Crossbones

8

WHEN THEY GET TO CAMBARA AND BILE’S HOUSE AND DAJAAL RINGS the bell, Malik and Jeebleh, to their surprise, hear dogs barking. Since neither remembers anyone mentioning the presence of dogs there, they look at each other and then at Dajaal. Dajaal explains, “The ringing of the bell activates the barking of dogs inside the house. Cambara imported the device from Toronto to scare off potential burglars. It’s most effective because no one keeps dogs as pets or guards in a Muslim country, and virtually everyone is terrified of them.”

Cambara receives Jeebleh and Malik with warmth. She has waited for them close to the entrance, the door open, her smile broad and beaming. She meets them halfway as they walk past the day guard. She hugs and kisses Jeebleh on the cheeks. She is formal with Malik; she takes his right hand in both hers. Dajaal takes his leave, suggesting that they ring when they are ready to be picked up.

On the way in, Cambara walks between the two men, Jeebleh’s hand in hers in acknowledgment of their presumed closeness, even though the two have only ever spoken on the phone. He remembers that Cambara arrived here with the disquiet of a mother mourning, after losing her only son, her marriage broken and her life in tatters. Seamus, with whom he had spoken about her, described her as being equally suicidal and murderous. Then she met Bile, and he and Dajaal, with assistance from Seamus, helped her to deploy her strength constructively, in addition to helping her to reclaim her family and to produce a puppet play, the first of its kind in Mogadiscio, despite religionist threats. Eventually Cambara chose to throw in her lot with Bile’s, and the two became an item, despite the dissimilarity in their temperaments. Their need for each other has set the terms of their togetherness.

Now Cambara says to him, “It feels as if I’ve known you ever since I met Bile. I am so pleased you are here.”

With Dajaal gone, the features of the day guard harden and his eyes open wide at the sight of Cambara embracing and kissing Jeebleh and placing herself between him and Malik. Malik wonders if the man will report them to the religionist authorities for indulging in such un-Islamic intimacy.

Inside, Bile is lying prone on the couch in the living room, only a few days after his return from Nairobi, following surgery on his prostate at a clinic there. But when Bile hears them approach, he jumps up to welcome them. He and Jeebleh hug for a very long time, despite the tremor in Bile’s grip. The storied house echoes with their words of joyous reunion, after which Bile hugs Malik, too.

Bile is a little shaky on his legs. Jeebleh observes how age has affected them differently. Whereas he is heavier around the waist, paunchier, with bags permanently under the eyes, Bile has grown thinner in the face, his chin oddly extending downward, the anemic skin on it wrinkly and sporting grayish sprouts of hair, stylishly trimmed. He ascribes this suaveness to Cambara. Indeed, Bile is dressed with uncommon flair, a linen shirt and a pair of trousers, tailored with sophistication. Cambara stands by, confidently wearing a plain caftan with a matching shoulder cover. Not wanting to take the luster away from their meeting, she allows the conversation to flow, seldom interfering, though she pays constant attention to the changes of mood when they get to the table. Bile asks questions about Jeebleh’s family and grandchild as Cambara goes back and forth between them and the kitchen. Jeebleh remembers Seamus, their mutual Irish friend, commenting on how Bile, without two shillings to rub against each other, resisted having them take care of the expenses of his prostate surgery. “Typical Somali behavior,” Seamus had said. “Such vacuous arrogance.”

When the meal is served, they tuck into their food in appreciative silence. Malik has many questions about the country. However, it is never easy to talk fluently and without inhibition in a room where the sick are. Cambara notes that Bile is starting to display early signs of exhaustion from the small talk. She says to Malik, “Et tu?”

Malik says, “It feels bizarre that I am back in a place to which I have never been before.”

Interested, Bile shifts in his seat and sits forward, his fingers close to his mouth in an effort to hide the ugliness of a front tooth with a tiny chip. He says, “Can one return to a place to which one has never been?”

Malik explains, “I meant that even though I have never been to Somalia, I know a lot about the country, because my grandparents and my father wished they could visit the country of their ancestors. In fact, my old man is living somewhere in the breakaway Republic of Somaliland, tending to his camels, married to a much younger woman and raising a new brood of kids.”

Cambara lays her hand on Bile’s thigh, and, turning to him, asks Malik if his mother is Chinese Malaysian. He nods his head. “She is. It is my father who is Somali.”

