Chapter 2
In the village there were other forms of expressing somaliness, or Somalinimo, at hand. Mayloun, newly married, was in the middle of its matrimonial expression, enjoying the fruits and labour of the wife that came before her. Mayloun barely had to lift a finger because one of the fruits of the first wife's labours was the daughter born out of this first marriage.
This daughter, Henna, was a sprightly, newly pubescent girl of twelve, and a nice obedient girl, who admired Mayloun's beauty, and when that happens, an easy life for the admired one follows. This girl did most of the housework, leaving Mayloun to do as she wishes.
The household itself, the vineyard of the first wife's labours, was run to her liking. The lines of credit, the vines of ripened fruit, were there for her to pluck and do with as she willed. Her initial weight gain was blamed on this penchant of free plucking she had indulged in. She found that the dream of being a second wife was true for the most part. The only blight was her husband's issue which extended to Aaden.
In the first weeks of their marriage, they had a lot of sex, improving every time, for her husband's initial excitement at being with her had dimmed, and subsequently, the sex became more fulfilling. But then their lovelife extinguished and Mayloun first thought that it was the life growing within her that killed the sexlife without her. Her pregnancy had become more pronounced and she thought that it was a principle of her husband's not to have sex while she was pregnant.
But then his issue became known to her. She thought that it might be a passing illness and left it alone, frequently changing the bedsheets, but never mentioning this ailment to her husband. She thought it might be too delicate a subject to raise. They had not fought once since the marriage, and she wanted to keep it that way, not knowing as of yet how violent he might be, sweet and tender though he could be, but becoming more pitiable by the day.
The sight started to gall Mayloun. He didn't cry outright like Aaden did when the same thing befell him, yet it seemed to hurt him more, hurting his pride that his manhood was mangled in this manner in front of the second wife, the wife he wished was his first, but prevented from doing anything with. She was unsure of what to do. When Aaden left for what he called a visit to his aunt, she decided to speak about it to the first wife, whose vineyard included this too, the fruits of the mind, the picking of it was hers to do, as the inheritance of the second wife. Fate gave her an easy entry into the subject.
Henna was washing her father's sarongs one late morning. Only the three girls were at home. The first sarong that Henna picked up had a large wet stain on it and thinking nothing of it, the pretty and lissom girl with her wonky headwrap, put the sarong in the soapy water using a big plastic tub as was custom to wash clothes in. Then she saw the next one with a similar stain, and the third. Instead of washing them, she picked them up, felt the wet spots, and got up. She went to the kitchen where her mother and Mayloun were.
'Hey! Look at these. All father's sarongs are wet in the same place,' Henna said excitedly. 'The type of spots too.' She then coloured a little for even at her young age she was the type who didn't want to say the wrong thing and watched what she said closely to not make a fool of herself. She thought she might have made a blunder and quickly looked at the two women for signs.
Mayloun looked at the two sarongs Henna had in her hands; dark sarongs with whitened spots.
'Bring it,' Mayloun ordered.
Henna timidly brought them. Mayloun took them both, and smelled one of them where the spot was. She wrinkled her brow as she waited for her sense of smell to absorb the dull, metallic odour. She then smelled the other sarong, in the same white spot, a quick exploring sniff, like a wary dog scoping out someone mysterious. Fadumo and Henna cringed as they looked at Mayloun sniffing the wet stains.
'I don't know what's wrong with him,' sighed Mayloun. 'He's been leaking for weeks with some disease and I can't tell what it is. Did this happen to you, sister, when you first got pregnant?'
'Did what happen?'
'Did Moussa start leaking after a couple weeks?'
'Leak how?'
'Did his dick excrete liquid discharge?'
'Allah, Mayloun!' Despite herself, the unattractive Fadumo laughed, but was put out regardless. Her mother's instinct kicked in. 'Henna go and finish the washing.'
The young girl had been staring at Mayloun with a mien that was half bemusement and half offense. When her mother told her to go, she coloured in embarrassment, and resentment, for she wanted to know what goes on between husband and wife, or rather, her father and his new wife. She took the sarongs and went out.
'Is there something wrong with him?' whispered Fadumo, widening her large, inquisitive eyes. They came closer together like two girlfriends with a secret to share, about a husband they share.
'I don't know what is going on. From out of nowhere he started leaking. The first time I saw it was, now I remember it, when we were together and I squeezed his dick to find -'
'Uss, naya,' Fadumo hissed, smilling. But this wasn't an actual exhortation to be quiet. It was in fact the opposite and Mayloun understood it as such, smiled wider and continued.
