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When he woke up, Jama realized he had been moved. He was in a small damp room, facing a peeling blue door that creaked on its hinges with the breeze. Through the dim light he saw a cat with a leopard coat dart out into the street as clattering footsteps approached. Jama shut his eyes quickly as a man and woman entered. What have you done, Idea? the woman gasped.
I found him outside, Amina, he had collapsed under the palm tree. I tried to wake him and give him water, but he was dead to the world, so I brought him in.
The woman rushed over to Jama and placed a hand on his head. Honey, youre burning up, whats wrong?
Jama mouthed words at her but nothing came out. She put a glass of water to his mouth, and it burned as it slid down his parched throat. Ill get him some rice. She rushed off, agile legs like springs beneath her, uncovered hair flaring around her in black and gray rivulets. The husband stood over Jama, his mouth lopsided, Jama staring at it from the corner of his eye. When he smiled a row of golden teeth peeked out, and a smile inched across Jamas face at the memory of Shidane and his silly tale of smugglers hiding diamonds within their gold teeth. The husband, thinking that the boy was smiling at him, released his full, droopy, manic-looking smile, his eyes twinkling in the dark room. So, who is this strong young man? the wife called out.
This boy has come to be my ally, Amina, so I wont be bullied anymore by you and the hags you call friends, replied her husband in a deep voice.
Ignore him, my son, hes unemployed, teased his wife.
Jama Guure Mohamed Naaleyeh Gatteh Eddoy Sahel Beneen Samatar Rooble Mattan, stated Jama proudly. The man and woman nodded approvingly, hiding their amusement.
And who are your people? asked Amina.
Eidegalle.
Ah, a noble Eidegalle has fallen into our Issa hands. Dont you know our clans are at war? Idea laughed. Jama was entranced by this eccentric man and his outlandish face. When he was serious, he cocked his head to one side and his mouth was set in a sad slope, but then he would explode with mirth, and his eyes, nose, lips, and teeth would fly in different directions. Jama quickly learned that this man could speak English, French, Afar, and Arabic as well as Somali, but spent his time cooking, cleaning, and loving his wife, who worked as a cleaner in a colonial office.
Idea was the mans name, or to be more precise his nickname, given to him by his childhood friends because of his intelligence. He had been a teacher in government schools until, disheartened with the uses that the colonial government made of that education, he had put down his chalk and become the only male wife in Djibouti. Idea saw that the schools did not disseminate knowledge but propaganda, blinding the young to any beauty or good in themselves. On hard benches the children were taught everything French and nothing about themselves; they were only dark slates to be written over with white chalk. He spoke to Jama as if he were talking to an old friend. In fact, so beguilingly that Jama lost his guarded manner and told him things in return; how he was going to find his father, why he had left Hargeisa, and how he had learned Arabic and a smattering of Hindi and Hebrew on the streets of Aden. They spoke animatedly in a Somali interlaced with Arabic, attracting Aminas mockery. Oh, here he goes again! Always showing off, why dont you use that babble babble to get a job, eh? No use knowing those birdy languages if you just sit at home.
Aminas husband held up a finger. Jama, let me tell you one thing, while you stay with us, ignore everything this woman says. I swear she is the most ignorant woman you will ever find, she thinks that you make mules by mating donkeys with dogs. Amina and her husband both cackled at each others insults.
Idea prepared that nights dinner, and it was the best food Jama had ever tasted, fresh spicy fish served with warm, honeyed roti, a dip made from crushed dates, and another sauce of softened banana. Jama picked at the fish bones until there was nothing left on them. It was a world beyond the slop that the male cooks in eating houses served, and Idea looked delighted at the impact that it made on his guest. Jama, I bet you have never eaten fish before, eh? Just rice and a little bit of camel or lamb. We Somalis have such a wide coast but we hate fish, why is this? asked Idea ruminatively.
I have eaten it before! We used to steal anything we wanted from the cafés in Aden.
Good for you, but Jama, I see nomads Somali and Afar to be fair holding their noses! Actually holding their noses as they walk past the fish market, and you can see their stomachs caved in with hunger! By God, it makes no sense!
Jama, feeling full and content, leaned back, his stuffed stomach poking into the air. The paraffin lamp was lit and the adults stayed up talking softly into the amber-lit night. The last thing Jama noticed was a downy cotton sheet being laid over him.
In the morning, piercing white light flooded through the window. Jama dozed while Idea opened the curtains, swept the floor, prepared anjeero, and sang songs in different tongues. He was already dressed in a crumpled European shirt and trousers that swung a little above his ankles, thick-strapped brown leather sandals on his feet. Amina had left for work and Idea bumbled around the room, looking at a loss. So, Jama, what are we going to do today? said Idea, flicking his hands as if he were scattering his words over Jama, who looked around the room, at the stack of dusty books in the corner, torn pages sticking out of them, at the clothes neatly folded on a shelf, at the pretty gilt-edged mirror with black dots on its surface, and shrugged his shoulders. They sat looking at each other for a minute before Idea said, Come on, get washed up, Ill show you around town. Jama washed his face, brushed his teeth with his finger, and poured some water over his chest and arms.
