Chapter 29
Afrah had married into a family of business; which for the most part relied on two types of liquids.
The first was to do with drinking water. This village relied on rain to fill their wells and give them drinking water, but sometimes it didn't rain for years. Seeing the gap in the market, this family established a fresh water business, using a truck which would bring fresh water to houses - a very profitable venture in a desert country.
The second liquid was a little more thicker. This was a village, a country in large parts, deprived of a sewage system, and so bodily secretion was done in manholes. But these manholes have a beginning and an end. This manhole would eventually reach a particular level and the excrement, which at this point was thick liquid, had to be pumped out. This family had a truck for this too.
When either truck was called, it was because the household that called for the service was in a difficult position. With no water to drink, and no place to secrete, they would be willing and even forced to pay a hefty fee to continue living a sedentary existence. The fees for both operations brought Afrah's new family wealth and the entrepreneurial spirit never rested within them.
The youngest son, Bari, had started his entertainment venture; another brother, the middle brother, had started a restaurant. The third brother and eldest would be established in construction. This was the brother who was the accidental murderer. The first house he would build was the future house of his youngest brother, the marital house of Afrah. That is, the new construction company that he would lead would build it.
Knowing that this was a business family, Afrah was reluctant to stay in their house for the end of her pregnancy and the beginning of motherhood, because one thing was certain. For the most part, she would be alone; she would be bored. There would be nothing to do, and no one around. She couldn't leave to pay house calls as Hiba had insisted that she remain in the house at all times as she was getting close to giving birth, and she wanted her grandchild at all costs to be born in the house, like all her sons who were all born in this house. But she had already reconciled herself to this: the new surroundings, a new life, a new loneliness, but the same old boredom. Business people always have business to attend to. Her business was to rest, and take care.
Her first day in the house was to be the first of many such days, where she would be alone and bored. After saying goodbye to her husband, making him flush at a jest about his new penchant for sarongs, sandals and walking sticks, she remained in bed, and reverted to habit. She was thinking of ways of complimenting her grandmother, whispering 'spellbinding, illumination, phosphorescent' and other words of that nature. This day was the first day where she wouldn't be the one to find the right compliment to satisfy her. Hit with sudden loss and loneliness, Afrah was getting emotional, and got up for a distraction. She let her eyes sweep the room, getting anxious and panicking as she could not immediately think of a distraction to expel the loss and loneliness. Then an impulse came upon her. Relieved, and a little excited even, wondering why she didn't think of this natural excursion before, Afrah decided to do something we all do in a new house. She decided to explore.
This house was a four bedroom house. The room Afrah was staying in was Bari's bedroom, a small bedroom with a bed big enough for the lovers, as long as one of them wasn't pregnant. But since one of them was pregnant, it was difficult. Moreover they wanted the pregnant person to be comfortable, so Bari slept in his brother's room, the middle brother. The eldest had his own room, as did the mother and father who had the master bedroom.
Afrah was already familiar with the kitchen and the living room, so she had to choose between three rooms. One bedroom her husband slept in. As she knew him, the room lost some of its appeal, like she knew it already because she knew its resident so well. The master bedroom did too, because she had been in almost constant contact with Hiba ever since the wedding. That left the eldest brother's room, whom she didn't know that well, having seen him only sporadically. As such there was a strong mystery surrounding him, which attracted her to his room. She walked up to it, and when she was about to go in, smiling already thinking of what she would find, she suddenly jumped back, startled.
'Sorry sister, I didn't know you were so close. I thought I could come out before you passed by,' Ahmed, the eldest brother said, looking down at her with his leonine eyes.
It was fortunate that the kitchen was next to his bedroom and as such he thought that she was going in there. If there was a suspicion that she was about to go into someone else's room, obviously to snoop, then... Her heart was still thundering, and she was happy that he came out before she went in. So happy!
'That's no problem, brother,' she said rapidly, a weak smile breaking across her face. 'I was going to make some tea. And I'll make some for you. I thought I was the only one here.' She went into the kitchen, sitting down on the stool and turned to him again, with her tone returning to its usual laconic playfulness. 'I thought you went to handle business. Aren't you building my house?'
