Crossbones (12 page)

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.