Desert Flower (20 page)

using a Somali man to translate. How much worse could it get?

Dr. Macrae said, “Explain to her that she’s closed up way too much I don’t even know how she’s made it this far. We need to operate on her as soon as possible.” Right away, I could see the Somali man wasn’t happy. He pursed his lips and glared at the doctor. Between the fact that I did understand some English, and the Somali man’s attitude, I sensed that something was not right.

He said to me, “Well, if you really want it, they can open you up.” I just stared at him. “But do you know this is against your culture? Does your family know you’re doing this?”

“No. To tell you the truth, no.” “Who do you live with?” “My aunt and uncle.”

“Do they know you’re doing this?”

“NO.”

“Well, the first thing I’d do is discuss it with them.” I nodded, thinking: That’s the response of a typical African man. Thanks for your good advice, brother. That will put an end to the whole business. Dr. Macrae added that he couldn’t do the operation right away; I’d need to make an appointment. I realized then that I couldn’t do it, because Auntie would find out. “Yeah. I’ll do that I’ll call for an

appointment.” Of course, over a year went by and I never called.

Immediately after my family returned to Somalia, I called and made an appointment, but the soonest I could get was two months. As the two months ticked by, I remembered the horror of my circumcision. I thought the surgery would be a repeat of that process, and the more I thought about it, I decided I couldn’t go through that again. When the day came, I simply never went to the hospital and never called.

By this point I was living at the Y. The problems with my periods hadn’t decreased, but now I was having to earn my living outside the home. You couldn’t just miss a week of work each month and hope to keep a job. I struggled along, but my friends at the Y saw I was in bad shape. Marilyn kept asking me what was wrong. I explained to her that I’d been circumcised as a girl in Somalia.

But Marilyn was raised in London, and she couldn’t fathom what I was talking about. “Why don’t you show me, Waris? I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Did they cut you here? This? That? What did they do?”

Finally one day I pulled my pants down and showed her. I’ll never forget the look on her face.

Tears poured down her cheeks as she turned away. I felt so desperate, because I thought: Oh, my God, is it really that bad? The first words out of her mouth were “Waris, do you feel anything?” “What are you talking about?”

She just shook her head. “You know, do you remember how you looked when you were a little girl? Before they did this?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s how I am now. You’re not the same.” Now I knew for sure. No longer did I need to wonder or maybe even hope that all women had been mutilated the way I had. Now I knew for certain that I was different. I didn’t wish my suffering on anyone else, but I didn’t want to be on my own. “So this hasn’t happened to you, to you and your mother?”

She shook her head and began crying again. “It’s horrible, Waris. I can’t believe that anybody would do this to you.”

“Oh, come on, please don’t make me feel sad.” “I feel sad. Sad and angry. I’m crying in a way because I can’t believe there are people in the world who would do this to a little girl.”

We sat there in silence for a few moments, and while Marilyn continued to sob quietly I couldn’t look at her. Then I decided I’d had enough.

“Well, fuck it. I’m going to have this surgery. I’m going to call this doctor tomorrow. At least I can enjoy going to the bathroom. That’s all I can enjoy, but at least that much.”

I’ll go with you, Waris. I’ll be right there. I promise.”

Marilyn called the doctor’s office and made the appointment for me; this time I had to wait a month. During that time, I kept saying, “Girl, you sure you’re coming with me?”

“Don’t worry. I’m coming. I’ll be right there.” When the morning came for surgery, she got me up early and we went to the hospital. The nurse led me into the room. Ah, there it was: the table. When I saw the operating table, I nearly turned around and ran out of the building. It was better than a rock in the bush, but I had little hope the procedure would feel much better. However, Dr. Macrae gave me an anesthetic for pain something I wished I’d had when the Killer Woman butchered me. Marilyn held my hand while I went to sleep.

When I woke up, they had moved me into a double room with a woman who had just given birth. This lady, along with all the people I’d meet

at lunchtime in the cafeteria, kept asking me, “So, what are you here for?”

