Amina Read online

  ‘Why is it crazy? Is that a bad thing?’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ Aabbe said. ‘It’s only crazy because you’re a girl, growing up in Somalia. In most parts of the world, you would be rewarded for it. Here? Here, you know yourself it’s a liability.’

  Everybody knew that al-Shabaab was opposed to women’s education. Even though lots of Somalis secretly disagreed with al-Shabaab, people were too afraid to do anything about it. Lots of girls had dropped out of school and Amina had learned to keep her mouth shut so she wouldn’t get in trouble. But underneath her quietness lay a seething mass of ideas she was just waiting to express.

  ‘I wish Somalia could go back to the way it was before the war,’ she said. ‘It seemed …simpler. Nicer.’

  ‘Don’t look back, Amina,’ Aabbe said. ‘And don’t get stuck in the here and now. Just keep looking ahead, no matter what.’

  Chapter 4

  Amina sat beside Ayeeyo on the joodari they slept on together and gently played with her curly, silvery-grey hair. The bedroom was small but at least she didn’t have to sleep in the front room like Roble.

  Amina’s stomach growled. It was the first day of Ramadan so she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since dawn. She wouldn’t be able to eat or drink anything again until the sun set. But as hard as the month would be, the sacrifice helped her remember what she was doing and why, and made her long to be pure and right with Allah.

  She wondered if she should feel bad about talking to Keinan. But she didn’t.

  ‘Ayeeyo,’ she said now that they were alone. ‘Why are Aabbe and Hooyo so afraid? They keep talking, all day and all night long.’

  Ayeeyo didn’t respond.

  For the past two days, when they weren’t working or praying, Hooyo and Aabbe had spent their time talking urgently in deep whispers. They fell silent whenever Amina came close.

  Amina thought perhaps Ayeeyo might tell her what was going on because she, too, seemed worried. She watched Hooyo and Aabbe’s conversations like a scared chicken, about to start running to avoid the chopping block.

  ‘Is something wrong with the baby?’ Amina tried again.

  Ayeeyo pressed her lips together and shook her head.

  ‘Then what’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s nothing, my butterfly. Don’t worry your little heart.’

  But Amina could see the fear in her eyes.

  She left the bedroom, crossed the front room and opened the door, looking for Roble. A blast of humid air greeted her, sucking away her breath.

  Roble stood inside the gate talking to Keinan. Amina grabbed her headscarf and quickly covered her hair, winding it around and tucking the ends in so it was secure.

  Keinan glanced up and their eyes met. She launched herself down the stone steps and hurried across the yard.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked Roble.

  He hooted at her. ‘What does it look like? Talking to my friend.’

  ‘Have you had any adventures lately?’ Keinan greeted her. ‘Have you created anything for the world to marvel at?’

  Amina glanced back at the house, wondering if Hooyo or Ayeeyo were watching. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘We have come and gone from school without stopping. Roble said I must give up my street art.’

  She spoke lightly so she wouldn’t betray the heaviness she felt over Roble’s decision. Her intentions had been good, she knew, and Allah honoured intentions, not the outcome of your actions, which you could never predict. But for Roble, the difference didn’t matter. Her actions had put them in danger.

  ‘That’s too bad,’ Keinan said. ‘We will be your lookout, if Roble changes his mind.’

  Amina looked at Roble. She knew there was pleading in her eyes and it made her feel weak. She hated being dependent on another person. She lowered her eyes.

  ‘Maybe next week, Amina,’ Roble said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and even though she wanted to hide it, she couldn’t keep the note of joy out of her voice. ‘What about you, Keinan? Has the best soccer player done anything marvellous lately?’ she asked.

  ‘Unlike you, I don’t need to create marvels,’ Keinan joked. ‘I’m the work of art!’

  She joined the boys in their rowdy laughter, and, for a moment, Amina felt her parents’ worry draining out of her. It made her brave enough to broach the subject, even though Keinan was there. ‘Roble, what’s wrong? Why are Hooyo and Aabbe so worried all the time?’

  Roble glanced at Keinan.

  ‘You can tell me,’ Amina said, wondering why Roble seemed so uneasy. ‘Is it the baby?’

