Black Mamba Boy Read online

  “To hell with that devilish imp!” shouted out a bystander.

  “Colored Americans raise money in churches but the rest of the world turns its gaze,” Ismail carried on.

  “Good! They turned their gaze too when the Abyssinians stole our land in Ogaden, handed over to them by the stinking English. If the Habashis can take our ancestral land then let the Ferengis take theirs,” shouted another.

  “Runta! Ain’t that the truth! Look at this small boy.” Ismail suddenly lifted his head from the paper and pointed an angry finger at Jama. “Selassie is no bigger than him yet he has the nerve to call himself a king, an emperor, no less! I knew him in Harar, when he was always running to the moneylenders to pay for some work of the devil he had seen the Ferengis with. I bet he needs his servants to pick him up before he can relieve himself in his new French piss pot.”

  Jama inched back, the finger still pointed at him as Ismail returned to reading. “The Italians have amassed an army of more than one million soldiers, and are stockpiling weapons of lethal capability. Somali and Eritrean colonial troops are already massed at the borders.”

  Ismail stopped and screwed up his face. “One million? Who needs a million of anything to get a job done? This war sounds like the beginning of something very stupid.” He impatiently scrunched up the newspaper, wiping the ink from his fingers with a handkerchief, and padded back inside his mukhbazar.

  Jama was eavesdropping on the men’s war talk; the names of strategic towns, disloyal nobles, Somali clans that had decided to fight with Selassie were thrown about over his head. Ismail leaned out the kitchen window and whistled at Jama. “Come in and make yourself useful, boy!”

  Two cooks were working in the kitchen. A bald-headed, yellow-toned Somali man cooked the rice and pasta and another, taller man made vats of the all-purpose sauce of onion, tomato, and garlic.

  Ismail fluttered around, moving dirty dishes to the basin on the floor. “Get here, boy, and wash these dishes. Do them well and you’ve got yourself a job.”

  Jama’s eyes widened with happiness at the prospect of regular money and he rushed toward the pyramid of dishes. The hot water scalded his arms but he scoured and rinsed the heavy pots and pans without complaint. His nimble, strong hands reached the dirty corners that the adults missed, and he imagined he was scrubbing the roof like he used to for his mother. Ismail stood behind him, scrutinizing his work, but soon left to talk with new customers. Within a few minutes the dirty pyramid had been transformed into a sparkling display of almost-new-looking dishes. Jama turned around with a jubilant look but the two cooks were uninterested in his achievement. Ismail came back into the kitchen and, after casting an eye over his rejuvenated dishes, said, “Come back tomorrow, Jama, you can start at seven in the morning. There’s a plate of rice waiting for you outside.”

  Jama skipped past as Ismail slapped the back of his neck. A large white plate of steaming rice and stew was placed on a table, and he stopped to smell the delicious aroma and wonder at all this food that was entirely his own. Eating slowly was a luxury he rarely allowed himself but he chewed the lamb meditatively, removing all the meat from the bone and sucking out the marrow. He licked the plate clean, then sat back as his stomach strained against his knotted sarong. As soon as he felt able, he waddled out toward the beach, eager to boast to Shidane and Abdi about this unexpected good luck at a place they were used to stealing from. Shidane’s idea had been to tie a fresh date to a stick, and use the contraption to pick up paisas left on tables for the waiters. Jama was the best at casually, innocently walking past and stabbing the coin with the stick. When they had finally been caught by a waiter who knew Shidane’s reputation, they had moved on to the Banyali quarter. Shidane would throw a bone into the shops of the vegetarian Hindus and Jama would offer to remove it for a price.

  Shidane and Abdi were kicking at the surf. The waistcoat Abdi had stolen looked ridiculous hanging from his bony shoulders, and Jama burst into laughter at the sight of Abdi in a fat Jewish man’s clothing. Jama skipped up and jumped onto Shidane’s shoulders. Shidane shook him off in irritation, and said, “Leave me alone, you donkey.” Abdi looked gloomily at them both, rubbing his red, teary eyes with the back of his hand, silently gathering the waistcoat around his ribs to stop the sea breeze blowing it away. Shidane was in one of his moods. He kept staring at Jama, his nostrils round and flared, his face set in a hostile grimace. “Something has happened to Shidane’s mother,” Abdi tried to explain, but Shidane hushed Abdi with a stern finger against his lips.