Bile interjects, “You see Somalis everywhere.”

“Stranded in an alien place, like flotsam,” says Cambara.

Bile frowns and goes on, “I seldom imagine Somalis stranded. Many do well wherever they end up.” Then suddenly he holds his breath, as though he has the hiccups, and when he inhales he changes tack. “Have you ever heard of a Chinese female pirate, name of Mrs. Cheng?”

Malik, who has read a lot about the exploits of the Somali pirates in the peninsula and is equally familiar with other aspects of piracy, appears puzzled. “No, I haven’t heard of Mrs. Cheng.”

Jeebleh says to Bile, “Why did I think you would not be in the least interested in the question of piracy, either off the coast of Somalia or elsewhere?”

Bile replies, “Of course, I am interested.”

Jeebleh is aware that among the Somalis with whom he has discussed the subject of piracy, many without reservation condemn the illegal foreign vessels fishing in the Somali Sea. They say that this unchecked robbery has caused joblessness among fishermen and led them to piracy. In fact, Somali fishermen appealed to the United Nations and the international community to help rid them of the large number of foreign vessels, estimated in 2005 at about seven hundred, engaged in unlicensed fishing off the country’s southern shores. The country profile compiled by the United Nations’ own Food and Agricultural Organization in 2005 confirmed that not only were these vessels plundering Somalia’s marine resources but many of them were also dumping rubbish — nuclear and chemical waste.

Jeebleh asks Bile, “Why are you interested in the topic?”

“Because one of my distant nephews, a former fisherman, bought a skiff and set up his own piracy unit in Xarardheere after a Korean fishing vessel shot at him and his companions when they tried to discourage their presence near their own fishing grounds. Shot at, injured, made jobless, and very upset, they set up a cooperative and, together with some of his mates, formerly fishermen, now unemployed, they armed themselves to fight back. First, they hijacked a yacht, made a small killing amounting to a few thousand dollars in ransom, and then they took a Korean ship and crew captive. They received a ransom in thousands of dollars.”

“Only a few thousand dollars in ransom?”

Jeebleh asks, “Do you think that vengeance is the motive behind these acts? They want to reclaim what is theirs by right, since the world cares little about the illicit fishing.”

Bile says, “From what my nephew tells me, there isn’t much money in it. Somalia loses more in the amount of fish taken away, in the continued degradation of the environment, and so on and so forth.”

Malik wonders aloud, “You mean there are no lavish weddings being staged, no formidable mansions being built in Eyl, Hobyo, and Xarardheere? The entire region is not flush with funds and full of luxury goods?”

Bile replies, “All I know is what my nephew has told me. He speaks of ten thousand dollars apiece, much less than what the newspapers claim.”

Malik asks, “So where does the money go?”

“I keep thinking something doesn’t add up,” Cambara says.

Jeebleh says, “Do you think then, Bile, that Cicero’s often repeated description of pirates as the ‘enemy of humanity’ does not necessarily tell the whole story, when it comes to the Somalis locally labeled as the nation’s coast guard?”

“That may have been the case when thievery at sea was common and when all the peoples living by the sea could’ve been described as pirates. Which they were, pirates,” Bile says. “In fact, according to Thucydides, it was common among ancient Greeks to pursue thievery at sea as a lucrative vocation. Here, ‘piracy’ started only after the wholesale robbery of our marine resources.”

Cambara says, “Truth be told, resorting to thuggery at sea and banditry on land have become normal as a result of two decades of civil war. Any other explanation is beside the point, as far as I am concerned.”

Bile screws up his face, chews his food with the slow deliberateness of someone entertaining a nasty thought, and then says, “Anyhow, according to a book I’ve read, the Chinese female pirate Mrs. Cheng commanded a fleet larger than the navy of many countries in her day. She was some pirate, wasn’t she?”

Malik says, “She must have been.”

Cambara says, “Jeebleh tells me that your parents met and married in Aden. That’s interesting.”

A sudden exhaustion makes Bile’s face assume a different shape, like a plant that has had too much sun and is now starting to wilt. His eyes droop, and his lips form themselves into an exhausted pout. When Cambara inquires if he needs help, whispering into his ear, Bile waves her off. Jeebleh thinks that Bile is behaving like a tired child refusing to go to bed.