  ‘I don’t know how much I should say.’ Roble spoke in a low voice, even though they were inside the gate, behind the thick walls that protected the family from soldiers of all kinds.

  ‘I can keep a secret,’ Amina said.

  ‘Me too,’ Keinan said.

  Roble hesitated. ‘We aren’t sure exactly,’ he said, finally, ‘but there are rumours that somebody in al-Shabaab has offered a reward for anyone who brings Aabbe to them. He’s already received several death threats in the last few days.’

  It felt as though a sharp stick had punctured Amina’s lungs. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

  Keinan asked the question she couldn’t voice. ‘But why would al-Shabaab want to kill your father?’

  ‘Because of his paintings,’ Roble whispered. ‘They say his paintings are un-Islamic because they depict the living form. They say that his paintings inspire Somalis to rebel against the true teachings of Allah, especially Somalis in the diaspora, because they are already surrounded by infidels.’

  ‘They think all art is haram,’ Keinan said. ‘It’s not just your father’s paintings that are forbidden.’

  Amina whispered, too, as though even the walls might harbour an enemy. ‘But everybody knows where to find him,’ she said. ‘They could raid the neighbourhood. Al-Shabaab has soldiers. If they want to kill him, why don’t they just come here to fetch him?’ As soon as she said it, she wanted to snatch the words back. It was too easy. What if they figured that out?

  ‘I don’t know.’ Roble’s eyes flitted to Keinan again and again, and Amina found herself wondering why. Since Keinan’s father knew everybody, including al-Shabaab, was he protecting her father? Or did that connection put Aabbe in even greater danger? She wished that thought hadn’t occurred to her.

  ‘Aabbe should leave,’ she said.

  ‘Where would he go?’ Roble asked.

  The answer was obvious. ‘Somewhere safe,’ she said.

  Roble whooped. ‘And where is that?’

  Amina had to admit that she couldn’t think of a safe place in the whole city. The Transitional Federal Government was so weak it offered no protection. It seemed like al-Shabaab was everywhere and that meant that everywhere was dangerous. That’s why Hooyo and Ayeeyo refused to leave the house.

  Of course, al-Shabaab wasn’t really everywhere. Not anymore. Earlier that summer, African Union soldiers had successfully taken back some of the territory al-Shabaab held, including Bakaara Market. That meant there were places that might be safe for the time being – but it was impossible to predict whether they would remain safe, since al-Shabaab would eventually try to gain back that territory for itself.

  ‘Maybe the airport is safe,’ Amina said. After all, the airport was patrolled by a heavily armed securities company, hired by the Transitional Federal Government, not al-Shabaab. And if Aabbe was at the airport, he might have a chance to actually leave. Go to Kenya first, then seek asylum in Australia or America. Surely Aabbe would get asylum. But if he left, she would want to go with him. She wouldn’t want to be left behind.

  ‘He could come stay with us,’ Keinan said. ‘My house is safe.’

  ‘What, because of all those secret guns you have stashed away?’ Roble scoffed.

  ‘What guns?’ Amina asked.

  Keinan looked uncomfortable. ‘He’s just talking. My house is safe because we have a guard, not guns.’

  ‘The guard
has a gun,’ Amina said.

  ‘On the streets, you know, they say your family has a secret connection to al-Shabaab.’ Roble’s voice shook. ‘If we send Aabbe to your house, are we sending him to the lions?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Keinan said, as though Roble’s words had wounded him.

  The neighbourhood muezzin’s voice rose in a long, high wail to call the faithful for prayer.

  ‘We have to go,’ Roble muttered.

  Keinan slipped out of the gate, a hurt look on his face, while Amina and Roble hurried inside to join their own family.

  ‘It sounded like you were accusing Keinan of something,’ Amina said. ‘Are you angry with him?’

  Roble was performing his ablutions, washing his face, hands and feet with a basin of water in the kitchen. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You must know,’ Amina persisted.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ Amina said. ‘We were talking about people who want to kill Aabbe.’ She didn’t want to believe that their neighbours would betray them. But these days, you could trust no-one.

