When Commander Ginelli brought two new boys to join the signalers, Jama was too engrossed in his messages to bother looking up, but a sharp slap on his shoulder brought him to attention. It took him a second to recognize the face but there stood Shidane, taller than him now and with a shaven head, chewing on a matchstick. Shidane grabbed hold of him and over his shoulder Jama saw little Abdi looking on with a big smile.
“So, walaalo, fate has brought us together again,” said Shidane, his voice incongruously deep.
“Looks like it,” Jama said uncertainly.
“We thought you were dead! People said that you had been taken to Hargeisa, shitting your guts out, but looks like you’re made of stronger stuff. You would not believe the life I have been living! I found a gold coin in Suq al-Yahud and there are suldaans who have not enjoyed the luxury it bought me,” Shidane brayed.
“So what are you doing here?”
“It was a coin, not a gold mine.”
As they set to work, Abdi told him that they had enlisted only a few weeks earlier, when the Italians had invaded British Somaliland so that they controlled the whole Horn of Africa.
“You should have seen the British pack up their things and run to the coast, my God! It was as if their trousers were on fire,” laughed Shidane, impersonating the British dash out of Somaliland.
Jama laughed happily and remembered how much fun Shidane could be; he had no respect for anyone or anything. Abdi was still quiet and calm, with a serene face caught somewhere between childhood and maturity. Shidane had persuaded him to sign up so that they could earn enough money to travel to Egypt and join the Royal Navy. Joining the navy was all Shidane wanted to talk about.
“Man, you will never believe how much they are paying Somalis to load coal onto the British ships. We are going to be rolling in money, suldaans will want to borrow from us, Ferengis will be jealous of our cars, houses, and women. I’m telling you, Jama Guure, with one month’s pay you could buy more camels than any toothless Garaad.”
Jama was taken aback by the torrent of words that came out of Shidane’s mouth; he didn’t even stop to breathe. “What do you think of these Italians?” Shidane finally asked of Jama.
“Not much. They hate Somalis, and Eritreans or any black people.” Jama thought of telling them about the Italian who had kept him locked up in the chicken pen but realized Shidane would only laugh at him.
“So they’re like the British?” piped up Abdi.
“Yes, but they use more hair oil and my uncle in Djibouti says that they are allowed to kill any African as long as they leave fifty lire on the body for burial. One askari in Omhajer told me that after two Eritreans tried to kill an important Italian in Addis Ababa, the Italians killed thirty thousand Habashis in a few days, and it wasn’t just the soldiers, either. Shopkeepers, barbers, all of them went out with clubs and knives and killed in revenge. I don’t think they left any lire on the bodies, though.”
The boys were silent as they tried to imagine thirty thousand dead. “It would be like a whole desert worth of people,” said Abdi.
“No, it would be like Al-‘Aidarous Mosque filled ten times over,” corrected Shidane. “Maybe we can shoot some of these Italians in the back of the head when they’re not looking, even up the score.” Shidane made a rifle out of his hands.
Jama held his finger to his lips. “Don’t say things like that, you never know who is listening,” he admonished. With Shidane out of earshot, Abdi whispered, “Did you ever find your father?”
“Nearly. He’s buried over the border in Sudan.”
Abdi grabbed Jama’s shoulder. “I will pray for him, and one day you will do hajj for him, agreed?”
Jama nodded.
“Good. Inshallah, we can get rich here and travel to Egypt, or at least steal that airplane you always wanted,” smiled Abdi.
Abdi and Shidane brought joy back into Jama’s life. He laughed deeply, with his head thrown back, for the first time in months. They compared scars, and Jama showed them the two neat nicks Shidane’s blade had made on his arm; Shidane rolled up his sleeve to show off the yellow scar running from his elbow to his shoulder and declared himself the winner. They worked together, ate together, slept together. As a team they spelled out messages for planes that never came near enough to read them. Jama taught them to recognize the letters and they spelled out swearwords when they ran out of official messages. Their commander was relaxed and preferred visiting other Italians to supervising the playful young askaris. Every day more Somalis appeared in clouds of dust along the road, some of them joining the signalers, some traveling to other battalions.
As their messages became more ordered and professional, boredom set in. They were stuck on the outskirts of Omhajer, swallowing dust, so the commander decided to set them on a march. In double file, their packs on their backs, rifles slung over their shoulders, they marched a hundred and thirty kilometers to K’eftya and Adi Remoz, then back again. Shidane carried Abdi’s pack and askaris from Jama’s clan looked after him, carrying his rifle when he dragged it along the ground on the long, thirsty marches. The Somali and Eritrean askaris sang in their own languages, jokingly taunting each other, and a young lieutenant taught them songs; Jama’s favorite was about a Habashi girl taken to Italy after being freed by a Fascist from slavery. “Faccetta Nera, bell’abissina, aspetta e spera che già l’ora si avvicina! Little black face, beautiful Abyssinian, she waits and hopes that the hour is already approaching!” Jama sang loudly. The Italians were obsessed with the local women, and Eritrean girls trailed behind many Italian battalions; some of the camp followers barely had breasts but had already been mistresses to many soldiers. The infants they carried on their backs were not recognized by the Italians and were known officially as the children of X. Jama felt sorry for the thin bundles on the girls’ backs. Despite everything, he had his name and his grandfathers’ names and that made him someone. When he recited his abtiris he felt important; as if he was meant to exist to keep that melodic line going.
Once the signalers had completed the unnecessary marching, the Italian commanders decided to invade Sudan. Flush from their victory in Somaliland, the Italians told the askaris that they were going to kick the British out of Africa completely. Jama was part of another Roman Empire that would conquer this vast antique land. They set off from Omhajer early one morning, their flour rations safely packed, water in their flasks, bullets in their rifles. Shidane had pilfered a few tins of unknown goods and promised to make a delicious meal for the three of them.
“Do you think there will be serious fighting over there?” asked Jama, a ball of nerves gathering in his stomach. He was crossing an invisible boundary in his mind, from the land he knew into the unknown territory that had claimed his father. His footsteps slowed the closer they got to Sudan and it was only Shidane and Abdi’s presence that made him control his rising panic.
“I doubt it. The British can’t fight anyone armed with more than a sharpened banana,” Shidane replied. He was fearless. His name meant “alight,” and he was on fire with intelligence and courage, he could burn with a look, warm with a touch. They passed through plains where grass grew higher than the tallest man, and the singing and dancing quietened as they approached the border with Sudan. Two Eidegalle men were dragging a howitzer on a large-wheeled carriage, and Jama, Shidane, and Abdi hung back with them, smoking and talking.
“Have you had any girlfriends, Ascaro Jama?” Shidane smiled.
“Yes, Ascaro Shidane, women love me.”
“Yeah, yeah, in your dreams they do. I’ve got eight girlfriends.”