Cambara says, “You would think that Somalis had invented piracy, from the way the Western media talk about their exploits, paying more attention to it than whatever else is happening in the country.”

“Maybe because of the hostage-taking?” Malik wonders aloud. “And because of the dangers to shipping lanes.”

“But that’s not how the piracy started,” she says.

Jeebleh says, “I am sure he knows that was not how the piracy started.”

“Will you visit Puntland to write about the piracy there?” Cambara asks Malik.

“I am interested in writing about every aspect that touches on the lives of Somalis,” Malik says. “The civil war and its repercussions. The Ethiopian invasion. The piracy and who funds it, where they get their intelligence before launching their attacks, how they receive the ransom payments.”

Jeebleh says to Cambara, “I am sure I told you on the phone when we spoke that Ahl, Malik’s older brother, is arriving in Puntland as we speak, to locate Taxliil, his runaway stepson. We believe he’s holed up there with the militants.”

Bile perks up when he hears all this. “You see, my dearest, everything happens for a reason. Illegal fishing in Somali waters and the resultant piracy. The Ethiopian invasion. The American involvement in Somali politics. Al Qaeda’s presence in the peninsula. The Courts and their failings, apparent only to those of us who live in Mogadiscio. Somalis in the diaspora say, ‘But at least they brought peace to the country.’ Those of us who live inside the country and who know better say, ‘At what price?’ I doubt if that has been worth it. After all, the devastation being visited on the country following the Ethiopian invasion could have been avoided. If only!”

Jeebleh’s gaze steadies and focuses on Bile, who is giving him a sharp look, as though urging him to level with him.

“I know that there are two or more sides to every story,” Jeebleh says. Then he surprises even himself by blurting out, “We, too, have had a run-in with the capricious authoritarian nature of the Courts.”

Malik, whose spoon is heaped with food, stops with it midway between his plate and his mouth, and stares at his father-in-law. His nostrils flare, touching off an alarm signal in Jeebleh. Malik is plainly unhappy that Jeebleh has chosen to speak about their encounter with BigBeard.

An uneasy hush descends. Bile purses his lips in self-blame. He says to Malik, “Time I retired.” To Cambara, he adds, “Please don’t get up. Stay with our guests.” And he takes leave of Jeebleh, saying, “See you anon.”

Self-conscious, they fall silent and look away. Bile takes a long time to get to the stairway and much longer to go up the steps one at a time. When he has gone out of sight and she assumes he cannot hear her, Cambara explains, “Bile tires easily.”

Jeebleh is understandably worried that Cambara may one day up and leave, as the younger partner in a couple often does, and he wonders what will become of his friend. He remembers a married couple younger than he and with whom he has been friends for years. The woman, younger than the husband by some ten years, opted out of the marriage just before turning fifty. Soon after, she entered a lesbian relationship, because the thought of a husband demanding sex after her menopause put her off men forever. She explained that she dreaded submitting to her husband’s insatiable advances, and felt it would be easier with other women. Jeebleh never found out if that was the case, as he never dared ask her when they met in the common room at the college where they taught.

No one wants to eat any more. All three get to their feet, and Malik, eager to go on a tour of the city, gathers the plates and takes them to the kitchen. He returns to find Jeebleh chatting to Cambara about his family and, most touchingly, about his granddaughter and how bright-eyed she is. Jeebleh acknowledges Malik with a heartwarming smile.

Cambara says to Malik, “Be on your guard; journalists are under constant threat. There are fifth columnists, some working in cahoots with the religionists and others with foreign forces intent on destabilizing an already destabilized country.”

Jeebleh thinks that Cambara has fallen afoul of the religionists because she is her own woman, unbending in her determination to do what she pleases. He recalls Dajaal informing him that she started wearing a headscarf and then the veil to minimize her unceasing quarrels with the men averse to seeing women with uncovered hair, or young women in trousers, or in dresses deemed to make men lust after them. Women must hide their bodily assets so that the men in whom fires of lust are burning may not be tempted into sin. It must be hard on Cambara, trained as a makeup artist and an actor, not to be able to express her womanliness, if that is what she has a mind to do.

No wonder some of the religionists want to run her out of the city where she has found the happiness that eluded her in Toronto.

Conveniently, Dajaal is at the door, ready to drive them back to the apartment.

