Let's Go Swimming on Doomsday, page 33
Which means Dahir got through after all. Mr. Jones’s men are on the boat.
Seven Boys are down, only four left, including the General. The Boys on the cruiser must have been taken out quickly and quietly. Did Jones send in SEALs? Did they scuba in like they did when they got the Doctor?
The General swivels to me. “This is your doing, isn’t it?”
“You’re surrounded,” I say, trying for my toughest voice. “Let her go before they take you out too.”
He shoves the muzzle at Muna’s temple and spits, “She’s the only thing keeping me alive, fool.”
I look around. The other three Boys have grabbed hostages too, holding them like the General. So far none of the prisoners have been shot, though. Maybe the Boys are afraid that as soon as they do, they’ll be taken out as well. They look at the General for orders, but he isn’t paying attention. I see the first traces of fear in the set of his mouth. He knows his head is most likely in the crosshairs at this very instant.
“Put the gun down and maybe you’ll live,” I say.
“Shut up, boy,” the General says, and stands. He keeps a tight grip on Muna, holding her up in front of him. She gasps.
“No!” I shout.
Sam starts to stand too, but the boat driver rams his gun butt into her stomach.
The General shouts in English toward the boat, “This girl! She’s pregnant! You cannot kill me without killing her too!”
The big boat is quiet, save for the sounds of waves smashing against the hull, and the creak of metal and rigging.
Muna struggles. “Let me go, you bastard!”
“Please!” Sam begs, gasping for breath.
I tense, getting ready. No one is watching me.
“Give me one of these boats,” the General shouts at the cruiser, “and I won’t kill her!”
There’s only one thing I can do.
He waits. “Answer me! Or she dies in five . . . four . . .”
But he doesn’t get to three.
I have one last desperate weapon. I leap up, launch into both him and Muna. We fly in an arc over the water. The fall seems to last forever, long enough for me to see Muna’s mouth open in silent horror and the gun flung out of the General’s hand as he grabs at the air. I hear Sam screaming.
“Swim!” I shout at Muna as the water rushes at us.
We hit hard, suddenly a sinking, flailing mass of limbs and foam under the surface, cut off from noise and air. The General thrashes, his hostage forgotten. He grabs at me, at Muna. Not to catch us; he’s trying to climb to the surface. He’ll kill Muna in his frenzy to get there. What have I done?
He lashes out, kicking me hard in the head. For a second everything goes black, and when I get my vision back, I’m floating on the surface. I struggle back down, wedging myself between the General and Muna, forcing him to clutch at me instead of her, which he does, pulling at my shirt, grabbing my face. I fight off the panic he’s radiating and push Muna away, toward the surface.
The General barely seems to notice when she’s free. I’m face-to-face with him, and bubbles stream from his nose and mouth. He tips his head up to the surface, only a foot away, and reaches, clawing at it. He climbs me, pushing me deeper, and for a second his head clears the surface, and maybe he gets a breath of air, but it doesn’t matter. By then I’ve latched on to him. I’m too heavy for him to resist. I’ve chosen my stone wisely:
A gym bag full of loot.
The strap is now wrapped around my ankle, carrying us down.
I hug his shins. He can fight, but he won’t be able to get free. The surface is receding. The ocean around us is growing darker. It is so quiet. I look up to see Muna’s legs slash out above. She is making for the boat, kicking hard and strong. She’s a good swimmer.
And Sam will pull her in.
She’s safe.
My mind clears, and all at once I am very calm.
I look back at the General.
I am not the match, I say to him in my mind. I was never the match, never the fire.
I am the water.
The weapon you fear more than gun or knife.
You, General, cannot swim.
I haven’t practiced in a long time, but I’m not worried. My body settles into a drill it remembers well. I let myself sink, find a clock already ticking in my head. Only thirty-eight seconds have passed underwater. I will not need to breathe for a minute and twenty seconds more.
It’s just the General and me now. I swallow, clearing my ears as we continue to descend.
The General kicks but can’t loosen himself from my grip. His lips pull back in a grimace. He has no more air, I can tell. If he were thinking straight, he would try reaching down and pushing me off, but he’s drowning; he isn’t thinking. All he wants to do is claw for the surface.
By the time we hit the sandy bottom, his movements are jerky and slow. His arms float up to his sides. His eyes roll back. I start to let go, and they pop back open. He thrashes and flails, and I think he might even get away. I grab his leg, wrap the gym bag strap around it like an anchor. He kicks once, twice, and then stops, his mouth open and lungs full of water.
I have about fifteen more seconds. My head is starting to pound. But before I kick up, I take a good long look at him.
He is gone. Bubbles like tiny pearls cling to his face.
I let go and rise slowly to the surface.
SIXTY
NOW: DECEMBER 16
SANGUI CITY, KENYA
Someone has put a blanket around my shoulders, even though the sun is still high and hot.
