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  1. PSG: Paris Saint-Germain, a famous professional soccer team.—Translators’ note

  12

  ALICE

  THIS WAS AT THE TIME when there were still straw huts (ariches, they're usually called) on the main street, Boulevard de Gaulle today—our beloved France hadn't yet taken the hammering it got in 1940—the last huts of this kind disappeared at the turn of the seventies, just before we arrived here. The name Boulaos remains, at the spot of the first fishing village. Dromedaries laden with bundles of sticks and saddled donkeys carrying water would often parade through the main streets of what was still called the native village—the magalla—which would steadily expand through the years. In Ambouli, there was also a zoo facing the palm grove. A wind turbine towered majestically over it; a crowd of children rushed there every afternoon like beggars charging at a cigarette butt that someone just threw away.

  All that was yesterday, at the time when Alfred Ilg and Léon Chefneux had just launched the train, and the cathedral was still the church Sainte-Jeanne-d'Arc; it was roughed up by the earthquakes of 1929, 1930, and 1942. A whole yesterday still fresh in my mind, not your time, my little cactus, but rather the time of your father when he was still a teenager. You'd think it's already been relegated to time immemorial, like the women who sorted coffee beans on Place Ménélik; today they'd be as old as your grandmother. Or the time of the native militia (your grandfather was one of its first recruits). With the help of the Senegalese infantrymen—in reality not only Senegalese but from all over the AOF1—they maintained order in the model city, as model as a sub-prefecture of Ardèche or Ariège in France, or at least that was the claim of the weekly paper of the colony, whose banknotes came from the Banque de l'Indochine. During that whole period, they particularly had to keep their eyes on the Place des Chameaux (the future Place Rimbaud, now Place Mahmoud-Harbi, a stone's throw from the great Hammoudi mosque, which symbolized Djibouti and the Côte Française des Walals at the famous Paris Colonial Exposition of 1931). It served as the terminal for caravans but also as the main market for wood, milk, butter, and the spicy rumors from the backcountry, so dreaded by the governor. As soon as he got up in the morning, the governor would inquire into what was being said on the Place des Chameaux, who had arrived that day, what could have been said about him, what would Paris think of his silence, it's been three days since he didn't send them a letter through the usual channels. A colonial intelligence agent, relying on his three informers from the native tribes, would reassure him immediately. Nothing to worry about as far as our interests are concerned, the same old stories of bloodshed, poisoned wells, kidnapped fiancées, raids on zebus, and vendettas between rival clans. Trouble could come from the greed of the Abyssinians, but we've known that for ages. So, a promising day for the governor despite the blazing sun, so hot it could addle the brains of the little blond heads of the schoolchildren in the École de la Nativité. And the aroma of coffee would attract the governor. A table was set under the oleanders for this ritual. He would go inspect the brand-new premises of the Messageries Postales built by Duparchy and Vigoureux, the same firm that had put the final touch on all the viaducts between Djibouti and Addis Ababa as early as 1897, making generous use of metallic constructions of the Eiffel type. In short, a real day's work.

  There was in our house a dog-eared sepia photograph sitting on a piece of furniture in the living room. You could see Mahmoud Harbi with a baby face, although he had already turned thirty, in a suit, with a bow tie. A baby face because it's only after they've reached forty-four that men here are fully entitled to be called an adult, your grandfather would have said in his gentle voice. Whoever entered the living room could not fail to take off his hat before that heroic figure. Could the dead really be the only creatures to inspire respect and dignity in this world here below? Behind the photo, on the wall, a map of Greater Somalia would attract the visitor's attention. A sand-yellow territory on a sky-blue background, and all around it the four colonialists (France, Great Britain, Italy, and Ethiopia) who cut up the land of the sons of Samaale. That very allegorical map was less appreciated than the photo of the great fighter.

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  1. Afrique Occidentale Française, French West Africa.—Author's note