The tour will start here from my house, the center of my world, declared Idea in a clear, authoritative voice. This mosque ahead of us was built by the Ottomans, heard of them? No? The descendants of Usman, those plump Turkish lords of the east and west. The little flags are meant to represent Islams power in all four corners of the world.
This alley leads to Boulevard de Bender, where our resourceful women sell everything from green chilies to stuffed cobras, pomegranates and leopard skins, medicines and love potions, absolutely everything, boomed Idea. Im sure there are probably even a few souls to be found. There are definitely bodies; the Arabs here sell little boys your age to their cousins over the sea.
Do you miss being a teacher? Jama asked.
Idea stopped walking and looked down on Jama. No. When I was a teacher I was working for people who had no respect for me or anyone like me.
An old beggar woman leaned on a stick by the mosque wall, her raisin black hand held silently out to them. A young boy sat by her feet, a solitary leg emerging from his dirty shorts, his hair and eyelashes dust-matted. Idea passed a coin to the old woman. Come on, Ill show you the sadhu. Idea picked up his step, rushing through the alley as its nighttime corruption faded into daylight commerce. Bras were removed languidly from balconies and curtains were drawn as the port women bade farewell to the sailors and retired for the day. Idea moved around like a sniffer dog, barely looking up as he shuffled along, until they reached an open road with taxis buzzing by. In between a shop called Punjabi Fabrics and a scrum of black-market, female money changers was one of the strangest sights Jama had ever seen. An Indian man, naked apart from a strip of cloth around his privates, sat on a crate with his feet pressed into his lean thighs. Orange markings were pasted on his forehead and his long white hair was coiled in a snakes nest on his head. The sadhus eyes were serenely closed; a fat hand-rolled cigarette burned in his left hand, smelling musky and herbal. Jama touched the sadhus foot lightly with his fingertips, hoping that the mystics flesh would bring him luck or perhaps ignite the good fortune he was said to possess.
Do you miss being a teacher? Jama asked.
Idea stopped walking and looked down on Jama. No. When I was a teacher I was working for people who had no respect for me or anyone like me.
An old beggar woman leaned on a stick by the mosque wall, her raisin black hand held silently out to them. A young boy sat by her feet, a solitary leg emerging from his dirty shorts, his hair and eyelashes dust-matted. Idea passed a coin to the old woman. Come on, Ill show you the sadhu. Idea picked up his step, rushing through the alley as its nighttime corruption faded into daylight commerce. Bras were removed languidly from balconies and curtains were drawn as the port women bade farewell to the sailors and retired for the day. Idea moved around like a sniffer dog, barely looking up as he shuffled along, until they reached an open road with taxis buzzing by. In between a shop called Punjabi Fabrics and a scrum of black-market, female money changers was one of the strangest sights Jama had ever seen. An Indian man, naked apart from a strip of cloth around his privates, sat on a crate with his feet pressed into his lean thighs. Orange markings were pasted on his forehead and his long white hair was coiled in a snakes nest on his head. The sadhus eyes were serenely closed; a fat hand-rolled cigarette burned in his left hand, smelling musky and herbal. Jama touched the sadhus foot lightly with his fingertips, hoping that the mystics flesh would bring him luck or perhaps ignite the good fortune he was said to possess.
Come on, Jama, on to Plateau du Serpent, shouted Idea. Beyond the cafés and offices of Place Menelik were the colonial residences, and Idea was keen to walk through this forbidden part of town.
Idea pointed down to the road, which suddenly became tarred as it approached the European houses. Take note, Jama, take note of all the little differences.
Jama had had many bad experiences with bawabs when he went to admire the big houses in the European settlement in Aden, but Idea had no fear of them. He raised his arm and shouted Hoi-hoi at the uniformed Africans guarding the grand houses. They did not respond; staves in hand, they watched Jama and Idea with hostile eyes.
Idea took a deep breath. My boy, this is a sad, sordid place. Everything, everyone can be bought here, the poor live above open sewers while the rich frolic in those European hotel pools, gormless, mindless, empty people. The French have us in their palms, feeding us, curing us, beating us, fucking us as they please.
Jama wasnt sure what Idea wanted to show him but he was getting nervous that the police would come. Idea took Jamas hand and they crossed the road to a fenced garden. Look at that, Jama.
Under the shade of palm trees hung two swings, a wooden slide led into a sand pit, an empty merry-go-round spun with the breeze. Idea picked Jama up under his legs and threw him over the fence. Go and play, he ordered. Jama was caught between childish excitement and adolescent embarrassment, but he obeyed. He tested his weight against the swings then started to push himself a little, worried that he would break the rope and be arrested.