Kept in a tiny cubicle, where it was impossible for a tall man like him to stand to his full height, he did what he could to remain fit, exercising within the limited space. But things were made even less tolerable, physically and mentally, when a month before the collapse of the state, more draconian security measures designed to confound the prisoners were introduced. He was kept in a dark room, allowed no contact with anyone, including the wardens. Then he was taken out of isolation and made to share a cubicle with petty thieves and other riffraff. Bile couldn’t say whether he preferred total isolation in a dark cubicle to confinement in the same cramped space with lowminded thugs, who wouldn’t let him be.
He remembered how at long last he had risen later that afternoon of liberation, only to find that his knees had stiffened, and his hip joints were as tight as rigor mortis. Nonetheless, he took a healthy long step with the stronger leg, swung the rest of his unwilling body around, and carried himself out of prison. It was that first, willing step that eventually brought him to Raasta, his niece.
And what a girl!
Now showered, shaved, and restless, Bile went to Raasta’s room, where he found himself reliving a most pleasant memory: the day she was born. The image that stood out was one of a wet thing in his embrace, curled up, fists tight, as if she held the entire cosmos in her clasp. Asleep, she might have been a kitten delighting in the sound of its own purr. She was exceptionally beautiful, eyes the shape of almonds, mulberry-colored lips forever parted.
When she was born, there were four of them in the room: Shanta, her mother, half dead from exhaustion; Faahiye, her father; the midwife; and him. Faahiye, who was prone to going off in a dark rage, reminded Bile of a bird with its wings stuck in the mud it had wallowed in, clumsily trying to fly.
The girl was a few days old when it was discovered that she drew people to herself. They came by the hundreds whenever there was fighting, which was most of the time. People fleeing turned up at the house with the big compound, where they all stayed for the first few months of the civil war. They felt safe in her vicinity. Word went around that she was “protected,” and so were those who found themselves near her. As a result, more escapees in search of safety from the fighting arrived to camp in the compound. At the time, there was no telling whether Faahiye was exaggerating when he claimed that “peace of mind will descend, halo-like, on whoever holds the girl in his or her embrace.” Bile bore witness to the fact that Raasta, whose birth name was Rajo, meaning “hope,” was always calm. She was rarely given to crying, even when she wet herself, as other babies of her age did. Nor did she cry when she was hungry. She was a miracle child, gaining everyone’s trust, serving as a conduit for peace, enabling any two people at odds with each other to talk and make up. Nothing troubled her more than words of disregard hurled by people at each other in front of her. In her presence, her parents, to their credit, tolerated each other, in contrast to their mighty quarrels when she wasn’t around.
She was equally popular with children and adults, and had a way of attracting virtual strangers, who willingly fed from the open palm of her charm. Occasionally she displayed a sense of discomfort in the company of immediate members of her family, who knew no self-restraint and were in the habit of losing their tempers.
Raasta shared a spiritual closeness with Bile, whom she treated like a surrogate parent.
She was never bored; she seldom seemed lonely, even when alone. She jabbered, improvising stories with which she entertained herself. It was clear that other people were in need of her, not she of them. And she always had an entourage of children in tow. Some came from poor backgrounds and were in rags, the younger ones with wet noses and eyes crawling with famished flies; still others brought along kwashiorkor bellies, drop foot, rickets, and other complaints. At the age of three, Raasta had gone about The Refuge with pocketfuls of vitamins that she distributed to the other children, earning herself the nickname Dr. Dreadlock, bestowed on her by the Africa director of UNICEF, who was on a fact-finding mission after the U.S. withdrawal. Even earlier, her intelligence knew no bounds. Bile remembered how she learned languages as soon as she heard the first fricative consonant of the new tongue, or was asked to repeat the guttural in place of the vowel sound of a monosyllabic derivative. By the time she was three, she could speak, read, and write three languages. At five and a half, her mastery of a few more tongues was exemplary.
Bile had thought he could get used to anything, because he had survived years of detention and many more of humiliation at the cruel hands of his half brother. Getting accustomed to Raasta’s absence, though, was proving impossible. She had been the only constant in his life since he regained his freedom. He might have achieved as much as he had without her help, or done whatever he had done without her input. But he most certainly would not have cherished life as the sweet thing it had become if it had not been for her. She had taught him what it meant to be happy.
At times, he believed that his most dear darling had gone simply because she was fed up with the way her parents quarreled; at other times, he believed she had been kidnapped.
TEARS OF SORROW WET BILE’S FACE AS HE RELIVED THE LAST EVENING HE had spent with his niece. It had been early evening, when, tucked in bed, comfortable, and ready to sleep, he had told a folktale to Raasta and her playmate Makka. As had been his custom, he had lain between them, each girl with her head on his shoulder, to listen attentively to a tale about two giants.
Once there were two giants. One of them was a cruel tyrant, the other a wise king. The two giants did not know of each other’s existence, they had never met — even though their kingdoms were next to each other. The cruel giant was called Uurku-Baalle, “the one who has wings in his belly,” a name that meant that he knew everything about people just by looking at them; he knew when they were lying, and when they were telling the truth. The good giant was Shimbiriile, and he lived in a cave. His nickname was Dirir, the bad giant’s Xabbad.
The cruel king Xabbad enjoyed making people cry; he liked to see terror on the faces of his victims, and he was happy when they were sad. He delighted in satisfying every desire of his, and never hesitated to take things that didn’t belong to him. He was a hoarder, and claimed that all things belonged to him. Almost every house, every farm, and all money were in his name, in that of his immediate family, or in the names of those who were most loyal to his evil doings. He knew the details and movements of his people. To appease him, his subjects paid him large tributes. The more he was given, the greedier he became. Many of his subjects fled because they were fed up. They moved out of his kingdom to others, where they felt safer and were allowed to keep the things that belonged to them.
One day a distant relative of the kind king Dirir’s by marriage played host to a family seeking refuge from Xabbad’s kingdom, and Dirir came to hear of the terrible things that had been done to them. He heard more stories, as more people fleeing the bad giant’s territory came to live in his peaceful realm. The more horrific their tales, the keener he became to help the weak and the innocent. He gathered his advisors and a select few of the newcomers, and they talked and talked the whole day. Then the good king said, “We must help these people, we must put an end to these cruelties.”