  “What’s the problem, walaalo? You need money? I’ve just had some good luck.”

  “What?” asked Shidane defensively.

  “I’ve got a job starting tomorrow at the Camel mukhbazar, Ismail wants me to do the dishwashing from now on.”

  “Ya salam! You Eidegalle really know how to look out for each other, don’t you?” interrupted Shidane.

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Jama in shock.

  “Well, it just seems strange that you’re always getting work and you never think to ask for us as well, all you care about is yourself.”

  “Have you gone mad?” exclaimed Jama.

  “Don’t raise your voice to me, saqajaan, do you hear me? What do you want from us, anyway?”

  “Stop it, stop it,” pleaded Abdi. “Just leave Jama alone.”

  “Why are you acting like this, Shidane? You know I’ll look after you, you can come and eat there anytime, now.”

  “You think we need your charity? That it? Do you think we need the charity of a saqajaan bastard like you?” spat Shidane.

  Jama froze, Abdi froze, the children playing nearby froze, even Shidane froze once these spiteful words had left his mouth. Jama felt his pulse beating hard in his temple, in his throat, in his chest, and he felt a trickle of shame running down his back.

  “Take that back now, Shidane,” threatened Jama.

  “Make me.”

  There was only one way to save face after Shidane’s insult, and Jama threw up his fists and charged. A crowd of boys surged forward, emitting a savage cry for blood. Jama pounded his fists clumsily against Shidane’s soft face and slapped away Abdi’s attempts to tear them apart; unable to watch his friends hurt each other, he preferred to take the blows himself. Jama pinned Shidane down on the sand, between his knees the face he had looked for in crowds, the body he had slept next to for months; it was as if the world had been turned upside down. Jama couldn’t bring himself to look into Shidane’s eyes as they fought; a shadow Jama stood to the side and frowned at the pain he was inflicting on his friend. Abdi, unable to stop this cataclysm, gave up and waded in to defend his nephew, pulling at Jama’s hair and feebly trying to pull him off Shidane. Jama turned around and punched Abdi hard in the mouth. Seeing this, Shidane pulled the trophy dagger from his sarong and plunged it into Jama’s arm. Jama tried to jerk away as Shidane lunged forward for another stab but was knifed again. Blood poured onto the sand and was lapped up by the surf. Jama rose woozily from Shidane and squeezed his bleeding arm. Tears gathered, burning hot behind his eyes, but he kept them hard and unblinkingly focused on Shidane.

  “Jealous of me, you’re just jealous of me, because you’re a sea beggar, diving for the pennies that Ferengis throw you, and your hooyo opens her legs for them,” Jama yelled.

  Shidane clutched at the howling Abdi with one hand, the bloody dagger in the other. “Don’t ever let me see you again or I will cut your throat.”

  The crowd of children, who all knew the combatants, kept a respectful distance and noted this shift in alliances. From now on Jama was on his own, a true loner, a boy without a father, brothers, cousins, or even friends, a wolf among hyenas. Jama slunk away, intending to walk and walk until he found himself at the end of the world or could just disappear into the foaming sea. He wanted to escape like the fake prophet Dhu Nawas, who had ridden his white horse into the waves and crests of the Red Sea, who let the sea bear him away from pain and misery.

 
Approaching the Camel mukhbazar the next morning, Jama’s eyes were sunken and dark, his back aching, but worst of all, his hand bled every time he tried to use it. He had a strip of his sarong tied around his arm which stopped it bleeding, but he was unable to stanch the flow from his hand. He had walked around the eating house from dawn, watching the white walls become more and more luminous against the dark cloth of the sky. He now saw Ismail walking with that camel-like gait that had named his mukhbazar.

  “Nabad, Jama,” hollered Ismail.

  “Nabad,” mumbled Jama, wringing his hands behind his back.

  “You have a long day ahead of you. Start by sweeping the floor and wiping the tables and, when the first customers have eaten, start on the dishes.”