  Roble sighed. ‘I’m not angry at Keinan. He’s my friend. But I don’t trust his father.’

  Amina took the basin and threw the dirty water out the back door as Roble hurried to join Aabbe. They would go pray at the mosque with the other men while Amina would stay at home and pray with Hooyo and Ayeeyo.

  She filled the basin with water while she thought. Then she, too, washed her face, hands and feet, and went to the little alcove off the front room, where Hooyo and Ayeeyo were already facing Mecca, their heads covered with long white cloths. Ayeeyo sat on a chair, unable to kneel completely because of the arthritis in her knees. The sun shone through the paned window and flooded Ayeeyo’s face in blue light.

  Amina unfurled her sijaayad, following Hooyo’s smooth motions as she raised her hands in supplication, bending down to the knees, rising again, then kneeling prone and stretching her arms out towards the wall. Amina remembered how when she was younger Aabbe would sometimes stay home to pray. He would hold her next to him on his sijaayad. She missed that.

  Amina noticed a special urgency in Hooyo’s voice as she prayed and she thought back to what Roble had told her. How could anybody think her father’s work was un-Islamic? If they only knew him, she thought, then they would know that he’s fully submissive to the will of Allah.

  It was Allah’s work he was doing, he always said. It was important to remind the people of Somalia that the path of peace was a righteous one. His message was folded into the layers of oil that he used to paint the picture of ocean waves. How could anybody be opposed to his desire for the people of the country to lay down the sword so that they could be at peace? Who wanted the endless bloodshed? Who wanted to kill her father? Maybe a lot of people in Somalia didn’t want to hear his message.

  She tried to focus her mind on prayer but her throat ached. Tears welled up in her eyes but she willed them not to spill over. She had to be strong. She couldn’t show Hooyo that she knew something was wrong. She bent low at the waist, kept her eyes on the ground and prayed that she could be strong and pretend that she knew nothing.

  After prayers, Hooyo sent Amina to the kitchen to help Ayeeyo prepare food for the evening’s feast.

  Cooking during Ramadan was a special trial, especially at the beginning of the month, like today, when she still had to get used to going all day without food or drink. Amina chopped onions and tomatoes methodically, her mouth watering. She swished spit around in her mouth, patah patah patah, trying to ignore the hunger pains.

  Ayeeyo heated oil inside a clay pot perched precariously on a bed of live coals. She dropped the onions in and they sizzled, the oil popping up in tiny hot spurts. Amina smiled at Ayeeyo. This was what she liked best about her grandmother. The two of them could be perfectly silent together but Amina never felt alone.

  A sudden, loud rapping at the front door startled Ayeeyo so badly she jerked, knocking the pot which teetered off the coals. Amina hurried to pick up the onions off the floor, the hot oil scalding her hands.

  ‘How did somebody get inside the gate?’ Hooyo asked, appearing in the kitchen doorway. ‘Did you leave it unlocked, Amina?’ Hooyo didn’t wait for an answer. She draped a khimar around her head as she hurried to the front door.

  Anger pinched Amina’s chest. Why did Hooyo always blame her? She wasn’t the one who had just left to go pray at the mosque, but Hooyo would never blame her precious Roble or Aabbe.

  Amina followed Hooyo closely. Ayeeyo stayed behind in the kitchen doorway, holding a dishcloth as though it were a weapon.

  ‘Who is here?’ Hooyo called through the door.

  The man had a harsh and authoritative voice. ‘We are here for Samatar Omar Khalid.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Hooyo asked.

  ‘We are here for Samatar Omar Khalid,’ the man repeated.

  ‘He isn’t here,’ Hooyo said. She stood with her ear to the door, as though she could hear what they were thinking if she pressed against it hard enough.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He isn’t here,’ Hooyo repeated, her voice shaking as though it were cold. ‘He went to mosque for prayers.’ She had wound the edge of her scarf around her hand and was biting the cloth between her teeth. Saliva soaked through the folds.

  It was only then that Amina realised just how afraid Hooyo was. She tiptoed forward and crouched beside her mother, putting her hand on Hooyo’s arm. It trembled beneath her touch.