What could I say? Confess, “Oh, I came to have surgery on my vagina. My pussy was just way too tight!” I never told anyone the truth. I said I had a stomach bug. And even though my recovery process was greatly improved over that of my circumcision, some of my worst memories of that time were repeated. Every time I had to pee, the same old thing: salt and hot water. But at least the nurses let me have a bath and I’d soak in the hot water. Ahhhh. They gave me painkillers, so it wasn’t so bad, but I was really glad when it was over.

Dr. Macrae did a fine job, and I’ve always been grateful to him. He told me, “You know, you’re not alone. Let me tell you, I have women come in here with this same problem all the time. A lot of women from the Sudan, Egypt, Somalia. Some of them are pregnant and they’re terrified because trying to give birth while they’re sewn up is dangerous. There can be a lot of complications the baby can suffocate trying to exit the tight opening, or the mother can bleed to death. So, without the permission of their husbands or their family they come to me, and I do my bit. I do my best.”

Within two or three weeks I was back to normal. Well, not exactly normal, but more like a woman who hadn’t been circumcised. Waris was a new woman. I could sit down on the toilet and pee whoosh There’s no way to explain what a new freedom that was.

When I returned from my movie debut as a Bond Girl, I told the driver to take me straight to Marilyn Monroe’s house. Like a coward, I hadn’t called my friend after I’d left for Morocco, but instead had decided to let her cool off until I returned. Standing on her stoop with a sack full of presents, I nervously rang the bell. She opened the front door, grinned from ear to ear, then rushed forward to hug me. “You did it! You crazy bitch, you did it!” Marilyn forgave me for stealing the fraudulent passport; she said she was so impressed that I had the guts to pull the whole caper off that she couldn’t stay mad. But I agreed never to put

either one of us through the danger of using her passport again, especially after my torture passing through customs at Heathrow.

I was glad that Marilyn forgave me, because she was indeed a good friend. And once again, I had to call on that friendship. When I returned home to London, I thought my modeling career was just beginning especially after the back-to-back successes’ of working with Terence Donovan and being in a James Bond movie. But as if by magic, my modeling career vanished overnight, disappearing as suddenly and mysteriously as it had begun. No more working at McDonald’s for me, but also no more living at the YMCA. With no work, I couldn’t afford to keep my room there, and was forced to move into the house with Marilyn and her mother. This arrangement pleased me much more in many ways living in a real home, and being part of their family. I wound up staying with them for seven months, and even though they didn’t complain, I knew I’d outstayed my welcome. I got a few little modeling jobs here and there, but still was not making enough money to support myself. I moved in with another friend, a Chinese man named Frankie, who was a friend of my hairdresser. Frankie owned a big house well, to me it was big because it had

two bedrooms. He generously offered to let me stay there while I tried to get my career going.

In 1987, shortly after I moved in with Frankie, The Living Daylights came out. A couple of weeks later, another friend took me out on Christmas Eve; everyone in London was celebrating, and caught up in the mood, I came home very late. As soon as my head touched the pillow, I was asleep. But a steady tapping on my bedroom window woke me. Looking outside I saw the friend who’d just dropped me off, holding a newspaper. He was trying to say something, but I couldn’t understand him, so I opened the window.

“Waris! You’re on the cover of The Sunday Times!”

“Oh…” I rubbed my eyes. “Honestly I am?” “Yeah! Take a look.” He held up the paper and there was a three-quarter shot of my face filling the whole cover. It was larger than life-size, with my blond hair ablaze and a determined look on my face.

“That’s nice… I’m going back to bed now… sleep,” and I stumbled to my bed. By noon, however, I’d realized the possibilities of that publicity. Surely being on the cover of The Sunday Times of London would generate some action. In the meantime, I hustled. I ran all over London going to

castings, pestered my booker, and finally switched modeling agencies, but nothing improved.