'It was like he was cumming but he wasn't. It almost looked like cum but more watery. That night was the last night we were together and ever since then his leaking continued but I haven't said anything to him. He's getting more distant and angrier by the day. Did the same thing happen to you? Does this man start dripping every time he gets married?'
Fadumo thought about it.
'Not that I can recall. But I don't think he really wanted to be with me anyway in the beginning, and the end too, haha! - so I don't know. I can't remember any discharge or wet spots. At that time we had a maid who cleaned the clothes and she didn't say anything.' Fadumo shrugged her shoulders. 'I've never heard of such a thing, a disease of that nature. I'm not sure we can even ask him what's wrong.'
'If you ask, ask him in such a way that doesn't implicate me, sister. I don't want him to think I was talking about him.'
'Strange things are happening to the boys in this family. Aaden has been having problems too, now that I think about it,' Mayloun said musingly. 'What is the connection between father and son?'
Mayloun's slow mind grinded like it was crushing kernels but couldn't see a connection between father and son. Which is what she told Fadumo. They both concluded by suggesting that it was genetic but hoping that it was temporary. If not, Mayloun dreaded to think of what her married life would become.
Chapter 3
Moussa himself was praying to God that this affliction was temporary even if he was prepared to carry the burden permanently, heartbreaking though it would be, for he only now got the wife he himself had chosen. He was a stoic, serious, impregnable man to most of his peers, and he knew he gave this impression off; and because he knew that he gave this impression off, he knew that he would have to maintain it. A serious, educated man though he was, he didn't know what was wrong with him and like his wives, couldn't see beyond the genes that had been bestowed as the cause for his leaking dick. The nature of the disease meant that he couldn't speak about it with anyone, not his wives not his friends nor the medical profession, for indignity was too much to bear. But the disease itself or where it came from was secondary in his mind. What he focused on was that there be no hint or manifestation of it visible to other people. Indeed, no one knew that there was anything wrong with him. Besides his first wife, no one could tell his gait had changed. Besides his daughter, no one knew that he soiled his sarongs. Besides his second wife, no one knew that his manhood had been tampered with. And he made it his mission that no one else would ever know any of these facts, cost what it will, and a painful cost it was too. To walk properly he had to chafe his dick with his thighs and the friction was a horrendous trial that he had to endure without letting it show on his face. Moussa was a strong man, his strength lying more in spirit than muscle and this helped him in his attempts of concealment. He went about his daily duties as usual.
Moussa made his money selling from household essentials, mainly rice and charcoal. He did this out of a storefront on the unnatural river, desiccated, with its modern waste close to frothing over, and on this day was expecting a shipment of rice on which he began his entrance into business.
When he arrived at the store the delivery lads were busy unloading the sacks of rice onto another truck with the manager of the business supervising them.
The manager, an elderly relative of Moussa, with a bald head and a large white moustache, said to Moussa when he came up beside him:
'They only managed fifty bags this time, Moussa.'
'Is that right?' he said in a steady voice, not to the manager but to one of the men loading the bags of rice from one truck to the other.
The slim, sinewy man spoke and worked at the same time. An inquisitive boss's dream.
'It was a real hustle, fuck their prophet. Seems like there were more people, grasping at the bags. More men if you ask me. There was a time when our team numbered the greater part of the men during the distribution. But now and even recently, their numbers have creeped up. It's a real hustle now to get a good number of these bags.'
When he mentioned the bag of rice, they all turned towards the black label on the white bags that said 'US AID. NOT FOR SALE' in capital letters.
'Another company,' the manager mused. 'Some competition.'
'We've always had that. But still, this is less than last time.'
'We'll have to send more men to get more bags.'
'And we just increased the number last month,' Moussa said vexedly, and his vexation made him move. He felt the chafe of a diseased dick but didn't let the smarting sensation show on his face.
'Or we could raise the price per bag,' the manager said, watching the lads chuck the last bag into the truck. The sun was high in the sky submerging the earth in midday heat.
'We will do both,' Moussa said, 'And see what happens.'
The manager looked steadily at Moussa for he saw something strange on his face. It was not an expression of pain but rather, there were drops of sweat visible on his brow. The manager couldn't remember the last time he saw Moussa sweat, no matter how hot it was.
'And send two bags of rice to the house of Nimco,' Moussa continued, his voice steady as always, betraying no hint of the pain he was feeling. 'She let it be known that she needed more than usual,'
'Who?' the manager asked, puzzled.