Cambara stares into Jeebleh’s eyes with great intensity. There is a hint of sorrow — of loneliness with depth, Jeebleh thinks, and he remarks that she runs her tongue repeatedly over her lips and seems to be holding back tears. She does not want them to go, even if she can’t bring herself to say so; she wants the good-bye to last forever. Malik, for his part, thinks that there is nothing like the aloneness of a woman looking after a man she loves, in a city like Mogadiscio.

It is then that she comes out with it. “I wish you were staying here with us, both of you. Only we thought, or rather Bile thought, that Malik would want to have his own place, where he could do his writing and conduct his interviews in peace. Also, we have a young man staying in the annex, Robleh, the younger brother of a close friend of mine, a die-hard supporter of the Courts. He spends all his time in the mosques, politicking. I would love for you to meet him. He is some sort of talent spotter for the radical religionist fringe.”

“I’d very much like to meet him,” says Malik.

“Robleh is into everything the religionists do,” she says. “Who knows, he may know someone who can assist you in finding what has become of the runaway Taxliil. What do you think?”

Dajaal, who has now joined them in the foyer, is pointing at his watch, indicating they are running out of daylight. Like a mother with a baby sleeping in another room, Cambara responds to a movement upstairs: Bile flushing the toilet and shuffling slowly back to bed.

“I must go,” she says, hugging them, and they are off.

Jeebleh isn’t keen on the city tour, but he doesn’t fuss. He sits silently while Dajaal acts as tour guide, answering Malik’s questions. Malik takes copious notes as Dajaal points out buildings, gives the names of streets, and spells the names of the districts through which they happen to be traveling. Dajaal has the sociology of it down pat. Malik writes in his notebook, “The heart sickens.”

Jeebleh finds a generic featurelessness to the city’s destruction, as if the impact of a single bomb, detonating, had brought down the adjacent buildings, or they had collapsed in sympathy. The city is oddly ostentatious in its vulgarity, like a woman who was once a beauty refusing to admit that the years have caught up with her. Dajaal says, “It’s an in-your-face city, whose various parts, hamlets of no mean size, are less than the whole. It extends in many directions, in utter disorder, as if a blind city planner has determined its current shape.”

Women in niqabs—veils — and body tents go past, treading with much care, in streets chockablock with minibuses speeding down the dusty roads. One loses one’s bearings in a city with few landmarks, no road markings, and no street names.

Dajaal says, for Malik and Jeebleh’s benefit, “The city has undergone many changes, in the residents it attracts and in the services it renders or doesn’t render anymore.”

Here, a set of dirt alleys leading into a maze of dead ends. There, hummocks of rubble accumulated over the years through neglect and lack of civic maintenance; kiosks, mere shacks, built bang in the center of what was once a main thoroughfare, now totally blocked. “How this city could do with the return of law and order in the shape of a functioning state!”

Malik writes away furiously, happy with the tour. Jeebleh suffers in shocked sadness.

Dajaal pulls off the road and stops. He asks Jeebleh if he remembers where they are. Jeebleh has no idea. He looks out in search of any distinctive features that might guide him, but finds none. Dajaal explains, “The Green Line dividing the territories of the two warlords during your last visit used to be here.”

Satisfied now that he has filled several pages with his scribbles, Malik asks, “How far are we from the Siinlay?” He is referring to the spot where the fiercest battle between the CIA-funded warlords and the religionists occurred, ending with the religionists running the warlords out of the city.

“Siinlay is far,” replies Dajaal.

“What about the Bakhaaraha market complex?”

“Too late,” says Dajaal.

Jeebleh adds, “Besides, you need a whole day.”

Dajaal looks at his watch and switches on the radio, just in time to hear a religionist announcing that the army of the faithful in control of much of Somalia is declaring war on Ethiopia.

Jeebleh says, “This is madness.”

Dajaal says, “This foolish man declaring war on Ethiopia thinks, erroneously, that invading the strongest military power in this part of Africa will be a walk in the park. It won’t be.”

Silence reigns until they get to the apartment.

Nearly an hour after dropping them off, Dajaal telephones Jeebleh to confirm that he will be bringing Gumaad along, as Malik has requested. Malik is interested in hearing Gumaad’s reaction to the declaration of war. He wants to know what an ardent supporter of the Courts will say.

