A woman lay asleep in the scanty shade of a fig tree, dreaming. She heard a weak whistle, that of a kestrel, then the shrill cry of a kite calling her name, a call she refused to respond to. When the woman imagined that the hawk had tired of shouting her name, she opened her eyes and to her amazement saw a hat drop from the clutch of the kestrel’s claws, a hat which she caught with her alert hands. When next the hawk spoke her name, the woman prepared to get up, but couldn’t bring herself to do so, given that she was absolutely naked. Again the kestrel’s claws let go another surprise gift, this time a garland of leaves, thus providing her with something to cover her embarrassment with. That done, the woman rose to her feet, putting on the hat, too.
But the woman was on a footpath going south towards a marshland. With the sleepy look of a dreamer, she spotted the figure of a man in an upright position, a man dwelling within the confines of a pearl-shaped framework of wires serving as a cage. Further ahead, there was a three-storey house with a large fruit garden surrounding it. Rather suddenly, the hawk chanted its message, “Befriend me, Woman, and I will be yours for ever; have faith in me and I will give you what is due to you.”
Frightened, the woman let go both the hat and garland of leaves, upon which she now trod. The hawk’s cries ceased, night became day: and the woman woke up.
Duniya and Bosaaso met later that day in front of the hospital. It was a little after two in the afternoon. One could see how much they had looked forward to their reunion, having been separated by sleep as well as work. They had had a serious talk about what Duniya referred to as her family’s total dependence on Bosaaso’s lift-offering generosity something that would have had to come to a stop sooner or later. They had arrived at an alternative arrangement mutually acceptable to both: from tomorrow morning, Bosaaso’s cousin’s taxi would take Nasiiba and Yarey to and from their respective schools, in return for a token sum to be paid by Duniya monthly She was content, the children were, and so was Bosaaso.
They were in his car now and he was driving her home. “And how has your day been?” he asked.
“It’s been difficult,” she said, leaning forward and buckling up, a must for any passenger in Bosaaso’s vehicle. She was incapable of putting on her safety-belt, but nevertheless kept up the attempt.
He helped her with it, and both were conscious of their hands touching. “Mine has been nothing but meeting after meeting after boring meeting without us achieving anything,” he said.
“The classical definition of bureaucracy.”
“I hate it.”
Her voice was unexpectedly curt, saying, “Please let’s leave quickly.”
He changed gear without questioning her or turning to discover whom they were avoiding. The screeching tyres raised dust and the eyebrows of a number of bystanders waiting for taxis and buses. Neither spoke until they were on the principal road leading to her house; and it was Duniya who found it necessary to do so. “There is a strange mixture of possessiveness and a sense of guilt in my determination to be alone with you, and I don’t like it; although I do not mind that you also give a lift to my colleagues, I really do not want anyone else to be around. I wonder if I am becoming mean, or jealous?”
His choked throat wouldn’t clear of the joy with which it was clogged.
“How would you explain my behaviour?” she asked.
He was thinking exalted thoughts, the expression on his face became a smile. “Maybe it’s because of the early phase of our relationship — maybe that accounts for what one might call your ‘possessive behaviour.’ Is this partly why we’ve arranged for my cousin’s taxi to pick up Nasiiba and Yarey from their respective schools, since we intend to be alone with each other?”
There was no point challenging his interpretation of the reasons why she had agreed to pay for her daughters’ taxi fare monthly; not to be alone with him, although this gave her pleasure, but to depend less and less on his generosity But never mind, she thought. “But how do you explain why we wish to spend more time together, by ourselves?” she said.
“I suppose there isn’t enough in the way of you and of me to go round, which is why we tend to appear possessive, appear to be unwilling to share,” he said. “You. Me. Us. That’s what it comes down to, ultimately.”
Duniya took note of the flourish of pronouns, some inclusive, some exclusive; pronouns dividing the world into separable segments, which they labelled as such. Apparently, the two of them were we, the rest of the world they. Together, when alone with each other, they in turn fragmented themselves into their respective I’s. That is to say, they were like two images reflecting a oneness of souls, more like twin ideas united in their pursuit to be separable and linked at the same time. Is this the definition of love?
Aloud, she said, “I cannot help feeling guilty turning my back on my colleagues whose eyes I avoid because my wish to be alone with you is overwhelming. I grant you the feeling awes me with a sense of shame and guilt.”
He slowed down. Traffic moved at a turtle’s pace, crawling and honking. A lorry had levelled the trees separating the dual carriageway in an ugly accident, with half of the vehicle’s huge body on its side and the cabin facing in the opposite direction to that in which it had been travelling. They talked about the incorrigible foolishness of some of the drivers not only risking their own lives but those of others. By the time they reached Duniya’s home, Bosaaso was able to tell her that he had arranged for her to be given her first driving lesson.
“And who is to give me my first lesson?” she asked.
“We’ll talk about it after lunch,” he said.
They were welcomed at the outside door by Yarey who was eager to see them. Nasiiba, for her part, had prepared a special meal for them. “But why’s the table set for only two?” inquired Duniya.
“We’ve eaten,” announced Mataan, “the kind of a feast one starves oneself for.”
“Enjoy yourselves,” said Yarey.
“Bon appetit,” said Nasiiba.
Wearing her hair uncovered brought along with it a change of dress style, in a sense a change of personality. Bosaaso liked it a great deal, her children approved of it too, but were they the only ones who mattered? Obviously not. For some of her colleagues at work had commented on it adversely She herself had often described a woman’s bare head as being narcissistic, and requiring the use of mirrors and similar modern gadgets. After lunch, for instance, Duniya gave herself a few moments alone in the bathroom, absorbed in an act of self-regard, her attention totally engrossed in the three white hairs that wouldn’t curl no matter what she did, three flimsy white thread-like filaments with a slender body, unhealthy and pale. She knew she shouldn’t pull them out, otherwise they would multiply, a fact she had learnt from Taariq, her second husband whose once very dark beard was now laced with a great many grey hairs. She might never have taken notice of these emaciated hairs if she had been wearing her hair hidden in the prudence of an Islamic tradition which instructs women to cover their hair with scarves of modesty.
“Where are the children?” she asked.
“Maybe they think we would appreciate some privacy,” he said, getting up in an attempt to welcome her.
“Everybody is going insane,” she said, bending down to pick up a pair of plimsolls which Nasiiba had brought out for her to try on. She sat down to do just that, in silence. The shoes did not pinch, but neither were they comfortable. Duniya took a couple of steps backward, then forward, self-conscious like someone at a shoe-shop acquiring a pair. Then her eyes fell on a pair of slacks slung over an untaken chair, testimony to how much Nasiiba would commit her mother to, Nasiiba who knew no limits, and who. would want her mother to change her style of clothing, and with it her modest personality. No slacks, Duniya told herself, dreading the thought of putting on a pair and discovering a front bulge where there had been none before, not to mention the prominent, fleshy hips; these imperfections worried her aesthetic sense of being.