A Court Of Fowls: Episode 57
Stewart Munro decides to go to strife-torn Somalia in search of Amina, the love of his life 20 years ago.
Michael Conrad Wood continues his thrilling novel.
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Chapter 19
Tug of War
When the bombshell of my cancer and the time I had left was
detonated, Jamila and Dalila took it stoically enough, perhaps reserving
their anxiety for private moments or believing misguidedly that
somehow I’d survive. It was only when I announced my intention to
head off to the Horn of Africa that the recriminations began.
‘Obviously you never truly loved me,’ charged Jamila, unfairly and
inaccurately.
‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ suggested Dalila, reminding me how insouciant
she was towards me these days, and how upper middle class
sounding her Bath school had grooved that accent. With Oxford on
the horizon, my daughter had every prospect of turning into a perfect
clone of the BBC’s Moira Stewart, minus the throat full of ball
bearings.
I tried to reason with them, to make them understand that my
purpose in going was only to atone for what in my opinion was a
past wrongdoing. Off the record of course, I wanted to explain to
Amina (if I was successful in tracing her), that I had not lied about
my love for her; to explain that our separation had been by dint of
circumstance which neither of us had any control over. Above all, I
wanted to hear that she understood and forgave me.
‘Why is it so important that you do this now. After twenty years,
for God’s sake?’ persisted Dalila. ‘There must be a million and one
better things that you could do with what’s left of your life, Daddy?’
That last word was delivered imploringly, as if beseeching me to
change my mind. Jamila employed a quite different tactic. She rang
our closest friends and begged them, ‘make him see sense.’
The
phone didn’t stop for two days. I said ‘bollocks’ to them all when my
cheery attempts to bring them on board, failed abysmally. Only
Dalila almost had a point. If she had said instead, ‘Daddy, you must
have fucked up the minds of a hundred women with your history of
philandering. Why don’t you devote a week to each until you die?’ –
well then she might have struck a chord and stood some chance of
making me see how daft my determination to go to Somalia was.
Deep down however, I remained unmoved. Amina had always
seemed head and shoulders above other women – even if she and I
never enjoyed a relationship as such, I had never stopped imagining
what might have been, even through the years of contentedness with
Jamila.
Years previously I’d consulted Britain’s Foreign Office about Somalia.
They’d been helpful so I thought I’d do so again. Their web
site made gloomy reading:
‘We advise against all travel to Somalia. There is a high threat to western,
including British interests from terrorism in Somalia. Attacks could be indiscriminate,
including in places frequented by expatriates and foreign travellers.
There is ongoing serious violence between opposing factions.
The incidents below highlight the threat posed by terrorism and the capacity of
terrorist groups to carry out attacks.
On 3 December 2009 there was a suicide bomb attack at a graduation
ceremony in a Mogadishu hotel killing three Transitional Federal Government
Ministers and approximately thirty civilians, including journalists and a number
of medical graduates.
On 17 September 2009 a double suicide attack on an African Union base
in Mogadishu killed twenty one people including peace-keepers from the African
Union Mission in Somalia and their Deputy Force Commander.
At least thirty
others were injured including a British National.
Serious fighting, involving heavy weapons continues to occur in and around
Mogadishu. Unconfirmed numbers of civilians of all ages have been killed in
the violence. The fighting has been particularly intense since early May. On 18
June 2009 Security Minister, Omar Hashi, was killed in a suicide bomb attack
at a hotel in Beledweyne, which claimed the lives of many other officials and civilians.
On 29 October 2008 there were three explosions in Hargeisa (Somaliland).
These occurred at the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) office,
the Ethiopian Trade Office and the President’s villa. Exact numbers of injured
and dead are not known.
Also on 29 October 2008 there were two explosions in Bossaso (Puntland).
These took place near security institutions. Deaths were reported (exact numbers
again unclear).
Westerners and those working for western organisations have been targeted.
Two French personnel were kidnapped from a hotel in Mogadishu on 14 July
2009. One Briton and one Spaniard were kidnapped from Bosasso, on their
way to the airport, on 26 November 2008. A Somali national working for the
BBC was murdered in the port city of Kismayo in June 2008.
One Briton and
one Kenyan were kidnapped on the road between Saakow and Bu’aale in the
southern region of Juba on 1 April 2008 and continue to be held. On 28
January 2008 three aid workers, one French, one Kenyan and one Somali, were
killed in the southern port town of Kismayu. Somalis working for international
organisations, including the UN, were victims of targeted attacks during 2008.’
Clearly Somalia was not going to be a joy ride. I rescued The Times
(which Jamila had consigned to the recycling bin) and read through
the article again – the one which had featured Amina. I scanned it,
feeling sure that there had been some mention of her location when
she had come to the attention of reporters. Kaambooni! A speck on
the border with Kenya. This looked more promising than a conventional
entry into Somalia via Mogadishu. My plan would be to fly to
Manda Island, a short boat ride from Lamu. From there I could
charter a dhow to take me north into Somali waters and Kaambooni
itself. I was convinced this route would keep me out of trouble.
My
knowledge of Swahili would help smooth the way.
Three weeks later Dalila drove me all the way to Heathrow from
Bath. She said she was meeting friends in London anyway. The rain
poured down as it always seemed to when I was flying. I hated looking
out of an aircraft window and not being able to see where I was
going. If there was visible habitation below, a river or mountain, my
fears would evaporate. But flying through heavy cloud brought to
mind an unavoidable tragedy: my flight would inevitably collide with
a Russian cargo plane, two hundred miles off course, because the
dozy Soviets had taken a nap or weren’t keeping a close enough eye
on their instruments.
‘I’m not angry with you Daddy. I do love you. You know that,
don’t you?’
There were tears in her big brown eyes as we hugged. Tears that
revealed she felt the same dread as me over this buggeration of an
illness. And I think too that she felt sorry for me, as someone might
feel sorry and pity for a dog which had been run over, and was
crawling painfully to safety on the side of the road. I planted a big
kiss on Dalila’s forehead.
‘Tell your mum I had to go. I love you both more than I could
ever express in words. Give me three weeks. And the rest of my time
will be yours. I promise.’
I thought of the promise I’d made to Amina all those years ago at
Mogadishu airport. That to my daughter I was determined to keep.
