Black Mamba Boy Read online

  “Should I plant more tomatoes? Will the Ferengis be buying from here or Adi Remoz?” one woman asked.

  “Will we get a railway station now?” asked another.

  All the young men were hushed; some wondered whether this war would be as ruinous as the invasion of their country, while others wondered if it would be more profitable to become askaris now or later. Five years after they had conquered a country they could not afford to govern, the Fascists wanted the heady glory of another conquest. In Rome, Mussolini the opportunist, the failed elementary school teacher, the syphilitic seller of ideas fallen from the back of a lorry, calculated how many hundreds or even thousands he would need to claim dead before Hitler would deign to cut him a slice of the victory cake. A few thousand, he told his aides, that’s all. Fascist officers toured Italian East Africa touting for the upcoming attraction, and young Somalis, Abyssinians, and Eritreans were tricked, cajoled, and forced into signing up.

  Two enlistment officers finally arrived in K’eftya and set up a table outside the new redbrick police station. A long line of men and boys waited to enlist; Jama passed bright-faced twelve-year-olds running away from home, starving rheumy-eyed farmers, shiftas who had betrayed their fellow thieves, strong village men who could not afford dowries. Jama waited in the midday sun until his turn came. The Italians behind the wooden table laughed at the battered cardboard suitcase clenched in his hand, but they also seemed amused by most of the Africans. They asked his name and age, and told him to give them a twirl. Jama was exactly the kind of indigent boy they were looking for, and he put his thumbprint where they told him, for once neither knowing nor caring where they sent him. They issued him a rifle, a shirt, a pair of shorts, a blanket, a kit bag with all kinds of toys, a knife, tin bowls, field dressing, a water flask, more possessions than he had ever owned—and in exchange all they wanted was for him to join something called 4th Company. They even gave him a flour ration and an adult wage of fifty lira a month. With this he was meant to buy sandals, he had long outgrown the pair Amina had given him, and the Italians thought shoes were an optional extra for their askaris. At his tender age he could not imagine grown men sending him to his death; neither could he imagine the kind of mechanized, faceless slaughter the Italians would bring to Africa.

  Jama had never seen war; the only battles he could imagine were the sporadic feuds that nomadic Somalis engaged in, played according to a strict set of courtly rules that forbade the killing of women, children, old men, preachers, and poets. He could feel the money being thrown into this conflict and it thrilled him, it felt like a festival was being prepared. Everywhere he looked, lorries filled to bursting zoomed past. More and more Italians appeared in the highlands and then disappeared back to the safety of Eritrea. Tanks and all sorts of strange vehicles trundled along roads feverishly built ahead of them by tired African laborers. Installed in his company with a quiet, well-behaved commander by the name of Matteo Ginelli, Jama awaited orders. The Italian war machine decided that Jama “Goode” Guure Mohamed Naaleyeh Gatteh Eddoy Sahel Beneen Samatar Rooble Mattan would be most useful as a signaler. He crossed the little Eden in between K’eftya and Omhajer once again, this time in a military convoy, and began his training. He fell in love with his first task: he was to write out messages on the ground to planes flying overhead. With huge strips of white cotton Jama spelled out words, memorizing the squiggles and lines of the Roman alphabet by giving them nicknames. A was the house, B was the backside, C was the crescent moon, D was the bow; his favorite was M, which looked like two boys holding hands. Commander Ginelli called Jama “Al Furbo,” the witty one, for his quick grasp of Italian, and the other askaris adopted this as his nickname. While the other boys asked to see the card again and again to replicate the strange symbols written on it, one look and Jama could copy out perfect messages. Even though planes never flew overhead to read these messages, working in the sun, running about, wrangling with the huge sheets in the breeze with other boys shouting for his help made Jama feel capable for the first time in his life. He practiced writing letters in the sand, mastering “Jama,” “ciao,” and his mother’s and father’s names.

  When Commander Ginelli brought two new boys to join the signalers, Jama was too engrossed in his messages to bother looking up, but a sharp slap on his shoulder brought him to attention. It took him a second to recognize the face but there stood Shidane, taller than him now and with a shaven head, chewing on a matchstick. Shidane grabbed hold of him and over his shoulder Jama saw little Abdi looking on with a big smile.

