Chapter 14
Nimco's mother told her that a woman's greatest lot was to be the second wife of a middle aged husband. The man will have learned from his mistakes with the first and expended youth's negative energy and the reapings would be the second wife's. Nimco's destiny was to be the fourth wife of a dwarf who was in the final years of life.
She was a good family girl, so she didn't raise a racket when she was told of her prospective husband and accepted, and cried not in her parents presence but on Mayloun's shoulders - Mayloun's uncle would be her eventual husband.
And then marital life came and the coarseness of coital love with a man four times her age, a third of her size. She endured, shivering and could not prevent the advent of resentment.
'Why did I have to marry this man just because he's my father's khat buddy?' she muttered bitterly to herself.
Still, whatever ill will she had was restrained, and the loveless marriage continued until a baby was born out of it. At last something in the family which she could love. All she hoped for was that the child would not look like its father.
Then a ludicrous thing happened. After all that endurance, sacrifice and ugliness, her mother came to her one day asking her what kind of wife she had been.
'What do you mean what kind of wife have I been?'
Her mother told her in a tone filled with accusation that the husband wanted a divorce.
'Are you - a break?' she asked, her lips trembling. 'Why? A break?'
She grabbed a nearby gaslamp and smashed it against the wall. She started smashing other breakable things, ripping curtains, destroying the house, her marital home.
'Not just my life, but my reputation too?'
Cursing, she struggled against her mother who was trying to subdue her. What made this prospect so infuriating was not that she wanted to be married to him, but what this divorce would say about her. Early divorces such as this were unheard of in this village, and it would be attributed to the wife's characteristics, especially if the man had three proper, long term marriages before.
Fate had mercy on her because not long after the husband deepened in erratic behaviour, fell ill and died of brain fever. She didn't mourn the death of her ex-husband. She was sorry that it couldn't have happened a couple of weeks earlier to spare her the ignominy of early divorce. How she rued the workings of time ! Still, this could be in part used to clean her image and to marry again in order to obtain the true object of marriage.
In her view the purpose of any marriage is to attain enough progeny to make one's life easy and comfortable. If you have boys, they could arrange income for the parents. If you have girls, they could be used to take care of the house and once they get married, the husbands could be turned to for an occasional stipend, in addition to the bride price. In a perfect scenario some of the kids would be abroad and the parent's life would be close to luxury with its guaranteed pension. If you can't have pleasure in marriage at least you can have comfort. The more kids you have the more chance.
But Nimco only had the one, a daughter, and little prospect for another - until the man died of brain fever. His brain fever could be blamed rather than her character or virtue for the divorce and now she had hope of a new marriage rather than the previous impossibility because of the taint of an early divorce. She had always been a pretty girl and she was pretty still, in her mind, with large sensuous lips and long curving eyelashes, though looks usually were not the arbitrator of marriages in this village. However it could play in your favour...
When the two lovers divorced, Nimco was told to leave the house and returned to her parent's house. When the man died, his family invited her to go back to the dead man's house with apologies.
'What could we do when a crazy, sick man wishes to divorce? None of us agreed with it, with the marriage even, but what could we do? He was unshakeable in his desire for the full allotment…'
This only made Nimco more enraged. The old her, more placid and pliable, was gone and she became more independent, in thought and action.
She was back in her marital home, which had seen three wives before, and ten children, nursing her infant daughter in their bedroom. She lived alone in this ordinary three bedroom house, but her mother and sisters came regularly to assist this unusual single mother, so near a widow; so when she heard the noise she didn't wonder nor was she surprised at the steps in her home as she was used to the swishing of dresses on the concrete floor of her corridor. She recognised her friend even with the niqab on and exclaimed:
'Did he go, or did you make him stay?'
Nimco's face was opened like a flower by curiosity.
Mayloun lifted the veil and exposed a grin, her lips red with lipstick. A gift for her friend who would be the only one to see her cosmetic ability. Mayloun was one of those girls who lose beauty when they put on make-up but she was still very pretty.
Before Mayloun said anything she squeezed Nimco's arm on which the baby was leaning its head as it sucked its mother's teat. It stared at the spectacle because Mayloun made the bed shake when she had sat on it.
'No. He's gone. But I'm pregnant.'
'How?'
'And i'm getting married.'
'To who? But you just said he left. Is he coming back?'
'No, not him. What are you saying ? My mother is in love with that boy, she would never let us marry, nor would he do so. Has anyone ever had such a jealous mother?'
'Then who?'
'Anyone I want to.'
Nimco flicked the baby to the other breast and let the right one hang, glistening with saliva and milk.
'So your mother is finally letting you marry? Why now? Because you're pregnant?'
Mayloun stared at her friend's breast.
'How long does it take for me to lactate?'
She bent her neck, lifted the drooping, full breast and put her lips on the nipple, staring back at the baby who was staring at her.
'What, naya...xisho - '
'Hopefully soon,' she added softly as she sat back upright, puckering her lips, having left a new red areola.