  ‘We must check the house,’ the man said. ‘We will not go away until you let us in.’

  Hooyo stayed perfectly still and silent, leaning with her ear against the door. Amina wondered what she was thinking.

  ‘Let them search the house, Hooyo,’ she whispered finally. ‘Aabbe isn’t here.’

  So Hooyo unlocked the door. Several men with long beards and chequered keffiyehs shouldered their way through. Amina recognised the uniform – al-Shabaab soldiers.

  The soldiers quickly swept the house, checking every room and every closet. The commander, the man who was clearly in charge, stayed near Hooyo and Amina at the front door, waiting, his finger on the trigger of the AK-47 he carried.

  Amina leaned against Hooyo, hoping he wouldn’t notice her.

  The ceiling echoed with the sounds of the soldiers shuffling around on the second floor. A few seconds later, they returned, coming down the stairs.

  ‘He isn’t here,’ one of them announced.

  The commander scrutinised Hooyo as he bent his head towards one of the soldiers. They conferred in low voices. ‘Tell your husband we’ll return,’ he said. ‘We have a few things to discuss.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Hooyo said.

  Amina was amazed. How could Hooyo sound so cheerful, so unworried? Yet one look at her eyes and Amina could see it was all a lie.

  The men murmured for a few more seconds, then marched out of the house and towards the gate.

  ‘Please, Amina, look out the window to see if they’re gone,’ Hooyo whispered.

  It wasn’t until Amina confirmed that the men were gone that Hooyo moved. And when she moved, she was fast, like an ocean wave with a strong undertow pulling Amina out into dangerous waters. ‘Hurry, hurry,’ she hissed. ‘Go to the mosque. Get your father. Tell him to come. He must leave here, he must. I am packing his things already.’

  ‘Where will he go?’ Amina asked. But Hooyo was already running to their bedroom, her bare feet pitter-pattering against the tiles. She turned once to look at Amina, frozen by the window.

  ‘Go!’ she screamed. ‘Go!’

  Amina jumped up and unlocked the door. She hurtled across the yard, scuttling through the rubble, stopping short when she noticed the door to Aabbe’s studio flung wide open.

  The men had clearly visited the studio first. They had scattered art supplies here and there. One of Aabbe’s paintings lay face down in the centre of the room, ripped through the middle. Amin
a stared at it for a minute, wild thoughts flashing through her mind.

  Another painting, one Aabbe had clearly been working on that very day, depicted Bakaara Market, alive with people haggling over prices. A little girl sat in the corner playing with stones while her mother sold cloth. A street child hid behind a bright red cloth, sneaking a hand into the pocket of a man making a purchase. Pigeons hopped around on one foot near the food sellers. A mosque towered over the market in the distant background, almost comically large in comparison to the rest of the scene. In the foreground, three or four men exchanged parcels secretly, even as guns spilled out of them. The guns were also absurdly large, as big as the mosque itself.

  It was paintings like this that had got him into trouble. They were the reason for the death threats. Not just because he depicted the living form – but because his art revealed the men who made war and sold guns as hypocrites, trading their weapons of death in the shadow of the mosque. ‘It isn’t Allah’s will that we Muslims should kill each other,’ Aabbe liked to say.

  Amina rushed from the studio and ran out of the gate. She looked up and down the street to see if the men were nearby but they had already gone. She ran towards the nearby mosque, where she knew Aabbe and Roble liked to pray.

  She saw them coming from a long way away, walking silently together, and she suddenly realised Roble looked like a man beside Aabbe. She stopped for a minute, taking a snapshot of the scene in her head. She would paint this scene some day, her father and her brother walking home from the nearby mosque through Mogadishu’s rubble, a large bird circling overhead, the brilliant blue sky.

  They saw her then and sprinted towards her. She plunged towards them until they met in the middle.

  ‘Is something wrong with Hooyo?’ Aabbe demanded as soon as he reached her.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Amina gasped. ‘But you need to come home now. Quick!’

  They ran together, clanging the gate and whirling up the steps to the front door, inside, and across the front room. They stood at the door of Hooyo and Aabbe’s bedroom.