Links by Nuruddin Farah Page A

position.”
    Who was he, really—a troubleshooter on a fat salary from the EU; a bigtime swindler, with a heist stashed away in a Swiss bank; a do-gooder with an NGO to bury the unclaimed dead; a house-sitter looking after the property of a family who had fled?
    â€œSpeaking of choices,” Jeebleh said, after a long silence, “did the members of the clan families who fled the city choose to flee, or were they forced to abandon their properties in a city they adored?”
    â€œThese are abnormal times!”
    â€œI can see that,” Jeebleh said, and looked at the vultures holding a conference a few meters from where they were seated.
    The traces of a wicked grin formed around Af-Laawe’s drawn-in lips. He noticed Jeebleh’s gaze. “A cynic I know says that thanks to the vultures, the marabous, and the hawks, we have no fear of diseases spreading,” he said. “They clean things up, don’t they? My cynical friend suggests that when the country is reconstituted as a functioning state, we should have a vulture as our national symbol.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t be that cynic yourself?” Jeebleh asked.
    Af-Laawe stonewalled again: “These are abnormal times.”
    â€œI would agree it’s abnormal to see scavengers of carrion at a four-star hotel, looking as though they are well placed to choose what they eat and where they go. They look better fed than humans.”
    It puzzled Jeebleh to see that Af-Laawe was upset. Had he said something to offend him? Now his drawn-in lips moved, like a baby fish feeding.
    â€œThere were far more vultures and marabous in the aftermath of the October-third debacle, when over a thousand supporters of StrongmanSouth were massacred, and eighteen U.S. soldiers lost their lives. I bore witness to the arrival of these scavengers, gathered around the battle zone, and perched on the lookout points in the neighborhood.”
    The words were spoken like an attack. Did Af-Laawe think that Jeebleh, as an American, would be upset if he mentioned the U.S. dead in Mogadiscio in the same breath as sighting scavengers gathering at the battle zone? Because Jeebleh assumed that Af-Laawe’s badness was emerging, he prepared for an attack, and waited. He was getting to know Af-Laawe a little better at least.
    Af-Laawe went on, still in attack mode. “On the fourth of October, there were as many carrion-eaters as there were human beings come to witness the massacre. But the birds had no chance to get at the corpses of the Somali dead, since these were taken away and buried by their families. A discerning person, like my cynical friend, would’ve seen two marabou storks, weighing no less than twenty kilograms each, discreetly following the progress of the riotous mob dragging the corpse of an American Ranger down the dusty alleyways of the city. The marabous followed the mob, and my friend tells me that their bare heads and bare necks were in clear view. Maybe they expected the crowd to abandon the corpse of the American at some point, so they might pounce on it. The hawks hung back, remaining at a distance. They didn’t want to get into direct conflict with the marabous.”
    Jeebleh, listening to Af-Laawe, realized that he himself was infested with more venom toward Caloosha and anyone associated with him than he had thought possible, despite his years of exile.
    â€œDo you wish to know the name of the cynic I was with?” Af-Laawe said. When Jeebleh nodded, he asked, “Have you ever met Faahiye?”
    â€œI know Raasta’s father,” Jeebleh said.
    â€œHe’s the cynic I was with on the fourth of October.”
    Jeebleh was relieved that they had changed the subject when they did, even though he doubted very much that Faahiye had said any of the terrible things ascribed to him. “Where is Faahiye?” he asked.
    â€œA cynic, who’s angry at the world,” Af-Laawe said.
    â€œNo stonewalling.