By Cabdullaahi Janno

The old man stared at his reflection in a dirty pocket mirror. He bared his teeth as he raked long, thin fingers through his white beard. He tugged at the dark skin under his wrinkled chin, smiling with a gaze that exuded pride and confidence. For the first time in his old age, a young woman in the camp had expressed interest in him.

She had been filling a tin bowl to the brim with thick, hot porridge, flavoring it with cinnamon and black pepper. She’d bring it to him every morning for breakfast. Two raps on the dried palm-leaf wall rattled the house and signaled her arrival. Smiling, she would then take the bowl out from beneath her hijab and hand it over to him. On Thursdays before noon, she would also pick up his laundry, which was more or less indistinguishable from the laundry of other Somali refugees—mainly sarongs, turbans, and a thauwb, a long garment that reached down to touch the ankles—and have them washed just in time for his Friday congregational prayer.

The old man had been a retired elementary school teacher before the civil war broke out in Somalia. He had lost his wife to stray bullets and eventually fled on foot with his son, Ali, and daughter, Sumaya. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) settled them in a refugee camp in Kenya and provided them them with food and shelter. The daughter later moved to America through a visa by her husband in Minneapolis. She was supportive when her dad confided in her about his nascent relationship.

It had been several weeks since the old man had met the young woman at the water tank reservoir in the camp. The refugees would form a long line under the scorching sun every day, waiting for their turn to fetch water. She was in line when a bullying young man tried to cut in front of her. She scolded him, and the bully lashed out at her with a barrage of expletives. The old man furrowed his brows from where he watched at the back of the line—and when a clamor ensued, his protective reflexes ignited and he charged at the young man, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him out of  line. After the scuffle, the old man had escorted her to where she lived—only few blocks away from his hut.

Her abode was one of the rows of rectangular huts that crowded the camp and stretched out like a long string of cargo train cars. Blue tarps with the UNHCR acronym hugged the roofs and shielded the refugees from the equally abundant rainfall and sunshine. Clothes belonging to the young woman’s five-year-old daughter flapped on a clothesline. Her husband had died of malaria. The old man caught a whiff of frankincense emanating from the hut entrance. They stood and chatted before he waved her goodbye, telling her he would be back to meet her child later in the week. He walked home, empty water container in hand.

Ali spoke from a corner: “Aabbe ma hubtaa arrinka gabadhan?” He was fanning himself with his English language notebook as he sat on a sack of dry kidney beans. “Dad, are you sure about this young woman?”

“Haa, aabbo.” The old man left his reflection and turned to face Ali. “Yes, son.”

Ali smirked. The old man squinted.

“She’s interested,” the old man said, “—and genuine.”

“But also a single mother,” Ali countered, tilting his head back to fan his sweaty neck with the notebook.

“Yet,” the old man said, putting the small mirror back in his shirt pocket, “she deserves a better man than me.”

Ali sneered.

The old man pursed his lips. “Remember,” he said, “she’s sunrise; I’m sunset.”

“But Dad,” Ali said with a whining tone, clenching his jaw, “she’ll dump you after she uses you.”

“So?”

“All she cares about is your monthly remittance from Minneapolis.”

 “So?”

“She’s taking advantage of you.”

 “So?”

“Oh, I get it,” Ali said. “You’re too wrapped up in this woman—and you can’t see it’s a trap. A chicanery. I’ve seen other men in the camp who have been beguiled by young women like her. Besides, you’re old; she’s young.”

“Look, son,” the old man said, rolling out a hand-woven mat on the damp ground, “your mother was thirty-three and I was twenty-two when we first got married.”

Ali rolled his eyes. “But Dad,” he said, his face contorting, “this woman is only after your meager income. She can’t fall in love with a man the age of her grandpa.”

The old man harrumphed. “If age is limiting,” he said, “love is liberating.”

“Wake up, Dad!” Ali said as he grabbed a small towel off the burlap rope that tied across the bamboo poles to support the room structure. “There’s no love in the twenty-first century.”

The old man reached for a blanket from his metal trunk. “A man in love should ignore the advice of a cynic.” He winked at Ali.

“Dad, you just don’t know a thing about these young single mothers in the camp,” Ali said.

Oh yes I do!” the old man said, kneeling down on the mat for his afternoon nap as he wiped sand grains off the cushion with his palm. “They’re a living example of how young men like you have failed them—and, by extension, failed us, the community.”

“Well,” Ali blurted out, “I find them dubious. Always calculating.

The old man locked his gaze on Ali’s. Ali blinked. “Son,” he said in a deep voice, “if your concern is for me, trust my gut feeling on this; if you’re concerned about losing part of the monthly remittance, rest assured that won’t happen.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Dad,” Ali retorted.

“Oh, one more thing,” the old man raised his brows, “if you’re concerned that she might displace you, well, I’m moving in with her in two weeks’ time after the priest blesses our marriage. This hut will all be yours.”

The old man stashed his sandals under the mat to use as a headrest and stretched himself out.

“Okay, Dad, the choice is yours.” Ali wiped the towel on his slim face.

“The choice has never been individual,” the old man said. “It has always been for the community. It’s the selves, not the self.”

Ali slapped his shin, missing the mosquito he had aimed for.

The old man pulled the covers over himself—and closing his eyes, said, “Perhaps interest in the collective good is what’s missing in the twenty-first century”

“Enjoy your nap, Dad.” Ali got up and tossed the towel on his thin mattress. He faced a blanket that hung loosely in the doorframe. “I envy your innocence,” he mumbled and shambled to the door curtain. He ducked and stuck his head out, grimacing as the sun’s heat stung his oblong face.

~The End~

Cabdullaahi Janno
Email: Claahijanno@gmail.com