Nimco stared at her friend for a moment but quickly recovered herself, remembering Mayloun's quirks but shuddered slightly from the strange sensation of Mayloun's lips. She was unused to big lips around her nipples as she only ever had small lips around her nipples, with her dwarf husband being proportionate in every way and then her baby, both of them had tiny thin lips and neither had this softness or sensuousness. For Mayloun however it had no such aspect. She did it because something compelled her to, a pure impulsive act, or perhaps it was the fact the nipple glistened, but it would only be that one time.
Nimco straightened her back and pushed her chest out further as she said:
'Who are you marrying?' Her voice was higher than before.
'Son of Abdi Karim.'
'A second wife?' Nimco whispered breathlessly, her past dream entering her once again. 'Why are they letting you choose your husband?' and added quickly, 'Do they know about you and Xemi?'
'Ha! That's the reason. Mother is so in love with this boy that she wants his child, something that reminds her of him. You should have seen the greedy joy in her face when I told her !'
'So that's what it takes,' said Nimco, with resentment taking hold of her. 'I should have gotten pregnant by someone my mother was in love with and I would have been able to marry who I wanted to. Instead I put family first and became an ex wife of a dead dwarf with one child. That's what I get for being family orientated.'
Mayloun was delighted but to console her friend she caressed her shoulder.
'But what if you're not pregnant?' Nimco asked suddenly.
'Then, I guess I have to make sure that I will be. And soon; anything to leave that house!'
The two friends had something in common, sharing the same goal with varying degrees of patience. The same reason Nimco chose to live in this house by herself with her infant son was the same reason Mayloun was so desperate to leave her father's house no matter what. It was much better to work in a house you are matron of than in a house that belonged to someone else.
Chapter 14
When Mayloun left, Nimco began to pace the corridor. Her daughter was asleep in their bed.
'How can it be that those who fall pregnant out of wedlock get what they want, but those who persevere get humiliation?'
She could not rid herself of this thought as she more and more frantically went from one end of the corridor to the other. She was barefoot and it started to sound like slaps when she paced.
'What is the difference between Mayloun and me?' she asked herself, obsessed with this question. After two more laps of the corridor, and twenty slaps to the floor, she answered:
'I did what was expected of me and she didn't.' She slapped the floor twenty more times until the door opened and she saw a hefty woman enter, a heftier, darker version of the younger woman. To herself she said: 'And she has a different mother.'
She eyed her mother darkly and noticed something in her hand.
'What do you have there?'
'Take it.' Her mother handed over the metal container. 'Where is the girl?'
Nimco smelled the samosas before she saw them.
'Hoyo!'
Her mother looked at her child and snorted, going towards her granddaughter.
'How easy it is to please a young girl.'
Whatever hate she felt for her mother evaporated as quickly as it came. Not only was she a sweet loving girl by nature, but the relationship between mother and daughter which had been strained by the divorce, had thawed after the death of her ex husband. How glad they both were that he was dead !
'Leave that for later,' Nimco's mother ordered. 'Go to Dahabshill and get that pension, naya.'
Nimco went to the kitchen with her mouth full, having eaten one real fast. The samosa was an instant hit of pure pleasure and giggling she went to the back. She took a long nosed watering can that had some white water, bathed her face and rinsed her mouth, and then went to her bedroom to dress. Her mother was sitting on the floor with her beads, all old ladies in this village had beads, and watched her daughter dress.
Nimco fussed a little, trying to be quiet so as not to not wake the baby, found what she was looking for; pulled a black dress over her house clothes, the black dress of the niqab. She recently started wearing the niqab because one, it would be seen as a tribute to her dead ex husband, a sign of piousness, showing that her lofty character traits didn't allow spite or resentment. But the main reason was that she didn't want anyone to see her face.
She had noticed mocking glances that made reference to her reputation, imputed to her by the divorce, as not even brain fever and death was enough for some people to vindicate her. At least that is what she thought they had in mind when people looked her way or smiled, talking amongst themselves. The fact was that she got embarrassed easily and didn't want her face to show the fidget caused by burning looks of accusation.
Just as she was ready to go, she inhaled sharply because she remembered something. Scanning through the darkened room, with its low bed and suitcases for armoires, she spotted it in one of the open suitcases next to her mother. Her mother had been following her movements wondering what she was looking for and then Nimco pulled out the lipstick. She pulled her veil up, grabbed a shard of glass the size of her hand and carefully painted her full lips a dark black.
'Why don't you stop wasting money on childish things like that ? Aren't you a mother now ?'
She gave the only person who would see her painted lips an air kiss as she put the veil down and left to collect her pension.
This pension, always said in English, was given to her in pity by the grown son of her exhusband who lived in Australia. Though her pride had initially bristled, preparing to reject the offer, she thought better of it. She considered the monthly pension her just due for her suffering during the marriage and after it, and felt that she had deserved it and still more.
'Who cares what the reason they give it for is? It all falls under the umbrella of justice,' she convinced herself.
She walked towards the money transfer place where she knew it would be. The village had no bank and so once the money was sent in dollars she would collect it and take it to her home in Somali shillings.