  13

  BASHIR BINLADEN

  THE OLD-OLD SOLDIERS, ones thirty an over, they loved strong liquor too-too much: gin, vodka, Johnny Walker, White Spirit. It's top chief brings back that stuff. Fat rich Arabs and Hindis, they give all that free for the patriotic effort. No lies that. Label say so. Établissement Fratacci, El Gamil Supermarket, Borreh & Associates, Idriss Driving School, V. D. Singh & K. S. Vijay, Coubèche and Sons, etc., see what I mean? Rebels they love doomo too much (that, Wadag palm wine). Us young draftees, we like liquor not too-too strong. Heineken, Kronenbourg, Tuborg, plus pink pills plus hashish. woww! After that, sleep flee from your eyes. Belly stop fussing, that's all. You can't fish up pity for nobody, not even for a small-small little child. You pick up rebels’ girls to make slave honeys in military camp. All the girls, they're for us, they gotta show their ass, that simple. Some girls they even come on purpose, they leave the mountain, they too-too hungry. They say: I wanna stay with soldiers, there's army food. They love soldiers for that, or else it's hunger too much. Rebels, when they gain ground on us, they catch their sisters. They knock em off quick-quick. Yah, you were with soldiers. You traitors, you cooked for soldiers, you screwed all the time. Bitches, I'm gonna fuck up your life: here, take that in the ass and bang! And you after that, you go crazy. You don't give a shit; you throw the old mamas old uncles and all in holes in the mountain singing Tupac Shakur. You burn camp; you poison water. You spray the animals bang-abangbang. It's funny, camel stuffed with bullets falls, gets up on long-long legs, falls, gets up, falls, up again. You come in bang bang bang salaam-an-bye-bye. Who gives a shit? Cows, they too stupid, they got big white eyes, moo moo moo, they wait for the bullets, they looking for death. Sheep, they run all over. Goats, they run-run fast. I saw soldiers rape donkey going ee…ee…ee. You have a ball.

  When work there done, you burn your hash, you breathe in hard-hard till your eyes pop out of your face. After that, you calm, you cool with your Walkman. You can't stand tiny-tiny noise. So you sleep. Not for long. Two hours max; after, it's sentry duty. The others they sleep two hours and then, sentry duty. That way, you get used to it. You just take little nap cept when you smoked too much, grazed too much khat. But OK, that your own business. When chief he ask, Bashir you been smoking again? No Sir Sergeant, I give answer all ready. Always deny that stuff-there. Chief, he can't do nothing, he needs draftees to go on details too much. To get the prisoners together, bury wounded quick, burn rebel corpses covered with white clay (must be their grigri, that), it's the rule here. And soldier, he follow rules an that's that.

  The night after, you have nightmare plus nightmare all night. Once, I had mean nightmare. We were trapped in ambush near Kallafi. Aïdid, Ayanleh, Haïssama, they dead. Me, I hid behind acacia. The rebels, they look all over. They don't find me. Then, at the last minute, a smart little rebel he found hiding place. Now four rebels coming in, their finger on trigger. They come up slow-slow like Clint Easthoud in movie (shit, this is serious, man, I can't remember what movie). They keep coming at me. OK I got my Kalash; I keep cool. They come closer. They look lef-right; they come closer. Shit, my Kalash, it stuck, don't wanna work. The four rebels, they see my Kalash it screwed. Me too.

  14

  ABDO-JULIEN

  GRANDFATHER USED TO SAY: the desert you see there, well, it's alive, like you and me. Proof is, the dunes are white in their childhood and grow yellow over the centuries. To see it, all you have to do is put on the right kind of glasses or stand at the right distance. Nothing ever dies, and the desert you see there can regain its former face, the face of the savannah, go back to the sea of water and grass, the way it was a few million years ago. Clock time and hourglass time are nothing, absolutely nothing, compar
ed to the age of the globe. In the same way, man's path is not linear like the horizon: it has roots, branches, and sap. It's all renewal, rhizomes, and ramifications. Man is a tree, my boy. I hardly listen to him; he's been talking by himself for hours. A hundred billion neurons, what a capital! But very few people draw generously from this capital Providence has bestowed on us—not to mention the evils of khat, alcohol, tobacco, and the intoxication of arms. Men are brainless hunks of meat; I almost choke when I say that to you. A star falls from my eyes, they're suddenly misty, a tear is putting a pearl on my wrinkled cheek. It is time for me to go away and leave you to your daydreams, my boy. I'll come back tomorrow and we'll pick up the discussion exactly where we left off.

  My grandfather used to tell me a story he'd told Papa and the many cousins and grand-nephews. The family and the tribe are all mixed together. With us, the tribe is a compact crowd, a whole people. But before telling his story, all of a sudden he would be off, far away, as if he were on the Balbala bus. Then he would come back to the beginning and tell us his story. We would savor it like fresh milk from the udders of a cow. Grandfather was unpredictable. Grandpa, you're like those women who want to be loved right away, someone would say without raising his hand, like at the Muallim school.1

  “Do you know that the crazy planispheres of the fifteenth century put the earthly paradise—a paradise surrounded by flames, of course—on the exact spot where Abyssinia is located, that is, here in our country?”

  And he would turn around and tell his story.

  “I'm going to tell you the story right away. It's an old Arab tale. Zakaria Tamer of Syria cooked it up like a chef. One day in the Alep bazaar, a man bought two big eggs from a grocer. He was very hungry. He put an egg in each pocket, politely refusing the bag that the grocer held out for him. Once he got home, he ran to the kitchen and took out a plate and a frying pan. He broke the first egg against the second one. Out came a little chick all covered with down. Mad with rage, he was cursing the sly grocer who had deprived him of his omelet when suddenly his heart sank down to his feet, for the chick began to grow and soon took on the shape of a man with two wings, a pleasant face, and loose, white clothing. He took fright, invoked the name of The Unique, and dropped the second egg. Out came a chick all covered with down, who quickly grew and took the shape of a man who looked exactly like the first. What could he do, what could he say? He girded up his loins:

  “‘Good God, who are you?’