Jeebleh is in the kitchen, improvising a light meal. He is troubled, because he has just learned from Malik that in addition to removing the naked photographs of Malik’s baby daughter and several newspaper clippings and files, BigBeard has fed his computer a vicious virus that has effectively ruined the machine. At present, it works fitfully, coming on and then going off and sometimes balking when Malik attempts to restart it.

Jeebleh is sad that so far things have not worked out to his and Malik’s expectations; he regrets that neither he nor Dajaal took preventive measures to avoid Malik suffering at the hands of a moonlighter claiming to be serving the interests of the Courts. Exhausted, his eyes closing as though of their own accord, Jeebleh is back now to the remote past, where he pays a nostalgic visit to his and Bile’s childhood and revisits his student days in Italy with Bile and Seamus. Thinking about the visit with Bile earlier today, the memory leaves him dispirited.

Many years separate his and Bile’s shared milestones, each representing a turning point in a life fully realized. Jeebleh still wishes to discharge his duty to his mother, on whose grave he will call at some stage, maybe alone, maybe with Malik — but only on the proviso that he does not write about it in one of his articles. He wants to protect his mother’s memory.

A knock on the door of the apartment coincides with the ringing of Jeebleh’s cell phone. Dajaal is outside. Jeebleh dismantles the security contraption, unbolting and then pulling back the metal sheet that covers the door. Then he pushes back the plating, which serves as a further impediment, meant to bar gunmen from gaining unwelcome access.

Gumaad is the first to enter, dressed to the nines, hands empty; he is all grins. He strikes Jeebleh as less of a finished product now that he is trying to impress. Dajaal follows, pushing the door wider. Malik joins them in time to see that he is carrying what looks like a platter wrapped in a handwoven shawl, the kind with which corpses of worthy Muslims are shrouded on their way to the burial grounds.

Once inside, Dajaal heads for the dining table, Gumaad on his heels to clear enough space for the platter. Dajaal sets it down with consummate care, as one might set down a soup bowl full to the brim. He says, “The best lamb dish Mogadiscio can offer. Compliments of Cambara and Bile.”

“How thoughtful,” Malik says.

“This is not homemade, is it?”

Dajaal replies, “Of course not.”

As all four prepare to tuck in, Jeebleh remembers a Mogadiscio tradition, in which families would send food over to the rows and rows of rooms facing a central courtyard. Those were the rooms of the unmarried young men of the family, who had only sleeping provisions, but no cooking facilities. If they had jobs and could afford it, the bachelors would eat at restaurants in the evenings, preferring not to join the rest of the family in the evening’s fare of beans and rice. There would be a glass of boiled and sugared milk waiting for them on their return home.

The lamb, soft-looking, juicy and cooked in the traditional way, is on the right side of brown, and sits on a bed of rice cooked in saffron and garnished with a mix of vegetables. The dish reignites in Jeebleh a memory of long-ago days at an institution called Jangal Night Club, famous for its lamb dishes. The restaurant got its name from its location in the bushes. You sat right under the acacia trees, trimmed into the shape of umbrellas, in the company of a young woman. Waiters flitted about in the semidarkness, bearing kerosene lamps to show clients the way to their private eating enclosures. You placed your order but the waiters would dawdle, allowing the couple sufficient time to “do their thing.” When they returned, carrying a kerosene lamp in one hand and the food platters in the other, they would announce their presence and not enter the enclosure until you bade them to.

Jeebleh is certain that the religionists wouldn’t permit such an establishment to function these days, but he asks anyway. “By the way, what’s become of Jangal?”

Dajaal says, “This food is from Jangal.”

Jeebleh says, “I am surprised to hear that.”

“Jangal has recently reopened, with a new management, in a hotel,” Dajaal explains. “The city’s top-ranking religionists are the regulars there, so no fooling around in the bushes, necking or making love on the quick. The chef has not lost his magical touch, though — the lamb is still the best in town.”

Malik says, “Let’s eat. What’re we waiting for?”

They wash their hands with hot water and soap, preparing to eat with their fingers. Malik remarks how expertly Jeebleh distributes the choicest lamb portions in the unmistakable manner of a patriarch presiding over a dinner table, ensuring that everyone gets his share and eats his fill. Jeebleh for his part observes how different Malik’s style of eating is from theirs. He opens his palm flat, then forms it into the shape of a spade, picks the rice and some meat, and forms them into a ball before licking away mouthfuls of it. Maybe that is the way they eat where he originally comes from.

