Страница 15 из 59
Jama stuttered, “She’s a thief, Ji
“May God break your balls, you lying bastard, you are cursed by all the saints,” screeched the mother. “Oh tolla’ay, tolla’ay, my poor child. May God put you under the ground, you eunuch, you devil!”
Ji
Ji
Sand scratched his eyes and blurred the path as it danced around the desert in a frenetic whirling ballet. Jama’s sarong was nearly pulled off by the mischievous sand ji
A rumbling sound reverberated along the road and then the “daru daru daruuu” horn of an invisible lorry pierced the morning air like a cockerel cry. Jama ran down to meet it, and narrowly avoided its gigantic hood as it careered around the bend and raced past. Standing in its sooty trail, Jama wondered how long it would take to get to Sudan, if he had enough money, if he could get food and water on the road. He only knew to walk away from Hargeisa, everything else was a mystery. He walked up the side of a hill, rocks slipping under his feet. He tripped on the skeletons of goats killed by earlier droughts; their bleached rib cages jutted out of the dirt like teeth and inside them tiny yellow flowers sprouted from cacti. The desert terrified him, the silence, the boulders marking nomad’s graves, the emptiness. Jama scampered farther up, hoping to find human company by following the goat droppings left by a passing herd. As he climbed higher the Maroodi Jeeh valley was spread out beneath him, and he scaled the large granite boulders believing that he would be able to see Sudan from the summit. He squinted at the strip of blue on the horizon, unsure whether it was sky or sea. The land looked eerie from this height, dry riverbeds snaked across the earth as far as the eye could see, acacia trees grew bent and stunted in tangled, harassed-looking clumps like old widows begging. Massive stony-faced boulders sat squatly amid nothing. Towering termite mounds, the zenith of insect genius, stood tall and imposing like bleak apartment blocks. A nomad’s house built from branches and straw had a high fence around it, keeping out emptiness. A raw breeze prickled Jama’s skin, and dark purple clouds dotted the sky. To the far east shone a spontaneous river, fed by rain falling on the distant Golis Mountains. Vultures swooped above the river, praying for drowned bodies. In the water, opals and emeralds glinted. Small villages had grown alongside the road, the fragile dwellings placed so close to its edge that it seemed the speed of a racing lorry would blow them away. Here and there forgotten paraffin lamps burned dangerously in the makeshift homes. Far off to the north galloped British colonial officers in khaki, looking for warthogs to set off their game of pig-sticking. Warthogs were rarely seen in the country anymore but the British were even more elusive, generally preferring to hide in their Raj-style government bungalows from the heat and bloody foreig
Jama walked and walked. No more cars or lorries passed by and he didn’t see any camel caravans, but he carried on stubbornly. The clouds pursued him, gathering in speed and strength, an army dressed in black marching across the sky, conquering the blue. Straight ahead of him the sun got heavier and larger like a hot old lady wobbling before her knees finally buckled. He reached a ruined Oromo town, its once grand buildings fallen down and forgotten. Jama crept into the old mosque, the wood rotting and clay bricks disintegrating around him. He rested on his haunches and sat there like a madman amid the dirt and debris, bats flitting in and out of the silent pulpit and spirits murmuring behind his back. He watched as the wind blew life into an old snakeskin and it slithered away to find its old self. Thirsty and frightened, he regretted ru