Chapter 3 #2
But the Frank who visited Salima boasting how he’d fought on both sides? That’s a man with blood on his hands. A man who might
now have Asif’s daughter.
But I was never going to convince my mother of the righteousness of fighting Franks, not after what happened to her brother.
So I said the only thing I could: “Salima is offering a million dinars for the girl’s return.”
My mother went still with shock. “Impossible.”
“I said the same, but she promised to liquidate her estate if necessary. Theirs is one of those old Iraqi families, the ones
who have been rich since the days of Harun al-Rashid. She has ten thousand dinars waiting in Salalah to be paid upon my departure.
A hundred thousand if I learn where the girl is being kept. That is not money we can turn away.”
My mother’s face clouded in suspicion. “It could be a lie. All of it. Besides, first you said you merely intended to ask a
few questions of your contacts. Now you speak of stealing the girl back?”
Damn, I should have known she would catch that. I raised my hands in a gesture I hoped conveyed reassurance rather than surrender.
“Amma, I have no desire for a fight. If I am blessed to find this Frank and he is keeping Dunya in a situation I cannot easily
pluck her from, I will sell that information to Salima and walk away. With a hundred thousand dinars. I am long overdue for a check on the Marawati anyway. I will go to Aden, ask a few questions, and return a wealthy woman.”
My mother gave me a level look. “The last time you went to check on the Marawati , you ran off to become a criminal and I did not see your face for fifteen years.”
“This is not like that,” I tried to argue. “I swear.”
But my mother wasn’t listening. Instead she turned to pace the floor, the open window catching her gaze. I’m not certain my mother realizes how often she stares off in the direction of the sea. Perhaps after spending years waiting for her loved ones to return, it became instinctual.
“I should have gone back to Pemba after your father died,” she said softly. This was how my mother’s regrets always began,
with her wishing she had returned to the parents who disowned her for marrying him. “I should have tried.”
“Amma, it has been decades,” I said gently. “We would have lost the Marawati . And I do not regret my career.”
She spun back on me. “How can you not regret it? I might have given you a normal life. Instead, you have blood on your hands, crimes on your soul, and men on every
shore spreading rumors so vile I cannot even speak them aloud. Men who would do anything to hurt you.” My mother looked torn
between protectiveness and throttling me herself as she wrung her hands. “God curse that grandfather of yours. Him and all
his stories.”
Without my grandfather’s stories, we would have been destitute. I would have never had Marjana, my greatest blessing . But my mother and I had been arguing about my path since the morning I left at sixteen to beg mercy from my father’s creditors
and instead stole the ship and cargo intended to pay his debts. I did not wish to resume such quarrels now.
Especially when the truth was that we were struggling. That may surprise you. I know the stories tell of an Amina al-Sirafi
who plundered treasure ships and retired to a golden castle. But the thing about fame is that it often rests on lies. I never
knew wealth. I knew comfort ; I knew being able to ensure my family had a solid roof (once), enough to eat, and a good education and apprenticeship for
my brother. But boats are expensive to maintain, particularly when you chase smuggling jobs instead of steady clients. I paid
my crew well, both because it was my responsibility as their nakhudha and because I needed to make damn sure they stayed happy
with the female captain who carried a price on her head. We had fabulous scores and adventures aplenty, but I was careful
not to overstep.
There was also the gambling, but the less said about that the better. I am reformed.
If I had retired with more forethought, I might have set up proper investments instead of paying off my men, handing over
my ship, and walking away with no plan. But such laments can join a long list of regrets. And that was the avenue I settled
on now, knowing my mother to be more clearheaded when it came to our survival.
“Amma, we are not in a position to turn this money away. Tinbu only takes legitimate jobs with the Marawati now, and that income isn’t enough to sustain a family. We farm land that could be taken away at any moment and have made
a home in a house we have no rights to.” I gestured to the crumbling roof. “Even that is coming apart around us. With the
new baby...”
“We will find a way,” my mother insisted. “We have survived far worse. God provides.”