Malik showers compliments on the food after every second mouthful, and heaps accolades on Cambara for suggesting that Dajaal bring it. After dinner, when the others are busy stacking the dishes and washing them, he goes into his room and reemerges with a tape recorder. Again his heart is beating angrily, because he knows that until he has bought a new computer, he has to write everything down in longhand.

“Now tell me,” Malik says. “Why would anyone threaten Ethiopia with invasion and claim that the army of the faithful is powerful enough to march all the way to Addis Ababa and take it?”

Gumaad cockily responds, “Possibly he knows something we, who are not privy to the secrets of the Courts, do not know.”

Dajaal and Jeebleh say nothing; they listen.

“What do you think he knows that we don’t?”

Gumaad then compares the statement the defense spokesman of the Courts made to the one Saddam Hussein made a month before the second U.S. invasion of Iraq, when he kept boasting that America would regret its action. Surprisingly, the Republican Guard, described as the fiercest and best-trained Arab army, melted away. However, once the United States occupied the country, the men from the Guard staged their insurgency on the occupying forces.

Malik is shocked at Gumaad’s naïveté. “Why provoke a bully you can’t defeat at a moment in your history when you are militarily at your weakest?”

Gumaad says, “We have Allah on our side, too.”

The room fills with silence until Dajaal, slurring his words, says, “The defense spokesman is a fool speaking out of line.”

Not wanting Gumaad and Dajaal to have a go at each other and derail his plans, Malik asks, “Do we know the number of men under arms, the strength of the Courts’ fighting force?”

Gumaad admits he doesn’t know.

“Do you know anyone who might?”

Gumaad says, “I’ll ask around.”

Jeebleh rises to his feet, saying, “Tea or coffee?”

In the kitchen, Jeebleh covers the remains of the lamb dish in aluminum foil and leaves it to cool. With Dajaal and Gumaad on the balcony, arguing vociferously about something to do with a drone over the city skies, Malik offers to dry and put away the plates for Jeebleh, whose hands are sudsy. As he does so, he fights hard not to allow his mind to wander away or to think about his computer; he has decided he will buy a new machine tomorrow, if possible.

Jeebleh says to Malik, “Perhaps you can serve the tea and coffee?”

“Sure,” Malik says, and takes the tray out to the balcony.

Dajaal and Gumaad fall silent when Malik joins them. They each put several spoons of sugar in their tea. Then they sip, Gumaad making slurping noises as he does so.

He says to Malik, “Tell me, have you had a chance to read any of the articles by some of the local journalists, whom I hope you will get to meet and even interview?”

When Malik is hesitant and uncomfortable, Dajaal says, “Don’t let it worry you. You may speak the truth to us. We know they can’t be good, many of them. Gumaad and I know that none has had the kind of training that will make them professionals.”

Gumaad adds his voice to Dajaal’s, saying, “Go on and tell us.”

Malik speaks with care. He says, “In my view, the writing is composed of ramshackle paragraphs sloppily conceived and shakily held together by a myriad of prejudices for which there is little or no supporting evidence. I suspect not one of them has done the background research for the pieces they’ve published. Moreover, the proofreading is atrocious, presumably because there are no trained editors or copy editors.”

“You can’t expect better,” Dajaal says. “After all, they are self-taught and have taken up writing for these papers, which promote partisan, clan-based interests.”

Gumaad says, “Come, come. Be fair, Dajaal.”

“What training have you had?” Dajaal challenges.

Gumaad alters the thrust of their talk. He says, “I know some of the betters with whom I’ve worked. They have received several months’ on-the-job training.”

“Three months maximum, if that,” Dajaal says.

As if to soften the blow, Malik says, “Still, I admire their courage, despite their lack of training or analytical acumen. They put their lives on the line, writing what they write. How many of us risk our lives on a daily basis for what we write? They are targeted, killed — and they continue writing. My hat is off to them.”

When Jeebleh joins them, carrying his sugarless cup of coffee, Malik gives him the gist of their conversation. He nods his head in agreement but remains silent.

The night air is pleasant. The stars are aglitter, and there is a touch of salt in the wind. It’s been a long day. Gumaad and Dajaal are still engaged in their long-winded diatribes. Dajaal has lost his cool twice, forfeiting his eloquence for short-term gain, almost resorting to abusive language. This is very uncharacteristic of him, Jeebleh thinks.

