Then they hear Faai shouting from the kitchen to Xalan, “Please come and listen to this.” Xalan joins Faai and then returns, slack-jawed.
“What’s happened?” Ahl asks.
Xalan replies, “A suicide bomber has blown himself up in the center of Bosaso, killing at least ten people and injuring several more.”
Ahl sucks in his breath, his skin loses its natural color and he sits still, unmoving. Kala-Saar, too, falls silent, seemingly shamefaced, as though he has been the cause of such terrible things. Ahl stands up and moves to the window.
His mobile phone rings. It brings him unexpected news, far beyond his expectations, news he thinks he can’t cope with, his heart nearly bursting out of his chest. The phone nearly drops out of his hands. He pulls himself together to listen.
Xalan, Warsame, and Kala-Saar watch him in silence as he asks, “Wh25ere are you now?” He waits for an answer and then says, “Shall I come and get you from where you are, right now?” Then, the mobile phone almost slipping out of his hands, “If you know how to get to where I am, then I will wait.” A pause. “I, too, my dearest, I am so pleased to hear your voice, so pleased to know that you are alive and well, and that I’ll see you shortly.” Then just before disconnecting, he adds, “Yes, of course I love you, too, my darling.”
They all look in his direction, waiting to hear his news in full. But Ahl has difficulty speaking, not only because he cannot convince himself that he has just talked to Taxliil, but also because he doesn’t wish to share the good news with Kala-Saar. He doesn’t want to hear a man who, delighting in his superb turns of phrase, will embark on the exercise of distinguishing between a suicide bomber, whom he will cast in the vanguard of selfless young Somalis setting a new revolutionary trend, and Taxliil, a milksop unable or unwilling to bring his martyrdom to completion.
“Was that Taxliil?” Xalan asks.
By way of answer, Ahl’s cheeks flow with tears that gather momentum as they pour down. He wishes he had the luxury of privacy so that he could cry his heart out with joy, alone. Just as in Somalia’s civil war, the intimate affairs of this nation are fodder for gossip, shock, amazement, and newspaper headlines elsewhere, but not to the victims of the strife.
Xalan helps Ahl to his seat before his knees collapse from under him, his face and cheeks wet with tears, making him look like a child who has clumsily painted his own face. Then Xalan realizes something else: that Ahl’s trousers are soaked. Has he wet himself? When? In the name of heavens, what is happening to this poor man?
Xalan, standing behind Ahl, motions to Warsame and Kala-Saar to leave the room. Then she, too, departs and joins them in the living room.
25
MALIK, FOR ONCE, IS UNABLE TO CONCENTRATE ON LISTENING TO the radio at news time; he has other worries on his mind. Showered and shaved, his mobile phone by his side, he is waiting for a confirmation call from Qasiir to inform him that he is on his way, bringing along the man with information about Somalis with foreign passports at the Kenyan border. But when the phone comes to life, it is Ahl, excitedly informing him that Taxliil has been in touch.
“When?” Malik asks.
“He rang me yesterday, late afternoon.”
Malik takes an apprehensive glance at his watch, wishing Ahl hadn’t called this instant, because he doesn’t have time to talk for long. Why didn’t he call right away or even late last night to let him know he had heard from Taxliil? But in their near falling-out a few days ago, Ahl accused him of caring more about his work than about anyone, so he treads with caution — let Qasiir wait, he thinks. Then he chides, as genially as he can, “You kept that secret to yourself, didn’t you?”
Ahl replies, “I didn’t keep it a secret intentionally. He called, saying that he would come along shortly, and then didn’t do so. I’ve been waiting to hear from him again since then. No idea if he has changed his mind or if something has happened to him between the time he rang and now. I didn’t sleep the entire night.”
“If he rang you on your mobile, then you must have his number,” Malik reasons. “Did you try it?”
“The readout on my phone said ‘number withheld,’” Ahl explains. “I pressed the redial button but it gave me a busy signal.”
“So what are you doing now?”
“Waiting,” says Ahl. “What other choice do I have?”
“Ring Fidno and No-Name, see if they have news of him. It sounds like they’ve played a hand in his release from Shabaab’s clutches,” Malik says.
“No answer from either; their lines busy as well.”
“I wish I could assist,” Malik says.
Ahl says, “I am sure you would if you could.”
“Can I call you later, then?” says Malik.
“I’ll call you myself if I hear anything.”
But just as Malik is ready to hang up, Ahl asks, “What would you do if you were in my place?” He sounds vulnerable, desperate not to end the conversation.
“I’d wait, just like you are doing.”
“What else would you do?”
Malik reflects that he wouldn’t do well as a Good Samaritan, or even as the manager of a help hotline. He has no idea how to take in hand a situation that has gone uncontrollably wrong. He hopes that his failure at rescuing Ahl from his despair won’t lead his brother to do something rash.
“What do Xalan and Warsame suggest?”
“That I wait until he contacts me,” Ahl says.
“Where are they now? Can I talk to them?”
“They are in their room, sleeping.”
Malik says, “Why don’t you do as they suggest, sleep off your exhaustion, with the phone by your side, so you can answer it immediately if he rings. Meanwhile, I will think of something and call you.”
“Maybe that’s what I’ll do,” Ahl says. “Sleep.”
“Talk to you later, then.”
Malik, sighing, has barely put down his phone on the worktable when it rings. Qasiir is on the line. “Uncle Liibaan and I are down at the parking lot, wondering if you are ready for us to join you.”
Malik pauses, momentarily confused, then remembers that Liibaan is a former army colleague of Dajaal’s, hence the term uncle. “Please come up,” he says, and he unlocks the plate over the apartment door to welcome them.
Qasiir is the first to walk in, and he and Malik exchange a hurried greeting. Then both make room for a large man with a round belly, which he pushes ahead of himself, his feet in rubber flip-flops too small to bear his weight, the hair on his chin as sparse as the beard of a sixteen-year-old boy, and with eyes that squint into narrow slits as he concentrates.
As Malik goes off, saying, “I’ll make tea,” Qasiir assumes the role of a host and leads Liibaan into the living room, where they sit. Once the water is boiling, Malik joins them. He observes that Liibaan is comfortable enough to take off his flip-flops, and that the man’s toenails are perilous as weapons — long, with jagged ends.
“I am glad to meet you, Liibaan.”
Liibaan is silent, then he says, “Dajaal’s murder saddens me so. He was very dear to me — like a brother. He was my senior in age as well as in rank. A serious, honest man, and those of us who knew him admired him; we all adored him. May God bless his soul!”
Malik contributes to the chorus of “Amen!”
Then the kettle wails, and Malik gets up, relieved to have gotten that part of the conversation out of the way. He asks his guest how he likes his tea.
“Four sugars and lots of milk,” Liibaan says.
Malik says to Qasiir, “Come into the kitchen with me for a moment, please. I would like you to do something for me.”
Malik sets out cups, saucers, biscuits, and a few other nibbles. Then he puts two tea bags in the teapot and pours in the water. Qasiir watches and waits in silence, noticing that Malik has set places for only two.