From Adua

Abstract

from Adua Igiaba Scego (bio) Translated by Frederika Randall (bio) Keywords Igiaba Scego, Frederika Randall, Fiction, Novel, translation, Somalia adua I am Adua, daughter of Zoppe. Today I came upon the deed of Laabo dhegah, our house at Magalo, in southern Somalia. It was hidden away in an old felt bag in storage. It had been there for centuries but I had never laid eyes on it. Now my affairs are in order. Now I, too, can return to Somalia if I wish. I have a house and above all, I have an official document stating that house belonged to my father, Mohamed Ali Zoppe, and thus to me. Now I can finally toss out the squatters who moved in during these sorry years of war. Laabo dhegah means “two stones.” It’s a strange name for a house, not very auspicious really. But I wouldn’t think of changing it now. It would make no sense. The house was born with that name, and it’s destined to keep it. Legend has it that my father, Mohamed Ali Zoppe, once said: “These are the two stones, the laabo dhegah on which I’ll build my future.” Who knows if he really said that? It sounds kind of Biblical. The fact is, though, that the legend took root in our hearts, and even supposing it isn’t true, we in the family are by now quite fond of it. Every night before I sleep I wonder whether I too, like my father, can build the little future that is left to me in our land. Lul is leaving Rome soon, so I asked her to go take a look at Laabo dhegah. I said to her: “Please. I’m counting on you, abaayo, to find out everything about my old house, down to the last details.” It was a windy day; our big scarves were dancing over the rooftops of Rome, the grand capital. I hugged her and said: “Don’t you forget Laabo dhegah and don’t you forget about me, sister.” She didn’t swear to it. [End Page 228] Lul was the first of my friends to return. She called me after she’d been in Mogadishu for a week and told me “the air smells of onions.” She didn’t say much more. I asked her question upon question. I wanted to know whether our country had really changed so much and whether those of us who had lived abroad for more than thirty years would be able to be part of the new, this very new, Somalia of peace. “Will our hopes be dashed?” I asked. “Will we fit in?” But Lul didn’t reply. Words like business and money came down the line. She kept on repeating that the time to make money was now, not tomorrow. Now was the time of money. Now was the time of profits. “It’s peacetime, you numskull,” she cackled on. “If you care about those two stones of yours, come now.” Peace. Before that August, I had thought the word peace was beautiful. No one ever told me that peace is an ambiguous term. In 1991 civil war broke out in my country. In 2013, peace was breaking out. Hip hip hurrah! Business has become the obsession of every Somali. Lul’s too. But I’m still here in Rome, and from here, it all feels very strange. I like Rome in the summer, especially that evening light when the sun is going down; it’s warm, and even the seagulls turn sweet and you want to squeeze them. The seagulls own the city, but this piazza belongs to you, my little elephant, and they wouldn’t dare come here. Away, stay away from piazza Santa Maria sopra Minerva! I feel protected here near you. Here, I’m at Magalo, at home. My father also had big ears, but he was never able to listen to me, and I was never able to talk to him. With you it’s different. And so I thank Bernini for having made you. A small marble elephant holding the smallest obelisk in the world. A toothpick. Don’t be...