Jeebleh does not like Gumaad’s cockiness, but believes it is good for Malik to hear someone who represents the religionist view, which constructs a world far less complicated than that of the secularists.

Gumaad confirms that Baidoa, the garrison town to which the Federalists are now confined, is under siege. The religionists control all the entry points; no trucks carrying food or fuel can go in or out. Twice in the past week alone, remote-controlled bombs exploded in the center of the town, causing casualties. The siege elevates matters to a riskier level and is bringing untold suffering to the town’s residents.

“Do you expect an invasion soon?” Malik asks.

“The momentum is on our side, and we’ll attack.”

“Attack when the talks are ongoing?” Malik says.

Gumaad replies, “Because the Ethiopians, our age-old enemies, are liaising with the U.S., and the U.S. is providing them with intelligence from their satellites stationed above our city.”

Malik says, “The Americans won’t enter the fray. They have the Afghan and Iraqi wars occupying their minds and taking an enormous toll on their economy. Those two wars are enough to keep them busy for another decade or more. Anyhow, what’s in it for them?”

They fall silent for quite a while. Then Gumaad gets to his feet. He pulls Malik up, then gestures to Jeebleh and Dajaal to join them. As the four of them stand side by side, their bodies touching, Gumaad speaks. “Can you hear it?”

“What am I supposed to hear?” asks Malik.

Gumaad says, “Look up at the sky.”

“I am looking.”

“Tell me what you can see.”

“I see tropical stars.”

“And what can you hear?”

“I hear city night noises.”

“Listen. Take your time, gentlemen.”

Jeebleh hears a distant drone.

“Can you see anything?” Gumaad asks Malik.

“What am I supposed to see?”

“A small light in the seventh sky, blinking.”

Malik searches the sky. Nothing.

“More like a Cessna, from here,” Jeebleh says, and points to a constellation of stars he cannot name. Then he says to Malik. “A lightweight plane, some sort of a surveillance drone, up in the sky. Can you not hear or see, Malik?”

Gumaad encourages him. “Concentrate. Please.”

Malik at long last picks up a continuous drone, which reminds him of a child’s battery-operated toy, the noise on and then off. An unmanned predator, operated by a ground pilot, or someone positioned on a carrier warship stationed ashore, flown in areas of medium risk for surveillance purposes, like the drones used in attempted targeted killings in Pakistan, Palestine, and Afghanistan. These unmanned predator drones have of late become a common feature in Mogadiscio’s skies, because the United States suspects the Courts of giving refuge to four men it alleges are Al Qaeda operatives. The presence of high-flying spy planes here marks a significant departure, and makes the United States complicit if Ethiopia invades and occupies Mogadiscio. Or so Mogadiscians are convinced. They assume the drones, which they hear and see without fail from nine every evening until about four in the morning, are sufficient evidence that the Americans are gathering information.

Jeebleh yawns heavily, indicating he is tired; he wants Gumaad and Dajaal to leave. But before they do, he brings out the platter in which the food came, already washed and packed so that Dajaal may return it to its owner.

“See you tomorrow, about noon,” Jeebleh says.

“Good night. See you tomorrow.”

“Very good for a first day,” Malik says.

“I’m glad things are working out, except for the computer problem,” Jeebleh says. “But I know that you will not let that pull down your spirits.”

Malik says, “I should have known what the reaction of a religionist with sex on his mind would be to a naked photograph of a year-old girl in her bath. Pornography, my foot! Not to worry. I will not allow it to color my judgment.”

“What about the articles he deleted?”

“I have copies on a memory stick,” Malik says.

Jeebleh says, “I should have alerted you to the possibility, and I should have been more supportive. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t let that worry you; you did what you could under the circumstances,” Malik says, and he goes to embrace Jeebleh.

Jeebleh relaxes his features into a sweet softness, the night stars shining in his eyes. Just looking at him, Malik is so touched that he wants to wrap himself around his father-in-law yet again and to say how delighted he is to be here. Instead, he tells him about the mini-recorder he has in his pocket, which has registered everything. Malik makes Jeebleh listen to some of the conversation he recorded.

Jeebleh says, “Whatever else you do, please don’t mention my name in any of your articles, lest it devalue your work or my input.”

“I am proud of our association and will say so.”

They embrace again and then go to bed, content.