Adua

A Novel

Igiaba Scego

• Verlag: New Vessel Press
• Jahr: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781939931474
• Thema: Literature
• Thema: Literature General

"Utterly sublime... Adua tells a gripping story of war, migration and family, exposing us to the pain and hope that reside in each encounter" (Maaza Mengiste, author of The Shadow King ). Adua, an immigrant from Somalia, has lived in Italy nearly forty years. She came seeking freedom from a strict father and an oppressive regime, but her dreams of becoming a film star ended in shame. A searing novel about a young immigrant woman's dream of finding freedom in Rome and the bittersweet legacies of her African past. "Lovely prose and memorable characters make this novel a thought-provoking and moving consideration of the wreckage of European oppression." — Publishers Weekly (starred review) "Igiaba Scego is an original voice who connects Italy's present with its colonial past. Adua is an important novel that obliges the country to confront both memory and truth." —Amara Lakhous, author of Dispute over a Very Italian Piglet "This book depicts the soul and the body of a daughter and a father, illuminating words that are used every day and swiftly emptied of meaning: migrants, diaspora, refugees, separation, hope, humiliation, death." — Panorama "A memorable, affecting tale... Brings the decolonialization of Africa to life... All the more affecting for being told without sentimentality or self-pity." — ForeWord Reviews "Deeply and thoroughly researched... Also a captivating read: the novel is sweeping in its geographical and temporal scope, yet Scego nonetheless renders her complex protagonists richly and lovingly." — Africa Is a Country

1

ADUA

I am Adua, daughter of Zoppe. Today I found the deed to Labo Dhegax, our house in Magalo, in southern Somalia. It was tucked away in an old pewter case I had in storage; it’d been there for ages and I’d never noticed.

Now I have my papers. Now if I want, I can go back to Somalia too.

I have a house, and most important, an official document stating in writing that it belonged to my father, Mohamed Ali Zoppe. Therefore, it’s mine.

Finally I’ll be able to clear out the squatters who’ve occupied it since those sad years of war.

Labo Dhegax means “two stones.” A strange name for a house, perhaps not such an auspicious one. But I wouldn’t dream of changing it now. It wouldn’t make sense.

It started out with that name and with that name it is destined to exist.

Legend has it that my father, Mohamed Ali Zoppe, once said: “These are the two stones, the labo dhegax, upon which I will build my future.”

Who knows whether he really said that? Sounds like something out of the Bible.

Fact is, by now the legend has taken root in our hearts, and I must say, regardless of its truth the family is still attached to it.

Every night before I fall asleep, I wonder if I too, like my father, will be able to build what future I have left in our land.

I asked Lul if she’d check on Labo Dhegax since she was leaving Rome soon.

I said: “Please, I’m counting on you, abaayo, to find out every little detail about my old house.”

It was a windy day. Our scarves fluttered over the buildings of the capital.

I hugged her and said: “Don’t forget Labo Dhegax. Don’t forget me, sister.” She didn’t make any promises.

Lul was the first of my friends to go back. She called after a week in Mogadishu and said, “The air smells like onions.” She didn’t say much else. I asked her question after question. I wanted to know if our country had really changed that much and if those of us who’d been away for over thirty years could reconnect with the new, the brandnew, peacetime Somalia.

“Is our dream going to last?” I asked her. “Is it possible to make a home there?” I pressed.

But Lul didn’t answer. On the phone she used words like “business,” “money.” She kept telling me that the time to make deals was today, not tomorrow. Now was the time to make money. Now was the time to cash in.

“That’s peace, honey,” she sneered. “If you care about your two stones, come.” Peace. Before August, I’d thought peace was a beautiful word.

No one ever told me that it’s really an ambiguous one.

Civil war broke out in my country in 1991. In 2013, peace is breaking out. Hooray.

Now it’s all about business for the Somalis. For Lul ...

But I’m still in Rome and from here it all seems so strange. I love Rome in the summer, especially the light in the evening when the sun is setting. It’s hot, even the seagulls seem nicer and make you want to hug them. They dominate the piazzas, but here you are, my little elephant, and they don’t dare. Shoo, away from Piazza della Minerva! I feel safe when I’m around you. Here, I’m in Magalo—at home. My father had big ears too, but he was never good at listening, and I was never able to talk to him. It’s different with you. That’s why I’m grateful to Bernini for having made you. A little marble elephant holding up the smallest obelisk in the world. A toothpick. Don’t take that the wrong way. I need you, you know.

Lul is gone and I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. But you remind me of her. You’re a good listener. I need to be heard, otherwise my words will fade away and be lost.

“Look at that black lady talking to herself,” people say, pointing at us. But we don’t pay them any attention. We understand each other perfectly, you and I. After all, we’re both from the Indian Ocean. Our ocean of magic spells and scents, of separations and reunions. You’re a nomad, like me.

Right now Lul is breathing in our tuna-scented ocean air. Drinking shaah cadees.

Ordering everyone around like adoon.

I know Lul, she’s a good person, and for that very reason is the sneakiest sort of charmer.

Lul is first in my thoughts. What is my friend doing in Somalia now? What business has she gotten into?

What if I really went and joined her? My suitcase is ready. I never unpacked.

