bearing the Somali Airlines legend. Duniya’s bed, nearer the door, was neatly made and covered by a white bedspread; stored below it was a collapsible bed on which Yarey, her younger daughter, slept when she came to stay for weekends.
Only Mataan had the key to the other room, which he had fitted with a Yale lock. The Women’s Room had one of those cheap locks a burglar could pick with a hairpin; Nasiiba had an unpardonable habit of losing keys and Duniya had tired of replacing Yales. As a result, all the family’s valuables — documents, cash and jewels — were kept in the boy’s room, which had a safe with a combination lock But Nasiiba would not let her turntable out of her sight, wouldn’t allow it to spend a night in her brother’s room.
Now Duniya and Nasiiba stared at each other like children in a duel of will. Duniya felt her daughter had the eyes of a hypnotist, able to induce nervousness. She wondered if Nasiiba’s burchi-power was the stronger, burchi being a mystical term for the overwhelming hold one individual has over another, regardless of their respective status — child over adult, offspring over parent, wife over husband. In this contest of stares Nasiiba’s burchi-power was stronger.
Nasiiba shook her shock of tresses like a horse’s mane, and the coloured beads plaited into her hair knocked against one another, producing a theatrical sound.
“Have you eaten, Mummy?” Nasiiba asked.
“No, I haven’t.”
“I bet you haven’t eaten all day,” Nasiiba guessed.
Duniya could remember only that she had met Bosaaso. This absent-mindedness was unhealthy “What’s cooking?” she asked.
“Liver in garlic sauce, roast potatoes, rice and salad. And I’m preparing boiled milk with a dash of cinnamon and ginger to wash it down,” said Nasiiba.
Where did she get all this food? None of these items were available on the open market anywhere in the country. Deciding to pursue the question later, Duniya said, “I’d love to eat with you, darling.”
Saying, “I hope I haven’t burnt the rice,” Nasiiba ran out.
In a few minutes she returned with a medium-sized tray on which were plates with the rice, liver and roast potatoes together with two mugs of heavily sugared warm milk Duniya placed a mat on the floor, over the boundary dividing the living space from the sleeping space. (Years ago, Taariq, the then occupant of the room, had built a small kerb-high barrier of bricks to mark a frontier between the area with the bed and the area with the armchairs, low glass-topped table and his writing-desk.) Nasiiba noticed that her mother had changed into a dress, and her uniform lay strewn across the bed.
They ate in silence for a while, Duniya using her fingers and Nasiiba a knife and fork. Then Duniya asked, “Where did you get all this food?”
Provocatively, Nasiiba said, “Someone gave it to me.”
“Who?”
Daughter and mother were accustomed to each other’s ways and intolerances. If there was one thing Duniya couldn’t stand, it was her children bringing home unauthorized gifts of food, or money, given to them by Uncle So-and-so or Aunt So-and-so. She would half-cry, “Are you trying to embarrass me? Don’t I give you everything you need? Don’t I give you enough? If you need more, why not ask me?” When the twins were smaller, it was the boy, not Nasiiba, who returned laden with what Duniya suspected were ill-gained presents and cash. He would retort, “But he stuffed it into my pocket; I didn’t ask for it, he gave it to me, folded, off his sweaty palm — Uncle So-and-so. What could I do?”
Duniya felt uncomfortable eating what was known in their household as “corpse food,” a term coined as a result of her saying to her twins that they could consume food gifts only if she, their mother, was dead, not before. But where did Nasiiba get this food?
Trust Nasiiba to change the subject to avoid answering a question. Trust her also to get away with it. She said, “I’ve been thinking, Mummy, that we must get you some new dresses.”
And trust Duniya to fall for her daughter’s trap. “What’s wrong with the ones I have?” But she was a step ahead of Nasiiba, thinking about a future day when she would need a new dress to go out in, if she were invited by Bosaaso.
“Not good enough.” As evidence, Nasiiba pointed out a brown stain on Duniya’s dress, a smudge similar to the one you might spy on a breast-feeding mother’s frock.
Duniya was in a defiant mood. “Who cares?” she asked.
They resumed eating, Nasiiba said, “Next time you wear outdoor dresses, I suggest you take a sane look at yourself. We don’t want potential in-laws to avoid looking you in the eyes.”
“What do you mean ‘potential in-laws’? Who?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
Perplexed, Duniya said she didn’t.
“I can’t believe it. You mean you have no idea what your son might be up to?”
“What is he up to?”
Nasiiba was enjoying herself, prolonging the dramatic telling of her story to avoid getting back to the topic of food. “Mataan has a woman-friend, a maths teacher, who’s three years your junior, Mummy, and has never married. People say she’s kept by a wealthy businessman, who pays the rent of her well-furnished flat and has given her a small can You mean you didn’t know?”
“How come you know?”
“You’d be surprised how many things I know but haven’t told a living soul,” Nasiiba said matter-of-factly.
“For instance, that my son has a woman-friend?”
“Ask him when he returns tonight, if you don’t believe me.”
Duniya didn’t press the matter; Nasiiba derived a thrill from turning half-truths into embellished fictions, making each tale into exactly the story you needed to hear. “Why did you donate blood you can ill-afford?” Duniya asked.
Unprepared for the question, Nasiiba was at a loss for words. She sighed, then replied, “I felt like giving blood.”
“No other reason?”
“The blood bank was short of it and, being in a generous mood, I felt like donating some of mine.” She paused. “Is there any law in this household forbidding its members to donate good, healthy blood when it’s needed?”
Duniya was becoming impatient. Turning her head slowly towards Nasiiba, she said, “I’m going to ask you two questions and I insist on straight answers. I mean it. Don’t change the subject and, please, no long-winded explanations. Where did you get this food?”
“Uncle Taariq gave it to me.”
“Why did he give it to you?”
“He had to use up a lot of food from his freezer; he had half a ton of food to get rid of because of all the recent power cuts.”
“Why did you donate blood that you can ill-afford?”
“I can only repeat the reply I’ve already given.”
Duniya shifted in discomfort. Neither of them now had any appetite. Nasiiba gathered the plates into a pile, leaving Duniya the task of picking up rice grains from the mat. Nasiiba left the room, taking with her some of the tension that had been generated.