Black Mamba Boy - Nadifa Mohamed 6 стр.


The man huffed and puffed behind them but eventually gave up, cursing them in Hebrew. You should have had a shit. Youre too heavy to catch us! shouted Jama in a parting shot, as they bolted from the neighborhood.


The Camel mukhbazar was a small, whitewashed greasy spoon with a few round tables inside and Somali baskets hung from the wall in an attempt at decoration. Most of its customers preferred to stand or sit outside in loud groups, metal plates of overcooked pasta or spiced iskukaris rice balanced in their hands. The Camel had become a meeting place for all the Somalis who washed up on the Yemeni coast looking for work. Merchants, criminals, coolies, boatmen, shoemakers, policemen all went there for their evening meal. Jama often hovered around its entrance, hoping to see his father or at least someone who had word of him. Jama did not know what his father looked like; his mother rarely talked about him. Jama always felt, however, that if he ever had the chance to catch his fathers eye, or watch him move or talk, he would instantly recognize him from among the untidy men with shaved heads and claim him as his own.

One windy day, as Jamas legs and feet were being buffeted by flying refuse, he joined a group of men gathered around Ismail, the owner of the mukhbazar. The Somalis were flowing out into the road to the consternation of Arab donkey drivers and coolies, who struggled past with their heavy loads. Jama heard them cursing the Somalis under their breath. Sons of bitches should go back to the land-of-give-me-something, one hammal said. Jama fought the temptation to tell the men what the Arab had dared say. He eased his way into the crowd until he was at Ismails shoulder. Ismail was reading from an Arabic newspaper. Italy declares war on Abyssinia, Haile Selassie appeals to the League of Nations, he translated.

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One windy day, as Jamas legs and feet were being buffeted by flying refuse, he joined a group of men gathered around Ismail, the owner of the mukhbazar. The Somalis were flowing out into the road to the consternation of Arab donkey drivers and coolies, who struggled past with their heavy loads. Jama heard them cursing the Somalis under their breath. Sons of bitches should go back to the land-of-give-me-something, one hammal said. Jama fought the temptation to tell the men what the Arab had dared say. He eased his way into the crowd until he was at Ismails shoulder. Ismail was reading from an Arabic newspaper. Italy declares war on Abyssinia, Haile Selassie appeals to the League of Nations, he translated.

To hell with that devilish imp! shouted out a bystander.

Colored Americans raise money in churches but the rest of the world turns its gaze, Ismail carried on.

Good! They turned their gaze too when the Abyssinians stole our land in Ogaden, handed over to them by the stinking English. If the Habashis can take our ancestral land then let the Ferengis take theirs, shouted another.

Runta! Aint that the truth! Look at this small boy. Ismail suddenly lifted his head from the paper and pointed an angry finger at Jama. Selassie is no bigger than him yet he has the nerve to call himself a king, an emperor, no less! I knew him in Harar, when he was always running to the moneylenders to pay for some work of the devil he had seen the Ferengis with. I bet he needs his servants to pick him up before he can relieve himself in his new French piss pot.

Jama inched back, the finger still pointed at him as Ismail returned to reading. The Italians have amassed an army of more than one million soldiers, and are stockpiling weapons of lethal capability. Somali and Eritrean colonial troops are already massed at the borders.

Ismail stopped and screwed up his face. One million? Who needs a million of anything to get a job done? This war sounds like the beginning of something very stupid. He impatiently scrunched up the newspaper, wiping the ink from his fingers with a handkerchief, and padded back inside his mukhbazar.

Jama was eavesdropping on the mens war talk; the names of strategic towns, disloyal nobles, Somali clans that had decided to fight with Selassie were thrown about over his head. Ismail leaned out the kitchen window and whistled at Jama. Come in and make yourself useful, boy!

Two cooks were working in the kitchen. A bald-headed, yellow-toned Somali man cooked the rice and pasta and another, taller man made vats of the all-purpose sauce of onion, tomato, and garlic.

Ismail fluttered around, moving dirty dishes to the basin on the floor. Get here, boy, and wash these dishes. Do them well and youve got yourself a job.

Jamas eyes widened with happiness at the prospect of regular money and he rushed toward the pyramid of dishes. The hot water scalded his arms but he scoured and rinsed the heavy pots and pans without complaint. His nimble, strong hands reached the dirty corners that the adults missed, and he imagined he was scrubbing the roof like he used to for his mother. Ismail stood behind him, scrutinizing his work, but soon left to talk with new customers. Within a few minutes the dirty pyramid had been transformed into a sparkling display of almost-new-looking dishes. Jama turned around with a jubilant look but the two cooks were uninterested in his achievement. Ismail came back into the kitchen and, after casting an eye over his rejuvenated dishes, said, Come back tomorrow, Jama, you can start at seven in the morning. Theres a plate of rice waiting for you outside.

