The Lion's Binding Oath and Other Stories Page 2

  “What’s the matter, Taahe?” I interrupted, feeling timid.

  “Do you notice that I am wet?” he asked. And to my dismay he began to get closer, examining me with a look of disgust and surprise.

  “What are you talking about?” I cried, mimicking his conspiratorial gaze.

  “Why am I wet?” he asked.

  I wanted to come up with an ingenious way to protest my innocence by denying that I had wet my pants when fear had penetrated my total being and I could no longer will my internal organs to obey me.

  “I had my period,” I said, off-handed.

  My brother jumped five feet away, laughing hysterically.

  “Since when did men begin to menstruate?” he barked.

  “Since Adam and Eve,” I persisted. “Besides, what the hell do you know about men’s menstruation? You are too young to know and too inexperienced to care.”

  “Unlike you, at least I have been around long enough to know that our Dad has never menstruated.” My brother jabbed me.

  “How on earth do you know that? And let me hear you clearly, are you accusing me of cowardice when I just saved your ass?”

  My brother was not ready for confrontation, I guess, or perhaps he realized how desperate I had become to defend my deflated ego.

  “I am only saying that I have never heard Dad or Mom or anyone else talk about this, Doogle,” he said.

  “I’ll have you know,” I said, “that women have theirs and men have theirs too. But the man type of menstruation is different from women’s.”

  I thought I had convinced him when my brother went on to ask, “And Doogle, where does this type come out?”

  Damn it, I thought. What the hell, I was going to say that men fart theirs when they are scared, but at that moment a throng of sheep that had been huddling under the trees, hugging the waterhole, suddenly stampeded toward us. I jumped up and took off, saved from any further discussion on a topic that had gotten way out of hand. My brother was not far behind.

  We soon collected the rest of the herd, goaded them out of the waterhole, and moved them up the steep climb to the top of the mountain. Taahe had not exchanged a word with me on our way up. On top of the ridge where we would be able to see any enemy approaching but surrounded by steep cliffs, populated by precariously perched boulders and atrophied trees that were lean and gnarled, we let the herd graze.

  Abruptly, again, we heard Shamad bleating. My favorite goat with the twin kids that I had stumbled upon earlier and then temporarily forgotten was still in danger.

  I pelted away in horror, sprinting to reach her. Because of my knowledge of how jackals exercised their primal cruelty on many a goat, I thought I might be able to save her. Racing to reach my destination, it hit me that the rest of the herd of goats was nowhere in sight. Regret rose in a wave of nausea. Shamad was not just a goat. She was my treasure. She was blessed with a wealth of milk, was very friendly, and whenever I called her in the middle of the night from the corral, she would rush to reach me, while the remaining rascal goats would wait for me to sludge through their manure to get to them.

  I raced from the top of the ridge, down the twisting slope to the riverbed, and up the opposite slope. With aching muscles and panting breath, I pushed forward. I could hear the rest of the goat herd in the distance, but, ignoring them, I used my remaining strength to get to Shamad. There she was, oblivious to the dangers around her, caring for nothing but her new kids.

  The kids were not strong enough to follow their mother yet, so I would have to carry them. I picked them up by the paws, hung them over my arms, and began to make my way down the slope, through the valley-bed and up the other side of the ridge. Shamad was right on my heels, bleating as she tagged along. I was exhausted and every few yards I would stop, put down the kids, sit for a minute to catch my breath and then, lifting them up again, trudge a few more yards. I knew that I had no time to waste to catch up with Taahe, where I would leave the kids and Shamad, before setting off in search of the rest of the goat herd. If I let dusk arrive without the herd secured in their corral, the animal kingdom of carnivores would be feasting on them.

  When I did not immediately find my brother and his herd of sheep, I began to fear another mishap. Trickling sweat, kids draped over each arm, and Shamad trailing behind me, I negotiated the treacherous slope.

  Then I spied Taahe. Thankfully, he had already collected the sheep and was in the process of prodding them back home. As he approached me with an appearance of manufactured menace, I knew that he was going to remind me that, as head of the herdsmen, I had failed in my duty. He would not let me forget that I had committed the cardinal sin of losing half of my flock.

