Chapter 12
The wind and sea cooperating, we made good time to Mogadishu. Save a brief storm that put us into shore, the journey was otherwise
gentle, the Somali coast ambling past in a blur of sloping sand dunes, pale yellow cliffs, and quiet fishing villages. Mogadishu,
however, was no fishing village, and the corona of boats plying its waters snarled us in sea traffic before the city’s forts
and mosques were even visible. We maneuvered and bullied our way past jilab and sanabiq, qunbar and dugouts, each belonging
to seemingly every group of people with a toe upon the Indian Ocean. I took care to watch for any ships with official markings
or soldiers, but saw mostly merchants and fishermen. We were far enough from Aden that I was not terribly worried about being
pursued (the excellent thing about living along an ocean of a hundred different kingdoms is being able to commit crimes in
one and flee very quickly to another), but it did not hurt to be paranoid, particularly when Salima kept reminding me I had
a price on my head.
A few local agents paddled out to the Marawati with welcoming words and silver trays of roasted goat.
Were we legitimate traders, we would have gone off with one of them to find lodgings and the best place to sell our goods.
As it was, we were masquerading as a charter: Dalila posing as a wealthy widow traveling to Mogadishu to visit a cousin and check on investments.
Back in our criminal days, that had been a typical ruse for us.
One of the many benefits of Dalila and me being female was taking advantage of men’s discomfort and fear of impropriety when interacting with ladies outside their household.
Decked out in false jewels and pretend silks, Dalila could imitate the most noble, untouchable Sayyidas out there.
Everything in her haughty, veiled silence screamed that to approach her would be horribly disrespectful; to actually question the documents a hushed Tinbu handed over on her behalf would be unthinkable.
I did what I could to maintain the facade, acting
as her servant and chaperone—feigning respectability is not among my skills.
Dalila’s story passed muster with both agents and inspectors, and soon we were free to anchor outside Mogadishu and proceed
to the city in the dunij. But if I imagined my friends intended to provide a united front before Majed, I was sorely mistaken.
“I am not going with you,” Tinbu declared. “I know better than to involve myself in that fight. Besides...” He patted his
now-hefty midsection, his robe hiding several items he did not wish to pay customs on. “I have goods to sell.”
I made imploring eyes at Dalila.
“I am not going to help your case with Majed,” she said plainly. “He has never forgiven me for the manner in which I joined
the Marawati .”
“You poisoned him and refused to administer the antidote until we got you out of Basrah,” Tinbu reminded her. “That’s difficult
to forgive.”
“I hope he’s in a merciful mood,” I said bleakly. “Or at least accommodating enough to hear me out before he slams the door
in my face. But sure, go shop and smuggle, you unreliable traitors.”
Tinbu winked and tapped a purse of cowries. “Come, Dalila, my crafty. Let’s make some money.”
It was a Friday, and Mogadishu’s main road was packed not only with the pious headed to jumu’ah but with vendors hawking everything from glass bottles of camphor and pickled chilis to polished tortoise shells and stacks of mangrove poles.
Children ran around a group of women examining local cloth, making my heart pine for Marjana.
Several nawakhidha were gossiping in the shade of a tree, and I ducked my head to avoid them, not needing any fellow shipmasters to identify me.
The sun blazed overhead, but with plenty of awnings and a fresh breeze off the ocean, the heat was manageable.
The aroma of roasting spices and freshly squeezed juice enticed me in the direction of the food stalls, but I was not permitted to eat or loiter in the market until after I had approached Majed.
And yes, I was rewarding myself with food and incentives like a child.
But even the brief venture brought me enjoyment. I love traveling, and it had been fifteen years since I last visited Mogadishu.
Bustling then, it had grown into a metropolis now that easily rivaled its sister ports. I had scarcely gone two blocks when
the sound of drums and trumpets forced me to stop for a magnificent procession. Soldiers with gleaming weapons and perfectly
draped uniforms—qadis and wazirs and all manner of clerks, each better dressed than the next—paraded by, preceding a royal
palanquin adorned with a rainbow of colored silk. Gold birds with pearl eyes and silver talons were perched upon the corners
of the palanquin. Inside, all I could see of their king as he passed was the furred mantle and emerald hem of his fine Jerusalem
brocade.
