MADDY
New York, September 1991
The Greyhound bus slowly lurched its way into the Midtown Bus Terminal just before dawn. Amongst the thirty-odd passengers
gathering their possessions and preparing to disembark was a young woman who was still fast asleep. She lay curled up in her
seat, swathed in her black overcoat, only a fiery mass of red curls visible, tumbling halfway down her back. The woman who’d
been sitting next to her for the past sixteen hours paused in the task of pulling her bag from the overhead locker and looked
down at her. She smiled indulgently and touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Wake up, honey,’ she murmured, bending down.
‘We’re here.’
The girl’s eyes flew open. For a brief, incomprehensible second, she struggled to remember where she was. She looked around
her in bewilderment at the darkened, ghostly interior of the bus, passengers pulling their suitcases and bags from the overhead
lockers, a child whimpering somewhere near the front. Where the hell was she? A sudden lurch in the pit of her stomach brought
it all rushing back. New York. New York City! She’d finally arrived! She struggled upright and hurriedly pushed her hands
through her hair, pulling it into a ponytail, furious with herself. She couldn’t believe it! She’d been awake for almost the
entire journey, taut with anticipation, every nerve in her body waiting for that moment when she’d look out of the window
and see Manhattan emerging out of the early morning mist, right there in front of her – and she’d missed it. She clambered
out of her seat, grabbed her coat and bag, still brushing the sleep from her eyes.
‘You know where you’re going?’ Shirley, a plump, recently divorced woman who’d boarded the bus in Franklin, the next stop
after Marshalltown, smiled down at her. Shirley was in her early fifties and on her way to stay with her eldest daughter in
New Jersey. She was full of advice about New York City, most of it incomprehensible to eighteen-year-old Maddy Stiller, who’d
never been further than Chicago and only once at that.
Maddy nodded, hoping she looked and sounded more certain than she felt. ‘I … I have the address right here,’ she said, patting
her bag. ‘My mom said to take a cab.’
‘You do that, honey. Best thing to do. There’ll be plenty of them across the road. Just give the driver the address and make
sure he’s got a NYC sticker in the window. You never know,’ she added darkly. ‘Well, I hope everything works out for you.
I’ll be looking to see your name in lights one of these days.
You take care, now, Maddy. Everything’ll turn out fine, you’ll see.’
‘Th … thank you,’ Maddy mumbled, cheeks red with embarrassment. She watched Shirley pick up her suitcase and navigate her
way confidently through the crowd. She felt a sudden wave of loneliness. As recent an acquaintance as Shirley was, she was
the only person she’d spoken to since leaving home. Although she’d have been quite happy to ride the thousand-odd miles from
Iowa to New York in silence, Shirley, it was soon clear, wasn’t. Shirley was what Martha, Maddy’s mother, would have called
a ‘talker-stalker’ – the kind who wouldn’t shut up until she’d wormed every last piece of information out of you. She wasn’t
unkind – just persistent. By the time they reached Des Moines, she’d established that Maddy Stiller had gone to Meskawi High
School in Marshalltown, that she was the only daughter of Frank and Martha Stiller and that Frank had disappeared one Sunday
afternoon when Maddy was fourteen. Just disappeared. He’d got up early as usual, went out to feed the cows and then came back
into the kitchen and announced he was going into Des Moines. He’d driven the white pick-up truck down the road, turned left
instead of right and gone all the way to Chicago. He’d left the pick-up truck in the parking lot at O’Hare International Airport
with instructions on the wind-screen to call Mrs Martha Stiller of Dewey Farm, Marshall County, Iowa. Martha had driven out
with Ron, their neighbour from across the way, in tight-lipped silence. A few weeks later a letter arrived for Martha and
a postcard for Maddy. From San Francisco. Maddy read the few lines and then burned it. Apparently there was someone else ‘involved’.
Maddy didn’t know what that meant. Poor Martha, everyone said. No one ever said ‘poor Maddy’. ‘Oh, we heard
all
about it, honey. Your
poor
mother. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? You can just never tell about people, can you?’ Maddy looked down at her hands. When
people brought up the topic of her father’s disappearance, which they usually did as soon as they heard her surname, she never
knew what to say. Along the long, flat tongue of Interstate
88, Shirley managed to worm out of her that she’d won a four-year scholarship to study drama and that, aside from her school
trip to Chicago, it was the first time she’d ever left Iowa. ‘Oh, my,’ Shirley breathed, clearly impressed. ‘You must be very
talented.’ Maddy’s stomach lurched again and again. Talented? No, she wasn’t talented. She just wanted to get out of Iowa,
that was all. She still couldn’t get over it all. Less than three months after she’d made the application to Tisch, here she
was. It felt like a dream.
