“Yes,” she replied, knowing that the truth would only incite him further.
He searched her face and then grunted: “My men are hungry.”
When he walked away, she returned to the kitchen and calculated how much food she needed to prepare. She didn’t have enough rice to feed five men, but she had plenty of corn for grits. She also had fresh goat meat and milk from the market and frozen mangoes that she could thaw. It was a good meal, probably better than they had eaten in a long time. It would satisfy their bellies and, if she was lucky, it would temper Najiib’s anger.
She heard his men bantering and laughing in the yard.
He didn’t tell them about the baby
, she surmised. It made sense. Najiib lived in a cocoon of secrecy. Everything she knew about him she had gathered from observation or hearsay in the village. No one knew where he went when he wasn’t home. There were rumors about a training camp on Badmadow Island near the Kenyan border and of a base in Baraawe on the coast, but no one had seen them. People whispered that he had spent time with the
mujahedeen
in Afghanistan, but they didn’t know any details. Even his role in the Shabaab was shrouded in mystery. Everyone feared his power, but no one was certain whom he answered to in the organization. His nickname was enough to fuel endless speculation—“Azrael,” the harvester of souls.
She served lunch to the men in the shade of the
higlo
tree and ate inside with Jamaad, who had ceased her simpering and now sulked in disgrace. Yasmin knew she would have to tread carefully for a few days until the woman regained favor with her nephew. But she didn’t intend to bear with Jamaad much longer. In the days since Fatuma died, she had sketched out an escape plan and started squirreling away provisions around the house. If the rains of the
gu
didn’t fail as they had last year, they would offer her the chance—however slight—to disappear.
That evening after supper, Yasmin drew water from the river and scrubbed herself with soap until she could no longer smell her sweat. Then she put on her nightclothes and went to her room. She lit incense candles in the corners, drew a curtain across the window, and massaged rose oil into her skin. She knew he would come to her when his men were asleep. What she didn’t know is how rough he would be. She read from the Quran, but the words didn’t soothe her nerves. She waited on edge, trying to relax. The tenser she was, the more it would hurt.
He appeared around midnight, a shadow in the doorway. She stood up when he approached. He took her hair in his hands and rubbed it between his fingers. She could feel his desire like an aura around him. She was sure he had consorts in the camps, but his feelings for her were unique. Every time he came to her he spoke the same line of verse. This time was no exception.
“You are more beautiful than rain in the season of drought,” he said.
As always, she said nothing in return, just stared at his chest until he bade her to look at him. She stood still while he undressed her and lay back against the bed, concealing her shame. Though she had spoken the vows before the imam and two witnesses, her marriage was a fraud. She was his conquest, not his wife. Most of the time she didn’t think about what he had stolen from her. But in these intimate moments, when his body was against hers, the pain was too great to resist.
She saw their faces like frames in an old film reel—Adan smiling at her through his spectacles as he delivered his daily lessons; Khadija discussing poetry with her on her bed; Ismail playing music on his computer and dreaming about university; and Yusuf, sweet Yusuf, drinking life in like a sponge. She had loved them without reservation, unlike her clan, which had spawned so much bloodshed, and her country, which had never known peace in her time. But her family was gone, all because the man whose smell now filled her nostrils had decided that her father was an enemy of God.
When at last Najiib was spent, he rolled over on his back and stared up at the ceiling. She ignored the discomfort in her loins and waited patiently, expecting him to speak, but he said nothing. His silence was an ominous sign. It meant that she hadn’t pleased him, or that he had come seeking more than gratification. In time, he sat up and proved her intuition correct.
“Fatuma was weak,” he said quietly, looking into her eyes. “You are not weak. But what good is strength if you have an unfruitful womb?” He leaned close and whispered into her ear: “It is time for you to give me a son. Or I will find another who will.”
Megan
Mogadishu, Somalia
March 23, 2012
Two days after her meeting with Mahamoud, Megan hitched a ride with Manny to the office of the AU/UN Information Support Team—AMISOM’s public affairs division—on the other side of the airport base. The morning sun was like a torch in the sky, bleaching the ground white. It had taken some persistence to find transport to Hawa Abdi Village, but she had been fortunate enough to meet Isra, a lovely Somali-Kenyan woman, who had come to her aid and arranged a military convoy for her.
Manny dropped her off outside the IST compound, and a Ugandan soldier opened the gate for her. She knocked on Isra’s door, and the young woman opened it with a smile. “Come in,” she said in English, ushering her into the room. “Here is your body armor.”
Megan took the heavy green vest and slipped her arms through the loops, cinching the belt around her chest. The vest was fitted with steel plates capable of stopping high-powered bullets—in the best case, at least. In the worst case—multiple shots at short range—they would slow them down. Megan was only mildly reassured. If she got shot, no hospital in Mogadishu would operate on her. They would med-evac her to Nairobi, and she would probably die on the way.
Isra handed Megan a matching helmet. “You can wait to put this on,” she said. She made a call on her mobile phone and spoke a few words in Somali. Then she put on her own body armor, grabbed a second helmet, and looked at Megan. “Are you ready to go?”
Megan nodded, struggling to suppress her nerves. She had cheated death before, climbing some of the tallest mountains in the world, skydiving over the desert and the ocean, and bungee jumping into the New River Gorge. But extreme sports lacked the malevolence of human beings.
Am I really doing this?
she asked herself rhetorically, knowing the answer full well.
Yes, I’m doing this. If I leave a stone unturned and Ismail ends up buried in the earth with Kyle, I’ll never forgive myself.
She followed Isra to an SUV and sat quietly during the ride to the AMISOM car park. The driver left them beside a line of armored vehicles, all painted green with tinted windows and enormous tires. “This is our Casper,” Isra said, as a soldier opened the hatch of one of the vehicles and motioned for them to climb in. “You should put your helmet on now.”