  “‘I am Munkir,’ said the first. ‘And he is Nakir.’

  “Then he added, with authority:

  “‘You must have heard of us. At your age, you certainly should have. We are the two angels who visit a dead person during the first night he spends in the grave in order to draw up the balance sheet of everything he has done on earth.’

  “‘So why have you come? Can't you see I am not dead? Or do you want to tangle with me? I am a boxer, and in all of Alep and beyond, and even in Palmyra people know the force of my fists.’

  “‘Do not be angry, brave boxer,’ said Munkir in a sincerely sorry voice. ‘There must be some mistake. Accept our apology.’

  “And Nakir apologized sincerely to him, too. Then they both walked towards the door.

  “‘Where are you going?’ cried the man, blocking their way.

  “‘Much work still awaits us,’ answered Munkir.

  “‘What about my eggs? Who's going to reimburse me for them?’

  “‘Well, you see…’ stammered Nakir.

  “‘It is quite simple. Pay me,’ suggested the hungry man.

  “Munkir held up his arms:

  “‘Search our pockets; we possess nothing. Nothing earthly, at least.’

  “The man refused to let them go. He did not want to remain without food because of a mistake other people had committed, even if they were well-intentioned.

  “‘Be reasonable, we have no money,’ begged Nakir.

  “‘We could help you out a bit on Judgment Day,’ added Munkir.

  “‘By overlooking some of your bad deeds,’ said Nakir.

  “The man thought for half a minute and then reluctantly accepted. He pointed a firm forefinger at the angels:

  “‘You give me your word as men?’

  “The angels fluttered their wings in sign of protest.

  “The man hastened to correct himself:

  “‘I meant, your word as angels!’

  “And the angels nodded and slipped away.”

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  1. Koranic school.—Translators’ note

  15

  BASHIR BINLADEN

  CIVILIANS, they not happy with us cause of the patriotic contribution. The goverment, it put 27 percent of pay direct into its pocket to support the war. So goverment employees, they look at us mean. Me, I don't agree. It's not cause of draftees you got war they call civil. It's war that called up draftees. So let's get serious and not put the cart before the cow, right? And then, all the money they get don't go to draftees; first it go into the big guys’ pockets. Proof is, they all build big villa-chateaus like the president. Even goverment employee who's insignificant (that, estremely good word even), he wants a little villa-chateau same as big chief of the Republic. Me I don't give a shit about tears of lazybone employees, if they not happy they can go knock their head against the wall. Or else revolt, but that, I don't think so, cause of khat. Khat make you talk-talk, dream-dream, and then zero in the brainbox. Khat, it put body energy to sleep. Even men's thing there, it floppy like old chewed-chewed gum. So revolt not around the corner I'm telling you.

  Aïdid, he don't agree with me. He say, revolution, it can come tomorrow. In Somalia, they kicked out Siyad Barre and they graze khat too but hey, less than Djibouti. Djibouti, great grazing champs after Yemenites. Yemenites, they close their eyes. They graze, graze, an graze. Sleep flee the eyes of Yemenites. Sleep forgot there are Yemenites on our nice little planet. After Yemenites, me I say second Djibouti, third Somalia, fourth Ethiopians. But Habashis don't graze, see, they drink buna* in the daytime and taji* at night. Aïdid no dope. He got a point. We can revolt like Somalians too, but wait, you gotta know how to stop a war. In Mogadishu, the asshole generals like Aïdid (not my buddy, the real chief who screwed the Americans and filmed American corpse pulled by kids and dragged all over town with women whooping—shame, for braggy Americans an Clinton!) and consorts, they been fighting for years. Not a good idea to do that too-too much here at home. Nice little revolt to correct things, OK. Anyways, it's all over for the asshole general of police, the one sleeping presently in the sinister Gabode prison. Next time it'll work, inshallah. And me, I'll have something to do with that business-there. But that still confidential top military secret.

  16

  AWALEH

  LET'S NOT FORGET that we never accepted the domination of the colonizers. Even when faced with a fait accompli and the law of the strongest, we resisted silently, secretly.

  Luckily, we had enough space to fall back on, unlike countries with greater population density like Burundi or Rwanda, where the Catholic church recorded its highest evangelization scores in the world. We could retreat into the brush, unseen and unheard. And above all, no official papers. Thus, what seemed to be the most generous acts of the administration, like the vaccination campaigns, were ignored if not massively rejected. Villages, schools, or cities—we rejected them. We preferred our rustic life.