‘These yours?’ The brusque voice of the driver interrupted her thoughts. He pointed to the two rather battered suitcases left
standing in the hold.
‘Yes, those are mine,’ Maddy nodded hurriedly.
‘Here …’ He tossed them unceremoniously towards her. ‘Ain’t got all day,’ he said, slamming the hold doors shut. ‘Let’s get
this show on the road!’ He slapped the side of the bus and stalked off.
Maddy struggled awkwardly to get them out of the way. She stood on the edge of the sidewalk, clutching her handbag tightly
to her chest, trying to ignore the burning sensation of fear in the pit of her stomach, looking around her for a sign – any
sign – of where to go and what to do next. People were streaming in and out of the subway station across the street. The sound
was deafening. It was nearly 7 a.m. and the entire city seemed to be on the move. People thundered in and out of the narrow
hole in the ground, no one speaking, not looking at one another, no eye contact … nothing. Bodies rushed past one another,
a tangled, indistinguishable mass of people in which unfamiliar details jumped out at her – a skullcap here, a long flowing
white robe there; the pitch-black face of a young boy wearing a baseball cap turned backwards, stopping to grab a paper-wrapped
bagel; two women in diaphanous black tents, only the slits of their eyes showing, large woven shopping baskets visible through
the sheer black material – she’d never seen anything like it. She stood there on the other side of the road, too stunned to
do anything other than stare. She thought of her last glimpse of Martha,
standing bravely beside the bus stop, waving at the Greyhound as it lurched around the corner, and the tug of tears crept
into her throat once more. She’d turned her head to wave but the corner was already made and Martha was no longer there. Her
stomach lurched again, dangerously. She had to get a cab, find the address of the Tisch halls of residence and phone her mother.
And find a bathroom. Her stomach, always the most precise register of her nerves, was dangerously close to revolt.
There was a constant line of yellow cabs crawling up the street. She tried to remember what Shirley had said – was it the
yellow light to the left or the white light in the centre that indicated an available ride? She couldn’t remember. She shuffled
along, her suitcases banging awkwardly against her legs and hips, looking for the end of the queue. Several times someone
simply stuck out a hand in front of her, jumping into the cab she’d had her eye on. There didn’t seem to be a queue. She tried
waving a hand like everyone else, but as soon as the cab swung over, someone else simply popped out in front of her and sped
off. No one paid the slightest bit of attention to a slender young redhead whose face carried the painful outward expression
of her nerves. She was close to tears by the time it happened for the tenth or eleventh time. Didn’t these people have any
manners? A cab sped up the road towards her. She looked quickly left and right – no one else seemed to be waiting. She waved
frantically at it like she’d seen everyone else do. It seemed to work – he appeared to be making straight for her. She stepped
down off the sidewalk, determined not to let anyone else grab it before her, still holding on to her suitcases. She heard
a sudden screeching of brakes, felt a rush of cool air sweep past her head and then the sound of someone shouting, ‘Oh! Oh,
my
Gawd
!’
She hit the kerb face first, catching her knee on the edge of one of her damned suitcases. She lay in stunned silence, the
sounds of traffic and pedestrians rushing over to her receding slowly into the background as their voices rose. ‘What the
hell was she trying to do?’ ‘What happened? Did I do something? Did
I
hit her?’ ‘Jesus!’
She tried to lever herself off the ground, her face hot with embarrassment and her cheeks already sticky with tears. She’d
tripped over one of the blasted suitcases. Someone bent down to her. ‘You OK?’ He knelt down so that his face was on a level
with hers. He helped her to sit upright, squinted at the cut and pulled out a clean handkerchief, placing it firmly against
her eyebrow. ‘You’ve cut yourself – just a scratch, nothing to worry about. When you get home, splash lots of cold water on
it. It’ll help the cut close quicker.’ He had a nice voice. Maddy closed her eyes as he applied a gentle pressure to her forehead.
‘It’ll stop bleeding soon, don’t worry.’
‘Darling, she’s fine. We’re going to be late.’ A young woman’s impatient voice broke through the babble surrounding her.
‘Just a minute. She’s bleeding.’
‘It’s nothing – it’s a small scratch, that’s all. Just put a plaster on it.’ The young woman looked down at the dazed Maddy.
