A HUGE hello to readers of my page.  The U3A Writers Group has been a fantastic source of inspiration.  Sharing such high qualify and varied writing has encouraged me to try different styles and subject matter.  Also despite the fact that I come and go in such a fickle manner there is always a warm welcome on my return.

Currently I have written dozens of short stories and a full length novel, unpublished.  I am toying with the idea of self publishing on Kindle or releasing a chapter at a time on my own website.  Watch this space.  I hope you enjoy the short story below.

 

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Refuge in an Arid Land

 By Mary Parker Caine

Faduma scans the horizon every morning at first light, today there was no dust cloud.  Her shoulders relaxed with relief.  The first time it had happened everyone had rushed out afraid it would be the rebels. Surely they couldn’t cross the border, wouldn’t the Kenyan army keep them away? As the cloud approached its darker nucleus gradually came into focus, the tired straggling crowd wasn’t carrying guns: desperate faces spoke of their long march across the barren landscape.  Many people rushed out to help them and to carry weak dying children to the hospital, hoping that it wasn’t too late.  Faduma had wanted to help but when she saw the numbers of people she felt afraid, their stench reeked of decay and in some cases the putrefying of severed limbs left unattended too long.  She fingered her locket hidden under her wrap as she remembered the old man who reached out as though to snatch it.  She had pushed him and he had stumbled, she was sorry that she had done that.
 
Every day at first light she watched the horizon, and then made her way to the hospital to help with the babies and their malnourished mothers.  Her fear, rather than leaving her, was growing in proportion to the numbers arriving.  They were still all around the camp sheltering in their tents of plastic and rags, sweltering in the relentless heat as there were no trees to offer any shade.  What if they were allowed in, what would happen then?  Suldano, her adopted father, had always told Faduma about Sakow in Southern Somalia and promised her that they would leave Kenya one day and return.  Faduma didn’t want to return to a place that she couldn’t remember.  She knew that she lived in Dagahaley Camp and it was a good place.  It was her home.  She smiled as she thought of the new blanket, now completed and the new bed that her husband, Bashta, had fashioned from scraps of wood.  She was proud of him, he made beautiful things from nothing and they could barter for extra fruit or small
luxuries.  She herself had built up Suldano’s herd and now her eldest sons tended them so that the family even had milk and some to spare. Her real pride was that her children could read and write, they were even learning some English and a little French from the doctors and aid workers.  Only recently had she understood what it had meant to make the long journey fleeing from the Islamist rebellion with Suldano and Fatima.  Now she also realised what it meant to receive aid, she felt very
nervous.
 
Ahmed, her youngest child, pulled at her robe.  She touched his head absently and shuffled forward in the queue, her tin now warm in her hand.  Recently supplies had not been as plentiful but today they were lucky and she carried her ration with great care.  Ahmed scooted away towards an old man seated against the wall.  She hurried after her child, remonstrating, only to see him reach out for something and eat it.  Her heart pounded as she thought of all the disease that these Somalians had brought to
Dadaab.             
“It is only a piece of mango.  Here take some.”  To share such a precious fruit with a stranger?  She bent to take Ahmed’s hand and as she did so her nostrils filled with
the sweet perfumed scent of the fruit.  Her eyes closed and she could almost taste it.  Then a memory… two dark brown shining eyes and a wide teeth filled grin.             
“Papa plenty?”  Her own voice startled her and Faduma opened her eyes and as she did so, she saw two dim dark brown eyes looking at her in a question.  The smile was nervous but the teeth?  True they were rather yellow now and rather broken, two were missing entirely but…?  What did it mean?             

"I knew it was you Faduma.  The moment I saw you I knew it was you.  You stand like your mother and your eyes….”  His began to fill as he looked up at her.  He knew her name?  To her surprise he laughed softly then said.  “You have your mother’s look.  Your husband is a happy man to bed a wife like you.” 
She felt herself flush and grabbed Ahmed ready to flee. 
“But I see that you didn’t need your dowry.  The locket you still have it.” 
Involuntarily her hand went to touch it.  
“I had thought that Suldano might sell it.  But I wouldn’t have minded just as long as you were safe.”
 “Suldano and Fatima loved me.”
 “How could they not?”

 Ahmed was becoming impatient and Faduma’s fabled common sense was asserting itself.  There were lots of rogues among the displaced people and this old man was probably one of them.  She turned to go but he asked her to wait and for the second time offered her a piece of the luscious fruit.  She was about to refuse but, as he lifted his hand, she saw it.  A rough cut just below his thumb, rather like a child’s drawing of a tree, she turned her own hand towards her face as if to assure herself that the
matching one on her own hand was still there.             
“How else could I have been sure?  If your mother had been alive I would have not worried.  A mother recognises her own, but we men. What can I tell you?  We know all our goats by name and never lose one of them,”  he sighed, “but pretty girls grow and surprise you.”
Now Faduma was crouched next to him, staring at his hand.  He clutched hers and began to cry.      
“Forgive me Faduma, for not finding you before.  I had to send you away to protect you from the rebel soldiers.  Your brothers were needed to keep the herd and plant the crops.  Forgive me Faduma, your home has been destroyed and the goats have all been stolen by the army for food.  Now the drought has killed the crops.”  His sobs
grew more anguished but he went on. “How could I have come so far to bring you such devastating news? I should never have sent you away.”
             
“But father,” her voice was soft, “surely it is up to the men to stand up to soldiers, but for us women to make the home for our men.  You had great foresight to send me ahead for how otherwise could I have prepared your bed and blanket to be ready for you when you arrived?  Come, the sun is too high in the sky and our meal is already late. Papa Plenty take Ahmed’s hand so that he doesn’t get lost on our way home.”
 
August 2011