My new agency said, “Well, Waris, there’s simply not much of a market for a black model in London. You have to travel for jobs Paris, Milan, New York.” I was all for traveling, except for the same old problem: my passport dilemma. The agency said they’d heard of an attorney, Harold Wheeler, who had been able to help several immigrants with their passports. Why didn’t I talk to him

I went to this Harold Wheeler’s office and discovered that he wanted an extortionate amount of money to help me two thousand pounds. Still, I reasoned, since I would be able to travel and work, I could make that money back in no time. As it stood now, I was quickly going nowhere. I scraped together the money from every possible source, eventually raising the two-thousand-pound fee. But I was concerned about giving him all my borrowed cash, then finding out he was a crook.

Making sure to leave my cash at home, I made my second appointment, and took Marilyn with me for her opinion. I rang the intercom and Wheeler’s secretary answered, then buzzed us into the building. My friend waited in the lobby while I met with Wheeler in his office.

I spoke bluntly: “Tell me the truth. I just want to know if this passport I’m getting is going to be worth two thousand pounds. Am I going to be able to travel all over the world legally? I don’t want to wind up stranded in some godforsaken place and get deported. And where are you getting this thing from?”

“No, no, no, I’m afraid I can’t talk about my sources. You must leave that to me. If you want a passport, my dear, I can certainly get you a passport. And you have my word, it will be perfectly legal. After we begin the process it will take two weeks. My secretary will give you a ring when it’s ready.” Great! That means two weeks from now I can just bugger off anyplace I like, anytime.

“Well, okay, that sounds good,” I said. “What do we do next?” Wheeler explained how I would marry an Irish national, and he just happened to have such an individual in mind. The two thousand pounds would go to the Irishman in return for his services. Wheeler would keep only a small fee for himself. He wrote down the date and time of my appointment; I was to meet my new husband at the registry office, and bring one hundred and fifty pounds in cash for additional expenses.

“You’ll be meeting a Mr. O’Sullivan,” Wheeler advised in his proper British accent. He continued

to write as he talked. “He is the gentleman you’ll be marrying. Oh, and by the way congratulations.” He glanced up and gave me a slight smile.

Later, I asked Marilyn if she thought I should trust this guy. She said, “Well, he has a nice office in a nice building in a nice neighborhood. He has his name on the door. He has a professional secretary. He looks legitimate enough to me.”

My trusted friend Marilyn also came with me as a witness on my wedding day. Waiting outside the registry office, we watched an old man with a withered red face, unruly white hair, and ragged clothes zigzag down the sidewalk. We were laughing until he started up the registry steps. Marilyn and I looked at each other in shock, then back at him. “Are you Mr. O’Sullivan?” I ventured.

“In the flesh. That’s me name.” He lowered his voice. “Are you the one?” I nodded. “You got the money, lass did you bring the money?”

“Yes.”

“One hundred fifty quid?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl. Well, then, hurry up, hurry up. Let’s go. Time’s a-wastin’.” My new husband

reeked of whiskey, and was obviously completely and thoroughly soused.

As we followed him inside, I muttered to Marilyn, “Is he going to live long enough for me to get my passport?”

The registrar began performing the ceremony, but I was having a hard time concentrating. I was constantly being distracted by Mr. O’Sullivan weaving unsteadily on his feet; and sure enough, as the registrar said, “Do you, Waris, take this man’ he collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud. At first I thought he’d died till I realized he was breathing heavily through his open mouth. I knelt down and started shaking him, yelling, “Mr. O’Sullivan, wake up!” But he refused.

I rolled my eyes at Marilyn and cried, “Oh, great, my wedding day!” and she fell against the wall laughing, holding her stomach. “Just my luck! My dear husband-to-be passes out on me at the altar.” Presented with such a ridiculous situation, I figured we might as well have some fun, and I twisted it for all I could get.

The registrar put both hands on her knees and bent down to examine my fiance, peering over the top of her tiny half glasses. “Is he going to be all right?”

I wanted to shout at her, “How the fuck should

I know?” but realized that would be giving away the game. “Wake up, come on, WAKE UP!” I had resorted to slapping his face fairly soundly by now. “Please somebody get me some water. Somebody do something!” I pleaded with a laugh. The registrar brought a cup of water and I threw it in the old man’s face.

“Ugh…” He began snorting and grunting and finally his eyes flickered open. With some serious tugging and pushing we were able to get him to his feet.