SilkHair. What are her intentions toward him in the event that she commits herself more and more to his welfare? Will the time ever come when she may adopt him legally? This is one of her concerns. The idea of taking SilkHair in, even though it is not necessarily in the cards, does have its appeal, as it will give her more purchase when she decides to return to Toronto. She imagines saying, in response to her friends, who may ask why she is back so soon after leaving, “But you know, Mogadiscio is no place in which to raise an intelligent, ambitious child, as there are no schools, in fact nothing to recommend it.” Of course, there is no way of knowing how things will pan out, or whether SilkHair will prove to be a willing partner in her project, bearing in mind that he is the kind of boy who has clear ideas about what he wants to do with his life — for a boy of his age and background. More important, is she a good enough mother for a boy of his social circumstances. Is her hardiness comparable to Seamus’s, whom Kiin says has adopted the entire country and survived it?
She puckers her lips into wrinkled annoyance, disturbed at the recurrent thought that by inviting others into her life, she will bring into it complications without which she can do very well. Why does she keep doing that? Is it because she is perennially lonely, needing the company of others in the very same way some people have pets or married couples who are having difficulties invite third or fourth parties, because they cannot face each other alone? Why — even before she is certain of a favorable outcome about SilkHair — is she thinking about Bile? Maybe she believes that, in his own way, Bile not only will have supplemented and in the end completed her new self, but will have enriched it too. Like it or not, the question that comes to her mind now is whether or not she is exchanging Wardi, the estranged husband whom she has shed off, for Bile, and whether admitting SilkHair into the parameters of her newly reconstructed self will have given it a firmer format.
Her face brightens with a smile at the thought of not only meeting this Seamus but also placing the sketches of her plans before him and requesting that he carve the masks and, if feasible, build the stage and set too. Happy at the prospect of achieving her aim, Cambara takes a slow sip from her bottle of mineral water.
She takes a mouthful of the mango. She thinks, What a beauty, what a mango! Then she muses what shape this new self will take if allowed to develop to its full potential. To make things work, she will have to find out what kind of homeschooling Kiin has organized for her daughters and find out what chances there are for SilkHair. The question is how best to organize the life of a young boy in these difficult times and in such a way that it is manageable. Will she survive journeying into yet another new “thing” whenever the old “thing,” to which she gave her concentrated attention for many days, many weeks, many months, or many years, no longer fills her heart with excitement and emotion?
Suddenly, she hears a female voice that is at once familiar and full of animated vigor, giving instructions and shouting at several people at the same time. The part of Kiin’s voice that is familiar is imbued with an irresistible charm; the unfamiliar strain of it is raised, hastily spoken, stressed to the point of sounding plagued — the voice of a woman who is harried, hassled, and perfunctory too. Eventually, she catches sight of Kiin as she comes into view, riding the waves of her elegant stride. Deeply moved, excitement catches at Cambara’s throat, and she manages only to wave and wave. Eventually, Kiin acknowledges her beckoning motions and indicates, with a gesture of her hand, that she will be with her shortly.
Kiin joins her, even though it is clear that she is fretting, maybe because she has not much time to chat, what with the number of things that she must attend to before the evening party. The two friends hug, touching cheeks, kissing, each asking how the other is, and then answering, in unison, “Fine, very fine,” and finding this humorous and giggling.
When they have stood apart for a few seconds, Kiin says, “Have you heard from him? He’s promised that he will call you.”
It does not do Cambara’s heart any good to hear a generic allusion to a “he” and to remember that she has forgotten the mobile phone in the room — not knowing what manner of tidings this “he” will bring and whether they are good or bad. Who is supposed to have called her? Bless the fellow — Bile? Curse the fellow — Zaak? God forbid — Gudcur?
“From whom am I supposed to have heard?”
“Seamus.”
“How stupid of me,” Cambara says.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I’ve left the phone in the room.”
“Seamus has rung me.”
“What does he say?”
“That he’ll be here shortly.”
Cambara pushes her breakfast things away and, as soon as she does, grows restless, looking from the plates to Kiin and then finally at her sketch pad, which is to the right of her, and is filled with scrawls and patterns that make a fascinating viewing, at least from where Kiin is standing.
Kiin, meanwhile, instructs the waiter to go to the kitchen and place an order of double espresso and breakfast — liver, underdone, and canjeero-pancakes — for Seamus, and to bring it to Cambara’s table.
When the waiter has gone and they are alone, Kiin says, “I would like you to join us for lunch, my daughters and me.”
“Be glad to,” Cambara says.
“Lunch at one-thirty for two.”
Cambara half rises, readying to thank Kiin for everything and at the very same moment thinking of her, rather enviously, as a woman in charge of her life.
Kiin is off, saying, “See you then.”
The first intimation, insofar as Cambara is concerned, that something unusual is taking place comes in the shape of an eerie quietness when one of the sentries switches off a radio. From that instant on, Cambara takes interest in the inexorable, if unorthodox, movements of several of the junior unarmed security guards who amuse themselves as they have a peek, one at a time, through the peephole of the pedestrian gate. Then they exchange quizzical looks as they consult one another and then debate among themselves what action to take if any, before sheepishly glancing in the direction of a man who looks as though he is dead to their world, maybe sleeping.
A perfunctory appraisal confirms her suspicions: that the man sleeping in the chair, with his arms hugging his chest, his feet forward, and whom the junior unarmed sentries at the gate have not dared to disturb is, indeed, the man who led yesterday’s afternoon prayer. He is, apparently, the head of security, and now she remembers him directing the show in the car. Kiin has told her how much she relies on him.
Eventually he wakes of his own accord, maybe because, with the radio no longer on, the uncanny soundlessness alerts him to the changes of which he takes notice. He opens his eyes with the slowness of a cock squawking an exhausted crow from the depth of its drowsiness and then stretches his arms into the full extent of a yawn before doddering to his tallness. He rubs the weariness out of his eyes, leans against the wall for support, and asks what is happening. Receiving no answer from the others, who can only stare at him, he places his eye to the spy hole. He sees an ungainly white man with the hangdog expression of someone who has no business being there, a man with a beer paunch pulling at his bearded face and nervously feeding chunks of the graying hair into his mouth, chewing at it ceaselessly.