Ahmed stared at her from the threshold of the kitchen for a good minute while she had stopped what she had been doing and turned to look at him with the kettle in her hand.
'Thank you for making me tea too,' he finally responded and continued to look at her.
Afrah was unsure of whether to respond or wait until he had answered her question about the house and his enterprise. Another good minute passed until he said:
'Yes, but I don't need to be there for the house to be built. I'm more like the director than the supervisor.'
She gaped at him. Afrah had spoken to him before, but she couldn't remember him speaking in this manner. There had been long pauses between each response and all the while he had been staring at her like there was some kind of lag in thought. She sniggered and was about to respond when a scent brushed her, and a thrill ran through her. Although pregnancy had heightened her senses, this particular scent was heightened by nostalgia and familiarity. She hadn't smelled this for months, and her keen sense of smell had been lying in wait for it like a hunting dog. And it had perked up. For it had smelled rain.
At the onset of rain, her body, like most other people's in the village, moved as if by mechanism. She heaved her pregnant body up.
'Let's do this,' she said excitedly.
Ahmed looked at her curiously, moving out of her way. She moved to the back and looked for the pipe and the barrel to fill it with rainwater. As she was looking for it, it started to rain.
'Where is the pipe, and the barrels?'
Ahmed simply looked for a moment and then said:
'Let's do what?'
She had a near primal urge to collect water somehow so she cupped her hand and stretched it out into the open air.
Ahmed had made a ninety degree angle with his right thumb under his chin and his right index finger under his cheekbone.
'You're talking about the rain? No, we don't collect the rain,' he answered, his voice breaking a little at the end. 'We own a desalination plant.'
She turned back to her cupped palm which had continued to collect rain.
'It seems that I have to get used to a lot of different things in this house,' she said, almost to herself more than anyone else. Ahmed followed her gaze to her outstretched palm, watching the big drops of rain fall but never making the water level rise above what it was, with a smile of bemusement on his face.
In Afrah's old house the way they handled the rain was what she had been used to. Even the grandmother had gotten up and put some work in, creaking her hobbled back, pressuring her flaming joints, by slapping the new maid here and there, but only to direct, in order to make full use of the hired hand. The girl took it in good grace, not flinching, crying or moaning.
'Take that barrel there, empty whatever white water is in there, and fill it up with rainwater.'
'But there are three barrels there. Which one, auntie?'
Slap.
'The middle one.'
'Very well, auntie.'
Once that was full, she looked at the barrel next to it, saw it was half full and approached the old lady.
'The one next to it is half full, auntie. Should I fill that with rainwater too?'
Slap.
'Yes. Fill it up. Better have full barrels of drinking water than half full barrels of cleaning and cooking water, or a mixture.'
'Very well, auntie.'
'We don't have a well here. All we can do is fill up these barrels.'
Seeing that the last barrel was three quarters full of white water, instead of asking the old lady if that should be filled up too, she tipped that over, and flooded the living room. 'Naya! Who told you to do that?'
Slap.
'But, you did the right thing. Better a full barrel of drinking water than anything else.'
She came back soaked as she had filled all the barrels and stood next to the old lady. Because this was such a rare occasion, she wanted to keep her clothes on, glutted with rainwater, to instill a stronger memory of the occasion, extending the range and depth of the senses that were used. Clothes take longer to dry than skin, and the longer the event lasts, the stronger the memory will be. Moreover it felt pleasant to have wet clothes in conditions which still amounted to equatorial heat.
She crouched down and sat to watch the rain, heard the thundering racket it made on the roof, and felt the water trickle down her eyebrow. Her head was coming up to the old lady's knees. Towards the old lady she didn't feel resentment or spite because she didn't feel any anger or malice in the old lady's violence, in part chalking it up to 'work experience'. It also was clear that the old lady had an intense need to touch and couldn't bring herself to gently caress another person because in her mind such an act was shameful and self-abasing. She struck out to circumvent the hurdles.
