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  “Who are those people?”

  “The French, our colonizers.”

  “Why are they here?”

  “Because they're stronger than we are.”

  My country was born more than two decades ago, wrapped in the flag designed by Mahmoud Harbi.3 I was young, handsome, and strong. I'd been back home for three years, equipped with a big diploma, big for that time at any rate, and accompanied by a young, touching, stubborn woman I'd met when I was a student in France. In 1977, Djibouti was stepping down from the high solitude of being the last colonial stronghold. My country was brought into the world wrapped in its flag (blue, green, white, and red star), and I was in my prime, hardly thirty.

  * * *

  1. Police de l'Air et des Frontières.—Author's note

  2. Office de Protection des Réfugiés et Apatrides.—Author's note

  3. An important figure in Djiboutian resistance to colonization.—Author's note

  1

  BASHIR BINLADEN

  I WAS BORN YESTERDAY, I'm just saying, I mean I was born not so long ago, and even for this little chick of a country I'm not too-too over the hill, see. We're the same age, this country-here and myself, so believe me faithfully I snoop and look everywhere, men an animals like fine clean dressed-up dogs, stuff natural like women's thing. Rocks an flowers too. Oh Lord, I kind of lost Moussa an I got so-so scared. I'm talking all alone to buck myself up, I look overhere or overthere and I can't see nothing…I'm at Roissy, in front of the paradise of the Whites, gotta keep cool, act like professional military. I stare everywhere and name everything I see in the rush an crush of voices an lives. I do love sniffing out people; gotta sniff em up, sort of like them clean well-groomed dogs. That way you avoid problems an bullshit, little sonsabitches think they're Tintin's Captain Haddock. I hate soft old chewngums with no taste. I'm not afraid of nothing, not even foreigners (oh no! am I off my rocker or what? the foreigners, that's us now, the natives here, it's them). That's what we learned in the school of the streets cause real school way-way past. First I was born in tiny little village, Damerjogh its name. After that we came to the big city for my daddy's job. For he always like that, always at port being that longshoreman-there. So me, I cut out quick into the street, to look an look, an learn real-real good. School wasn't my thing, sure I finished fourth grade like everybody else, but school-there back home it's total pyramid. If you lucky you get big diploma, or else it's the street for you, like me. When I finish fourth grade they tell me fit for active work (we call that AW, active work). What you gonna work, little like that? So my whole neighborhood AW. After AW, I did everything in street. That's what I did to get by. Today my mom an dad not around no more to esplain me things I can't understand. I'm not so lucky, I'm all alone with no brother or sister in a country where every family can be a soccer team all by itself or send an emergency brigade straight to planets like Startrek.

  Before, there was war back home, the war kind of over now cause the Big Foreigners they say: better stop that war right away or no foreign aid. The president he said OK before anybody else. Open little parenthesis. If I was president of the country of course I'd change my name. I'd call myself Moi like the president of that Kenya-there. Moi, it's best president name I know. Moi, it simple—beautiful too, right? OK, close parenthesis. So the ministers who wanted to go on with war were pushed out of the offices. The president signed peace with first group of rebels, Frud 1 it's called. Today two years after the war, we're up to Frud 4 (Front for the Restoration of Unity and Democracy, it said that on the big sign in front of Palace of the People). Restoration is very correct word too, they even say that in real French from France. Politicians, they never stop eating, stuffing their face, gobbling, suffocating on the leftovers. Fill belly fat as Port container. I'm saying Port cause Port's just across the way. People who know that, they not gonna say Binladen's a lie an a liar. After the war, end of the line, Sergeant Houmed yelled every day. We demobilized. You can leave this minute if you want. War's over. They gave us demobilize soldiers 40,000 DF and it's bye-bye front, gunpowder, an thirst. So I gave a lot-lot to the family an the tribe. The cousins who been unemployed ever since they could stand, they party with my money. A weeklong bash, two thousand francs a day, what with the khat, the girls, the taxi I paid for with a girl once cause I was being class, man. I was still wearing my American jeans an my wide belt I kept. We all kept a little something from the army. And anyways OK, war over. Ayanleh, he still wear his big army shoes. Aïdid, he walk around with his commando helmet on his head. Warya, they say that rifle he hid, he sold it to a jealous husband to rip the heart of the guy always after Naya, his honey who bleach her skin. Naya, she so-so strong for love. She volcano-love her honey says.

