Rotten Gods (34 page)

Four men on the island, however, are of the Shafi'i school, followers of Muhammad Ibn Idris ash-Shafi'i, with its greater focus on the Sunnah, the collected observations of Mohammed's actions during his life. There are subtle differences in prayer and outlook between the two madh'habs.

While all regard themselves as al-Muwahhidun, above and beyond their madh'hab, this greater belief was interpreted with the eyes of one brought up in a particular madh'hab. Those of Shafi'i origin on the island see themselves as more devout than the Maliki, and this belief was pointed out to the others. A discussion came to blows. Mediation will be difficult.

As the RIB comes up on the plane and surges away across the surface of the ocean, Saif gives his approach to the matter serious thought. He must act first to solve the crisis. Then he will worry about the kufr girls.

 

Marshall stands. ‘Gentlemen. We are in business. According to Fleet that man who just transferred from the float plane is none other than a terrorist wanted by law enforcement agencies across the world. We have new orders pending.' He turns to the bosun's mate. ‘Pipe the crew to defence watches. Assume NBCD state. One condition Yankee.'

Simon cannot sit still. Stinger shadowed the RIB almost back to the island before it dropped into the sea. There is no doubt now. He gets up and touches the captain's shoulder. ‘Do you mind if I make another call? It's very important.'

‘Of course. Go for it.'

Simon carries the handset outside and punches in the number. Tom Mossel answers after a couple of rings.

‘It's him, isn't it?' Simon breathes. ‘That just got off that float plane. The terrorist you're after.'

‘Yes.'

‘Promise me you're not going to vaporise that island.'

There is a pause, then, ‘You have my word. We're going to do this the old-fashioned way.'

 

The haboob storm comes from deep inside Ethiopia, howling and shrieking, collecting sand and dust as it rakes through the gullies and across the plains of the vast Ogaden Desert. Madoowbe shows Marika how to use the hijab for its original purpose — wrapping it tight around her face to keep the sand out, exposing just the lenses of her sunglasses.

‘The haboob is both good and bad,' he says. ‘The shifta will not find us, yet we will not find our band of nomads, either.'

‘What do we do?'

‘Keep heading north and west, and hope.'

‘How do you know we are heading in the right direction?'

‘If I keep the wind on my left hand, we are going the right away.'

‘What if the wind changes?'

‘Then we will go the wrong way.'

The air is so thick with particles that to open an unprotected mouth is to let it fill with dust, to expose an eye means temporary blindness. Only under protective layers of linen can Marika breathe, and only through the desert sense of the camel will they live. Above the moaning wind she hears the clatter of the wooden bell around the animal's neck.

Whether from exhaustion or the recent escape from extreme danger, Marika begins to feel relaxed. The blanketing sand is
soothing, protecting them from any possible danger, for surely no enemy will find their way through it. Madoowbe's body is close against hers, and there are pressure points she can feel on her back.

Marika lets herself fall back against him perhaps another millimetre, enjoying the sensation, closing her eyes and letting the movement of the camel rock her away into a kind of half sleep. The darkness has been complete for some hours, and still the sand and wind continues. They ride on, together, into an endless darkness.

‘You said you were going to tell me about yourself,' Marika prompts, snuggling back, closer still. His hands circle her abdomen, still holding the reins, fingers linked.

‘Do you really want to know?'

‘Of course I do. You're a fair old enigma, if ever I've seen one. For a start, tell me what Madoowbe, your nickname, means?'

‘Madoowbe means black — my skin was very dark at birth. My full name is Libaan Khayre Istar — this is how Somali names work: Libaan is my own name; Khayre the name of my father; and Istar, the name of my grandfather. I saw each rarely, for my mother remarried twice.'

‘So, Libaan — if that is honestly your name this time — why are you here? Why are you risking your life here with me?'

‘I have to go back a long way to explain that.'

‘We have plenty of time. I don't reckon this night will
ever
end.' The statement is heartfelt. To Marika, there is no east or west, and therefore no hope of sunrise or dusk. Just endless darkness.