The rain had been coming down for more than five minutes, which had been longer than the time previous; but what made it stranger was the fact they could see clear azure skies in the distance. Usually this meant that the rain would not last long, but events didn't follow acquired knowledge.
'Is there anything more beautiful than a blocked sun, my dear?' the old lady asked.
'Nothing at all, auntie.'
It would have been the easiest thing to put her hand on the young girl's head but instead she crossed her arms. How she wished the girl had contradicted her!
Chapter 30
The rain had just let up, lasting only ten minutes, but Sharif's well was three quarters full. Before the rain, you could see its bottom and the layer of sand covering it. Now it would have you think there was only water in his well.
The clouds had cleared astonishingly quickly, and the sky was a complete blue azure again. The smell of rain had dissipated giving way to a different smell which now hovered and lingered in the house. A smell that grew stronger in foulness.
Sharif had just finished changing into dry, clean clothes, and came out of his bedroom folding the cuffs of his immaculate white and blue dress shirt, with his cane dangling from his wrist. For some reason he always put his thick cane on his wrist before folding the cuffs of his shirt instead of folding the cuffs before handling the cane. A curious order of operations. He was folding the ends of his shirt pleased that the rain had saved him the trouble of paying for drinking water when the smell struck him. He wiggled his large nose to confirm something unpleasant was in the air.
'What is stinking like that?' he asked. No one answered since he had only mumbled it.
'Safia?'
She was in the kitchen and didn't hear him, while Howa was in the back squeezing the water out of her headwrap. Mayloun was in her bedroom putting henna on her hands.
'Safia!'
'Yah?'
'Something is stinking. What's smelling like this?'
Safia came out of the kitchen wearing a red house dress with black squares.
'Smell?'
'It's coming from the toilet,' Howa answered, turning her nose up for the stench was becoming unbearable.
'Toilet? Didn't you put a cover on it? Didn't anyone put a cover ?'
Shocked at first, he was now on the verge of flying into a rage. He walked into the toilet and saw the congealing mass of excrement had risen extremely high, and the cockroaches with the feelers had come out en masse. The pleasure of saving expense was now soiled at the prospect of a new and unexpected one.
'Why didn't anyone put a cover on it? Yah? How many times must I say the same thing!'
'When did anyone tell me? No one told me to do that,' Howa said defensively.
'Uss, naya. Uss!'
He banged the cane on the floor.
'That's the first thing someone should do,' he now said pitifully. 'The first thing. How many times…'
Sharif made a sharp movement like he just remembered something.
'Where is that boy? Let him call the truck to suck the shit out of the hole.'
Sharif walked towards the front muttering to himself, feeling sorry for himself that he had to say things more than once to children. A sudden flash broke him out of self pity.
'What? What are you doing there?'
Mahmoud had been sitting in the front, letting the sun dry his skin and clothes but peeked inside to make sure that the sound of the cane was actually coming towards him and not away from him. It was coming towards him alright, and him flashing in and out of view made it look like he was up to no good.
'What are you doing there? Yah? You thief! What are you doing ?' Sharif thundered.
Mahmoud had just poked his head in the opening to answer but thought it better to move his head back quickly.
'Fuck your mother's prophet,' the old man rasped, as he aimed a kick towards him, while using the other side of the green double door, that was always closed, to support himself, his weight making a clanging sound on the metal frame.
'Tell me what you're doing there.'
'Nothing. I'm just sitting. What am I doing?'
'Get up, you contemptible thief.'
'What I steal?'
'Uss! Get up and get the shit truck, worthless animal. Wallahi, I'll break your teeth if you don't get up now.'
Mahmoud didn't want to get up as he figured the chances of his father taking the cane to him would increase exponentially if he got up, but he had no choice. Slowly he got to his feet, pointing his knees away from his father so that any blow would go on his inside thigh muscle which was less painful. His father was waving the stick in the air, but did it simply for direction, towards the exit, exhorting his son to leave for the truck. His son wasn't to know that, given past experience, so he eyed the cane like a hawk with intent to cushion the blow any which way he could. Suddenly he slipped out of the door, and out of reach.
