Chapter 12
When Abdullah and Howa walked into the house they found it seemingly empty. But the silence was deceptive since Safia was in her room reciting prayers with her husband's rosary beads and Mayloun was in her own room putting the finishing touches on her outfit.
'Mother !' Howa shouted, making her dark brown uniform swish across the floor.
'Yah!' her mother yelled back.
Abdullah made his way into the kitchen to scavenge what he could and quickly came out with a bowl of rice, having sipped some of the goat milk. He sat down in the corridor.
Abdullah's weight fluctuated like a true semi poor person who has occasional access to unlimited foods. Whereas a few months before he had been chubby, he was now almost skeletal, but a sophisticated skeletal, particularly since his Indian hair was booming and his face had cleared from eating less. He had made up with his aunts after his quarrel with Howa and now was allowed to eat out of the kitchen which was their domain. These quarrels ended up being crash diets for Abdullah because they happened periodically. A bowl of leftover rice was all he could find. If he could have found more he would have had more, binge eating if he could.
He however enjoyed what he had scavenged.
Though Howa had called out for her mother she directly went into her own dark and tiny bedroom to find her sister all dressed up. Surprised, she asked her:
'Mayloun, but isn't mother here?'
Her sister snorted and walked out of the bedroom. At the same time, her mother, dressed in a traditional dress of bloodred, came out of hers, holding the prayer beads in her right hand.
Mayloun had on a long black dress, a veil and was in the midst of pulling on black gloves. Abdullah stopped gorging to look at his aunt, who was a few weeks younger than him, and then looked at his grandfather's spouse. It was apparent that Mayloun was directly challenging social order. For a girl of marriageable age to go outside and pay house calls was already frowned upon but for her to do it brazenly in front her mother was tantamount to criminality. Even Safia was slightly perturbed by the audacity of Mayloun.
'Where are you going ?' she asked her.
'To find a husband,' Mayloun answered, suppressing a laugh, and put her veil down. She walked past Abdullah, her black veil hiding her smirk. In shock, he looked at Safia, his half chewed food in his right cheek.
Howa had come out to look too. Everyone was waiting to see what Safia would do. It was very plain that she would do nothing but yell an impotent 'yah!' as Mayloun approached the backdoor.
Abdullah was caught in two minds. On the one, it was his duty to speak up and force Mayloun, though she was his aunt, to acknowledge her mother. But on the other hand, he had just won reprieve from banishment and any quarrel would lead to another crash diet. 'So soon after ?' he asked himself pitifully. He held his tongue until she left. Burning with self reproach, humiliation, and hatred he muttered with a full mouth for Safia's and his own pride's sake:
'These girls are getting more out of control.'
While Howa said:
'Allah, Mother,' and went back inside the darkness of her room laughing.
The power balance had clearly tipped in Mayloun's favour and the witnesses wondered what had been the cause.
Safia snapped back into her role as matron, sitting down in the corridor a little bit further removed from Abdullah.
'Howa, come out and wash the clothes!'
The laughter stopped.
'But I'm busy. I have to make visits…'
Abdullah stifled a laugh despite himself. Howa had walked out of her bedroom with her face veil on. What she didn't know was that her mother was sitting next to the bedroom and when she saw her daughter, she snatched at her with the hand that held the beads and Howa quickly fell back into her bedroom like she had stepped on flaming coals.
'You ? I dare you too !'
'But I have homework?'
'This was your last day at school.'
'How? But I learned something.'
She came out of the bedroom with her house dress, brown, light and only a headwrap on.
'What did you learn then? Tell me.'
'I learned A + B = 7,' she answered confidently.
'What ?'
Safia lashed out again, trying to strike Howa, who swayed out of distance. She thought Howa was continuing her mockery.
'But A + B = 7,' Howa said angrily, waving her hand like she was exposing the truth, enlightenment, or sprinkling water on a person who fainted.
'Abdullah, what is she saying?'
Abdullah had finished his bowl of rice and looked in it, sorry there wasn't any more left, and turned his gaze to Safia. She asked him because Abdullah was a brilliant student, a fact which he hoped would bring him favour in his election. Who, if not the academic would succeed in the outside world, he asked others.
'I don't know what she is saying. But A + B could equal 7 in the right circumstances. 3 + 4 = 7, I suppose.'
A diplomatic answer.
'See, I said so didn't I?' Howa said belligerently.
'Watch how you talk to me,' Safia responded menacingly, her beads hanging in the palm of her hand, as she put her index finger to her forehead. 'Watch yourself.'
'What did I say? All I said was -'
'Uss, naya!'
Howa walked into her bedroom, picked up a heap of random clothes and went to the back to wash them, not losing a sliver of the haughtiness of vindication for being right.
After darkly eying Howa, Safia turned to Abdullah.
'How is the election, Abdullah? You have that meeting tonight, right ?'
'Yes, auntie, it's tonight. I'm waiting for the old man so we can go together.'
'God willing, you'll win.'
'If there's any justice in this village, I will,' Abdullah said rather spitefully. He disliked talking to women about this election as he felt they were stationed in other corners.
Suddenly Howa popped up, stood in the middle of the corridor and said:
'No chance for you Abdullah. Not one chance. Aaden is after all so…'
She grabbed one of her budding breasts in a dreamy dramatic posture to imitate the older women who spoke of Aaden with such romanticism.
Safia threw her beads at Howa which she avoided just in time. Before Safia could bark at her or heave herself up to launch a physical assault, a noise was heard at the front door. Someone was banging his thick heavy cane against the metal to push it open. Only one person would have the nerve to open the door in such a manner. And that was the one who had paid for it. The old man had returned home.
