“If the money is here, how come the two Strongmen, or their minions, haven’t forced him to show them where he buried the cash? It seems so incredibly far-fetched, no?”
“Maybe the two Strongmen know things we don’t.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jeebleh.
“Maybe they know the money is already in Europe, deposited in a Swiss bank, and waiting to be signed for, on submission of a coded number,” the driver speculated. “Or maybe they’re waiting until our man joins the Frenchman and the Norwegian who helped him spirit away the UN funds, and then Marabou will collect his cut, and share it out. Maybe an associate of one of the Strongmen is Marabou’s principal protector.”
“Like who?”
“Do you know of Caloosha? His name is often mentioned,” the driver said. “I hear too that Af-Laawe is quite friendly with a brother-in-law of his, who is StrongmanSouth’s deputy. Ours is an incestuous community, and the man has protectors all over the place.”
“What are his links to Caloosha?”
“I wouldn’t know, to be honest.”
The youths inside the vehicle were becoming fidgety, and looked out anxiously in the direction from which they expected the Major to appear. The one with the cast pointed out that as a highly placed officer often entrusted with dangerous missions, the Major ought to know that it wasn’t safe for them to remain stationary in one place for such a long time.
“We’ll give him another minute,” the driver said.
“And then we’ll go,” the youth insisted.
No sooner had the driver turned the key in the ignition than they saw the Major with his escort, carrying something in a plastic bag. Cursing under his breath, he appeared still very edgy as he entered the vehicle. The engine started and the vehicle moved.
3
“WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?” THE DRIVER PUFFED HUNGRILY ON THE cigarette he had lit in a moody silence.
“We had to break the safe,” the Major explained, “because the woman couldn’t find her key. Apparently her old man had taken it with him.”
“The movement is broke and we need to raise funds from the usual sources, our clansmen in the U.S., am I right?”
The Major was on the point of accusing the driver of divulging a secret to a nonclansman, but then his face took on the expression of a man deciding to put aside his differences with another for the sake of peace. Surprisingly, he lapsed into a friendlier mood, even smiling, if a little uneasily. Maybe he had retold himself Voltaire’s admonition while breaking the safe, and had come around to the view that it wasn’t wise to make unnecessary enemies. He turned to face Jeebleh, and asked, “Have you ever met StrongmanSouth?”
“No.”
The Major said, with an odd mix of fear and pride. “I know StrongmanSouth very well.”
“What’s he like?” Jeebleh asked.
“The man is raving mad.”
Jeebleh remained silent and sullen. He had no idea what to expect or where their conversation might lead.
“And you know what?” the Major went on.
‘What?”
“For his breakfast, he eats cakes of soap.”
Jeebleh wanted to remain silent, but couldn’t help himself. “Why in God’s name would he do that?”
“To prove that he’s tough!”
Jeebleh caught a glimpse of the Major’s rage rising and felt he might explode any minute; he looked at the driver, hoping he would step in to calm things. And it appeared as if he might do just that, but then he seemed to change his mind, and he too remained quiet.
The Major was now raving. “I’ve known StrongmanSouth for what he is for years — a lunatic with a madcap notion of what he can achieve. I served under him in the Ogaden War. I know him to be a pushover, and that’s why I am not afraid of him. In fact, he’s no trouble at all. Never mind the myth that’s been built around his name by his clansmen and supporters.” He threw his cigarette butt out of the window, and turned to Jeebleh as if expecting him to applaud. “He invaded our territory, conquered it. His ragtag militiamen rape our women, his clansmen have helped themselves to our farms. He’s turned our ancestral land into an extension of his power game, and we’re part of his bargaining strategy when the different interest groups come to the national reconciliation tables to set up an all-inclusive government. I keep telling my men that no one is able to rule over a people if they’re prepared to fight. We’re ready to kill, we’re ready to die until our ancestral territories are back in our hands.”
When the Major fell silent, the relief was not just Jeebleh’s. They felt it all round, and took it in with a fine dose of the dust coming in through the window, cracked open because of the heat.
“To someone like you,” the Major started up again, “we’re all nuts, we’re ranting mad. You probably think we’re all fighting over nothing of great importance. You’ll say, ‘Look, your country is in ruins, and you keep fighting over nothing.’ Those of us who’ve stayed on and participated in warring against the invaders of our territories feel maligned. We feel belittled when those of you who left, who have comfortable jobs, and houses with running water and electricity, somewhere else, where there is peace, speak like that. Has it ever occurred to you that some of us carry our guns, as the good everywhere must bear arms, to fight and die for justice?”
“But what makes you think that I believe you’re fighting over nothing of great importance? I’ve said no such thing.”
“I’ve met and heard many like you!”
Jeebleh chose not to answer and looked away.
The Major continued: “We’re fighting for a worthy cause, the recovery of our territory. We’re fighting against our oppressors, who’re morally evil, reprehensibly blameworthy, every one of them. I see StrongmanSouth as evil for wanting to impose his wicked will on our people.”
Jeebleh knew a lot more than he was prepared to let on, knew that the Major’s armed movement was engaged in acts equally reprehensible as those of StrongmanSouth’s militia, knew too that, as part of its policy to gain total control of the region, it had “cleansed” its ancestral territory of those hailing from other regions. From what Jeebleh had read, the leaders of the movement to which the Major and the driver belonged condoned the killing of innocent people who belonged to other clan families with ancestral memories different from theirs. Jeebleh considered the acts of all these armed movements immoral. Even so, he doubted there was any point engaging the so-called leaders in debate.
“Why are you here, anyway?” the Major demanded.
“Just visiting,” Jeebleh replied.
“Who’re you visiting?”
Jeebleh took his time before responding, because he didn’t like the Major’s aggressive tone. To calm himself, he studied the early hints of darkness coming at them in waves, and enjoyed this intimation of his first night in Somalia descending. His silence made the Major more impatient; he insisted on his question. “Are you visiting anyone in particular?”
“I’m visiting my mother’s grave,” Jeebleh said quickly.
But he felt ridiculous even to himself as soon as the words had left his lips. Granted, there was no gainsaying the fact that he had intended to call at his mother’s grave, but he had planned to achieve other things during his visit, including a good air-clearing session with Bile about their unfinished business. He saw the Major and the driver exchange knowing glances; both looked at Jeebleh and then back at each other.
“Did your mother die recently?” the driver asked.
“Close to nine years ago.”
“She died without you having seen her for years?”