“I wish I had seriously considered the ethical implications of a brother delivering his younger sister’s baby, but there was no time — the lives of the mother and the baby weighed heavily in favor of an intervention, mine. These were abnormal times. There were no hospitals functioning, and I had no way of finding another doctor to help my sister. So I did what I had to, and got down to work right away, conscious of the conditions I was working in, which were far from ideal.”
“And where was Faahiye all the while?”
“He was there, all right.”
“Doing what?”
“I seem to remember that he was as nervous as an adolescent,” Bile said. Raasta was their first baby, the first for both. His anxiety grew, and he kept knocking at the door, coming in and going out, and putting sophomoric questions to me.
“I had no idea he would want to hold his baby as soon as she opened her lungs with the welcome of life. Not many Somali men would want to hold a baby soon after birth. For me, however, everything was unreal, and I took delight in touching, hugging, being touched and hugged, because I didn’t remember what I had just done — helped at the delivery of my sister’s baby, which by medical standards in our country is unethical. We quarreled over who would hold her longer.
“I hadn’t the calmness of mind to comprehend why Faahiye was fussing, or sulking, and why he was walking out of the room. Whenever I didn’t hold her, I regretted my error of judgment, regretted that I was hogging my niece’s company, and regretted that I didn’t take into account the fact that Faahiye was as eager to hold and touch the baby as I was. Only it was too late. We were two men of advanced age, one a father, the other a maternal uncle, and we were ready to fight over a baby, just born! But never in her presence.”
“And then?”
“My sister was dead to the world for much of the first day, and when she came to and held the baby, she spoke of how she had fallen under a quiet spell. We sensed calm within ourselves whenever we were close to Raasta, and if we had to fight or argue, we would go out of the room where she was. She mattered to us all, because she guaranteed our safety. She was a child born to peace, she was an alternative to attrition. She was a protected person, so anyone physically close to her would be protected too. That’s what we believed.”
Jeebleh asked, “What became of the duffel bag?”
“I had clean forgotten about it,” Bile said. “Faahiye found it in the house and confronted me, asked where I had gotten the cash. We argued, and he accused me of robbery and murder. I was at peace with myself, and my conscience was at peace with the truth, as I knew it, and I knew I was no murderer or robber. But I had a problem explaining, and felt affronted by Faahiye. I was hurt. We got off to a bad start. That was what it was. And then there was Shanta’s sickness.”
“What was the matter with her?”
“She had an acute inflammation, which worsened soon after she started breast-feeding. This led to abscesses. Within a day, her breasts were swollen, and because there was increased hardness toward their lower edges, I decided the baby should be bottle-fed. But then Faahiye forbade his daughter to be fed on powdered milk bought with looted money. Shanta told us that as a woman she didn’t want to become a victim of what she said were ‘men’s endless petty quarrels over matters she considered to be of no importance.’ To her, what mattered was that the baby had milk, not where the milk came from, or in what form. Faahiye sulked. It was all pretty horrid.”
In another long silence, the two friends looked at the cat, now busy pulling at a doll into which it had dug its powerful claws.
“SHANTA’S TROUBLE IS THAT SHE IS SHANTA!”
“What do you mean?” Jeebleh said.
“She describes herself as having her hands tied with a rope of tears. By which she means she cannot help being weepy,” Bile responded. “But she can be equally tough, and refuse to compromise. When she’s in an obstinate mood, she becomes a tit-for-tat person, and lets the world burn in its ashes.”
Bile explained how proud he was of her politics, what he called her “civic consciousness,” and how she would engage Caloosha’s politics with foolhardy courage. “Since Raasta’s disappearance, however, she’s started to demonstrate worrying signs of change. While she still despises his intimacy with the warlords, she’s moved closer to Caloosha ideologically, not least when it comes to clan politics.”
“How does Faahiye react to this?”
“He belongs to the old world! He can be deferential to a fault, at least in public,” Bile said. “But he can prove hard to take in private, reducing all Shanta’s grievances to a woman’s nagging, a naught. All the same, he behaves in an upright, old-world manner, like a man who believes in his own dignity and in the honor of the family. In contrast, she is given to outbursts, and to making a spectacle of herself in public.”
“What’s been your relationship with him?”
“We’ve been civil with each other, as in-laws, ever since he accepted my explanation of how I came by the money in the duffel bag.”
“That’s a relief.”
“We got along quite handsomely until he disappeared,” Bile said. “He and I never exchanged a harsh word over his and Shanta’s difficulties, for I saw how this was an affront to him. I stayed out of it as well as I could. I tried to intervene by speaking to my sister when things got out of hand, or when, in my presence, she behaved in an ill-mannered way.”
“How did he behave when she flipped?”
“He was very restrained.”
“Even when her behavior became unbearable?”
“There was the occasion when she made uncouth comments, described him as sex-starved, and claimed that he wanted her to ‘give’ it to him every night. I remember how he looked at her as an adult might look on a spoiled child,” Bile said.
Jeebleh said nothing.
“There’s nothing sadder than when someone you love takes leave of her senses right in front of you. Nothing as disturbing as when a well-brought-up, sane woman behaves uncontrollably badly in public.”
It was time to change the subject. “Who named her Raasta?” Jeebleh asked.
“We named her Rajo, in the belief that the girl represented every Somali’s hope. But then people misheard it as ‘Racho,’ and we didn’t want anyone to assume she was an orphan, so I nicknamed her ‘Raasta,’ on account of her dreadlocks. She was born with beautiful natural curls, which when washed, stayed as firm as jewels.”
Jeebleh remembered a detail from several articles he had read about Raasta and The Refuge, which stated that many people lived under the aegis of the dreadlocked girl. He hoped he could meet her before he left.
Bile yawned, mumbling about wanting to rise early, and Jeebleh agreed that they should turn in. But neither moved or said anything for a while. Then Jeebleh asked, “Do you think it will be possible for me to visit Shanta?”
“She’ll be happy to see you, I’m sure.”
“Maybe I can try to see her tomorrow?”
“I’ll arrange the visit,” Bile said.
17
JEEBLEH WOKE WITH A NAGGING ANXIETY ABOUT HIS IMPENDING VISIT with Shanta, worried that he might upset her more in her already weepy state. He wondered if he shouldn’t postpone the visit until more was known about the fate of the girls.
He wished more people would speak in a tongue of regrets, as Bile had suggested in his meandering way when they talked earlier, and instead of insisting that they are not to blame, would admit to their part in the collapse, to their culpability in the failure. Maybe then they would benefit from Bile’s humility, his honesty and magnanimity, these being assets in themselves, and seldom found in the same person.