Chapter 13
Aaden rarely sang, though many people, including Mohamed, thought that he did many an idle time. What they heard him do was simply speak, for Aaden had the most curious of voices. When it had broken, not too long before, it hadn't broken the way it normally would. It retained within its timbre something of the child and woman, giving it a peculiar sound, that seemed like it was always rising to a higher pitch, that his natural masculine voice faintly deepened, or softened, as if training it like a vocal coach. What came out was a mellifluousness that was as near to music as any voice could be, a sound spring would make as it breaks into summer. A wonderful, exhilarating sound like rustling water downwards in a soft stream. But Aaden restrained this quality whenever he could, particularly around men, as he thought it sounded feminine rather than the masculinity he wished to achieve. To restrain this quality, he would never raise his voice, and keep it as even as possible. When he did so, it was the closest to a normal broken voice it could be. With women however, they would encourage animation, and he found himself raising his voice and a sound close to song would appear, his intonations creating a vocal violin. His voice however was not the reason the old, or middle aged women invited him.
When Afrah's grandmother called him to her the first thing he did was hug her, despite her half hearted protestations. It was effusions of warmth of this kind that made the women love him. He was simply affectionate as only a child was, a lover was expected to be, but hard to come by for women of their circle. They simply didn't get that from sexually mature men for reasons of culture and preservation of propriety, though their emotional well-being ached for it. Aaden gave them what they craved for. He gave them affection. This breaking of barriers, between Aaden and themselves, they justified as a cultural break rather than a religious transgression because after all, nothing adulterous ever happened, which eased their conflicted spirits. Neither the woman nor the boy wanted the adultery. So why did he come ? Just for their sake ? Well, it was election season after all.
After Aaden had told Xemi about Yasser's transgression, Yasser's retribution was swift and blood flowed between the distant relatives. In a physical altercation, Aaden would lose, Yasser was older and stronger, but Aaden was loved by nature and he decided to use this to his advantage. He knew that Yasser was seeking election victory and was convinced that he could get his own back, by snatching it from beneath his rival. He was sure too that it would be effortless. And effortless it was. All he had to do was let loose his own affectionate nature, and the women would adore him; and since in this instance there was one vote for all, male and female, and there were more women in this village than men - which Yasser also realised, and thus they both targeted them - there was logic and reason to his plan. 'If all it takes is a cuddle, a little physical contact, then so be it!' Aaden laughed to himself from time to time.
And so, as soon as Aaden entered the house of another rival, bold boy that he was, the physical contact began, and he pressed and squeezed until the bile came out of this shining woman's spirit.
Breathless like a little girl, coy like a coquette, she let him hold her like he did so against her will, and looking at his smiling face she said:
'What are you doing out, in this sun, at this time of day?'
They were on the woman's favourite topic.
'Auntie, you know the sun can't change me.'
Though he called her auntie, because of her age, their relation was that of cousins.
'Careful boy! You'll end up like me!'
'You're a pure white, auntie, haha. Did you put that cream on you, for today?
'You know my routine.'
'What about here?' Aaden traced the length of her exposed arm, 'Did you put some there ?'
As soon as he caressed her arm, the spot where he touched, the hairs would immediately rise where his finger last laid - his touch electric to her. He delighted in watching the hairs grow.
'There's no discoloration anywhere on me,' the grandmother responded hoarsely.
'Come in the sun, show me!'
He saw the shard of glass next to her on the bed and snatched it to look at himself. He sat down with his back to the door so the light could allow his reflection to be seen. He never stopped touching the woman. His left elbow was resting on her knees, while with his right hand he held the mirror. In this village it seemed like someone had shattered a huge piece of glass and given each household only a broken fragment to use for a mirror. There wasn't a single full length, or an oval looking glass with a handle, anywhere in the village.
'Where will you go when you win this election, Aaden, England?'
'No. There is no sun there,' he said leisurely.
'I have been there. It's a perfect country where it's always threatening to rain but only seldom does, the skies forever in protective cover. There are times of the year there when all in nature darkens yet, strangely, your skin complexion lightens.'
'Yes, auntie, seasonal change. How many would die for this natural skin lightener?'
'I would, for one. Why wouldn't you want to be in such a fantastic place?' 'Auntie, the sun is my servant.' She smiled in agreement.
'Where will you go? America?'
'None of the English speaking countries. Are they the only ones out there ? I want to go to France.'
His voice was beginning to rise.
'Auntie, you know they pay people to look beautiful? Allah, what a dream!'
'I know they worship idols. God kill them all.' She was playing with his hair while he caressed her thigh unconsciously. 'It's sinful to become an idol.'
'But there are many Somalis who are models, auntie, paid to be beautiful. I should think I could be one of them. Yes, why not!'
'But why would they pay for you to be beautiful?'
'I don't know why,' he answered, puzzled, 'but I know they do and I will take advantage of it. If they want to worship Somalis let them worship me.'
'God forbid,' she said, while looking at him like he was an idol herself...
Minutes later, feeling sure that he had taken the vote of Abdullah's grandmother for himself, Aaden walked towards the house where the meeting was being held for the top three candidates when he crossed a woman dressed in black. She greeted him and he greeted her. He recognised Mayloun and marvelled at her in this attire that didn't speak well of her reputation. Her boldness intrigued him and there was something about the way she had greeted him that made him determined to visit her house on one of these coming days for a little familial visit. It was election season after all. Every house was open to him in the only season that occurs every ten years.