Madoowbe appears to slow the camel down, as if he is thinking. Finally he starts talking, and at first Marika doesn't dare breathe in case he stops.

‘When I was about twelve there was a drought. We wandered far in search of grazing, and rarely met other families. Now and
then, however, we chanced a meeting with another family near a well or oasis. While the men pooled resources to dig through the sand for water, we boys were given responsibility for our few bony cattle. I remember how proud I was, on one occasion, when I found a hollow with some pasture and watched our beasts fill their rumens with sweet grass.'

Marika tries to picture the scene. ‘So you were the hero?'

‘Yes, until a boy from the other family, Raage, heard of my windfall and brought their cattle to the place. There was no question of sharing — we had to fight for it. The boy was older and stronger than I was.'

‘What does Raage mean? It sounds like the English word for anger.'

‘That naanays means delayed at birth. Anyway, work on the well stopped and the two families came to watch us fight — for above all things, a Somali loves to fight, and if he can't join in himself then watching others do so is a good second. Raage walked towards me with bunched fists, and my knees trembled. At the last moment I turned and ran all the way to where my mother stood. She shooed me away, shamed, as they all were.'

‘You poor kid,' Marika says.

‘My family left the place  — no one would talk to me so I walked alone with one camel. When I went too close, Othman, my mother's husband, who had killed men for laughing at him, cuffed me on the ear.'

They cross a drift of sand, then descend into a deep gully where the dust flies less furiously. Madoowbe stops the camel and signals for it to kneel. Marika struggles to shift her weight sideways, finally dropping to the sand.

‘What are we doing?'

‘We have travelled a good distance. There is no point going further now that we have found a protected place. Here we will rest until the wind drops.'

In the deepest part of the gully is an overhanging stone ledge. After they have crawled inside, the camel drops at a signal from Madoowbe, creating a barrier between them and the storm, sitting so close that the animal smell is almost overpowering. Strangely, it lies with its head flat on the earth, turned in and away from the storm so that it appears to be watching them.

When they have settled Marika looks across at Madoowbe. ‘So what happened — did your family forgive you for not fighting?'

Madoowbe appears not to have heard her at first, instead producing a sharp knife. She does not ask where he acquired it. Taking a tin mug from the saddlebag he incises a vein in the camel's leg and fills the vessel with blood.

‘Drink,' he says.

‘You've got to be kidding? Camel blood?'

‘Your responsibility is to find this woman, Sufia, and you cannot do that if you die of thirst and hunger. This is not a matter of your preferences, of your likes and dislikes. You have a job to do — you must sustain yourself for the task. That is what a warrior does.'

Taking the mug, she drinks, finding the dark liquid sickly warm, but somewhat tasteless. When she has done so, Madoowbe refills the cup, drinks, presses his forefinger against the cut to stop the flow, then returns to the story.

‘Within a few days I was able to bask in my mother's affection once more — she was a beautiful and imposing woman, around six feet tall, light brown, with a smile that drew stares from men wherever we passed. Our subclan suffered not their women to cover their faces. Othman, also, though he scowled, did not
object to me taking my place with the others, and even allowed me a little dried meat from our meagre stores.'

‘So how did you finally leave them? I take it you had no education at this point?'

‘That is correct. We stopped at noon that following day and sat in the shade of the camels, while Othman argued with my mother about our direction. Many men would not deign to hear a woman's opinion, but my mother was a desirable, strong-willed woman, and had borne enough sons from three different fathers to have stature. My mother said that she had seen lightning far to the west the previous night. Rain might have fallen and, walking in that direction, there was a chance we might reach fresh pasture in a few days or a week. Othman disagreed, wanting to continue heading more to the south on the traditional route of the clans. His reasoning was that we had followed lightning many times before, only to be disappointed. The remaining cattle would not survive a long trek. Neither had convinced the other by the time we rested so we continued in a vague westerly heading that seemed as good as any other. In the late afternoon I spotted the dust of another family group in the distance, and our paths converged. Both groups stopped, and we looked at each other warily, trying to see if either recognised a member of the other. I remember that Othman took out his bilau, checking the edge with his thumb. He grinned and I caught his eye.

