Desert Flower (26 page)

My little brother, All, was also with her, along with one of my cousins, who happened to be visiting my mother when Is mail came. All wasn’t my little brother anymore, however. At six four he towered over me, which pleased him no end. I kept holding All, and he would cry, “Get off now!

I’m not a baby no more. I’m getting married.” “Married! How old are you?”

“I don’t know. Old enough to get married.” “Well, I don’t care. You’re still my baby brother.

Come here’ And I’d grab him and rub his head. My cousin laughed at this. I said to him, “I used to whip your ass!” - I used to babysit him when he was little and his family came to visit us.

“Yeah? Well, come try it now.” He started shoving me and dancing around.

“Oh, no, don’t!” I cried. “Don’t even try. I’ll beat you up.” My cousin was getting married soon, too. “If you want to make it to your wedding day, boy, don’t mess with me.”

At night, Mama slept in the hut of one of the families there in Galadi who had taken us in. I slept outside with Ali just like in the old days. As we lay there at night, I felt such a state of peace and happiness. We’d stare at the stars and talk deep into the night: “Remember the time we tied up Papa’s little wife?” and then both of us would roar.

All was so shy at first, but he confided, “You know, I really miss you. You’ve been gone for so long. It’s so strange to think you’re a woman now and I’m a man.” It felt wonderful to be back with my family again, and talk and laugh and argue in my language about familiar things.

All the villagers were incredibly generous to us. We had invitations to a different home each day for lunch and dinner. Everybody wanted to spoil

us and show us off, and hear all the stories about where we’d been. “Oh, come on, you’ve got to meet my child, meet my granny’ and they’d drag us off and introduce us. And none of this was about my being a ‘super model,” because they had no idea about any of that. I was one of them a nomad and I’d come back home.

My mother, bless her heart, couldn’t understand what I did for a living, no matter how hard I tried to explain. “Now, what is it again? What’s modeling? You do what? What does that mean exactly?” At some point, someone traveling through the desert brought my mother a copy of The Sunday Times of London with my picture on the cover. Somali people are fiercely proud, and they were delighted to see a Somali woman on the cover of this English newspaper. Mama looked at it and said, “It’s Waris! Oh, my daughter!” She carried it around showing all the villagers.

She got over her shyness after that first night, and quickly warmed up enough to boss me around: “You don’t cook like that, Waris! Tsktsk, come, now! Let me show you. Don’t you cook in that place where you live?”

Next, my brother started asking me what I thought about this and that. I’d tease him, “Oh please shut up, All. You’re just stupid, ignorant

bush people. You’ve lived here too long and you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yeah? You’re famous, so you come home and put on your bullshit Western attitude? Now you live in the West and you know everything?”

We argued back and forth for hours. I didn’t want to hurt their feelings, but I figured if I didn’t tell them certain things, who else was going to? “Well, I don’t know everything, but I’ve seen a lot and learned a lot I didn’t know living back in the bush. And it’s not all about cows and camels. I can tell you other things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for one thing you’re destroying your environment by cutting all the trees. You cut all the little trees before they have a chance to grow, using the saplings to make pens for these stupid animals.” I pointed at a nearby goat. “It’s not right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the whole land is a desert now because we’ve cut all the trees.”

“The land is a desert because it doesn’t rain, Waris! It rains in the north and they’ve got trees.”

“That’s why it rains there! It rains because there’s a forest there. And every other day you’re cutting any little twig, so no forest ever has a

chance to grow here.” They didn’t know whether to believe this bizarre idea or not, but there was one topic they felt confident I couldn’t argue with.

My mother started. “Why are you not married?” This subject was still an open wound with me after all these years. As far as I was concerned it was the issue that had cost me my home and family. I know my father had meant well, but he’d offered me a terrible choice: do what he said, and ruin my life by marrying that old man, or run away, and give up everything I knew and loved. The price I paid for my freedom was enormous, and I hoped I’d never have to force a child of mine to make such a painful decision.