'The house of Nimco.'
'Which house...ah is that the widow?'
'Yes. I think she's having some get togethers there. Been a lot lately, too many if you ask me.'
'The house of Nimco,' the manager said slowly. 'This is the first time I've heard of a household named after the woman...even if the husband is dead.'
'Here is the live woman now,' Moussa said softly.
Approaching them was Nimco herself, wearing her black burka. A remarkable sense this is, being able to tell who the person was when they only have the eyes and the gait to go by, but Somalis seemingly have a knack for this.
'Salaam, brother,' she said to Moussa. 'Did Mayloun tell you? About the bags of rice?'
'Are her eyes laughing?' Moussa wondered. He stiffened trying to look deeper into her eyes to see if he saw mockery, if she was laughing at him, but the fake eyelashes were blocking his view.
'Yes, Nimco, she told me and I just told them to take two bags to your house.'
'Thank you, brother. I've been running through these bags lately. It's not easy being an entertainer.'
'Entertainer ?'
Everyone looked on as these two spoke to one another. The aversion of one and the innocence of the other was obvious to see.
'Yes, I've been trying to give some occupation to the girls of this village. There's nothing to do.'
'Are you entertaining them with food?'
'No. With occupation.'
'Occupying them by eating ?'
'Yes, brother.'
'I heard the Chinese man goes there a lot.'
'We have to have something to listen to while we eat.'
'So you have one occupation and then supplement that with another occupation?'
'The more occupation the better, is what my husband used to say.'
'That's the village mantra,' said Moussa disdainfully. 'Sharif says that every other sentence. Even Mayloun, his daughter, your niece...why don't you entertain them with Koranic scripture?'
'That's what we do too. There's all kinds of readings, brother.'
She quickly excused herself and left, wishing Moussa well.
'What was that on her eyelashes? That looked like some kind of distortion, a thickening of some kind, darkening of the eyes. She looked black all over,' the manager said with amusement. 'I couldn't see the whites of her eyes.'
Moussa ignored him. He was anxious, a feeling that he wasn't used to. 'Was she laughing at me?' he asked himself again. 'And if so, what's she laughing about?' Moussa felt like the drip again, felt the sweat coming down his temple. Why else would she wish him well if she didn't think that he was ill, with this shameful…he exhaled sharply, looking to the sky, trying to get a hold of himself and the panic that was steadily rising.
Chapter 4
In fact Nimco did know that Moussa had some kind of issue but tried as hard as she could to be delicate and discreet about the matter. In truth she wished that she didn't know about it for it would colour her own perception of him. It also made Nimco think of her own husband. When Mayloun first told her about it, Nimco for some inexplicable reason felt pride that her own husband, whom she despised, never had such a disease - a disease which she felt was related to something like a heaven's curse, revolting and sinful. This surge of new pride mixed with the inveterate contempt she had for her deceased husband. A queer feeling arose, discordant, conflicting, and she tried to dispel it as quickly as she could for it was as unpleasant as it was incoherent. She was a simple girl and liked her emotions as simple as she figured herself to be. If she liked someone, she liked someone, there was no room for hate. Just like if she hated someone, she hated them, there was no room for affection, let alone pride. A simple, straight forward girl Nimco was, with not an ounce of complexity, not in her views nor in her emotions. She walked up to a man that she decided that she disliked.
Dahabshill was open for business and the same man was there, no one else worked there in fact, but the goofy playfulness the worker possessed had vanished in favour of deference and apprehension. One could tell that he sensed humiliation coming.
'Ah, sister,' the nervous man began. 'Good morning to you.'
Nimco grinned at him behind her veil.
'Good, Ali. I'm good.' A delectable pleasure rose within her at the coming amusement. 'Has my pension arrived?'
'Yes, sister. Yes,' he answered timorously. 'It's just here, let me get it for you.'
He fumbled in the back and then appeared with eighty dollars in American currency, and twenty dollars worth in Somali shillings.
'Is this…'
'No,' Nimco said like a disappointed headmistress. 'Not at all.'