  Oh, the army was big mess. Holy moley! We killed the Wadags, screwed their daughters, poisoned wells all the way to Moussa Ali, you don't know Moussa Ali, it's border. After that it's Eritrea, careful, don't mess around with Eritrea like our president doing now cause Eritrea stronger than Zidane for war. It's Ronaldo the Brazilian. They fucked Mengistu an all the Ethiopians with fifty times more harms than them. Ethiopians they got so much harms, right after Chinese, Japanese, Hindis, and so on-so on. So, Wadags they wanted peace right away. Pretty natural—they don't all wanna die. Frud 1, Frud 2, Frud 3, Frud 4, all the same and one. Lotta bullshit, yah. From now on, just to kid around we call that Frud-there Scud like Iraqi missile not always effective. Restoration, OK, that's good. Democracy, that hotair of politicians who take bread from whoever giving it.

  After the war, for a few weeks it was a free-for-all. We did whatever we wanted. Ate in restaurants without paying, pirated big Arab and Hindi shopkeepers, even small shopkeepers native like us. Grabbing merchandise quick as chameleon gobbling flies. Even from mamas selling vegetables an khat on Place Rambo. When I say “Place Rambo” it's funny, sounds like real French name Rimbaud, right? Reminds me of singing in school Alaclairefontainééé, menononproméné, jaitrouvélosiclair quéjémisuisbaiyé… “Attaclearfountain, zahwenwokin, ahfounwattasocleah ahswimnit.” After the war, we did whatever we wanted. Beat up on people in the street for fun, robbed Arab and Hindi hardware stores. Drilled girls day an night. Goverment don't say nothing. There's still chaos, the situation will soon return to normal, said Morning Hyena, Minister of Police, on DRT. DRT, you don't know what that is yet, right? Djibouti Radio Television, it's written in big gold letters on the building, next to the Presidential. The asshole general who screwed up his military coup so bad, well, he got all his men together at the DRT. Thinks coup mean only TV, radio—DRT, see? The loyola tanks—or whatever, I forgot the word—anyway president's tanks they left from Camp Sheikh-Osman, went through all of Ambouli. Went through the traffic circle that go into Port road. Then, they go behind Arhiba and the asshole general's base right next to it. They don't shell police base of the asshole general. They come straight to DRT. Fourteen rounds of mortars, bang, bang, bang, the coup guys they sure cried loud for their mamas. Twelve down. The troublemakers, quick-quick prisoners without they hurt a goverment fly. The asshole general he left to hide in the French naval base, on the Plateau du Héron. The president came quick-quick out of his hiding place in Sheikh-Osman military camp, the one the asshole general spared. He get his troops together. I have triumphed he yell loud-loud. They all on TV a couple hours later. Morning Hyena, Stuffed Hyena, Pushy Hyena, Toothless Lion, etc., all there. Still shaking with fear. You could see the sweat flooding their faces on the color screen TV. Then, the president left with head of diplomacy to get the asshole general that used to be his true-true friend before, when they making restoration together. Together they knew how to conjugate the verb have, not the verb to be.

  What do you think the French did with the president's request and the so-rich words of the head of diplomacy? I say request, that a very correct word, they say it on black-an-white TV even, like at Samireh's our neighbor the shopkeeper. The French they say we are presently handing over the general (only they don't add as
shole, like me, Binladen) if you in Djibouti respect the rightsaman too like in our country. The general has the right to be assisted by the lawyer of his choice before he even opens his mouth. He has right to a fair trial, insisted the ambassador in a shirt with red-white-an-blue flowers before presently handing over the asshole general. President happy as a clam, he busted the asshole general. Hey, he together again with his lieutenants in the terriblific Gabode prison. The motherfucka now with the little Ethiopian thieves he used to bust himself, I say little cause the big ones they still out there, making restoration with the president's wife.