  Jama nodded and followed Ismail into the yellow-painted room. He picked up an old broom propped up in the corner and started attacking the piles of sand that had rushed in during the night through the cracked door. Pretty soon springs of blood popped up from Jama’s hand, rivering down the brown earth of his skin and the broom handle to splash red pools on the white cement floor. Ismail returned to find Jama trying to sweep away the blood but just smearing it over a larger area.

  “Hey, hey! What are you doing? Why is there blood all over my floor?” shouted Ismail as he lunged toward Jama. Ismail pulled Jama’s hand up into the air and marched him back outside. “Kid, why is your hand bleeding?”

  “Someone cut me yesterday, I was only protecting myself, but now it won’t stop.”

  “Wahollah, Jama, how do you expect to work today when there is all this najas on your hand? You’re dealing with people’s food, for God’s sake! Go home, come back when it’s healed,” exclaimed Ismail.

  “No, it’s fine, please, let me keep my job.” pleaded Jama, but Ismail was a squeamish man and pulled a disgusted face as the blood dripped down from Jama’s hand onto his.

  “Jama, I’m sorry, I will keep you in mind if another vacancy arises. Go and wash this so it doesn’t go bad,” Ismail said, dropping the child’s hand.

  Ismail rummaged in the pockets of his thin gray trousers and pulled out a handkerchief and a crumpled note. He handed the money to Jama and wiped his hands with the handkerchief. Ismail threw the bloody cloth away and padded back into his café, shutting the door firmly behind him. Jama stood motionless, looking vacantly at the dirty money in his hand.

  Jama wanted to distance himself from any gloating eyes, so he walked away from the market toward the port. The sun was starting to thicken the air into a choking fog, and Jama developed the droopy-eyed, slack-jawed expression of the stray dogs that lived on the city limits. More and more Ferengis appeared in the streets; in the starched white uniforms and peaked caps of the Royal Navy, they ignored the young child and drifted in and out of groups sharing cigarettes and gossip. Jama’s eyes fell on a tall, black-haired sailor who was waving goodbye to a group of men; Jama unconsciously followed him and was drawn deeper and deeper into the busy Steamer Point. Massive steel cranes lifted gigantic crates into the air and into waiting trucks. Camels were suspended in terror as they were unloaded from the ships, their legs stuck rigidly out like the points on a compass. Machines belched dirty, hot fumes into the already claustrophobic atmosphere. Jama let his mind and feet wander in this alien place, a comic, strange, technological land so different to his own antique quarter. Staring at the workers, their loud cranking, whirring machinery, and the goods both animate and inanimate had made Jama lose the shiny, obsidian head of the sailor. He sat on a decayed section of wall and dangled his legs over the edge, balancing himself on his hands, a frightening drop beneath his feet. In the distance, steamer ships chugged toward the port with all the slow grace of turtles. Jama tried to imagine where the ships were coming from and going to, but could not really believe in the icy realms and green forests that people had described to him. The vessels seemed both monstrous and magnificent to Jama. Who could create such colossal objects, were they the work of giants, devils, or of Allah? The torrid black smoke emanating from their stacks frightened him and he shivered at the idea that these ships of fire might at any time erupt into hellish infernos. It was supernatural how they defied the laws of nature—the sea swallowed everything he threw into it, so how did these iron-and-steel cities stay afloat as if they were no more than flower blossoms or dead fish? Jama, thirsty, climbed off the wall and went to search for a drink in one of the busy port cafés, his money stuck to his sweaty, bloody hand like a stamp to an envelope. He waited behind the broad back of a sailor at the counter, while a wiry Arab man scurried about delivering drinks to tables. When it was his turn Jama found the counter was taller than him so he pushed his moneyed hand up and waved it at the man serving. “Shaah now!” The waiter let out a derisive snort of laughter but took the money and put a glass of watery tea on the counter. Jama carefully took it down and walked out with his lips placed against the rim of the sticky glass, jingling his change in his other hand.

  Jama was tired of always turning up a beggar at people’s doors, begging for someone’s leftover food, leftover attention, leftover love. “Everyone is too busy with their own lives to think about me,” he muttered to himself as he walked to Al-Madina Coffee. He intended to give the change to Ambaro and buy his way back into her affections. Inside the warehouse, the women had moved positions, and new girls were being trained by the Banyalis. A teenage girl was working in his mother’s spot, and he looked at her disapprovingly. He recognized the large woman next to her. “Where is my mother?” Jama demanded.