Megan donned the helmet and scaled the steps, taking a seat at the center of the cabin. The Casper was large enough to accommodate twelve passengers, together with a driver and navigator and a doorman at the rear. For this ride, however, she and Isra were alone. As soon as they settled in, the driver started the engine and the vehicle lurched forward with a growl, falling in between two attack vehicles armed with roof-mounted machine guns.
The convoy left the base by way of the main gate. The airport road soon gave way to an urban jungle of dirt lanes, cinderblock houses, apartment buildings, shops with colorful advertising painted on the walls, and telephone poles with wires so tangled they looked like birds’ nests. Megan watched the people with a wary eye, wondering how many of them had connections to the Shabaab. Most paid no attention to the convoy, but a few stopped to watch. She shuddered when a man in a doorway took out his mobile phone and placed a call.
It’s nothing
, she told herself.
He couldn’t possibly have seen me.
They made halting progress through the warren of streets, hampered by traffic at every turn. At last they reached a roundabout at the top of a hill and the traffic thinned out. The Casper picked up speed and whisked them through the outskirts of the city and into the rural hinterlands, slowing only to circumvent huge craters in the roadway—the result of erosion and IEDs, Isra explained.
Megan looked out at the pristine desert sky and tried not to think about Shabaab assassins and roadside bombs. She saw a herd of camels in the distance, their hides a shade or two darker than the yellow clay beneath their feet. A herdsman in a long-sleeve shirt and
ma’awis
—a male sarong—was keeping them moving toward the road.
She pointed them out to Isra. “Where are they going?”
“They are headed to market. Some will be slaughtered for meat. Others will be sold to Arabia. The Somali camel herd is the largest the world.”
After a while, the convoy braked to a halt outside an iron gate with a sign that read: “
HAWA ABDI VILLAGE: KEEPING HOPE ALIVE
.” Two men pushed the gate aside, allowing them to enter. The driver parked the Casper between a sprawling pink bougainvillea bush and a three-story building with terraces and a Greek revival façade. The doorman opened the hatch and let them out.
“I think you are safe here,” Isra said. “You can take off your body armor.”
Megan glanced around the well-kept grounds and saw children playing beneath the limbs of an acacia tree. “Okay,” she agreed, feeling a modicum of relief. Her shoulders were sore from the vest and she felt silly wearing the helmet over her scarf.
A cheerful-looking woman in a black
abaya
greeted them. “I am Dr. Munira,” she said in thickly accented English. “This is my team.” She swept her arm toward a cluster of Somalis behind her—two smiling women, covered but not veiled, and two sober-looking men, one carrying a clipboard and the other an AK-47. “This way, please. Our time is limited.”
Megan followed the doctor through another gate and across a courtyard to a house with a tile veranda. Dr. Munira gestured toward a leather couch, and Megan and Isra took seats.
“How long do we have?” Megan asked.
Dr. Munira spoke frankly. “Thirty minutes. Any more and the risk will be too great.”
She offered them bottles of Coke—glass, not plastic—and sat beside them on an ottoman. “It is good that you sent a photo,” she began. “I recognized Ismail right away, but I didn’t know his real name. When he was here, he went by Ibrahim. He was one of many young men who came to the camp at that time. He understood medicine, so we put him to work at the hospital. We had thousands of people to care for, and more were always coming. He never talked about his past, but I knew he had been involved in the fighting. Sometimes his eyes would lose focus and he would slip away. I never saw him smile, but he was trustworthy and kind. I was sad that he didn’t stay.”
A hospital volunteer suffering from post-traumatic stress
, Megan thought.
Now that’s a story I can tell the jury.
“Where did he live when he was here?”
“He stayed in the camp with Ahmed, one of our maintenance men. I talked to Ahmed, and he is willing to speak to you.” Dr. Munira exchanged a few words in Somali with the man holding the clipboard, and he placed a call on his mobile phone. After a brief conversation, he said something that made the doctor frown. She gave Megan a frustrated look. “He promised to meet us here, but our generator just went down. He says he cannot come.”
“Is there anyone else I can talk to?” Megan asked, resisting the urge to look at her watch. “I need to know what Ismail did while he was in the camp.”
Dr. Munira conferred with her team for a moment. “I’m certain there are other people who knew him, but finding them would take time. Ahmed is your best contact. I can arrange for you to speak with him by phone after you return to Mogadishu.”
Megan shook her head. “It would be better if I talked to him in person. Is he far away?”
Dr. Munira addressed the man with the gun. He didn’t look pleased. The doctor turned to Isra. “If we take her, will AMISOM provide security?”
Isra shook her head. “They are only responsible for our transport.”
Dr. Munira faced Megan again. “I have no way to guarantee your safety in the camp. We are careful about the people we let stay here, but we don’t know what ties they bring.”
Megan took a breath and let it out slowly. She remembered the day she and Paul had tried for the summit on Mount McKinley. It was late in the climbing season, and their guide had told them there was a fifty percent chance that a cold front could move in while they were on the peak, blocking their retreat. The alternative was to wait for a clear day that might never come. They didn’t hesitate, and the weather held, affording them an unforgettable view.
“I’ll go with you,” she said, an idea forming in her mind. “But I need a few more Coke bottles.”
The path to the generator led through the densest mass of humanity Megan had ever seen. The camp was like a temporary city with compact dwellings made of corrugated metal and tarpaulin stretching as far as the eye could see. There were people in every direction, faces old and young, children scampering about in the dirt, white-haired men in
kufi
caps sitting cross-legged and talking with animation, teenagers tending stalls with goods on display, middle-aged women hunched over cooking pots, and aging women with long faces and wrinkles taking shelter from the sun.