'Get out, coward. You better be back in good time!'
Safia had been sitting at such an angle so that she could look out to see what her husband and her son were doing. She was worried for her son who was born weak and turned to Howa whispering why she didn't put a cover on the manhole, signalling her responsibility for whatever happened. Howa started blubbering about always being blamed for everything, swearing that people only have children to blame them for everything.
When her husband had walked back she was pleased to find nothing major had happened to her son, yet something bothered her. Sharif sat down in the corridor on a stool, deciding to wait for the truck rather than go out like he had intended to. He rubbed his face after he sat down.
'Did you curse his prophet?' Safia asked him.
Sharif stiffened.
'Yes,' he answered, rubbing his face some more. He had calmed down. 'Yes,' he said again, contrition expressing itself now in his hollow, mournful voice. He had been swept by the trend, the trend of the curse word, delightful though it rolled off his tongue. But this was blasphemy no matter which way you cut it.
Howa was trying hard not to snigger. Mayloun was smiling in the darkness of her room. Sharif was rubbing his face vigorously and got up again.
'Are you going to pray?' Safia asked him, her tone was of quiet but searing admonition, more brutal than the striking of a cane.
'Yes,' he answered, sounding as old as he looked, as weak as the son he produced - weaker even.
Howa had real trouble holding her snigger and approached her mother after her father entered his bedroom to pray, beaming a huge smile.
'Allah, hoyo !'
'Uss, naya, uss!'
Thirty minutes later a truck pulled up at the back with someone banging on the door.
Chapter 31
Mahmoud walked from his house with a mixture of emotions. He was pleased that he had escaped the cane which he tended to receive for, as he called it, 'being alive.' The other prevailing emotion was of annoyance. Where was he supposed to find this truck ? He could end up scouring the whole village and come up empty, not to mention this deadline his father had given him...The old man was no doubt waiting for it as he reflected. He felt tears rising to his eyes and lamented his position, cursing his fortune, wishing to wail and ball his sorrows out.
He turned into the main road of the village in order to ask people if they had seen the truck when someone approached him. This was a young scruffy kid with a dusty face and hair wearing a frayed light brown t shirt.
'Mahmoud! Where are you going? You coming to the river Baramood? It must be raging after that rain. I haven't seen this kind of rain ever !'
The kid was beaming, near jumping with excitement. Mahmoud stared at him. In truth he wanted to go see the river too, after a rainfall like this, but then he remembered his predicament.
'Fuck the rain, and your mother too; fuck everything. Have you seen the shit truck?' Mahmoud asked viciously. 'I have to run around searching for it the whole day and by the time I find it the river will be what it was before.'
'The truck?' The kid thought for a moment and then said: 'Yes. I have seen one of those trucks. It's on the other side, down that way.'
'Oh yeah?' Mahmoud's face instantly relaxed in relief. 'Let me run and catch it. Thank God I don't have to walk around looking for it. I'll see you at the river.'
Mahmoud quickly walked away in the direction the kid said it was.
The village was buzzing with activity after the rain and one particular sight caught his attention. The kid spoke of a raging river, and that river was the one of white water. But another river had flooded likewise. The unnatural river full of waste had strewn and scattered debris beyond its intended borders. There were plastic bottles, pieces of cardboard, discarded cigarettes lying as far as the tea shops three metres from the river, as the rainwater moved back into its rightful abode. Several people were around the river scratching their heads. Others were kicking the debris back into the thick mass now of moving, floating waste.
'How long till this river dries up?' a man asked another as they looked at the unnatural river, while Mahmoud passed them by.
'Usually when it rains, it takes hours, but this time it might take days,' the other responded.
'So what do we do?' the first man asked again, nudging a plastic bottle that was floating close to the edge of a river that was threatening to become natural.
'What if we get a truck, suck the water out so we can put the trash back in, where it's supposed to be.'