  “So, walaalo, fate has brought us together again,” said Shidane, his voice incongruously deep.

  “Looks like it,” Jama said uncertainly.

  “We thought you were dead! People said that you had been taken to Hargeisa, shitting your guts out, but looks like you’re made of stronger stuff. You would not believe the life I have been living! I found a gold coin in Suq al-Yahud and there are suldaans who have not enjoyed the luxury it bought me,” Shidane brayed.

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “It was a coin, not a gold mine.”

  As they set to work, Abdi told him that they had enlisted only a few weeks earlier, when the Italians had invaded British Somaliland so that they controlled the whole Horn of Africa.

  “You should have seen the British pack up their things and run to the coast, my God! It was as if their trousers were on fire,” laughed Shidane, impersonating the British dash out of Somaliland.

  Jama laughed happily and remembered how much fun Shidane could be; he had no respect for anyone or anything. Abdi was still quiet and calm, with a serene face caught somewhere between childhood and maturity. Shidane had persuaded him to sign up so that they could earn enough money to travel to Egypt and join the Royal Navy. Joining the navy was all Shidane wanted to talk about.

  “Man, you will never believe how much they are paying Somalis to load coal onto the British ships. We are going to be rolling in money, suldaans will want to borrow from us, Ferengis will be jealous of our cars, houses, and women. I’m telling you, Jama Guure, with one month’s pay you could buy more camels than any toothless Garaad.”

  Jama was taken aback by the torrent of words that came out of Shidane’s mouth; he didn’t even stop to breathe. “What do you think of these Italians?” Shidane finally asked of Jama.

  “Not much. They hate Somalis, and Eritreans or any black people.” Jama thought of telling them about the Italian who had kept him locked up in the chicken pen but realized Shidane would only laugh at him.

  “So they’re like the British?” piped up Abdi.

  “Yes, but they use more hair oil and my uncle in Djibouti says that they are allowed to kill any African as long as they leave fifty lire on the body for burial. One askari in Omhajer told me that after two Eritreans tried to kill an important Italian in Addis Ababa, the Italians killed thirty thousand Habashis in a few days, and it wasn’t just the soldiers, either. Shopkeepers, barbers, all of them went out with clubs and knives and killed in revenge. I don’t think they left any lire on the bodies, though.”

  The boys were silent as they tried to imagine thirty thousand dead. “It would be like a whole desert worth of people,” said Abdi.

  “No, it would be like Al-‘Aidarous Mosque filled ten times over,” corrected Shidane. “Maybe we can shoot some of these Italians in the back of the head when they’re not looking, even up the score.” Shidane made a rifle out of his hands.

  Jama held his finger to his lips. “Don’t say things like that, you never know who is listening,” he admonished. With Shidane out of earshot, Abdi whispered, “Did you ever find your father?”

  “Nearly. He’s buried over the border in Sudan.”

  Abdi grabbed Jama’s shoulder. “I will pray for him, and one day you will do hajj for him, agreed?”

  Jama nodded.

  “Good. Inshallah, we can get rich here and travel to Egypt, or at least steal that airplane you always wanted,” smiled Abdi.
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br />   Abdi and Shidane brought joy back into Jama’s life. He laughed deeply, with his head thrown back, for the first time in months. They compared scars, and Jama showed them the two neat nicks Shidane’s blade had made on his arm; Shidane rolled up his sleeve to show off the yellow scar running from his elbow to his shoulder and declared himself the winner. They worked together, ate together, slept together. As a team they spelled out messages for planes that never came near enough to read them. Jama taught them to recognize the letters and they spelled out swearwords when they ran out of official messages. Their commander was relaxed and preferred visiting other Italians to supervising the playful young askaris. Every day more Somalis appeared in clouds of dust along the road, some of them joining the signalers, some traveling to other battalions.