  Worst off in this whole business is regular little soldiers, that's what City say. I don't agree. Little soldiers, they used to be little darlins of the asshole general (no way he deserves a capital G), they did anything they wanted, selling off gas ration coupons, stealing the refugees' bags of food, borrowing people's cells, drilling girls—even the girls of their neighborhood got diarrhea when they saw them. Besides, little soldiers, sure thing! They're all sergeants, second lieutenants, lieutenants. No ordinary draftee like us in their department. There's even a colonel, I obliterated his name—I like to use big fancy words like the French, in my own personal language. City a hypocrite, double hypocrite. They forget to say people-there all cousins of the tribe, so same cousins same aunt same uncle, I say. And tomorrow if the president fired the asshole general City would say so-so unfair etcetera etcet. Me I'm telling you City don't know what they want. One day they cheering real loud for the president specially when a boat comes into our port with liquidities (yes, liquidities the word, in fact very correct word). Next day, they say: we support the opposition. Our bold, active opponent, the Pele of the opposition, he was journalist an soldier before, so, he sick of City, believe me faithfully. He better off leaving for France like me Binladen, like all the others I see here at Roissy hugging the walls, like the intellectual genleman who lost his French wife and his rich-kid son. Matter of fact, president will get out too, when there nothing left to eat. Restoration over. That man-there, he like ole empty battery can't start up the country no more. So, everybody's salary ten months overdue. Not one head of a boat in port, not one tail of a plane stopped over with white tourists saying Reunion, Mauritius, Malagascar, wow! it's too-too hot. And the stupid idiots come to Djibouti for a breath of fresh air!

  Now I'm gonna show you the poem Monsieur Djama our principal recited to us in elementary school of District 6. That's where I live in Djibouti, actually. My buddy Ayanleh found it in his small little brother's things. Monsieur Djama, he's a funny one. He been giving same poem to all his pupils for ten year or what? I don't get all of it, no big deal, right? I'm gonna show it to Moussa who's coming back loaded like a Yemenite donkey (donkey rub donkey, that a naughty proverb of ours). Yemenites strong for business, Yemenites king of commerce right after Hindis who sad like a day without khat. Hey, Moussa gonna read it to you:

  In Djibouti it's so hot,

  Metallic, bitter, brutal,

  They grow palm trees of metal

  The others die on the spot.

  You sit beneath the scrap iron

  While, grinding in the desert breeze

  They pile up to your very knees,

  the iron filings.

  But under palms that sound like trains

  Luckily, inside your brain

  You're free to fantasize

  A trip worldwide.

  OK poetry fine but hey, what I wanna do is tell you more about my life. I can tell you right away I never got one slap in the face from my daddy. Papa he wasn't very old when he died, tootoo broke down by his longshoreman job, but gentle like little lamb fresh from its mama's belly. He'd piss blood like that for no reason before he checked out. Me, I'm still running. When I was a baby I was already running a lot-lot. I also liked the games kids play like soccer. Not so many soccer games around no more. The city going through a difficult period, maybe Papa could've esplained you the how and why of all the problems. Veterans, the handicapped an disabled from civil war, they all demonstrate yesterday front of Presidential Palace (beit al wali* the old folks say, that Arabic) asking for their puny pensions not paid for months. Hey, what you think goverment did? They fired on the crowd of cripples, with real bullets. A lot of corpses, lot of wounded on the boulevard to presidential palace. An guess what, no one lifted a finger. The crowd run away like scared little chicken. The wounded more or less taken care of and the dead buried in dead bush silence.

  Same evening, City clapped regular as a broken toilet at the president's endless speech. So's not to think of their pain, everybody get giddy on rumors. They go like this: yah-yah we gonna get revenge this time, yah, arright….Our bellies grumbling with the noise of rising waters, the noise of a fast-moving stream over stones. Like we're wolfing down the bitter mango, bitter mango even ants and little insects won't eat it.