“And He has! He has provided us with Salima and a fortune that could change our lives! Amma, the amount she is offering just
for information... a hundred thousand dinars. We could buy Mustafa a house and workshop in Salalah to get his business off the ground. We could hire proper
tutors for the kids and get them into any profession they want. They could be doctors, they could be scholars, they could
thrive in ways we never could. You could rest , instead of breaking your back in the garden.” My God, it hurt to even say all these things aloud, the ambitions and dreams
I tried to deny blossoming to light in my heart. “Amma, we could be stable. We could have security, real security. Marjana
would never have to worry about money. She would never have to worry about anything .”
“Marjana would have less to worry about in the future if you would let her live in the present. If you would allow her go
to school and meet people outside our family!” she burst out. “Amina, this woman has filled your head with such fantasies
that you do not see the risks. Why do you think she is offering so much money?”
I ignored the first part—my mother had no idea the extent of my worries when it came to Marjana—and answered what I could.
“Because Salima is desperate to get her granddaughter back in a way that maintains her reputation. Rich people, Amma? They aren’t like us.
They throw as much money as they can at a problem, assuming the greater the amount, the more they can rely on it to protect them.
It usually does,” I added, a bit more bitterly.
My mother stared at me, her dark gaze both worried and furious. “And if something goes wrong? You... Amina, you were broken when you finally returned. You barely spoke. You barely ate. You would lay in bed all day and stare at the wall. You were
not the daughter who had written so assuredly throughout all those years.”
My mouth went dry. “I-I had just had a baby. I was exhausted.”
“It went beyond having a baby. I know you. Something happened out there, and you were never the same. For a long time, I assumed...”
My mother had been crossing the room but suddenly stopped, seeming to startle. “Salima’s son... is he Marjana’s father?
Is that the reason—”
“No!” But she had struck close, and it was difficult not to react, my heart perilously near to being laid bare. For something
did happen. But it wasn’t something I could ever confide if I wanted my mother to look upon me the same. “Marjana is not Asif’s
daughter. But he died on my ship, and it has weighed on my soul. I owe this to his family.”
“Money and honor, what fine motivations,” she said acidly. “How carefully you have constructed this argument. So that any
concerns I express will sound like the fretting of an old woman. As though I do not know how often you polish your weapons
and pour over Tinbu’s letters.” The anger was gone from her voice, replaced by the same sadness with which Salima had spoken
of Asif. “As though you haven’t been looking for an opportunity to leave us for years.”
I dropped my gaze, ashamed. My mother was not entirely wrong.
My mind was already on the Marawati , my blood rising with an excitement I had not felt in years.
I was not doing this just for Asif. But I wasn’t doing this on a lark either, and for a moment I urgently wanted to tell her the truth, to divulge my fears for Marjana to the person I respected most in this world.
The person I so desperately did not want to think I was a terrible mother for embarking on such a dangerous quest.
But I could not.
I took a deep breath, clasping my hands behind my back and steadying myself as though I were already standing before my crew.
“Amma, I love you. I respect your opinion. But I will not let a blessing like this slip through my fingers. It is one job.
Just one job and we shall never have to worry about money again, God willing.”
My mother held my stare. “You speak of security, and I understand. I understand wanting the world for your child. But Marjana,
Amina? She only wants you.” A warning laced into her voice. “And it would destroy her if something were to happen to you.”
The words were pulled from her quiver with care, and they struck true once shot. For a moment I saw it: My mother collapsing
at the news. Marjana sobbing, wailing for me again and again. It would break her heart in a way that would never entirely
heal.
But then it was replaced by another vision. Marjana older and alone, death having come for me no matter what. Marjana older
than a human had any right being, bewildered and afraid, with a strangeness that might grow. With a strangeness that might
frighten.
How much easier her life would be if she were rich. For while the pious claim money doesn’t buy happiness, I can attest from
personal experience that poverty buys nothing. It is a monster whose claws grow deeper and more difficult to escape with each
passing season, with even the slightest misstep setting you back years, if not forever. Add Marjana’s... unique heritage, and it painted a frightening future in which I wouldn’t always be around to protect her.