Except for Muna and a woman who was maybe having a heart attack, all of the hostages have been taken to a big tent in the Paradise Island parking lot. We sit in plastic chairs and wait to be interviewed by the police. Muna was rushed to the hospital. All they’ve told us is that she’s doing fine. They both are, Muna and her baby girl, who was born healthy, if almost on the hospital floor on the way to Labor and Delivery. Otherwise, we hostages are incommunicado. The tent is surrounded by army guys who keep the reporters and gawkers away. Everyone wants to get out of here and go home, but apparently our testimonies are “essential to the good of the nation’s security.” Or something.
I don’t know where Dahir is, but I’m afraid to ask anyone about him. I mean, what would I say? Excuse me, one of the Al Shabaab Boys got away and he’s around here somewhere. Have you seen him?
An officer comes to the tent doorway. He has broad circles of sweat under his armpits. “You,” he says, looking at me and then a clipboard. “You are Abdiweli Mohamed? Come.”
“I’m going with him,” Sam says, standing up.
“No, madam,” the officer says.
“He’s a minor, and he’s under my care.”
The officer is unfazed. “It is a matter of national security. We must talk to him alone. Please sit down.”
“But—”
“Sit, madam.”
“It’s okay, Sam,” I say to her. “I’ll be fine.”
She sinks back into her chair. Her eyes are still red rimmed, and she looks both worn out and furious. “You don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to. Anything.”
I understand what she’s trying to say and give her the best smile I can manage. Ditching the blanket, I follow the officer out. But instead of leading me toward the police tent, where all the other former hostages were taken, he heads off in a different direction.
“Where are we going?”
“Someone thinks you are special,” he grunts cryptically, and leads me to a bunch of army trucks and police cars parked under some palm trees. When we reach a black SUV, big as a tank and looking like something that a politician would ride around in, he stops. The door to the car opens and he nods me forward. I can’t see who’s inside, but I’m starting to have a hunch.
The interior of the SUV is dark, and it takes me a few seconds of blinking to adjust. Just like always, I find Mr. Jones tucked into the darkest hole available.
Across from him sits Dahir.
“Hello, Abdiweli,” Jones says.
Dahir’s hands are cuffed and he looks scared and confused, but it doesn’t seem like he received any of the rough treatment I did the first time I met Jones.
Once I’m in, the police officer shuts the door behind me.
“Buckle your seat belt,” Jones says.
“Where are we going?” I ask, one hand on the door handle, already trying to figure out how to get Dahir out of here. I hear a heavy metallic chunk as the doors lock.
“Relax,” Jones says. “I’m taking you and your brother to a new apartment where you can lie low for a while. It’s not too far away. I think you’ll like it. It’s a nice place. TV’s all set up. Got some good movies for you.”
The car is already moving. I look at Dahir, who blinks at me like, You know this guy? and think of Sam. She’ll go nuts when I don’t come back. As if reading my thoughts, Jones says, “Don’t worry. We’ll have a talk with Samantha.”
“It’s just Sam,” I finally mutter, pulling my seat belt across me.
“I need to ask you and your brother some questions, Abdiweli.” Jones pops open his briefcase and shuffles some papers inside.
“Take those off him,” I say, pointing at Dahir’s cuffs. I wonder how many questions Jones has already made him sit through. Maybe he’s trying to see if we give him the same answers.
Jones makes me wait until he has all his papers in order, but then leans over and unlocks Dahir. Dahir’s eyes are as big as saucers.
“I didn’t expect to ever hear from you,” Jones says.
“Believe me, you were a last resort.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Nevertheless, I appreciate your brother’s call.”
“What’s your question, Mr. Jones?” I ask, suddenly very tired.
“I’m afraid I have more than one.”
I grunt. “Of course you do. Did you know I was a spy for the Americans?” I ask my brother bitterly. “Pretty fancy, huh?”
Understanding starts to dawn over his face. “Shit,” he says.
“Yeah. Shit.”
“Are you going to—”
“I’m not going to hurt you or your brother,” Jones assures Dahir.
“Well, that’s nice of you,” I tell him. “Since we just saved thirty hostages and killed the Butcher for you.”
Mr. Jones isn’t fazed by my tone. “How long have you known about this attack?” he asks me.
“What time is it?”
He blinks. “Five o’clock.”
“The attack started at noon? So about five hours.”
Jones stares at me with infinite, infuriating patience. “Who organized the attack?”
“That would probably have been the dead Butcher. You’re welcome.”
“Have you been in touch with your brother since you came to Sangui City?”
“Kiss my ass.”
Jones sets his pen down. “Maybe we should have this conversation tomorrow. Once you and your brother have had a chance to rest.”
I lean back in my seat, surprised that he’s giving up this easily. “Aren’t you afraid we’ll run away?”
“It wouldn’t be in your interest.”
I watch him, thinking. Is there anywhere we could go where he couldn’t find us? Not likely. And on top of that, he still has me by the balls. He knows exactly where Hooyo and the others are. If I don’t cooperate and answer his questions, all he has to do is snap his fingers and they’re his prisoners again.
We turn down a side street and pull into a gated, nondescript apartment complex. After the car has parked and the driver has turned the engine off, Jones says, “I don’t think you were involved with this attack, Abdiweli. But certain questions have to be asked.”
I put a hand on the door handle.
“One last thing for today.” He pulls out a photo from his briefcase. “I thought you might want to see this.”