  Until that moment, I had entertained a vacuous hope that my pride would remain intact. Now it was quite apparent there was precious little I could do but come to terms with my embarrassment. A chill rushed up my spine.

  In the dry season particularly, goats are highly valued for their enviable ability to provide milk. Thus a failure to find them was not only going to be unbearably embarrassing but economically devastating.

  The sun was hanging low and seemed to be racing to rest behind the imposing mountain in the west. We both knew what that meant: no time to recover the remaining members of the herd. The legacy of a disastrous day in history was looming. Whatever manhood was left in me was riding on a boat of despair, so I was desperate to find the appropriate words and at least feign a recovery attempt.

  “So,” he said. “That’s it, I guess. I mean, what else is there to do? The sun is about to descend. The goats are nowhere around and every bastard predator is going to be on the prowl in a few….”

  “Shut up,” I shouted. “Shut up.”

  He bent down, picked up several pebbles, and randomly threw them one after the other. Then he turned to me with a look that said “get the hell out of my sight” but instead, he just said, “Why don’t you try to see whether you can find them? Goats are very smart. They can outmaneuver most predators, perching on peaks where no danger can molest them. Or, they might just choose to head on home and in that case, they’ll meet you half way.”

  He had now infused me with a bit of hope that if only I could gather the courage to go, I might meet the herd midway. I could at least show some effort.

  “Taahe, you’re right,” I said. “I have to go and search. Take the sheep home but whatever you do, do not let our mother know about me and the missing goats!”

  Taahe was not amused. “You’re putting yourself in danger,” he yelled. “We’ve already lost half of what we are worth. We are on the verge of getting into the neighborhood, the gossip gale, and you’re asking me not to tell! I could try not to say a word, but how will that be possible?”

  “Please, I beg you,” I pleaded. “You know, I’m going to find them and bring them home. All of them!”

  My brother shook his head in disgust, picked up the two kids, one in each arm, and walked away towards the sheep. Shamad, who had never before wavered in her loyalty to me, chose to trail him. Taahe moved from one wing of the sheep herd to the other, gathering them into a throng and then goading them toward home.

  I waited awhile to see whether he might change his mind, to come back and collect me, but to no avail. Of course he had caught me in a violation of the herdsmen’s golden law and, at the same time, recognized that dusk was ominously approaching with its menacing darkness. He was not willing to wade through the danger or wage a war with complacency. Thus he moved on, decisive.

  Watching my little brother turn on his heels made me mad but forced me not to waste a precious minute. I took off and ran with such speed that I didn’t notice that thorns had ripped through the flesh of my legs, leaving wounded streaks on my calves and thighs. Racing from the top of the ridge, descending into the valley, and then climbing again, I finally reached the peak where I thought that I had last heard the goats’ bleats. But to my despair, not a single goat showed herself in appreciation of my valiant attempt. The silent solitude severed my serenity, so I moved about, restless, climbing one rock after another, scaling a thousand-year-old tree to extend my range of view. Nothing, nothing gave me the slightest glimmer of hope. I looked to the west and my heart sank. The sun was receding behind a hollow mountain that cast its gloomy shadow.

  I hollered at the sun to slow her descent. She ignored my pleas.

  With nowhere to go and with nothing else to do, I chose to stay in the thousand-year-old acacia tree. I crawled up and perched on the base of a branch that was high out of the hoodlum hyenas’ reach. Watching the sun’s lazy descent, my heart sank. Thick darkness fell and closed in around me. I found solace in knowing that lions were not going to maul me tonight. Lions had no ecological attachment to this high mountainous land; hyenas were too heavy to heave themselves up into my tree; human thieves were too impatient to take any interest; cheetahs were too timid to tussle with me; and jackals were too clever to waste tactical maneuvers on me. But still, the daring leopard could dispatch her demons of death.

  I wrestled with what to do if disaster came. Solutions evaded me. The blanket of darkness, the howling of the jackals, the baboons that began to yowl, and the batches upon batches of bugs that bit my skin, all kept me paralyzed.

