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Authors: Nuruddin Farah
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dead.”
Fresh worries congregate in Dhoorre’s head, where they huddle together like a clutch of poorly clad men suddenly exposed to unseasonable frost. This is the closest Dhoorre has been to danger in his seventy-plus years. His hand runs over his head, smoothing what hair there is, a head as bereft of hair as it is of new ideas. How can he bring his peace-making pleas to bear on a young mind that has known only violence? He moves nearer to the boy, no longer afraid.
“Go ahead,” he says. “See if I care. Shoot.”
“I won’t shoot unless I have to,” the boy says.
They embark on a badly choreographed, lurching dance.
“What’s the matter?” challenges Dhoorre.
“One wrong move and you’re dead.”
In their gyrations for more favorable positions, Dhoorre now has his back to the door. All he has to do is move a step back and he’ll be inside the house, the boy outside. But to what end?
“Why are you here, armed?”
“I am not authorized to tell you.”
The word
authorized
coming out of such a small thing gives Dhoorre a jolt. Perhaps this is one of the boys he’s heard about—the new orderof youths trained for a higher cause, who, even though they receive their instructions from earthlings, ascribe their actions to divine inspiration. He has heard about boys such as this, whom Shabaab has kidnapped and then trained as suicide bombers, boys and a few girls who see themselves as martyrs beholden to high ideals. But what can this boy want? Or, rather, what can his superiors want? And why here, why him and his family? He must disabuse the boy of the notion that he, Dhoorre, harbors any resentment toward religionist ideals, it is only that he privileges dialogue, prioritizes peace.
“I am not an enemy to your cause,” Dhoorre says.
Their eyes meet, the boy’s glance anxious in its desire to make sense of the old man’s sudden friendliness. Dhoorre’s gaze takes on a more incisive shrewdness, his bearing grows more sanguine. He adds, “Tell me what you want done and I will do it.”
“Just relax,” says the boy. “That’s all.”
Dhoorre asks, “How can I relax when you haven’t told me why you are here in our house, with a gun, threatening to shoot me, an old man, of the same age as your grandfather, if you have one?”
“You say our house? How many of you live here?”
“My son, his family, and I.”
The exchange is interrupted by YoungThing’s cell phone. He is aghast. Perhaps the advance team from the command center is already at the gate, waiting to be let in. His voice breaking, he says, “Yes, Sheikh,” several times, bowing in deference to his absent commander. Dhoorre can sense an abrupt change in the boy’s body language, as though he has just realized that he has made a major gaffe, maybe even disobeyed a command. From the little he can gather, the boy is being told off by the man he addresses as Sheikh.
When the call finally ends, the boy seems more agitated than before and barks orders to Dhoorre. “Follow me into the house.”
When they are past the threshold, the boy says, “Go into the bathroomand bolt the door from inside. Be quick about it. And make no sound.”
“What’s happening?” asks Dhoorre.
“I’ll do all I can do to spare your life,” the boy says.
When Dhoorre goes into the bathroom, the boy bolts the door from outside, too, and then goes to welcome the men at the gate.
AHL FEELS ELATED, LIKE A MAN WHO HAS THE WORLD IN HIS sights, when he lands in Djibouti, in the Horn of Africa, forty-eight hours later. Relaxed, he walks over to the officer at Immigration to exchange brief banter with him, in Somali.
It’s been a tiring journey, the longest Ahl has undertaken for quite a while. It has also been almost as taxing as when he used to fly from Europe as a student, across the entire world to visit his mother and other family members in Malaysia. But he was younger in those days, and there was a lot of excitement in planning and then
Fresh worries congregate in Dhoorre’s head, where they huddle together like a clutch of poorly clad men suddenly exposed to unseasonable frost. This is the closest Dhoorre has been to danger in his seventy-plus years. His hand runs over his head, smoothing what hair there is, a head as bereft of hair as it is of new ideas. How can he bring his peace-making pleas to bear on a young mind that has known only violence? He moves nearer to the boy, no longer afraid.
“Go ahead,” he says. “See if I care. Shoot.”
“I won’t shoot unless I have to,” the boy says.
They embark on a badly choreographed, lurching dance.
“What’s the matter?” challenges Dhoorre.
“One wrong move and you’re dead.”
In their gyrations for more favorable positions, Dhoorre now has his back to the door. All he has to do is move a step back and he’ll be inside the house, the boy outside. But to what end?
“Why are you here, armed?”
“I am not authorized to tell you.”
The word
authorized
coming out of such a small thing gives Dhoorre a jolt. Perhaps this is one of the boys he’s heard about—the new orderof youths trained for a higher cause, who, even though they receive their instructions from earthlings, ascribe their actions to divine inspiration. He has heard about boys such as this, whom Shabaab has kidnapped and then trained as suicide bombers, boys and a few girls who see themselves as martyrs beholden to high ideals. But what can this boy want? Or, rather, what can his superiors want? And why here, why him and his family? He must disabuse the boy of the notion that he, Dhoorre, harbors any resentment toward religionist ideals, it is only that he privileges dialogue, prioritizes peace.
“I am not an enemy to your cause,” Dhoorre says.
Their eyes meet, the boy’s glance anxious in its desire to make sense of the old man’s sudden friendliness. Dhoorre’s gaze takes on a more incisive shrewdness, his bearing grows more sanguine. He adds, “Tell me what you want done and I will do it.”
“Just relax,” says the boy. “That’s all.”
Dhoorre asks, “How can I relax when you haven’t told me why you are here in our house, with a gun, threatening to shoot me, an old man, of the same age as your grandfather, if you have one?”
“You say our house? How many of you live here?”
“My son, his family, and I.”
The exchange is interrupted by YoungThing’s cell phone. He is aghast. Perhaps the advance team from the command center is already at the gate, waiting to be let in. His voice breaking, he says, “Yes, Sheikh,” several times, bowing in deference to his absent commander. Dhoorre can sense an abrupt change in the boy’s body language, as though he has just realized that he has made a major gaffe, maybe even disobeyed a command. From the little he can gather, the boy is being told off by the man he addresses as Sheikh.
When the call finally ends, the boy seems more agitated than before and barks orders to Dhoorre. “Follow me into the house.”
When they are past the threshold, the boy says, “Go into the bathroomand bolt the door from inside. Be quick about it. And make no sound.”
“What’s happening?” asks Dhoorre.
“I’ll do all I can do to spare your life,” the boy says.
When Dhoorre goes into the bathroom, the boy bolts the door from outside, too, and then goes to welcome the men at the gate.
AHL FEELS ELATED, LIKE A MAN WHO HAS THE WORLD IN HIS sights, when he lands in Djibouti, in the Horn of Africa, forty-eight hours later. Relaxed, he walks over to the officer at Immigration to exchange brief banter with him, in Somali.
It’s been a tiring journey, the longest Ahl has undertaken for quite a while. It has also been almost as taxing as when he used to fly from Europe as a student, across the entire world to visit his mother and other family members in Malaysia. But he was younger in those days, and there was a lot of excitement in planning and then
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