of a ledger, calling this act “austerity”? The kind of murder that was gradual. Not the sweeping murder of the famine or the war. But at least, at least, he thought, his kind of murder was accidental. All murder was bloody but when people murdered for faith it was elemental; it was crude and bloody. He wasn’t capable of that, others were capable. The brother of his wife had wrapped himself in robes, joined the faith courts and become capable of anything. Da’uud had thought that bailing out of Mogadishu with his wife and daughter would be enough.But it wasn’t. Everywhere the violence had assailed him. When they arrived in Addis Ababa and later in Rome, it was there too—this same violence of faith—in people. He toured a church in Rome. It was full of ferocity and punishment. All he saw there was more blood. It surfaced again in the airport in Sweden in the simple look of a border guard, the interrogation room, and as much as he tried to ignore it, the violence pursued him over months in Oslo as he searched for work and a place to live. It made a dull sound like a weapon, a cleaver, on a human back.
This is why he is talkative in his taxi. He watches the road and he talks as much as he can. He doesn’t want to see that violence in people. He talks even faster when he glances in his rear-view and sees someone like the red-haired woman in the back seat. He wishes he had told the woman he dropped off at Sunnyside to be careful, but nobody listens to him. Not his wife, not his daughter, not his son, nobody. Well, perhaps his wife, Amal. She listens. She left Mogadishu with him even though her brother was against it. If not for her the brother would have killed him. And look now, that same brother has sent his son to Rome for his education. So much faith, so little faith. After they had made such a mess of Mogadishu, a mess. He could have told that woman, he could have toldher, but who listens to a cab driver; who listens to a man from another world.
The lake is green this early evening, Da’uud notices. He began noticing the lake after three years in the city. Before that, life was like a hand over his face. When he discovered the lake he tried to get all the fares along the lakeshore. He likes this end of town, the south. It has definition, it has nature. If he is to drive a taxi, to spend his life driving a taxi, he’d rather drive it here along the expanse of the lake’s shore, from Cherry Street in the east to the Humber River in the west. You don’t see nature much in this city, not from a cab. Unless nature includes people. But he tries not to get involved in the passengers’ lives, he tries not to feel their anxieties.
Insha’Allah
. He’s got anxieties of his own, and that kind of nature he can do without. The day driver loves people, or so Khalid says. Khalid is always talking about how good people are, how funny, how crazy kind they are. Maybe, Da’uud thinks, maybe day people are that way but not evening and night people. Maybe the day driver gets more sleep so he has a better perspective on people, a different perspective. Da’uud doesn’t get enough sleep, but that makes him keener, he thinks, more alert to people. He only sees evening and night people and while people can be pleasant enough in the daytime, at night they run amok.
Da’uud would rather be in an office with numbers and papers. He does not want to embarrass himself, he does not want to embarrass his family but … and this “but” always sits on his chest. He has a good life here, there is nothing wrong with working. Poverty is slavery, and one cannot count on riches. There was that “but” again. You live, you live. You get married, you have children, you make a family. Nobody says how, just that you have to do it. Which is what he told Bedri. You live, these things you do. He even sent Bedri to Somaliland, where it was calmer. To see how life may truly be lived. Because despite everything, there you meet your obligations
This is why he is talkative in his taxi. He watches the road and he talks as much as he can. He doesn’t want to see that violence in people. He talks even faster when he glances in his rear-view and sees someone like the red-haired woman in the back seat. He wishes he had told the woman he dropped off at Sunnyside to be careful, but nobody listens to him. Not his wife, not his daughter, not his son, nobody. Well, perhaps his wife, Amal. She listens. She left Mogadishu with him even though her brother was against it. If not for her the brother would have killed him. And look now, that same brother has sent his son to Rome for his education. So much faith, so little faith. After they had made such a mess of Mogadishu, a mess. He could have told that woman, he could have toldher, but who listens to a cab driver; who listens to a man from another world.
The lake is green this early evening, Da’uud notices. He began noticing the lake after three years in the city. Before that, life was like a hand over his face. When he discovered the lake he tried to get all the fares along the lakeshore. He likes this end of town, the south. It has definition, it has nature. If he is to drive a taxi, to spend his life driving a taxi, he’d rather drive it here along the expanse of the lake’s shore, from Cherry Street in the east to the Humber River in the west. You don’t see nature much in this city, not from a cab. Unless nature includes people. But he tries not to get involved in the passengers’ lives, he tries not to feel their anxieties.
Insha’Allah
. He’s got anxieties of his own, and that kind of nature he can do without. The day driver loves people, or so Khalid says. Khalid is always talking about how good people are, how funny, how crazy kind they are. Maybe, Da’uud thinks, maybe day people are that way but not evening and night people. Maybe the day driver gets more sleep so he has a better perspective on people, a different perspective. Da’uud doesn’t get enough sleep, but that makes him keener, he thinks, more alert to people. He only sees evening and night people and while people can be pleasant enough in the daytime, at night they run amok.
Da’uud would rather be in an office with numbers and papers. He does not want to embarrass himself, he does not want to embarrass his family but … and this “but” always sits on his chest. He has a good life here, there is nothing wrong with working. Poverty is slavery, and one cannot count on riches. There was that “but” again. You live, you live. You get married, you have children, you make a family. Nobody says how, just that you have to do it. Which is what he told Bedri. You live, these things you do. He even sent Bedri to Somaliland, where it was calmer. To see how life may truly be lived. Because despite everything, there you meet your obligations
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