Black Mamba Boy (14 page)

Jama ran to the train and Awrala pulled him back, scared it would hurt him. “Let me touch it,” he exclaimed.

Wrenching his arm away from her, he stroked the side of the locomotive. Watched by the Italian engineer and Eritrean fireman inside the engine car, the little boy greeted the man-made snake. The inside of the train’s head contained shiny brass instruments, glass circles with fluttering needles and a big leather seat. Behind him came the sudden, shrieking call of the train’s whistle, and he jumped, his feet rising from the ground in shock. He turned back to the engine and the two men waved.

As they walked the length of the train, the carriages got less grand, the number of seats increased, the vases on the tables disappeared, and when Awrala stopped they stood next to the last carriage. She had bought his ticket and he thanked her quietly as she gave it to him, he knew that she didn’t have much, and he made a mental note to ask his father to repay the money. She waited for him to find a wooden bench and then left, propelling herself through the crowd. The carriage quickly filled
up, people sat on the floor, stood wherever they could, held their goats between their knees, stuffed squawking chickens into the overhead storage.

Jama fidgeted, worried that his bladder would get too full and he would end up wetting himself. The final whistle shrieked and the train juddered to a slow start. Jama sat next to the window and watched as Asmara, green and calm, disappeared into the distance. He thought sadly of Awrala resting underneath its earth one day, unable to enjoy her beloved hills. Tall, regal trees lined the tracks and little villages flashed by the window, as did shepherds leading fat brown cows through fields and glades. Shimmering streams meandered across fields, birds waded along their banks while women bathed. Children chased one another on their way to school, along the roads flanking the massive Italian-owned plantations, the land suddenly dominated by wheat for miles. As the track climbed higher, the land became dustier and drier. Jagged gray mountains pierced the sky, isolated tukuls nestled in their hearts.

The train tracks worked their way along fine, crumbly mountain paths, a dead donkey or camel sometimes lying far beneath them. Everywhere Jama looked there was another giant mountain, rippling with muscular strength, each competing with the next in attaining proximity to heaven, as God had enjoined his creation to do. The peaks looked ascetic with heads shaved of greenery, having long forgone water and the pleasures of life, silently awaiting the day when Allah would bless them for their piety. “Manshallah, praise the Lord,” uttered Jama, awed by God’s genius. All around him was paradise, full of what was good in the world as well as bad. Life is just this, Jama thought, a long journey, with lightness and darkness falling over you, companions all around on their own journeys. Each person sitting passively or impatiently, wondering whether
the tracks of their fate would take them on a clattering iron horse to their destination or would sweep them away on an invisible path to another world.

At Keren, many of the passengers got off, eager to get to the great market before it became crowded. The sweatiness inside the carriage got off with them and Jama stretched out his legs for the rest of the journey to Agordat. After Keren, the train began a long descent down to the plains and the heat rose again. The train screeched down the escarpment. The wheels against the tracks sounded like knives being sharpened and the metallic hiss put Jama’s teeth on edge. A young Eritrean man played idly on a stringed rababa. It sounded like an angel’s harp, and Jama turned to watch him play for a while. The rocking of the train made Jama’s eyes heavy but he was too excited to sleep.

The train inched into the small station of Agordat, its sleek paint coated in fine brown dust, steam glistening over the black locomotive like perspiration. Jama disembarked. A large mosque dominated the skyline of the simple town and a bustling market was already in full swing. The turbans and Arabic arches reminded him of Aden. The only people he could see not wearing turbans were dressed in long, beautifully colorful shirts with ballooning trousers, selling crocodile skins. Jama approached them. “As-salamu alaykum, where can I get a bus to Sudan?” he asked in Arabic.

The reply was heavily accented, full of tahs and ehs. “Past the suq, there is a main square where the buses leave from, but it will only take you as far as Omhajer, you will have to get a lorry across the border.”

Jama became curious. “Where are you from, sahib?”

“I’m Takaruri, from a place called Kano, a Muslim place on the other side of Africa. Fifty years ago my grandfather and his
people passed through many countries on their walk to Mecca. By the time they reached here, they had run out of food and money, so they settled, hoping to make enough money to cross to Arabia. By Allah’s command, one day we will.” The man laughed.