The man's hands were shaking and his mouth twisted like he had just been burned. He had to think now. Which way should he go? He grabbed the eighty dollars, looked at it, wishing to crush the neat notes, and then turned back at her. He extended his bony fingers to release the dollar bills. He went for the stack of Somali shillings like a man at sea goes for flotsam and changed them into dollars. Now there was ninety dollars in American currency and ten dollars worth in Somali shillings. He looked at Nimco with a hopeful smile, but she shook her head. His face dropped, his lip trembled and desperately, furiously, he tried to think. What could she want? Company policy was that no money could be left for future collection, and that once the recipient came to collect, the money had to be given as quickly as possible with five minutes being the general rule by which the transaction had to be completed by. This was by far the cushiest job in the village, and he had to do what it takes to keep it. The mantra of the company was 'above all else, never a bank.' His dealings with Nimco had the air of being just that. Nimco had him by the balls and she knew it. He couldn't see her face, but the glee was expressed even through her concealment. He shot wildly in the dark. He took the dollars, leaving seventy three dollars on the counter and counted twenty seven dollars worth of Somali shillings. Nimco looked at it, and then back at the beseeching man's face. She nodded her head. The expression of relief and euphoria was almost instantly expressed upon his face. Nimco and him had established this little ritual for the past two encounters and she could leave him guessing for a good while. He got off today, and in his soul he thanked her for it.
'You did a good job there, brother.' She had stopped calling him uncle by the second visit. 'You were flying.'
She grabbed the bag from his extended arm.
'One of these days, sister,' he also had stopped calling her niece, their roles and relationship completely reversed now, 'one of these days, I'll catch it first time around,' the clerk said, laughing embarrassedly. His face had begun to show a nervous tic. He was blinking hard, and awkwardly, as if his jerking eyelashes were the flapping wings of a land-bird attempting to fly off, flapping harder and strangely at odd points, unaware and confused that it couldn't fly off.
'Maybe,' Nimco replied back. 'Maybe not.'
His face looked pitiful as she walked off. At least he could console himself with the fact this torment only happened once a month. The extent of this torture would depend on Nimco's mood. She was a nice girl, and didn't think this little game would cause him any harm. Besides, their initial meeting served to set the tone. He had tried to place her in the position of a child. She had to let him know that she was a matron first and foremost, their age difference meaningless.
Nimco passed the wooden stalls roofed with metal work, with its outdoor tables and benches; some with beach chairs of different colours, others with occupants one and the same, killing idle time, which encompassed the entirety of their waking hours. More than once an idler with a cup of tea in front of him would say 'hello auntie,' to Nimco as she walked by. She returned the appellation with exceptional grace. What a difference a few months can make ! New money had turned to old money, old uncles to new nephews, old hecklers to new bystanders. Nimco couldn't even remember the burning embarrassment she had once felt.
Sidling along the unnatural river, which she remarked was getting close to its upper limit, she approached the bakery.
The bakery was a traditional stone oven, with the bricks covered with soot, the bakery itself in open air. The two bakers had separate jobs. One kneaded the dough, and the other put the dough in the oven to make bread. The one who kneaded the dough was Paul, a thirty five year old jereer. He was sitting on a beach chair, chairs that were omnipresent in the village.
'Hello there…' Nimco was about to use the reflexive and automatic appellant of 'brother' but having scanned his features thought better of it. '...friend. I'm looking for some bread.'
Paul, the jereer, knew who she was and had heard of her recent pension. He was one of those types who knew you but who you didn't know existed.
'Bread?' He got up from the chair on which he was sitting while the other man remained in his, staring at Nimco. 'How much bread would you like ?'
'Thirty pieces.'
Both men tensed. It was a rather large order, the amount of which outside restaurants they didn't get.
'Thirty you said?'
'Yes, thirty. Maybe forty would be better?' she asked musingly. 'Make that forty.'
'Ahmed, go wash your hands. This will take time, sister. You can wait here if you like.'
'Can you bring it to my house?'
'I'll bring it,' Paul said sharply, eagerly.
'Okay, thank you, friend. My house is -'
'I know where it is, sister.'
'Ah,' Nimco said, pausing slightly to look at Paul, his half smile though kind and hopeful was disagreeable to her. She had a hard time treating ugly people fairly and sadly no amount of tremulousness in a smile could make ugliness endearing to Nimco. Her deceased husband's ugliness made ugliness as a whole hateful to her.
'Okay, friend, thank you. I'll wait for you there.'
With that she left and Paul watched her leave as his partner came beside him, hands dripping with white water.
'What do you think she's going to use all that bread for? She only has one child, doesn't she and no husband?'
Paul's smile went from timorous to jubilant as he realised what was going on. He kneaded the dough, working to supply the order with more panache than he had ever done. He was happy for he smelled the only thing more delightful than fresh bread in the morning and that was the smell of a profligate who wastes it.