  Sometime that evening, I heard my mother calling my name, “Doogle! Doogle!”

  Every inch of my body was immobilized, even my voice box. I was terrified predators would hear me if I called and have me for a meal.

  Her voice reverberated throughout the hollow valley. She called all night long, alternating the pitch of her voice from high to low. All I could do was muster the strength to keep myself in the tree, neither falling asleep nor muttering a word. As I heard my mother mourn, night washed me with dew. It was a merciless, slow moving night. But, as sh
e probably intended, her distant cries kept me company, hopeful that the dawn would provide a safe return home.

  Throughout the night, I suffered the savage beating of hysteria until finally daybreak dispatched the hopes that had departed with the darkness. An orange glow radiated sages of amber beauty that I had known and seen so often but never admired. Resuscitated by the sun’s morning rays, my fear vanished. Within an hour of those first morning rays, I felt warmer and “wiser.”

  The limbs that were numb last night, the larynx that lacked the courage to cough, and the legs that were limp miraculously filled with renewed vigor and I climbed down. Once I landed on the ground, I hastened to take an inventory, checking to see whether the host tree had taken any of me for itself. Satisfied that I was whole, I hurried to my mother. Suddenly I heard her melodic voice again and melted into exuberant waves of emotional exhilaration. As soon as I saw her, I dashed forward with maddening speed and threw myself into her arms, holding on to her ever-so tightly, weeping.

  It seemed ages before we both gained our composure. She released me from her embrace, held me back to stare lovingly at me before pulling me back into her again. She did that many times as though she were not convinced it was me.

  “I thought I had lost you last night,” she finally uttered in a hoarse voice. “Hooyo, don’t ever, ever do that to me again.”

  “Yes, Hooyo,” I responded.

  “No matter what, do you hear me, Hooyo?” she asked.

  “Yes, Hooyo. I will never do that again.”

  “Whatever else is in danger, I don’t care, Hooyo. Your life is more important to me than everything we have. Do you hear me, Hooyo?” my mother repeated, wiping the tears from my face with the hem of her gown.

  “Yes, Hooyo.” For the first time, I savored the meaning and weight of the word hooyo, which means mother or my child, thus used interchangeably in Somali.

  “Now, let’s find those useless goats that have caused me so much grief and almost cost me my son’s life. OK?”

  “Yes, Hooyo,” I said, surprised that she was no longer distraught nor distressed about the loss of the “precious” goats whose care she had always grumbled about.

  “Where were they when you saw them last? And where the hell were you anyway?“

  O, ooh, she cha-a-anged her mind, watch out, I thought.

  But she checked herself. “Never mind about where you were. Just tell me where you last saw them.”

  Over the mountaintop, then over another and another, we finally came upon a gigantic rise fortified by cliffs and flanked by chasms. These cliffs and chasms were empowered by solid, massive rocks seated in the corners of each twist of the trail. Carved by nature, in the middle of the mountain face, was a dark cave normally inhabited by baboons and not easily accessible to the hated hyena. However, it was not a safe haven from cheetahs, jackals, man or that most ingenious cat—the leopard.

  There they were, our throng of goats, chewing their cud. My mother approached, slow and cautious, as though she were invading a herd of wild gazelles. She called a few goats by their names and they responded with a friendly bleat. We waded through the flock, petting each goat in passing to show our gratitude for the reunion.

  They rose and began to mill about. My mother grabbed one of the strongest he-goats by the leg but he jumped and jerked away. Getting ahold of him by the ear, she hauled him out of the cave. He leaped into the air, landed on all fours, and dashed down the slope before halting, abruptly. He appeared to give a silent signal to the rest of the herd. In a minute, they followed by twos, threes, and on and on until my mother, who was trying to make a head count, decided to restrict the flow.

  “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, hundred, hundred-one…”

  I had no clue when or how she had reached the hundreds.

  “…Hundred-two, three, hundred-four,….. hundred-seven, hundred-eight.”