'Who's going to pay for it?'
'Someone has to. Where are we going to put the waste?'
'But who is paying for it? I don't throw anything in there, so why should I pay for it?'
The man had no answer for that and Mahmoud walked on. He then spotted the top of the metal cylinder truck on the other side. He jumped over the river, and weaved between the rocks to get to the back of the shops, which turned into the front of the houses.
The truck moved slowly, like the icecream van in other parts of the world, just in case someone saw it and wanted to use its services. But still, Mahmoud had to increase his pace and ran to catch up to the front of it. It was a huge and long truck with two people sitting in the front seats. They passed the house of Afrah's grandmother, and they, the old lady, naked Mohamed and lissom Sadia, sitting in their open air living room, watched Mahmoud chase the truck.
Three voices now rang out saying the same word to three different people.
'Waraya! Waraya!' little Mohamed called out to his uncle.
'Waraya! Waraya! What do you have in there! What liquids!' Mahmoud bellowed to the truck driver.
'Waraya. Uss waraya! Put your clothes on or go inside, waraya!' the old lady screamed at
Mohamed. 'Xisho, waraya!'
No one listened to any of the calls. The truck kept on driving. Mahmoud kept on running. Mohamed kept standing there naked.
The truck passed the house and Mahmoud had just reached the driver's side when the truck stopped.
'Waraya, what liquid do you have in there? Do you have space for more?'
The man on the driver's side was wearing a brown hat and looked down bearing his yellow teeth.
'Liquid? What are you looking for ?'
'I need a truck to suck the shit out of the manhole.'
'Is that right?'
'Yeah.'
The man turned to the driver, and both checked the valve that stated the water level. Both agreed that whatever water was left would be acceptable to waste considering the fee that would be brought for this job. They embarked on a loud charade for the young lad.
'Do we have space, brother?'
'We might do,' the driver said.
'But how do we know you're not playing a game, little prankster? You're Sharif's son right?'
Mahmoud pulled himself straighter, more erect when he heard his father's name. His tone changed to imperious.
'Why would I joke, jereer?' Mahmoud replied, measuring status with status. 'Didn't you see me running?'
The man laughed and slapped the outside of the truck door to make Mahmoud jump, who flinched a little.
'Grab the bar, boy, and let's go,' he roared over the sound of the engine being revved up.
Delighted, Mahmoud grabbed the bar that was on the side of the truck and they drove off.
Since there was no way to turn, they went the longer route, which made Mahmoud even more happy. He had a goofy grin on him as he experienced the thrill of a bumpy, dusty ride that he rarely experienced, for he had driven in a car not more than twice in his whole life. In this manner, hanging off the side of the truck, he never did.
Within ten minutes they were near Mahmoud's house. The space was too cramped with rocks for them to park adjacent to the house but the company had planned for this. They had a long hose that stretched fifty metres so they could reach the manhole from a long distance away.
Mahmoud had jumped off the truck and with the thrill still coursing through him he went up to his backdoor and, strictly for drama, knocked on the door loudly telling the workers where the house was when they already knew. He didn't even open the door which was always unlocked.
'Hurry, hurry,' he shouted, the adrenaline and energy almost making it seem like his voice had broken.
'Why is he shouting?' his father barked from the inside, though he was pleased the boy had found the people so soon. He even chuckled slightly. He was glad he could leave the house now as the atmosphere was strained and cautious when he was around.
One of the workers had come with Mahmoud to make sure this was not a prank and when he heard and saw the patriarch, he assumed a deferential position, more so out of business than society. He was guided to the manhole which he inspected. He looked inside.
'All these things inside may complicate matters. The slipper for instance,' the man told Sharif apologetically, like he was sorry he had to charge more.
Mahmoud heard this, and as soon as he heard it, he snuck out of the house, knowing where the blame would be cast. He decided to sleep elsewhere for the next coming days.
'Slipper?'
'And the watering can.'
'Yah?'
'And the broken wood.'