“How far is it from here to this Kano?” pursued Jama.

“Three years’ walk,” said the man, his face somber.

The square was a dun-colored plot of land, empty of people apart from two Eritrean askaris and a coffee seller. A small rusted bus baked in the sun, and two white-eyed gulls watched the scene from a telegraph wire, the red of their beaks looking painted-on amid the ocher-and-khaki dourness of the square. The driver turned up after the sun had passed its zenith, his trousers and vest gaping with holes, a peaked hat on his head. He didn’t acknowledge anyone but boarded the bus and stretched across the backseat to sleep, covering his face with a handkerchief. Jama felt his head pounding from the sun; sharp pain skewered him from temple to temple, his tongue was parched and swollen. He bought water from a vendor and watched a young woman enter the bus depot, a metal suitcase in her hand. A unit of young Italian soldiers marched in behind her. White light reflected violently from the suitcase, panning over him and the Italians like a searchlight. The bus coughed into life and Jama and the woman rushed to be first on; the driver held his arm across the door, blocking their way, and gestured to the soldiers. Jama didn’t comprehend and jumped aboard when the driver’s arm dropped. The driver approached, shouting and jabbing his finger in Jama’s face, gesticulating to the rear seats. Jama turned his face away and blanked him out, the driver grabbed him by the wrist and tried to pull him up,
and Jama slapped his hands away and spat in return. The Italian soldiers watched the commotion; some laughed, most just stared. The driver led Jama to the door and pushed him out of the bus. He landed squarely on his feet and unleashed a torrent of abuse in Somali at the driver and the watching soldiers. “Baboons, what you looking at? May Allah break your spines, you debauched donkey fuckers.”

The soldiers boarded the bus. An Italian with the long limbs of a spider got on last and spoke to the driver, his dark eyes following Jama as he paced around. The driver shook his head but the Italian continued whispering in his ear. Eventually the driver relented and called over to Jama, reeling him in with his arm. Jama hesitated, his anger seething like a nest of snakes. The driver escorted Jama to the back; the gangly Italian smiled as he walked past, his dark eyes framed by thick black eyelashes. Jama gave him a small smile in return. When he was seated safely in the blacks’ seats the driver held out his hand, rubbing his fingers together. Jama counted out a reasonable fare and gave it to him. The driver held up the money to the soldiers and ridiculed him; he started gesturing to the door again so Jama gave him double the amount. Crestfallen, he counted out the remaining money in his lap with hunched shoulders. The sister fucker had bankrupted him.

The soldiers grew boisterous, shouting and jumping from seat to seat in play fight. Most of them were in their late teens and full of fizz. They lit cigarettes and sang raucous songs; they seemed like holidaymakers rather than an imperial army. Any passing girls were subjected to catcalls and groins pressed against the bus windows. The older soldier at the front of the bus looked on with fatherly good humor. But they left Jama alone, seeming to forget about his presence completely as the bus followed the course of a wide river west toward Sudan.
Despite the hot plains, the river nourished enough earth to feed farms and wild date palms. Cows, rare in Somaliland, here grazed happily in large herds. The end of the trip was quiet; the soldiers had tired themselves out with laughing and now slept on each other’s shoulder, trickles of drool staining their uniforms. After passing idyllic riverside villages tilled by dark-skinned, brightly clothed people, Jama arrived at a checkpoint outside Omhajer. It was the last stop in Eritrea. Armed Italian soldiers boarded the bus. They made a show of looking over Jama and the woman. Through the dirty window more Italians could be seen waiting behind sandbags, a machine gun aimed at the bus. A checkpoint guard shoved his watch in the gangly soldier’s face and gesticulated to the darkening plains. The young soldiers peered out of the sand-blown windows and reached for their guns. Their officer placed a calming hand on the checkpoint guard’s shoulder, but he thrust the hand away, angry cords in his neck protruding as he continued to rage. The young Italians were silent, and the Eritrean woman whispered in Jama’s ear—patriots had attacked the checkpoint and stolen a truck. Jama stifled a giggle behind his hand.