  As their messages became more ordered and professional, boredom set in. They were stuck on the outskirts of Omhajer, swallowing dust, so the commander decided to set them on a march. In double file, their packs on their backs, rifles slung over their shoulders, they marched a hundred and thirty kilometers to K’eftya and Adi Remoz, then back again. Shidane carried Abdi’s pack and askaris from Jama’s clan looked after him, carrying his rifle when he dragged it along the ground on the long, thirsty marches. The Somali and Eritrean askaris sang in their own languages, jokingly taunting each other, and a young lieutenant taught them songs; Jama’s favorite was about a Habashi girl taken to Italy after being freed by a Fascist from slavery. “Faccetta Nera, bell’abissina, aspetta e spera che già l’ora si avvicina! Little black face, beautiful Abyssinian, she waits and hopes that the hour is already approaching!” Jama sang loudly. The Italians were obsessed with the local women, and Eritrean girls trailed behind many Italian battalions; some of the camp followers barely had breasts but had already been mistresses to many soldiers. The infants they carried on their backs were not recognized by the Italians and were known officially as the children of X. Jama felt sorry for the thin bundles on the girls’ backs. Despite everything, he had his name and his grandfathers’ names and that made him someone. When he recited his abtiris he felt important; as if he was meant to exist to keep that melodic line going.

  Once the signalers had completed the unnecessary marching, the Italian commanders decided to invade Sudan. Flush from their victory in Somaliland, the Italians told the askaris that they were going to kick the British out of Africa completely. Jama was part of another Roman Empire that would conquer this vast antique land. They set off from Omhajer early one morning, their flour rations safely packed, water in their flasks, bullets in their rifles. Shidane had pilfered a few tins of unknown goods and promised to make a delicious meal for the three of them.

  “Do you think there will be serious fighting over there?” asked Jama, a ball of nerves gathering in his stomach. He was crossing an invisible boundary in his mind, from the land he knew into the unknown territory that had claimed his father. His footsteps slowed the closer they got to Sudan and it was only Shidane and Abdi’s presence that made him control his rising panic.

  “I doubt it. The British can’t fight anyone armed with more than a sharpened banana,” Shidane replied. He was fearless. His name meant “alight,” and he was on fire with intelligence and courage, he could burn with a look, warm with a touch. They passed through plains where grass grew higher than the tallest man, and the singing and dancing quietened as they approached the border with Sudan. Two Eidegalle men were dragging a howitzer on a large-wheeled carriage, and Jama, Shidane, and Abdi hung back with them, smoking and talking.

  “Have you had any girlfriends, Ascaro Jama?” Shidane smiled.

  “Yes, Ascaro Shidane, women love me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, in your dreams they do. I’ve got eight girlfriends.”

  “What! You think there are eight days in a week?” Jama scoffed.

  “No, I know exactly how many days there are in a week, but you need an extra girl for those special times when you’ve worn one out.”

  “Dirty bastard. What about you, Ascaro Abdi, got any girlfriends?”

  “No,” cut in Shidane. “He’s already had enough trouble. He made us leave Aden when he was caught with an Arab girl. I saw her with a baby just before we left, and guess what, even from far away I could see the light bouncing off that baby’s big forehead.”

  “Ya salam!” Jama laughed. “What really made you leave Aden?”

  Shidane and Abdi giggled. “We were caught stealing shoes from outside the mosque. We had new shoes every Friday! Sometimes we even sold the idiots back their shoes saying we had found them in an alley. It was working well until we stole the shoes of a detective, then we were put on the first ship back to the homeland.”

  The Italian officers rode on horseback ahead, trying to hide their fear from their charges, but many of them kept ducking into bushes to ease their loosened bowels. When they finally reached the border, panic and jubilation took hold of the hundred askaris and they charged in all directions, searching for something to conquer. There was only desolation; deserted homes, burnt cooking pots, and the paraphernalia of refugees, forgotten shoes and sheets. The invaders passed along dirt tracks, their guns and artillery useless against the oppressive susurrations of cicadas. Just as Jama was about to fall asleep on his feet, he heard shooting, and clambered up a date palm to get a better look. With a pounding heart he saw two white-robed Sudanese policemen on horseback fleeing from the Italians. Their black stallions evaded the bullets and Jama could see puffs of dust where the bullets hit. Askaris fired into the air in excitement and it felt like a genuine battle was taking place rather than a routing of two sleeping policemen by a hundred soldiers. Italian officers chased one another to the saddles that the Sudanese policemen had abandoned in their haste, and held them aloft as if they had found the Ark of the Covenant. Everyone cheered and whistled. “We are part of a victorious army,” the Italians said. “Every man should be proud of what they have achieved here today.”