Sharif was surprised to learn this because when he had looked into it earlier he didn't notice any of them. The man had a keener eye than him, since profits were in the line of sight. He checked for himself and saw all of these items now. A blue slipper and a green watering can and a piece of broken wood.
'Who threw things inside there!' he thundered.
He turned around to see Howa.
'It's not me,' she said quickly, and then added in a quicker patter, 'It's Mahmoud. That's why he ran away.'
'Where ? That fragment of the devil!'
'Shall we start now,' the man said, as he was about to leave to get the pipe.
'Yah?' Sharif said, fury confusing him momentarily. 'Yes, yes. Do it,' he then added.
The man walked out and both him and the driver hauled the rubber pipe to the house. When they were done, the manhole was empty, the smell stronger in concentration, and Sharif fifty five dollars lighter. The five dollars were for the complications.
Chapter 32
This was the tenth year after the last election and the rain signalled that it was time for the votes to be cast. Yasser was with Nimco during heaven's announcement. He had initially come over to inform her that the violinist Zhao had agreed to visit her. Nimco was ecstatic and immediately planned on devising a soiree similar to the ones Yasser had been frequenting and enlivening, to be held the next day.
'You say he has long hair?' Nimco asked him, sitting next to her mother in the dark corridor.
'Longer than yours. Straight and so black,' Yasser answered, sitting opposite to the two women.
'If he has long hair like a woman, I wonder what else he does like a woman,' Nimco's mother muttered.
'He handles the instrument like a woman. Gently and softly. I've shaken his hand and it's like a baby's. I'm sure he hasn't worked ever.'
'If that's how he handles an instrument, I wonder how he handles a woman,' Nimco said looking at the ceiling.
Yasser sniggered. Her mother looked at her, with her tongue visible, like if her daughter hadn't been a matron she would have smacked her on the mouth. She caught the look and suppressed a laugh too.
'The audience will be all women,' Nimco continued. 'Maybe he'll play differently.'
'How, only women? Can you speak
English? How can you speak to him? You need a man there to translate.'
'Can you speak English?'
'No. But Abdullah can. Me and him are bringing him.'
'Alright but no more.'
There was a loud banging on the door.
'He'll wake the child,' the child's grandmother hissed vexedly. 'Which idiot knocks like that?'
Nimco answered the door for a young man who said:
'Votes. I'm here for the votes.'
Earlier that year, arrangements were made on how, and who would be collecting the votes for this election. Young lads, chosen beforehand, would be sent to all the relevant houses and collect the votes along with the signatures. They had a list and of course, since they grew up in the village, knew who was who.
'Vote?' Nimco said, surprised slightly at the rapidity with which they had started collecting votes so soon after the rain. 'Of course, it's Yasser,' she said, gesturing towards him. 'And mother's likewise.'
Her mother pressed lips.
'Is that right, auntie?' the young vote collector said as Nimco signed her name on his paper. He came inside the house to confirm, nodding towards Yasser as he passed him. The young man had his neutral and expectant eyes locked on Nimco's mother. Everyone else had turned towards the woman seemingly in conflict.
'My vote? Naturally it's for Yasser.'
'Is that right ? Sign here please.'
It was evident that if Yasser hadn't been there the vote would have been for someone else. Regardless of the reluctant vote, he thanked both matrons when the pollster left. This event shook his confidence a little. He had banked on her vote, sure it was his, but if she had to be swayed by his presence to grant him her vote, then what of those of whom he had never been sure of? He was convinced she would have voted for Aaden, who he had heard was raking in the female votes through his visits. However it wasn't just because of Aaden's warmth and affection that she wanted to vote for him. She had always disapproved of Yasser; his friendship with her daughter was distasteful considering the past he had but what could she do in this situation? He was sitting right across from her.
'They sure did start quickly today,' Nimco's mother said sullenly. 'Like they were trying to catch people out.'
'Who cares what time they started when our votes were already decided upon,' Nimco said forcefully, forgetting her own surprise because her mother's evident reluctance annoyed her. She was eyeing her with belligerent reproach, like she would fight her mother for Yasser.