“Mama, why must I marry? Do I have to be married? Don’t you want to see me a success strong, independent? I mean, if I’m not married, it’s just because I haven’t found the right man yet. When

I find him, then it will be time.”

“Well, I want grandchildren.”

Now they decided to all gang up on me. My cousin joined in: “Too old now. Who’d want to marry you? Too old.” He shook his head at the horror of anybody marrying a twenty-eight year-old woman.

I threw my hands up. “And who wants to get

married if you’re going to force them to? Why are you two getting married?” I pointed at All and my cousin. “I bet somebody pushed you into it.” “No, no.” They both agreed.

“Well, okay, but just because you’re boys. But as a girl, I have no say. I’m supposed to marry who you tell me to, when you tell me to. What is that shit? Who came up with that idea?”

“Oh, shut up, Waris,” my brother groaned. “You shut up, too!”

When we had two days left, Gerry said we had to start filming. He got several scenes of me with my mother. But Mama had never seen a camera before and she hated it. She said, “Get that thing out of my face. I don’t want that,” and she’d swat at the cameraman. “Waris tell him to get that thing out of my face.” I told her it was okay. “Is he looking at me Or is he looking at you?”

“He’s looking at both of us.”

“Well, tell him I don’t want to look at him. He’s not going to hear what I say, is he?” I tried to explain the process to her, but I knew it was hopeless.

“Yeah, Mama. He hears everything you say,” I said with a laugh. The cameraman kept asking me

what we were laughing about. “Just the absurdity of it all…” I answered.

The crew spent another day filming me, as I walked through the desert alone. I saw a little boy watering his camel at a well, and I asked him if I could feed it. I held a bucket up to the animal’s mouth for the crew. Throughout all this, it was hard for me to hold back my tears.

The day before we left, one of the women in the village did my fingernails with henna. I held my hand up to the camera, and it looked like I had mushy cow poop glob bed on the tip of each finger. But I felt like a queen. These were the ancient beauty rituals of my people the type they normally save for a bride. That night we had a celebration and the villagers were all dancing, clapping, and singing. It was like old times I remembered from childhood, when everyone would rejoice over the rain such an uninhibited feeling of freedom and joy.

The next morning before the plane came to get us, I got up early and had breakfast with my mother. I asked her if she would like to come back and live with me in England or the States.

“But what would I do?” she said.

“That’s precisely it. I don’t want you to do anything. You’ve done enough work in your time. It’s

time for you to rest put your feet up. I want to spoil you.”

“No. I can’t do that. First of all, your father’s getting old. He needs me. I need to be with him. And second, I have to take care of the children.”

“What do you mean, children? All of us are grown!”

“Well, your father’s children. Remember what’sher-name, that little girl he married?”

“Ye-s-s.”

“Well, she had five kids. But she couldn’t take it anymore. I guess our life was too tough for her, or she couldn’t handle your father. Anyway, she ran away disappeared.”

“Mama… how dare you. You’re getting too old for that kind of stuff! You shouldn’t be working that hard chasing kids around at your age.”

“Well, your father’s getting old, too, and he needs me. Besides, I can’t just sit around. If I sit down, I’m going to be old. I can’t stay still after all these years that would drive me crazy. I have to keep moving. No. If you want to do something for me, get me a place in Africa, in Somalia, that I can go to when I’m tired. This is my home. This is all I’ve ever known.”

I gave her a big hug. “I love you, Mama, and I’m

coming back for you, don’t you forget that. I’m coming back for you…”

She smiled and waved goodbye.

Once we got aboard the plane, I broke down. I didn’t know when or if I’d ever see my mother again. While I was staring out the window crying, watching the village, then the desert, slip away, the crew was filming a close-up shot of me.

16.

In the spring of 1995, I finished the documentary with the BBC, which they titled A Nomad in New York. And I was indeed a nomad after all these years, since I still didn’t have a real home. I moved around, following the work: New York, London, Paris, Milan. I’d stay with friends, or in hotels. What few things I owned a few photos, some books and CDs were stashed away at Nigel’s house in Wales. Since most of my work was in New York, I spent more time there than anywhere. At one point I actually rented my first apartment a studio in SoHo. Later, I had a place in the Village, then a house on West Broadway.

