from the vehicles pushed up the temperature by a few more unbearable degrees. Cars and lorries were strung in a neat chain while army vehicles tried to weave in and out of the line, their horns blasting a path through, and muscled pink forearms waved directions at the uninterested crowd. Drivers had left their seats to converse but now they jeered at the pompous legionnaires. Still only on the outskirts of Djibouti Town, Jama could already feel its bustling energy. He approached the beginning of the traffic jam and saw its cause; Europeansoldiers manned a checkpoint and were nearly taking apart the vehicles in search of smuggled goods. Ignoring the complaints and abuse of drivers, banana crates were jimmied open, livestock were released from their pens, sleeping travelers were patted down. Amid all this commotion Jama eased his way around the checkpoint behind the backs of armed legionnaires.
A wide boulevard opened up before him. Jama dawdled along, enjoying the novelty of paving slabs under his feet. In Hargeisa the ground was made up of a hundred different types of sand but there was not one paving slab in the whole town. Here, palm trees grew by the side of the street, evenly paced out like guards. Buildings stood in the distance, with a style at odds with Somali or Adeni construction; they were curvaceous and tall, and built to last much longer than the edifices of the British in Hargeisa. This town was conjured up from the fantasies of its conquerors, a home away from home despite the anti-European climate; a provincial French town picked up and dropped into the hottest place on earth. Stalls were laid out by the street under grass awnings, groups of women sold just watermelons, or just bananas, or just oranges.
As Jama walked on, the street came to life, market boys argued and fought, young mothers with chains of copper coins over their foreheads sat outside chatting as their babies slept. Old women shuffled around barefoot, discreetly begging, suited men came back home for siestas and to await the qat deliveries. A pretty mosque with red and turquoise banners flying from its minarets gave out the aadaan; water was sold from the backs of dozy-looking donkeys like in Hargeisa. No one paid any notice to the eleven-year-old, as this was a town accustomed to a constant tide of newcomers, Yemenis, Afars, Somalis, Indians, French colonials, all feeling that this town belonged to them.There were clashes, love affairs, and friendships among the communities but there was also just plain indifference.
Jama wandered around, happy to be back to the energy of Aden, getting a thrill from the taxis whizzing past, the wet heat wrapped around his body. The shops and stalls, their bright goods laid out for admiration, pulled at him. If it wasn’t for his hunger to see his father, he would have disappeared into the market’s crowded alleys to find friends among the filth and chicanery. Nosy goats peered out from doorways, nibbling delicately on vegetable peels and oily paper wrappers as they silently observed the passing crowd with inquisitive eyes. Their thirsty, frustrated kids jittered around under their feet, trying to grab at their hoisted teats, the milk commandeered for human enjoyment by red, blue, or yellow cloth guards tied around their mothers’ dripping udders. The crush of life around Jama was breathtaking, after the space and wide horizons of Somaliland. It seemed bizarre for so many people to be concentrated in one place. And the noise! It was as if he had been deaf for months and his ears had cracked open, allowing a cacophony of shouting, swearing, music, and arguing to pour in. Men stood around corners in knots, leaning against crumbling walls, their thin chests sticking out from unbuttoned shirts, sweat cascading down their fine features, qat stalks clamped between their teeth, their eyes followed market girls, probing and prodding them as they sashayed past.
Jama sat under a palm tree and scanned around for
A wide boulevard opened up before him. Jama dawdled along, enjoying the novelty of paving slabs under his feet. In Hargeisa the ground was made up of a hundred different types of sand but there was not one paving slab in the whole town. Here, palm trees grew by the side of the street, evenly paced out like guards. Buildings stood in the distance, with a style at odds with Somali or Adeni construction; they were curvaceous and tall, and built to last much longer than the edifices of the British in Hargeisa. This town was conjured up from the fantasies of its conquerors, a home away from home despite the anti-European climate; a provincial French town picked up and dropped into the hottest place on earth. Stalls were laid out by the street under grass awnings, groups of women sold just watermelons, or just bananas, or just oranges.
As Jama walked on, the street came to life, market boys argued and fought, young mothers with chains of copper coins over their foreheads sat outside chatting as their babies slept. Old women shuffled around barefoot, discreetly begging, suited men came back home for siestas and to await the qat deliveries. A pretty mosque with red and turquoise banners flying from its minarets gave out the aadaan; water was sold from the backs of dozy-looking donkeys like in Hargeisa. No one paid any notice to the eleven-year-old, as this was a town accustomed to a constant tide of newcomers, Yemenis, Afars, Somalis, Indians, French colonials, all feeling that this town belonged to them.There were clashes, love affairs, and friendships among the communities but there was also just plain indifference.
Jama wandered around, happy to be back to the energy of Aden, getting a thrill from the taxis whizzing past, the wet heat wrapped around his body. The shops and stalls, their bright goods laid out for admiration, pulled at him. If it wasn’t for his hunger to see his father, he would have disappeared into the market’s crowded alleys to find friends among the filth and chicanery. Nosy goats peered out from doorways, nibbling delicately on vegetable peels and oily paper wrappers as they silently observed the passing crowd with inquisitive eyes. Their thirsty, frustrated kids jittered around under their feet, trying to grab at their hoisted teats, the milk commandeered for human enjoyment by red, blue, or yellow cloth guards tied around their mothers’ dripping udders. The crush of life around Jama was breathtaking, after the space and wide horizons of Somaliland. It seemed bizarre for so many people to be concentrated in one place. And the noise! It was as if he had been deaf for months and his ears had cracked open, allowing a cacophony of shouting, swearing, music, and arguing to pour in. Men stood around corners in knots, leaning against crumbling walls, their thin chests sticking out from unbuttoned shirts, sweat cascading down their fine features, qat stalks clamped between their teeth, their eyes followed market girls, probing and prodding them as they sashayed past.
Jama sat under a palm tree and scanned around for
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