  “Did I say hundred-five and six?” she asked.

  “Yes, Hooyo,” I said, trying not to contradict her.

  “Hundred-ten, hundred-eleven, hundred-twelve,” she went on, looking back, then letting some pass by.

  “Hundred-thirty-seven, hundred-thirty-eight, nine. Ooh, they are all here, thank God for His mercy.” She sighed as the last two goats scuttled past her.

  “Or did I over count them?” she whispered to herself.

  “No, no,” she reassured herself, “It doesn’t matter much now even if there is one or two or twenty missing. I have my son and, if not all, most of my prized goats. Thank God.”

  She dropped her stick and opened her arms up for me, smiling ever so gently. She clutched me so tight around the ribcage that I had to beg her to go easy. Minutes passed before she seemed satisfied. She let go, stood back, held my hand, twirled me about, pulled me to herself, held me away, then inspected me all over again before she led me out of the cave into the herd.

  “Now,” she ordered. “Collect them from the left, and let’s get home before the children let the sheep out of the corral.” She presented me with her herding stick before walking to the other side of the herd.

  “Jii, jii, jii, hoow, hoow, hoow, caa, caa,” she howled, ordering the herd to stay tightly together as she guided them back home.

  On the way back, the sky turned to azure. The eerie feeling of desolation had departed. The sound of the goats’ hooves beating on the poor earth resounded like that of pouring rain. A mile away or so from our enclosure, a pack of the most despised creatures of the savannah, the hyenas, appeared in our view. We, the mother-son pair of brave souls, broke down with laughter, for we were aware of how ridiculous the hyenas looked. They had lost their opportunity to feast on our herd.

  “If only they had known where to look,” my mother quipped, “if only they had known where to look last night.”

  I laughed with exaggerated disgust at the hyenas’ misfortune.

  Yards from our enclosure, the rest of the family—sisters, brother Taahe, all—came, came out to greet us.

  Taahe rushed toward me with an embellished pace, then suddenly came to a halt a few feet away. “Has your men’s menstruation let up?” he called out for all to hear, laughing.

  Then he dashed away, pairing up with Mom and, from behind her, waving at me furtively.

  The Mayxaano Chronicles:

  A Man of Means

  It was late in the afternoon in Ceerigaabo when Bilaal and Mayxaano decided to check on Dalmar—or Dooli, as the kids called him. He was out in the soccer field—agile, as a veteran midfielder, supplying the ball to the rest of his team, high-fiving the others, laughing and running about like a rabbit.

  Mayxaano and Bilaal were so impressed that they, too, high-fived each other every time he held the ball.

  “There he goes. There he goes,” Mayxaano repeated. She turned and left the field, beginning the walk home.

  Bilaal followed her.

  “Do you see how happy he is, now that he has his own ball?” she asked.

  “I can’t believe how a simple game of soccer can change a child’s mood,” he said.

  “Well, one job is done: we brought Doolli—no, no, that is what the other kids call him—Dalmar’s spirit back,” said Mayxaano.

  “Amen to that, Mayxaano. By the way, I am curious, why is that you care so much about kids?”

  Mayxaano stopped and looked at Bilaal. “I am always bothered by that question. Simple, I have been there. So I try to see the world from a child’s mind. At times, all a child needs is a touch of attention.”

  About a block or so away, the two teenagers passed a group of women gathered in front of a house. A well-dressed man goaded a donkey laden with vessels of water. He crossed the road before them and stopped at the shoulder of a solitary house. He took a vessel of water off the donkey and, carrying it with his hands, entered the house. He came out with an empty vessel, replaced it on the slot, lifted another, and repeated the process. As he was about to take a third vessel of water up to the house, Bilaal stopped to watch but Mayxaano kept on walking. About seventy feet away, she turned around. “What is so amusing about a Biyoole doing this job?”

  “Why do you sound so snarky and accusatory, annunciating ‘Biyoole’?” Bilaal asked. “You seem to be suggesting that there is something wrong with paying attention to a man so dignified that he dresses up even though he is selling water, the most demeaning job in Somalia.”