She walked briskly in the sun, avoided glances from the men in front of the shops, the ones in the open trucks, covered in dust, that drove from village to village and reached the office of Dahabshill. The business was the only one in the centre filled with shops of various kinds, to have a sign displaying its trade. A big banner across its ordinary beige facade that had Dahabshill inscribed in colourful letters. The building had no room for entry, only a window where a slim man with a moustache was standing watching the approaching woman.
'Salaam, sister,' the clerk said, smiling at his new customer. This pension had only just been established and this was the first time he had seen her collect it personally. 'I have been expecting you,' he said with rather heavy condescension. 'Here.' He pulled out stack after stack of Somali shillings. 'This is for you. Wait.' He added three more stacks on top of it and then more and more. The window was almost completely covered and he had to stand on the tip of his toes to look down at her from the top of the stacks.
Nimco stared at the stacks. 'Was this how much the pension was?' she wondered to herself.
Nervously, not wishing to show her inexperience, she said:
'Can I get some of that in dollars? I can't carry all of it. I don't have a bag, plus I have errands -'
The man almost shouted to make sure he was heard.
'How much would you like in dollars, and how much in shillings?'
What Nimco was dreading had happened. She was asked a direct question concerning foreign exchange and had no quick answer. Fumbling, thanking God she had the veil on, hiding the faces she was making, she said:
'Maybe…' Thinking furiously about the sentence structure of the phrase she had heard before and said: '...a sensible proportion.'
He took one stack of Somali shillings off, leaving the vast bricks of cash on the counter.
'This ?'
The silence and motionlessness was evidence of her realisation that she was made a fool of and it made him roar with laughter. He took the money down from the counter and left three stacks and added eighty dollars.
'I hope this is alright,' he said, smiling a huge satisfied smile. His condescension and his playfulness made it impossible for her to take herself seriously and falling in line with the relationship that he had established she said;
'Thank you, uncle.'
Her mind was itching for revenge however.
'What if I were to say I want five more dollars in Shillings, and make him bend down for me?'
But she was physically incapable of shaking off this relationship that was foisted upon her, like he was doing her a favour, giving her sweets from his pocket rather than money that belonged to her. He had put the money in a white bag that had black and bold letters saying 'Dahabshill' on it and handed it to her.
'Where are you going now, niece? Buying milk? Yes, you may be able to find some milk left.'
'Yes, uncle,' she said. 'I'm going to look for milk.'
'Aren't you still milking yourself? Drink milk to make milk, is what I say.'
'I'm going to get some milk to make milk, uncle.'
She turned and walked quickly towards another shop, determined that she would make him sing another tune next time she saw him, the spell of foisted relationship wearing off the further she walked away. The truth was that ever since she got this pension that she actually was like a kid who had been given a bag of sweets. It was hard for her to resist gorging herself blind.
She walked along the unnatural river, ignoring the calls of 'dahabshill, dahabshill' that she heard occasionally by the loiterers hanging off thin and gashed stakes that propped up a metal roof above the light wooden tables where tea drinkers were drinking, some eyeing, some heckling, all smiling at Nimco. One man from the other side of the unnatural river shouted out 'Dahabshill!' with a big grin on his face. She glanced back before she entered a building while cursing him for being a prankster.
This building was a convenience store, a small and dark store, which sold such things like household toiletries, electrical components and beauty products. But Nimco was looking for some milk, her eyes coming across an overweight sales woman.
'Salaam, auntie. I'm looking for some milk.'
After a momentary blink, she said:
'Is that the new name for it?'
She grabbed some white containers that had an Indian woman on the front. Nimco thanked her and grabbed the container in her hand to examine it like she hadn't seen dozens already of the same kind.
'What about this? Fresh from America,' added the shopkeeper, showing new eyeliners for sale.
'Eye makeup,' Nimco whispered greedily. But eye makeup could be seen even with the niqab… she had to decline it and resist other urges to point around the store and say 'I want this, I want that, give me everything.' Remembering the condescension of the clerk and feeling that she was conveying inordinate childish excitement, she felt that she had to do something to restore a semblance of the matron that had eroded in the past ten minutes. She had to say something grand, and quickly. Joyful because it came to her, Nimco said:
'How is the family?' filling the silence with the dignified maturity of asking about the wellbeing of another family.
'Alhamdullilah,' the shopkeeper responded mechanically, while deftly, amazingly, separating the exact amount from the stack handed to her without having to count it individually.
Proud that she hadn't spent as much as she could have, she returned home with more energy than she had left with.
Her mother looked at her frivolous daughter taking out beauty products and asked her:
'How long does pity last for? You better ponder that question next time you buy these useless things !'
Nimco dismissed the question out of hand for this wasn't pity. This was justice. God's judgement gave her early recompense for early divorce, and she, without realising, achieved early fulfilment. She was a pensioner at the age of eighteen. Rather than ask how long pity lasts for, she asked how long justice lasts for. She couldn't conceive of any other answer than that justice lasts forever.