But I didn’t like any of these places. The place on Broadway was total madness it drove me crazy. Every time a car passed by, it sounded like it was inside my house. There was a firehouse on the corner, and I heard sirens going off all night. I couldn’t get enough rest, and after ten months I gave up and went back to my nomadic existence.

That fall I did the runway shows in Paris, then decided to skip the shows in London and come straight to New York. I felt it was time to get my own place and settle down a bit, and while I apartment hunting, I stayed in the Village one of my closest friends, George. While I was there one night, another friend of George’s, had a birthday. She wanted to go out on the to celebrate, but George announced he was tired, and he had to get up early in the for work. I volunteered to go out with Lucy.

We walked out of the house, with no idea where we were going. On Eighth Avenue, J stopped and pointed out my old apartment. used to live up there, above that jazz place. always played good music, but I never went As we stood there, I listened to the music out the door. “Hey, come on, let’s go in. You to)’

“Nah. I want to go to Nell’s.”

“Oh, come on. Let’s go in and just check it out. I really like this music they’re playing I feel like dancing.”

Reluctantly, Lucy agreed to go in. I walked down the steps into a tiny little club, and straight ahead was the band. I walked up to the stage and stopped. The first person I saw was the drummer; the light was shining on him in the otherwise dark room. He was banging away, and I just stood there staring at him. He had kind of a big seventies Afro, with a funky style. When Lucy caught up to me, I turned to her: “No, no, no. We’re staying. Sit down, have a drink. We’re staying for a little bit.” The band was really jamming and I started dancing like crazy. Lucy joined in, and soon all the other people, who had been kind of subdued, sitting around just watching, got up and started dancing with us.

Hot and thirsty, I got a drink and stood next to a woman in the audience. I said, “Oh, this is bright music. Who are they, anyway?”

She said, “I don’t know because they’re all freelancers, but my husband is the one playing sax.” “Uh-huh. And who’s the one playing drums?” She smiled slowly. “Sorry, but I don’t know.” In a few minutes the band took a break, and when the drummer walked by, this lady grabbed

his arm and said, “Excuse me, but my friend would like to meet you.”

“Oh, yeah? Who’s that?”

“Her’ and with that she pushed me forward. I was so embarrassed I didn’t know what to say.

Finally, after standing there frozen for a few moments, I said, “Hi.” Play it cool, Waris. “I like the music.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dana,” he said, and looked around shyly.

“Oh.” And he just turned and walked away. Damn! But I wasn’t letting him get away that easily. I followed him to where he sat down with his buddies from the band, yanked up a chair, and sat next to him. When the drummer turned around and saw me, he jumped. I scolded, “Wasn’t I just talking to you? That was rude. You walked away from me, you know?” Dana looked at me, bewildered, then cracked up laughing and doubled over the table.

“What is your name?” he said, when he straightened himself up.

“It doesn’t matter now, anyway,” I replied in my cockiest manner, sticking my nose in the air. But then we began to talk about all kinds of things until he said he had to play again.

“Are you leaving? Who are you here with?” he asked.

“My friend. She’s in the crowd over there.” On his next break, he said the band only had a couple of more sets, and if I wanted to, after they finished we could go somewhere. When he came back, we sat talking and talking about anything and everything. Finally, I said, “It’s too smoky in here. I can’t breathe. You want to go outside?”

“Okay. We can go outside and sit on the steps.” When we reached the top of the stairs he stopped. “Can I ask you something? Can I have a hug?”

I looked at him like it was the most natural request in the world, like I’d known him forever. So I hugged him really tight, and I knew that was it, just like I knew about going to London, and I knew about modeling. I knew this shy drummer with the funky Afro was my man. It was too late to go anyplace that night, but I told him to call me the next day and gave him George’s number. “I have appointments in the morning. But call me exactly at three o’clock. Okay?” I just wanted to see if he would call me when I told him to.