It’s been ready since 1976. I should put the suitcase along with my tired body on a plane headed for Ankara and from there direct to Mogadishu.

But that’s just a fantasy.

Yesterday there was this girl on the tram. She was black and had a shaved head and thick legs. We were on the fourteen where it turns toward Porta Maggiore. She’d been staring at me since Termini. I was irritated by her hard gaze. I felt like turning around and saying “Stop,” like mixing my mother tongue with Dantean Italian and creating one of those scenes that make public transport in Rome entertaining. I wanted to be vulgar and go overboard. I wanted a big scene, that way I’d stop thinking about Lul, about Labo Dhegax, about the strange peace in Somalia. But the girl got wise. She sauntered over and virtually without warning shot me her question: “You’re Adua, right? The actress? I saw your movie.” And then after a pause, as if she’d planned it out, she added: “You really make an impression, you know that?”

I was completely rattled.

My movie? There was actually someone who still remembered that movie?

2

TALKING-TO

Don’t misbehave, Adua. Get your elbows off the table. And wipe your dirty mouth. Sit up straight, for God’s sake, why are you all hunched over? Your hands are filthy, go wash them or I’ll thrash you. Is that how you look at Zoppe, your father, you heathen? You’re just like your mother, Asha the Rash, that good-for-nothing. Your mother, that whore, who went and died on me, leaving me alone with nothing but my love. How could she let herself die? Tell me, how could she let that happen? That damn woman! And what about you? Are you going to die on me too? You have her eyes, I can’t stand it! But you’ll see, I’ll fix you. There’s no messing around with me, we have manners, girl. Now the tune has changed, it’s not like out there in the bush where you were spoiled. And if you don’t mind me, you know what’ll happen, don’t you? Good, then sit with your back straight and for heaven’s sake don’t whine like that, you’re hurting my eardrums. Quiet now. That’s it, be quiet!

3

ZOPPE

That February day in ’34, pink dust covered the buildings of Rome.

There were three of them on top of him. One pinning him down, two pummeling him. The youngest gripped Zoppe with all his might. The brutes laughed with cheap zeal.

“Yeah, Beppe! Hold him, get that darkie bastard good.” Beppe complied.

Zoppe could feel heat radiating from his skin. And he had soiled himself like a baby. “Waan isku xaaray,” he cursed himself. “Shit ... why ... me.”

The words came out slowly. He felt humiliated, alone, a withered fruit on an unripe vine.

“Oh, Mama, when will this torture end?”

Meanwhile, blood had begun to trickle from his mouth.

“Mama ...” he called.

Hooyooy macaan ...

“This dumb nigger is talking to himself.”

Hooyo ...

“Camerati, this dummy’s still yapping.”

Hooyooy macaan ...

“He really wants to piss us off.”

Hooyo ...

“Let’s burn his feet, boys.” Hooyooy macaan ... “Let’s poke out his eyes.”

Hooyo ...

“Let’s break his nose.”

Not his nose, not his beautiful nose. With a kick in the rear Zoppe found himself flat on the ground.

“You’re disgusting, you know that, you little nigger?” Beppe taunted. “And now you want us to clean up your shit too, eh, boss man?”

“Come on,” his buddy replied. “Lick it up.”

“Party’s over for you now, maggot,” the three added in unison.

Zoppe saw the round toes of military boots over his head and squeezed his eyes shut. And he thought of the blond little girl and her giant father.

.

Zoppe was intoxicated with fear. But at that vision he trembled with joy.

The giant and his blond little girl. Oh, how he missed them. Wallahi, he missed them to pieces.

Seeing them in that strange dream haze was an unexpected surprise for him. Why had they come? Had they heard his cry for help?

“Xayaay, xayaay, xayaay, xayaay,” he’d cried.

“Help,” he whispered as they tortured him.

The father and his little girl ...

They looked so nice together, strolling contentedly down the streets of Prati. For months he had seen them walking hand in hand. They lived a few buildings down from where he was staying. The first time they saw one another, it was inevitable: he studied them and they studied him. Without that vicious curiosity white people have, those ravenous hands in his curly hair, those vile comments about the color of his skin. The father and the girl looked at him with human eyes.

It was so nice to see them again in that dense fog. The vision had plenty of interference, but those two, the father and the girl, stood crystal clear against that sky laden with uncertainty.

He wanted to tell them, “Thank you for coming to see me in this dark hour,” but can you say thank you to a vision? And his mouth was too swollen with blood to be usable. He could only sputter curses and prayers, in no particular order.

In other circumstances, he would have stood up and embraced them. Yet they remained shadows, projections, visions. They were neither made of flesh nor bone. They were there worried about him. Every vision, as his soothsayer father told him, always has some basis in truth, in the incarnate. The man and girl weren’t really there, but maybe they were thinking about him. They had sensed, glimpsed something, in a mental haze.

Father and daughter didn’t know he was in danger, but sensitive souls can catch a scent in the air like warthogs. Nothing ever gets past them, at least according to his old man. Oh how wonderful it would have been to actually touch them, smother them with affection, melt into their kind concern. But Zoppe didn’t know how to embrace people. In his village in Somalia, hugging was for the privacy of the marriage bed, the intimacy of lovers. An embrace wasn’t something to spread around. Hugs weren’t for friends or people you met.

Zo...