‘Come on.’ Josh held out his hand to her. ‘Let’s start with those men over there.’
She followed him but hung back as they drew near. ‘
Salaam alaikum
.’ The greetings flowed back and forth between them. She stood to one side, acknowledging their curious glances but making
no attempt to join in. She half-smiled to herself, listening to Josh’s Arabic as he asked the whereabouts of Mohammed Ben
Ahmed or his daughter, Khadija.
‘Ben Ahmed?’ one of the older men asked, squinting up at Josh. ‘You sure of that? There’s no one in the village by that name.’
‘Yes. He worked in France for a while. I think he came back here … around thirty years ago?’
They looked at one another, pulling faces and shaking their heads. She could read the disappointment in Josh’s stance. ‘No,
there’s no one here by that name. Ben Ahmed, you said?’
‘Yes. Mohammed. He had a daughter … Khadija … they came back together from France.’
‘Why d’you ask?’ Someone spoke suddenly. Niela watched as Josh turned to him. He was a short, stocky man, in his early forties,
perhaps. He wore the same closed, suspicious face that she’d seen in villagers everywhere – a natural defence against strangers
and the unknown. Her pulse suddenly quickened. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, looking from Josh to Niela and back again.
She saw Josh stiffen and his shoulders hunch in the way she knew so well. There was a moment’s pause as he gathered himself,
and then the words were out. ‘I’m his grandson. I’m Khadija’s child. The one they left behind.’
The air was thick with the sweet, cloying scent of flowers and herbs. They ducked under one doorway, then another. Josh was
holding on to Niela’s hand tightly, as if for dear life. Ahead of
them, pushing their way impatiently through lines of washing, the two women who’d been summoned by the men outside hurried
down the narrow alleyways towards some unknown destination. Niela’s heart was thudding painfully inside her chest as she was
half-dragged, half-carried along with them. They began the high, excitable ululation that she remembered so well from Mogadishu
– a cry of welcome and pain and blessed release. At last they stopped before an intricately carved wooden doorway, but before
they could pound on it, it was flung open. A young man stood in the semi-darkened doorway; Niela put a hand to her mouth.
It was like looking at a younger Josh, the features oddly familiar, at once different and the same. He looked up at Josh,
a slow frown of puzzlement appearing on his face. The women were crying out for Khadija … the dialect in these parts was hard
for her to follow. There was a great flurry of commotion and noise – Josh and Niela were swept into the darkened rooms and
told to wait. The young man, with a stunned backwards glance at them both, was dispatched outside and told to wait. What was
about to happen was for his mother’s eyes and ears alone.
She was small and dark-skinned. She sat in the middle of the room on an arrangement of colourful rugs, dressed in the soft
woven cloth that the women of her village wore. Her eyes were brilliant, outlined with thick black kohl pencil. She listened
without saying a word to the excited chatter of her neighbours and friends, and when they’d finally run out of words, she
dismissed them all with a quick, imperious wave of her hand. To Niela’s great surprise, it was Diana she brought to mind.
‘
Viens.
’ She said the word out loud, breaking the silence that had descended upon the room as the last of the women had left. Her
French still carried with it the sun and the lilt of Provence. ‘
Pas vous
,’ she said, shaking her head at Niela. She looked up at Josh from her seated position. ‘
Toi
.’
Josh walked uncertainly towards the centre of the room. He knelt suddenly, squatting down beside her, bringing his face
almost on a level with hers. Niela’s breath caught and held. There was a pause of a few seconds. Khadija reached out a hand
from beneath her robes and let it fall beside his. She waited a few seconds, then turned the palm of her hand towards his.
A simple gesture. The first touch. The first touch in over thirty years. Niela felt the sharp tug of tears in her throat and
turned away. It was a gesture she recognised only too well. One of the last that Diana had made; a mother’s touch, both tender
and strong. She looked back as she surreptitiously wiped the tears from her cheeks. Josh’s hand was held within Khadija’s
own. The first touch. But not the last.
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Orion Books.
This eBook first published in 2010 by Orion Books.
Copyright © Lesley Lokko 2010
The rights of Lesley Lokko to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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