‘We’re going to miss the first act.’ She was beginning to whine.
A middle-aged man bent down, and together they helped Maddy to her feet. ‘Will somebody get this girl a cab?’ he growled at
the small crowd that had gathered to watch. Seconds later, a cab appeared. The driver jumped out, picked up her suitcases
as if they were dust, and Maddy was helped into the back seat. Still holding the young man’s handkerchief to her forehead,
she leaned back against the plastic seats, handed over the scrap of paper with the address of Gramercy House, the first-year
hall of residence, and tried not to cry. The cab pulled smartly away from the kerb and was soon swallowed up in the traffic.
She lifted a hand and tried to brush her tears discreetly away. It wasn’t quite the arrival she’d planned.
NIELA
Hargeisa, October 1991
Fifteen years after leaving Hargeisa, the Aden family returned. Not as the prosperous professionals they’d become, Hassan
Aden complained bitterly to anyone who’d listen. No, they were returning as refugees from a war they hadn’t anticipated and
knew nothing about.
Refugees!
He spat the word out. Refugees with nothing but the suitcases they were able to carry and the few possessions they’d grabbed
as they ran. Not even the old second- or third-hand pick-up truck in which they were driving to Hargeisa belonged to them.
Back home in Mogadishu there were three cars in the driveway, including the brand-new Mercedes, which he’d been forced to
sell for next to nothing.
Next to nothing!
Hassan’s voice rose in pained indignation. Next to him, swathed in dusty black with only her eyes showing, his wife remained
silent. On the back seat, nineteen-year-old Niela Aden and her two younger brothers sat squashed together, exhausted and irritable
– and scared.
The truck groaned its way up the escarpment. As they rounded one bend after another, the first signs of the city began to
appear – low whitewashed buildings, but with their walls and windows blasted open. As they drove slowly along deserted streets
into the centre of town, everyone fell silent, even Hassan. The road was pitted with gaping craters that the driver kept swerving
to avoid. Every single building they passed carried the scars of recent battles – even the street lamps had been blasted apart.
They hung above the road dangling the remains of a bulb from a crooked, wavering arm. Niela swallowed. Although she could
barely remember Hargeisa, it was obvious this wasn’t the small city of citrus groves and calm, peaceful streets that her parents
spoke nostalgically about. This was worse than Mogadishu. Hassan gave the driver directions in low, wary tones.
They turned left and right down one pockmarked street after another until they finally pulled up in front of a yellow wall,
it too marked with wounds. ‘Wait here,’ Hassan instructed. Niela watched him walk up to the wrought-iron gate and rap authoritatively
on it. From somewhere beyond the wall a dog barked, a low, menacing burst of sound. A few moments later, a small hatch in
the gate opened. ‘
Salaam alaikum
,’ Hassan said. ‘Is Mohammed Osman at home?’ There was a quick muttered exchange and then the gate was hurriedly opened. Suddenly
her mother, who had remained silent for almost the entire journey, began to cry.
There was a thin trickle of water coming out of the shower head but it was just enough. Niela stood, letting it dribble its
way through her thick curly hair, across her shoulder blades and down the backs of her legs. She turned her face up, revelling
in the simple but forgotten sensation of water running down her face. It had been three days since she’d had a shower. Unbelievable.
She, who showered three or four times a day at home! As the family fled northwards, her mother had shown her how to wash herself
quickly at the side of the road with nothing more than a flannel and a small bottle of drinking water. Under her arms, under
her breasts, between her legs. Her mother displayed no shame, squatting by the side of the road, hitching her black burqa
up around her waist. Niela didn’t know where to look. She’d never seen her mother squat before. But there was no other option.
She’d pulled down her jeans and joined her.
She wrung the last drops of water out of her hair and stepped out of the shower. She scraped her hair back into a ponytail,
shook the dust out of her jeans and pulled on her one clean T-shirt. She wondered where everyone was. Her father and brothers
had been shown a room on the other side of the courtyard. She and her mother had followed the young servant girl, who shook
her head wordlessly whenever she was addressed. She opened the bedroom door cautiously. The house was arranged around a courtyard.
In its centre, long since dried
up, was a fountain surrounded by pretty blue and green tiles. There was a single orange tree and several large terracotta
pots that had obviously once held plants. In one, a long, thin green stem protruded from amongst the brown, decaying leaves,
clinging on to life. She shivered suddenly, despite the heat. Hargeisa, like Mogadishu, seemed to belong to the dead.