  “How the hell would I know? Do I look like her keeper?” the woman said, pushing Jama out of her way.

  “Did the Banyalis tell her to go?”

  The woman put her tray of coffee husks down and decided to give Jama exactly ten seconds of her precious time. “She fell sick a few weeks ago, I haven’t seen her since then. She never spoke to any of us so I don’t know where she’s gone, but I shouldn’t be the one telling you all this, boy, she’s your mother, after all.”

  Jama dragged his feet out of the warehouse, his eyebrows knotted in concentration as he ran through the possibilities. His mother was suddenly the only person that mattered to him. Sneaking up the gray worn steps into the dim hallway of the Islaweyne apartment filled Jama with unpleasant memories. It seemed incredible to him that his mother, a woman who had so devotedly tutored him in pride, self-respect, and independence could allow herself to become subject to the petty dictatorship of a fat woman and her overfed family. Jama found the roof empty and snuck back downstairs into the apartment. Ambaro had been moved into a closetlike, air-starved room in which old suitcases lay stacked against a wall, watching her silently. She was stretched out on a grass mat, her thin headscarf slid back over big black waves of hair. The tobe she was wearing had split all the way down the side, revealing a body shrunk to childlike fragility. A strange odor hit him as he got closer to her; he saw a basin brimming with najas; phlegm, blood clots, vomit all curdling together.

  Ambaro’s hand was thrown over her mouth. He could hear a terrible gurgling sound with every intake of breath. Jama crept closer to his mother, his eyes darted from her knees to her ankles, swollen with the same fluid that was drowning her lungs. “Where have you been, Goode?” Ambaro gasped.

  “I’m sorry, hooyo,” Jama whispered as sorrow, regret, shame seared through him.

  “Put me by the window, son.”

  Jama threw open the window, picked her up under her arms, and dragged her with all of his strength; he gathered her head in his lap and stroked her cheek. Ambaro’s heartbeat shook her body, every pulse pounding against her ribs as if there were a butterfly inside of her, battling free from a cocoon. A gentle breeze washed over them. Ambaro’s lips were a deep, alarming red but her face was pale yellow. He could never have imagined seeing her so sickly, so ruined. Ambaro’s eyelids were clenched in pain, and Jama looked on jealously as her convulsing lungs took all of her attention. He wanted her back, to shout at him, call him a bastard, get up suddenly and throw
a sandal at him. Jama placed his mother’s head gently on the floor and rushed from the room.

  “Aunty!” Jama cried. “Aunty, hooyo needs a doctor!”

  He ran into each room looking for Dhegdheer, finding her in the kitchen. “Hooyo must see a doctor, please fetch one, I beg you.”

  “Jama, how did you get in? What kind of people do you think we are? There is absolutely no money for a doctor, there is nothing anyone can do for your mother now, she is in God’s hands.”

  Jama pulled out the remnants of his pay and held it up to her face. “I will pay, take this and I will earn the rest after, wallaahi, I will work forever!”

  Dhegdheer pushed his hand away. “You are such a child, Jama.”

  She turned her back to him, ladled out soup. “Here, take this through to her and don’t make so much noise. Inshallah, she just needs rest.”

  Jama took the soup, his head drooping down to his chest, his heart a lead weight, and went back to his mother. He gathered Ambaro in his arms and tried to put the soup to her lips. Ambaro jerked her head away. “I don’t want anything from that bitch. Put it down, Goode.”

  Jama felt a surge of power run through Ambaro. She turned her face to the window and took in a smooth, deep breath.

  “Look at those stars, Goode, they have watched over everything.” The sky was as black and luminous as coal, a white-hot crescent moon hung over them like a just-forged scythe, the stars flying like sparks from the welder’s furnace.

  “It’s another world above us, each of those stars has a power and a meaning in our lives. That star tells us when to mate the sheep, if that one does not appear we should expect trouble, that little one leads us to the sea.” Ambaro pointed at anonymous specks in the distance.