‘“Come with me,” he said. I was frightened, but with Othman beside me I walked to within shouting distance of a delegation from the other party. Most of the time I liked Othman — once or twice he had even let me sit on his knee and stroke his beard — but he was very fierce and I was worried that there would be a fight.'

‘Why didn't you run?'

‘Because I was trying to prove that I was no coward. I counted just two camels but no cattle with the other group. They were poorer than us, but even so, unexpected encounters had to be undertaken cautiously while the two groups established their relationship to each other. A blood feud might exist, and those involved would either fight or avoid contact. Now and again a full-scale gun and knife battle would erupt with casualties on both sides.

‘“My name is Othman Adam Arale,” Othman shouted. “I am of the Darod people.”

‘The leader of the other group replied, “I am Mohammed Abdullah Mohammed. We are Marehan people, come for the promises of the great revolutionary leader of Somalia, Siad Barre, who will take us to a land where grass grows higher than a man's head.”

‘Othman frowned. The other group were interlopers, and now talked this crazy talk. We had heard of Siad Barre. Somalis, no matter how remote, love politics and converse on the topic at every meeting. Barre and his men had started a revolution and taken over the country. In the normal course of events this would affect us nomads little.

‘“You have not heard this news?” the Marehan asked us. It was a difficult situation for Othman, who could not admit ignorance, yet neither could he resist his natural curiosity. “I will come forward in peace and you will tell me more of this.” While the women and younger children still looked at each other, the men came together and exchanged miraa.'

Marika nods understanding. ‘Go on, please.'

‘The marehan told of trucks gathering at the village of Sinadogo, to the south, taking all those who wanted to escape the drought to the coast, where grass grew so lush that cattle became
too heavy to walk. I, for one, was ready to pack up and go that very moment, but Othman would never make a hasty decision.'

Marika was transported by these images of a harsh nomadic life, comparing it to her own. ‘I just can't imagine it — owning only what you could load on a few camels. It must have been hard for you.'

‘Yes, but we did not know it then.' He pauses. ‘Shall I go on?'

‘Of course, please do.'

‘We did not share a fire with these newcomers for they had no blood relationship to us. Instead Othman pushed our group onwards, but I noticed a subtle shift in direction towards the village of Sinadogo. The marehan maintained a course parallel and a little behind. In the evening I took responsibility for the livestock and searched in vain for grazing. Here the land was flat beyond belief, with no trees to relieve the monotony. The sand was pale crimson, dotted with lighter rocks. I tried to imagine what this other, promised, landscape might be like, where grass grew as tall as a man — surely a place of such richness would support hundreds of cows and thousands of camels, and the beasts would breed with a will. Young livestock would thrive and a man would become wealthy. Going to the coast in Siad Barre's trucks was a good thing to do, I decided, and was determined to tell Othman what I thought, whether I got cuffed for the presumption or not.

‘Days earlier my mother had traded a brass medallion for a small bag of rice. We ate it boiled in a cup of precious water — a handful of food each, unflavoured apart from a strip or two of dried camel meat. It was only enough to sharpen hunger, and the baby cried. In general Somali babies are not weaned until their third or fourth year but my mother lost her milk after six months, and camel milk and solid food had sustained the little girl since. I admit that I had little interest in the cloth-wrapped bundle.'

A change comes over Madoowbe, as if he has retreated into some kind of trance, his voice a monotone. ‘The little girl was too young to play with, or to work. She stayed with my mother always. At the conclusion of supper I moved next to Othman and told him that I thought we should go in the trucks, or soon we would starve to death. It was true. Even if one day the drought ended it might well be too late. Besides, once we lost the livestock we were as good as dead — our animals provided almost every need: shelter, milk, meat, transport; my clan lived parasitically on them.