Jama skipped past as Ismail slapped the back of his neck. A large white plate of steaming rice and stew was placed on a table, and he stopped to smell the delicious aroma and wonder at all this food that was entirely his own. Eating slowly was a luxury he rarely allowed himself but he chewed the lamb meditatively, removing all the meat from the bone and sucking out the marrow. He licked the plate clean, then sat back as his stomach strained against his knotted sarong. As soon as he felt able, he waddled out toward the beach, eager to boast to Shidane and Abdi about this unexpected good luck at a place they were used to stealing from. Shidanes idea had been to tie a fresh date to a stick, and use the contraption to pick up paisas left on tables for the waiters. Jama was the best at casually, innocently walking past and stabbing the coin with the stick. When they had finally been caught by a waiter who knew Shidanes reputation, they had moved on to the Banyali quarter. Shidane would throw a bone into the shops of the vegetarian Hindus and Jama would offer to remove it for a price.

Shidane and Abdi were kicking at the surf. The waistcoat Abdi had stolen looked ridiculous hanging from his bony shoulders, and Jama burst into laughter at the sight of Abdi in a fat Jewish mans clothing. Jama skipped up and jumped onto Shidanes shoulders. Shidane shook him off in irritation, and said, Leave me alone, you donkey. Abdi looked gloomily at them both, rubbing his red, teary eyes with the back of his hand, silently gathering the waistcoat around his ribs to stop the sea breeze blowing it away. Shidane was in one of his moods. He kept staring at Jama, his nostrils round and flared, his face set in a hostile grimace. Something has happened to Shidanes mother, Abdi tried to explain, but Shidane hushed Abdi with a stern finger against his lips.

Whats the problem, walaalo? You need money? Ive just had some good luck.

What? asked Shidane defensively.

Ive got a job starting tomorrow at the Camel mukhbazar, Ismail wants me to do the dishwashing from now on.

Ya salam! You Eidegalle really know how to look out for each other, dont you? interrupted Shidane.

What do you mean by that? asked Jama in shock.

Well, it just seems strange that youre always getting work and you never think to ask for us as well, all you care about is yourself.

Have you gone mad? exclaimed Jama.

Dont raise your voice to me, saqajaan, do you hear me? What do you want from us, anyway?

Stop it, stop it, pleaded Abdi. Just leave Jama alone.

Why are you acting like this, Shidane? You know Ill look after you, you can come and eat there anytime, now.

You think we need your charity? That it? Do you think we need the charity of a saqajaan bastard like you? spat Shidane.

Jama froze, Abdi froze, the children playing nearby froze, even Shidane froze once these spiteful words had left his mouth. Jama felt his pulse beating hard in his temple, in his throat, in his chest, and he felt a trickle of shame running down his back.

Take that back now, Shidane, threatened Jama.

Make me.

There was only one way to save face after Shidanes insult, and Jama threw up his fists and charged. A crowd of boys surged forward, emitting a savage cry for blood. Jama pounded his fists clumsily against Shidanes soft face and slapped away Abdis attempts to tear them apart; unable to watch his friends hurt each other, he preferred to take the blows himself. Jama pinned Shidane down on the sand, between his knees the face he had looked for in crowds, the body he had slept next to for months; it was as if the world had been turned upside down. Jama couldnt bring himself to look into Shidanes eyes as they fought; a shadow Jama stood to the side and frowned at the pain he was inflicting on his friend. Abdi, unable to stop this cataclysm, gave up and waded in to defend his nephew, pulling at Jamas hair and feebly trying to pull him off Shidane. Jama turned around and punched Abdi hard in the mouth. Seeing this, Shidane pulled the trophy dagger from his sarong and plunged it into Jamas arm. Jama tried to jerk away as Shidane lunged forward for another stab but was knifed again. Blood poured onto the sand and was lapped up by the surf. Jama rose woozily from Shidane and squeezed his bleeding arm. Tears gathered, burning hot behind his eyes, but he kept them hard and unblinkingly focused on Shidane.

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Take that back now, Shidane, threatened Jama.

Make me.

There was only one way to save face after Shidanes insult, and Jama threw up his fists and charged. A crowd of boys surged forward, emitting a savage cry for blood. Jama pounded his fists clumsily against Shidanes soft face and slapped away Abdis attempts to tear them apart; unable to watch his friends hurt each other, he preferred to take the blows himself. Jama pinned Shidane down on the sand, between his knees the face he had looked for in crowds, the body he had slept next to for months; it was as if the world had been turned upside down. Jama couldnt bring himself to look into Shidanes eyes as they fought; a shadow Jama stood to the side and frowned at the pain he was inflicting on his friend. Abdi, unable to stop this cataclysm, gave up and waded in to defend his nephew, pulling at Jamas hair and feebly trying to pull him off Shidane. Jama turned around and punched Abdi hard in the mouth. Seeing this, Shidane pulled the trophy dagger from his sarong and plunged it into Jamas arm. Jama tried to jerk away as Shidane lunged forward for another stab but was knifed again. Blood poured onto the sand and was lapped up by the surf. Jama rose woozily from Shidane and squeezed his bleeding arm. Tears gathered, burning hot behind his eyes, but he kept them hard and unblinkingly focused on Shidane.

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