I craned my neck to watch the parade depart, only to chide myself for the distraction. I was not in Mogadishu to play ogling
tourist, and so I followed the directions Tinbu had given me to a pleasant neighborhood of lofty homes. They were not the
grandest mansions in the city but spoke of respectable professions and carefully cultivated wealth, the houses of physicians
and international traders. Tinbu had said Majed married into a local merchant clan, and it showed, the sort of respectable
life Majed’s family had always wanted for him.
I stopped outside a home with cheerfully painted blue doors, balancing the presents of Egyptian paper, Yemeni glass bangles, Indian block-print cloth, and sugar I had brought for Majed’s family.
Beyond the door, children were laughing, and guilt snarled me at the sound.
Of my companions, Tinbu was my most trusted sailor and Dalila was.
.. well, Dalila. But Majed had been with me the longest. I would not have become the nakhudha I was without him; he crewed with my father and was the only one to stay on when I took over the Marawati .
If any of them were family to me, it was Majed.
Like any siblings, we’ve had our disagreements, but he is a good man. I should have known he got married; I should have known
he had children. Our families should have visited and enjoyed holidays together. Marjana should have thought of him as an
uncle, and I should have showered him with gold upon his children’s births. That our relationship had soured was on me, and
I was nearly as nervous as when I’d been bluffing with the warship in Sira Bay.
Whispering God’s name, I rapped loudly on the door.
A small boy dressed in a blue thawb so clean he must have just come back from Friday prayer opened it. He could not have been
more than seven, his wide-set curious eyes so like my friend’s, I knew in an instant this had to be Majed’s son.
“Peace be upon you, little one,” I greeted warmly. “I’m looking for Majed of Kilwa.”
“Upon you peace.” The child rocked back and forth on his heels like I had pulled him from a game of chase. “Baba!” The chatter
of an unseen courtyard increased, and he raised his voice. “BABA!”
“I am coming, I am coming.” I heard Majed’s drowsy voice before the door was pulled from the boy’s hand. And then he was there,
my old navigator, very much wearing his years in a beard that had gone silver and a paunch his striped thawb was not quite
hiding. He had a sleepy ease I’d never seen in the man I knew as high-strung, and he squeezed the boy’s shoulder with gentle
affection.
Then his gaze fell on me.
Majed jerked back like he had been doused with a bucket of cold water. He quickly scooted his son away. “Return to your game,
Ahmad.”
I waited until the boy was gone and then offered my most innocent smile. “Greetings, Father of Maps.”
Majed stared at me. Then he slammed the door in my face.
So much for hearing me out. “Oh, come on, Majed...” I shoved my weight against the door before he could throw the locks,
keeping it a tiny bit open. “You cannot still be angry at me!”
“I absolutely can be!”
I wedged a foot in the door. “I just want to talk.”
He stomped on my toes. “Go away!”
“You stubborn son of a...” I got an elbow in, not entirely accidentally jabbing him in the eye. “I only need a moment.”
“I am not giving you any moments.” There was a pleading insistence in his voice. “I am normal now. Normal!” He attempted to
shut the door on my wrist, but I was faster. I reached in and seized him by the collar, to which he responded by kicking me
in the shin.
There was a shocked gasp.
“ Majed? ”
We both froze. I peered in to see a tall Somali woman down the corridor, wearing a brightly patterned red and white home dress.
She was about my age, with a willowy grace and kind eyes. Majed’s son peeked out from behind her back, his fingers hooked
in her skirt. A little girl was balanced on the woman’s opposite hip, the toddler’s tiny, tufted brows drawn up in a perfect
mirror of her father.
My heart warmed at the sight of my navigator’s lovely family—even as I took advantage of Majed’s panic to yank the door open
and step completely inside. I patted his shoulder as though I’d merely tripped and grabbed him for balance.
“Thank you for catching me, cousin. Old knees... one cannot trust them!” I beamed at the woman. “Oh, but this must be your
wife! Peace and blessings upon you, my lady.”
She looked perplexed but returned my smile. “Upon you peace.” She glanced at Majed, and though her smile did not waver, I could read a dozen questions in her pointed gaze. “You didn’t tell me you had family visiting.”
A mix of terror and outrage swept his face. “I did not. I mean, she is not—”
“Family? No, not properly.” But I was already crossing to kiss her cheeks. “My, you are stunning, mashallah! I am Umm Lulu.
Majed and I had the same milk mother back in Kilwa.”