'You never know,' Yasser began slowly, diplomatically, 'people change their minds.'
'Only children change their minds,' Nimco said icily. 'Isn't that right, mother? Isn't that what you said? Once you get to a certain age, you move past persuadable. Isn't that where we are, mother? Past persuadable?'
Her mother looked up at her daughter lecturing her with the same lecture she had given her some years before. She had the same pugnacity in her body language as her daughter had. Yasser looked on and thought he might have the chance of seeing a mother and daughter fight over him. He grinned at the prospect.
'I'm well aware of where I am, naya. I don't remember changing my mind or being susceptible to other people's views in the last twenty years. My opinion has been settled,' replied her mother with a haughty recourse to age that restored her superior status, 'long before yours.'
Nimco let out a sound of disdain and gauntlet.
'I'm grateful that your opinion settled in my favour,' Yasser said quickly, smiling a big mischievous smile. 'Hopefully I'll have enough settlements around to annex and claim this election as mine.'
'God willing,' Nimco mumbled, her mind now on this soirée. 'How many people do you think can fit in the living room?'
'Ten.'
'I'll fit twenty.'
'It depends on their size.'
'Unmarried girls only. You guys wait in the corridor.'
'Not all unmarried.'
'Mother, please!'
'I will not allow it. A man with long hair, an instrument which expresses emotion, and a room of unmarried girls? Never.'
'Mother, the guests are unmarried, but the host isn't. She is divorced, a matron, a mature woman of settled opinion.'
This reference to her shakiness quietened her mother.
Just like Nimco's mother and her views, various things were to be settled in the coming days.
Chapter 33
When Yasser left Nimco, he went to the tree and the birds, to see how many had survived the rain. He reached the tree to find the birds gone, the berries stripped; with only a skeleton of a tree remaining surrounded by rocks. He wondered if this was it. Would he never see the birds rising, falling, swirling around the tree again, taking his soul on a joyride? He was sure that it was. He then noticed a berry on one of the branches. A solitary berry. To amuse himself he said that the birds had left it for him as a goodbye present. He walked to the tree, snatched the berry and watched it melt in his hand. He was so stunned that he stared at his wet palm for an eternity, doubting what he saw and felt. It was as if he was in a dream, where in the dream he had a berry in his hand, which clashed with the reality of his hand having no berry at all. Then he realised that he had never snatched a berry off the branch. What he had taken was a raindrop. It took him a minute to get a hold of himself and deduce that it was the trick of light and memory that made him their fool and plaything. He watched the water dry in his hand and then made his way home, which he generally didn't do at this time of day. The reason for this home visit was that he had promised his father that once it rained in this tenth year that he would go and see him immediately for a pep talk which he didn't even need. But he was a good son and obeyed his father. He lit up a cigarette and before he inhaled he let out a smile. 'A father-son talk. More like a son-father talk,' he said to himself. He knew he would be the one ending up giving the pep talk, and reassuring his father. 'I'm building my father's confidence up,' he said, laughing to himself. 'His self esteem, his ego.' He laughed louder, his brilliant white teeth on show. 'A ludicrous situation. His self pride has been completely usurped by his pride in me.' His smile dimmed. 'But...what will happen if I lose? How will he react? Without doubt he will become a wreck, a buffoon. And as for me?' Anxiety made his hands shake. 'I will have a constant fight to restore my reputation, because of a prank, a stupid prank, and a man's attempt to find equality in his family through a measly pension.' Yasser looked at the other side of the coin. 'And if I win? I find what? Liberation, expression, wealth. I can do what I want there, with no restraint. Yes, freedom and wealth is guaranteed if I win. Has there been anyone who left who hasn't touched money?' he suddenly asked himself. He had heard of it described as reaching an ocean when one was thirsty but he quickly dismissed it. 'Impossible. Xemi had his father send him money on a monthly basis, fifty dollars worth! And his mother, there were rumours of a large sum. And add that to everyone else. Nimco is getting a hundred a month. Which one hasn't sent a pension when he left? Not a single one. But the most important thing I will find there, and only there. Not freedom, or wealth, nor a life without restraint. It is a life without taint. A clear path to respectability. Once I'm there I'll start fresh, where no one knows me, as opposed to here, where everyone knows me. A village like this is awful if you're not perfect, and everyone knows the slightest of missteps. And then starts the life of correcting these missteps. Nimco's mother wasn't going to vote for me. I only managed to snare that vote because of my presence. That one vote might be the decider.' Yasser breathed easier. He was convinced that this vote earned him victory.