  Shidane, Jama, and Abdi laughed deliriously at the sight of the Italians fighting over the busted old saddles, pushing and shoving one another for the glory of taking home a souvenir from the day they conquered the mighty British Empire. Eventually, some agreement was reached and the saddles were handed over to the askaris to carry back to Omhajer. Four askaris proudly carried the saddles on their shoulders and even Jama and Abdi reached over to touch the old leather for remembrance’s sake.

  “We are the testicles of the Ferengis,” sang the askaris, but Shidane frowned at them. “We have thrown our balls away,” he grumbled.

  Despite their victorious foray into Sudan, the war was not going well for the Italians. British Hurricanes made raids on Asmara and Gura, shooting to pieces fifty Italian aircraft before they could ever leave the ground and read Jama’s messages. Although the Italian army in East Africa outnumbered the British by four to one and Jama had yet to see the enemy, the Italians were fighting a losing battle. Agordat fell even though the Italians had inflicted heavy losses on the small contingent of Indian and Scottish troops. All it took was for a turbaned sepoy to get too close and yell “Raja Ram Chander Ki Jai,” and Italian officers would drop their guns and head for the hills, they had not come to Africa to die. Barentu was left to the British without so much as a fistfight while the generals in Rome and Asmara desperately tried to find a town for their last stand.

  They chose Keren, a Muslim town of whitewashed buildings, camel merchants, and silversmiths; it was nestled like a medieval fort in the bosom of a severe mountain range, with only a small gorge for access. The Italians bombed this gorge with more energy and vitality than they had brought to any other activity in the war. They pulled up their imaginary drawbridge and awaited the Scots, Indians, French, Senegalese, Arabs, and Jews who made up the Allied effort against them. Jama and the signalers were called to Keren along with ninety thousand other askaris and were among the last to arrive, it having taken days of marching with blistered feet and nauseating lorry rides to get there.

  On the f
ifteenth of March 1941, the battle began. Ten thousand shells an hour were fired by the British and Italian guns, and even a mile behind the front, Jama’s bones were rattled by explosions. Jama, Shidane, and Abdi trembled as they watched over the valley where Indian and Italian killed each other over African soil. “Ya salam!” exclaimed Shidane every time a British bomb hit the askaris. Everything became more serious: they were finally taught how to shoot, using cans as targets, and Shidane the Fearless, as he started to call himself, became the best shooter among them. The askaris were constantly scrutinized and observed. The British were said to be using northern Somalis as spies, so the Italians kept them away from the fighting while they still could. Trains regularly brought up supplies to the Italians, and Shidane used his quickly established friendships with Somali cooks to obtain delicacies such as chocolate, tinned chicken, tinned peaches, and his new addiction, condensed milk. His pack always rattled with tins of sweet, thick milk, and he charged askaris for the pleasure of a drop in their tea.

  While 4th Company guarded a munitions store near town, caravans of refugees trundled past, some on camels, some on mules, and the poorest on foot, weighed down by their children, fleeing as their country was destroyed. Shidane’s enlistment pay was burning a hole in his pocket, so he frittered it away buying refreshing camel’s milk from the camel merchants. As the battle raged over the hills, Jama made binoculars of his hands and watched explosions that gave the mountains the appearance of erupting volcanoes. It seemed to him that the mountains would eventually crumble under the bombardment. Occasionally, 4th Company had to desert the munitions as the RAF flew ominously over, but the British planes sought out more substantial targets; they scored a perfect, deafening hit on a train bringing ammunition to the Italian front line. The train flew off the tracks as the mortars, grenades, and magazines blew up. The driver in the steam engine tried to race away from the burning carriages but was engulfed in a white-hot inferno. Jama watched the man struggling in the flames, he was a beating heart at the center of the fire, dancing and flailing, refusing to give his life up. It was the most courageous thing Jama had seen in this war.