  2

  ABDO-JULIEN

  AS A CHILD I walked around naked every blessed day. My protruding belly button would catch the eye like a smiling little sun. A sun the color of licorice at night, copper-color in the afternoon. My mom was entirely devoted to me. I was her first sun, her only sun to this very day. Maman kept repeating to whoever would listen that this country was hers too. This is where love made me put down my bags, she would say. It's a five-camel hotel, she'd repeat without really realizing how ridiculous the image sounded. Everything in this land is mine: its volcanic hillocks, its skinny fauna; the tragic, camel-like swaying of its hips; the aquatic flora pictured on postage stamps; the desert islets like the famous Guinni Koma (also called l'île du Diable, Devil's Island by the French). I can feel its salt on my body. I am this pit like a wounded vulva between the hills. You'd think she was reading from a geography textbook. Yes, everything here is mine. The salt lakes, the bald peaks, the whimsical firmament at Lake Assal, the small forest from times long past, the limestone high plateaus, the Grand Bara and Petit Bara, the main summit culminating at almost seven thousand feet. The bitter waters and their extraordinary salinity. The liquid heart of the gulf, its solitude crenellated with waves. Her world forever inviolable. This is my country stirring the air just like the lyre palm and the traveler tree dragging its exiles over the crust of the earth. My country running breathlessly, endlessly. My country sad and beautiful like the oilcloth of a village café in Brittany on a rainy Sunday morning. My dad and I would burst out laughing. She's stubborn and endearing. And there she goes now, changing the subject and the textbook. From geography to history. My country's history in the annals of the continent? Barely room for a lowly footnote at the bottom of a page. Seventy thousand square miles of hatred and misery, my country of ergs and acacias. She's flying off the handle now, excited as a young goat.

  Choice? Do you really think you can choose your destiny in life? Only morons or gullible fools believe such nonsense. It's true that I wanted wind in my sails, light in my eyes, a child in my womb, a black member in the hollow of my belly, and what else? My chest chock-full of air. Chastity, poverty, and obedience are not my most cherished vows. I'm not a chick raised in a poultry factory. But before meeting some spindly students on a college campus in Rennes, how was I supposed to know I would land in Djibouti and forever leave the house with its walls eaten away by the black grape vine? Choice? Don't make me laugh. What on earth made me go there, in the midst of those strange strangers with their Afros and bell-bottom pants? You always like to think of yourself as different; you want to escape the common fate, out of pride perhaps. To speed up the end of adolescence. What am I doing here? I let myself be sucked up by destiny, something stronger than myself, like the current of the tide that carries away the careless swimmer. Why would a young student, a girl from Brittany like me, set out for this crazy place? Fate took over and I dove into it headfirst. Jesus, that feeling of having bought a one-way long-distance ticket!

  They seemed lost; so was I but a lot less than they were. They looked gentle, sweet, harmless. So did I, they said, afterwards. I knew nothing about t
hem, about their country, their language, their culture. I had just turned twenty; I was just coming out of the awkward teens. Life was ahead of me; it was possible to change it, as we kept saying at the time, a time that seems today almost as remote as geological eras. And with one snap of the fingers, everything picked up speed; everything became clear. It's not the word “passion” that came to mind when I started to be around them a bit—of course not. It was the word “puzzlement” at first. They were always in groups, as if they were on duty together. They did everything together, in packs almost, like the ants in the documentaries they show on French TV late into the night. This compact conglomerate was very strange to me at the beginning. Then I got used to their gregarious ways, their nomadic flesh that would start moving only as a group, with their worries locked inside themselves more often than not. They'd laugh and joke in rhythm; they're sure good at that, bigger jokers you won't find. I was friendly with all of them, laughing with one, laughing with all. Since no one could muster enough courage to pick me up, it took a long time before I could be all alone with your father, discover pleasure with him—the kind you call carnal—and before we could thrill together. He seemed unhappy to leave his gang just to spend an afternoon at the movies with me, but proud as a peacock as I was, I would never allow myself to rein him in. So he would make a date with me and then cancel at the last minute, saying he had forgotten his Interafrican soccer game. It was trendy at the time to form teams by countries and fight on the soccer field. A lot better than the meetings of cabinet ministers in the OAU,1 as the jolly Dieudonné, the fast center forward from Togo, would say jokingly. Dieudonné Gnammanckou, what kind of a name is that, a guy from Morocco would grumble—always the same guy, the one with a chip on his shoulder, but he could run faster than Jesse Owens and he was generous with his passes on the field. My God, your father made me watch so many of those damn games! Him and me, we could talk and understand each other in a split second, a split word, a split smile. Making love with him was easy as having a glass of water. And believe me, my foggy Brittany hadn't prepared me for that. With him, I was always stewing in cayenne pepper. When I think about it now I tell myself I was being buoyed up in an ocean of tales without beginning or end. I know what I mean. If going so far away, into such a far-off elsewhere, didn't bother me, it's because nostalgia and its double, melancholia, are quite foreign to my nature.