I take it with a sinking feeling in my stomach. It’s going to be of my family. Or Muna. This is some sort of warning to both Dahir and me to stay put and do as we’re told. I’m so focused on my growing anger that it takes me a second to recognize the two people the photo shows. When I do, I suck in a breath.
They’re getting into a minibus. He tugs a suitcase in one hand, holds her elbow with the other to help her up. She holds her dress out of the dust as she looks over her shoulder at him, like she doesn’t want to let him out of her sight.
One of his eyes is missing.
Even in the photo, you can tell her movements are stiff.
But they are real. They are alive.
Bashir and Safiya.
“It was taken a week ago in Kampala,” Jones says. “Keep it.”
I can feel a swelling in my chest, and suddenly the big car feels too small, too hot. I need to get out. I’m about to cry, and that’s fine, but this moment is my prize, my win, and I’m not sharing it with Jones.
“Apartment number fifteen. Here’s the key,” Jones says, handing it to me. “I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll talk.”
“I can’t wait,” I manage to growl past the thickness in my throat.
I get out of the car. The warm evening swells around me, rich and humid and full of life after the stale, air-conditioned car. Birds call and dart between fever trees whose branches shine copper-gold in the setting sun.
Dahir hesitates, like he can’t believe he’s actually going to be let go, and then he slides across the car’s seat and practically flings himself out behind me.
“You know how to reach me if you need anything before then, Abdiweli,” Jones says.
I keep walking. Dahir catches up to me and we walk side by side, our shadows trailing out long and silent ahead of us. I hold the photo tightly in one hand, and put the other on his shoulder.
“It’s just Abdi,” I say. I don’t look back.
SIXTY-ONE
DECEMBER 16, ONE YEAR LATER
THE OCEAN
Three figures stand waist-deep in the shallows: two teenagers, one child.
The girl lifts the child when the waves come in, and the child squeals with laughter. She knows her mother won’t let anything bad happen to her.
The boy smiles. The little girl is going to be a good swimmer. She isn’t afraid of the water.
On the beach a pale woman with a sunburned nose shakes out a blanket and lets it billow onto the sand. She tugs the corners straight and then pulls food out of a Kuku Express take-out bag. She arranges it for the picnic they’ll soon have. This year’s doomsday is better than the last. Doomsday will get a little better every year from now on, she thinks to herself. Maybe next year she’ll ignore it entirely.
Later tonight, when the boy goes home to the little apartment he shares with his brother, they’ll call their mother, whose day is their night, and tell her about their week: school, a soccer team the boy has joined, what they ate for dinner, a movie about fast cars they went to with the pale woman. They’ll listen to the din and clatter of three siblings and a foul-mouthed grandmother in the background like it’s the sweetest lullaby on earth. They’ll all miss their father. In a far-off country, their father will miss them.
Before the boy goes to sleep, he’ll say a prayer. For strength to bear what he’s lost, to voice gratitude for what he’s been allowed to keep.
But that’s tonight.
Right now he is just here, in this place, in this time. He lets the sun warm his skin. He listens to waves shush and a baby laugh. He stretches his arms. He picks a point beyond the breakers where the reflected light shimmers and dances.
Then he dives under the water and starts to swim.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Truth is undoubtedly stranger than fiction and, in most cases, much messier and more complicated than a good editor would ever put up with. This is my attempt to explain what in this story is real, what is not real and what lies somewhere in between.
First, Mogadishu, Somalia, is as accurately portrayed as I could manage, having never had the pleasure of going there personally. (One day!) The history and politics of Mogadishu and the country as a whole are complex and ever-changing, and this book only tells one story from one perspective, which is in itself still limited given who I am and who I am not. The story is not meant to cover or even touch on all the dynamics at work in Somalia, and if there are glaring mistakes or omissions, I take full responsibility for them.
Regarding certain details of the city: Yes, there really are secret tunnels under Mogadishu that have at times been used by Al Shabaab. However, they’re nowhere near as extensive as I’ve made them here. (Probably.) There really is an underground prison known as the “Hole.” Lido Beach is real, but the Ocean View Resort is not.
Yes, there really are Western military actors, a small number of Americans in particular, at work in Somalia. This isn’t necessarily a secret, it’s just not well known. Hopefully they are not as nefarious as I’ve made them out to be here. But on that note, yes, the US regularly carries out drone strikes and ground raids on Al Shabaab targets in Somalia, in partnership with Somali armed forces. According to the Bureau of Investigative Journalism, in 2017 alone, around 220 people were killed in US led or assisted drone and ground strikes in Somalia.
Al Shabaab is a real organization whose use of abducted children as soldiers, servants and wives has been extensively documented. They may have started out as a force for good, but the organization has become repressive and violent. It regularly carries out deadly attacks on civilian targets.
Maisha Girls’ Center is not a real place, but is partially based on the excellent work done on behalf of girls at RefuSHE (formerly Heshima Kenya) in Nairobi, Kenya (Refushe.org). If you have been moved to help support girls who have been in situations similar to those of Muna and Alice, RefuSHE is a great organization to fund.