When he reached his home, he found that the house had a guest. Blaad had come over. 'The phenomenon is here,' Blaad said, as he saw Yasser walking in. 'Where did you come from? Looking around for fait divers?'
'There should be only one subject on every one's mind and tongue,' Ali began. 'Ways to congratulate us.'
'Let's hope so.'
'Can it be any other way?' Ali asked worriedly.
'You never know what this village prizes. This is like the classic, a slight variation of the classic.'
'What classic?' Ali asked, perplexed.
'Is this about the three goddesses you spoke about before?' Yasser asked, his deep, calm voice pleasant to the ear.
'Goddesses?' Ali repeated. He looked from his son to Blaad and thought this was going too far. He knew Blaad had interests but this was blasphemy.
'Yes. The judgement of Paris. There's an old heathen,' Blaad made sure to emphasize the word, 'story, where a man named Paris was called upon to judge three goddesses. Whomever he chose would win a golden apple. But in our case we have a,' he went into his shirt pocket, 'purple berry. Who shall win it depends on the characteristics people value and feel will be most successful in their sojourn abroad.' He put the berry back in his pocket.
When Yasser first saw the berry he was startled. But then realised that the way he spoke about the tree made it inevitable that those listening would find it.
'Since you will announce the winner, will you be giving the berry as a token of victory?' Yasser asked, exhilarated, for he wanted the berry like Saber wanted the Holy Grail.
'Ha,' Blaad smiled. 'I may do so. Announcements in general can be so mundane, don't you think? Why don't we make it more enjoyable and entertaining with a little theatre?'
'Who won the golden apple?' Ali asked suddenly.
Blaad instantly regretted having made the comparison in present company.
'It was the one who represented beauty,' Blaad sighed almost sadly.
Ali looked crestfallen.
'But that's their story. Ours is different. We are a wholly separate people with different morals and values. We can't compare ourselves to them. Somalis won't be seduced by the shallowness of beauty,' Yasser said firmly.
'Bravo!' Ali exclaimed. 'Isn't he right? He is right, surely?'
'A dereliction of responsibility,' Blaad muttered, lost to the details of the story. 'One God was supposed to have chosen between the three, but made someone else choose. Here we have an election whose origins is the same. One man was supposed to have chosen one child, but couldn't choose, and so delineated the decision to others. That's how this tradition was born.'
After a short silence which followed this history lesson, Yasser said:
'I was at Nimco Sharkmarke's house today when the vote collector came by. Both she and her mother voted for me.'
'See!' Ali cried joyfully.
'But I'm sure Nimco's mother only voted for me because I was in the room. I'm sure she would have voted for Aaden.'
'That boy is bewitching,' Blaad said. 'It's not simply beauty that is in his favour. There is something else...I don't know what it is but these women are under his spell. In the judgement of Paris, though ostensibly it was a beauty contest, each goddess offered Paris something that they thought he might want. I wonder what Aaden is offering them, or has offered them. Maybe it's simply his manner that is his charis.'
'So he won't win,' Ali said, crushed.
'No, father,' Yasser answered, to reassure his father. 'I will win.'
Blaad nodded. He liked Yasser, despite his past transgressions. He knew others liked his company too. The only thing was that though people liked Yasser, everyone seemed to be falling in love with Aaden. If it's not his looks, or his peculiar voice, which Blaad was sure wasn't it, then what was it? He was curious and eager to find out which charis swayed the election in his favour.