Omhajer was swamped with military tents and food stalls run by former askaris. The town swung to a military beat and sweat glistened on the men’s unshaven faces. The pulse of the town stopped for a moment when the Eritrean woman disembarked the bus: cobblers stopped cobbling, merchants stopped selling, and jaws paused in midsentence. Men who had got used to the hard angles of male bodies now fixed their eyes on undulating curves, and nearly died of delight. The woman felt the heat of their eyes burning away her clothes and rushed down the dusty path toward her village. Jama saw Somali, Eritrean, and yellow-skinned Libyan askaris standing about, but none looked friendly, their faces were contorted and imbecilic with lust.

Behind the straw back of a stall, Jama counted his abattoir money and let out a desperate sigh. It was barely enough to buy food, never mind pay for another bus or lorry into Sudan. Jama sprinted out into the streets, cheetah-fast, hunting for groups of Somali askaris, running close to a clump before realizing they were Eritrean and skidding on his heels. Askaris turned and watched the strange boy run in and out of alleys. A Somali askari yelled out, “Hey, what are you looking for, kid?”

“A clansman, an Eidegalle askari!” shouted Jama.

The askari laughed. “Well, you can stop running, you’ve found one!” Jama ran to him; the soldier had a kind face, he put a thin hand on Jama’s head.

“Why are you looking for me, then?”

Jama cleared his throat and began, “I need help finding my father, he lives in Sudan but he used to be an askari.”

“Who is your father?” interrupted the soldier, a cigarette in his hand.

“He is Guure Mohamed Naaleyeh,” panted Jama.

The soldier exploded in laughter, coughing out a dark haze. “You’re Guure’s son?” he said, eyes round in delight.

Jama nodded, folding his arms around his bare chest.

“Waryaa! Everyone come and look! It’s Guure’s son!” More laughing men approached Jama, they slapped him on the back and manhandled his shoulders.

Jama stayed silent as they poked him and pointed out his father’s nose, or argued over whether Jama had the same slouched posture. They were close enough for Jama to smell the wood smoke and sweat on their uniforms. The first askari broke through the crowd and pulled Jama away. “Where have you come from?”

“Hargeisa.”

“By all the saints, do not lie to me.”

“Wallaahi, I swear, I came from Hargeisa.”

The askari was silent, and Jama could hear the others throwing his father’s name around as if he were a long-lost brother.

The askari held Jama’s hand. His dark skin matched Jama’s exactly, and their slender fingers merged indistinguishably. Jama looked hopefully into the man’s thin, angular face. “Your father is a good friend of mine, of us all. He was always telling me about his son, his strong little warrior, he would threaten us with your vengeance, but look at you! You’re nothing but a few bones strung together.”

“I would kill for my father,” Jama protested. “Anything he wants I would do! How can I get to him?”

“There are no buses to Gedaref, only military vehicles, and the Italians do not allow passengers, but you can get a ride with one of the Sudanese merchants here. It is only a few hours’ drive, but they leave only once a week and they charge a hefty sum,” the askari explained. Jama’s heart was racing. He didn’t want to spend any time in this garrison town but it was dawning on him that he would be forced to.

The askari read the dejection in his face. “We can get a message out to him, though, tell him you’re coming.”

Jama’s eyes reddened. All the fatigue and strain and misery of the journey had reached a crescendo at its near end and came pouring out. He turned to hide his face, and the soldiers looked to one another for solutions.

“Don’t worry, while you are here, you are my guest, you will sleep in my tent, eat my food, learn how to be an askari; this is the least I could do for Guure,” proposed the first askari.

The askari led him to a long row of identical canvas tents, stopping at one of them to pull aside the flap. “This is it, have
a rest. If you need me I will be five tents down on the left. I will bring you a bite to eat soon.” Jama entered the gloomy tent and collapsed onto the dirt floor.

After a night on a sweaty borrowed mat, with soldier food lying badly digested in his guts, his skin red and swollen from the attacks of mosquito hordes, Jama decided to get up. His arms, legs, and back ached but he needed to find out more about his father. He shook the flap of the tent the askari had directed him to the previous night, and a man’s voice shouted, “If you are not the devil, come in!”

Jama went inside; five men were on the floor, bundled over one another in the cramped space. “Hello, Guure’s son,” the askari said; other askaris groaned, placed their arms over their heads to block out the sound disturbing their sleep.